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Getting Older . . .
          Not Better

Maybe It's Just Me . . .

© 2002 Carole Moore

I've had several close encounters of the mathematical kind lately. These meetings inevitably take place in fast-food or retail establishments and have two consistent elements: my money and a clueless teen.

Now, before you tell me not all teens have problems with simple calculations, let me clarify: This is not a blanket condemnation. Nope, not at all. The boys next door to me are math wizards, so I know this doesn't apply to all teenagers – just the ones handling my money.

Take, for example, the young woman who tried to figure out how much I should get back in cash after overcharging me one dollar at the register. I stood there with the crowd piled behind me like a train wreck watching as that hapless cashier worked and reworked the math before finally deciding to call a manager over.

The manager sighed and showed her how to simply deduct a dollar.  From the sigh, it was obvious he did this quite often – probably way too often from his point of view. I've got news for him – it's getting worse.

I offer as proof this example of "dinner mayhem" – occurring when I took my kids to a local restaurant for dinner. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich.

Now, a grilled cheese sandwich isn't a complicated dish. It's only has three ingredients: butter, bread and cheese. And it's easy to put one together. You butter the bread and put it butter-side down on the grill, toss on a piece of cheese and another slice of bread, butter-side up, then turn it and brown it on both sides. Not exactly rocket fuel science.

The sandwich I received bore no resemblance to any grilled cheese sandwich I'd ever seen. It consisted of a piece of cheese between two pieces of white bread. No butter. No grilling. It was slightly warm, though.

So I went up to the counter and handed it to the young lady working there.

"I ordered a grilled-cheese sandwich and this is what I received," I said, and paused expectantly.

She looked at the sandwich, then looked back up at me, puzzlement crawling her features. "And?"

"It's not brown," I said. She rolled her eyes, took the sandwich and turned to a young man who was also behind the counter.

"She wants this toasted," she said in a tone of voice that indicated I'd just asked her to serve it while swinging upside down from a trapeze. But the young fellow – bless him – he understood where I was coming from.

"It's supposed to be toasted," he said. "It's a grilled cheese."

Sighing, she took it back to the kitchen and said she'd bring me the new one when the cook was finished with it.

I waited a few minutes, then she emerged from behind the counter with my grilled cheese in hand. Or, at least, her version of one: two slices of toast with a cold piece of cheese in the center. She obviously was the literal sort.

I ate it and was grateful for one thing – that I didn't ask for "SOS." As they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

 

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