Baby-Daddy Done Greased Up My Seats

One day, while working for an auto insurance company in Atlanta, my eyes were blinded by a flash of brilliant light.  My first instinct was to utter a prayer and crouch under my desk, figuring someone was actually dumb enough to push the big red button at the nuclear missile command.  Thankfully, remembering that I lived in the land of all things "bling", I quickly realized it was merely the sun reflecting off the oversized chrome grille and gigantic spinning rims attached to a cream-colored Chrysler 300.

I watched as a woman of rather large stature exited the vehicle and approached the lobby.  She was wearing massive silver hoop earrings, every bit as bright as the chrome that adorned her vehicle.  As she practically strutted up to my desk, I composed myself for what would most likely be a lively conversation.  Seeing no need to respond to my greeting, she immediately proceeded to tell me in a very boisterous voice: "My baby-daddy done greased up my seats!"  Trying to process her unique conundrum, I calmly asked her exactly what she meant. Earrings bobbing with her head motions, she went on to repeat her initial statement in a more exasperated tone.

At this point, I realized it would be best to go out with her to the vehicle and discover what havoc her baby-daddy had wrought.  After all, Ricki Lake taught me long ago to never underestimate the destructive capabilities of a rogue baby-daddy. The woman proceeded to show me several stains and indentations in her white leather seats, as well as her equally white floorboard carpeting.  Never mind that it just so happened the indentations in the leather were remarkably similar to those left by a child safety seat.  Furthermore, while I don't have children of my own, I'm certainly aware that little ones often like to "decorate" surfaces with food and drink originally intended for consumption.  Closer inspection of a few of the stains revealed them to be remarkably similar to ones left by juice allowed to soak into supple, porous leather.  Discovering randomly scattered Cheerios on the floor helped me reach my final conclusion regarding the interior of her vehicle.

Needless to say, despite the delicate wording of my explanation of why her situation did not warrant a claim against her insurance policy, she was not happy with me.  In lieu of finding myself in a potentially volatile situation with a rather aggressive person who clearly had an upper-hand on me physically, I thought it best to seek the assistance of a supervisor.  In the end, it appears we were able to resolve her "claim" by simply performing some basic detail work as a courtesy.  Unfortunately, I do not think the young woman was in the proper frame of mind to learn a potentially important lesson on that day:  White interiors are best left to limousines and vehicles owned by car-collectors and gaudy musicians.