Of work and its conundrums

I figure it's now or never. I have been putting up with it for some time now—enough to say there is sufficient experience and evidence to eliminate exceptions—and not so long it's yesterday's news. It did take me this long to write up; a good two months or so in short spurts, as I recall, because anymore of it at any given time would have seen me go, simply, ape shit. And so, with no more ado, here is the wonderful life of meeting all sorts:

SPASTIC STICKS
The Spastic Stick is, as her name suggests, thin as a bean and broken in the brain. Blessed with lankiness in arms, torso and legs, the Stick is adamant clothes that are her size don’t fit her, and parrots on and on and on about how everything is by far too small. Apparently the one-size-fits-all knits we sell to size 12 customers don’t make the cut for Miss 6, and small is too small, and medium too medium. Attempting to be professional is not without challenge, when all you want to scream at her is that if she were any flatter, airlines would reject her as an approved runway. In fact, you need to hold yourself back from gauging her eyes out so that there is some sort of curve on the Stick, while you watch her pull and prod at the knit she is wearing until you are positive there is just no way in hell it will retain the shape it was made to be. Of course, you may interrupt with the professional calm and courtesy you do not feel, and stop her, but by the time she verbalises the fact that the knit is imperfect because there is a bump on the sleeve from the cuff of the shirt she is wearing under it showing through, all you really want to do is pay her not to buy anything from you and leave.

* * *

LARGELY DISILLUSIONED
Another garment destroyer, the Largely Disillusioned is, frankly, a tub of lard on legs who thinks she is top shit hot stuff. Now don’t get me wrong because anyone who’s lost enough pounds so they no longer need to be sewn into their clothes is to be commended, but if you’ve gone from Godzilla to a big-sized woman, that’s exactly what you are: a big-sized woman. The Largely Disillusioned drains your life with stories about how they’ve shed oh-so-monumental-an-amount of weight, and how their whole life is changed and is moving in a completely new and exciting direction, and how they need to slowly rebuild their entire wardrobe although having had already spent two small fortunes getting an array of branded merchandise any Stetford wife would be proud of, and other such disgustingly detailed life stories because, after all, they’ve spent their life previous to this feeling fat and ugly in their fat and ugly clothes. I get it. You want to look good, and it’s my job to help you achieve that. But really, spare me the Cinderella story, because trust me, I’ve got my own. I’m being paid only so much to dress you, and by far too little to even pretend to be interested in playing your attentive and concerned therapist.

Just when you think having to lend your ear is the lowest point of your day, you discover the elephant has taken a mountain of garments that are not her size, which she will, naturally, tirelessly attempt to squeeze into. Therein lies your dilemma. You are unsure how to tell her her fat ass will simply not fit into something that small without insulting her. You don’t want to discourage her by suggesting that she is bigger than she thinks, because bursting her wonderful bubble of misconception about herself will guarantee she buys nothing whatsover. So there you are, praying frantically she doesn’t bust the seams, while you have you pinch yourself—hard—so you don’t burst out laughing at how much of an idiotic sausage she looks in what she’s got on. Not falling in stitches is hard, let me tell you, when the clown looks nothing more than like she’s pushed herself, lumps and bumps and all, into a very stretched, very taut, very tight rubber.

* * *

B-O BOMBS
The B-O Bomb needs no introduction. Thankfully rare, but potent when ignited. And just so you know, the B-O Bomb is so bad, the scent she leaves behind is enough to wipe out the enemy—and every other customer in between. In other words, you hold your breath for as long as you can bear, quickly hang up whatever she’s tried on, and leave to air til the cows come home. Anti-gagging is an essential skill.

* * *

THE WON’T GIVE UP-ER
It has been determined, whether by discussion, or through relentless trying of garment after garment after garment—which we will later have to refold, re-button, re-turn right side out, hang on designated spot according to size progression and in properly spaced distance with relation to all the other hangers while simultaneously having to serve other customers, process other sales, make and take calls from other stores for stock checks, which then lead to processing stock transfers, or entertain ones from stupid, long-winded customers (I saw this top the other day that I liked, I don’t know what it’s called, or how much it cost, or what material it was made of, I think it was black with white print, no I don’t know what design the white print was, it was a three-quarter sleeve but it might have been long, yes there are some buttons running down it but I can’t recall if it was all the way or only at the top, a collar–hmm maybe, and I’m uncertain if I’m an 8 or a 10, I might need a 9, do you do size 9, can you hold one for me, no I can’t come in today, it will have to be next weekend, oh you can’t? Oh.)—that we simply do not have what it is The Won’t Give Up-er wants.

Sometimes, there are very specific qualities which are sought for, and other times, there is just no satisfying her. Just because we may not have something carbon copied down to the last stitch in her mind does not mean we don’t try and show her something else that may be a well serving alternative. Nothing qualifies, unsurprisingly, but for the Won’t Give Up-er, this is far from her cue to go away. One subspecies of her refuses to shut up, as if by talking, the illusive item she searches for in vain will magically manifest itself. The second subspecies tries something on, then stands in front of the mirror for­ever and looks at her reflection from the front, then left, then right, then back, then front, then left, then right, then back, then front, the with her face tilted one way, then the other, then back the first way, then she checks her left profile, then right profile, then back, then… Let me make clear that by this stage, we have pretty much told her that this is all we’ve got. If she likes, she can have it, otherwise, it’s not a crime to leave it. What does the Won’t Give Up-per do? She doesn’t give up! And the day has only just begun...

* * *

BRAINLESS PROFESSIONAL
Because, clearly, being a professional does not equate to having brains. Case in point:

Sharp-looking woman in fashion suit enters store. Browses around, then asks when our new stock will arrive. I tell her the current stock is the new stock. She wants to know when the suits will come in. There are suits on the rack. All six styles of them in jacket, pants, skirt. I say so. She says no, the suits for work. Formal suits, she insists. For, you know, corporate wear. I say, these six. These are the ones. She says oh. These for work? Of course, I say, adding that all our suits are a classic one-button cut made from a 100% cool wool the whole spiel. And yes, I say, because it is a classic style, it is timeless and very suitable for her purposes. Bla bla. Oh, she says. Oh, indeed.

I rest my case.

* * *

CIRCLING DESTRUCTOR
Professional destroyer, the Circling Destructor goes round the store looking, does not find anything, then goes around again, finds nothing, and heads into third round, who knows why, oh it’s so she can gear into her seventh round around the store, and by now I’ve lost count because I’m too busy controlling myself from strangling her. Did I mention each time she goes around she destroys everything? For every round she makes, I have to make a round rearranging the stock, spacing the hangers, refolding perfectly aligned stacks of jeans… I kid you not, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was circling around and round and round in some satanic ritual where the garments she so desires will be magically willed into her bag and she can then walk out with the goods undetected by security, and leave untouched. That, or she must think that circling sheds pounds, and by the time she’s done with that and wants to try something, she’d have gone down from a Large to a Small.

* * *

BITCHY BYSTANDER
The Bitchy Bystander is the annoying counterpart who accompanies the shopper. If we are lucky to get so far, we offer the Bitch a seat outside the change rooms while the customer is being served. If said Bitch is being a first-class snob, standoffish qualities are displayed in full glory, and we leave the Bitch to stand arms folded and face frozen at a corner, looking like someone just shoved a baseball bat up where the sun don’t shine. By no means is the Bitch limited to females only; men make excellent candidates for the role as well. There are two categories of Bitches to note: The first is, as mentioned, the jerk or witch who arrived unappreciated, with the customer. They are the greater of the two evils. But first, a word about the latter.

The second category of Bitch—typically female— is no more endearing than the first. Because the person who is trying on something is a total stranger to you and is therefore, none of your bloody business and you should not volunteer to interact with them. I think it would be suitable the Bitch kept opinion to herself, and not give the negative thoughts about something she clearly knows not much about herself, to someone who did not even ask for it. And she should keep her hands to herself, and not touch strangers to feel the fabric of the garment the customer is trying, nor tell said customer to pick one item over the other when both items could well be winners. Ideally, she should sink into the floor, but I'd take sitting mutely minding herself and not trying to influence my customer, quite willingly.

That's Category 2 Bitch. I'd assume Category 1 needs no introduction. C1B is deemed the more evil because he or she has greater influencing power over the customer they came with, and their sulky, unenthusiastic attitude can rub off customer and make a potentially good sale go to hell and beyond.

* * *

THOSE WHO DESERVE TO BE ELECTOCUTED BY PHONE
First, they’re dumb, then, they think they own you. They ring the store, don’t have the style name or number of something they want, don’t know what material it is made of, offer details of the garment they insist it has when there is none... basically they cannot describe jack. You take a while to be absolutely sure you don’t have what she’s talking about, because hey, you want to get it right for the customer. Then she has the nerve to speak to you like you’re a pea-brain when she’s the real intellectually-challenged one here. You know what? Even if I had what you were after, I would not tell you so just because you’re a condescending and impatient piece of work who thinks she can treat others like second-class potted plants. Darling, if I were a fern, you are a speck in the wallpaper design the fern sits in front of. Don’t speak to me like a moron when you the simpleton here. It’s like a chef who does nothing but glares and curses at the oven and is upset the oven doesn’t automatically bake him a cake. Get over yourself, and come back when you’ve learnt basic manners, thank you very much.

* * *

THE TACKY TART
She walks in wearing faux fur, cheap imitations, and shabby animal prints, with brightly painted face and brighter personality. So she’s all big hair and rough round the edges; not everyone’s born into privilege. Still, her taste is vulgar, and she can never find anything from our classic range to suit her style. Still, she comes back, in all her tacky glory, and wastes her time and ours. Her shoddy brain doesn’t comprehend our style will never become the look suited to show that you may well have just come off the streets at dawn.

* * *

ASIAN DRAINERS
These are the worst. Of all time. They deserve a thesis of their own, these dimwits. But just thinking about where to start drains my life. Ask, and you may be inundated with an onslaught of abusive opinion. Barrage warning hereby given.