The Shamed Customer

 

It's in Italian bitch!

The "customer is always right" has never sat well with me.
I make a very self-conscious customer, in fact. Maybe because I have never been employed in a typical sense. As an 18 year old, I have never worked on a wage. I write for a small town newspaper, so all the grandpas that read every inch of the newspaper really love me. My cat lady neighbor also calls me to tell me how delightful I am.
Because of my unconventional job, I am enamored by minimum-wage workers. I just think about how they stand there all day, answer the same questions all day, and deal with the dumbest rednecks and/or sorority girls.
I really feel like they work harder than I do, and I   also think they have gained wisdom from their trials on the underbelly. Thus, I, the customer, am inferior.

One time in Starbucks, I said, "I would like a medium chai latte, please."
"I don't know what you mean," said the barista, who had a bitch glare that melted through whatever self-confidence I clung to.
"But-but it's there on the menu."
"I don't know what you mean by medium," she said, as her eyes lowered to their size chart.
It was a model of a small, medium, and large coffee cup, but underneath the cups were the size labels of: tall, grande, and venti.
"Oh, I guess I want a grande chai latte," I said.
"Alright, that will be $4.70."
When I recounted the story, in shame that I wasn't aware of correct coffee terms, I got a different perspective.
"You should have called her a fucking bitch, and told her you wanted a fucking medium," said a friend.
From now on, I only use the words small, medium, and large in defiance.

My other incident with customer embarrassment was at the pharmacy. I needed two prescriptions that dealt directly with my vagina. 
I walked up to the counter, praying to whatever God would listen, that a female would take my order.
"Hey! What can I get you?" said a cute, young, and flirty guy named Brad.
"Um, I would like to pick up my nuvaring prescription and, um, I don't exactly know the name of the prescription but it's something like flaan-a-cole or fluc-a-na-zaa." 
I looked like a toddler sounding out words and he only gave me an empty look in return. 
"It's for yeast infections." The secret was out. I just knew he was picturing my sad vagina, as he walked back to fill my prescription. It's human nature. If some guy asked for me to fill a prescription for genital warts, the image of his infected wang would pop into my head uninvited.

Another time, my aunt and grandma surprised me with a full body massage. It was a sweet gift of them. I squealed in excitement and gave them tight hugs, but all I was thinking about was my unshaven legs and armpits. It was the dead of winter in the midwest, I was hibernating.
As I lay on the massage table, with mystery cream covering my face and a zen music playing in the background, I echoed silent apologies to the masseuse.
My legs aren't normally like this, trust me. Go to a happy place and forget about the leg hairs you are now stroking. God and Jesus love you for your selfless acts. 

So, to all the minimum-wage retail and food industry workers out there, you do have a customer who thinks you are probably right.