(Real names have been changed to protect the innocent. How I wish I was referring to myself.)
So I recently met a new neighbor.
I bombed it yall.
Here’s how it went down.
As my new neighbor crossed the yard to introduce himself, he extended his hand and said in one breath, ” Hi, I’m Josmith.” No pause, no break. One word.
I, of course, returned his handshake and introduced myself, first name only. This prompts him to ask for my last name. I obliged. And then sincerely asked, “And yours?”
To which he responds, slightly perplexed: “Joe.(Pause).Smith.”
Riiiight. Joe (PAUSE-IDIOT) Smith. Because really, who in the hell names their kid “josmith.”
Later during the course of our pleasantries, he inquired on where we work, etc and I explained that Somanna works with ultra low temperature freezers. This excites Mr. Neighbor as he apparently took not one, but two courses on thermodynamics (one was an elective even!) because he enjoyed the subject so much. Don’t.we.all!
And then he said,”I’m sure your husband has found a lot of parallels between moving and entropy.” (huh, huh – geeky science joke.)
“MmmmHmmm,” I nodded enthusiastically. “Bless his heart.” (It’s the standard Southern reply – works for almost any situation. Except for maybe this one.)
My neighbor eyed me, cocks his head to the side and said,
“Do you know what entropy means?”
You have two choices in moments like these. Lie your ass off or own it with all the awkwardness of Liz Lemon. Feeling an unspoken bond of dark hair, thick brows and awkward humor with Tina Fey, I opted for the later.
Me, stammering: “No…I uh, no I don’t know what that means.”
This admission was followed by INCESSANT grinning, foot shifting and possible hair twirling.
I just got CALLED OUT YO! In my face!
And then I got schooled as Mr. Neighbor-Man-With-Two-Names explained entropy with an analogy involving dust bunnies. Because clearly he thought that since I don’t do “science speak” perhaps reaching me through the feminine realm of domestic chores would be more my speed.
At this point, I had one single shred of dignity left.
Which I successfully annihilated by shoving my ringing cell phone, complete with this cheesy photo of Somanna in Mr.Joe – PAUSE-Smith’s face squealing “This is my husband, see?!!”
Yes, because I’m sure Mr. Neighbor man would have confused him with all of the other 6’3 Indian men on our street.
Why stop at third, when home plate is so close?
Grand Slam yall. Grand &*$%ing slam.
*Drops mic and walks offstage…….