Anecdotes of a 10.25 Girl Part II : Not a Story of Prostitution

PART II - note: This means that you might want to read part I. This is not a requirement but a recommendation for those who are not particular about anachronism. I really could care less either way. It was a mother of a post that needed to be cut in half. Now there's two daughters.

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 LIME Lyme disease and are not only frequently incapacitated but have also been unable to consume carbs OR cheese as a result of this condition while we are separated by only a candle-width of space and have been recently been sharing the air as we bonded over the aroma of the creamy pumpkin candle. I may have the patience of a saint, but I have the immune system of a spazzing hypochondriac and so I'll ask if you can spare my nerves and drop the Lyme-bomb when I first come into your breathing space. It is not only the safe thing to do, it's the morally apt thing to do. Plus, you're saving me the painful task of Googling Lime disease and getting a eyeful of more Lyme than I ever needed to see. 

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.

Anecdotes of a 10.25 Girl - Not a Story of Prostitution

PART I

Alright, so after my friend classified my blog as one giant leap passed neurotic, I figure I should simmer down a little bit. In a perfect world, my posts would mimic a giant magnet and draw all the loony, self-deprecating, emotionally retarded people in this world who thankfully, probably make up enough of the population for me to publish a book and become New York Times Best Seller (because that's hardly a difficult feat - Danielle Steele has been doing it since the 80s...
...cough) and a household name; creator of the world's most profane and inane bathroom reader in the history of accepted 'while-you-dump' material. And if this were the case, then I probably should avoid talking about something as personal as my place of work in case my boss of the moment/past decides to pick up my Bathroom Reader in all it's disclosed glory and turn to the chapter on Work and decides to sue me for slander and defaming of the company's reputation. But I've never been one to do take the practical, ass-covering route.

After reading your post, Arlia, I have to disagree. Whoever said that "Minimum work receives minimum pay" was off his or her fucking rocker. Or had to have born before the 1960s when slaving away for 40 years at a job would garner you a pretty little package and pension at the end of your 65th year. Because now, with the hands-on work that doesn't involve the raping and upkeep of computers or tablets or programming the latest upcoming Angry Birds: Deforestation Edition or another app to ensure that we have something to glue our eyes to in order to communicate as little as possible with the outside world; people don't have steady jobs nor do can they be assured that if they perform their duties passably, that they will be rewarded with raises, bonuses, opportunities for advancement, and ultimately, loyalty. Plus, what you earn for a living is not adjusted according to the amount of work put into a job. I think that ideal was eviscerated having always had rank and hierarchies where royalty sat at the top of the pyramid, squandered the land's money in ways they deemed fit, and generally pomped around making sure their bellies were full, their armies were loaded, and the rest of the community who sat at the bottom of the pyramid were intimidated enough into loyalty to go without but still be poised to defend the royal family. Today, people  born into money are still provided easier access to higher education, which gives them a fast-track to better jobs, and then the cycle of wealth continues, with most having  do far less work than your average middle class-er to sustain their privileged lifestyle. But earning six figures doesn't equal doing back-breaking labour. It means your either extremely well educated, are a talented entrepreneur, can decipher the stock market, are in the entertainment business, are a successful politician, a lawyer, or you've cheated, schemed, or ass-kissed your way into a corporation and are a higher up or a CEO. Now, I know for a fact that while these professions require work as any other jobs do, there is no way that any of them can measure up to the bone-breaking, head-exploding annoyance that is retail. It's hard work, no play, and I'll bet my last fucking dollar that neither Donald Trump, Shaq (who is now doing Bentley commercials), any of the Kardashians, stock brokers, surgeons, or any high profile lawyers have to clean toilets as part of their 'jobs.' Although doctors may have it worse with the whole colonoscopy thing.

Retail is the harbor, the fucking poster boy of minimum wage suckery. The fast food industry, clothing stores, waitressing; welcome to the first step on the stairway of life. You are making the least amount of money that employers can legally pay you, you receive probably about 1/8th of their commitment (because fuck if we aren't a dime a dozen) and you are put in the shittiest, most brain numbing, physically/mentally exhausting and ergonomically unfriendly conditions imaginable. Plus, there is no HR in retail so your only choice is to choke down your forkful of complaints like your mom's pot roast. How do you make a decent living? We gotta work our way up. So from where I'm standing it looks like a piece of paper announcing your Bachelor of Whatever and coughing up upwards of 20,000 dollars is what separates the flipping of burgers for 10.25 from getting 30 an hour to answer phone calls and file important documents. Not that I'm saying all people who earn 6 figures a year don't work their asses off - but I know for a fact that you get your foot in the door or your ass in bed with the right people, and huzzah, you've got money. For instance, you don't have to be a computer genius, a Michelin Star Chef or even a goddamned intellectual to be on Dr. Phil. Actually, it's probably preferred that you aren't.

 I understand that there's got to be shitty jobs. What I don't understand is that working shitty jobs entitles you to shitty pay. I believe that having worked in retail for 3 years now gives me the right to do a little bitching. Now I believe any job in which you have to deal with the public, should at least give you benefits. If I have to deal with the ignorance, impertinence, rudeness, cluelessness, cheapness, and the abject idiocy of people on a daily basis, I better fucking know that my therapy is covered. It is in the interest of both the franchise owners, the managers, and the employers that the people sweeping up the shit don't go off and blow the brains out of all of their coworkers out of a crazed, underpaid, monotony-fueled impulse. Take working with coffee for instance. There is no way I am paid or trained enough to deal with coffee drinkers. You all will kill me with your complicated Latte orders (if you want no foam, extra hot, half-sweet, decaf, 1%, double cupped no sleeve, cinammon drizzle, how DARE you get on my ass about you waiting 5 seconds over the two minute mark.) As much as I'd love to be your personal attendant and be there with a napkin to dab your lips for crumbs on command, I'd rather shoot myself into a hole in the ground, thank you.