Was reading The house with the clock in its walls today. Forget the author, but heen over anything illustrated by Edward Gorey.

Work has been. Interesting. To say the least.

What the hell is it with rich old guys purchasing planters that they decide /I'm/ tasty? The first was psycho cocaine addict guy who tried to chat me up while schizophrenically purchasing 8 of our huge vietmanese glazed planters.

He was summarily ignored, for I am a polite and charming shopgirl.

But for the past 2 days it's been Mr. Bob Hupman, a regular, and a regular pain in the koula. Apparently, he often comes and maked huge planter purchases-- he owned 7 already, before he, er, met me.

2 days ago, this guy with his affected texan twang saunters into my store and asks for help in planterland. He wants to see a huge waterjug outside in a crate. So we get onto the deck, and he siezes me by the arm and thrusts his nose into my hair.

"You smell nice." He announced flatly, accent dropping. "What is that?"

I told him it was bath and body works shampoo, politely extracated myself, and went about the business of getting the man to spend over $200 on oversized garden pots. He continued to ask questions concerning my work scedule and the like, which I answered as noncomittaly as possible without being rude. With the exception of when the man asked if I were brilliant. That I answered in the affirmative.

Damn right I'm brilliant, and I shall take no shame in pronouncing it to anyone and everyone, if they're so indelicate as to ask, outright. I'm not /that/ humble.

There were two even more massive pots than the ones he purchaced which he said he might come back for the next day. So, the next day, we recieved a call from dear Mr. Hupman. He asked to speak to me particularily (and thank god I go by Rabbit at work!). He decided to purchase the two huge pots over the phone, and so I sold them to him, via credit card. After I'd taken the card number, the fool lowered his voice and, mentioning that he was oft in Durham, he'd like to take me to lunch sometime, as he 'bet that you're real smart.'

Smart enough to grunt even more noncomitally-- I hope dismissively-- and finish the rather enormous sale. For crying out loud. The man may have a lot of money to spread around, but he's over forty, a Pensylvanian with a fake accent and a huge ego, hitting on a girl who resembles, truth be told, a 17 year old catamite.

Okay, okay, so I /was/ wearing a skirt that day. As Anny-chere and I found out once upon a time, a baby dyke in a skirt is fair game to prowling old men.

No, no, I'm not really offended, just amused and a little disturbed. You see, /I'm/ the lech. /I/ prey on attractive young women, if only silently from across the room.

But eye-fucking is an artform too, right?

*ahem* anyhoo. What's really sad about this is right now, with the electricity due to be cut off next tuesday and no money seeming to be available before then, I'm almost seriously considering going to-- er-- lunch with this guy.

*looks for ritual hari-kari daggers*

<<agé chose>>

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