Traveling Salesman

My daughter is on the road again.  I don’t know whether to be more concerned about her, or the people she will inevitably involve in her many crisis to come.  She is a traveling disaster area, I kid you not.  I have no idea at this point where she is headed, or I would warn you.

She is, technically, a traveling salesman (or salesperson, or as she would probably prefer, the non-gender, sales manager), although in a very upscale, precious metal, type of way.  From what I understand, she sells gold and silver to jewelry manufacturers and suppliers.  Most of her gold and silver is recycled or reclaimed from other industries.  All very interesting if you’re in to that sort of thing.

Her travel stories are so amusing that you literally laugh your ass off when you hear them, but a lot of it has to do with the delivery.  She’s pretty good at telling stories.

Like the time she ripped the bumper off the 2010 Chevy Camaro rental car because it was a sports car, and too low to the ground, and she locked the scooped front end onto the parking curb.

Her description:  “I heard this scraping sound when I parked it, which I knew didn’t sound too good.  So I immediately put it in reverse, and the scraping sound was even worse.”

When she got out of the car and looked, the bumper was up on the curb.  Well it’s not really a bumper on that model of car,  something that she would have to pick up and put in the trunk, but is was a serious amount of damage to the front of the vehicle.  Nothing, however, a little duct tape couldn’t fix.  She described it as “ripping the fender off the car.”

Of course, she panicked, to the point of telling herself to “put on her big girl panties” and get this figured out.  She even slapped herself for effect.  Slapped herself so hard that it threw her head into the back rest.  But she pulled it together the next morning and traded the car in at the rental counter for something less “sporty” that would clear the obstacles of, say, a parking curb.

She’s also responsible for the name of this blog.  WTF.  We all know what that means, right?  Well, her daughter, just venturing into the text messaging arena did not.  So, when my daughter would say WTF, every other sentence, my granddaughter finally asked, “Mom, what does that mean?”  To which my daughter replied, thinking faster than the speed of light, “What The Fluffy.”  It’s become a kind of code ever since.  I don’t think my granddaughter, age of 12, knows what it means yet, but that would be wishful thinking.

Speaking of traveling.  I think we could make a big dent in that national debt if the President would do some work out of his office!  He’s on the road more than asphalt.  (I was gonna say “black top”, an old term for asphalt, but that could be a considered a racial slur.  I didn’t mean it to be.  If I’m going to make a racial slur, I’ll just do it.)  But seriously, when it costs around $40 million dollars to roll the Presidential caravan, with all the support staff, etc, maybe a trip every six months, instead of a trip every six days, would be more appropriate.  WTF.

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