GeorgeI know. I’m totally the first blogger to rant about the lack of customer service rampant in this self-entitled era. But my rant is funny. Here at the NTZ, we’re all about funny… except when it’s not. Whatever. Just read it, or pfft, jeez, who are you to judge me. They’re just thoughts and sometim…

Okay, I’m letting that go. Here’s the story:

I went to this notary place, right on the corner and therefore convenient for…apparently only the people that work there. It’s a small mom-and-pop-type place except for the fact that it’s staffed by stunningly gorgeous, incredibly smug asshole gen-Yers who don’t know or don’t give a shit about customer service. I sat there for 15 minutes waiting and waiting for someone to notice me. I had really high hopes of that happening because for the most part I was the only one on the guest couch.

I didn’t say anything and just took a seat because there wasn’t anywhere for me to check in or a sign or anything telling me how, as a new customer, to make my new customer status known. Just three desks, two of which were occupied with customers and the remaining desk was staffed by someone clearly enjoying lunch. I’ve worked in offices before and lunch, even at your desk, is a coveted moment of one’s day and I didn’t want to bother someone having a blast such as this woman was having, chatting on her cell phone and shoving a burrito into her face.

I was startled away from Burrito-girl by the staffer who, in taking his customers outside for some reason, yelled out the door to the street, “Yo! Bro! Jack! Yo, Jack!! What up, bro!” and some other greetings to whoever was in the car waiting at the light. He popped his head back in to tell the guy who had just walked in and sharing the couch with me, “I’ll be right back.”

He came back in, sighed, and said to my fellow couch-surfer, “Okay, come on.“ The guy on the couch said, “I think she was first.” Mr. Cocksure said, “No, I think it was you.” Couch-guy and I both said, “NO, it’s me [her].”

So I stood and said, “I just need a notary.”

The chick who I thought was at lunch said, “Oh! That’s me. I thought you were waiting for George.”

Who the fuck is George? Was I supposed to meet, get to know and learn to love George before I was admitted into this hyper-cool inner sanctum? Does my not knowing George qualify me as an untouchable? Besides, the George guy was busy with another customer. And how come it’s not standard procedure to ask a new person, awkwardly standing in the doorway then sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the “guest” couch, if they needed help? I hadn’t been there before, I didn’t know the procedure. Or George, my biggest failing in life yet, according to Ms. Phallic-Burrito’s tone of voice.

When she didn’t actually invite me over to her desk, just kind of glanced at the chair facing her, I went anyway. I tried to not glare at this paragon of customer service who had been, until seconds ago, shoving an almost embarrassingly graphic innuendo into her pie-hole while chatting at her desk at 2:30pm and ignoring her customers.

Finally, I sat down at her pinto-beany desk, and she took her sweet time getting her notary shit together. I’ve been a notary and, while it is an important role, it isn’t difficult. The care and time she took to organize her notary tools would have made one believe she was preparing for performing brain surgery on a working air traffic-controller. When she finished, twenty-two minutes later, I signed, she signed, and said, “Is that how you sign all your documents?” How could I answer that? Oh I’m sorry, did I do it wrong? The signature I have been signing for my entire life? Is it not good enough for a Notary? A Public Notary? Is my document going to pass the muster according to your Official Notary Public schooling of one afternoon on a Saturday?

Or, no, asshole, I just did that to try to be as cool as you.

Or, yes, because that’s how I just signed it, you stupid whore.

I gave her the ten dollars with a smile and before I thought she was going to ask, I said, “I don’t need a receipt.” She gave me a look like a deer-in-headlights because it hadn’t probably ever occurred to her someone would want a receipt as proof of paying for witnessing signing a document important enough to have it notarized.

I left there feeling very disturbed by the state of our state. The whole thing was a very Californian experience and I felt icky from it.

Is it me? No, seriously? Am I too demanding of even a hint of customer service? I know that Verizon and Wells Fargo cost a fortune to have but I will pay up the nose for their customer service any day. When I talk to them, I don’t feel like I need to go to the gym and they never, ever demand I know George.