Stupid Is As Stupid Does.

Sometimes, my own stupidity astounds me. In fact, I'm so stupid that I don't even know what the above title means, I just know that since it has the word stupid in it twice, it must apply to me. In looking up the phrase, I discovered that "stupid is as stupid does" apparently means "judge people by what they do, not by how they appear". Just as I suspected – I'm doubly screwed.

And with good reason, if recent events are any indication.

A few nights ago, around 8PM, I walked out to my car to run a quick errand. It was just beginning to grow dark, and as I approached my car, I noticed two guys laughing on the porch of a building a few up from mine. A few whistles were thrown my way, and I rolled my eyes as I thought, "I love you!" They seemed pretty drunk, perhaps odd for anywhere else, but Sunday night is a drinker's paradise in West Hollywood. Why, I don't know, but I suspect it's a way for the gays to give God the collective (expertly manicured!) finger.

I turned the ignition over in my car, and because my street's width equals that of a celery stalk, I adeptly performed a 16-point turn, and 7 short minutes later, I was ready to go. Just as I started slowly rolling down the street, I heard one of the drunk, porch guys yelling. And before I knew it, he was running in front of my car, waving for me to stop. I slowly drove by him, and I as I did, he started banging on the passenger side of my car. So I did what any normal person would do. I stopped.

(Let's take a moment and allow my mother some time to pick herself off the floor and back into her chair.)

He came running up to the passenger side window and indicated that I should roll it down.

I quickly assessed the situation: I'm alone in a car, on a quiet, dark street–yes. And I heard my mom's voice say, "Don't talk to strangers!" But how much harm could a young, good-looking, fraternity-type white guy cause? (This much.) So, I did what any normal person would do. I rolled down my window.

As I rolled down the window–only half way, but that positive is totally negated if you do this while keeping the doors unlocked–I realized this harmless serial killer wasn't drunk. He was hammered. Imagine the manic energy of a Liza Minnelli combined with the slurred speech of a Larry Flynt plus the movement of a tall ficus tree swaying in the wind, and you'll get a pretty accurate picture of this adorable rapist now leaning into my car.

As he leaned over the window, within reach of being able to successfully choke me–or hug me!– he said, "Heysh! Where'sh yush goin'?"

Was he French? "What?"

"Where you going? You going to the westside?"

"No. I'm going to Trader Joe's."

What the fuck did I just say?

Did I just tell some random drunk guy who's now practically crawling into my window that I was going to Trader Joe's like this is the most normal conversation–under the most normal circumstances–I've ever had?

See, I have a terrible habit of offering too much information when people ask me simple questions. Like, if I'm ordering take-out and the guy asks if I need extra ketchup packets, instead of saying, "No thanks," I'll say, "No, that's ok–I just bought a huge thing of ketchup, and it's in the door of my fridge." It's a mortifying habit.

But this response was extraordinary–even for me. In fact, it was so odd that it made my cute, drunk killer pause, and for one brief moment, his crazy eyes focused, and I could read what they said, "God, you're fucking weird, lady."...Thought the drunk guy asking random strangers for rides as he hangs halfway out of their car windows.

"Well, what are you getting from Trader Joe's? And can I come?"

"Just some lettuce and milk."

What the fuck!

I wondered if I was undergoing some kind of epileptic event. How else could I justify this behavior?

Finally, I told him that, sorry, he could not come with me, but to have a good night. And as I started to drive away, he tried to open the passenger side door. This was not good; admittedly, this made me nervous. Although, as history has shown, had he offered me some hard candy, I probably would've taken it. My anxiety was short lived, however, because as I sped forward and watched him still fumbling with the door handle, I realized a mitten-wearing seal would've had an easier time getting into my car.

Crisis not-so-gracefully averted, by the time I got to Trader Joe's, it sunk in just how stupid I had been. Not only had I pulled over for some stranger, but I stopped the car, rolled down the window, and then engaged in some seriously awkward conversation. I'll be honest, the awkward conversation bothered me the most. Lettuce? Milk? I vowed to make a concerted effort to not talk to anyone anymore.

I was feeling better once I pulled onto my street. I felt immediately worse when I realized the only space left was the one from which I left–the same space in front of the building with the porch where the two drunk, young, good-looking, fraternity-type white guys still sat. What, in the time I was gone, he couldn't find any other idiot to give him a ride?

I refused to park there in fear I'd end up describing–in detail–how it annoyed me that I had to pay for my lettuce and milk with my atm card since I was a dollar short in cash. So I circled my block looking for parking. By my third pass–and with that same space still blatantly available–the two drunk, young, good-looking, fraternity-type white guys were pointing at me in hysterics. I loathed that fucking bag of lettuce sitting in the back seat of my car.

I ended up finally finding a different space at the end of my block. The space was tight, but after five tries and some inadvertent honking of the horn, I squeezed myself in. And then I sat there for 10 extra minutes. I got home, put my lettuce away and promptly ordered a pizza.

"Do you want dessert with that?"

"Nah, I have a whoopie pie in my fridge."