Customers annoy me.
Customers think I’m their personal conversation mirror and whatever they say, I’ll just yes ma’am, no ma’am, of course ma’am, that suits you ma’am. Actually we don’t say ma’am here, here there’s a stupid sexist definer of young lady or lady, and it’s hard to know what to call a woman in her early 30s. Either is offensive I think.
Anyway, a customer just pissed me off to the degree that means BLOG RANT. Yay. I hope you like retail employee complaints.
So a petite, toned and tanned pixie bounds into my shop just as I finish rolling a cigarette. She catches sight of me and gives an ebullient “hello.” She swivels around and her eyes land back on me in confusion. “But where is the woman…” I play dumb as always when people don’t construct their sentences properly with all the required information. “Sorry… which woman do you mean?” She’s indignant. “There was another woman… the woman who works here!” I tell her that we have different staff working different shifts. Her calmer friend enters the shop behind her. Pixie turns and tells her she is a great friend of the woman who works here, they are wonderful friends. I ask does she mean Gabrielle, my (only) colleague? Of course she does. I have one colleague. She squeals. “Yes! Gabrielle! She’s my friend… When can I find her?” I smell crazy, so I’m not about to furnish her with stalk happy details. I vaguely indicate that Gabrielle won’t be here today, but to try another day as our shifts change. “Oh no! I wanted to see her… she’s wonderful.” I say I can leave a message for her. “Oh fantastic! Yes!”
I patiently await the message. Pixie falters. “I don’t know if she’ll remember me, now. We spoke last year about… oh lots of important, meaningful things.” Ah. I see. Not friends after all, are they?
Pixie tells her friend smugly. “I am friends with the owner of this shop. She’s like a guru… amazing woman.” Gabrielle is a great lady, very nice. But I mean… when we work Saturdays together, we tend to just bitch about the customers behind their back, especially the crazy ones. She doesn’t exactly subsist on air and good vibes and give me meaningful insights into life. Because I’m a bit of a dick, I interrupt pixie and say “Oh she’s not the owner”. Pixie admits to her friend that her friend isn’t the owner, but nonetheless is a wonderful spiritual person. She wanders down the aisles ooing and ahhhing at everything she sees. Punctuating her wanders with phrases like “this is a magic shop,” and “everything here is amazing, there isn’t a single note that says to me, NO”. She comes back to the till where I am busy trying to pretend to be doing something important, by shuffling blank pages around and opening open office and entering random numbers. She looks at me eagerly.
“Tell Mrs. Gabrielle, my pockets now are empty,” pats her pockets “but when they are full, I am coming here and I will buy everything. EVERYTHING. Then I’ll tell you all, close the shop and go on holidays, I’m buying everything.” That’s lovely now but neither Gabrielle or I work on commission, so that would just make us lose precious hours of employment. She tells her friend that Micheal Jackson used to do that, he’d go into the shops and buy everything and the shops would shut because they didn’t have any stuff. Her friend is impressed and surprised. “REALLY? Wow! That’s a lot of money. Micheal Jackson did that? No way!” I try to edge out of the line of conversation. She grabs me back.
“I’m going to win the lottery.” Great. “I really am, I have this magic ring.” She pulls off a huge wooden ring with faded painted rainbow stripes all over. She hands it to me. “You have to believe. You have to believe I’m going to win. put on the ring, and wish it.” I muster a playful, call her on that bullshit while still being friendly, but I’m not playing along with irrational crap, kind of voice. “If you have a magic ring, should you not have won the lottery before now?” Giggle giggle. She leans in and whispers. “Ah yes, but I didn’t believe before, now I believe. You have to believe too.” I put on the ring. It’s too small for my big person fingers. “Well ok, but if I’m wearing a magic ring and I believe, I’m wishing for me to win the lottery….” She waggles her finger in the air. “It doesn’t matter. Just believe! Believe the magic.” I tire of this. She’s too bubbly and optimistic. I put the ring down and tell her it’s done. She returns and repeats that if she wins the lottery, she will remember me and buy all the clothes. Yeah thanks, I’d prefer money really. Buying all the clothes will put me on an unpaid holiday. Anyway she repeats about the magic and belief and power of the good vibes in this shop some more, while I do my fake spreadsheets and frowning at the screen. Make her leave. Go away.
I am alone again. Damn, bored. Come back crazy woman, I want you to put some ridiculous shit out there that I can refute with my cold, calculating, uneducated but rational mind. Boom! I shit on your breakfast, spiritual hippie scum. I’m not against the positivity as such, just the arrogance of thinking that other people who cross their paths will automatically be willing to hear about magic and seriously people, it makes more sense to belief in Jesus than magic, because at least Jesus is powerfully brainwashed into you from a young age, whereas the magic of childhood is again and again confirmed as bullshit by your parents as you grow up. There’s no need to have a huge row with your mother at christmas as she insists that you thank santa for his presents and you scream “MUM I KNOW HE’S NOT REAL, it’s just you and dad!” and she shakes her head and says you will burn for all eternity. And you don’t have to pay lip service to the tooth fairy when you go to the dentist, and there are no biologists tearing their hair out trying to reconcile the shitting of chocolate eggs by the easter bunny with the known biology and mammalian nature of rabbits.
So much as I hate religious ignorami, I hate those high on pixie dust more. Much more.
But I’m still more polite to them, for some reason.
Ok I should really do some work and stop hating on hippies randomly.
Customers annoy me.