I walked into the bowels of Home Depot the other day. That store scares me. I mean, it really scares me. Give me a store like Sephora and I'm at home. Or most clothing stores. I can get lost in Hobby Lobby. I can walk into a Victoria's Secret and do just fine. Oh wait, actually scratch that. Once upon a time, I could have walked into a Victoria's Secret and been just fine. Not anymore. I know Victoria's secret - their sizes only go up to a cute little petite D cup bra and size 5 panties. And the pictures of the models on the walls make me want to slap them (after feeding them hot fudge sundaes, that is.) Depressing. But not scary.
Home Depot, however, is scary. I don't know where anything is. I don't know what anything is. Home Depot people, if you're listening, you need to have a Clueless Female section with cute little pink tools and hot guys with trays of iced mochas and mineral water for us. You can have some comfy seating and while we rest our feet and sip our beverages, the hot guys with the tool belts (heh heh, I just had a visual) can show us the cute pink tools and tell us what they are and how to use them. Or, better yet, they can just offer to come over and fix stuff for us. I know I, for one, would find shopping there less scary in that scenario.
But as it is now, I walk in and freak out over the 800 foot ceilings and the orange aprons and the aisles of foreign looking items. A young worker-guy saw me standing there, drooling (not because I was so overcome with excitement over the power tools, but because my brain had simply shut down when faced the array of drill-looking things) and asked, "Ummm, can I help you, Ma'am? Please? Hello?"
First off, I don't like being called "Ma'am". I mean, this isn't Georgia, people! This isn't just a polite thing that people say around these here parts. "Ma'am" to me, means "Old Lady". (Actually, this really has nothing to do with the story. Just forget the whole Ma'am thing.)
So, this guy is looking at me like I'm a complete simpleton. And he's right. At least, as far as tools go. I answered him, "Um yeah, I need, um, some sort of tool thingy for drilling. Like a drill. Or something. You know, to drill stuff."
"Okay.... so you want a drill. What are you going to be drilling?"
"Oh, you know, stuff." At the blank look on his face, I expounded. "Like I might drill a hole in a wall for a picture frame. Or use it to fill my cavity to save on dental bills."
I think I may have freaked him out with that last sentence. Hey, at least I didn't say I was planning on using it for do-it-yourself lobotomies on my enemies.
He asked some more questions to get a better idea of my drilling needs. "Will you be drilling into concrete? How much power do you need? Do you want a cordless drill? Will you be using it for long periods of time?"
"Ummm, do you have anything in pink?"
He repeated his questions again. Slowly.
"Listen, I'm recently divorced so I'm new to this whole home improvement thing. I just need something to hang a paper towel holder from my cabinet. I might want to hang a picture frame some day. I may even have to use it to fix the shelves in my closet. But I'm not going to build a rocking chair or a swingset or a house. I want something small and cheap, but a little more powerful than my fingernail, a butterknife, or my shoe, ok?"
If this guy thought it was tough dealing with me, he should've seen me there last week with the youngest four kids running around like rabid squirrels, touching everything, jumping up onto stacks of wood, and checking out the toilet display. Yeah.