Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Day XVI: CherylBeth

My grandpa had a great idea. After reading one of my earlier posts, he suggested that I solicit people to write about in exchange for some moolah. Personally, I think it's a fantastic idea, and I would gladly write about anyone if there was money in it for me. Hell, I'll slander someone's name or glorify your own for a little coin, baby! You just tell me the who-what-where-when-and-why.

Until that actually happens, I think I'll stick to the voyeuristic nature of how I like to write about people. Plus: this allows me to use the word 'voyeuristic' which both looks and sounds beautiful. It tastes like sweet chocolates or a soft pear.

(Side note: wouldn't it be great if your ringtone could be someone gently saying your favorites words out loud in a vaguely sexual manner? I'd buy that shit.)

Good ol' what's her name
Some of you will be familiar with my Snapchat crush on our post lady at Butler Square. Well, not crush, but you get it.


This is CherylBeth. And that may or not be her name.

I'll explain.

I've visited the Butler Square too many times for work. Desiree, our publicity and marketing director, works from a remote location in Tennessee so I end up with a lot of her mailing needs for various reviewers, vendors, etc. Luckily, the post office I visit is almost entirely accessible via the Skyway, and is a longer walk than traversing the outdoors. Better exercise in the winter and less time consuming in the summer: the best of both worlds. Just like Hannah Montana.

Inside the Butler Square post office works a lovely lady. The wisps of gray-blonde hair that litter her head seem to indicate that she was the very first member of the ombre bandwagon. Usually, she wears amazing turquoise rings--anywhere from three to four pieces per hand--but were sadly absent today when I not-so-subtly snapped the above photo.

One day, she told me her name was Cheryl. At least, that's what I thought she said. So, for weeks, I met her with a happy, "Hi, Cheryl," because I wasn't quite positive she'd said that was her name. But no matter how inaudibly I whispered the second part of my greeting, she always said hello and asked how my week was going, told me to stay warm, asked what I was up to, etc. Her joviality convinced me I was correct and slowly I started to speak her name with a little more gusto.

And then, because of course something would go wrong, I waltz into the post office one day and just as I am about to say her name, I notice that her sweater is monogrammed with the name: Beth.


Shit. Shit. Shit.

'Hello, Cheryl!" came out a lot like "Hello, Che...rr....lll...BETH?!?!?!"

And Cheryl (slash) Beth didn't miss a beat.

"Hello, John."

Oh, CherylBeth. You crafty little cat.

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