George the Sales Guy

We bought a new oven this weekend. Ours gradually wandered from 50 degrees off the requested temperature, to 75, to 100, to wandering all over the temperature map. Mice live in it. It looks like it may be the original model from when our condo was built in 1976. In a word, it's gross. In another: inefficient.

So off we traipsed to Big Box Home Stuff Store, like good aspiring middle-class Americans, and examined the ovens. We selected a model we liked. It was hard to get the sales guy's notice. Eventually he--George--graced us with his attention. My hubby enquired as to whether there were other models with similar features we should consider. George replied by--not kidding--turning to me and asking, "Hon, do you cook a lot?" My usual bubbly nature fizzed right out; clearly, "polite but cool" was called for here. Nonetheless unprepared for such a terrific throwback of a question, I stammered, "I bake...some." Dear Husband tried to draw George off me. George would not have it. He pointed out to me that the heating element was ideal for "keeping gravy warm". I have never in my life prepared gravy. I'm not boasting about this; it's merely a fact.

George appeared to me to be living in some possibly alcoholic time warp. He had the stubbly face, weirdly pliable facial features, and quick defensiveness I saw in many a homeless alcoholic/lost soul in my Santa Fe days.

When we scheduled delivery, George creepily-amiably said he hoped I'd have some brownies ready for them! Oh dear me! When we were at last freed from his grip, he "helped" a couple looking at washing machines by cutting off the husband to ask the pretty blond wife how many loads of the kids' laundry she does a week.