The other day I was in the local craft shop trying to return something I'd bought previously in a fit of stupidity. (I'm not going to name names, but for those of you who know where I live, it's the ginormous one you pass on the way to my house.) I was attempting to convince the cashier that he didn't need my home address, drivers license, date of birth, social security number and rights to my first-born child just to accept the thing back, when an obviously well-meaning and more 'seasoned' employee felt it necessary to intervene.
After explaining that I'd bought the wrong thing and didn't see the need to burden them with all of this personal information, she eyeballed me and tossed her curler-curled dirty blonde hair. With a voice like Scarlett O'Hara after chain smoking for the past 100-odd years, she threatened, "Welcome to America, honey."
I was so utterly overwhelmed by her charming display of Southern Hospitality that the cutting but witty retorts which suddenly clamoured for attention where trapped somewhere behind my clenched teeth. Next time I go back, I must remember to congratulate her for managing to extend a welcome that was only slightly less hostile than the surly immigration official I met at LAX 14 years ago.
5 comments:
Was it Hobby Lobby? Oh, do tell.
I like little orphan Annie's approach. Stoop their foot and run.
Kelly - the fact that you've never been to my new house makes your guess downright spooky!!
Stan - you just crack me up :-)
You are a better woman than I am. I would have let the southern diva have it.
Oh Ashley my dear Ashley! Lets run away!
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