Don't Ask Carlos For Directions

A few weeks back our thirty-five-year-old, original to the house, Jennair range sparked, smoked, flashed some bright lights and then passed away. Since we've long wanted a gas range, we took it upon ourselves to have a gas line run to the house, and then to the kitchen, where we would install a new stove.

Last weekend we went out to buy said stove and found a lovely 5-burner model, with a gas convection oven, so shiny and purty that, if I could handle the weight, I'd attach to a silver chain and wear around my neck.

But this story isn't about me, it's about Carlos and his style of giving directions. 

As we purchased the range, the salesman asked for directions from the store to our house so it could be delivered. Carlos said--and these are not the real directions so don't try them:

"You start out by going out of the parking lot and then head south on this road until you get to the interstate, and then you head\east, for about twenty miles till you get to Exit 98. Take that exit and it wraps around, and goes under the freeway, and then you head north on Highway 402 until it merges about four miles later with US 54. You take that through the town, down past the factory and across the river, where you'll see a Lowes. Right after the Lowes is a traffic light for Bob-and-Carlos Drive. Turn left, well, you can only turn left, because the street dead-ends, but then you stay on Bob-and-Carlos Drive for, oh, maybe a mile-and-a-half, until you come to our house at #____, where you'll see a red mailbox. Our driveway is real narrow, with a lot of trees so they may have to park the truck on the street, but that's our house with the red front porch."

The salesman typed in:

"Interstate 77, to Exit 98. 402 north to US 54 east. Left at Bob-and-Carlos Drive to #____"

Bless that Carlos, he does love to talk!!