My nerves are fried. Frayed? Whatever. I can tell because I have a letter to write:
Dear Fish Guy at Ballard Market,
There is a term in the retail world that they never taught you. What for? I am obviously a dime a dozen customer, and this neighborhood and the quality of the food in this store gives you the leisure of having the "one-horse-town" kind of feeling in this little city of Seattle.
YET, never, not even once in my real one-horse-town experiences have I ever had anyone treat me the way you did today at 6:05 p.m. this evening.
I was the woman standing there listening to you explain crab cake cooking to the lady with the tiny package of I'm not sure what. Fish of some sort, I suppose. I was the one who, when I asked for 1/2 a pound of the salmon right in front of me, the very piece you were adjusting to look nicer, yes that one, you said, "Ummm, for that amount we have the pre-wrapped self-serve fish in the cooler over there, and you pointed, as if I was not aware that there was a section of fish that lived on Styrofoam and cellophane. As if maybe I was new to your store and did not know the secret rule that you must order a certain amount of fish in order to make it worth your while. (There isn't one by the way.)
Did you even look at me? Did you even see that I was pointing to a particular fish? One I'd been eying as you explained your crab cake secrets to that woman there? No, you didn't. I know you didn't because instead of following your finger to the pre-cut fish that weren't even the same kind as that behind the fancy glass of yours? I was looking right at you. Dumbfounded.
You didn't once look at me and realize that maybe you'd made a mistake and I knew perfectly well that there were plastic covered Cohos over yonder that people had been sorting through all day. That maybe I was pointing at a particular piece for a reason? That maybe the customer is always right and you should shut up and cut 1/2 a pound for her? No, instead you looked over to the guy behind me and began taking his order for 1 pound of whatever it was he wanted, I didn't hear, I'd stopped listening. Was this really happening?
So I walked over to the pre-cut fish. Verified that no, these were not the salmon I was looking for, and stepped back to double check. It's always good to double-check. You were gone, off going above and beyond for some other customer that probably asked for 5 pounds of something. You then saw me standing there and it was confirmed that you didn't give a rat's ass who your customers were because you asked again, "How can I help you?" Cuz you didn't even realize it was still me. 1/2 pound of fish girl.
"I doubt you can help me, seeing as you didn't want to earlier," I said. And your reaction? Was it one of, "Oh no I've offended her somehow I need to find out how?" Was it, "Oh god, she's gonna tell the boss I pissed her off?" Or even, "I don't know who this lady thinks she is, but I'll get rid of her by giving her what she wants?" No. Not as such. Instead you blatantly deny your actions! "I didn't do that! I was just telling you where you could get fish in that amount, ma'am."
And maybe I should have kept my mouth shut as I was shaking my head, but hi, I'm me, "That's not the fish I wanted, and that's not really the point." I could have said more, but that's when you're friends ran up to you and started talking about the mussels they had/wanted/etc. and I was once again a forgotten bother.
That's about the time, Fish Guy, that I walked away and put back everything I'd had in my basket. You guys obviously don't need my money.
I hope the mussels you got are rotten and they give you a wretched case of explosive diarrhea. Not to mention I hope a fish scale embeds itself so deep under a fingernail that it causes you pain and anguish and that nail falls off for calling me ma'am in that tone, you ass.
1/2 lb. Salmon Girl
Aaaahh... That feels so very much better! Blog ranting is so much more the "new Yoga" than anything else I've heard.