This morning CootieGirl had a pediatrician appointment. All went well – she checked out fine and did GREAT when she had to get her three booster shots. The trouble started in the parking lot. We had parked in a parking lot one over because I thought that was the right building. It wasn’t, but rather than moving the car we just walked over to the right building. So after the appointment we walked back to the car. A lady was sitting in her SUV in the slot next to us, but allowed us to pass to get into our car. I unlocked the car, and as CootieGirl was crawling into her car seat she fell back against the door and it tapped the wheel well of the SUV next us. I helped CootieGirl back up and then checked to see where the car door hit. There WAS a mark on the wheel well of the SUV about the width of my index fingernail, but it didn’t line up with my car door. When the lady got out of her car she inspected for herself and just as I said to CootieGirl, “You need to apologize for tapping her car,” the woman grumpily said, “You scratched my car.”
“Ma’am,” I started, being as polite as possible. “My daughter fell as she was climbing into her carseat and did move the car door into your car, however, if you’ll look,” (I moved my car door so it was in alignment with her wheel well), “you’ll see that my car didn’t make that scratch on your car,” (pointing to the two spots that didn’t meet up).
“That mark wasn’t on my car. I inspect my car every day and that mark was NOT on my car when I left this morning. I got a scratch on my car on the other side last week, so I know when my car gets scratched.”
“Ma’am, my car didn’t make that scratch. I acknowledge that my car door DID tap your car, but the scratches don’t line up. I’m sorry. In any event, this scratch is minimal enough that you can just buff it out, I’m sure.”
She didn’t respond, so I started walking around to my side of the car. It was then she muttered, “I’m going to take down your plate numbers,” and I saw her scribbling my car license plate on an envelope in her hand. “And I want your name, too!” she said, now being very rude.
I was losing my patience too. “Ma’am – we didn’t make that scratch. But if you are taking down my plate number, then I’m taking pictures.” I got out my cellphone and took three pictures of the scratch. “I’m confident you can buff those out,” I repeated as I snapped my cellphone shut.
“Well, I’ll leave that to my husband to decide,” she said. “What’s your name?”
I gave her my name, not worried since I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Do I need anything else?” she asked.
“Nope, since nothing’s going to happen, since I didn’t make that scratch,” I responded dryly, walking back over to the driver’s side of my car.
I got in my car, and drove to the next parking lot over, where I immediately called Denis to tell him the story. The scratch (again, which *I DID NOT MAKE*) was not even 1/2 an inch long (the reflection of my car in the picture makes the scratch look larger then it really is – I should have held my finger up to the scratch so there was something to measure it by. I also should have taken a picture to show where my door DID meet her car to show that my car door didn’t make that scratch. But she was getting angry and I needed to get to work. Hindsight being 20/20, I should have taken the time to take two more pictures.). I also checked my car again when I got to CootieGirl’s daycare to drop her off, to see if there was any mark on MY car door, which there would have been had my door actually made that scratch in her wheel well paint job. Nothing. Nada. No mark. No scratch, no paint, no scuff, no nothing. Because 1) my car didn’t hit her car hard enough to make that scratch and 2) the scratch did not line up with where my car door *did* tap her car.
I don’t know what this woman will do. Hopefully cooler heads will prevail and her husband will tell her to suck it up. However, if he’s as much of a hothead and just as unreasonable as his wife, then who knows what they’ll do with my name and tag number. Time will tell.