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