Howdy folks
Just wanted to drop in and share today’s hit with Instant Sexiness (Mix A - the more alpha Angelina-esque mix). I sprayed it to my wrists/forearms and back of neck/hair.
I apply pheros with very “artistic”, broad and grande strokes, so when I say I sprayed to my wrists, I really mean I throw my arms out like I’m in a Hello Dolly! rehearsal and apply a glorious cloud of pheromone with a sweeping stroke of my other arm, like I’m putting the finishing touches on a graaaand painting. Sometimes I twirl my imaginary moustache afterward. No joke! I’m super theatrical in my applications so I get maximum all-over coverage.
(Couldn’t imagine what I’d do if these things were in an aerosol. My “workspace” already looks like a girls restroom on prom night in the mid 80s.
)
You know, normally, I strut up and down the sidewalks like they’re catwalks, but inside I’m really laid back and lassaiz faire. Usually if someone messes up my order I don’t mind, and I’d NEVER be one of those people who turns up their nose, demands a new dish and doesn’t even pay. I just can’t understand those people!
Today was different! I went to my dry cleaners (a particularly fancy pantsy one down the street from me, with the true-to-life reputation of being the “dry cleaner to the stars!”) to pick up a couple of my garments, including my sequined BCBG skirt that had a splash of baby grizzle on it. Now, things followed as usual. Gave over my ticket, waited for garments, received garments, let the register ring me up.
This is a prestigious cleaner, so sight unseen I’d expect everything to be perfect. Under normal circumstances I would have just popped out my card, paid and left.
Here’s where I deviated from my norm. Instead of mechanically scooping up my garments and being on my merry way, I lifted up the plastic to fully circumspectly examine my stained skirt. My baby grizzle stain unexpectedly lunged out at me. Before I knew it, out popped, “I’m not paying for this. My garment isn’t clean.”
The cashier trembled in intimidation. She tried to explain to me some bs about it being a tough stain and she even halfway motioned to a “special attention” sticker affixed to the hanger. Out popped, "That’s not acceptable. I came to a cleaner, and I expect to walk out of here with my garments clean."
Hoo boy, did I get her shaking. She mumbled - practically whispered - a meek little apology and scurried to get her manager. A middle aged Filipino woman returned with her, inspected the stain, and began to explain herself. She talked to me about what she could do about the stain. She said she could launder it, but it might affect the sequins so I would have to sign a consent form. Automatically I said, “That’s not acceptable. This garment must be *clean.”
*She buckled at the knees and disappeared with my skirt. She returned a few minutes later, and voile! My grizzle stain disappeared! She apologized like a thousand times over it, said that “this” stain was removed, but that she couldn’t remove this “other” stain on the skirt (that frankly, I didn’t even know about because it was so wussy. A mild water stain on the lining). I was on a total roll and was like, “You did an excellent job here, thank you so much, but this skirt is still dirty and I can’t pay for something that isn’t clean.” I may have even mentioned that this cleaner is well established to be a fantastic one with a reputation, but I don’t remember.
The next manager swung by. He was SO much more friendly and knowledgeable, and the other two minions let him deal with me. He casually addressed me by name like I’ve been going there for years, even though I’d only been in there once before and talked to him in passing. 
He went through all the solutions to my stain problem, told me to leave it with him, and then at the end said, “And you won’t have to pay for a thing unless its clean.”
He returned me to my mousy cashier and she couldn’t even look at me when she was ringing me up. Omg, it was so awesome. I waltzed out of there with this “Wow, I can’t believe I did that..” glaze on my face.
Walking the opposite direction on the sidewalk as I was trotting home was former Sex Pistol (and massively popular DJ around here, second from left in photo, though he’s MUCH older now as that photo was taken in '77) Steve Jones. He was accompanied by a 25-something guy, yacking his ear off like an eager little puppy. Steve wasn’t listening at all and instead was focused extremely intently on yours truly all the way from the top of the block. He must have been gawking at me for a good 45 seconds-minute. As we passed his neck snapped completely 180 degrees around and the kid next to him was all “Steve, you listening? Steve, Steve Stevestevesteve. [pause] Yeah man, she’s hot.”
:o
