Dear Mr. and Ms. Ignorant Customer.

I had a reprieve from auto parts for a few months and *sigh, it was like a little slice of heaven, even as short-lived as it was. When some financial issues arose I had to take the adult road and choose the job that paid more. Such is life sometimes, but if anything its motivated me to go back to school and get certified so I can get a job I love versus a job that will do.

That being said I was reminded why I need to stick to my goals yesterday, in one short five-hour shift.

Dear Mr. Ignorant Customer,

I know that look.

The shift of your gaze to see if maybe someone else besides the human in front of you, who happens to be the opposite sex, can help you.

The tell-tale “sigh” that tells me, I’ll do.

The slow way you speak, as if the lack of appendage between my legs and abundance of appendages ( if one could call them that) sitting on my chest, makes your words hard for me to understand.

I bite my tongue as the rhythm of my typing is painstakingly slow, do to your need to emphasize the year, make and model of your vehicle.

It’s not rocket science, I promise.

It’s a truck and you need brake pads.

I need to know what style of calipers you have because there are two different styles that were made for your year, make and model.

When I explain this to you, you instantly go on defense… I must have typed something wrong and you start to repeat your year, make and model.

I’m about to lose it. I can feel it bubbling, but I have no doubt by the look on your face you’ll fight tooth and nail to prove you’re right unless… here’s the sad part… unless a man tells you.

I point to the top of the screen where it shows what I typed in while you were telling me the first time. I repeat the vehicles year, make and model.

That can’t be right.

I fight to roll my eyes and call one of my male co-workers over. He knows by the look on my face exactly whats going on.

You see Mr. Ignorant Customer, I’ve gained the respect of my co-workers, mostly male, because I know how to type in the year, make and model of your vehicle. It’s not rocket science and you most certainly don’t have to have a special appendage between your legs to do that much.

Not only that, but I could do your brakes for you.

Oh Shocker, you don’t have to have that special piece in between your legs to work on vehicles either!!

Let me repeat it again, maybe extra slow to ensure you get it, like how you made sure I understood what kind of vehicle you had.

It’s– not– rocket– science.

My co-worker glances at the screen and proceeds to tell Mr. Ignorant he’s going to have to find out which caliper he has to get the proper pads.

Okay, thanks.

That’s what Mr. Ignorant says to my co-worker and walks out without so much as glancing my way.

It sucks that I don’t have your appendage and yet I was still correct, doesn’t it?

Sincerely,

The Woman in the Wrong Job.

 

The following letter is based partially on my co-workers testimony after I started with a customer and he finished with her.

 

Dear Ms. Ignorant.

You piss me off more than Mr. Ignorant. Sorry to be so blunt, but a facts a fact.

You ask me about a fuse, information that is not generally in our computer. We are busy, so I ask you to bring in the door to your fuse panel.

Which one?

Let’s start with the one inside the vehicle.

I’m helping another customer when you come back in and it’s calmed down a bit so my co-worker asks to help you.

He looks at the panel from the interior of the car and explains it must be on the one under the hood.

You then proceed to vent that I obviously don’t know what I’m talking about and women shouldn’t be allowed to work in auto parts stores.

Wow!

You are obviously brainwashed from your upbringing.

How sad you limit yourself, and I’m sure your daughters with your ignorant thinking.

I am sorry  you may possibly never reach your full potential because of this, and I pray  your daughters break this horrid cycle of believing we are the less capable of the two sexes.

Especially when… It’s– not– rocket– science.

Sincerely,

The Woman in the Wrong Job.

 

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