Yesterday, a bedazzled twentysomething salesgirl was trying to help me order something for the house.
She had to write down all my important information in triplicate. I watched her write, peering over her shoulder, waiting for her to stumble over the spelling of my name. I pretty much expect everyone to mis-spell my name -- as everyone with a non-traditionally spelt name does by the time they are 400 years old, like myself. True, I could just spell it upfront, but I don't. I always wait to see if, by some chance, some freak roll of the dice, someone will get it right.
They seldom do. She was no different. There were neither flashing lights nor the electronically enhanced rapidfire ching-ching-ching-ing of nickels falling out of the slot machine, as she botched the spelling of my name and I, swallowing the "Jackpot!" waiting at the tip of my tongue, proffered the correction instead.
She moved on to the next blank on the form. "What's your phone number?" she asked, pen poised.
With the watchful eye of a bankrupt gambler, I dictated, "8 - 0 - 1 . . ." She wrote "801." So far, so good.
I continued, "4 . . ."
She wrote "7."
Slightly louder, I repeated, "Four . . ."
With a quick, slightly flustered, laugh she scribbled out the seven and wrote "4" instead.
Nodding, I continued slowly, "6 - 3, " and paused. She was keeping up. Feeling encouraged, I was ready to lay down all my cards: a straight flush.
I played my hand. "5467," I said.
She wrote: "4-5-7-6."
"Uh," I said, "It's 5-4-6-7."
"Oh! Whoops!" she exclaimed, with embarrassed smile and an apologetic shrug of her showgirl shoulders, "I must be a little anorexic when it comes to numbers!"