This morning, I was selflessly nodding at a customer’s tale of personal foot woes, when…
Enter the bearded midget woman.
She’s not an actual little person, but she’s very small.
Her beard isn’t just a few stray wisps like you usually see on some abandoned old biddy, it’s full-on chin coverage. It’s sparser than a man’s beard, but not by much.
I call upon all my mental strength and will my eyes to her eyes, and away from the beard.
I better have a family some day, or maybe no one will care enough to tell me to wax the first tentative feelers out my chin regions…
BMW (bearded midget woman) begins to tell me about a skirt she bought here a while back. She points down to the skirt she is wearing. I recognise it, except it’s covered in some mysterious pale spattering. It may be paint? It may be… I don’t know. I think it’s paint. My eyes creep back to the beard, and flicker down to the skirt again. Is this woman… a crazy homeless? OR a crazy? Or just a slightly eccentric hippie artist type?
I’m starting to feel the pricklings of fear- fear that I’m in for one of those horrible exchanges with someone out of their tree, who I want to yell at to get out of my face but I have to be marginally polite until they get TOO hostile.
She tells me that first off, the buttons all fell off and she had to sew them back on.
Oh, I say, trying to muster some tone of sympathy, and failing.
“AND THEN! I washed it (here I repress a snigger… it doesn’t LOOK like you’ve ever washed the thing, although in fairness she didn’t smell like stale piss like the usual homeless/crazy types)… and all the colour ran out!”
I say “Oh,” again, wondering does she want me to give her her money back for an item she’s wearing? I’m not playing ball here, no way.
She starts to look short-person furious, which I usually find quite endearing because, I could rest my boobs on her head, although I wouldn’t, because gross. But I could. Yeah, this is the sort of unwanted thought I have to deal with when talking to other humans. It’s a yucky curse.
“LET ME tell you, I’m VERY satisfied with my purchase! VERY SATISFIED!” She’s dripping sarcasm from her whiskered jowls, like a rabid prostitute’s crotch.
She glares at me, expectanctly. What does she want? Go away. The other customer has at least stopped yapping about her special, unique, problematic feet.
I tell BMW that she should have brought the skirt back when the buttons first fell off, and I would have given her back her money, no problem.
“AND THEN the colour ran out!”
I don’t even care any more, I’m staring at the beard. Why shouldn’t I? It’s fucking shocking. I owe her no special efforts in politeness.
“If you had brought it back when you first had a problem, I could refund it. You can’t come back wearing the skirt and complain, because I can’t do anything about it now.”
“I’M VERY SATISFIED WITH MY PURCHASE, LET ME TELL YOU!”
“Yeah, well you appear to be, because you’re wearing it. If it was so unsatisfactory, why are you wearing it?”
She just fumes at boob level, at a level of fury that from a normal-sized bearded woman would have me cowering and reaching for my gippo stick.
“It’s a GREAT advertisement for your shop, selling clothes like that!” she yells, and storms off, waddling adorably.
You know what’s a great advertisement for “my” shop? Homeless bearded women wearing OUR clothes, cum/paint-spattered around town.
I’m so tired of these freaks. I’m actually really good about exchanges and stuff.
People come back with no receipt, but I remember them, and I’ll give a full refund as long as I can be sure they didn’t steal the thing or that the problem with the article is a manufacturing flaw and not that they boiled it or threw it in the wash with a black shirt or something.
And the crazys come and act like I’m being an unreasonable tool.
The other day this girl comes in with a bag that I vaguely remember having had in the shop a few months ago.
A velvet bag, really ugly by the way. But velvet bags are things we only sell around Christmas, so it was a long time ago.
And she doesn’t have a receipt, and she claims it was a present and the only thing wrong with it is a small side pocket has a broken zip. Now, I don’t know how long she’s had the damn thing but it’s definitely at least 3 months, and the main zip and the other pockets are fine, it’s just one small zip broken, and that can be changed or ignored or WHATEVER. I also don’t know if she broke the zip herself, or what.
She pouts at me while I explain that most shops don’t even do exchanges without a receipt, and I can’t and won’t exchange anything that’s from the fucking 2010 collection! It’s fucking AUGUST.
And she storms off vowing to never return. Great, now I lost a customer. A batshit crazy customer. But a customer. Now she’ll tell all her friends that she was given a bag as a gift a week or two ago and the zips were all broken and there was a hole in the bag and she came back to the shop and I smacked her upside the head and told her to stop crying about it and being a little pussy and also then I stole her wallet and then tied her up and brought out the gimp and laughed while the gimp violated her in the nostrils. And those customers will not come back either, or they will come back and find me in a randomly foul mood and think I’m a cunt and it confirms their whiny bitch friend’s story.
So I don’t like working with people, what else could I do?
-computers- I don’t know enough about computers. Maybe if I squish my boobs together and go into some computer company and pout, I can be the token girl on the team? It doesn’t matter if I suck at computers, I’m a girl, that should count. Except, there are fuckloads of girls who ACTUALLY know about computers and they would destroy me with withering gazes and probably better racks.
-animals- no, I don’t like animals. Fuck animals, they’re just like people but even more ignorant, and they don’t even find me amusing or laugh at my jokes.
-children- children are people too, except they require even more patience and tolerance than real people.
-rocks- I should make a career doing something with rocks. Rocks don’t judge, and rocks can’t piss you off, can they? I don’t think I can recall ever being pissed off because of rocks.
So that leaves:
Sculpture. I could make sculptures out of rocks. Except, I’d still have to sell my sculptures and that would involve pandering to dickwads just like I do now. No thank you.
Masonry. I’m not entirely sure, but I think I just used a fancy word for a builder. And I’m not strong. And it’s a bad economy for building, aparently.
Geology. I could study all about rocks, and know about rocks. And I’d probably work alone in a musty cellar, whinnying excitedly about layers of rocks in rocks where I didn’t expect those types of layers of rocks. And I’d work with other people who reached the same conclusion as me, that they didn’t want to work with people and that rocks wouldn’t piss them off. So we could all hang out and make nerd jokes and wear shirts saying “geology rocks”, and it would be awesome.
I want to be a geologist, but I don’t want to go to college, really.
Could I be an apprentice geologist?
I will look into it, or probably not. I get enthusiastic about a new career every two days.
It fizzles out pretty quick because I’m never willing to go to college after the first awful attempt, and most of the cool jobs require college. DONT quote me on that, I’m going to be like Bill Gates or whoever else didn’t go to college and has lots of money anyway.
Don’t tell my parents I regret dropping out of college.
I only slightly regret it anyway, what was I going to do with LATIN? Even my professor shrugged when I asked him if there was any point in studying Latin.
You know I would have liked to be a lawyer too, but I know that would be a shit job really because it wouldn’t actually be like Ally McBeal or any other show on tv with lawyers, and I’d have to work with nasty murderers and sometimes you wouldn’t know who was right or wrong and you’d have to defend or prosecute them anyway, and there would be lots of paperwork, and I’m a bad judge of character because I tend to base all my judgements on looks. Hey, at least I’m honest.
Also, my cry of at least I’m honest permeates every page of this blog, so I would suck as a lawyer. I’d be all,
hey, look… my client’s a murdering dick, ok, I agree, but…” and my client would be hissing at me what are you doing, and I’d be all “hey, at least I’m honest.”
And there is no Liar Liar court where the judge indulges and the multi bazillion dollar firm hires me based on my honesty or whatever. Stop thinking about being a lawyer, it’s NOTHING like Liar Liar.
Maybe I could be an actress?
If it wasn’t for my nose, I’d so be an actress. It’s the damn nose that’s holding me back, I swear. I’d kick ass as an actress, I’m super emotive.
Sorry. Will stop talking to myself. It’s just a slow day, I feel like typing out everything I’m thinking.
Oh man, it’s an amazingly bad habit and easy to fall into, just verbalising every thought I have.
I usually do it when I’m around people, and they tend to just tell me to shut the fuck up eventually, but now typing… I’m a really fast typist, I’m not mentally slow, ok?
Right. Going. Gone.