When a whole bunch of people try to get to an Undergraduate Admission’s Office on the basis of insouciant directions on their very pretty web site

I drive into what I think is the cul-de-sac where I’m supposed to collect a parking pass. It is only a service vehicle area.

Another lady did the same thing just before me. She has already hopped out of her car and is cross-examining an unfortunate gentleman in overalls about the meaning of the bad directions she was given on the web. He looks as if he has accessed The Internet maybe a handful of times in his entire life.

“Are you looking for the Admissions Office too?” I ask, smiling. In the moment that it takes her to glare reprovingly at the poor man and turn to me, I’ve given him the eyebrow twitch that says “Run, Forest, Run!”

“Of course! And they’re not here! HE says so,” she points at the man who seems to be calculating if the space between him and the raging redhead will be sufficient should he decide to take my suggestion and make a run for it. He opts for backing away into the shrubbery as I maintain eye contact with her.

She is scowling, certain that I’m going to annoy her further. I notice that the passenger in her car has elected to remain in the car and out of sight.

“This is where they told us to come! They are supposed to BE HERE!” She says this as if, upon noticing that their directions were a bit flaccid, the Admissions Office should have moved their premises, doormat and all, to the implied location.

“I’m sure we’ll find it. It’s around here.” I try to be soothing. In the meantime, I’ve sent my daughter in pursuit of a student, who, by the gestures I see her making, seems to know where we need to go.

“What’s SHE doing?” The woman demands, glaring at the back of my daughter’s head. She dashes off as fast as her DSW shoes can carry her. Then she stands between my daughter and the student giving directions, looking like an English raised Pomeranian trying to decipher French, pointy nose twitching, beady black eyes uncomprehending, but suspicious, so suspicious.

By now, it is clear my daughter knows how to get to the Admissions Office. She comes back and tells me where we should park. Having heard everything the local student said the woman chases my daughter back to the car.

“Where did she say it was? Isn’t it up on the street THERE? Why doesn’t their office open this way?” There’s something in her tone that says she’s certain if we get to the Admissions Office before she does that her daughter’s chances of getting into the college will be worse than ours. She’s ready to do battle, she’s just not sure when to begin.

“Follow us.” After all, even if I lead her down the wrong path, we’ll be in a giant SUV behind lots of steel and glass. “Just back away slowly.” I mumble.

She scampers back to her Lexus. Like Angie Dickenson’s male stunt double making a getaway, she slams the door in a jerky fashion, her frazzled hair flying. As we leave, I hear her shouting at some other people as they erroneously enter the lot. She is not giving directions though, just heaping more blame on the Admissions Office as loudly as possible.

I roll out of the parking lot and follow my sweet daughter’s instructions. “That way, okay, now that way.” In moments, we are where we are supposed to be.

By the time I’ve located my purse among the empty water bottles and protein bar wrappers, the woman has parked and is marching, stiff-legged, up the walkway like a terrier with a bone to pick. No doubt she is off to straighten out the people in the Admissions Office.

Her daughter skips around her like a stick insect satellite, clearly hoping to stem the flow of her mother’s indignation. Poor kid. I hope she makes it out of her childhood alive.

The truth will out!

My husband says that if my boss finds my blog I am “so fired.” He’s right of course. But the one redeeming thing about that is I’ll know my boss has read my blog. The first time he actually HAS to face what I think of the work environment he provides me.

There’s a silver lining to every cloud.