I have never seen evil in this magnitude before.

We deal with a lot of crap in our line of work. Retail is an unsung profession, and a lot of people, particularly if they haven't worked retail, don't understand how hard it is.

It's gorram difficult, let me tell you.

"The customer is always right" is something that, even for the best of us, is a difficult mantra to envoke all day, every day. Particularly when the customer is flat out wrong.

There was a customer today that was wrong. And evil.

I had the day off, which was a rarity and something I was very pleased about. There was a party scheduled, but I had some of my best people at the store, so I wasn't worried about it. Then came the phone call. The store was packed, and with a party of twelve on top of it, there was no way that the two girls, no matter how awesome, could handle it by themselves.

So I drove in, figuring I'd help out a couple of customers, lighten the load a little, and then be on my way.

When I walked in the store, I almost didn't recognize it. I've never seen the store that packed before, and I've been working there for almost two years. It was a madhouse. It looked like Kohls the day after Thanksgiving. I threw on my apron and started running. (I really should have worn my Converse. Flip flops have no traction. I almost died twice.)

All this time, Diane was running around like a madwoman, catering to the party and it's guests with a smile on her face and a spring in her step, despite the insanity in the store at the time. She helped us, we helped her, and we did our best with the onslaught of people we were faced with.

Before I'd even gotten there, the mother of the birthday girl was complaining. The tables weren't right, the bags didn't look nice enough, we didn't provide plates and such (even though she was supposed to give us notice if we needed to supply them), blah blah blah. Then, I get there, and we get the mass amount of people dealt with, and the mother starts in on me.

Now before I tell you what she said, I need you to picture something.

Tinker Bell. Without the attitude problem. Cute, little, blonde, sweet, and covered in glitter. That's Diane.

According to birthday girl's mother, Diane is a henious bitch.

It was all I could do to not laugh. When Diane gets angry about something, we pop popcorn, because the sight of her trying to be fierce is the funniest thing you've ever seen. There's no way she managed to convince this woman that she's anything other than sweet as hell, no matter how good of an actress she is.

I do the company line, and expressed my apologies that things weren't up to her version of perfect, explained that the store was packed (as if she couldn't have seen that herself), and told her that we were doing everything in our power to make her as happy as possible. Then she proceeds to complain to her friends about Diane.

Right in front of her.

I told Diane to go outside and get some air before her head exploded. And she ended up sitting outside the store, crying.

That was the last straw, as far as I was concerned. You can yell at me, you can say you're never coming back, you can write a bunch of shit online about us, whatever. But make one of my girls cry? It's on.

Diane's boyfriend found her out there, and said something to the woman in question. Not something mean, not something in a rude tone of voice. He merely said that he was a customer, and noticed how she had treated Diane, Mischele, and me, and thought it was unacceptable. He suggested that she try and avoid being rude in the future, and walked away.

Then psycho chick sent her mom, or sister, or some crap in, who proceeded to scream at Diane's boyfriend, and threatened to call the cops. Because he was "rude". Yeah, that'd be something the cops would swarm all over, lady. *eyeroll*

So I called in the big guns. Aka, the owner. Now this is a woman that you do not screw with. I don't care if she's in another state, and it would take her six hours to drive to our store to kick your ass, she'll do it. After a few back and forth phone calls, and one phone chucked at Mischele's head, we had our solution.

If that crazy bitch comes back into our store, we're calling security.

I sent Diane home with her boyfriend, who could make Eeyore smile, and then drove home, shaking, and trying to not start crying myself.

Moral of the story kids? Be nice to retail professionals. Because if you make them cry, we'll end you.

I just can't believe this woman's gaul. I was in the military, and I've never had someone be that mean to me before.

Jamesons and Sky Diving

When we created this blog, it was because Rae and I got hit on by a very unwelcome guy. The Alanis Morrisette song "Uninvited" comes to mind. Go back if you haven't read that one, it's hilarious.

Tonight, Mischele and I were faced with a very different kind of attempted suitor. Suitors, actually.

Two guys in their early twenties came in the store tonight, to ask us a question. Something about hair color, and how black doesn't actually exist outside a bottle, it's actually dark brown. I'm pretty sure I'm right on that one, but who knows. Not really the point.

One, we shall call Violently Irish. And I mean violently. Orange-red hair, strawberry-flushed complexion, a green Jameson's shirt, the whole deal. The other has been dubbed Wingman. Because really, that was the role he seemed to be playing, and he was good at it.

Then they started in with a game they wanted us to play. They ask us five questions, and we have to answer them incorrectly. It's a trick, as the last question is a very well played "Seriously? You haven't played this before?" which you automatically answer no to. Tricksy jerks.

It was funny, and fun, and we were all laughing, so they hung out a bit. Asked us about the store, what we liked to do, that kind of thing.

It was pretty obvious that they were chatting us up, but as they were entertaining, and breaking up a very slow part of our shift, it was welcome.

A pack of customers came in, and they cleared out of our way, which was nice and definitely gave them points in the respect department (as did the fact that they weren't looking at our boobs while they were talking to us), and we figured they were done for the evening.

We were amused, and flattered, that these guys had come in and spent forty-five minutes talking to us in the first place. They were cute, in their own unique ways, even.

Then they came back, just as we were getting ready to close. I think they got that vibe, and so didn't spend a long time talking that time, but said that they'd had fun talking to us, and wanted to do it again. Asked when we were working again, and lamented at our apparent inability to get a day off. We get days off, (Mischele more than me) but that wasn't what they asked. Whatever.

After they left again, this girl comes in, who apparently was their friend. She said that they were really shy, and wanted our numbers. Shy didn't seem in their bag, given the hour they spent chatting us up, but that's beside the point. Mischele informed said Yellow Sweatshirt Girl that we were both taken, but thanks. YSGirl left.

Almost immediately, we felt bad. Even fake numbers were better than a flat out "No", right? But, there wasn't much we could do about it, and so we let our egos swell, thinking of Violently Irish and Wingman drowning their sorrows in ice cream. (At least, that's what we would have done in their shoes.)

We ran into them on the way out, funnily enough, and by that point we'd decided that we'd say something if we did. The following conversation was a nice one. We thanked them profusely for the complement, and told them that if we were single, they definitely would have gotten our numbers, as their routine was refreshing and new. (How many guys actually want to hear what you have to say, after all?)

Then, morbid curiousity set in, and I had to ask the obvious question.

"How would this have gotten split up?"

Violently Irish and Wingman shifted and looked at each other, before Violently Irish got even redder than usual and said that he would have picked me.

Oh hello, Extremely Large Ego! I haven't seen you in ages!

Then Mischele pipes up and says to Wingman: "So you would have gotten stuck with me?" (See, told you he was the Wingman.) He didn't seem upset about his lot in life in the slightest though.

Mischele gets picked all the time. I hardly ever do. It was a great night.

Quickie

Quote of the Week: "That smells like a dirty hippie with a cold just punched me in the face."

Almost peed myself.

I love our customers.

If she takes off her pants, I'm outta here!

Cracked-out things always happen right when it's time to close.

A woman came in with her friend, about fifteen minutes before I joined Mel Gibson in battle-crying FREEDOM.

Crazy Lady was a regular, showing her friend around, and I was like, fine dude, whatever. I can get them in and out in no time, because I'm awesome like that.

I am not awesome.

Granted, a sane person would have been long gone by the time "It's Closing Time" started playing, but this woman was not sane.

There's a demonstration we do in the store, involving hand washing. On occasion, we'll get an old man who thinks he's funnier than he is, that suggests stripping down, and we laugh it off.

This woman didn't suggest.

I turned my back for one second, and Crazy Lady was taking off her shoes, climbing up on the counter, and trying to wash her feet.

Understandably, I flipped a little.

Not enough to offend, but definitely enough to express how not cool this whole business was. I hate feet.

So instead of apologizing, she demands a bowl so she can go sit down in a chair and finish the job.

Normally, I would have said no, and mumbled more than a "We don't really do that..." but she'd thrown me off my game so severely, that I just gave her what her crazy butt desired.

So she washed her feet, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Ew.

There was some product creation nonsense that I can't get into in here without getting sued, but yeah, suffice it to say, I was ready for her to go when it was time.

They rang up, and both praised me for how willing I was to stay open almost an hour later than normal (my acting skills are golden, let me tell you), and how helpful I was.

That's just peachy. Get the hell out.

Then they started talking about wanting to throw a party in the store (which we do) and having us come around like Mary Kay chicks to various places (which we don't).

Get OUT.

Walked them to the door, tried to close the door (and bolt, and solder, and weld it shut), but she blocked me, talking about the weather and where they were going for dinner, and how much fun my job seemed.

Oh, and how she thought we should carry a personal cleaning product. Like Vagisill or whatever it is.

Oh my ever-loving God EW.

I've never wanted to throw a customer out before, and I'm pretty sure that if I'm here when she comes back, I'm going to pretend to faint so I don't have to deal with her.

People are insane.

Did I shave my legs for this?

So this is a story, as told to me, by Helene, who works at another store like mine. She reads the blog, and found it intensely appropriate, as do I.

I was in the store, and this woman came in, all dolled up for a date, looking for breath spray. I told her that her best bet would be Walgreens, or something along those lines, since we don't carry that.

Why not? We should talk to someone at Corporate. That could be a good product...Anyway, back to Helene's story.

She puttered around for a little while, and then asked me a very strange question.

"Does it look like I haven't shaved my legs?"

I looked, and yes, it was pretty obvious. But how do you answer that question? So I said something along the lines of "Well, now that you point it out, sort of...But if you hadn't, I might not have noticed..."

Helene, by the way, is a big liar.

So the woman looks at her legs, and is like, "But is it really obvious?" Strange thing was, she was hopeful.

She wanted hairy legs.

Apparently, the guy that she was meeting likes that look. Which is insane. Where do you even find people like that?! Had to have been an online hook-up or something.

So I was like "Yeah, sure. They're hairy. You're golden."

She left the store, and started talking to some guy in a car. I memorized the details, just in case her dead body showed up somewhere the next day.

I saw them later, walking down the street, clearly on their date, so I guess it was valid or whatever. Weird people.

I have to echo Helene's opinion of all of this. What kind of crack-addict wants hairy legs on his woman? I mean, really. That's just weird. Granted, it is true that most guys don't mind hacking through the forest as long as they're getting where they're going, but still...

Hairy legs are an eventuality of marriage. Not a first date.

Ain't sayin' she's a golddigger, but she ain't messin' with no broke, broke...

You hear about those women that date older men. I'm not talking like ten years, or even fifteen, in between them.

I'm talkin' Hugh Heffner style.

A couple came in the store today, and I realised that I've officially seen everything.

Seven feet tall if she's an inch, this blonde bombshell of a Ukrainian (or maybe Russian - I can't tell the difference) walks in, hanging on a sixty-five year old man.

 

Not even hanging, really. Draped. She's practically spooning this guy as they're walking around, looking at stuff.

Old Guy wasn't handsome - certainly no Harrison Ford or Sean Connery, and didn't appear to be that rich. But really, come on. He had to be, to score a woman that just oozed sex.

Seriously. Looking at her brought up the same slightly embarrassed blush that tends to follow getting caught looking at porn. She was sex.

Craziness. Too bad she didn't speak good enough English to get her to crack open Sugar Grandpa's wallet.

I need to learn Ukranian.

Dumpster Diving

I could write about the fact that a sci-fi/comic book memorabilia store opened next to us, and therefore there were superheros walking around all day. (Large amounts of geek made us all very happy.)

I could write about the lady that emotionally vomited all over us because she was "at the edge of sanity" because she went shoe shopping with her friend. (No, I don't get it either.)

But no, I shant write about all of that, because the best thing happened at the end of the night, after we closed the store.

The Boss Lady is in town. She lives out of state, and comes once a month to leave us a towering inferno of boxes, and frazzled nerves. We love her, because she really is a great boss, but the endless unpacking and inventory-taking makes us twitchy.

Georges and I were closing tonight, and had done very well as far as business goes all day long. We geeked out over the new store, laughed about the crazy lady (who suggested we tag her information in the computer as Crazy B*tch - no lie, it was funny), and laughed about the endless bars of soap we had to put away.

Actually, that was mostly Georges, because I forgot an entire pile of soap when alphabetizing them all, and had a small mental breakdown. But that's beside the point.

Good night, all in all. Then it was time to leave.

Because Boss Lady came around, we had a massive pile of broken down boxes to throw in the dumpster when it was time to go. So, we gathered them all up, juggled them out the door, and threw them all in the dumpster.

Then Georges realised he was missing his bottle of pills.

He had shoved the bottle in his pocket before we'd hauled all of the boxes to the dumpster, and so after staring at each other for a minute, he said "...I think they're in there."

Which set me off giggling uncontrollably.

It wasn't nice, and I apologized multiple times, but it was funny!

Before letting him hop in the dumpster, I suggested that we go make sure they hadn't fallen out of his pocket on the way from the store, or even in the store.

On the way back to our shop, we ran into a security guard.

An old, crotchety security guard, with no sense of humour at all.

Me: "Excuse me, have you seen a bottle of pills?" (note: this was said while still giggling like a madwoman)

Guard: "Pills?!"

Me & Georges: "Antibiotics."

(I don't think he believed us.)

They weren't on the sidewalk, they weren't in the store. They hadn't even rolled into the street.

Poor Georges. There was nothing for it, he had to go dumpster diving. (Because there was no way I was getting in there.)

Good thing he's a tall, skinny kid. He was quite agile, actually. I was impressed.

Of course, that was until he hollered "Oh my God! It's wet!"

Cue the giggling again.

To make matters worse, we finally found them. In one of the boxes, right on top of the pile.

Now Georges smells like garbage, and I'm still giggling.

Some people look like their dogs...

We sell ducks.

No, not live ducks. That’d be a mess we have no desire to clean up, thanks.

Rubber ducks. Of all shapes and sizes, types and professions. They border our window sills, and tend to draw people into the store, because for some reason, people will pay two bucks a piece for these silly little lumps of rubber.

I don’t judge.

Occasionally we have Duck Hoarders.

These people will come in, dig through the 983475824 ducks we have, and end up with forty dollars in ducks. Great for our sales, confusing for our opinion of the human race.

I mean really. Who spends that much on ducks?!

Rae and I were at the store, like we do, and this group of people came in, practically crying over the ducks. They bought a handful each, and left perfectly happy with their rubber duckie (you’re the one) take for the day.

There was one straggler, still paying, and the others were looking in the window at him. All of a sudden, his wife, or whatever she was, slams up against the window (Rae says she “beckoned”, but seriously, this woman hit the glass with her face) gesturing wildly at a mermaid duck that we had.

A mermaid duck that we regularly make fun of, for her vibrant off-colour hair, unfortunate breast shape, and tacky pearl necklace.

Then Rae and I looked at the woman in question again.

It was all we could do to not burst out laughing.

Some people grow to look like their spouses, or their dogs.

This woman looked like her duck.

Thank you for calling the Yoga Palace. Please state your position.

There is news that has rocked the bath shop world. We are no longer the Bath Shop Girls, or the Ladies of the Suds, or the...I can't come up with another title that doesn't sound dirty. Anyway. We can no longer be defined by our sex.

There is a man in our midst.

Now don't get me wrong, we wanted a man. We wanted someone tall and strong, because we're a gang of midgets, and our storage room is taller than it is wide. Makes the sale to men easier too, as most of them aren't particularly keen on being in the land of perfumes and bubble bath.

Georges (the French way of spelling it, which never fails to amuse me) is a smart one too, with a cock-eyed sense of humour that fits in perfectly with the insanity that we've already carefully cultivated through months of button-pushing, rule-bending and limit-stretching. We like him, in short.

Yesterday, he told me about a rather interesting phone call that he got the other day.

Georges: "Hi, thanks for calling the bath shop. This is Georges, how can I help you?"

Caller: "When are you guys getting in more scents?"

Georges: "Well, I'm not sure..."

Caller: "Are you going to get a new car smell?"

Georges: "Actually, you can scent your car any way you like."

Caller: "No...A New Car Smell."

Georges: "Oh well, I'm..."

And then the caller hung up, giggling.

Yes, folks. Georges the New Kid got prank-called.

I thought that went out of style in the 90s, but maybe that's just when I stopped doing it.

Mother-of-the-Year

We sell bath products. We do not babysit children. We will sell your kids if you leave them here.

A woman came in today with two little girls, and a smaller boy in tow. The little girls were five and six, the boy about three. Not exactly the clientele we love in the store, as they tend to be destructive.

But, like professionals, Rae and I kept our smiles plastered on our faces, and were as helpful as physically possible in finding things they’d like.

Until the woman suggested leaving her children in our care.

We exchanged a look that held a quick conversation:

Me: WTF?!

Rae: IDK.

Me: Are you gonna…?

Rae: It’s all yours.

So I gently reminded her that we are not a babysitting service. I’m not sure of the words I used, or if I just gave her a look that plainly said “Not going to happen”, but suffice it to say, the message was passed.

After that Mother-of-the-Year was decidedly cold to me. I’m okay with that.

Then, to top it all off, the three year old boy tried to destroy the store, and then when it was time to ring up, she complained about the price. If you don’t want to spend a ton of money, actually LOOK at the product signs and check the price. It’s plainly posted. Not my problem.

PSA: Retail bath-crack monkeys are not babysitters. We are not paid near enough for that crap. If you don’t want to be with your kids, maybe you shouldn’t have had them. Jussayin’.

Also, clean up after your brats. I don’t like having to pick up a shit-ton of Legos.

Dogs and Nashvillians

Monday nights are traditionally a boring shift. We've all had them. The shifts where you play with your eyelashes with the tip of a pen, just for the thrill of almost - but not quite - blinding yourself.

Tonight was no different, despite the holiday. I think everyone treated Martin Luther King Jr Day as Sunday - Part Two. Busy in the morning, then at night, everyone goes home to moan and groan about having to go to work the next day.

How I long for their problems. Retail never sleeps.

I was twenty minutes from freedom, when the phone rang. Admittedly, I didn't hear it at first. There was water running, I was standing right next to the stereo speakers.

And I might have been singing "Don't Rain on My Parade" at the top of my lungs.

But, by ring two, I had it, so no big deal.

On the other end of the phone was a man with a very familiar accent. Nashville, born and bred.

There's a soft spot in my heart for Nashville, for a multitude of sins reasons. Mostly friends, and fond memories of times gone by, slightly rose-colored by the miracle that is Wranglers.

That's the reason that I stayed on the phone with this guy for the better part of thirty minutes.

He had a new dog, with allergies, PTSD from the flood last year, among a host of other problems. Said guy (who's name, I'm sorry to say, I never caught, we'll call him Hank for fun) was funny and charming, and it was a nice conversation, even if I was sadly unable to sell him anything. If he'd been in the store, I would have had him wrapped around my little finger.

On the other hand, I did give him the information he needed, so that he could go to his local branch of the company and get the right products.

Not particularly funny or anything, but Hank made my night a bit more interesting, so I thought I'd share.

Because according to him, I'm "a peach pie of a woman".

It's the little things.

How do you do I...see you've met my...faithful handyman...

Apparently Saturday nights are when the weird folks come out. Two odd ducks from tonight. Things at the Bath Shop are always interesting.

First, was the Guy that Carries Stuff.

He came in, minding his own business, with a purse slung over his shoulder. Not a man bag. A purse.

Okay fine, carrying it for the girlfriend, whatever. Except there was no girlfriend in tow. Weird, but we let it go.

He leaves, and we see him walk by the front door a few minutes later. Instead of carrying his purse, he was trailed by a full bouquet of balloons.

Rae and I were highly disappointed that he didn't do another lap with a chicken or something under his arm.

Hush. We thought it was funny.

Then, there was the Kid.

A pack of teenagers came in, like they do, and partook of our free services, like they do. They sat down and hung out a while, wasting our time, like they do.

Don't get me wrong. Some of the kids that were in this pack are regulars. They're respectful and sweet, and we don't mind them in the slightest.

But this Kid...

He was sitting on a stool in the store, and looks at me.

Kid: "Guess what I bought today?"

Me: "What?"

He reaches into his pants. I spin in the opposite direction. Really dude, I wasn't that curious.

He laughs, and I hear a bag rustling, so I figure it's safe and turn around.

To see this fifteen year old munchkin holding a box of Trojans.

Me: "Well, that's one place to keep them..."

I mean really, what do you say to that? A kid's packing rubbers in his pants. There's no other response.

Rae: "At least they're practicing safe sex."

In other news, Rae and I got some highly weird looks through the windows when, due to boredom and too much caffeine, we decided to do the Time Warp.

Apparently the crazies aren't just the customers.

Can we start selling spermicide?

Rae and I were in the store tonight, minding our own business. It was a slow night, one that didn't afford us a great deal of entertainment.

Then, he walked in.

Upon first glance, he was handsome. Had a roguish sort of charm, like a surfer. Like Matthew McConaughey, without the muscle definition and naked bongo playing. Great smile.

Then of course, he opened his mouth, and screwed it up. Like a man.

After asking where the mall directory was, he asked what we did in the store. So, like a good little bath-crack pushing monkey, I explained it to him.

"So like, glorified water?"

Rae and I both looked at him blankly for a moment, and then realised what he was talking about.

The man neglects to use soap while in the shower.

We tried. We really did. But you can't say things like that without us making fun of you. It's a fact of life.

"Soap is good, dude."

You'd think he'd retreat, particularly because the girl who's boobs he had been eyeballing for the last few minutes was backing away like he was a carrier for the Ebola virus. Oh no. He wouldn't be dissuaded.

Instead, he tried to make us think he was the best catch in the world.

"I have eight kids." "I just got evicted." "I'm buying a Victoria's Secret gift for a girl I've been seeing for two months, because I need to move into her place." "I live in my van." (The kids weren't in there. We asked.)

We try to convince him that he needs to buy said poor, pathetic chick pjs instead of knickers, because either way, he was going to get slapped. To which, he responded, while lifting his shirt to reveal his beer-pack and scar, "I've been stabbed. A slap is like a butterfly on your nose."

Yes, but she's also never going to sleep with you again.

Alert Chris Farley. There's another man in a van down by the river.

Rae's comment, once he'd left. "Dear God. Those poor babies..."

Some people shouldn't breed.

Welcome to *bath store*! Have you been here before?

We work in a bath shop. It's an interesting one, that offers some services that you wouldn't necessarily expect. No, no "happy endings".

This blog really isn't about the bath shop though. It's about the customers, and the "interesting" things that happen, because apparently the town we live in is full of crazy people.

Basically, we've decided that we cannot let the crazy-pants crimes of others go unpunished.

So here's your fifteen minutes of fame, nutcases.

Love,

The Girls at the Bath Shop