This is really quite a boring post

Currently, I work in a oil smelling, wrench slinging, women insulting mechanics shop in the Mission of SF. It was the first job offered a mere two weeks of moving to Oakland and after applying to over 50 jobs, followed by a memory of a 3month jobless stint in Seattle; I took it and counted my blessings. According to the owner, my title is Office Manager or Assistant(I know not), but I think it's mostly just to make me feel important. I tend to think of myself as more of a Office Gopher Bitch. You know the phrase “go for this, go for that” but in my case, add on customer attitude receptacle; much like the vagina is the penis receptacle, except my version is a lot less fun or pleasurable. I know what you’re thinking, “you are doing customer service?” and thus piss your pants with laughter. Yes, surprisingly enough, I can be quite nice on the phone, must be the fact I’m getting up there in years.

I know enough about cars, thanks to my parents sticking a wrench in my hand sometime around 15, to keep my head straight working at a mechanics shop. I will say this about my place of work, they do have a mom and pop feel with bending over backwards for their clients. Case in point, we get the valued customer’s cars detailed if say, it’s really fucking dirty by the hands of filthy creatures called “kids”, or say you spent a decent amount of dough with us because you didn’t care good enough for your car to keep the oil changed, belts up to date and now it’s literally raping you in the wallet; call it a sympathy wash. The other thing we offer is free loaner cars-yes free. You drop your whip, we supply you with one whilst repairs are in order-nice, no? Now, I find this above and beyond mechanic shop duty. However, we get some self righteous entitled mother fucks that walk into this shop thinking they should get the cream of the crop while we thankfully kneel down and lick their taints. So when a particularly lovely specimen of a nose in air woman drops off her car I receive the following "is it clean?" -yes; "is it one of the newer ones?" -wouldn't dream of giving you anything else. Needless to say, when she got the diagnosis, she was none too happy and promptly picked up her shit wagon; dressed to the nine's mind you, in her fake fur vest, cloud of swamp smell perfume and loads of expensive jewelry. "did you wash my car?" -no, sorry, it was raining. To which I received a dirty look and slew of insults. The old me was just below the surface dying to tell her fat uppity ass to get down on our level and take the fucking bus if she doesn't like it. However, the mere peeling out the driveway of her exit was enough to make me feel better. Ding dong, the witch is fucking dead.

(if only you can see the half eaten sandwhich that was peeking out on the seat)

On another note, Mike Borden, rock drummer dude for Faith No More and other rock/metal bands, is a customer of ours. I don’t know about you, but when I think rock star, even drummer rock star, the first thing that pops into my head is stories of crazy sex-capaides and drug use. The second thing that pops into my head is wicked sweet cars that are 6 figures. This gentleman(because he rather nice) drives a Volvo…wagon. No Lambo with a busty passenger ornament or a Bently rollin on duce duces. Nope. A good ol’ family wagon with safety as the priority. I don’t fault him for this. I just sit at my desk, smile when he picks up his car and picture him zooming down the highway in a manual paddle shifting 400+ horsepower sporty number, while getting a BJ.

Rock on man