Could ya hand me a pin, please?

So, after lots and lots of listing all of the possibly entertaining/satisfying responses for that guy on the phone yesterday, the first phone I answered this morning was an oh-so-familiar voice that said the exact same thing in the exact same tone.

He wanted to talk to anybody but me.

I almost managed to hold it back. Almost.

But I lashed out. I went batshit on him, and asked him if he remembered what he was doing eight, ten, twelve years ago, 'cause I was workin' here, workin' here, workin' here. When he tried to tell me it was "about something I didn't know anything about," I told him I'd been here long enough to know what the hell was goin' on and if I was the only one on the counter, I'd just have to be the only one there was to talk to.

Maybe he could hear my inner child... Not the one who loves Knight Rider and Hotwheels and Matchbox Cars; the older one, the frustrated junior-high one who could've been a School Shooter way back before School Shootings were all over the news.

There was something strangely satisfying that I could hear in his voice as he tried frantically to smooth things over; he called me "honey" and "baby" several times, and that almost pissed me right off until I realized it wasn't the same guy who pissed me off yesterday.

Whups. They really sounded a lot alike.

My inner junior high kid put her gun back in her backpack and tried not to cry...

When he finally gave in and asked me that question he thought I wouldn't know anything about, I was able to give a perfectly reasonable, professional, realistic, totally truthful answer.

"Yes, I saw the truck you worked on for us, and yes, you sent back the wrong key with it when we picked it up."

I resisted the temptation to say "See there? I know my shit..."

Here in the real world, I do not own any small guns that might fit inside any sort of backpack.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go find a pin so I can stick the almost-empty pill pack on my shirt to be sure the whole world can see just why I'm crazy this week.

Knight in shining whatever.

I woke up this morning with an incredible idea for a fascinating post, but it seems like the longer I'm awake, the dumber it seems. Either that, or it was like a dream and the major details that made it so fascinating have just slipped away.

I left work today wishing I was quicker at thinkin' on my feet and wondering why the best responses always come to mind well after it's too late to say them out loud.

Is it sad that I sat down in the living room with the laptop and got completely distracted by a re-run of "Knight Rider?"

I was so angry when I left work, but...

It's the first-ever-very-first episode.

I cannot believe anybody would talk to me like that, and I really wish I'd had a more interesting reply, and I really want to bitch about it, but I'm having a hard time focusing on it now...

And I can't believe I'm letting "teh internets" read about how I'm completely distracted by "Knight Rider" on RTV.

I was crazy about this show when it was new -- and I was six or seven years old. I was an obsessive kid (gee, like y'all didn't figure that out), I had the talking car with the David Hasselhoff action figure, and I even had Knight Rider jammies.

Now I'm 32 and completely distracted for a whole different reason. I have no idea why, but even though I thought "Baywatch" sucked, even though I snickered and giggled every time Norm McDonald joked about how "Germans love David Hasselhoff," even though I busted up laughin' when Spongebob Squarepants "Rode the Hoff," I get sucked in every time and I always sit down and watch. Even though I've talked to other people my own age who remember it being really cool way back in the day, and we've all said the same thing about how freakishly corny it seems now, but this show is like a time machine. It's a corny, hokey, goofy time machine that takes me right back to 1982 where The 'Hoff is long, tall and handsome; virile, young and healthy with a full head of soft, silky, curly hair and shocking blue eyes that are so beautiful, it doesn't matter how tacky a pastel-colored Members Only jacket looks when paired with dark jeans and a way-too-shiny, way-too-big belt buckle.

He's hot. There, I said it. I even had a very vivid hot dream about him a couple weeks ago. Yeah, hi there, internets, go ahead and make fun of me now.

I can't help but think about that song off that "Southpark" CD; "I'm not talkin' about Meridith Baxter Birney today, nooo, I'm talkin' about Meridith Baxter Birney who was on TV ten years ago..."

"I'm not talkin' about David Hasselhoff today, nooo, I'm talkin' about David Hasselhoff that was on TV twenty-five years ago..."

Oh man, twenty-five years ago. No, wait, twenty-seven? See there? I'm too distracted for math!

I'm okay for small-number math though -- Clayton and I had our first date four years ago tonight; Late Models on the high banks at Salina, and a lovely late night sittin' on the tailgate 'til I saw the moon way up over the top of the house. When I finally made it inside, the clock on the stove said Three Fifty-One just like a Ford small block.

Clay's blue eyes can make me feel things The 'Hoff wouldn't know anything about...

Happy Fourth First-Date-Anniversary, Baby!

More later... _\,,/

Actual Conversations.

Girl on phone: "I need doors with manual windows for a 96 Mazda MPV."

Me: "We don't have any Mazdas here, we handle Ford parts."

Girl on phone: "Oh, it wasn't a 95 Mazda, it was a 92 Buick Century."

--

Well shit. Next time, maybe I'll think quicker and see if I can sell 'em a dishwasher.

Through The Weeds.

My work experience lies in healthcare and automotive; I have only seen the effects of "out in the weeds" as a customer.

I know everybody needs a little kindness, there's enough meanness going on -- that's why I'm quiet about it. It could mean I'm too scared to speak out and tell somebody they screwed up; it could mean I don't do well with "confrontation," it could mean that I've let the theories of retail friendliness get too deeply ingrained in my habits; but I'm choosing to believe the theory that Anne and I talked about the other night -- I'm a reasonable adult, therefore I'm not mean to people, no matter how much I can't stand 'em. Not directly, anyway.

Have I mentioned how completely awesome it is to be back in touch with Anne? She found me on F@ceBook and getting that e-mail made me get all jumpy and giggly!

Now, just like we talked about, I'm not gonna be mean to a waiter or waitress, 'cause it's just not right. The tip will shrink if the drinks don't stay full or an empty chip basket gets ignored, but I've watched way too many people pitch little fits and I just don't want to be remembered as that person who acted all nasty. I guess it's a case of "don't be that guy."

We tend to keep going back to the places we like -- somewhere between the kindness and the tips, we're remembered as being friendly, and we're usually fairly well taken care of. I don't want to be that person that people see comin' and think "Ugh, not again..."

Things seem to go easier if you can just be friendly...

Everybody was workin' hard to be friendly, but it might not have really been workin' today at lunch.

Fast food is completely different though...

I still try my best for quiet kindness though, 'cause seriously, if they were our best and brightest, they wouldn't be workin' in fast food, now would they?

I have no idea how anybody could get so "Out In The Weeds" when there are five people working and only two customers waiting for food, but the folks at the chicken joint were out in the weeds today.

It could be due to the guy who couldn't make up his mind what to spend his dollar bill and handful of coins for taking way too long to decide between chicken, potatoes, beans or a drink, dumping the entire contents of his pockets on the floor along with change and a big handful of only-God-knows what kind of pills -- finally settling on one piece of chicken all by itself; who knows...

The place started fillin' up, and since I wasn't all that interested in closeness with strangers or watching a gangsta mug the guy with the pills, all I could think about was getting my seven dinners and getting outta there.

Seven of us at work today, seven dinners, five with steak fingers, two with chicken strips. Five plus two is seven.

I had to wait a while, but I was glad to make it outta there without hearing anybody try to scam a free drink for havin' to wait -- oh, and in case you ever wondered, at this particular chicken joint, the most popular variety of that scam would be a "Schtrawwwbereh Drank."

The lady workin' the front counter, the one who was oh-so-patient with Mr. One-Piece with coins, she just made my day when she finally said my order was ready. I was sooo glad to get outta there, I just grabbed the bag and made a break for the car.

I was stopped at the second stoplight when I realized there were only six dinners in the bag.

There was no way I was goin' back in there with a confusing receipt and a complaint about bein' short a box.

If they were the best and brightest, they'd be able to count to seven and they wouldn't be workin' in fast food...

I really enjoyed that peanut butter sandwich.

More later... _\,,/