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My pet peeve of the day is the customer who refuses to burn the extra three calories per sentence to add the precursor, "Where are the," "Where may I find," or even, "Could you please show me where to find the...."
Invariably, these same customers are also equipped with a well-developed sense of disrespect for my personal space. I think they are also issued special glasses that prevent them from viewing the apron that identifies me as a representative of a brand sold at the pet supply retailer where I represent said brand. In other words, I am neither employed with this retailer nor obliged to help customers with anything not related to selling the brand I represent. The fact that I frequently do so anyway is out of the kindness of my heart (or the boredom of my day).
Similarly, these customers are invariably either elderly and the type to whistle for my attention, or bleached blonde soccer moms trying to look twenty years younger than they really are. The latter category are also always in a hurry. I think they are always hurrying not because they have something to do or somewhere to be, but because if they slow down for very long someone will notice the inch and a half of foundation covering the signs of the natural aging process.
I really wish these customers would stop giving me such perfect opening lines. It is like someone hired an army of straight men to set up my one-liners, but stuffed a gag called 'desire not to get fired' down my throat. This must be what Hell is.
"Dog biscuits?"
"Oh, no thank you, I've already eaten."
"Doggie doors?"
"Actually, Ma'am, the Doors were a HUMAN musical group, and you'd be more likely to find their work at a MUSIC store."
"Leashes?"
"Oh, no, my name is LISA. See? Leeeee-sa. No 'sh' sound."
"Crickets?"
"There's a sporting goods store around the corner, but they usually just say 'cricket.'"
Invariably, these same customers are also equipped with a well-developed sense of disrespect for my personal space. I think they are also issued special glasses that prevent them from viewing the apron that identifies me as a representative of a brand sold at the pet supply retailer where I represent said brand. In other words, I am neither employed with this retailer nor obliged to help customers with anything not related to selling the brand I represent. The fact that I frequently do so anyway is out of the kindness of my heart (or the boredom of my day).
Similarly, these customers are invariably either elderly and the type to whistle for my attention, or bleached blonde soccer moms trying to look twenty years younger than they really are. The latter category are also always in a hurry. I think they are always hurrying not because they have something to do or somewhere to be, but because if they slow down for very long someone will notice the inch and a half of foundation covering the signs of the natural aging process.
I really wish these customers would stop giving me such perfect opening lines. It is like someone hired an army of straight men to set up my one-liners, but stuffed a gag called 'desire not to get fired' down my throat. This must be what Hell is.
"Dog biscuits?"
"Oh, no thank you, I've already eaten."
"Doggie doors?"
"Actually, Ma'am, the Doors were a HUMAN musical group, and you'd be more likely to find their work at a MUSIC store."
"Leashes?"
"Oh, no, my name is LISA. See? Leeeee-sa. No 'sh' sound."
"Crickets?"
"There's a sporting goods store around the corner, but they usually just say 'cricket.'"
I love Scrubs!
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