Service This!

To me, in any job there is some degree of customer service regardless of your employment. This past weekend I seem to have come in contact with those who were absent the day that customer service was taught.

First, the bank: I sat, and sat, and sat. I was cashing a check (and a small one at that). Finally, the woman comes over the loudspeaker and asks me if I want to cash the check. (Um, isn't that evident by the fact that I endorsed it and sent my license through the tube-thing?) I told her yes, I did. More sitting. The next question was whether or not I had an account there. (Um, yeah, for about four dang years!) I told her I did. I was asked if I new the account number because she couldn't find it. (Hm. Every other time--like, every two weeks--when I come to cash my paycheck they seem to be able to find it.) I give her the number. Off we go.

Stop number two: The pharmacy. I was already perturbed because when I drove up the drive-thru had a sign in its window that read, "Closed, please come inside." Ugh. When I walked up to the counter and gave the woman my name, she found my bag and said, "Uh-oh." (Uh-oh, what?) She tells me my insurance did not go through. She asked me if I had moved. No. She asked me if this was a new prescription. No. She asked me if I had gotten a new insurance card. No. (Great, I got fired and no one bothered to tell me!) I asked what to do. She told me they'd call Blue Cross and use my social security number. A few minutes later, the woman on the telephone is motioning for me to come over. The woman on the phone proceeds to ask me the same questions that the woman behind the counter did a few minutes before. Finally, the mystery is solved, but only in the sense that I got my medicine. For some reason they have my birthday wrong. Hm.

And last, but not least: The nail salon. For the first time since Halloween, I was going out with one of my friends and I thought I'd treat myself to a pedicure. Nice, huh? I think these people have forgotten what type of business they are in: Service. Sheesh. First I got a lecture on NOT wanting to use the massage chair. (I jiggle enough on my own, thank you, I don't need a chair to do it for me). Next came the real speech: You no have pedicure long time? No. You should have pedicure more time. Make feet nice. Why, I asked, are they free??? Next came the punishment part of my "treat." This little woman attacked my feet with her pumice like she was trying to shoe a horse. Yes, I realize it's been "long time" but my tootsies aren't that bad, really. The way she was going at my feet, though, was like she wanted revenge or something.

Looking back, I guess it's all laughable now, and it reminded me of this video...

You Shook Me

On my way home last night, I stopped at my favorite store (the one with the beer cave). As I was paying the woman at the counter, I looked past her out the window and caught a glimpse of a man's arm. Just an arm, mind you, but I recognized it because it belonged to my ex boyfriend. Just to be sure (and to quickly come up with a way to avoid him), I watched the door out of the corner of my eye until he reached it. Unfortunately, I was right. I don't think he saw me (he was probably too busy looking at himself in the security monitor over the doorway). I took my time folding my money and putting it back in my pocket to give myself a second or two to make my escape. I was successful, thank goodness...

That was the first time I'd seen that idiot since we broke up in September and it threw me for a loop. Not because I have any desire whatsoever to even talk to him, it was just the fact that I was in the same room with that ass that unleashed a sense of wanting to hurt someone physically. I wouldn't mind hurting that stupid car of his, either. Just so you know, I am about the farthest thing from violent that anyone could be and never have been. I don't spank my kid, I've never been in a fight and don't see the point in people who do. So what is it about this particular person that would make me feel this way? I'll tell you: For a year and a half I was manipulated, insulted and degraded. Maybe my anger is really at myself for putting up with it for so long, but that does not excuse what this person did to me. I know I am better off. He is the loser, not me. I'd rather be by myself forever than to put up with that kind of shit ever again, so I've learned my lesson--the hard way.

Still, it might feel good just to whack him upside the head. Just once. Real hard.

Say What?

As I've said here before, when I'm out and about I seem toattract wierdos like flies to honey. It seems here lately that when I'm at work I'm not safe, either.

People, not just kids, say the darndest things to me, like:

The cleaning lady:
"Did you smell your desk this morning?"

Uh, no... Why, will I get high?

A customer wanting the phone number for a different business:
"How do you call information?"

1-800-GET-A-CLUE

Another customer wanting to mail a payment:
"Do I have to sign my check?"

Yes, and please make sure it's in crayon.

A wierdo wanting to talk to my boss:
"How much do you know about horses?"

I only know about whips, does that count?

The jerk that I hate:
"What are you doing this weekend?"

Stuff, you idiot. None of your business.

My boss:
"What day is it?"

Medication Day.

Someone on the phone wanting to schedule a tour:
"So, is this your number?"

No, it's not.

Smurfy

For some reason I am a weirdo magnet… Perfect strangers find me irresistible, especially if they have some gross medical condition they want to discuss or if they need gas money. Recently, though, I got a good laugh when I stopped at the convenience store and I thought I’d share:

Dude: Can I help you?

Me: Can I get a pack of Marlboro Light 100’s in a box, please?

Dude: You sher can!

Dude: Those are some big earrings you have on. They go good with your big blue ears.

Me: Ruh?

Dude: Oh! I mean eyes, eyes!

Me: That’s O.K., I’m really a Smurf.

Dude: Heh. That’s funny. (Puts the wrong kind cigs on the counter) Are you sure you’re old enough to smoke?

Me: Yep. By about twenty years.

Dude: You don’t look 49.

Me: That’s because I’m 39.

Dude: O.K., now you’re embarrassing me! When’s your birthday?

Me: May.

Dude: So you’re only a couple of months older than me.

Me: Smurfs age really well.

Dude: Heh. That’s funny.

Me: Can I please have 100’s?

Dude: Oh. Heh. Sorry! (Hands me 100’s in a soft pack. I don’t have the heart at this point to correct him again).

Me: That’s O.K. Have a good day.

Happy Birthday, Beautiful Boy!

My Valentine

I think outside of Christmas that Valentine’s Day is the most talked about holiday we celebrate… What do you give? Where do you go? How much do you spend? Will she get a ring tonight? Will he ask? I’m waiting for the year we start doing the “only this many shopping days until Valentine’s” countdown.

Eleven years ago today was a chilly, rainy Friday in Florida. It didn’t matter, though. That was the day that we went to the courthouse and got married, just the two of us. Our wedding would be in March. We did the courthouse thing because we wanted to celebrate our anniversary on Valentine’s Day and that date wasn’t going to work logistically for family and friends or for a venue. So we wed secretly. It was fun.

A lot has happened in eleven years. My husband is gone, now. Valentine’s Day for me is usually about my son and what he’ll do for school. This year he wanted to buy his teacher a teddy bear because she collects them. He picked out a bear, and I could not have chosen any better myself. He insisted on attaching all of the Sweetheart candy packs to his cards himself. (Stubborn like his mama!)

This morning I was dreading getting out of bed, because I knew today would be a constant reminder of the person who isn’t here anymore, so I delayed as long as I could… My son, however, had a different attitude. He got up (before me!), got dressed and was waiting on me to get into the car. He was proud of the gift he had for his teacher and excited about receiving valentines and a pizza party. I was happy for him. In a way, I’m happy for me, too: The man that I loved is not here anymore, but the wonderful man that I am raising is right before me. I can’t imagine a better Valentine’s Day present than that.

They F*** You In The Drive-Thru!!!

Today’s rant is brought to you by the annoying redhead…

Since yesterday the temperature here has dropped about twenty degrees, so I figured for a nice change-o-pace I’d cruise through the drive through and get a rib-sticking but not wallet-cramping lunch. It went something like this:

Microphone: Take your order?
Me: Yes. I’d like a small chili, baked potato and a large Diet Coke.
Microphone: (Silent.)
Me: (Silent.)
Microphone: Just a minute.
Me: (Silent.)
Microphone: That was a large chili and a small diet?
Me: No. A small chili, a baked potato and a large Diet Coke.
Microphone: Four-fifty.
Me: (Silent at window.)
Window: Four-fifty.
Me: Here you go. (Hand over cash.)
Window: (Hands me beverage.)
Window: (Hands me change.)
Window: (Hands me bag.)
Me: (Look inside bag and see fries and a sandwich.)
Me: This isn’t mine. (Hand back bag.)
Window: What did you have?
Me: A small (&*$!ing) chili, baked (&*$!ing) potato and a large (&*$!ing) Diet Coke!
Window: Oh. Give me that. (Points to drink.) That’s not yours.
Me: (Hand over drink.)
Window: (Hands me a different bag of food and the same (&*$!ing) drink I just handed over a second ago!)
Me: Thanks.
Window: Sorry.
Me: No problem.

Get back to work and enjoy (&*$!ing) slightly cooked potato with quarter-sized portion of Wacky Whip (or whatever stuff they are using as margarine). Chili is OK. Thank goodness I had some crackers in my desk.