...you get whole milk in the skim milk latte you just ordered. There are many individuals whose main goal in life appears to be to infuriate baristas at any cost. I am convinced there is a meet-up group out there whose sole intention is to discuss new ways to piss off customer service workers. Well, pin a rose on your nose, cynical customers, because it is working.
Generally, my mild temperament at work kicks into action whenever someone takes their lack-of-caffeine-induced anger out on me. This approach seems ironic, seeing as how I am the one with the power to make their drink caffeinated or otherwise. If you hassle your cocaine dealer, he's going to give you powdered sugar.
One day, my calm, cool and collected persona stepped out for its lunch break at the worst possible moment. A particular customer who I'll call Marsha for the sake of her undeserved anonymity, graces us with her presence most mornings and always orders a medium, skim-milk latte with either Stevia she keeps in her purse or our Splenda on the oh-so-unfortunate days she forgets it. Sometimes she teeters on the edge of bearable and aneurism-inducing. On one hand, she generally gives a tip, albeit a small one, but every little bit helps bolster our barely-over-minimum-wage pay. For this reason, she never rubbed me the wrong way too intensely until one particular day. The day when my dear friend Ability to Calm Down was, as previously mentioned, taking a 10.
Actually, Marsha cranked up my stress levels to the "danger, you are going to die young from stress-related heart failure" zone once before. She came in, barked her order at me, and informed me that she needed me to put three packets of Splenda in her non-fat latte as she forgot her Stevia. As I went to reach for the Splenda, I noticed we were out, and proceeded to check in the storage room. No luck, meaning we would need to venture out too the broken down van in the parking lot to check in the backup storage for it. I asked my co-worker if he knew of any Splenda in the van and he said he doubted it would be there since the back room lacked it. He decided to go check the van anyhow. In the mean time, I told Marsha in my best fake apologetic voice that all signs pointed to no Splenda. She took this news in a way that would only seem appropriate if I told her she had terminal pancreatic cancer with only two weeks to live.
"Ex-CUSE me?!" she barked with a not-so-subtle tone of rage causing customers to turn, "can you explain exactly how one RUNS OUT of Splenda?!"
"Well, everyone used it and someone forgot to order more." I thought that response was self-explanatory, but what do I know.
At that moment, my co-worker emerged through the door with a box of Splenda. Now it was his turn to be harassed. She instructed him to open them himself and put them in the latte for her. It took all of my willpower to resist the temptation to ask her if her fingers didn't work in addition to her brain. Shockingly, this is not even the worst of my interactions with her. The last left me beaten and broken emotionally, and no longer willing to acknowledge or serve her when she comes in.
When shifts start out with a customer like Marsha, the mood recovery process is longer in duration than the rehabilitation from serious open heart surgery. I politely greeted her, she barked her order at me and informed me that she now has her own jar of Stevia powder labeled with her name next to our espresso machine (so she can leave her "charming" mark on the place). I wrote her order on the cup and swiped her credit card. I have never been so terrified of the word DECLINED written menacingly on a screen. I desperately swiped it again as a list of horrible things I would rather do than inform her that her card was declined raced through my mind. Give myself a paper cut and dip it in lemon juice. Spend four hours standing in Death Valley in July wearing a Parka. There it was again. DECLINED.
"I'm really sorry..." I said timidly, bracing for her reaction, "but it says your card is declined..."
"WHAT? There's money in there. You're wrong. Run it again."
I swiped it two more times and it finally worked. I told her our machine can be "finicky" which just egged on her verbal abuse.
"Finicky?! Don't mess with people on Friday mornings. Seriously, that's not acceptable!" And with that she stormed off and I took a few attempts at deep, calming breaths which did nothing to calm my frazzled nerves.
Thankfully my coworker making her drink overheard the interaction and gave her whole milk. I feel an overwhelming inclination to dump her Stevia jar and fill it with refined white. Maybe on my last day.
Generally, my mild temperament at work kicks into action whenever someone takes their lack-of-caffeine-induced anger out on me. This approach seems ironic, seeing as how I am the one with the power to make their drink caffeinated or otherwise. If you hassle your cocaine dealer, he's going to give you powdered sugar.
One day, my calm, cool and collected persona stepped out for its lunch break at the worst possible moment. A particular customer who I'll call Marsha for the sake of her undeserved anonymity, graces us with her presence most mornings and always orders a medium, skim-milk latte with either Stevia she keeps in her purse or our Splenda on the oh-so-unfortunate days she forgets it. Sometimes she teeters on the edge of bearable and aneurism-inducing. On one hand, she generally gives a tip, albeit a small one, but every little bit helps bolster our barely-over-minimum-wage pay. For this reason, she never rubbed me the wrong way too intensely until one particular day. The day when my dear friend Ability to Calm Down was, as previously mentioned, taking a 10.
Actually, Marsha cranked up my stress levels to the "danger, you are going to die young from stress-related heart failure" zone once before. She came in, barked her order at me, and informed me that she needed me to put three packets of Splenda in her non-fat latte as she forgot her Stevia. As I went to reach for the Splenda, I noticed we were out, and proceeded to check in the storage room. No luck, meaning we would need to venture out too the broken down van in the parking lot to check in the backup storage for it. I asked my co-worker if he knew of any Splenda in the van and he said he doubted it would be there since the back room lacked it. He decided to go check the van anyhow. In the mean time, I told Marsha in my best fake apologetic voice that all signs pointed to no Splenda. She took this news in a way that would only seem appropriate if I told her she had terminal pancreatic cancer with only two weeks to live.
"Ex-CUSE me?!" she barked with a not-so-subtle tone of rage causing customers to turn, "can you explain exactly how one RUNS OUT of Splenda?!"
"Well, everyone used it and someone forgot to order more." I thought that response was self-explanatory, but what do I know.
At that moment, my co-worker emerged through the door with a box of Splenda. Now it was his turn to be harassed. She instructed him to open them himself and put them in the latte for her. It took all of my willpower to resist the temptation to ask her if her fingers didn't work in addition to her brain. Shockingly, this is not even the worst of my interactions with her. The last left me beaten and broken emotionally, and no longer willing to acknowledge or serve her when she comes in.
When shifts start out with a customer like Marsha, the mood recovery process is longer in duration than the rehabilitation from serious open heart surgery. I politely greeted her, she barked her order at me and informed me that she now has her own jar of Stevia powder labeled with her name next to our espresso machine (so she can leave her "charming" mark on the place). I wrote her order on the cup and swiped her credit card. I have never been so terrified of the word DECLINED written menacingly on a screen. I desperately swiped it again as a list of horrible things I would rather do than inform her that her card was declined raced through my mind. Give myself a paper cut and dip it in lemon juice. Spend four hours standing in Death Valley in July wearing a Parka. There it was again. DECLINED.
"I'm really sorry..." I said timidly, bracing for her reaction, "but it says your card is declined..."
"WHAT? There's money in there. You're wrong. Run it again."
I swiped it two more times and it finally worked. I told her our machine can be "finicky" which just egged on her verbal abuse.
"Finicky?! Don't mess with people on Friday mornings. Seriously, that's not acceptable!" And with that she stormed off and I took a few attempts at deep, calming breaths which did nothing to calm my frazzled nerves.
Thankfully my coworker making her drink overheard the interaction and gave her whole milk. I feel an overwhelming inclination to dump her Stevia jar and fill it with refined white. Maybe on my last day.
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