I have a ‘no nagging’ policy. I’ll ask Mike twice, nicely, to do something, and then if it doesn’t get done I do it myself, hire someone, or let it go – but if possible, I don’t mention it again.
This policy was enacted this month with tires. For some reason I do not understand – although it has been explained – my car’s tires hold nitrogen instead of oxygen. And that’s kinda a pain sometimes because when they’re low you can’t just stop at the little air thingy at the gas station. Also. I kinda don’t like going to the tire place Mike likes. They’re always nice. And it’s always free. I just don’t like it because it’s cold in there and I’d rather be somewhere warm where people are not.
Mike said he’d do it. Twice. But then he went out of town and forgot and had to go work and be gone and make money and all of that is fine and I’m grateful. So I grabbed a hoodie just in case and went to the tire place.
I came in and there were two guys behind the counter. One of them said – before I could say anything – “you’re that movie star, aren’t you?”
(totally unnecessary) NOTE: I looked grungy. Ratty t-shirt, messy ponytail (not cute-messy, just messy-messy). Even when I do NOT look grungy, no one will ever have cause to say those words to me. EVER. I’m a mother of four, and I look like it. Which is fine. God help me if I were a mother of 4 trying to look like a movie star, because I would be frustrated beyond belief. Also? Live in West Texas. Where all the movie stars go, you know, because we are so. so. glam.
So of course I ignored him. There is no dignified response to that question. He was probably in his 50s with a cute Santa Claus tummy and a very serious expression and tone of voice – but he had to be kidding. Sarcastic. Bored. Deadpan.
I talked to him about the tire and the nitrogen. When I finished, he asked me again. Ignored all the stuff about the tire and the nitrogen and the whole reason I was there. The guy behind him rolled his eyes and shook his head. I got the feeling he’s seen this act a million times.
It was a bizarre conversation. I was talking tires. He was ignoring me and throwing out tidbits about the nameless celebrity that he probably got out of the waiting room’s copy of People. “The one who just got divorced? You know?”
“Mmm. No. Am married. Nitrogen?”
He finally gave up, told me where to park my car and said he’d meet me out there. Then, just as I get to the door, he suddenly remembers his favorite celebrity’s name. He calls it out, LOUDLY, and stops me in my tracks. Then I keep going right on out the door. This person and I could not possibly look anything alike under ANY circumstances. She’s tall and very thin and has big brown eyes and dark hair. And I’m… me. Later I called my mom and was laughing at this guy with her and she said, “Well. You are both… female.” And that’s it! THAT is the sum total of our resemblance.
I wasn’t going to tell you about it because. I don’t know. But now I just HAD to because I had to go back again yesterday and then the story got such a great ending.
The tire had a slow leak, and was a bit of an issue for my friend and I when we were gone this weekend. I went in and was quite relieved not to see that guy. I took my books and went off to the arctic cold waiting room where I pored over my geology homework. (Ring of Fire – not just your favorite Johnny Cash song, yaknow.)
After 30 minutes or so, I looked up and there were two pretty blondes at one end of the counter. Far away at the other end of the counter was a brief discussion that made me laugh all day.
One guy said to the other Worst Celebrity Spotting Guy Ever, “Say it three times. Come on.”
And the Worst Celebrity Spotting Guy Ever said (in a grumpy voice), “I will not talk to women. I will not talk to women. I will not talk to women.”
And then they both nodded and went out different doors.
I think this is an excellent solution. That man should NOT talk to women.