I’m Your Boogey Man
Gotta love instant karma. There’s been a wave of rudeness in the customer service world, with me being on the receiving end. I’ve got thick skin and a ton of patience, but it gets old. I love it when nature helps play a part.
I have allergies. Cat allergies, pollen, etc… It seems I have a perpetual cold. I keep paper towels handy at work, for nasal ‘incidents’ and other quick mop-ups. (Drinks on ice leave a drippy trail, messing with lottery tickets and credit card slips.) I fold up two or three paper towels and set them behind the touch-screen of my cash register. They are not for public consumption.
So imagine my surprise when a pair of young fellows, dressed like cabana boys and acting oh so entitled, came to the register. I was a few steps away, and as I approached one of the fellows asked, “Are cigarettes cheaper across the street?”
Not the quickest way to my heart. I said, “I don’t know, I don’t work across the street.”
His friend, and I’m assuming the friend thinks it’s cute, walks his fingers past my comfort zone behind the register, grabs one of my folded paper towels and begins wiping his face with it. I couldn’t resist.
“Um, I just blew my nose on that.”
He went from tan to green in seconds. “Eww…”
I told him, all daddy-like, “It’s best to ask before taking things, and even smarter when you’re reaching back here. You could get hurt. I once sliced a friend’s thumb open with a box-cutter when he thought it’d be funny to play stick-’em-up.”
Greenie was inspecting the paper towel. His friend asked, “Are there boogers on it?”
Greenie, suddenly overcome with politeness, asked, “May I have one?”
I nodded at the one he was holding. “It’s all yours now.”
Greenie’s friend bought the cigarettes anyway, and winked at me on the way out.
For the record, the only thing on the paper towel was a wet spot from mopping up an ice cube. Just doing my part to educate the young people of America.
“Hey, Brown-eye!”
“Your store stinks!”
That was an effeminate fellow’s salutation at work the other night. Not expecting that, or knowing what else to say, I replied, “Thank you.”
“Excuse me? I tell you your store stinks, and you say ‘Thank you?’” He harrumphed. “Shouldn’t you be spraying something or something?”
“Dude,” I replied, “I smell funky stuff all night long. What does it smell like? Bum? Raspberry pesticide? Dirty diaper? What?”
“If a customer complains, you should immediately do something about it!”
“Okay, I’ll get right on it.” I picked up the Portland Mercury and began reading.
“Fine. How much are cigarettes?” I told him. “WHAT? You stink and you’re expensive?”
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you too.”
Something registered in his face. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you personally. I was-…” Blah blah blah.
There was no shortage of rude assholes last week. Allow me to share the fun… Read the rest of this entry »
Fire Trucks and Bridges
It seems like a same-thing-different-day situation, that work thing. Human behavior doesn’t surprise me, rarely shocks me anymore. I’m still at it, still having fun. Thank god summer is here; work has been sorta mundane. The sun is bringing the goonybirds back out, and I’ve been watching… Read the rest of this entry »
Talkin’ Out Yo’ Ass
Butt… Butt…
I have been butt-dialed.
Yesterday morning as I tried to sleep, my cell phone went off. It wasn’t either of the usual ring tones, instead an unfamiliar one, like Brazilian fiesta music. WTF? I looked, and it was a ‘Blocked ID’ call. Mmmkay. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you if you’re worthy of my attention, etc… I heard no alert for voicemail, so I rolled over to go back to sleep. After five minutes, the voicemail alert went off.
Really? A five minute voicemail? Now I’m curious, so I sat up, dialed and listened.
I could pick out voices, but they were muffled. It sounded like two women driving as service faded in and out. At one point it sounded like they were feeding a baby to a bobcat inside a blender. Once I determined it wasn’t some form of horrible bad news, (see previous post) I saved it for dissection when I had free minutes. Upon further review:
It was two women discussing animal care. One was moving to a new space, and they were concerned “Doug and Nancy” may not be animal lovers. “Hi, roomie! Meet my pitbull Maggot!” (Actually it sounded more like an old cat they were discussing.) These random bits went on for 4:48 before my machine cut them off or the gal with the phone noticed and hung up.
I have an inkling who this might be. My cousin Misty in North Carolina has a new iPhone, and I called her a few days ago. Could she have shaken, bumped or rotated the phone in such a way that it called me back with Caller ID blocked? I don’t know, but I’m going to e-mail her this and see if it rings any bells.
If anyone knows a Doug or Nancy who just got an animal-loving roommate with a pleasant voice, please point out that carrying their phone in a back pocket is not only hard on the instrument, it disrupts the natural curve of the gluteus maximus. In other words, it makes your ass look bigger.
Help me out here, folks. Otherwise I may have to go to South Park and hire the Hardly Boys.
I’m sure they’ve got a clue…
The Big Sound of a Small Voice
Sometime you just have to sit back, take a deep breath, and thank the powers that be.
Mizelle and The Frenchman have talked of moving to France for the past couple of years. His family owns a vineyard and he is the heir-apparent. We met for dinner last week, hung out like always, had a lovely visit. They hadn’t decided if they were going as a family, or if The Frenchman would go alone and Mizelle and baby would follow. Lily is a year old now, sporting three teeth and walking, albeit like she’s consumed a jug of burgundy. It’s a juggling act timewise, and they were still putting things in order. I’ve known this was coming, and while I would miss them terribly, it wouldn’t be the first time Mizelle has wandered off for years at a time. I would make do. All I knew is she may or may not go, but The Frenchman had to leave around the first of the month.
I awoke to “Breaking News!” this morning. An Air France jetliner had disappeared off the radar after leaving Rio de Janiero. Authorities expected the worst. No word of any Americans on board.
I didn’t think too much about it. Certainly there are lots of flights to France; what would the odds be? Regardless, I was a little worried, so I sent Mizelle an e-mail: “Indulge my inner Grandma. Let me know y’all are okay?” I threatened to flood her voicemail box if I didn’t hear something soon.
By early evening I had heard nothing, so I took a break from work and called. Mizelle picked up. “Well, hello. What do you want?”
“Oh nothing. Just checking up on you…”
“What, you think we were on that plane? Nah. Thank you though, for thinking of me as such a jet-setter. I’d love to go to Paris via Rio someday.”
“So everyone is fine, everyone’s in town? You’ll call me if you’re around this weekend?”
“Of course I will.”
“Give the baby and the old man a hug for me, will you? Gotta get back to work.”
“Will do.”
We rang off, and I told Pan and Whitney that all was well. (They’d hung around in case the news wasn’t so good.) Finally, I could focus on work. As I was about to get to it, my phone rang. Mizelle was on the Caller ID.
“Hello?” I responded.
I heard a “Blah-blah-blabbity blab blab,” and realized Mizelle had called back and handed the phone to Lily, who was giving me a lecture about being a silly old man who worries too much about things I can’t control. Then she told me goodnight. (At least that’s what I took from all that “Blah-blah-blabbity blab blab.”) It was a sweet gesture, and made my night.
I can’t help feeling like I dodged a bullet, and I’m so glad I checked up on them. It’s times like these I feel so small, then I think of the even smaller one whose tiny bits of baby-talk were like screams of happiness in my ear.
Big hugs to all of you tonight.
Created in His Image
Growing up redhead, I got picked on a bit, but I had it no worse than anyone else. We all have our crosses to bear. I felt a lot better when I heard that Al Roker’s formative years were spent dodging Fat Albert references. I got off easy, except for those goddamn Chuck Wagon commercials.
My favorite cereal was Count Chocula. Of course, my little sister’s was Frankenberry, and she tried her best to get that nickname to stick. Mom didn’t allow cussing, which is where the nickname “Beastard” came from. (In case you were wondering. I called her “Botch.”) Mom hated it, but gave us points for creativity.
I just finished reading Tom Davis’ book, 39 Years of Short-Term Memory Loss. Great stories about SNL, and a nice walk back in time to my teen years. My favorite part? When Al Franken complained that General Mills had stolen his likeness:
“Frankenberry has my eyes, and my jaw. The top of his head? That’s my ass!”
I got off easy…
Thanks to blogadilla.com for the images.
The Mystery Machine
After all those months bragging about specialty haircuts, notice how quiet it’s been? Clairissa, my lovely barber and friend, loaded up the truck and moved away to Californ-i-ee, so I’ve been letting the hair grow. Between the mop of hair on top and lack of beard, people are looking at me and asking, “What’s different?”
I’m like AC/DC; same songs, different album cover.
Things didn’t turn out so well in sunny SoCal, and the girls are back. Good thing; a haircut was in order. Read the rest of this entry »
After-School Special
I crack wise about being old, but 47 isn’t that old.
I live with a fifteen-year-old, and think of how tortured he’d be if he had to amuse himself the way I did. (”Library? Why would I want to go there? I can use your computer!”) Not only did I read more than he does, there were fewer electronic amusements to distract one from an education. He’s got DSs, Wiis, Playstation3000s, etc… I didn’t even have Pong. “Get up off your ass and play real ping-pong!” Dad would say.
And then there’s television. We have about 130 channels to choose from. In my day, there were about five. I remember the afternoon routine well… Read the rest of this entry »
We’ve got a really big shoe tonight…
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Just when I think I’ve seen it all, something new comes along.
Last night provided a typical example. It was early evening at work. Dr T stopped by to return some books, offer a break to visit the “necessary room,” get change, etc… It had been quiet, we stood there passing the time when Weird Steven walked in. Carrying the biggest shoe I’d ever seen. Read the rest of this entry »
