We have an author from South Carolina, and her Southern accent is so think and buttery that even me, a practically-Southern Midwesterner, has trouble understanding her and her colloquialisms. Though I still do tend to drop into a Southern drawl when talking to her. It's completely unintentional but I feel like I'm putting it on - not mockingly but not seriously, either, somehow.
Anyway, she calls often, multiple times daily, with little bitty questions. And, apparently she calls on her lunch breaks. We were in the middle of a conversation when she suddenly said, "Honey, let me put you on hold." and in the next breath, "I need two number twos, no pickles on number one number two, extra mayo on the second number two, a large sweet tea and a Coke. And two apple pies." I could even hear the "Please pull around."
Moral: Just saying you're putting someone on hold doesn't put them on hold.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Adventures in Self-Publishing
So we have an author that comes into our office regularly - he's a semi-retired local artist with nothing much to do. He's got a grey beard with bristles thick like pine needles, a bowed back, caved chest and a potbelly. He sniffles and smacks his lips when he talks, pulls the "hmm" with the rising old man intonation. He's one of a long parade of the slightly cracked that have published with our little company.
His nickname is ODB. If he were fifty years younger, I'd have a restraining order on him.
This is because every time he comes in, all he does is shuffle around and mumble vaguely inappropriate things about the female employees. The first time he came in, he interrupted a conversation about book distribution and author discounts with, "Do you have a boyfriend? Tell me where your boyfriend lives and I'll kill'im. I'll kill'im." Dead serious.
He also admitted to us that before his appointments, he gets nervous about talking to us pretty ladies that he regularly stops for a drink ("a little snort") before coming in.
He is never without his pinstriped fedora and when the conversation lags, he'll leer at us, rock his head side to side while twiddling the hat's brim and squinting lasciviously and mumble, "This do anything for ya?"
He once asked if he could use our phone and proceeded to call a woman and beg her for a date.
When his book came out, he crowed in his weary little old man voice, "It's beautiful! I wanna take you two ladies out for dinner right now, take you to a nice place, maybe have a few bottles of wine, get ya both a little drunk, how does that sound?"
Today he came in to pick up a box of books that he had ordered but it was too heavy for him. I ended up carrying the books out and putting them trunk of his junker station wagon. He reached in after me and started fiddling with a kind of glove compartment on the side of the interior. "You know, I'm coming down with a bad cold. It's making me feel terrible, just dreadful" he said. "You wanna know how I'm taking care of it? You wanna know my little trick? I'll show ya." He snapped the compartment open and it's filled with little airplane size bottles of vodka. He pulled one out and wiggled it in front of his face. "A little nip of this makes me feel much better."
I said, "Drive safe now" and ran back inside to tell the story to everyone there.
Oh, my job. My job.
His nickname is ODB. If he were fifty years younger, I'd have a restraining order on him.
This is because every time he comes in, all he does is shuffle around and mumble vaguely inappropriate things about the female employees. The first time he came in, he interrupted a conversation about book distribution and author discounts with, "Do you have a boyfriend? Tell me where your boyfriend lives and I'll kill'im. I'll kill'im." Dead serious.
He also admitted to us that before his appointments, he gets nervous about talking to us pretty ladies that he regularly stops for a drink ("a little snort") before coming in.
He is never without his pinstriped fedora and when the conversation lags, he'll leer at us, rock his head side to side while twiddling the hat's brim and squinting lasciviously and mumble, "This do anything for ya?"
He once asked if he could use our phone and proceeded to call a woman and beg her for a date.
When his book came out, he crowed in his weary little old man voice, "It's beautiful! I wanna take you two ladies out for dinner right now, take you to a nice place, maybe have a few bottles of wine, get ya both a little drunk, how does that sound?"
Today he came in to pick up a box of books that he had ordered but it was too heavy for him. I ended up carrying the books out and putting them trunk of his junker station wagon. He reached in after me and started fiddling with a kind of glove compartment on the side of the interior. "You know, I'm coming down with a bad cold. It's making me feel terrible, just dreadful" he said. "You wanna know how I'm taking care of it? You wanna know my little trick? I'll show ya." He snapped the compartment open and it's filled with little airplane size bottles of vodka. He pulled one out and wiggled it in front of his face. "A little nip of this makes me feel much better."
I said, "Drive safe now" and ran back inside to tell the story to everyone there.
Oh, my job. My job.
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