I despise being looked at like I'm the scum of the earth for wearing an apron and being on the other side of a cash counter. Yes, I may be helping you find the kind of cream you want to rub into your cellulite-filled ass every day and I may be cleaning the plates you've tossed your half-masticated muffin on, but that doesn't mean that once I walk out of this store I couldn't kick your ass sideways. It doesn't mean that I don't have a sense of fashion, a modicum of intelligence, and that I don't have dreams and goals outside of the demeaning position I am currently in for a pitiful excuse for compensation.
If you believe I am just 'amping up the crap' - so to speak - to garner sympathy in spades let me ask you: Should ANYONE on a mediocre pay grade who doesn't even have her high school degree have to deal with issues that are generally dealt with by someone who has been licensed to practice law, attended medical school, or psychoanalyzes people in order to cure them of their insanity in therapy? I don't know what it is about people thinking that me working in customer service means that I am qualified to 'serve' them above and beyond what is stipulated under my contract (If I had a contract) but people need to take themselves and their idiosyncrasies FAR away from me. I have established the following rules to be eventually engraved on my forehead (Aztec-style) in order to ward off customers' advances in the future.
1. If you have a possibly contagious disease pertaining to ANY part of the body including such that diminishes respiratory function, any flu, illness, infection, cold, undiagnosed sniffle or phantom pain; or any contagious byproduct of a sexual encounter, trek through an Amazonian rainforest, swim in a curious looking body of water or consumption of any funny fruit, PLEASE remain at least a metre away from my person at all times. Please do not lean into my personal space, cough on the hand that will transmit your money to mine, or falsely and criminally pretend in all consciousness to not have said contagion and then gently toss in the fact that you have
2. If you have personal problems, right on, don't we all. Join the club 'cos we all have fucking awesome jackets. But my offer to help you does not mean: "Please tell me about your plans to seduce your husband during your 17th wedding anniversary in explicit detail." Now there is no sane way to describe how this conversation went down, and I don't blame you if you don't believe it; I hardly can.
Me: Hello, thank you for calling {censored}, This is Jade speaking, how can I help you?
Woman: Oh, hello, sweetie, I was wondering if you were selling any massage oils?
Me: Well yes, we have quite a big selec--
Woman: Well, can you tell me which one's you would recommend?
Me: Is there a scent you would pref--?
Woman:
Because this is for my husband. Well, it's for both of us. I'm actually
planning something for our 17th wedding anniversary.
Me: (Errr.) Wow, 17 years that's great.
Woman: I know! So
it has to be perfect, and I'm planning a big thing. Look, I need your
personal advice and you can be frank and talk to me, we're both girls
and I need your help with something.
Me: (Oh shit.) Yeah sure.
Woman:
Well, I wanted to use the massage oil during the night of our
anniversary and I also was going to wear lingerie, and so I'll need your
help deciding what to wear because I need to pick something tomorrow
because we'll be going to the Dominican in a couple days--
Me: (scrambles) Oh good choice, the Dominican is beautiful--
Woman: I know! Right?
*giggles* So I want to seduce him and I was wondering if you could
advise me on what to wear. Please, tell me exactly, I trust you and you
don't need to be embarrassed about describing it to me. I'm a mom, don't
worry. So, what do you think I should wear?
Me:
(Oh my Lord - walks into back room to avoid being heard by my assistant
manager on the floor): Well, erm, it depends on what you're comfortable
in--
Woman:
You can ask me anything you like about what I look like, my waist size,
boob size, anything you want. I need to find the perfect outfit so
please. Feel free.
Me:
(Tries not to think about mystery woman in lingerie) Well you could do a
chemise. Or a two-piece set. It depends on how much you wanna cover.
Woman: Should I wear a thong? Do you think?
Me: (Takes moment to inadvertently picture a thong on a female sumo wrestler and tries not to scream) Errm...
Woman: I'm a 34C - My daughters tell me 'Ma, you've got some big boobs.'
Me: Well I'm sure your husband has no complaints, ha ha. (FACEPALM)
Woman: I KNOW. *giggles* (Head
does full 360degree spin) And I am half-Trinidadian and half-Spanish so
I have a booty as well-- so tell me, should I go with the thong, or
do a full underwear? Oh, and what should I wear on top? Because I want to
seduce him y'know. What colour do you think I should wear?
Me:
Well, a red would be nice. It has a certain 'flava' right? And I would go for
a three-quarter coverage, that way you're not baring everything, but
it's still risque enough to be sexy. (This is me losing the plot actually getting
serious about finding her the appropriate lingerie for her big day. Have to get this bitch off the phone)
Her: Okay, alright. That's a good idea. And so how much would be showing:?
Me: (wtf?) What?
Her: Like, the bum cheeks or the crack?
Me: (wtf?) Uhh...errm...well, the entire bum, if you're going with lace.
Her: WHAT ABOUT THE CROTCH?
Me: (Oh my fucking god. Get me OUT of this conversation) Well, that's usually covered--
Her: So what kind of bra should I choose?
Me:
(steaming) Look, ma'am, I'd like to help you but I've been in the back
10 minutes talking to you now and I really have to get back to work...
(plus I'd rather not be talking about crotch coverage on the phone
within hearing distance of my manager)
Her: Okay, I'm sorry. So the massage oils...what would you recommend?
Me:
Well, we have lavender and vanilla scents that are more calming and
have a lighter fragrance and then we have the black current and jasmine
scents that are apart of our Sensual line--
Her: So how will I get him to put it on me? Shall I say I'm in pain and then take of my dress for him to rub it on my back?
Me: (You're going to be in pain now if you don't shut up--) I would say that your back hurts after the flight, and ask him if he'd rub it on your shoulders...
Her: Would he have to take off my dress for that?
Me: (Yep. And then he'll strangle you with it. The asphyxiation shit is all the rage now) Yes, if you're not wearing a backless dress.
Her: Good. Well I want to get him in the mood you know?
Me: (In the mood to kill you perhaps) Well I think when you bring in the massage oil and start stripping he'll start to get the hint.
Her: And should I take the lingerie off? Or should I massage him first?
Me:
(I would stick to blow jobs, give him some much needed silence) Maybe it would be better if you got the massage first...Look, ma'am, if
you would like to discuss the massage oils further please feel free to
come into the store but I'll have to let you go now.
Her: Oh, thanks sweetie. You've been such a help.
Me: No problem. (Shoot me) Good luck!
Her: Oh thank you--
CLICK.
Now I should've gotten paid for having to deal with this shit. This woman not only talked my ear off for 15 minutes, but I draw the line at having to plan the sexual advances of a woman who I don't know from Adam, especially if it involves talking in detail about the lady's propensity for thong-wearing, and her rather ravenous concern for showing as much of her girly bits as possible to her husband. I'm not a prude, and ordinarily I wouldn't usually shy from conversations that involve sex - and would respect this woman's obvious efforts to go all out for her husband and if I had known this lady and I would have applauded her efforts, told her to go all out, lose the clothes, and jump him for all he's worth had I not been at work and in earshot of anyone who could overhear the not-so-professional conversation or been fearful the o.o1% possibility that our line is tapped for upper management. Plus, this lady sounded slightly bonkers which usually would have evolved into a forged kinship from our similarity but under the circumstances, it was pissing me off. Having a pleasant telephone voice does NOT make you a candidate to become a repository for people's sexual endeavors. In no way did I sign up to be a lingerie sales girl, a massage oil connisseur, a sex therapist and a how-to manual depicting the 5 Steps to Make Your Hubby Randy...
While I cannot scrub that entire conversation out of my head, I can acclimatize to a normal energy balance once again (and dispel the cardiac arrest-inducing stress) by taking up yoga, the bill for which will be sent to a Mr: Husband of Sexually Frustrated Woman with an envelope holding a mini Kama Sutra, a complimentary mini bottle of Jasmine massage oil, rose petals, a condom, and a single copy of both Playboy and Playgirl - in case the reasons for his lack of interest for more than a decade have to do with incorrect genitalia. Or perhaps the dude just got tired of everyone and their mother knowing more about the kinks of their sex life than he did.
The 3rd and final rule (I obviously have a forehead the size of the state of New York) is I am not your doormat. If you treat me like something you rub the mud of your feet on in the winter, I will give you the worst service humanly possible, mentally categorize you as a giant bag of dicks, and depending on the level of your snobbery, put you on the list of people I would hire a bounty hunter to duff up. Do not give me your bag to carry around the store (as if I have nothing else to do or no other goal in life but to carry around YOUR shit) when you have two fully functioning hands that don't seem to be carrying your miniature, shit-sized purse ornament. Do not expect me to give you coupons, discounts, or free shit just because you deigned to walk into the store. Just because your daddy can afford to give you everything you want, and you have an AmEx that could probably buy me out of a job, doesn't entitle you to more free shit and the fact that you are put off by having to fork over an extra couple of bucks for higher quality merchandise, just exposes you as the cunty, stuck-up cow that you actually are. But if reincarnation gets in bed with karma I know you'll come back as a foot fungus and somehow that fact helps me sleep at night. Peacefully.
It is this, more than anything, that will drive me to finish school, get a decent job, and start my life. Because if anything out there is gonna drive you to drink yourself to an early death, it's retail.
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