It's the racy car I drive

Yesterday I left the doctor's office south of the river and headed to the town north of the river to meet the guy with my supplies. (This means I didn't have time to visit the hole-in-the-wall run by Guadalaharan natives which has, bar none and I've eaten tamales all over this country, the best tamales I've ever put in my mouth. I'll expound on that another time.)

I pulled into the parking lot and was sitting there waiting, and a small car pulls up next to me. This nice-looking black teenager (keeping in mind I'm 51 years old so EVERYONE looks like a teenager) pulls up next to me and gets out of his car. I pop out of mine, look over the roof and say, "Are you my guy?" He smiles and says, "No, ma'am." And I smile back and say, "Never mind. I'm waiting on a delivery," and get back in my car.

And realize, he's just standing there staring at me. At which point Worst Case Scenario flashes through my mind and there we are...this kid on the phone to his dad who is probably a city policeman, explaining that "There's this old woman sitting in the parking lot at Railroad Bazaar trying to buy a dime bag of pot."

Only he just turned around and went into the store and my guy pulled up and I didn't get arrested for saying dumb things. Thank you, Lord.