***Updated below 9/7
Last night I was trying to read because I had been a good girl all day and done all manner of chores and was feeling really quite on top of it all, when I got a phone call.
I'm still trying to sell off some of my winnowed kitchen items in the good ol' newspaper, mostly because I get free ads since I'm an employee, although, irony: The ads I'm placing are under the free classification anyway. Well, I don't want to be greedy. Last week it was my double boiler. This week it's a combo Large Chillzanne veggie platter and Large Quick-Stir Pitcher. I tell you what, Eric's office is brimming with my cast offs. It's sort of depressing.
Oh, and you know how many people have called on either of those things? Zero. I have had no luck since selling three of my stoneware pieces.
The phone rings, and I'm all like, crap, because Eric and Abby are playing video games and it's not like you can put that on pause. (Oh, wait.) So I grab the phone, feeling sort of martyred, honestly, because I'M READING, PEOPLE, and say hello.
"Is your mom home?" says this drunken voice.
"Is YOUR mom home?" I counter, thinking, what the hell here, drunk guy? Quit with the pranks.
Drunk guy starts sputtering, and I feel bad. "May I ask who's calling?" I say, hoping that will make amends, but why am I trying to make amends with a drunken prankster again? I have no idea.
The guy introduces himself, and I'm all like, damn it!
Because this is someone I know very well. He's mid-60s, goes to our church, writes a rather unique column for our newspaper, and has severe brain damage from being hit by a train or a bus or something when he was 20. Definitely not a drunkard.
And I can't believe I didn't recognize his voice. When he has a column ready, or even when he doesn't, it's not uncommon for him to call the office three or four times in an afternoon. He forgets what he's already asked. But he's such an innocent that you don't really mind.
So I'm all, hey there, this is Trisha, and I'm so sorry about that--I thought you were a prank caller. Now, what can I help you with?
And he's all, I'm calling about this double boiler ad in the paper. And then he reads my entire ad back to me.
I'm conflicted. My double boiler is a thing of beauty. I haven't really used it much because for some reason I don't melt a lot of chocolate to dip things into. I know. Total failure on my part.
But this is someone I know, who trusts me. So I'm like, well, what were you thinking of using this for? Because it's mostly for melting chocolate.
And he's all acting like he knows that, so I'm thinking maybe he just likes to melt chocolate, but then he's all, can you cook vegetables in this?
Um, no. So I try to explain, without coming off like a jerk, that this is for MELTING THINGS. ON TOP OF A PAN OF BOILING WATER.
He's not getting it. I give up. I'm all, you know what? I'll bring it to the office, and the next time you come in, you can check it out and if it's what you want, you can have it.
And he's all, I can have it? And I'm all, yep, because you're my friend, and he's all, you're my friend too! and I know in my heart I am a jerk after all.
So now I have to remember to bring my double boiler into work with me today. I really can't take this guy's money. I'd only get $5 at best out of it anyway, and so what if my gorgeous double boiler is going to be used to cook vegetables?
And then we hung up and I went back to reading. The end.
***Update Sept. 7: Wow, there's been a LOT of movement on the double boiler front. I could write another post but I figure in the interest of... continuity?... I'll just update this one.
Last night my special friend called around 8:30. Eric answered the phone, and had this smile on his face as he hands it over to me, mouthing the guy's name.
"Did you tell your husband about me?" he asks first.
"Um, tell him what?"
"About why I'm calling. I don't want him to think... I don't want anyone angry with me."
"No worries. I did and we're good."
"So, what are we going to do about this?"
So I say, again, that I'll bring my double boiler to work and he can come get it whenever it works out. I sort of hoped he'd forget about it, but as I've mentioned before, I'm always optimistic about all the wrong things. Then I remind him that it's for melting things. Yes, he says. I can cook my vegetables in it! I'm like, no! No vegetables!
Fast forward to today at work. He called practically as I stepped in the door. We discuss again (sensing a theme?) that he can pick it up at work anytime. He thinks he has a ride. I don't hold my breath.
But! I could have, because he was there remarkably fast. He had a helper along for the ride. Like his actual housekeeper, I guess. That made me feel better. He doesn't walk very well, so when I said it was in my trunk and my car was parked "up there," he whined a bit about the walk, but his housekeeper was all like, you go back to the car and I'll go get it for you. And he liked that plan.
So we walk up to my car, and I'm trying to politely explain why I think he's going to ruin the crap out of my beautiful pan, but she's all, he doesn't cook. I cook and he just tells me what to do. Which made me feel a little better. Sort of.
I hand her the double boiler, and she's all, wow, this IS nice, and I'm all, please, please don't let him put it directly on the stove. And she's all, you know, this will be great--he loves strawberries and whipped cream, but his doctor doesn't want him eating whipped cream anymore, so now we can melt chocolate for him to dip his strawberries in, so I'm like, at least we're getting away from the vegetable talk, and then I feel jerky again because I'm a big jerky jerk.
You'd THINK this would be the end of our story, and yet, it is not.
Stacey was gone today, and since it's Friday and Paper Day, guess who measured the thing? Me. And guess who was having major problems getting the numbers to add up? Me. And guess who even had to hit the sauce to keep her headache at bay? Right, me again. Oh, and by "sauce" I mean Pepsi. Sometimes you just need a little carbonated high fructose corn syrup.
And guess when he decided to call?
He's all like, thank you so much Trish! It's a nice pan! And you boil a saucepan of water on the stove first, and then you can cook things in it! And I'm all, well, melt things, and he's all, like chocolate! And maybe I can cook my vegetables!
Oh my God, again with the vegetables. And I mentioned my numbers weren't adding up, right? It's a wonder I didn't need two Pepsi's today.
Hang up the phone, finally get my numbers to line up, hallelujah. Deliver my various sections to my various waiting people. Hit the ladies room because I had Pepsi sitting in my bladder.
And guess who was waiting for me, on hold, when I got back?!
My ears were burning, he said, because you were taking about me on the way back to the car. He'd mentioned this in his earlier call, but I'd sort of brushed him off. I'm like, all we were talking about was the pan and how you can use it to melt chocolate for your strawberries (you'd think repetition would be key here, but alas...). And he's all, really? And I'm like, yes! I must have sounded exasperated, because he dropped that and said instead, know any ladies my age? I'm 40. And I'm all, nope. And he's like, I'm actually 64. Do I look 64?
He looks like he's in his 70s, honestly, so I said, no you don't. And he was like, good! I hoped not.
Jerky jerky jerk.
So then he talks more about his saucepan of boiling water and placing the double boiler on top and cooking his vegetables, but at this point, I'm all, that sounds like a great idea. Go for it.
Now that he has our home phone number I'm a little afraid to answer it. I can't help but wonder if he'll call again tonight to ask me to set him up with the ladies and how he's going to cook vegetables in my gorgeous pan. I've already told Eric that I'm NOT HERE. And should he answer any more of my kitchenware ads... tragically, they will have already been sold.
Well, that pan is in God's hands now. I hope that will be enough to save it.
And I really hope this is The End.
Mudhoney, Overblown. This song has always made me laugh. "You got a sackful of candy, all I got was a rock." Ah, Charlie Brown references never get old.
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