Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: awkward, Corolla, Just shut up, phones, Toyota, Uncle Henry's
So yesterday I established, with ample evidence, that phones make it hard for me to make words happen good. Here, as promised, is the second phone based excursion I took myself on yesterday. Please, pray on my discomfort. Voyeurs.
The Scenario: I wanted to test drive a car. I bought one in December from a little tiny baby private used car….place. It was a Corolla and I loved it a little bit more than a human should actually a love a piece of machinery. It’s now in Corolla Heaven, thanks to a desire for pancakes and a badly timed left turn, so I find myself in the market for a ride. Again. Recently, I drove by the place where I had bought the Corolla to see if they had any more deals and, lo and behold, there was a Toyota Tercel for under 2 grand! So. It was time for me to schedule a test drive.
When no one picked up, I was transferred to voicemail. Perfect! A golden opportunity to make up for my less than suave phone based excursion earlier. However, my brain sensed danger from the get-go and bailed before “Leave a message.”
The phone call (Note: Italics indicate internal monologue):
Hey, JR, it’s Amie. (Oh, very smooth!) I spoke to you, erm, sometime around the beginning of this month about, um, needing a new car? Whereas my Corolla was in an accident? (Okay, less smooth, but… still coherent! Keep up the good work!) So I, uh, noticed the Tercel you’ve got for sale, and I was wondering if maybe I could come by tomorrow and test drive it? (Right, because his voicemail is going to say, “Oh yes, that would be lovely, and afterward you can stay for tea!”) I’ve got to work in until mid-afternoon, so I can come over some time betweeeeeeeeen……. (Think faster, think faster!) 3:30 and 4. If that’s okay. So. If you could give me a call whenever you get a chance, that would be really great, thank you! (*Realizing the man doesn’t have me on speed dial…*) My number is [wouldn't you like to know]. Okay! Thank you! (Stop talking. Now. Hang up immediately.)
I snapped the phone shut before I could do any further damage, found my brain which was in the kitchen, snacking on some cheese and crackers, and shoved it back into my head. That wasn’t so bad, I thought. In fact, I’d say it was pretty good! Maybe I should see about getting my job back at the Mercedes place.
…
Or not.
Daily Photo:
My brother’s car, which I’ve been driving since my accident. You can see why the situation is dire.
I have this “thing” about talking on the telephone. I’d usually rather send out an email and wait hours or days for a response than pick up the phone and speak to someone. Phones are like a solvent to the brain-glue that usually holds my words together in a coherent sentence. I get nervous, talk too fast, start to mumble. Before long the person on the other end of the line is feeling sorry for me, and we’re both hoping the conversation will just be over soon.
On the basketball court that is interpersonal communication, I’m not exactly Jordan when it comes to writing but maybe… Nowitski (last year’s playoff games notwithstanding)? I’ve even been known to score a few baskets when talking face to face, but if you get me on the telephone I’m that guy you’ve never heard of who spends all season on the bench. In fact, I may actually be the bench.
This didn’t stop me from accepting a job last year working in the service department of a Mercedes-Benz dealership, making phone calls to unhappy rich people all day. I’m not sure how I didn’t get fired.
Anyway. Not one but two opportunities to make myself look like a drooling inbred presented themselves to me today and I gladly embraced both. The first was to the father of a small girl whose care was placed in my hands on a last-minute late-March snow day.
The scenario: I was cold. The family has a gorgeous new woodstove that usually keeps the house heated to a temperature similar to those recorded just outside the gates of Hell, and I had dressed accordingly. However, the stove was not lit, it was snowing outside, and I was cold. I didn’t really want to call Tim and ask him if I could start a fire (in the stove that is, not in the middle of the kitchen); I knew there was probably a reason I wasn’t sweating and dehydrated. But I thought, What they hey. I’m an adult. I’m capable of a quick telephone conversation. I’ll just ask if it’s cool if I put some wood on the stove instead of cranking up the thermostat. Gas prices and all, ya dig? No problem.
Problem. Big problem. I should have known there was going to be a problem when I checked the number written on the fridge whiteboard three times in the manner of an obsessive-compulsive counting cracks in the ceiling.
The phone call:
TIM: Hello?
ME: Hi!
*Pause. Wait for recognition.*
Simultaneously: ME: It’s Amie… TIM: Is something wrong?
ME *trying too hard to be casual*: Oh, it’s nothing serious at all. I was just wondering if it would be ok if I put some wood on the stove? *Pause* Or if….
TIM: Oh. It’s just that there’s no kindling left, so it would be a little tricky….
ME *cutting in*: Ohrightyeahok, I figured there was some reason it was off, so yeah, that’s ok.
TIM: If you’re cold you can just turn up the temperature a little on the thermostat on the wall.
ME *too soon again*: Ohrightyeahok, that’s what I’ll do, that’s no problem, yeah that sounds good, okay, sure.
TIM: Okay?
ME: Yeah, sure, that sounds fine, that’s what I’ll do.
TIM: Alright.
ME: So…
Simultaneously: ME *as my brain, tired of the effort of holding me together, says “You’re on your own kid”*: T-talk to you t-t-t-…. Tim: Talk to you later.
Then he laughed at me and hung up. My mind immediately went into emergency memory-and-trauma suppressor mode to prevent me from collapsing in a red-faced heap onto the floor and scaring the small girl. I cringe now as I type.
I’m serious, someone paid me to talk to their clients. Clients who had spent fifty grand, at the low end, on their vehicles and expected to speak to someone with two brain cells to rub together when they got a call regarding their recent service. Go figure.
As I have my doubts about the loyalty of the fan base I’ve no doubt acquired since yesterday, I’ll save the second telephone adventure for tomorrow. End of side one. Please turn tape over.
Daily Photo:
Souvenir from a day spent with a six year old. Don’t try to tell me you don’t want one.
