I have no stomach for customer service. (In fact, I have a record of fleeing from positions of this sort.) Then again, it’s not just because I hate talking on the phone:
Customer service itself, and “customer service” as a job, are both miserable. The men who run things have set it up (via JIT, naive Taylorism, quotas, pressure, and under-staffing) so the rest of us are forced into adversarial roles. Flight attendants holler at passengers; customers holler at baristas; those responsible insulate themselves from the consequences.
That latter circumstance inspired the Consumerist, several years ago, to promote the Executive Email Carpet Bomb, “a classic tactic for rattling the corporate monkey tree to make sure your complaint gets shoved under the nose of someone with decision-making powers.”
For the record, I have never felt the need to yell at a barista. In fact, I haven’t gone into a full-tilt in-person rant in, um, hours.