Ever since a parking garage attendant called me “babe,” I’ve been more aware of the way I’m treated by perfect strangers. My conversation with Mr. Golf Cart was not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of such foolishness, but that day, it really got to me. I just think I’ve had enough. I’m no longer in the mood to tolerate the absence of common courtesy in our daily interactions.
This attitude resurfaced during a conversation with an auto mechanic. My license plates were set to expire, and as usual, I waited until the last minute to get an inspection. My go-to auto shop was booked Friday morning, so I placed a call to an alternative.
“Yes, dear?” The man who answered sounded tired and annoyed. He followed his greeting with a slight sigh.
“Um, hello?” I checked the number on my phone, thinking I perhaps had misdialed.
“Yeah, this is Joe at XYZ mechanic. There’s something else?”
I was totally baffled. “We’ve never talked before, and did you just call me ‘dear’?”
Joe cleared his throat.
“Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry. I saw your number on the ID, and it was from the same company as the person I just talked to. Lisa something? Weird to get two calls from the same place, huh?” He chuckled nervously.
I don’t know Lisa Something, and I don’t know what’s wrong with her car. What I do know is the call she had with Joe about it was not significant enough to move her status from customer to buddy. They are not on a nickname basis.
He would have been better off saying he thought I was his wife calling back.