Up My Own Ass

Indeed, it must.

I almost feel badly about starting my spew with another lame yarn of retail woe, but if we don’t teach these bitches how NOT to be pains-in-the-ass, they will never learn, right?  Of course, by “these bitches,” I mean, “anyone who shops in the store in which I work.”  There may be too many commas in that last sentence.  Watch out, Jaci.

Anyway, so I’m about 30 seconds into my workday, and this woman approaches the register – where I have been momentarily abandoned by my compatriots – and informs me that she has forgotten her return in her car, but she has seated her mother near the fitting room (in one of our lovely leather chairs) and I was also to be aware that her mother is “a little handicapped” and could she have some water? (the mother, of course)

I process this information in my Slap-Chop brain and put the big pieces in order – babysit old lady, get her water.  Water!  Okay, I can get a glass of water.  I hurry to the back and get some nice filtered water for the old bat, very impressed with my own patience and courteousness, and I present said water to the daughter (just for fun, think of “otter”) and expect to return to the register and await the next round of “I don’t know what happened, these pants must be marked wrong.”

As I hand over the glass of water, I am then instructed with, “I need some of these vests to be taken to my mother, and she needs to be fitted for one.”

If my filter were clogged, I would have returned the serve with, “Okay, then why don’t you take some of these jackets over to your mother when you give her the water, and see which one fits.”  Instead, I copped my BEST incredulous tone and said, “Um, OKAY.”

She then led me and the glass of water over to her mother, who looked up at me with her drowsy eyes (I guess “a little bit handicapped” means “unable to function due to a high level of narcotic in the bloodstream”) and just sort of regarded me as she slowly recalculated the total on the receipt from their last stop in the mall.  Feeling cornered and scared, I quickly grabbed a coworker from the fitting room, dragged her over, and introduced her as the girl who would be quite happy to help them. 

A working relationship is but a small sacrifice when the stakes are this high. 

I ran at a full clip AWAY from the lot of them, and cowered behind the cash registers.  Unfortunately, I drew the short straw when it came time to ring them up.  I processed the exchange on her ugly jacket which, by the way, absolutely REAKED of smoke and will undoubtedly be thrown away because it smells like a dirty casino, and added her new purchases from the tragic little clearance rack.  She haggled with me the entire time, and after processing her credit card, she stated to her mother, “You know, maybe I shouldn’t put it on the card.  Maybe I should just pay cash?”  I couldn’t believe it when I heard my OWN voice respond with, “except that it’s already ON the card” as I crammed the receipt in the same smoky-ass bag she brought in with her, and slid it across the counter in her direction.

The whole day was like that.  I tried to take my leave for lunch, and as I was race-walking toward the back room, I heard some lady say, “GET HER!” in an obvious attempt to task me with something completely non-emergent and irrelevant.  I pretended not to hear.  Self-preservation, baby.  I needed caffeine. 

Now imagine the entire scene set to the tune of Rum and Coca-Cola by the Andrews Sisters.

I just do NOT understand this sense of entitlement people have…get your own damn water, try on your own damn jackets, and tend to your own damn mother.  Christ.

Okay, now that I have THAT off my chest…

What the hell was going on at the Golden Globes, tonight?  Who’s idea was it to hire the epileptic cameraman?  Jesus, I had to take a Dramamine halfway through to keep from vomiting, and that WASN’T just because of Mickey Rourke’s unfortunate plastic surgery.  Total “B” crowd on the technical crew.  They had the tables set up so that the rats could SEE the cheese, but had to figure out how to get to it.  I was embarrassed.  They had to shoot a friggin’ flare from the stage just so the winners could find their way to the godamn steps.  I think I even saw one Golden Globe award come apart in the recipient’s hands as he gave his acceptance speech.  Hmmm, I think Jan Brewer might have had a hand in the budget for the award show.

Gotta love Ricky, though.

Speaking of Jan Brewer, she signed whatever the hell governor’s sign making today an official day of prayer for Arizona’s budget.  Really?  REALLY?  How about we pray for a NEW GOVERNOR?  How much more tax money got allocated away from education and public safety so that we can all join hands and Kumbaya our way through the next round of cuts.  Good strategy, though, getting all the God-fearing religious zealots on your side for the next election.  Hey, does anybody know if Ev Mecham is available? (I just Googled him.  He’s dead.  Too bad.)  Oh, that reminds me…happy MLK day, everyone!!!!

author’s note:  Jan Brewer = BAD, Ev Mecham = BAD, MLK = GOOD.