I'll be the first to admit that within my fine frame pounds the heart of a monster, but luckily I am often saved by revealing this side by the fact that I am ALWAYS ridiculously kind to those in the service industry (which people take to mean I am ridiculously kind, period).
The reason for this is quite simple. I, like so many of you out there who worked your little tails off to get where you are without mommy/daddy/grandma's trust fund bumping up you and your designer shoes to major in "Communications" and slide into the law firm your great-uncle started, have had the misfortune of working in the service industry.
It sucks. Because the majority of people have no class. And even those with class could occasionally use some fucking manners. (Like you, senior-associate-with-face-like-a-creature-that-eats-its-young who thinks it's normal to continuously snap at me when frustrated at the way the cookie is crumbling while wearing Prada shoes that impede you from making that three block trek to the courthouse unless a $20 taxi is involved.)
One summer of waitressing Cracker Barrel turned me into the Mother Theresa of customers. As long as you don't work for a credit card company's customer service or I catch you spitting in my food, you will be treated as if you were worth four times your salary. And I tip 20%.
The other night my landline rang. This is an unusual occurrence, and more unusual was the fact that I decided to pick it up. It was a young desperate sounding girl trying to do a customer survey about television programming.
I tried to gently let myself off the hook. "I'm so sorry. I really don't think I can help you. You see, I don't actually watch television."
But she started to beg. She told me about how this was her last survey, and the whole thing would be over in about three minutes, and she started reminding me of myself about 5 years ago when I was getting my license in phlebotomy which meant I had to talk 100 people into letting me put needles in their veins to practice, and my heart just melted. "Okay, okay," I said. "I'll help you out and answer some questions."
"Great! So, let me just read you the first question. Appriximately-how-many-times-per-week-do-you-remove-unwanted-body-hair-from-your-underarms-face-or-bikini-line-area?"
Even ex-service industry folks have their limits.