This is what I love about a small town:
I’m sitting in my office today, on the phone with a client, when I see Lisa walk through the door with a package in her arms. Lisa goes to my church and works at our local post office.
She walks in and puts the package on my desk. As I’m getting off the phone, I realize the package is addressed to my house. My co-worker also notices and says “Hey! Why does she get special deliveries?!”
Lisa said she saw the package sorted aside in the post office this morning, which meant it had accidently been sorted wrong the first time and would be re-routed today. Knowing that I wouldn’t get it until later today or tomorrow, she picked it up and brought it to me at my office!
Now that’s some good ‘ol small town customer service!
Monday, September 27, 2010
Today's Highlight: Random guy accidently calls State Farm looking for rich dying woman
Me: “Thank you for calling State Farm. This is Amy, how can I help you?”
Random Guy: “Who did I call?”
Me: “This is State Farm.”
RG: “God damn it, 4-1-1! That just cost me $1.49. Those sons of…”
*Awkward silence*
RG: “I just called 4-1-1 for the Honeyman State Park phone number and this is what they gave me! Can you look that number up for me?”
(I pull up a Google screen as if I have nothing better to do. At least I know I have a future at a call center if this insurance stuff doesn’t work out.)
Me: “Alright, what exactly are you looking for?” (because I’ve ALREADY forgotten what he wanted… maybe I don’t have a future at a call center.)
RG: “A rich old woman with an estate she’d like to give away…” (trailing off in laughter.)
Me: (forcing a fake laugh)
*Another awkward silence*
RG: “Honeyman State Park”
Me: “Alright, here ya go. The number is – “
RG: “oh hold on, hold on, let me get a pen. I’m breaken the law here on my cell phone driving down the street.”
(I start pulling up an auto claims screen on the computer, you know, just in case.)
RG: “Okay, go ahead.”
I proceed to give him the number, which I’m hoping concludes this fantastic phone call, but instead of him saying thank you, he says “Hey I’m taking out a personal ad. You wanna know what it says? It’s going to say “Middle aged man looking for an elderly woman, about to die, who has lots of money to hand down. You think that will fly?” (He is absolutely cracking himself up right now.)
Me: “Well, probably not, but you’ve picked the right city for it, so good work.”
RG: “Alright, well thank ya much. Have a good one.”
Faaaaaaaaantastic!!!
Random Guy: “Who did I call?”
Me: “This is State Farm.”
RG: “God damn it, 4-1-1! That just cost me $1.49. Those sons of…”
*Awkward silence*
RG: “I just called 4-1-1 for the Honeyman State Park phone number and this is what they gave me! Can you look that number up for me?”
(I pull up a Google screen as if I have nothing better to do. At least I know I have a future at a call center if this insurance stuff doesn’t work out.)
Me: “Alright, what exactly are you looking for?” (because I’ve ALREADY forgotten what he wanted… maybe I don’t have a future at a call center.)
RG: “A rich old woman with an estate she’d like to give away…” (trailing off in laughter.)
Me: (forcing a fake laugh)
*Another awkward silence*
RG: “Honeyman State Park”
Me: “Alright, here ya go. The number is – “
RG: “oh hold on, hold on, let me get a pen. I’m breaken the law here on my cell phone driving down the street.”
(I start pulling up an auto claims screen on the computer, you know, just in case.)
RG: “Okay, go ahead.”
I proceed to give him the number, which I’m hoping concludes this fantastic phone call, but instead of him saying thank you, he says “Hey I’m taking out a personal ad. You wanna know what it says? It’s going to say “Middle aged man looking for an elderly woman, about to die, who has lots of money to hand down. You think that will fly?” (He is absolutely cracking himself up right now.)
Me: “Well, probably not, but you’ve picked the right city for it, so good work.”
RG: “Alright, well thank ya much. Have a good one.”
Faaaaaaaaantastic!!!
Sunday, September 05, 2010
So You Think You Can Date Me?
Being single at the incredibly old age of 28 (its called sarcasm) means dealing with a ridiculous amount of people trying to hook me up with a ridiculous amount of people, most of which are just ridiculous. I used to be open minded and give all these retarded contestants at least one good opportunity. But it doesn’t seem to have served me well, so I came up with a much more effective process to filter out the awkward ‘this isn’t going to work’ conversations.
So if you have someone who you think would be “just perfect” for me or you’re the one who thinks you’re just perfect, make sure you go over the following criteria before giving me a call. Good luck.
Your parents have to hate me. Long after we broke up, an ex-boyfriend’s mom bought me flowers for my accomplishment at work. When telling one of my long time chick friends about it, she said “the in-laws always love you!” To which I mentally flipped through the album of past relationships and realized she was right. The boys, not so much. But the parents were always thrilled. So I’ve decided that if it’s ever going to work out with anyone, their parents can’t like me.
You can’t like sports very much. I am borderline obsessed with sports, which is probably why I end up so into guys who are so into sports. But I constantly find myself sitting around watching sports with guys whose wives are either in the kitchen making dinner or running around taking care of the kids. This presents quite the predicament for me because I want to get married and have kids but let’s face it; someone has to get dinner ready and take care of them, and if the game is on it certainly isn’t going to be me.
You have to be funnier than me. And chances are, you aren’t. So good luck with that one.
You have to know how to iron. Not because I think you look hot in a fresh pair of wrinkle free slacks, but because I can’t iron to save my life and I really need someone to get my work pants ready for me in the morning. Honestly, I don’t wear skirts because they’re cute. It’s usually because my pants need to be ironed and I’m waiting for another load of laundry to pile up so I can just throw them in with the dirty clothes. Wrinkles go away in the dryer better than they do if I take an iron to them.
You should probably know how to cook, too. Take a couple culinary arts classes or something. I don’t like to eat out all the time and I don’t like to cook all the time either. So while you’re taking care of the kids and ironing my pants, why don’t you whip up something fantastic for dinner, too.
Know how to treat me like one of the guys without forgetting that I’m not one of the guys. Like, when my farts are horrendous, high five me and get me another beer. But when I’m PMS-ing, just entertain me with your amazing wit and serve me up one of those delish meals you’ve been slaving over all day. And seriously, don’t ever slap my ass and say “good game” in front of your friends.
You have to go to church with me. And you have to like it. And don’t think you can fake it once on Easter Sunday and think I’ll be so impressed that I’ll let it go. I’m talking every Sunday for the rest of your life. Dun, dun, dun!!!
If you’re an Oregonian, you can’t hate Californians. Most obviously because I am one and you can’t hate me if you want to date me. And don’t give me that “you’re the exception” crap because I have tons of Californian family and friends who’d love to kick your ass. Which I’m guessing is why you’ll never go home with me because you “hate California so much.”
If you’re a Californian, you can’t be too Hollywood for my newly acquired Oregonian license plate. I love this small, backwoods town and if you can’t live without immediate access to a mall, drive under 50 MPH, or get bored with BBQ, beer and football every weekend, then you can see your way back to Cali without me. Because this is Oregon and it’s what we do.
If you’ve checked yes to everything so far and have the phone in your hand ready to dial my number, just hang up right now. If you don’t like sports much, can cook and iron, and would rather do that than watch the game with me, I probably think you’re gay and you’ve already ended up in my BFF Friends Only Lunch Date category. If your parents hate me and you’re ACTUALLY funnier than I am, I probably don’t like you anyway. If you’ve mastered the art of number six, you’re probably too old for me because it takes way too long for a man to become that mature. And if you really want to go to church with me every Sunday and actually like California AND Oregon, then you’ve just go t me stumped and I’m not sure I’ll ever get passed it.
So if you have someone who you think would be “just perfect” for me or you’re the one who thinks you’re just perfect, make sure you go over the following criteria before giving me a call. Good luck.
Your parents have to hate me. Long after we broke up, an ex-boyfriend’s mom bought me flowers for my accomplishment at work. When telling one of my long time chick friends about it, she said “the in-laws always love you!” To which I mentally flipped through the album of past relationships and realized she was right. The boys, not so much. But the parents were always thrilled. So I’ve decided that if it’s ever going to work out with anyone, their parents can’t like me.
You can’t like sports very much. I am borderline obsessed with sports, which is probably why I end up so into guys who are so into sports. But I constantly find myself sitting around watching sports with guys whose wives are either in the kitchen making dinner or running around taking care of the kids. This presents quite the predicament for me because I want to get married and have kids but let’s face it; someone has to get dinner ready and take care of them, and if the game is on it certainly isn’t going to be me.
You have to be funnier than me. And chances are, you aren’t. So good luck with that one.
You have to know how to iron. Not because I think you look hot in a fresh pair of wrinkle free slacks, but because I can’t iron to save my life and I really need someone to get my work pants ready for me in the morning. Honestly, I don’t wear skirts because they’re cute. It’s usually because my pants need to be ironed and I’m waiting for another load of laundry to pile up so I can just throw them in with the dirty clothes. Wrinkles go away in the dryer better than they do if I take an iron to them.
You should probably know how to cook, too. Take a couple culinary arts classes or something. I don’t like to eat out all the time and I don’t like to cook all the time either. So while you’re taking care of the kids and ironing my pants, why don’t you whip up something fantastic for dinner, too.
Know how to treat me like one of the guys without forgetting that I’m not one of the guys. Like, when my farts are horrendous, high five me and get me another beer. But when I’m PMS-ing, just entertain me with your amazing wit and serve me up one of those delish meals you’ve been slaving over all day. And seriously, don’t ever slap my ass and say “good game” in front of your friends.
You have to go to church with me. And you have to like it. And don’t think you can fake it once on Easter Sunday and think I’ll be so impressed that I’ll let it go. I’m talking every Sunday for the rest of your life. Dun, dun, dun!!!
If you’re an Oregonian, you can’t hate Californians. Most obviously because I am one and you can’t hate me if you want to date me. And don’t give me that “you’re the exception” crap because I have tons of Californian family and friends who’d love to kick your ass. Which I’m guessing is why you’ll never go home with me because you “hate California so much.”
If you’re a Californian, you can’t be too Hollywood for my newly acquired Oregonian license plate. I love this small, backwoods town and if you can’t live without immediate access to a mall, drive under 50 MPH, or get bored with BBQ, beer and football every weekend, then you can see your way back to Cali without me. Because this is Oregon and it’s what we do.
If you’ve checked yes to everything so far and have the phone in your hand ready to dial my number, just hang up right now. If you don’t like sports much, can cook and iron, and would rather do that than watch the game with me, I probably think you’re gay and you’ve already ended up in my BFF Friends Only Lunch Date category. If your parents hate me and you’re ACTUALLY funnier than I am, I probably don’t like you anyway. If you’ve mastered the art of number six, you’re probably too old for me because it takes way too long for a man to become that mature. And if you really want to go to church with me every Sunday and actually like California AND Oregon, then you’ve just go t me stumped and I’m not sure I’ll ever get passed it.
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