I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Monday, January 17, 2011

No, I Don't Work Here! I Always Dress Like This.

I don't know what it is about me, but people always ask me, "Do you work here?" In my job I wear a uniform, a generic style uniform, that lots of plumbers, mechanics, brain surgeons and other blue collar types wear. So, often when I am at automotive or home improvement store, some little old lady will ask me where the wrenches or some other piece of metal that you can hit things with, are. If I happen to be at an auto parts place, I just shake my head sadly and say "No habla". If they say something in Spanish in return, I fall on the ground and start foaming at the mouth. It's less emasculating than telling them I don't know anything about cars. I feel much more at home in a hardware store, I estimate that new employees have to work at the Lowe's by my house for approximately 6 months before they have spent as much time in the store as I have. So if somebody asks me if I work there I say "yes", and help them find what they want, and then I gossip about how the manager of this store was cheating with one of the clerks and somebody from paint. (Probably not true.)
     That this happens when I am at work is one thing; that people are constantly mistaking me for employees in my off time is beginning to suck. I was in Trader Joe's the other day and people wouldn't stop. "Sir, where is the humus?", "Sir, which wine should I serve with squab and asparagus?", "Excuse me mister, can I have a balloon?" ("Like I friggin' care", "zinfandel in a box", and "SHUT-UP!", respectively.) What? Can't they tell the difference between a Trader Joe's Hawaiian shirt for employees and one from the Trader Joe's Catalog for real people?! Morons. It's getting to the point where I can't leave the house in any of my favorite clothes. Better not go to Home Depot wearing that Tennessee Volunteer apron that Aunt Kathy gave me for Christmas. Don't even think about going shopping for shoes after officiating that kids soccer game. Give me a break.
     The other day I went for a jog, and then afterwards stopped for a beer and some wings. It was unreal. "Hey toots, get me a beer.", that's what some drunk old redneck told me. Me! I don't even look like a girl. I mean I am tall and skinny, and I do have pretty nice legs. (If I do say so myself) But, just because I like to run in super tight shorts and I have to wear tights under my shorts because of when I caught on fire and I tie my t-shirt in a knot, (that's how I roll) all the sudden I work at Hooters? Really? Get a clue; not even a girl. At this rate I can't even imagine what is going to happen when I wear my 6" platform stiletto heels out to the club.