V-swab at the doctor
I went to the doctor’s office the other day for a delicate matter. And he decided I needed a v-swab. While we were chatting in his office, a receptionist walked in (opening the door without knocking) twice in a row. Evidently, she needed to interrupt my visit to ask him a question. So it got me a bit worried when he handed me the "sheet" and said "take off everything from the waist down". If you’ve ever seen these "sheets" they are really just really large paper towels (probably thinner than Bounty) and they offer no honour-protecting power in the way of concealment.
So when the doctor assured me he’d be back (with Pam the grouchy nurse who’s only nice if you’re less than six months old) in a few minutes, I had to ask, "Will you knock before you come in?" And he said, "Oh, of COURSE!"
So I get undressed at break-neck pace (because I’m facing the door). And sure enough, Pam knocks before coming in (even if it was only thirty seconds after I’d been left alone). And she began mucking around in cupboards in her grouchy way. And suddenly I became very afraid that PAM was going to do the v-swab. And I don’t even LIKE Pam. If you’ve ever had a v-swab, you can probably tolerate a male doctor, you can probably tolerate cold hands, but you CANNOT tolerate someone who isn’t a nice person! No one gets to see my hoo hoo unless find them at least mildly pleasant.
"Put your feet in the stirrups," she instructed coldly. I did.
"You’re gonna have to scooch your bum down on the table even more."
I noticed that I could see the sidewalk oustide the window through the blinds. I decided that passersby couldn’t see me. But if some kid decided to stoop down for some reason outside the glass, they’d get an eye-full.
"Scooch even more!" Pam insisted.
Finally, my Doctor returned and I was so happy I almost hugged him. So he’s got his gloves on and he asks Pam for a speculum. And he takes the one she offers and starts to make me uncomfortable. And then he says to Pam, "I need a smaller speculum."
"That’s the smallest one," Pam says (she doesn’t even look in the cupboard).
"No. There is one smaller," says the doctor.
"That’s the smallest one we have here...." Pam begins.
(And if you’ve ever had a v-swab or a pap or anything in the same genre, you’d be screaming what I was thinking: GET THE MAN A SMALLER SPECULUM, GOD DAMN IT!)
So the doctor says, "I KNOW we have smaller speculums, I just don’t know where they are."
He is laughing now with his latex-coated hands up in the air around his head. And Pam says, "They’re out in the cabinet." She means the cabinet in the hall. And obviously SHE is far too busy to offer to go get the smaller speculum, so the good doctor, with his friggin’ gloves on, leaves a fluorescent spot-light shining upwards between my legs, a paper towel over my lap, and my ASS hanging out the side and he walks OUT of the office. Yes, he walks out the office through the door where everyone else in the world who shouldn’t see me naked is, and then he leaves the goddam door open.
And Pam doesn’t shut it and for that I shall never forgive her.
When it’s all over, the good doctor assures me he’ll come back and chat with me once I’m dressed. And Pam is still puttering around the room and I begin to wonder if I’m expected to get dressed in front of her. When she finally leaves, I wonder if the doctor counted this time as time when I should have been getting dressed. I wonder if he alots more time for re-dressing than undressing. It takes more time to re-dress because gravity is not on your side. Panic set in and I began to fumble with my pants.
Alas, please learn from my mistakes. Stretchy pants are not the thing to do when you need to re-dress in a hurry. I stuck my first leg into the leg hole and realized the pant leg had turned inside out when I was undressing. Then my sock got trapped and tangled in the stretchy mess of fabric. With each tug, my heart rate soared. I began to feel as if I was trying to pull on snow pants with snow shoes strapped to my feet. I was watching the lock and yanking and pulling and cursing and sweating and panicking. And then I had them safely on my hips and I casually opened the door to inform the good doctor that I was ready (and that really, he should use some kind of a system like a curtain or a little green and red light or just a simple policy of patient-opens-door-when-re-dressed to make the whole experience less stressful).
And these are the types of adventures that I have at the doctor’s office. Grouchy Pam, v-swabs and stretchy pants are the things blogs are made of. And gladly, I live to tell about them.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Caleb's New Nickname
Caleb is a boy at the tender age of 9. He is exercising his creativity and testing his individuality. He declares that from now on, he shall not be called Caleb, but more in the spirit of a superhero, he will be called C-MAN!
Ben suggested "Mr. C" or "C-boy" or "C-guy".
Caleb just shook his head at Ben and said, "It's not the same, Ben."
C-man, it is.
Caleb is a boy at the tender age of 9. He is exercising his creativity and testing his individuality. He declares that from now on, he shall not be called Caleb, but more in the spirit of a superhero, he will be called C-MAN!
Ben suggested "Mr. C" or "C-boy" or "C-guy".
Caleb just shook his head at Ben and said, "It's not the same, Ben."
C-man, it is.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Customer Service Call for a Broken Washing Machine
Our washing machine began to spew forth water this afternoon. We determined, after close inspection, that the likely cause was the enormous gash in the gray, rubber seal around the front door.
So Mark phoned GE’s customer service (it’s a GE washer). He read them the model number and they ascertained that our washer had been purchased in August of 2006 and that it was no longer under warranty. A service call, they told us, would cost $79.99 and they couldn’t quote how much the labour thereafter would be. They said they could quote us on the part itself but the Parts Departments was closed for the evening.
I was so frustrated. I knew full well that paying the eighty bucks for a house call just roped you into going with whatever quote they gave you after that, no matter how ridiculous. I KNEW we were being gouged.
So I tried phoning Sears. The Service and Repair department quoted me a $65 service call fee and also said they didn’t know the cost of the part and that they would have to connect me to their Parts Department. After being on hold for five minutes, the parts department informed me that the model number I was reading them was invalid.
“How can it be invalid!” I retorted “I got it off the back of the washing machine. My husband already quoted it to GE and they were able to give us the registration information using it. It is DEFINITELY a valid model number.”
“Well,” the lady said, “I can’t find it in my catalogue. So I can’t give you a price for it.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me how much it would cost for the labour to install that part.”
“We don’t have that part in the catalogue….”
“How much to install a SIMILAR part?”
“I’d have to transfer you to Service and Repair.”
“But they just transferred me to you.”
Then I was connected to Service and Repair…again. The dude informed me that he was NOT a technician and only a technician could tell me an exact price for the labour involved in fixing the seal on my washing machine. He told me the same information as earlier, that I’d have to get a $65 service call and that would be the minimum charge. He had no further details than that. They could guarantee nothing
I hung up.
Mark and I ate dinner.
It was home-made Calzones and Mark (bless his heart) ate ¾ of his even though there were some pretty doughy parts. I think he sensed I was disheartened.
Then I said that I just wanted to give in and have someone fix the bloody machine as soon as possible. I was willing to pay for a service call and then just pay whatever crazy-ass price they quoted us.
I picked up the phone and called Sears’ Service and Repair department once more. The guy that answered the phone asked for my washing machine’s model number. I sighed and read to him the number that had before been deemed “invalid”. But to my astonishment he said, “Hmmm. Okay. Your washing machine is a 2006 GE front-loading washer.”
“Hey!” I cried, “Yes it is!”
“And you want a service call?”
“Yes please,” I said in a slightly defeated voice.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“It’s leaking water,” I said, “And when I looked closely, there’s a big hole in the gray seal around the door.”
“Oh,” he said, “Well, for that part, it might be easier for you to just buy the part and fix it yourself.”
“Really? That's what I originally wanted to do...” my heart lifted hopefully, “…but how much would that cost?”
He paused only a fraction of a second, “$10.99 plus taxes…oh and six dollars for delivery.”
“And is it hard to fix?”
“Nope. Just twist and pull the old one to remove it. The new one comes with instructions but you just pop it in.”
“Really!” I was so relieved to have found this beautiful, wonderful, God-send of a customer service rep, so I said, “You have been more help in thirty seconds than all the last forty five minutes of other people I’ve spoken with.”
And I think I felt the guy blush on the other end of the line.
It’s not all customer service stories than end on a good note, but I am convinced that I spent $16.99 plus tax instead of upwards of $200 and that is a very happy ending.
Our washing machine began to spew forth water this afternoon. We determined, after close inspection, that the likely cause was the enormous gash in the gray, rubber seal around the front door.
So Mark phoned GE’s customer service (it’s a GE washer). He read them the model number and they ascertained that our washer had been purchased in August of 2006 and that it was no longer under warranty. A service call, they told us, would cost $79.99 and they couldn’t quote how much the labour thereafter would be. They said they could quote us on the part itself but the Parts Departments was closed for the evening.
I was so frustrated. I knew full well that paying the eighty bucks for a house call just roped you into going with whatever quote they gave you after that, no matter how ridiculous. I KNEW we were being gouged.
So I tried phoning Sears. The Service and Repair department quoted me a $65 service call fee and also said they didn’t know the cost of the part and that they would have to connect me to their Parts Department. After being on hold for five minutes, the parts department informed me that the model number I was reading them was invalid.
“How can it be invalid!” I retorted “I got it off the back of the washing machine. My husband already quoted it to GE and they were able to give us the registration information using it. It is DEFINITELY a valid model number.”
“Well,” the lady said, “I can’t find it in my catalogue. So I can’t give you a price for it.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me how much it would cost for the labour to install that part.”
“We don’t have that part in the catalogue….”
“How much to install a SIMILAR part?”
“I’d have to transfer you to Service and Repair.”
“But they just transferred me to you.”
Then I was connected to Service and Repair…again. The dude informed me that he was NOT a technician and only a technician could tell me an exact price for the labour involved in fixing the seal on my washing machine. He told me the same information as earlier, that I’d have to get a $65 service call and that would be the minimum charge. He had no further details than that. They could guarantee nothing
I hung up.
Mark and I ate dinner.
It was home-made Calzones and Mark (bless his heart) ate ¾ of his even though there were some pretty doughy parts. I think he sensed I was disheartened.
Then I said that I just wanted to give in and have someone fix the bloody machine as soon as possible. I was willing to pay for a service call and then just pay whatever crazy-ass price they quoted us.
I picked up the phone and called Sears’ Service and Repair department once more. The guy that answered the phone asked for my washing machine’s model number. I sighed and read to him the number that had before been deemed “invalid”. But to my astonishment he said, “Hmmm. Okay. Your washing machine is a 2006 GE front-loading washer.”
“Hey!” I cried, “Yes it is!”
“And you want a service call?”
“Yes please,” I said in a slightly defeated voice.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“It’s leaking water,” I said, “And when I looked closely, there’s a big hole in the gray seal around the door.”
“Oh,” he said, “Well, for that part, it might be easier for you to just buy the part and fix it yourself.”
“Really? That's what I originally wanted to do...” my heart lifted hopefully, “…but how much would that cost?”
He paused only a fraction of a second, “$10.99 plus taxes…oh and six dollars for delivery.”
“And is it hard to fix?”
“Nope. Just twist and pull the old one to remove it. The new one comes with instructions but you just pop it in.”
“Really!” I was so relieved to have found this beautiful, wonderful, God-send of a customer service rep, so I said, “You have been more help in thirty seconds than all the last forty five minutes of other people I’ve spoken with.”
And I think I felt the guy blush on the other end of the line.
It’s not all customer service stories than end on a good note, but I am convinced that I spent $16.99 plus tax instead of upwards of $200 and that is a very happy ending.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Melissa Moments: Calling Sarah
I came home yesterday from a trip to Ottawa. I was pleased to find that Frankie looked healthy and happy. And our cat-sitter, Sarah, had left a cute little note saying how Frankie had actually eaten all of her food each day and had not even thrown up. I was so glad. Sarah being the responsible young lady that she is, I thought she might worry about whether I actually got home on Saturday as I’d planned or whether Frankie would be alone for another evening. So I decided to give her a ring to thank her and to let her know I was back.
The answering machine picked up right away, indicating to me that someone must be on the line. So I left a peppy little message, "Hi Sarah! It’s Melissa. I’m back from Ottawa. Frankie looks like she was well cared for. Thank you SO much for coming over and feeding her and petting her and loving her. Well, I’d like to thank you in person so I’ll just try you again later."
I got distracted and didn’t actually phone her at all that evening.
This morning, I woke up and began to prepare for my day. I went grocery shopping and got dressed for a run. Then I remembered that I hadn’t called Sarah back, as I’d promised in my message. So I picked up the phone. Before I could dial, I heard the special beep-beeping that indicated that I had a message. I dialed *98 and then my password and listened to my one new message.
"Hi Sarah! It’s Melissa...." the message began (had I heard that right?) ... "I’m back from Ottawa. Frankie looks like she was well cared for." (This seemed kind of familiar. And that peppy voice kind of seemed like me. Had Sarah listened to my message and then somehow, through the magic of Bell Canada, sent it back to MY machine?) ... "Thank you SO much for coming over and feeding her and petting her and loving her...."
Then I realized what had actually happened. What was more likely, that Sarah had listened to my message and then devised a way to return it to my answering machine.... OR....that I had simply dialed my own phone number last night and left MYSELF a peppy little, reassuring message.
Sometimes I am baffled that I am able to function in society for all the silly things I do.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Melissa Moments: Yellow Jacket
I needed to wash my yellow winter jacket. It was getting kind of smelly. So I put it in the washing machine and then in the dryer.
Later, I was getting ready to go to the Ultramart grocery store during a snowstorm to buy a bag of sugar in case I wanted to do some baking. It was pretty snowy out and I was so thankful that I had my yellow winter jacket. I put it on, bundled up with a toque, scarf and snow pants. I gave Mark and big hug and a kiss and then headed out in the snow. (Obviously, he didn't take a good, careful look at me before I left).
Immediately, I knew it was a silly idea to be walking during a snowstorm. The sidewalks weren't ploughed and I was leaning forward into the wind.
In the grocery store, I found the sugar and made my way to the cashier. I felt silly, at first, for being so bundled up, with rosy cheeks and my toque pulled down to the top rim of my glasses and my scarf wrapped up to my nose. I set my sugar down and then the cashier looked at me. And I looked down at my chest. And that's when I saw it, plastered to the velcro of my yellow jacket, a big white Bounce dryer sheet.
"Awesome!" I thought to myself.
Then I asked the cashier to throw it in the garbage for me and then I took my sugar and trudged home through the snow.
I needed to wash my yellow winter jacket. It was getting kind of smelly. So I put it in the washing machine and then in the dryer.
Later, I was getting ready to go to the Ultramart grocery store during a snowstorm to buy a bag of sugar in case I wanted to do some baking. It was pretty snowy out and I was so thankful that I had my yellow winter jacket. I put it on, bundled up with a toque, scarf and snow pants. I gave Mark and big hug and a kiss and then headed out in the snow. (Obviously, he didn't take a good, careful look at me before I left).
Immediately, I knew it was a silly idea to be walking during a snowstorm. The sidewalks weren't ploughed and I was leaning forward into the wind.
In the grocery store, I found the sugar and made my way to the cashier. I felt silly, at first, for being so bundled up, with rosy cheeks and my toque pulled down to the top rim of my glasses and my scarf wrapped up to my nose. I set my sugar down and then the cashier looked at me. And I looked down at my chest. And that's when I saw it, plastered to the velcro of my yellow jacket, a big white Bounce dryer sheet.
"Awesome!" I thought to myself.
Then I asked the cashier to throw it in the garbage for me and then I took my sugar and trudged home through the snow.
Melissa Moments: Imaginary Handbag
A few Fridays ago, I set out to the Burlington mall with a list of errands to run. The trip would start off at Zellers, I decided, and the things I couldn't find there, I would then go into the mall to get at more specialized stores.
So I parked near Zellers and went inside. I took a red plastic basket and slung it over one arm and wandered up and down the aisles seeking out a department that might carry tax software and another are that might carry an ink cartridge. After a while, I began to feel silly for having believed Zellers would carry these things. So I made my way to the entrance to the mall and made a beeline for Radioshack (now currently called The Source).
In The Source, I asked if they carried ink cartridges for my HP 1610 all-in-one printer, scanner, copier. The dude behind the counter really should have been more knowledgeable on this topic. He seemed unsure because I didn't know the number of the ink cartridge (ie. 95, 93, etc.). I got a bit impatient with him, "If we know the type of printer, it'll say on the cartridge if it's good for that printer, " I had to explain to him. He looked at me dubiously and I began to lose my patience with him. "Just show me where the cartridges are and I'll find it myself," I told him haughtily.
I walked with determination to the ink cartridges, found the one I needed within seconds, and returned to the counter proudly. I set it on the counter, smiling smugly.
Then, as I reached for my credit card in my purse, I noticed something dangling from my left elbow. It was a large, red, plastic Zellers basket. It was empty and useless except to balance my purse on my other elbow. The guy behind the cash register noticed it too. My smug-factor decreased several notches.
What else could I say besides, "Huh. I seem to have brought a Zellers basket with me.....I guess I'll have to bring this back now."
A few Fridays ago, I set out to the Burlington mall with a list of errands to run. The trip would start off at Zellers, I decided, and the things I couldn't find there, I would then go into the mall to get at more specialized stores.
So I parked near Zellers and went inside. I took a red plastic basket and slung it over one arm and wandered up and down the aisles seeking out a department that might carry tax software and another are that might carry an ink cartridge. After a while, I began to feel silly for having believed Zellers would carry these things. So I made my way to the entrance to the mall and made a beeline for Radioshack (now currently called The Source).
In The Source, I asked if they carried ink cartridges for my HP 1610 all-in-one printer, scanner, copier. The dude behind the counter really should have been more knowledgeable on this topic. He seemed unsure because I didn't know the number of the ink cartridge (ie. 95, 93, etc.). I got a bit impatient with him, "If we know the type of printer, it'll say on the cartridge if it's good for that printer, " I had to explain to him. He looked at me dubiously and I began to lose my patience with him. "Just show me where the cartridges are and I'll find it myself," I told him haughtily.
I walked with determination to the ink cartridges, found the one I needed within seconds, and returned to the counter proudly. I set it on the counter, smiling smugly.
Then, as I reached for my credit card in my purse, I noticed something dangling from my left elbow. It was a large, red, plastic Zellers basket. It was empty and useless except to balance my purse on my other elbow. The guy behind the cash register noticed it too. My smug-factor decreased several notches.
What else could I say besides, "Huh. I seem to have brought a Zellers basket with me.....I guess I'll have to bring this back now."
Friday, March 07, 2008
When I say "Jump!"
Most good teachers will agree that critical thinking skills are high on the list of things he or she hopes their students will become competent in while in their care. However, the exercising of these skills in the wrong context can be frustrating.
For instance, Mark was coaching his girls' basketball team at a tournament the other day. And coaching girls, I'd argue, is nicer than coaching boys because boys can be so competitive. Girls, on the other hand, are nicer to deal with in a team situation. Some disadvantages include: They cry easily if you don't let them play enough. And they want to talk about everything.
So Mark found that during a short huddle during a time-out of a critical game, the girls began to question and debate the instructions he was giving. So he had to pull out his dictator-ish shpeel. "This is not a debatable topic. I am the coach. I will tell you the plays and you need to listen without questioning," was the jist of his speech. He spoke very firmly and maybe even caused a few quivering lips. The girls stood humbly as he ended with, "When I say JUMP....you say HOW HIGH? Got it?" He looked around. The girls, eyes wide, nodded fiercely.
Then one girl put her hand up slowly and said, "May I ask a question?"
Okay, he thought. "Shoot," he replied.
So she turned and took a shot on the net.
Most good teachers will agree that critical thinking skills are high on the list of things he or she hopes their students will become competent in while in their care. However, the exercising of these skills in the wrong context can be frustrating.
For instance, Mark was coaching his girls' basketball team at a tournament the other day. And coaching girls, I'd argue, is nicer than coaching boys because boys can be so competitive. Girls, on the other hand, are nicer to deal with in a team situation. Some disadvantages include: They cry easily if you don't let them play enough. And they want to talk about everything.
So Mark found that during a short huddle during a time-out of a critical game, the girls began to question and debate the instructions he was giving. So he had to pull out his dictator-ish shpeel. "This is not a debatable topic. I am the coach. I will tell you the plays and you need to listen without questioning," was the jist of his speech. He spoke very firmly and maybe even caused a few quivering lips. The girls stood humbly as he ended with, "When I say JUMP....you say HOW HIGH? Got it?" He looked around. The girls, eyes wide, nodded fiercely.
Then one girl put her hand up slowly and said, "May I ask a question?"
Okay, he thought. "Shoot," he replied.
So she turned and took a shot on the net.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Roll Up Etiquette
It’s rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-roll up the rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-rim to win season again. It’s got everybody, even non-regular Tim Horton’s frequenters like me, in the mood to warm their hands with a lucky non-recyclable paper cup of hope filled with overpriced coffee or tea. The excitement of the possibility of winning a new car or a boat or even just a free donut fills us all with a bit of happiness. Here is a story of roll-up-the-rim possibilities and young love.
There was a friend of mine named Ronni, who was driving on a long trip somewhere (I think it was Florida) with her husband and, in the backseat sat a new-ish couple. I can imagine them sitting there holding hands, filled with the thrill of possibilities and still so much to learn about each other.
Ronni’s husband pulled into a Tim Horton’s and they all got a coffee. It was Roll-Up-the-Rim season, so everyone was jubilant. The couple in the backseat (we’ll call them Romance Woman and Romance Man) soon discovered their differing philosophies regarding Roll-Up-the-Rim cups. Romance Woman drank her coffee, rolled up her rim and found she had been instructed to Play Again. Romance Man was sipping serenely at his hot bevy when Romance Woman turned to him and said, “Roll up your rim.” He smiled at her, “but I’m not done my coffee yet.” She tugged playfully at his arm, “That’s okay, just roll it up anyway.” He was taken aback, “But I can’t. I’m not done my coffee.” She laughed dismissively, “Of course you can.” “I will roll it up but not til I’m done.” “Oh, come on, Romance Man,” she pleaded impatiently, “Roll it up now.” “When I’m DONE,” he was beginning to get impatient. Ronni and her husband eyed each other. Tension in the car was beginning to mount.
The conversation in the backseat continued on in this manner for what seemed like an eternity. Romance Man seemed to be reveling in not having finished his coffee (and not having rolled up his rim) and was now sipping it even slower. Romance Woman had progressed from offering a playful suggestion to becoming a drilling, nagging, un-ending, harping command. Long ago it had become clear to Ronni that, even if Romance Man won a prize, Romance Woman had killed her chances of sharing in the profits. “Roll it up,” she repeated, “Come on, just roll it up. You don’t have to finish your coffee. What if you’ve won something! Don’t you want to know? I think you’re going to win a car. I have this FEELING.” Romance Man began to ignore Romance Woman. He stared straight ahead at the back of the driver’s head. “I just can’t WAIT to see if my instincts are right! Roll up the rim, Romance Man. Please? Please? Please? Please won’t you roll up the rim? Come on. Just this once, roll it up before you’re done your coffee.”
Finally, finally, FINALLY, Romance Man tilted his head back, cup to lips, and drained the last drop of the most relished and slow-to-be-consumed java of all history. Romance Woman watched him expectantly, her hands fluttering excitedly by her sides. He looked down at his now-empty cup. A cup with possibilities. A cup that could hold fortune. A cup in which Romance Woman had invested so much hope. And without a word, he rolled down the window with his left hand, and in one graceful gesture (while Romance Woman watched in disbelief), he tossed the empty cup out the window onto the highway.
Point.
Set.
Match.
It’s rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-roll up the rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-rim to win season again. It’s got everybody, even non-regular Tim Horton’s frequenters like me, in the mood to warm their hands with a lucky non-recyclable paper cup of hope filled with overpriced coffee or tea. The excitement of the possibility of winning a new car or a boat or even just a free donut fills us all with a bit of happiness. Here is a story of roll-up-the-rim possibilities and young love.
There was a friend of mine named Ronni, who was driving on a long trip somewhere (I think it was Florida) with her husband and, in the backseat sat a new-ish couple. I can imagine them sitting there holding hands, filled with the thrill of possibilities and still so much to learn about each other.
Ronni’s husband pulled into a Tim Horton’s and they all got a coffee. It was Roll-Up-the-Rim season, so everyone was jubilant. The couple in the backseat (we’ll call them Romance Woman and Romance Man) soon discovered their differing philosophies regarding Roll-Up-the-Rim cups. Romance Woman drank her coffee, rolled up her rim and found she had been instructed to Play Again. Romance Man was sipping serenely at his hot bevy when Romance Woman turned to him and said, “Roll up your rim.” He smiled at her, “but I’m not done my coffee yet.” She tugged playfully at his arm, “That’s okay, just roll it up anyway.” He was taken aback, “But I can’t. I’m not done my coffee.” She laughed dismissively, “Of course you can.” “I will roll it up but not til I’m done.” “Oh, come on, Romance Man,” she pleaded impatiently, “Roll it up now.” “When I’m DONE,” he was beginning to get impatient. Ronni and her husband eyed each other. Tension in the car was beginning to mount.
The conversation in the backseat continued on in this manner for what seemed like an eternity. Romance Man seemed to be reveling in not having finished his coffee (and not having rolled up his rim) and was now sipping it even slower. Romance Woman had progressed from offering a playful suggestion to becoming a drilling, nagging, un-ending, harping command. Long ago it had become clear to Ronni that, even if Romance Man won a prize, Romance Woman had killed her chances of sharing in the profits. “Roll it up,” she repeated, “Come on, just roll it up. You don’t have to finish your coffee. What if you’ve won something! Don’t you want to know? I think you’re going to win a car. I have this FEELING.” Romance Man began to ignore Romance Woman. He stared straight ahead at the back of the driver’s head. “I just can’t WAIT to see if my instincts are right! Roll up the rim, Romance Man. Please? Please? Please? Please won’t you roll up the rim? Come on. Just this once, roll it up before you’re done your coffee.”
Finally, finally, FINALLY, Romance Man tilted his head back, cup to lips, and drained the last drop of the most relished and slow-to-be-consumed java of all history. Romance Woman watched him expectantly, her hands fluttering excitedly by her sides. He looked down at his now-empty cup. A cup with possibilities. A cup that could hold fortune. A cup in which Romance Woman had invested so much hope. And without a word, he rolled down the window with his left hand, and in one graceful gesture (while Romance Woman watched in disbelief), he tossed the empty cup out the window onto the highway.
Point.
Set.
Match.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
