Dear Female Guests,
When you have nails like this:
How do you pick up this?
More importantly, how do you: zip your jeans, wipe your ass or, well, do anything?
Dear Appearance-Concious Guests,
You know that thing that looks like a big mirror? The one that I see you combing your hair in, checking yourself out in, adjusting your bra/boobs/balls in? Yeah, not really a mirror. Really? One way glass. With an office behind it. You might want to think before doing that again.
Cringing On Your Behalf
Dear Talkative Guests,
Could you please hang up/stop talking/stop texting when you're paying for your crappe? I'm trying to make your transaction quick and painless for both of us, but when you wave me off or completely ignore me in order to chat, it really pisses me off. I'm going to put the shampoo in with your shirts and your canned goods on top of your bread if you don't knock it the fuck off. Also, I don't really want to hear the particulars of your divorce/Aunt Maude's hemhorroid surgery/your best friend's indiscretions. Really. Don't. Want. To. Know.
Do People Have No Boundaries Anymore?
Dear Guests With Young Children,
Why do you have them in the store at 10 at night? They're nodding off in the carriage, they're whining and shrieking and exhausted. Take them home. And to the guest who let their child completely tear apart everything in the aisle last night and then just smiled at me and walked off? Thanks. I wanted to stay an extra 15 minutes in order to clean up after your little heathen. Shopping is not a family expedition, especially not at 10 at night.
Dear Little Girl,
Last night, as I pondered the pen aisle, I was coughing. You came up behind me and said "Are you OK?" and patted me on the back. You? Rock.