Humanity cracks me up.
I work at a pet-store. It's one of those mega-chains that completely takes over an area and decimates the mom and pop shops. I think I'm ok with that, because really, who gives a damn about the mom and pop shops anymore? Nobody's going to spend their hard-earned money on sentiment. Not with the economy going the way it has been.
Some would call those statements harsh. As my younger sister (who shall henceforth be referred to as 'Leech') pointed out to me when I said that to her, it's a bit misanthropic. However, this lost sentimentality was proved to me yet again today.
Leech told me I was a glass-half-empty type of gal. Personally, I don't really think it matters what the hell is in the glass so long as its drinkable.
Anyways, I was manning the register because it's donation time. Apparently I'm well-liked among our customers (something that I will soon have to rectify), so in some sort of devil-inspired bout of brilliance my store manager decided to make me the cashier-bitch in a desperate attempt to one-up his fellow store managers at the other stores.
So there I was, generally hating life and contemplating my future job opportunities as Mrs. Dooney brought up her 157 cans of Fancy Feast for her loveable and a bit more than slightly obese cat Peebles.
Peebles loves him some Fancy Feast.
I patiently rang up each and every can of Fancy Feast (because the evil and repugnant people who run corporate did away with our quantity keys, which means we can no longer just hit a button for say...28 cans of tuna florentine), and I even did it with a smile plastered on my face.
Secretly, I was wondering how many cans of gasoline it would take to light the place up like my neurotic Aunt Lorraine's Christmas tree.
So, I finish ringing up Mrs. Dooney's 157 cans of Fancy Feast, along with the seven (that's right...seven) bags of treats that Peebles just had to have because he was a very good kitty when he visited the groomers the other day (I know the groomers - Peebles was most definately not a good boy. I figured I'd let Mrs. Dooney have her illusions and not inform her that Eileen was now sporting several very nice, long gashes on her arms courtesy of Peebles). At the end of the purchase, I asked her if she would like to make a donation to (insert favorite animal-related charity here).
It was then that I found myself on the recieving end of "The Look." You know the one I'm talking about. You may have received "The Look" if you have either a.) been caught having sex in the last pew in Church by the pastor, b.) wore your new chinchilla-fur shawl to a PETA gala, or c.) dared to impugn the Flyers anywhere within my hearing range.
Ah...nothing quite like being on the recieving end of offended sensibilities. Hooray for customer service.
Mrs. Dooney informed me that times are rough, and how on earth could someone such as I dare to assume that someone such as she would have money to throw away on some charity? She has better things to do with her money. Insert dignified sniff and a condescending look or two here.
Right. My bad.
I don't care that she didn't round up her 52 cents to donate to a good cause. It's her money to do with what she wants. Nope. What's got my knickers in a twist (figuratively speaking) is that she decided to sit there and take her frustrations out on me. Not only that, but she assumed that just because I work in a less than glamorous position, that she could treat me as an imbecile. Gr. Maybe I should bring a copy of my degree to work, just so I can whip it out whenever a situation like this arises....
So here I am, blogging for the sake of cashiers everywhere. This is dedicated to you, underpaid and unappreciated customer-service representatives far and wide. I might also have been ranting slightly, but that's ok, because I think I've just about decided that I'm entitled to it.
Oh, and for the Mrs. Dooneys of the world - please don't take your crappy lives out on us. We didn't jam that stick up your ass. You did when you enrolled in the "Elitism for Dummies" course.