Carmel Machiattos Are Of The Devil

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There are times when I really hate my job. Saturday now being one of them.

In theory, I really should have the upper hand. Who doesn’t want to buy a car from a woman who appears, soaked, through the sheets of rain and offers to be of assistance in any way possible? Apparently no one. But there are a plethora of people who are more than happy to make vulgar comments while you would like to do nothing better than shove a spike heel up their ass.

The umbrella approach doesn’t work either. Apparently, most people find it to be too labersome to actually GET OUT of their car and UNDER the umbrella and INTO the building. That is THREE WHOLE STEPS RIGHT THERE. Instead, they find it much more agreeable to go squealing through the parking lot narrowly missing all the expensive cars.

I think there was a point in time I would have been good at this job. As in, several years ago, when I was a nice person and enjoyed making conversation with people. Now I am simply a withered old shrew who simply wants to know: DO YOU WANT TO BUY A EFFING CAR?!?! For some reason, the dominant answer is a long drawn out NO. Which only comes out after the filling out of paperwork, wheedling of numbers and hour long test drive.

There is truly no balm in gilead. You would think that when I am selling no cars, I would be able to stay out of relative trouble and harassment. For me, or used to, the only time that sort of thing would happen was when I had customers piled up three deep. No longer is my misfortune limited to any certain day, calamity can strike at any moment. Today, was no exception. Since there was a lull in customers--as in NO CUSTOMERS ALL DAY-- I thought I would make a quick Starbucks run. By the time I had everyon’e order, I had more than one tray full of drinks. I wasn’t too worried, I mean how hard is it to carry drinks?!

At Starbucks, as usual, they were delighted to see me. No real problems, except for the new girl who couldn’t really keep up with the rapid fire drink ordering. I balance my trays of drinks out to the car, sit down and am putting the trays of drink on the floor when an entire venti carmel macchiato flips over into my lap and soaks it’s entire twenty-four ounces into my skirt. Thankfully, today I was wearing all black, but I STILL had to go back into Starbucks order ANOTHER. While waiting for it I tried my best to soak up the milky goodness off my lower half, but didn’t have much success. By the time the drink was done, the blended drinks were rather melted and I felt rather guilty for the delay. I hurried back. As I did a careful deep knee-bend with a swivel, my heel broke. My fabulous Bebe black retro-inspired heels. Not to be daunted, I limpted into work, doled out drinks and limped back to my car where I selected ANOTHER pair of black heels which had been rattling about in my backseat. (Thank the good Lord for living out of my car!)

After I amusedly watched everyone get hopped up on caffeine, I found a customer and trotted out to show him a truck. (I SUCK AT THE TRUCKS!) As I squeezed into the narrow space between trucks and hauled my carmel macchiato soaked butt up into the seat, I heard a familiar, but not welcome sound. The slit in the back of my knee-length black carmel macchiato soaked skirt decided to lengthen itself, oh, say, FOUR INCHES.

So now, I am not only a car salesperson who smells suspiciously strong of coffee, but I have a hoochie mama slit in the back of my skirt. Much to the delight of my fellow car salesmen.

If carmel machiattos are not of the devil, they certainly reek suspiciously of him.

1 Responses to “Carmel Machiattos Are Of The Devil”

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This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.

the past


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