Stickers, Hollers, Druthers

It's A People Post, Peeps!

After picking up a pepperoni and mushroom pie from our favorite Loveland pizza place (Arte Pizzeria, I highly recommend it), I was approaching my parking space and noticed a white SUV backing out of the slot by my car. The driver appeared to be a white male, perhaps late-30s. A woman seeming of the same age range was in the passenger seat. I waited while they pulled out, to give them room. After they were backed out, I was unlocking my car door, when the man yelled to me, “Lady, your brain is clogged!”

First off, dingbat that I be, I was delirious that he gendered me correctly. Only secondarily did I realize he was reacting to the stickers on my car, an orange 2007 Ford Escape that Pam and I affectionately call “Escapé.” My mom gave it to me in 2011 after my stepdad, Bill, passed away. Escapé has thrived with us for 11 years—a great boon, not to mention that they (Escapé is non-binary) are also a tangible reminder of my late step-dad and Mom. Seeing as how Escapé is debt-free and more than 15 years old, I, through the intervening years, have put stickers on them. Not just on the bumper, but all over, the placards having crept from the rear of the vehicle to annex territory on both sides, all the way to the front quarter panels. Most of my stickers are harmless—craft breweries, an online vibrator store, my favorite bands (The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Genesis), a host of local punk-rock ensembles, Rick n’ Morty’s Mr. Poopy Butthole saying “Oooooo, Wee!”, Bill Murray in his effigy, and pretty much anything with adhesive on the back of it. The response to my sticker-ravaged palette-on-wheels is overwhelmingly positive. People drive by and give me a thumbs up, greet me across a parking garage with a “Love the stickers!” and even leave more stickers under my windshield wiper.

All good things have their naysayers, though. Not all my stickers are innocuous. It’s my car, so I express myself. A few of my stickers might be perceived by some as “in-your-face.” Fr’instance, the ones that say “The Hippies Were Right,” “Co-Exist” (with the letters all in shapes signifying various world religions), “Tree-Hugging Dirt Worshipper,” "Make America Gay Again," and “Goddess Worshipper,” may pique the curiosity of the casual observer. (Uh, but the “Doing My Part to Piss Off the Religious Right” and “Jesus Would Slap the Shit Outta You” are downright zipper-rippers.)

So, the dude in the SUV must’ve felt like he had to holler his piece, and good for him! Clears the lungs. I waved to him and smiled, saying, “You have a great day, sweetie!!”

This did not have the desired effect, as he hollered out of the departing vehicle, “Eat a dick!!”

I said, “Ew! No. I won’t do what you do!” (He and I referenced dick-eating like it was a bad thing. It's not. It just isn't my druthers. You do you, boo.)

A good time on the playground, with a hockey game about to break out, eh?

I get it, though. I went to the effort of pasting stickers on my car. He went to the effort of telling me my brain is clogged (it damn well is—with sunshine, baby!).

And that's where I'm going to leave it, to let it just be another tale in my crazy, wonderful life. People are amazing sources of joy and wonder, of grief and consternation. And people are people, who don't have to be people the way I'm people.

That's a fierce and beautiful thing, Peeps.



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