Up My Own Ass

I work retail, which most people would consider the ninth circle of hell.  They all have good reason.  However, I don’t mind it.  I work in a nice, upscale store that caters to a specific clientele (think “wardrobe for the log cabin interior designer”) and isn’t easily affected by the upswell of holiday traffic.  Plus, we have a REALLY liberal return policy.  The return policy is “yes.”

Enter Betty Bringitback.*

Betty Bringitback is a notorious customer who returns everything.  EVERYTHING that she buys.  But, she’s clever.  She thinks that her returns will go unnoticed if she just buys more stuff when she is returning the latest load of crap.  This is not the case.  However, our return policy being what it is, we have no choice but to cater to her whims.  We know that these purchases will eventually be returned, as well.

Now, lemme ask you…what timeframe are you picturing when I say “eventually?” 

At the very start of my shift today, Betty was waiting to be treated like the princess she is, and my lead, who’s name rhymes with CLARA, but isn’t really CLARA, gave me the “I am so not dealing with her because this is the end of my shift” look, and the problem became mine.  CLARA disappeared into the back to collect her things.

Betty presented me with what seemed very simple…returning two items and purchasing four more.  Easy as pie.  I pulled the items from the bag and I see that one shirt was from a month or so ago, and the receipt is with it, and the next thing I pull out of the bag gave me pause…a fur-lined animal pelt loincloth dating back to the Mesozoic era that we will simply refer to as “leather vest.”  Leather vest was not something I had ever seen before, nor did it have any tags.  It was accompanied by a receipt that had also apparently been recovered from anthropologic dig, and – though faded – I could read the date on the receipt…9/10/2004.

Seriously???  2004?

I typed in the code on the receipt, and my cash register looked at me like I was smoking crack.  As a side note, these anthropomorphic cash registers are a lot of fun with their expressive eyebrows and dollar sign eyes, but I digress.  The code didn’t exist and, outside of the store, Leather Vest didn’t exist, either.  I tried to find CLARA, but she was serpentining so quickly that I had a hard time catching her.  I was almost in reach of  her at one point, but just as I was trying to form the question with my lips, she gave a low, gutteral noise that approximated, “call catalog” as she pepper-sprayed me and made her escape.  Through my bleary, teary, burning eyes, I watched CLARA run out of the store at a full clip – clutching her tote bag to her chest and allowing the strap of her purse to nestle into the crook of her arm, she ran like an olympian from my view and, more importantly, from my problem.

*sigh*

I called catalog to find out if Mesozoic Leather Vest Loin Cloth had a sku number, but it didn’t.  It was too ugly to have a sku number.  I did the next best thing I could think of…I typed in Leather Vest and used the very first sku number that popped up…I am SO SMAHT. 

Ah, relief.  We’re done now.  Or, so I thought.  She then informs me that she wants to order two shirts, she wants to use the two coupons she has that expire today (which can’t be used together, so it requires two transactions), and she has her two eco-totes netting her an additional 10 dollars off the cost. 

Hell, I think we even gave her twelve free dinners at Sirloin Stockade, I’m not sure.

This bitch ran my ass ragged for the entire first hour of my shift.  I want my coworkers to know that it’s someone ELSE’S turn, next. 

Hopefully, CLARA won’t forget MY bottle of wine, this time