Usually I strive to show polite self-restraint with bizarre people, but now I think I need to work on learning how to bop up-da-side-a-da-head those who really deserve it. Like the crazy lady in the grocery store this afternoon who dumbfounded me about her intention to breed puppies.
The first few seconds of our encounter were banal. She noted the two massive bags of dog food tenuously draped over my grocery cart and, through the power of deductive reasoning, pronounced that I must have a big dog.
I'm quite accustomed to these dull observations and usually enjoy a brief conversation about dogs --especially my dogs-- but she apparently mistook my “Yes, I d--” as a gracious invitation for her to lapse into endless prattle about her three lapsa-itsu-yorkie-peeka-poos or somesuch, which caught me completely by surprise.
Her mouth was out of the gate in a flash: “Oh, they’re so cute, so, so cute. Three little ones. You wouldn’t believe how cute. Pure bred mixes. I got three of them. So I could breed them.”
Three pure bred mixes, indeed! That would make breeding them a menage-a-mutt-tois?
I was speechless, but it didn't matter because she was on a roll. “But then again, I don’t know. Maybe I won’t breed them because it’ll be a smelly mess just like the breeder’s place. I bought them for a really good deal, really good. Except that they eat their poop, oh dear, I never heard of such a thing, probably because that’s how they lived, do ya think?"
The time she granted me for my response was just long enough for my jaw to drop. Without coming up for air, she barreled on: "Well, that's what I think. But, oh, the SMELL at the breeder’s! Like I said, she sold them to me for a really good price, but the one girl... oh, so cute, just cute as a button... she won’t go outside. Uh, she goes outside, but doesn't GO, ya know? She just comes right back in the house and goes, GOES! anywhere: the living room carpet, our BED even, the bathroom floor… Now, our bathroom --we have a MASTER bathroom-- that’s not so bad because it’s tiled, ya know, but anywhere she has to pee she just squats right down…”
And at this point, apparently because I seem like the type of person who doesn’t know what “squat” means, she contorted her --had to be-- 200 plus pounds on a 4 foot frame into a half squat right there in the grocery aisle between the boxed cereals and baked goods.
But she wasn’t finished. “I don’t know what to do. She just goes, GOES! anywhere she wants --without even thinking. Now, the boy, he’s good. He goes outside. Cute little thing. But, no, definitely no, I'm not going to breed them and, anyway, it probably won’t work because, according to my husband, the little boy dog doesn’t, ya know, uh, he doesn’t know how to DO it, if ya get my drift.”
I feared I was about to learn how it came to be that the husband was privy to this sensitive information about the performance issues of the boy dog’s sexual apparatus and had I not been pushing a cart with a ton of dog food teetering on it, I’d have exited in haste to the checkout, but I was cornered.
I had to do something, so I lobbed this to her: “You really need to get them spayed/neutered.”
“Oh, I would never do that!”
“Well, yes, you really DO need to get them spayed/neutered. Really.” In the thimbleful of time I figured I had, I tried a shotgun-sermon approach of rattling through the ethical, health, genetic, convenience, logistical, rescue… reasons --all compelling, passionate reasons-- to do the right thing.
“Oh, no. They are so cute. And nice little dogs. I would never do thah-at.”
“Really, please. Do it for the good of your dogs… They came from a PUPPY MILL! Don't you want those cute little dogs to have a good life with you? For them, for you, don't risk having more litters...”
I am confident that Cute Little Boy Dog eventually will figure things out. Maybe he’ll find the husband's girly magazines on the bedroom floor before Cute As A Button Sister soaks them with urine-- and, poof, there will be incestuous canine love in the air.
I did not bop her with a box of Twinkies, but I should have. I'm bemoaning my likely failure to prevent who-knows-how-many litters of puppies from ending up --at best-- adopted out of a shelter. And, I'm really sorry I didn't think to ask her for the breeder's name and location of Doggy Dung Ranch because that's where some serious bopping needs to be done.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Make My Day. Vroom-Vroom.
Service representatives! Sometimes it would really make my day to get good service from a service department.
On Friday night our new car is afflicted with warning-light-itis and has to be towed to the dealership Saturday morning. As the tow truck drives off, I call the dealership to tell them the car will be arriving. Leave a message. Hour goes by. Leave another message. Another hour goes by... Call main number. Talk to Person Who Doesn't Know Anything. She promises I'll get a call back in 10 minutes. Another hour goes by.
I'm starting to get concerned. Shouldn't the service department be just a tad bit curious about the car that was dropped, hopefully not literally, on their doorstep? Personally, I'm a bit curious to know if there's anything I need to do. Give them my name? Relay what's wrong with it? Heck, for all I know maybe there's some car repair equivalent of a Medical Request for Treatment or a HIPAA law form to sign. Plus, as a professional worry-wart, I'm curious to know if the car actually arrived because, in exchange for the car, I have only a business card, albeit a nice colorful one, from the very nice tow truck driver, but it doesn't seem like an equal trade for a car. My mind flashes to a poster I saw years ago at an Ed Debevic's restaurant: "The guy in the valet uniform who took your car doesn't work here."
I call the dealership again. I'm more insistent with Person Who Doesn't Know Anything. For my insistence, I'm put on hold. Progress! Twenty minutes on hold. A service rep finally picks up and tells me she can't help me right now because she has a customer. I tell her I'm a customer. She says, "But THIS customer is right HERE." I reply that customers on the phone are as valid as customers in person. She says, "You're welcome to come here in person." Grrr. I reply --and I deserve kudos for not dropping even one f-bomb-- "I would, but you have my car." She says she'll call me back before they close for the day. Another hour goes by. But, surprise, she keeps her word by calling 5 minutes before service closes for the weekend. She tells me in an irritating, absurdly sing-songy happy voice that it was a sim-ple problem with the car's com-puter and it's been re-cali-brated. And it's alllll fixed. And, they washed it and it's allll ready to be picked up. And they close in 5 minutes.
Grrrr. But, ah, there is sometimes sweet revenge.
Well, I don't absolutely need the car for the weekend but I'd like it and, besides, it seems goofy to have it sit there --all freshly washed & re-calibrated & lonely-- until Monday. So, I ask if there isn't some way I can get the car ("Beam me up, Scottie" perhaps?) before they close. She offers to leave the key in the sales office, which is open later.
Ah, yes, the sales office. We're quite familiar with sales at this particular dealership, as we'd been there THREE times in the past couple months TRYING to buy a car. The sales guy --picture "Dirty Harry" with a case of terminal arrogance, a deficiency of initiative, and poor posture-- always was a tad imposed upon to sell cars. Perhaps we asked wildly difficult questions: "Does it come in blue?" Perhaps we were too demanding: "Well, could you give us a call us when you find out?" Never a call. Hmmm. We seemed to be working way to hard to buy a car and certainly didn't want to bother this slouchy DH so we eventually drove 90-some miles to another dealership and bought a car on the spot.
So, as luck would have it, on Saturday when we arrived to pick up the car, ol' DH saunters toward us and greets us with his usual pained expression of 'Oh-great-these-two-LookieLoos-here-again-to-waste-my-time'. Well, this time he is correct: This will be a waste his time.
I say, "Hi. I'm here to pick up my car."
Uhhh, whaaa?
"My key? The service department gave you the key to my car."
Uh, huh. Whaa?
"That's my car over there. I'm here to pick it up. I understand you have my key?"
Ohhh. (Brief moment of dramatic silence.)
I have to say that getting into that freshly washed and re-calibrated car, revving the engine, and putting the top down right in front of ol' DH felt pretty sweet. Go ahead, make my day. Vroom-vroom.
On Friday night our new car is afflicted with warning-light-itis and has to be towed to the dealership Saturday morning. As the tow truck drives off, I call the dealership to tell them the car will be arriving. Leave a message. Hour goes by. Leave another message. Another hour goes by... Call main number. Talk to Person Who Doesn't Know Anything. She promises I'll get a call back in 10 minutes. Another hour goes by.
I'm starting to get concerned. Shouldn't the service department be just a tad bit curious about the car that was dropped, hopefully not literally, on their doorstep? Personally, I'm a bit curious to know if there's anything I need to do. Give them my name? Relay what's wrong with it? Heck, for all I know maybe there's some car repair equivalent of a Medical Request for Treatment or a HIPAA law form to sign. Plus, as a professional worry-wart, I'm curious to know if the car actually arrived because, in exchange for the car, I have only a business card, albeit a nice colorful one, from the very nice tow truck driver, but it doesn't seem like an equal trade for a car. My mind flashes to a poster I saw years ago at an Ed Debevic's restaurant: "The guy in the valet uniform who took your car doesn't work here."
I call the dealership again. I'm more insistent with Person Who Doesn't Know Anything. For my insistence, I'm put on hold. Progress! Twenty minutes on hold. A service rep finally picks up and tells me she can't help me right now because she has a customer. I tell her I'm a customer. She says, "But THIS customer is right HERE." I reply that customers on the phone are as valid as customers in person. She says, "You're welcome to come here in person." Grrr. I reply --and I deserve kudos for not dropping even one f-bomb-- "I would, but you have my car." She says she'll call me back before they close for the day. Another hour goes by. But, surprise, she keeps her word by calling 5 minutes before service closes for the weekend. She tells me in an irritating, absurdly sing-songy happy voice that it was a sim-ple problem with the car's com-puter and it's been re-cali-brated. And it's alllll fixed. And, they washed it and it's allll ready to be picked up. And they close in 5 minutes.
Grrrr. But, ah, there is sometimes sweet revenge.
Well, I don't absolutely need the car for the weekend but I'd like it and, besides, it seems goofy to have it sit there --all freshly washed & re-calibrated & lonely-- until Monday. So, I ask if there isn't some way I can get the car ("Beam me up, Scottie" perhaps?) before they close. She offers to leave the key in the sales office, which is open later.
Ah, yes, the sales office. We're quite familiar with sales at this particular dealership, as we'd been there THREE times in the past couple months TRYING to buy a car. The sales guy --picture "Dirty Harry" with a case of terminal arrogance, a deficiency of initiative, and poor posture-- always was a tad imposed upon to sell cars. Perhaps we asked wildly difficult questions: "Does it come in blue?" Perhaps we were too demanding: "Well, could you give us a call us when you find out?" Never a call. Hmmm. We seemed to be working way to hard to buy a car and certainly didn't want to bother this slouchy DH so we eventually drove 90-some miles to another dealership and bought a car on the spot.
So, as luck would have it, on Saturday when we arrived to pick up the car, ol' DH saunters toward us and greets us with his usual pained expression of 'Oh-great-these-two-LookieLoos-here-again-to-waste-my-time'. Well, this time he is correct: This will be a waste his time.
I say, "Hi. I'm here to pick up my car."
Uhhh, whaaa?
"My key? The service department gave you the key to my car."
Uh, huh. Whaa?
"That's my car over there. I'm here to pick it up. I understand you have my key?"
Ohhh. (Brief moment of dramatic silence.)
I have to say that getting into that freshly washed and re-calibrated car, revving the engine, and putting the top down right in front of ol' DH felt pretty sweet. Go ahead, make my day. Vroom-vroom.
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