This weekend I went furniture shopping with my parents and one of my sisters. I wasn’t going to buy anything, but I wanted to take a look around and see what was available and what kind of prices I’d be looking at for my living room furniture vs. mattress and box spring decision.
I was in the door ahead of my parents and immediately told John the Salesguy that we were just browsing, but I’d gotten his name and I’d find him if we had any questions.
John the Salesguy made a point of approaching us at least three more times during our visit to that store, and each time, I was the one who spoke to him. Because, see, I’m the one shopping for furniture and/or a mattress.
John the Salesguy lost any shot in hell he had of selling me a single damn thing when he gave his business card to my dad on our way out of the store.
This morning, all the guys in the office are talking about the football games yesterday. I’m in this new area where they don’t know me as well, and I feel weird about going out of my office and around the corner to butt in on the conversation, but as it happened, I watched both of the games while wearing my 1986 AFC West Division Champions old-school Denver Broncos t-shirt, and I called my parents at least twice during the game to bitch about play calls and other random stuff, and I’m a little tiny bit irritated this morning that the first words out of the guys’ mouths to each other are about football, and they don’t even ask me about my weekend. And I don’t want to be all whiny like “Just because I have boobs doesn’t mean I don’t like football YOU BASTARDS!” because, honestly, they probably just don’t know. But I’m grouchy about it, especially after the business card incident (which was pretty blatant).
Wah. I’m a brat.