There are few things in life more insulting than being
talked down to.
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| (Properly draped and displayed) |
I was in a fabric store with a friend the other day. It wasn't just any fabric store - It was the
one where I had worked for a while. It
was a lifetime ago when I was employed there, but still it broke my heart to
see the place looking the way it did.
There was very little fabric, and what they had was simply shoved into
make-shift shelves without rhyme nor reason.
Not a single bolt was draped nor section colorized. Even the expensive special occasion fabrics
were slammed together willy-nilly, completely trashing the integrity of the
material. The place was filthy beyond
belief, as if no one had cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, nor swept since I left the
place decades ago. I also discovered
that the clerks and staff were practicing price-gouging and ripping off
customers of deserved price breaks on end-bolts (the last of the fabric on a
roll). When I questioned this practice,
the clerk screamed at us, "We have to PAY for that fabric, you
know!" There was a huge crowd of
people listening to our exchange. When I
suggested that the clerk and now also the floor supervisor had the policy wrong
and were actually over-charging people, I was told rudely that they had NEVER
had such a policy as trying to sell the end of the bolt at a reduction, and
just who did I think I was to ask for such a discount? HA!
They were telling ME off in front of all those other customers! They'd show ME!
I took a deep breath, looked them both in the eyes, took a
step forward as to command an audience because it's always fun to have an
audience when making a scene, and I replied calmly, "I am the former
assistant manager of this store, and this place is a shit hole. You should be ashamed. I'll never shop here again, and I'm going to
tell everyone I know how rude the staff is here and how filthy your store
is." When I got home (after finding
out that their "coupons" were also only for special items not listed
anywhere - another bait and switch) I sent a scathing email to the company
headquarters. Not that it will amount to
anything. It was so insulting being
talked down to, especially when it concerns a business I actually know.
This happened to me at two doctors' offices, as well. Not the fabric and discount part of it, but
the "being talked down to" part of it. I had the same doctor for years and years and
years and years, and suddenly one annual physical I started getting the
physician's assistant. This woman spoke
to me like I was a two-year-old, and it made me feel stupid, like I was too
dumb to take care of myself. Granted
this may have been true as I didn't realize I had pneumonia … not once … not
twice … but three times. (I've since had
it four or five more times. Now I'm so
good at it that I don't even miss work when I get it. I prop myself up at the desk and pray for
Z-Pack meds. I am the Queen of
Pneumonia.) All of a sudden, I couldn't
even book a physical with my doctor but kept getting the PA, who said things
like, "And how are we doing? Are we taking our vitamins? Are we eating right? Are we being careful?" No, you
stupid douche, we are shooting
heroin and we are jumping out of
airplanes without parachutes while eating razor blades. "Let's check our weight. That would be the scale. This machine here. You stand on it and I move the weights. Weights, you know, because this is a special
machine called a scale and we use it to measure our
weight." No shit. Really! It's fucking AMAZING what technology can do
these days.
I took my daughter with me once to my medical follow-up so
she could tell me if I were insane (well, I am, and she told me, but I mean
about this situation). I wanted her professional
nurse's opinion as to if I were truly being treated like I was a complete and
utter moron. It took my daughter about
thirty seconds before her Bullshit Meter went off. She gave me a head-slap, and by the end of
the day I had a new doctor and was having all of my records transferred. (Doc never asked why - must've been a mutual
break-up.)
The next doctor I saw immediately sent me for some tests,
not because it would cost money but because I really needed them. I ended up seeing a specialist. Ah yes,
the dreaded specialist. She was a
young thing, probably fresh out of medical school and without any bedside
manner at all. She wasn't rude, she was
just … she was … well … dumb. And she
spoke to me like I was just as dumb. I
didn't really feel too confident while she was holding a scalpel to me, to be
honest. Honestly, after she said, "We're
going to draw some blood. We do it with
a needle. A needle. A needle is sharp,
and we use it to get into your vein and take out some blood." (Insert sweet but clueless smile here.) I somehow felt it necessary to tell her that
I had delivered three babies and had several dental surgeries and knew
full-well what a needle was, but I was afraid if I let on I was smarter than a
first grader, she might break down into tears.
Recently I was recommended to the same practice but was to see another
specialist, and I balked. I had to fess
up that I didn't want Dr. K because, as I explained, "she's not the
brightest bulb in the chandelier." Oh, don't worry, they insisted, she doesn't work here anymore. Big surprise.
Did they finally send her to pediatrics where she belonged? One can only hope.
The last incident happened at a work meeting. The presenter was one of the staff members,
and the poor, sweet thing (for she is a lovely lady) gave a talk on blah blankety blam. Or maybe it was about some new policy. Her talk, however, was all about stuff we
already knew and had in place, so it sounded to me like Charlie Brown's teacher
talking; my brain filter simply shut down.
It was a complete and utter waste of otherwise productive time. We had handouts and wrote things on them like I need a gun. Shoot me now.
No really right now, quick, shoot me before my sleeping face hits the
table top. I spent the time
practicing writing with my left hand.
(This is where I would talk down to you and say, "It's my
non-dominant hand. Non-dominant means I
don't normally use it to write with, hence why I am practicing. Practicing… that means trying over and over
again.")
Of course, when we suspected that the surveys we handed in
were the ones we wrote all that gun
shit/shoot me shit on, we did have a flooding sensation of I am a stupid dumbass. Crap. Maybe they
really should talk down to me. Perhaps I really am as stupid as people treat me to be. Oh the irony!
(Irony is the rhetorical term used to convey a meaning that is opposite
of its literal meaning. You know, in
case you're a dumbass like me.) Good to know we handed in the unadulterated surveys and not the threatening ones. Maybe I don't need that sign after all... just yet.
