The OP reminds me of an unfortunately stereotypical story when I worked for Sherwin-Williams.
It was in a fairly well-to-do town in North Jersey, and every now and then some fake-fur clad, uppity, snotnosed bitch who reeked of too much damn perfume, with a beaufont that would make Tammy Faye Baker cry would come in the store.
“Um, will you make me a gallon of that color on the house across the street?” (as she points out the window to an old colonial that happened to be across the way).
“Well ma’am, to be honest, I can’t. I can get the color close, but that paint’s old, oxidized, and we’ll most likely be here for a while. . . If you can find something you like in our fandeck . . .”
(She gets all huffy). “WELL! I’m an interior designer, and need that color. Why can’t you match it?” [sub]And I’m just a guy, who could slap you upside the head for being so rude.[/sub]
“Ma’am, that paint is alligatoring, peeling, and the color has obviously bleached out of it. I can make it close, but I won’t guarantee you’ll like it. . .”
“Well, get me a gallon as close as you can get.” :: clap clap ::
So after twenty minutes of having a 90210-type in my store, and getting it admittedly damned close . . .
“Well, see? It’s too dark. I want it a little lighter. . .” :eek: :mad:
She wasn’t a bitch. She was the Über-bitch.
Tripler
Tammy Faye Baker may be a bad example. Who was that chick from the B-52s?