It’s the final countdown doop ba doo bop, doo ba doop bop doo,
I’m like a kid on Christmas Eve, except in a household where receiving coal is a real possibility.
Whether I’ve been naughty or nice doesn’t come into it either. In this metaphor I am at the mercy of some very emotional parents.
Anyway. I will now abandon that metaphor. Methaphors don’t really get us anywhere. I actually find reading metaphors irritating. Sorry then for using them like they’re mini tampons. Sorry again for the tampon imagery. Where was I?
I got up at 8am this morning to get these documents for my lawyer, just in case husband aka smegface aka soon to be my ex… no wait he’ll still be my husband… Estranged? Estranged, is that the word? That sounds a bit underwhelming to me. Like we had a fight and may get back together. NOT A HOPE OF THAT.
So I feel all purposeful and like I’m seizing the day, because I got up at 8am which is half an hour before my alarm normally goes off but 1 hour 15 minutes before I actually get up.
I feel like I just seized the day, kissed it firmly on the mouth, bit its lower lip, pressed up against it and made it wish it had a rubber.
I even had breakfast, a pot of yoghurt.
I had to throw out the muesli which was uncool because I had a whole load of different mueslis. (Well, half the bag of each left… I eat all the papaya bits in the first few bowls and then the granola bit bores the hell out of me so I buy more muesli. Actually I don’t care so much because it was all granola I had to throw out.)
There appear to be a couple of moths left in the kitchen but I have to say my kitchen has never been this clean, there isn’t really anywhere to hide. It’ll never sparkle like a cleaning product ad “after” kitchen, because it’s got those horrible tiles that never look clean….. and I know there are layers of dust on top of the fridge that my feather duster couldn’t dislodge because it’s partly oil from cooking… I will have to give it a proper go with cillit bang some time, but I’m pretty impressed with the change.. it’s a massive improvement.
I just hope those bastards don’t have eggs anywhere. I want them gone so I can buy rice again.
URGH! I was pretty upbeat, and then way to ruin my mood:
STUPID BITCH CUSTOMER!
This woman comes in and to be perfectly honest, which is how I roll dontcha know, I am mostly pissed off because I realise I was a big ole bitch to her too.
She made me be a bitch, but I could have been nice. See she came into my shop where I was peacefully writing my blog about feeling pretty damn good, and she comes in with a sour face and itching for a fight. She comes in where I’m tolerating my day and bursting with the desire for it to be tomorrow already. She comes in and starts giving out to ME for some shit my colleague may have told her, that her receipt would be ready in 15 days or something which sounds very unlike my colleague because these special fattura receipts are really fucking hassley and only the boss can do them, so saying it will be ready for this pain in the ass customer in 15 days is like answering “3.5cm” to the question how long is a piece of string. The boss will do it when the boss will do it. We are legally required to do this shit for customers if they ask for it but it’s a stupid law no one obeys and it’s a clothes shop, so I don’t know what nitpicking moneygrabbing fucker is claiming tax back on clothes.
The people who ask for the fattura in my shop are usually part of amateur drammatics societies buying costumes for plays. This instantly chafes my social receptors because I am suspicious and queasy around people who are so fucking motivated that they actually think up hobbies to keep them occupied after they get home from work.
It sickens me, who do they think they are, prancing around for free, doing shit that makes them happy while mmy hobby is to wallow in my own filth and feelings in the comfort and safety of my own home? Of course if I liked theatre it would be different. But this is my brain we’re chugging through, if I wanna be hypocritcal and suspicious of anyone who likes different things to me, it is, in the words of Britney Spears, my pre-ro-ga-tive.
Anyway this bitch comes in all guns blazing and I parry her bad vibes with ice bitch impatience and lack of empathy. You come in here all angry, fuck you. I’m not here to help, I’m not customer service who’s gonna be all “I’m so sorry ma’am, what a frustrating experience for you”, you can actually go fuck yourself, my job here, what I’m being paid to do, is unite people with money with things they would be willing to give me their money for.
That is all.
Here by the way, is one of my favorite series and depicts one of my recurring dreams.
Pretty rampant in the world of customers is the attitude that the people in the service industry are somehow the servants or even employees of the customer. This is incorrect. We are the employees of the people who employ us, the boss, the capo, the jefe if you will.
We are nicer to customers than they deserve because this is in line with the empoyer’s guidelines to maximise likelihood of money being relinquished by customers.
When we say yes ma’am thank you ma’am, it is an empty platitude. We smile with our mouths and not our eyes, if you haven’t noticed. If you think that shine in the eyeball is a shine of happiness or genuine interest, don’t be so foolish. Even glass shines.
Sometimes we really are being friendly out of the goodness of our personalities. Sometimes we say “it suits you” and we mean it. Sometimes when you spend a decent amount we know our boss will be pleased with us, and we sincerely thank you very much and hope you come again.
But we are not the modern day equivalent of your fucking chambermaid. Customers like to think they are in some higher class than waiters, barmen, retail assistants and such. I’m a customer too, in other shops. This isn’t Gucci or some shit. I shop in more expensive stores than my own, so I know nobody in here buying shoes from me is totally minted.
It’s not like in the golden age of everyone who was anyone having servants: the people who serve you in a shop or restaurant can afford to eat in the same restaurants and shop in the same shops as you. It’s not like shop assistants are born to peasant parents who call their daughter “Bessie” because she’s gonna wear the frilly cap one day and marry a nice stable lad.
It really sticks in my craw when people without realising it, act like I’m some lowly servant because I happen to be doing a job that doesn’t require a degree. It’s particularly irritating because I consider myself a very smart individual, so this whole “you suck cause you didn’t go to college” bullshit is a sore point.
I’m happy with my undergraduate course in the university of life, but there are little moments of sensitivity like people going OH when they ask what I study and I say I work. (CUNTS)
Anyway. This woman pissed me off with her belligerent attitude and readyness to go ranting to me about some minor error of my colleague. So I was extremely rude. she was taken aback. I said I have nothing to do with it, I never said 15 days, etc.
Sorry, did I do anything wrong? Did I not just tell you to call before you come in next time so you don’t waste a trip? I don’t care, come back tomorrow if you want but IT PROBABLY WONT BE READY.
So she storms off snorting in indignation, all wide-nostrilled like a crazy horse.
She pointedly, loudly mentions to her friend just outside the door:
“THE GIRL THERE IS VERY POLITE!”
Sheesh, my pocket sarcasm detector just vibrated so hard, I almost came.
Anyway I was calming myself with “be nice, fuck her, she was a bitch before you were, don’t worry about it, stop beating yourself up, and fuck it people must realise when they go around giving each other shit, I’m not just some smile without a face standing here in the wings of existence, waiting for a customer to observe me and spring me into their personal reality like the sound of a tree falling in the woods. I have my own crate of shit to carry around, if angry cunts like that are gonna get all up in my grill, it’s gonna get ugly.
So I calm down and promise to be more empathetic next time and stop with the personal crusade against rudeness fought primarily using my own rudeness.
Then in comes a muslim woman in a headscarf and matching floral mumu.
Ugh. Groan. Now I get to feel terrified of somehow offending this woman with what I imagine is my stench of atheism and flash of sexy legs, while I show her scarves and shit, all the while firmly aware that she thinks I’m some demonic hussy who should be pelted with stones. My hair is long and loose: I wonder is the experience of shopping here, for this muslim woman, comparable to me shopping in a place where the salespeople go topless? I wonder what it’s like for them.
She wants to see a scarf. I show her the scarf.. She asks what material it is. I check the label, say it’s rayon.
She’s like, what’s that? I wikipedia’d it ages ago and don’t full understand. It’s a semi-synthetic, semi natural fabric. I don’t know what that means, too lazy to look it up again and figure it out.
Also did you know Wikipedia has ceased to run its Italian version? There’s a new batshit crazy law that says that anything published online, if it’s about someone (and regardless of truth or falsehood) has to be taken down and corrected within 48 hours if requested by the person it’s about. So for example as a blogger, if hot barman comes across this, he could be like “hey I’m not hot, change that shit” and I would have to edit my blog to change all instances of him being hot with him being ugly, which isn’t true, but then everyone would read this and think what was all the fuss about with this ugly barman? And also, no one would know how truly shallow I am.
Anyway. So I’m like… ungh… it’s semi synthetic, I think it’s made from a natural fibre but it’s treated or processed somehow…
She’s highly suspicious.
I’m deflated, I couldn’t be arsed selling rayon to her with enthusiasm or a saleswoman pitch.
I shrug. It’s not itchy or anything, it’s soft like cotton.
She tries it on. I am treated to a naughty glimpse of hair under her current scarf. I wonder is it rude for me to look? I understand the thing about hiding the hair though… I feel a prickle of taboo when her scarf comes off, like I’m actually seeing something more exciting than some flattened stragglers of reddish brown. I should whip out my penis right now and be like “FOOOOOLED YEWWW!!!”
That would be cool.
Except if her husband caught me looking, she’d be due some lapidation for allowing her hair to show in front of a man. Is that the correct term for being pelted with stones? I think so. If so, wow finally I get to use it lapidation in a sentence. It’s a first I think.
She starts asking me if it suits her. I am like, yes it’s nice. She doesn’t trust me. She turns to another customer, some bitch who was going on about her supposedly flat feet and how hard it is to fit them into shoes. I’m like, wow real interesting, maybe increase the shoe budget a bit and quit looking in the bargain basement section? But I don’t say that, I just smile and nod.
Anyway the other woman tells her it’s a lovely scarf. The muslim woman thanks her as Flatfoot makes a swift exit with panicky eyes.
“I know you’re being sincere!” she tells the woman’s fast retreating back, shooting me a sidelong “the same doesn’t apply to you” look.
I can’t help that I’m the help, I can’t be more sincere or less sincere… Really, the scarf is nice. Honestly I don’t give a crap, but I’m the salesperson what am I supposed to say I hate it, you look like crap, why don’t you throw in the towel and scarf and leave your husband and buy some chairs to sit on when you eat instead of that cushions on the floor crap?
Sorry is that too sincere, right-o, I’ll keep my sincerity to myself (and my blog) and just limit it to the fact that yes I think the scarf suits you as much as any shroud for your sexuality possibly could. You work that metaphorical condom against man’s lusty thoughts. Oh and keep up that “it’s not repression, it’s just a way to praise god” shpiel… real convincing. I like to praise god by keeping my toenails hidden from view, but that’s just me.
But the scarf objectively is nice on her, so I wasn’t being fake or anything. Maybe my enthusiasm wasn’t at the correct pitch, well I’m sorry but I’m not in the right mood. I was this morning, but stupid receipt bitch ruined that for me.
Anyway she doesn’t sense the flatness of my spirits right now and complete lack of the will to be involved in interactions beyong open till insert money remove coins close till force a smile thank the customer be left alone again breathe sigh of relief.
She starts HAGGLING.
€7.50 is too much.
I’m like, well sorry there’s nothing I can do.
€7.00, I’ll give you €7.00.
I’m sorry I can’t, it’s not my shop, I can’t give discounts.
No, I can’t. Sorry. Look I scan the label, the price comes up, I can’t do anything to change that (even if I wanted to, which I don’t)
I don’t have the energy, I retreat to the till before I become a bitch again. I don’t want a jihad on my ass over this fucking scarf.
I do my traditional rustling of papers to look busy.
She starts inspecting the scarf for flaws with her hawk eyes.
She asks what colours would go with the scarf. I give a noncommital, oh lots of colours, black, brown, beige, green… any colour really, it’s very neutral.
I firmly believe you can wear any two colours together in theory, as long as it’s with an attitude and obviously it’s not a fucking rule, just because one green thing goes with one brown thing doesn’t mean all green and brown go together.
She snaps at me because of my vague answer.
“OBVIOUSLY NOT ALL COLOURS!”
I sigh and look at her sorrowfully. Why does everyone want to argue this shit with me? I work here, I will agree with you as far as I can, but my own personal taste is so fuckng different to yours, there’s no way we can really talk honestly about clothes.
I agree, sure, not all colours… fine.
She insists on applying her own personal taste as a blanket over all of clothingdom.
“NOT WITH BLUE OR GREY, OBVIOUSLY!”
Right… so yeah the blue item she is wearing looks terrible with the army green scarf, but like, I know blue jeans would probably look nice with it. I rebel against all application of universal rules to clothes. That magazine advice over what not to wear makes me wish we just lived in the Star Trek world and got one colour to wear for the rest of our lives. It’s one of my pet hates. (I have a fucking animal sanctuary of hates you know)
All the rules of what to wear can be bent, I repeat, it’s a matter of attitude and personal tastes. Brown and black used to be the biggest no-no, and if you’re completely clueless with clothes, then fair enough it’s a good rule of thumb. But sorry if brown and black clash so badly, then how the fuck do you explain people with dark skin wearing black, or anyone with brown hair wearing black? Or black haired people wearing brown? Does black clash with my hair? No. So brown and black are ok together. I mean not all black things and all brown things, but having a no this with this rule is just stupid. They are colours, for fucks sake.
Anyway enough of the rage.
She haggles again, I insist I can do nothing, wearily.
She flings the scarf at me and snaps “fine, I’ll take it” like she’s doing me some huge favour but she’s not happy about it. I have done nothing wrong, I wasn’t even remotely rude this time.
And then imediately behind her comes this miserable sweaty middle eastern dude who wants to show me jewellery he’s selling, and I’m like No no no thank you not interested no no no.
And he’s like just have a look, and I’m like no no no sorry.
Just have a look, I’ll just show you some…
I’m like I SAID NO! DO YOU UNDERSTAND NO?
And he’s like, ooooooooh sor-ry!
And he goes all offended and then my dad comes in and catches me typing my blog but I manage to really unsubtly exit out of it before he can see anything but still I’m internetting when I shouldn’t be.
But I ignore that because he doesn’t say anything although I know he’s not happy because every time he springs in the door of the shop, I’m typing away and I can’t close the window quick enough… damn. But I can’t resist the pull of the internet or the temptation to spill my guts live from the scene of being hassled by people.
So then this OTHER middle eastern guy who also stinks of B.O comes into the shop and starts offering us brooms he is selling.
My dad and I in unison start chanting “No, No, No Thank you, no, no, not interested, no.”
And he repeats, do you want a broom? Brooms? I have mops? Dustpans?
We’re like no no no ad nauseum, and he keeps insisting.
This makes my blood boil. I’m getting hot feminist rage flushes all over because this is exactly the same bullshit that the guys in nightclubs pull, it’s like respect my first answer, you’re not changing my mind, no means FUCKING NO!
My leg hairs are standing on end like a motherfuckin hedgehod. I’m glaring fiercely at this sweaty fucker, and it’s probably hugely amusing to him because my fierce angry look is about as convincing as Victoria Beckham being snapped eating dinner.
My dad is pissed off too, so I let him have the floor as my voice is high pitched and lacks any real authority.
The guy starts flashing his stupid seedy teeth.
“Oooh mister, you need a aspirin? You need a aspirin for your stress? Ha ha!”
And he’s standing there leering and my dad is yelling at him to get out and I just close the door slowly so he automatically steps a bit back and then I shut the door on him and he shouts in to us that we need to chill out.
But like, seriously if it was just one guy fair enough we are an uptight little family unit.
But it is CONSTANT.
Gypsies coming in to steal… old women coming in to beg…. those Bangladesh guys selling roses….. window cleaners trying to bully me into paying them to clean the windows that I clean for free every couple of days…. nuns trying to sell calendars (I am rudest to the nuns)… disabled people trying to sell pencils for 2 euro (I don’t understand the deal with the pencils, it doesn’t help that it’s like actual… what’s the word… special people trying to explain the deal with the pencils)… greenpeace…. actual customers…
it’s non stop… oh and then last but not least, those assholes who dress in white and paint their faces and arms white and then go up to people on the street and expect money for some reason.
And if you don’t give them money and laugh and shake their hands and appreciate the shitty little half a mime bit they do, you’re an asshole and they tell you you need to chill out.
My whole life philosophy, or whatever philosophy I have managed to sculpt for myself from extensive hermitage and repeated watchings of sitcoms, is that you live your life how you want to and you don’t step on other people’s toes or stand in their way and you certainly don’t get off an escalator and as soon as you are no longer standing on a moving step, just stop right there and look around you while people pile up behind because all you’re thinking about is yourself. To me, that’s just one of the most self absorbed piece of shit behaviours I have ever come across. Yes I’ve lived a sheltered life perhaps…
But seriously, my moral code says first and foremost, do no harm unless you have to do harm. You can’t help being an asshole sometimes because sometimes the way a situation is structured, the only room you have to move without screwing yourself over, is to be an asshole. I seethe with hatred and indignation when I see someone who is in a bad mood seeking out someone to offload their shit onto. I may sometimes offload MY shit onto people, but I will hide away on my own when I’m in a bad mood so as to internalise most of my negative energy. I know that’s not always good for me, but it means I only snap at people who come up to my cage and start poking through the bars. Me in a bad mood, I will stay in my place by myself until I’m feeling better, and then I will seek out company. But other people, some of them are real dicks and they look for trouble with other people. Conflict saps my energy, but some people get off on it.
Anyway I had a load of these people today wrecking my buzz.
I wrote this at work but couldn’t post because I was afraid my daddy-o would come back in and catch me writing angry blog things at work, I would be in so much shit.
And after work I went and…oh don’t judge, I know I’m terrible….
So the other day I picked out a few of my items of clothing I don’t like or wear, but that are basically brand new and that I just bought in a fit of shopping hysteria, and I brought them in to work and put them for sale. My co worker Gabrielle does this all the time and I’ve always thought it was really bad, selling people used clothing as new stuff… but then I was just jealous because she gets some cash for those clothes she shouldn’t have bought. So anyway first day I put my stuff on the rails, I sold a dress for 40 euro. YAY! It was actually really nice but I never wore it, but now obviously I will miss it like mad.
Anyway I celebrated byyyy…. GOING AND BUYING A NEW DRESS!
Yes. I feel a little foolish but it’s a pretty dress. It’s quite classy and sober looking but short and flattering enough that I don’t have to worry I might once leave the house without showing off my fuckability.
It’s too short for court though. OHHH SHIIIT I still don’t know what to wear.
Right better get onto that.
Tomorrow I will let you know everything obviously.
Wish me luck, or whatever.
I’m so excited, I feel like tomorrow is my big day.
I feel like tomorrow is really my ceremony of marriage to myself.
Like I’m saying, I promise never again to settle for some fucktard with thick arms just because I’m afraid to be all alone and weird. I won’t forget how much better I am on my own. I won’t forget how much I love to dress slutty and I won’t forget how even guys who like me slutty at first, always start getting all posessive afterwards, and how it’s not flattering- posessive, it’s just oppressive like you’re his property or some shit.