All right, let me ask you: when was the last time the manager of the local Target store was a guest in your home? When did the head cashier from K Mart or the Clinique lady drop by with a bottle of wine in her hand and a smile on her face? Don't answer if you're friends or relations to any of those people. On the off-chance that either of these folks or their colleagues did visit you, did you charge them when you offered them cookies and milk?

Guest? Guest? When I go shopping, which is as seldom as possible, I am not a guest in the store, I'm a customer. I'm an unwilling prisoner of the fact that my children eat toilet paper as a hobby when they aren't eating everything else that isn't nailed down, or despite my best efforts to prevent them from doing so , they have grown and need new clothing. That makes me a customer. It does not make me a guest. I looked through my mail. There were no hand-engraved invitations from any of the proprietors of my local emporiums wondering why I hadn't been by in a while.

I don't prowl restlessly through Target waiting for a red-vested "team member" (I'll get back to that in a minute) to offer me a cup of coffee and a sandwich. If I want that stuff, there's a snack bar, but I had better be prepared to hand over a few bucks. I may be a guest, but I am a paying guest. At my house, I only ask my guests for money if I'm trying to discourage a return visit. While visiting the store (that is what guests do, right—visit?), I tried sitting down, propping up my feet and yelling for a hamburger. They called security.

You have no control, as a guest. Oh sure, your host might say, "If there's anything you need, just let me know," but there are at least two inherent problems with that. First, that's something I associate more with an extended stay. Who wants to hang around longer than an evening? Who wants you hanging around any longer than that? Second, nobody really means it when they say it anyway. Get invited to a party and chances are you'll know some of the other guests. You might not want them there, but you're stuck with it.

The use of the term of endearment: sales "associate" or "team member" is another derailment of the common tongue. My retail days were in the dark ages when we were merely cashiers or stockers or some other lowly class of wage slave. It was before the elevation to "associate" status, something I ordinarily would only have put together with a law firm, and that only after several seasons of watching LA Law. "Team member" is so much more homey. It inspires me to forfeit my "guest" status to join the "team". Anybody who has ever interviewed for a job in corporate America knows how important it is to be a team player. As guests, we have only a loose association with one another. Hanging out in the public restroom just doesn't do it for me like chillin' in the team lounge. As part of the team, it's all for one and one for all even if it's a bit unsettling to lose one's independence. As a team member, you're all in there pulling for each other.

Then there are the greeters. These are the folks with the cheesy grins who accost you as you enter a store. They're told to welcome you as though you were the long-lost relative they were not sure was going to make it through the blizzard to join the rest of the family but thank God you did and how are the kids?

I lost about three years off my life one day when upon entering an Office Depot, intent on several projects at hand and collecting materials I needed to complete them, some programmed greeter threw out a hearty "Hi! Welcome to Office Depot!" I should be grateful. The brief stoppage of my heart served to remind me how precious life really is, and how petty my own concerns were. So what if I now temporarily forgot what I came in to the store to get? So what if the paramedics had to be called? That's what they're there for, isn't it? Besides, a deserving attorney is now filing a lawsuit for damages based on the earnings potential of the three years I lost. I hope he's not counting on his share to send any of his children through college.

Sometimes, though, the greeters are ringers. No, not bell ringers. That's a different group. The real greeters have to go on a break and somebody else has to fill in. The ringers don't like being greeters. I talked to an about-to-be-ringer one day at that same Office Depot. I can't reveal her name, as I promised her anonymity in exchange for her story. Her supervisor strolled by as the woman was ringing up my purchases (this was after the return of my short-term memory) and informed the woman she would have to take the greeter's place any minute.

My cashier made a face. We confided in one another. I confessed that I did not want to be greeted when entering the store. I merely wanted to get what I needed and get out, that being greeted, rather than rather than enhancing my shopping experience motivated me more to buy an automatic weapon. This cathartic truth led her to confess to me that she hates saying hello to people when they come in the store. She truly, get this, feels stupid when shouting out a cheery hello. However, she said, it was temporary duty,. She could stand it for a brief stint.

I could see the trepidation in her face. The call to duty had surprised her. But there was stalwart stuff in my cashier. I asked her if she was upset. She shook her head: no. I was struck by her courage. She bagged my selections with a trembling hand, bid me the usual "Have a good day" with a catch in her voice, and took up her station at the table near the entrance. We smiled knowingly at one another as I left. As I walked to my car I could hear her call out in a tremulous voice to the next guest/customer. "Hi! Welcome to Office Depot!"

About the Author: Fiona Young is a screenwriter and novelist by night and has a day job at a law school, which is, she notes, "(relatively) innocent in all of this."