Other articles by Bonnie Henry:

Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Harvesting hope Opinion by Bonnie Henry : From senators to athletes, lame excuses abound Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Gila Bend before AC Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Rein in those thoughts — June has an upside, too Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Keeping their dream alive Opinion by Bonnie Henry: It gives, it takes Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Uplifting airlift Opinion by Bonnie Henry : O'odham history Opinion by Bonnie Henry: Becoming Americans Opinion by Bonnie Henry : Gone, not forgotten

Trades/Construction
Wentz and Patrick Construction
Carpenters & Helpers General
ADVANCED AUTOMOTIVE
DISPATCHER/SECRETARY Trades/Construction
Pioneer Landscaping
Yard Person/Loader Operator Trades/Construction
Jacobs Electric
Electricians & Helpers Health Care
FRONT OFFICE General
Prestige maintenance USA
Custodian Production and Manufacturing
Pioneer Landscaping
Crushing Crew

For years I've harped about salespeople who seemingly have little interest in making a sale.

You walk into a store and there they are, staring at you with the same bored passivity as a beached carp.

The best they can do is wave in the general direction of some doodad or another that you might want to peruse.

So where is it? A few feet away? At the other end of the store? In Antarctica, perhaps?

Then there are their direct opposites, sharks all, usually seen circling car lots, department store cosmetic counters, and the 102 kiosks that seem to pop up this time of the year at the mall.

No, I don't care to buy your:

● Polarized sunglasses.

● Battery-powered puppy.

● Hickory-smoked sausage longer than my arm.

But none of these folks can match the young man I met last weekend while trying to buy a certain electronic gizmo for the grandkids.

"I want three of those," I say, pointing to the products in question.

Fine. But don't I also want to buy a protective case for each one? Only $10 extra. Each. Nope.

So we tap dance on over to the register. "Do you want earphones with these?" he asks.

"Doesn't it come with earphones?" I ask.

"Yes, but they're cheap."

"They're fine," I say.

He's far from done. "The battery doesn't come with a warranty. You can buy one for $18," he says. Each.

Nope. C'mon, Buster. Try to sell me just one more thing and I'm gonna be asking: "If this is such a shoddy product, why are you selling it?"

But he doesn't and I don't. The beached carp are looking better all the time.

That little pas de deux was a snap, however, compared with what awaited at the mall.

Here, the salespeople are too inundated to be either carp or sharks.

You don't really expect someone to help you find the tops to those cute little sweat pants on sale, now, do you? Ah ha, ha, ha.

You're on your own. So is the baby whose wails can be heard on first floor and second floor.

Only one degree of misery separates that babe from all the husbands in tow.

Maybe in a former life he watched football on their honeymoon.

Well, he's paying for it now. Man overboard, dragging behind the mother ship.

"I thought you were going to get her that dress. Why are you looking at jeans, now?" one fellow whines.

It comes to no good, of course. He's stuck in a swirl of moms, grandmothers and little girls, all trying to navigate their way through the girls, toddlers and babies' department.

Hey, it could be worse, fellah. Mature Women's lingerie is just around the corner.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck in the vortex, trying to find the top to those sweat pants and wondering if glitter on fleece is appropriate for a 3-year-old.

Then I hear it over in the babies' section — the voice of a young woman shopping with her grandmother.

Young woman is trying to help older woman with her gift choices for someone's baby.

Slowly, patiently, the young woman picks out various garments, as the older woman stands there, somewhat confused.

"How about this, Grandma? Oh, look. Do you like this color? What about that sweater?"

Just so the grandmother can say on Christmas morn, "Here's a gift for the baby. I picked it out myself."

Love. The greatest gift of all.