Do I even speak English?
Increasingly lately I’ve been having a hard time being understood. It seems to be happening more and more and more and more. Not usually in person (face to face) but at weird times like when making a hotel reservation over the phone, or calling for directions, or placing an order at the drive thru window.
For example – I had a business trip, traveling about 8 hours by car to get to my destination. For lunch I decided to stop at McDonald’s somewhere right off the highway and get back on the road. So I pull over, get to the speaker and I hear “Welcome to McDonald’s can I take your order?” (Or something close to that, you know in the south they tend to take ebonics to a WHOLE different level so it actually sounded like “Welum to McDonna my tay yo oda?” and all I could think about was Eddie Murphy on SNL doing “Buttwheats OTAY”. But I digress.)
So I say “I’d like a number 1 with a coke”.
“That’s a number 3 with a Dr Pepper?”
WHAT THE FUCK? That isn’t even close to what I wanted, so I say “No, I want a number one with a coke”.
“Ok, a number 3 with a Diet Coke, Drive thru please”
“NO! A NUUUUUUMMMMMBBBBEEEERRRR OOOOONNNNNEEEEE with a CCCCOOOOOKKKKKEEEE”
“Drive thru please”
I get to the window and she says “Number one with a coke” like she heard me all the time. Fucking Bitch. Done, Gone.
A couple days later I am running way late and don’t have time to stop by the lobby and get some crappy bagel and schmear so I run thru Burger King (yeah, don’t let my fabulous, jet setter life make you jealous, hehe).
“Welum ta Bugga Kin my ty yo orda?”
“Yes, can I get a number two, bacon, with an Orange Juice”
“That’s two number one’s with coffee?”
OK, so maybe I’m having a stroke and I just don’t know it but did anything I said sound like TWO, ONES, COFFEE?
“No, A number two, with bacon, with Orange Juice”
“Do you want that with sausage or bacon?”
“Are you a fucking idiot?”
“Excuse me ma’am?”
“I’m not a ma’am, I’m a sir”
“Drive thru please”
SOMEBODY SHOOT ME
So then I start thinking if maybe I just don’t make a good impression over the intercom of drive up windows when I hit the MOTHER OF ALL INSTANCES TO MAKE ME DOUBT MY MENTAL ABILITY IN LIFE!!!
So first off, I’m a skin care whore. I admit it. I can’t do without my skin care products. My Elizabeth Arden lady at Macy’s knows me by name, Aveda calls me for suggestions, when Prevage comes out with a new cream I’m the first in line to spend my $200 on a bottle. I’m hooked but I’m well moisturized.
So I’m at my little beach house in Florida and I realize that I’ve run out of Aveda Exfoliator. Life comes to a complete halt. Nothing else in the world matters. How can I be seen in public with old skin cells on my face? How can the general public be subjected to me and my dry, scaly skin? Something must be done right now.
So I get on the web, find the nearest Aveda salon and make a call. “Do you carry Aveda Exfoliator?”
“Yes we do, what size do you need?”
“The big one, 8 ounce. Where are you located?”
After jotting down the directions, I put on my hat and big glasses and head out. I find the place (located in the back of an office building that looks like an apt complex, very difficult to locate, ugh). I walk in and it’s as if I walked in naked holding my throbbing cock in one hand and a bloody aborted fetus in the other. People turned, I swear I saw one woman grab her purse more tightly.
“Are you here for the exfoliator?”
I pretended to think it was because I was a stranger that she knew that’s why I was there and tried to hold back the fear that I was just that hideous. “Yes I am”
Then the fun began…
She rang up the product and said in a SLOW CONDESCENDING VOICE “Your total is $25.58” at which point I handed her my credit card. She swipes the card and apparently the machine said “he’s retarded, speak slowly and don’t make any sudden moves”. She rips the receipt off the printer and places it on the desk in front of me. Hands me a pen and says “Thiiiiissssss iiiiiissssss aaaaaa ppppeeeeeeennnnnn, aaaannnnnnddddd tttthhhhhiiiiisssss iiiiiissssss yyyyoooouuurrr rrreeeccceeeeiiipppttt. IIII nnnneeeeeeeeeddd yyyyooouu tttooo ssssiiigggnnn yyyooouuurrr nnnaaammmeee ooonnn ttthhhaattt lllliiiinnnneeee” pointing to the only fucking line on the damn receipt. So I sign it and say thank you and wait for my bag.
She places the product in the bag (which at Aveda always takes longer than it should cause they have to put tissue paper in and all that crap). Then she says “hhheeeerrrrreeeee iiiiisssss yyyyyooooouuuuurrrr ppppprrrrroooooddddduuuuucccctttt ttttthhhhaaaaannnnnkkkkk yyyyooooouuuuu”
I am stunned and take my bag and leave. I get in the car and call my mom.
“Hi Mom, it’s me, your good son”
“Well hi, what’s up?”
“Mom, am I retarded and no one ever told me?”
Laughter and a repeat of the story and with my mom’s assurances that I am indeed NOT RETARDED. I almost walked back in to the salon and put her on the phone with the bitch but decided to just go on with my life. But even today I’m still thinking about that interaction and just what it was that made her switch from being a nice little Stepford Aveda Girl to being the retard whisperer.