Chatty Dry-Cleaners in 'What the Hell??!!'-Wednesdays

There are too many times in one's life when one feels the need to say, 'What the hell??!!'

I will keep it sugar-coated the rest of the week, but on Wednesdays I will let it all out. You know how you feel bloated after eating beans, or something milk-based if you are lactose intolerant, and you HAVE to fart to feel good. And it feels sooo good once you do. On Wednesdays, dear readers, I will fart. Or burp. Whatever helps.

I go to these dry-cleaners that are nameless. They are the $1.75 Dry-cleaners. That's all they have up on their window and on their receipts. They do a decent job dry-cleaning, so I don't really care that they don't have a name. They are located pretty close to where we live, and I have yet to find any other dry-cleaners in my area, charging just $1.75 per item of clothing (certain restrictions apply). So I go there pretty often.

On one of the registers at the nameless Dry-cleaners, though, is a guy. This guy likes to chat. I don't. When I am running errands, the girls are either with me pulling at my leg, asking/crying/demanding to buy them candy from the candy machine that the nameless dry-cleaners have mindlessly installed at the entrance. Or, I have left the girls at home with Hubby, who keeps calling every minute to ask me when I will be coming home and telling me how one or the other or both girls are crying for Mama.

I'm not in a chatty mood in either cases.

I want to do exactly what I went into that nameless place for. Drop off and pick up. Nothing more, nothing less.

That guy has other plans. Every. Freaking. Time.

On this particular day, I was dressed up to go somewhere, and we wanted to pick up the dry-cleaning on the way. Hubby and the girls waited in the car, while I went in.

Damn it, he's there even at this time.

I waited in line and prayed that I would end up at a register other than his.

The line moved.

Next.

Next.

Next.

Damn it! My turn to go. His register open.

I go and before I can tell him my phone number, he says my last name.

Yes, that's right.

I do go there practically every day, so I guess I should not worry about him recognizing me AND my name. And being able to put those two together. I shouldn't, right? I did freak out just a little bit, though.

I looked at the shirts, jackets, dresses, trousers wrapped up in plastic moving on that moving machine dry-cleaners have. I think its pretty cool. I wish I had one of those at home, to move things around.

Are you married?

Did he just ask me if I was married? Does he not see this rock I wear on my left hand? Or is he trying to tell me its too small for him to see? Well you want me to shove my finger in front of your face for you to see better, nameless dry-cleaner guy?!! I can shove a different finger too, that's right next to my ring finger, if you want. No, really you want me to do that??!

Yeah.

I waited for the moving machine to bring my Hubby's clothes. Can it move ANY slower? Jeez.

You look good.

I looked at him. I wanted to punch him right in the middle of his two eyes. Do I thank him, or do I tell him to F off? I should show him the finger now, right?

Thanks, is what I said.

Is that how you get dressed when you get married?

Can you SEE that I am trying here not to punch you? Can you SEE that I am in no mood to carry on this freaking conversation with you? Can you . . . wait a minute. WHAT?

I'm pretty sure I just looked at him with my mouth a little open, and a frown on my face.

Is that how you get dressed when you get married? Everyone does it differently.

Now I don't know where the hell he is from. I don't know where the hell he thinks I am from. But I did not look like I was going to my own wedding. I did look better than I do on most days. But I would look better than I do on most days even if I brushed my hair regularly. And take some time to take the crud out of my eyes. Okay that's an exaggeration. But I did not look like I was dressed for my own wedding. Already wearing my wedding band. And didn't he just ask me if I was married?

The moving machine stopped. It stopped, oh it stopped. I could jump in joy right then and there. He handed me the clothes. I snatched'em away. I wanted to get out of that nameless place.

Thanks, I said again. Because I'm a good person who does not punch people even when she wants to, that is why.

Best of luck with your wedding!

I ran out clutching on to my Hubby's dry-cleaned clothes, realizing he had not asked me if I was married in the first place. He had asked me if I was getting married. To which I had said, 'Yes'.

That cleared the confusion a bit. But still my perception of that creepy moron at that nameless Dry-cleaners remains the same.

And yesterday, he winked at me. I took my eyes off of the moving machine for a second to look at him, because I could feel him staring at me, and he winked at me.

What.The. Hell??!!

For more 'What the Hell??!!' - Wednesdays, check out:

http://mom-i-am.blogspot.com/2009/08/what-hell-wednesdays_28.html

and

http://mom-i-am.blogspot.com/2009/08/what-hell-wednesdays.html