I decided my introductory period was over. If I hadn’t figured out the difficulties it actually was the phone, not my being too dumb to figure it out. I walked into the store holding my very special phone and I was greeted by a monotone, “What can I do for you?” You knew when he spoke it was only because he was forced to. I described for the guy my frustration with vanishing texts, and a rollerball that worked only half the time. He took the phone, and for the next 45 minutes never spoke another word to me. He was 2 feet across from me, and made no attempt at small talk, didn’t explain to me what he was doing to my phone, and acted as though he didn’t want me anywhere near him.

I spent this 45 minutes trying to explain away what his problem was. Was he in a bad mood because he just get evicted from his apartment? Is he so painfully shy he can’t speak? Has he been hired as part of a program to help “special” people get jobs? Did he miss the day of job training that explained customer service etiquette? Or…could it be that he is just an ass?

I became increasingly uncomfortable with this silence. It was like I was a kid getting the silent treatment from a friend. I tried to say a few things to break the awkward hush hush. No response…nothing. Wow, really? He can’t even answer me? After our shared eon of quiet he decided to speak. “Here’s the deal…your phone is broken. Your are going to get a new one in the mail. When you get it, bring it back in.” After he showed off his ability to string 26 words together, he gave me my old, torn up, sad phone and that was it.

I stood there, looking unintelligent, not sure if this interaction was really over. More silence. I finally just got up and went to my car. Once in my car I realized that EVERYTHING had been erased from my phone. The address book that I had painstakingly plugged in one letter at a time was gone without warning. My charming phone guy never even whispered to me that ALL of my info would be lost, and if there was anything I needed from the phone I had a minute to retrieve it. Nope, he just handed me back a blank slate.

My new phone arrived and I did as he commanded. I brought it back to the store. When I walked in the door, there was Mr. Personality. I did everything in my power to avoid getting his appalling service. I even pretended to be looking at phones so that other customers were forced to endure him. I paced thinking “PLEASE let me get the friendly blond girl.” Sadly, if finally came down to Mr. Talky and I once again. Could I say, “No thanks, I am going to wait for somebody else to help me.” Nope. With my head down, feeling defeated, I walked over to his station.

He said, “Oh, it came it.” He grabbed both of my phones and started working his secret cellphone wizardry. When he looked up from his work, he wouldn’t even look me in the face. He looked PAST me, as if he was trying to avoid looking me in the eyes. Next thing I know, he gets up and walks away. I am sitting there speculating where he went. Was I so unbearable that he couldn’t sit across from me and do his work? Did he go out back to shoot my old phone? 10 minutes passed and he finally moseyed in from the back room. He finished chewing before he sat down, and then wiped crumbs off of his face. Apparently doing his job had interrupted his meal time.

Mr. Charisma handed me my phone, and with his final words of wisdom said, “There.”

Don’t get me wrong, I realize that it is not “authentic” Mexican food. I don’t go there for bona fide south of the border flavor, I go there for Taco Treat flavor. That is the trick, there is nothing like it. There are people out there who really hate it, but there are those of us who want to be the Grand Marshall of the Taco Treat parade. I get tired of people, mostly those raised outside of Great Falls, whining about how it’s not convincing as Mexican food or it is “fast food.” Good, don’t go there. Leave it to the locals to cherish a beef taco, a cheese crisp with beef, or a plate of cheese fries. If we have a sweet craving we can top it off with Crustoz. Yummm, I want it now.

As a loyal customer, when I didn’t live in Great Falls, it was the first place I went when I got off the plane. I still drive friends straight from the airport to the Westside Taco Treat. If those fans out of state are really desperate I mail them a bottle of sauce, and if you mix it with your hamburger meat you can fake a Taco Treat taco. A friend of mine once had his Mom drive tacos to Seattle for him. If you need a fix, you will get it anywhere you can.

We used to joke about a secret added ingredient with addictive properties. My friends and I could never explain our taco habit, or why we could never get enough of a restaurant that nobody outside of the state has heard of. In a attempt to curb my appetite for tacos, my Mom forced me to work at Taco Treat during the State Fair. She thought after a week of lingering over a vat of grease and smelling like tacos I would never want to eat them again. She was oh so wrong. With that stint I discovered the art of perfecting the taco. If you get the correct balance of meat, cheese and lettuce, it is like a party in your mouth. Soon, we started inventing concoctions, wrapping them in tortillas and shoving them in the deep fat fryer.

For some reason I tried to calculate a number of times I have been to Taco Treat in my life, and my guesstimate is at least 1000 times. Now that is dedication.

The Queen Mother of this batch of ladies (yes, they call the leaders Queen Mother) was quite the grandstander. Not only did she want the attention of her minions, but the entire restaurant. She was so loud, you could not even stop yourself from staring if you wanted to. In her giant feather hat and matching boa she hollered, “Everybody say hello to Clara. Clara came all the way from North Dakota on the choo-choo to have lunch with us.” I was wondering if Clara regretted her decision yet. Next she made an offering to all around the table. They could take home some of her second hand purses that matched the necessary wardrobe. Gee, could I have one of your old dirty handbags with a used plastic comb to tease my hair, a crummy mint loose on the bottom, and the bonus of a recycled tissue?

Next thing on the agenda…voting on where to have lunch for their next fancy affair. The kingpin made her announcement of the choices. Judging by her bravado, I had no doubt that 60 years earlier she was head cheerleader and prom queen, and she was still fighting to be the center of attention. She was really pushing for a particular restaurant, and I am not sure that her followers were comprehending. She let them raise their hands for the first restaurant, and I counted the votes in my head. Second vote, hands raised…I count. Now, by my numbers, the second restaurant won, by the chiefs numbers, the first restaurant won. I am not kidding, I swear she fudged the vote so she could have the buffet of her choice!! By the expressions of the wait staff in the eatery I was currently in, I think they were just thankful they weren’t coming back to visit them any time soon.

I checked the website for the Red Hat Society, and was surprised to see the conventions and functions all over the U.S. Somebody is making a killing on hideous red hats, and purple fabric. You can buy everything online, even kazoos. What do those women do with kazoos? I cringe at the thought. I was still trying to convince myself that this roundup of old ladies was a positive thing. Then I read on the website,

The standard answer to the question, “What do you do?” is… Nothing.

Nothing? Really? You are going to tell me your entire organization is pointless? That is, unless you are collecting money for the wardrobe, chapter dues, or Decade of Sparkle convention. Damn, I remember growing up my Mom warned me about groups who wanted all my money, and to blindly follow their rules. They were called cults.

The second site would not be appropriate to visit at work, or if you are a youngster. That is your warning. Apparently Jay Leno said something stupid about looking at the camera and giving “your gayest look” to a guest. Some people decided to send a rebuttal his way. I was pleased that so many people participated. Jay is NOT my favorite talk show host. He is not as funny as David, and no way near as cute as Craig. (Craig makes me swoon.)

OK…I have Dancing With The Stars on in the background. The first thing I heard was a strange, tango remix of “Roxanne” by the Police. I was only slightly displeased when I heard one of my favorite bands used in such a way. It didn’t take long until I heard Adam Ant’s “Goody Two Shoes” and got all huffy seeing them jump around to one of my 80’s favs. There was no way it could get worse. As if the show was mocking me, the cheesiest version of “Rio” was playing and I couldn’t even force myself to open my eyes. How could they do that to Duran Duran?!! Has enough time passed that the music of my youth can be turned into a hideous version of elevator music? Should I be grieving for my precious Duran Duran? I guess if Simon has given up, and can’t remember the words to his songs, maybe it’s time I recognize that the music I love is being played on the oldies station, and used for has been’s who want to learn to tango.

It looked dark as I approached the doors. There were cars parked in the lot, so I expected people inside. I try to open the front door, no luck. The next person tries, in case I wasn’t smart enough to open it on my own. Nope. If you pressed your face against the glass, you could read the dry erase board inside the entry that said there was a reading going on, as well as the poster. OK…OPEN SESAME. No, didn’t work. There is another book enthusiast trying to call somebody on the inside. That attempt was another failure.

Defeated and annoyed it was back to the car. One girl pulled up and asked where to go. Hell of we knew. Our last effort seemed to involve something criminal. Trying the back doors of the library. Sure enough, we went in the exit and had to sneak downstairs. From the look on the woman’s face behind the table, she was startled to see us.

There wasn’t enough seats for everyone so people were sitting on the floor like a confused kindergarten class. So, were they purposely trying to limit the number of people? It seemed strange to shun people who wanted a little literary culture. Especially after the effort they put into promoting it. Was putting a sign up that said Enter Through Side Door OR Sorry, Lecture in Session, Please Join Us Again Tomorrow too much strain? Anything would have been a help. So, to all of those that turned away before me, and those who tackled the door after I was gone, it will forever be Festival of the Locked Door.

Most of my cohorts can vouch for the fact that half of the time my cell phone is either sitting at home when I need it, or the battery is dead. Of course when I would prefer to sit in a crowd anonymous, I have a fully charged phone with me, ready to serenade the group of fake intellects. I can’t tell you how many times I have looked at others with disgust when their phones rang at inappropriate times. If you know you are going to be at a get together that requires quiet to show respect to others around you, why aren’t you genius enough to shut off your phone? It was pure stupidity on my part. The person who calls me 95% of the time was sitting next to me, so I never imagined I would get another call. So, what is everybody else’s excuse?

I don’t delight in admitting I own a pair. In fact, it makes me feel a little dirty. My only refuge is knowing that I did not pay for them. They were a gift purchased from QVC. (That makes it feel even filthier.) How could it get worse? They are hot pink. I love pink, but seeing these shoes in that color seems like some sort of pigment abuse. People drone on about how comfortable they are, but if I wear them more then 45 minutes they hurt my feet. Even if they were like walking on a cloud, is it really worth looking that ridiculous?