Short & angry.No.... the blog entry, not the woman! Oh, well -- her, too.
I swear -- we're really pretty nice in my store. We like people, we joke around a lot, and we do our best to be respectful, attentive, aware, and enjoyable. And I promise that this entry will be short and to the point. I've missed sharing my anger with you folks, but I do have to work sometimes. Sigh.
Enter Short Old Woman. She wears it like a badge of honor... "I'm old," everything about her screams, "and I'm going to wear matching poly-blend prints because... I'm Old!" This is the sort of woman who just can't wait for her first hip fracture so she'll have proof of the inevitable twilight of her years. I'm sure she sprays cans of OLD SMELL around her house like a kid trying to cover up cigarette smoke before his parents come home. I bet her grandkids can't stand her.
So Old Woman was in on the busiest day of the year, but after the worst of the madness had waned. Our spirits were high, as there had been a ridiculous number of patient, friendly people all week (tip of the hat to Charlottesville). I took her order myself and told her that she and her friend were welcome to wait outside and that I would let them know when their food was ready. It soon was, and I popped the door open, smiled at her and said, "Ethel (or whatever her name was), your food is ready, dear!" Yes, I even said "dear," because Old People love it when you say "dear" or "sweetheart."
I dashed back behind the counter to man my post. handed Old Woman her food, explained what was where, told her where the napkins and forks were, thanked her, and, as she was walking out, I returned to the kitchen to continue cooking. As I'm doing this I hear her murmur something about "gentlemen." I popped 'round the corner and asked the guy sitting there waiting for his food what it was that I'd missed. "Well," he says, "something about you don't run into many true gentlemen anymore and that she certainly hasn't run into any in here."
Oh. Come. On.
This was apparently because she expected me to serve the food to her at her table, despite the fact that I am not allowed to (which she wouldn't know) and that we are so obviously counter-ordered to-go food, like a fast-food place would be (which any half-witted fool can plainly see). She's darned lucky that I didn't go smack her for that one, and show her what kind of "ungentlemanly" I can really be.
I have a sneaking suspicion that she lives alone, you know what I mean? Who could stand the aroma?!?
