"Hey, girl..."

I'd hate to see my partner's phone bill. PPL makes at least twenty calls per day, each one starting with one of these phrases:

• "Hey, girl..."
• "Hey, bitch!"
• "Hey, baby."
• "Hey, Holly-Bolly!" (That's her greeting for our supervisor.)

On Fridays we arrive at the weekend's Petco venue at 11am and on Saturdays and Sundays, 9am. Usually, by the time I arrive punctually (and PPL arrives late), I have received three to five phone calls from her with various questions:

• "What's the address of the Petco?"
• "I just plugged the address into my GPS and it's not coming up. What should I do?"
• "Do you know if there's a Sun National Bank near the Petco? How about a TD Bank?"
• "Can you call me back once your paycheck is direct deposited into your account?"
• "I think I'm on the wrong road...there's a lot of construction around here and I think I've been on it too long. Where is the Petco again?"
• "Do you think there's a Taco Bell near by?"

On a happier note, my favorite thing about this job is Petco's consistently close proximity to Chipotle chains. I spend my weekends packing on pounds with delicious soft shell barbacoa tacos, and the rest of the week working it off at the diner by running away from dirty old men's lecherous looks.