“Welcome to Shaw Pharmacy. What can I help with?”
I’m picking up a prescription.
What is the name?”
“Meyer, Elisabeth.”
” There are two prescriptions ready for Elisabeth Meyer. Verify the address or date of birth.”
May 11, 1955.” *
That is how the previously posted conversation should’ve transpired. But, (heavy sigh), it didn’t. Sadly, none do. If every interaction went that well, I would truly have nothing to rant about. Actually, I would, but that’s not the point. The point is that even the simplest task is complicated when too much information is provided – especially when said information is neither warranted nor welcomed.
The whole thing makes me fucking crazy. People, mostly woman, talk way too much. Once again, that whole address question … . I don’t care that you have three houses, bitch. Just answer the question and shut the fuck up. When I check out customers, I always opt to verify the date of birth – it never changes and can never be disputed. Hmm … . Let’s just leave it with – it never changes, okay?
The concept of providing too much information is older than … me. Remember that old saying about not asking a certain person the time because ‘she will tell you how the watch is made‘. Yeah, … . Much to my, and every other customer service associates, dismay, the situation has gotten totally out of control. You would think with the advances in technology this issue wouldn’t be an issue. But it is. Look at texting. The goal is to be as brief and to the point as possible. Why can’t that be adhered to in conversation?
I don’t know. Maybe people are just overcompensating. Thankfully, I don’t. After fifty-two years, my ramblings have decreased significantly. I still rant random nonsense. But, the information I provide is never … too much.
* , bitch wasn’t necessary. Hell, I don’t even think the ‘adjective’ crossed my mind. Well, that’s not true. They’re all bitches.
