I’ve Got Gams that Won’t Quit

I am going to be America’s Next Top Model. The gas station attendant said so.

We stopped for gasoline on our way home from picking up the catt on Sunday afternoon. He had been hiding at my parents’ place while we were away. It was one of those old gas stations where you have to take your money inside and give it to someone at a desk. Confusing. I kept shoving my credit card at the pump and the pump kept rebuffing me.

Actually it’s the same gas station my friends and I used to pass on our walk home from high school. We would stop and buy candy or chips or pop or all three. Slushies. Wait for the boys we liked to catch up and then – oops! – leave the store just as they were passing by.

I went in with my money to pay for my gasoline and the attendant said hello. “Hello,” I said. “I am at pump number 9.” Number 9. Number 9.

I forget how he started but suddenly he was telling me how I was beautiful enough to be a model. I had picked up a bag of assorted sour candy that was right at the till and I started eating it. “Thanks,” I said, laughing, waiting for my change. “No, because,” he said, giving me a once-over and gesturing at my boobs with his hands, “you have a good body. And a nice smile. You’re not all covered in makeup. Not like those girls, you wake up next to them in the morning and you’re like, where’d her face go!”

“Uh-huh,” I said around a mouthful of sour soother, still thinking he was just chatting up a customer the way you chat up a customer. The kind of customer with a husband and baby out in her car. Not that he knew that. “Well, models don’t eat candy.”

“It’s fine!” he said. He handed me my change. “I would rather see you win America’s Next Top Model.”

“Well thanks,” I said, “have a good day.”

“I’m here every Saturday and Sunday,” he called after me, “I hope I see you again!”

Oh.

The gas station attendant is hitting on me.

HA! Whoo! I still GOT IT! In your FACE, Jaslene! Your big, chinny face!

In other news, after much intensive training, Trombone will now “MOOOO” when prompted with “What does a cow say.” Seriously you people have no idea how many cows there are in Ontario and how many iterations of “MOOOOOOOO!” “MOOOOOOOOOO!” took place in our rental van.

(For those of you keeping track, he will also meow like a catt and is obsessed with talking on the telephone. The telephone doesn’t have to be a real telephone; it can be his hand, your hand, a block or a piece of cheese. But it goes to the ear and then he says “HAAAAA.” We think this means “hi.” Then if you “answer the phone” by putting a piece of cheese up to your own ear or whatever, he will babble a bit and then hang up on you. The kid is hilarious.)

Today I took him to the park across the street from our house. The petting zoo just opened yesterday so all the animals are fresh. There’s a lamb and a bunch of goats and a few pigs and a calf and a lot of freaky looking fancy chickens. We moo’d at the calf but it hasn’t had as much training as Trombone so it just stared at us with its gigantic brown eyes. The lamb’s mama gave an almighty bleat, though, and Trombone and I nearly had heart attacks.

Then we came home and worked on “quack,” “oink” and “may I take a message.” By the time I go back to work, I hope to have him trained to do my job so I can sleep under my desk for a few months straight.

Just in case the top model thing doesn’t work out.