Bugbears Are the Worst.



January 23rd, 2013
Time: 4:28 pm
Location: My House

Do you know what I hate?

Pet peeves.

As in, I hate the very phrase pet peeves.

My little sister has this awful cat with a meow that would overpower Mariah Carey and Nicki Manaj combined. And its meows are incessant.  That damn cat will meow at the front door for ages until you finally let it in, only to immediately slink to the back door to be let out.  I loathe this cat’s very existence. I don’t want to gather that cat into my arms and stroke its fur and love the crap out of it.  I want to dropkick the stupid thing off the Sellwood Bridge.

My point being, why do we call the little things we hate pets? Poor word choice. I am henceforth vetoing it forever.

Except now I’m a bit stuck on what to use in its place.  Thesasuas.com offers bĂȘte noir, bugbear, pet aversion, and grievance as potential substitutes. Those mostly suck, but bugbear does have a certain je ne sais quoi quality. 

I’m not an especial fan of bugs and I can’t imagine hanging out with a bear would be great for my health (Am I right, Timothy Treadwell?). So, bugbear it is. 

Everyone has their respective bugbears, but I think those who work in retail are especially susceptible to the most ridiculous of annoyances if only because we are exposed to the same inanities hundreds of times in a day. 

For the sake of my health and humor, I’m going to do a bit of a purge and allow these bugbears to get a breath of fresh air.  May it also serve as an education to all my readers that you may be unknowingly pissing off clerks the nation over with your antics and should forthwith refrain from all pesky habits lest one of those clerks happens to be the proud owner of a concealed weapon permit and a family history of crazy.

This scenario goes out to all the slow, unorganized, spacey people of the world, excepting the handicapped and the elderly (but sometimes they piss me off too – the elderly; not the handicapped. I’m not that horrible).  

Get it together.  

Here’s how it plays out:

Maybe you just waited in line for 10 minutes and you kind-of wished the line would hurry up already.  But during those ten minutes you chose to play on your phone or stare blankly into space – I can only assume you were dreaming of unicorns. After I’ve had to holler at you and the customer behind taps your shoulder to get your attention you precede to my register where you set your books on the far side of the counter, causing me to stretch half my body over it in order to reach them.  While I ring you up, you don’t get out your wallet (which you could have done during those minutes spent in line) – you look at all the candy and stickers that you probably won’t end up buying but have to finger and consider.  When I give you your total you kinda jump like “Oh! That’s right. I forgot that I needed to pay!” 

Now you dump the entire contents of your mother f’ing Mary Poppins sized carpet bag onto my counter, root around your wallet for some crumpled up bills, unzip your coin purse to unload some weight, and write a check for the remaining 50 cents you weren’t able to scrounge up despite looking in every crack and crevice of your gianormo bag.  And now, because you’ve written a check, I have to see your ID – which you coincidentally don’t have.  Or you just recently moved and the address doesn’t match.  So then you decide to pay with your credit card, but that also has CID written on the back but “Won’t you just please run it? You can call my husband to prove it’s me.” Ironically, you’re the same customer who gives the clerk the stink eye when he doesn’t ask to see your ID.

At this point, you’re lucky I don’t stab you in that stank eye.

Now you have to decide which item you can live without and you ask my opinion on which pack of Tarot cards I would prefer or what book looks better. Lady, for you, I’m going to say go with that self-help book you picked out – probably a wiser choice than that book on the existence of unicorns. Cool. You’ve made your choice, I’ve finished ringing you up and I ask “Would you like a bag?” First, you look at me blankly and so I repeat myself.  Then, you look out the window, do a little wince and then justify your decision to me as to why you’d like a bag, even though normally you’d never do anything so harmful to the environment.

Here’s your crap, please exit the building. Oh, but you can’t.  Because now you have to put all the junk back into your overflowing bag, struggle into your coat, zip it, button over it, pull on your hat, start to put on your  mittens, drop one, bend over to get it and knock over the display on the counter.  While the customer behind you picks everything up, you slide on your second mitten and walk away, leaving your keys behind.

And yet somehow, I never see you again.

(On a brighter, completely unrelated note, neither hide nor hair of the demon cat has been seen in two weeks.)

This is what you get when you Google image search "Bugbear"