I almost always have the same Peapod delivery guy. He's very good looking in a young (young) Pacino/Andy Garcia kinda way. Which, let's face it, is a very good way to be good looking. He usually makes small talk about my cat Reynaldo (who wriggles like a worm to get out of my arms and climb onto the dolly he uses to bring the groceries), or the Cubs. One night he was able identify that I was watching The Godfather II based solely on a racy bit of dialog. ("That thing can't be real." "Sure it is. That's why they call him Superman.")
Tonight he was very nearly late with my groceries. He was supposed to be here between 8:00 and 10:00 and he literally got here at 9:58. When he apologized for being late, I pointed out that he really wasn't late, and besides, said I, "someone's gotta be last."
"No," said Hunka Hunka, "you're not last. There's one more. She never tips, so I made her last."
Am I offended by his crass reference to the $2 I dependably hand him? Or am I charmed by his audacity? (That's his audacity, not his dreamy big brown eyes and long, shiny hair.)
These are the thoughts and observations of me — a woman of a certain age. (Oh, my, God, I'm 65!) I'm single. I'm successful enough (independent, self supporting). I live just outside Chicago, the best city in the world. I'm an aunt and a friend. I feel that voices like mine are rather underrepresented online or in print. So here I am. If my musings resonate with you, please visit my blog again sometime.
no you should not be offended. I delivered papers for long enough to know that if i had one slightly damaged paper in a pack, the wretch that let there dog torment me and would only give me a buck at christmas was gonna get the ratty paper.
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