The other day while getting gas, I happened upon some guy with a spray bottle. Oh man! Pretend you don’t see him, I thought. Where’s my cell phone? At least I can act like I’m busy. Too late! His opening pitch was already a strike against him. “Hey, howya doin’ Ma’am?” Ma’am? Do I look like a Ma’am? Oh brother. “You look like you could use a car wash?” he said. Only because I drive my Mom’s jalopy doesn’t mean I look like I could use a car wash? Wait, is it because he felt sorry that I was driving my Mom’s rust-on-wheels? Or did he really think I looked like I could use a car wash? The one time I didn’t have my cell phone hanging from my ear this happens. He goes on with his script about how the ingredients in his spray bottle was the breakthrough America was looking for in cleaning your windows, your car, your tires, your rims, even your kitchen sink and how I shouldn’t miss out. Dude, I’m glad that you hold the formula to a cleaner America in your trusty little spray bottle. I did everything I could to hold back the urge to fling my hand to my forehead to display the “L” sign. “No, thank you,” I said politely – interrupting his well-rehearsed dialogue. Dude, maybe you ought to take off that Exxon-logo polo shirt. People might think you actually work there.