Hypothetically ruffled feathers

A pest guy (guy in the pest control business, not a guy who’s a pest – although those guys are usually both) just came by the house selling pest control services (he was conventional like that -it would’ve been more interesting if the pest guy was selling, I don’t know, ANYthing else), and I got rid of him by leading him on a little (“Sure, give me your number.  I’ll check the company out online and give you a call if we’re interested.”).  I also told him I never make decisions like that on the spot, and as he left he said, “No problem.  Just check with your hu – [big pause here] – whoever you need to check with, and let me know.”  Nice catch, buddy.  Never assume!  Although he does still seem to be assuming someone else makes this kind of decision and not me.  What?  Just because I was home all day today?  You don’t know me.  I’m sure I’m reading too much into it, but it’s FUN to get hypothetically angry at the hypothetical assumptions the hypothetical real pest guy was making.  How dare he?!

It is time for me to take on the enormous task of catching up on the internet again.  It keeps getting away from me.  In case you need help with the same task, I’m very happy to tell you that Jess has started blogging again.  Like, yesterday (or a couple of days ago), but still – it’s a (re)start.


  1. Jess

    When I moved to Mississippi, the moving guy who was putting my furniture back together asked me if I had a butter knife. I didn’t, because of course they were still packed. I asked him what he needed it for, and he said he wanted to use it to turn screws. I handed him a toolbox I had ready and waiting (silently, because anything I could have said in that moment was probably not polite.)

  2. Jess

    I’ve probably already told you that story several times – which is funny because it’s not really my most harrowing example of men sterotyping women. But in some ways, it’s the most insulting.

  3. Zannah

    I don’t think you’ve ever told me that story, actually. Or you have and my memory for this story is like my memory for jokes. I’m like Mom that way – you can tell us the same jokes over and over again. We’ll keep laughing.

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