This morning I graciously agreed to drag my fat butt out of bed and take my beloved husband's car to the dealership so that we might get his keys reprogrammed. Apparently there was a recall...something about the keys and cell phones or some other nonsense. I can't really remember. All I know is that I got up way, way early on a Saturday morning, drove for thirty minutes and heard,
"We don't have you down as having an appointment."
I made the appointment myself. I called the day after Thanksgiving and they couldn't get me in and told me it would be TODAY before they could get me in. And I told the guy 9am and he said okay. Did I remember his name? Um. No. Do I remember my own husband's middle name most of the time? No. Me remembering is not a good gauge of whether something actually happened or not.
Despite this setback and possibly due to my delirum from lack of sleep, I was feeling pretty good this morning. I chatted pleasantly with the service manager and did not say anything like, "Oh yeah? Well I MADE my appointment and I got my butt out of bed REALLY EARLY on a Saturday morning so you can go to hell and die!" Not that I wanted to say that or anything.
The service manager was a nice fellow and was making a sincere effort to help me when a young technician came over to the desk where I was standing.
"Nice day," he said, after a moment. "Is that your car?"
"It's my husband's." I responded. I smiled at him too. Because I'm a Girl Scout and we do crap like that.
He stood, watching me for a moment and then said:
"You have pretty hair."
I said thank you and was not skeeved out. Because, well, let's face it. My hair is pretty freaking awesome.
He continued to stand there, watching me.
"Are those your kids?" he asked, gesturing to Boy and Girl Child who were looking longingly at the vending machine Honeybuns.
"Where do you work?" he asked.
Um. Good Lord. Intrusive!
I said, "Oh. In TheNameoftheTownIworkin."
And then he said, and I'm totally not kidding,
"How about I take you out sometime? Are you free tonight?"
Um. Excuse me?
I said, "Sorry, I'm married." I waved my diamond-clad finger at him.
He laughed. "You can take that ring off! Just slip it in your pocket!"
OH NOT HE DID NOT!
OH MY GOD HE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT TO ME WITH MY TWO CHILDREN STANDING THERE!
I said, "No thanks."
He smiled and wandered off.
Boy Child, who had been watching this entire debacle said, "What a douchebag. I hope his wife crotch punches him later."
And you know? He was right. I told that guy I was married and he asked me to cheat on my husband. The hell? I hope his wife crotch punches him too. I don't think he was married, so maybe his future wife can do it. Whatever.
The Service Manager managed to figure out what was going on and the three of us slipped inside to wait on the car. I went into the restroom to wash my hands and glanced at myself in the mirror. Same me. Same tired eyes and wide hips. Same t-shirt and blue jeans and tennis shoes with red clay stains on the bottom. Same Old Navy hoodie I've had for eight years. No sex goddess. No Angelina Jolie. Just me.
I guess some guys like that. I don't know. Or maybe he just thought I looked fat and tired and desperate and lonely. Which, I probably do, but he didn't have to try to exploit it.
Either way. That guy was a big freak.