No means no.

Sarah and I were enjoying dinner in the food court of a local mall when two girls approached our table.

“Hi, I’m Katie and this is Maggie,” they said.

“Um, hi?” we said.

“Do you have a minute for a spiritual questionnaire?”

“AbsoLUTEly not,” I said, and went back to my Chinese food.

The girls were stunned. How dare anyone refuse a little Jesus on a Friday night in the middle of dinner at the Mall! Omg! (Wait, is ‘omg’ blasphemous in this context? Shit.)

Sarah, meanwhile, politely shook her head no.

“What’s your name?” one of the girls asked. I think it was Maggie. Let’s go with Maggie.

“No,” I said, with a mouthful of rice.

“What’s your name?” she persisted.

“NO,” I said, a trifle louder, as she appeared to be not only ignorant but deaf.

Sarah continued to shake her head no and suppress her laughter.

Katie and Maggie looked at each other, seeming to finally realize that they’d found a pair of heathens.

“Well, is there anything we can pray for, for you, then?” Maggie said, smiling.

This was now the fifth, no, 666th time they’d interrupted. Enough is enough already.

“I’m Jewish and probably going to Hell, so how about that?” I said, smiling back.

Silence.

I happily went back to my food as Katie and Maggie protested, saying they “weren’t like that, really!”, Sarah shook her head to the point where I was worried it was going to start spinning around like the Exorcist and really give those girls a treat, and they finally stomped off in search of more people to fulfill their spiritual whosamawhatsits.

Are Katie and Maggie horrible people? No, they’re just some girls, trying to do what they honestly think is right. I doubt that they were aware of the problems that can arise when you’re trying to convert people in the middle of fucking dinner, and so I was just doing my part by demonstrating a few. I find them ignorant because, generally speaking, when somebody tells you “no”, that should be an indicator that they don’t want to talk to you. Of course, in this particular case, that can be seen as “My soul needs guidance” or “I am a sinner” or whatever. Which is why they probably persisted. But honestly, common sense should have told them that they picked the wrong damn table. Especially because Sarah was wearing latex leggings and that generally puts a damper on the whole Jesus thing.

Here’s the thing. If people want to be a part of an organized religion, that is perfectly fine. However, do not assume that I would like to be a part of one, too. I was born to Jewish parents, I was raised Jewish, and I enjoy a bowl of matzah ball soup every now and again — but I am not what you would call a “practicing” Jew by any stretch of the imagination. If I ever decide to change my mind, I’ve got enough knowledge crammed in my head from twelve years of Hebrew School. So I think I’m set either way.

Similar to Katie and Maggie, we have customers who leave Jesus pamphlets in the bathroom, under random tables, and I’ve even found a few in the Judaism section. If I ever find that person, you better believe they’ll never step foot in the store again. Not only is that technically illegal, but it’s flat-out rude. I understand that it’s part of Christianity, to some degree, to spread the word and share the faith with others, but statistics would prove that not everybody wants to hear it. Not at work, not while shopping, not in the middle of a food court. I do not want it in a box, I do not want it with some lox. I would not like it in a car, I would not like it near or far. I do not care for Jesus or for ham; I do not want any, so go the hell away.

In retrospect, I probably should’ve told them to pray for my Christian boyfriend since he has the unfortunate luck of dating a Jew. Or maybe I could have asked them a spiritual question or two myself — should Anne Frank have waxed? Is matzah better for constipation or diarrhea? Did Moses really part the red sea, or was that just special effects, courtesy of George Lucas? Or..

Wait, Katie and Maggie, come back! I have so many things to ask!

She took me home and spit in my drink

Crasian enters, stage left. Stage left being the front doors.

Crasian: Hello! You’re not a unicorn today. (giggles)

Me: Well, it’s not Halloween today!

Crasian: Yes. Soo.. I went to Bryn Mawr today, looked around and stuff.

Me: Did you go to the tea party?

Crasian: What? WHAT tea party?

Me: You invited me to a tea party, remember?

Crasian: No. What is Bean Friday? (she stares at my nametag, which has a sticker on it that says “ASK ME ABOUT BEAN FRIDAY”, a promotion that my store’s cafe runs every Friday)

Me: Oh, well, every Friday if you buy a bag of {coffee} beans, you get a free medium drink.

Crasian: I don’t get it.

Me: It’s a special thing we do on Fridays.

Crasian: And that’s, like, the strategy?

Me: People usually don’t buy coffee during the week because there’s no incentive.

Crasian: I see.

Me: It was Chris’s idea. (That is a lie, but a damn good one, don’t you think?)

Crasian: REALLY.

Me: Yes.

Crasian: Chris is a good, wise man. He is wise.

Me: Yes, Chris is wonderful.

Crasian: I’ll be back.

(She then goes to the cafe and demands Chris’s whereabouts from Sara. When she learns that he is not at work, she comes back to me.)

Crasian: Hello, hello there my little friend! Do you have a minute? Can I ask you something?

Me: Sure, what is it?

Crasian: This.. Bean Friday thing.

Me: Yes?

Crasian: I’m interested. I want to be a part of it.

Me: Oh yeah?

Crasian: Yes. I need to speak to Chris.

Me: He’ll be in tomorrow, actually, tomorrow night. (I should not have told her that, but hey, she comes in most every day regardless.. I’ll be there too, anyway, and can protect him)

Crasian: Good. I need to speak to him. If there’s any, you know, money or charges involved.. I can handle that. I can TAKE CARE of it.

Me: O-ookay, that sounds good.

Crasian: Okay. See you later.

I think she and Chris are now business partners, and that this is all my fault. Chris commended me on a job well done through the art of the text message, and has forgiven me for my Crasian-induced sins. Tomorrow will be marvelous; I can feel it.

Here is a story that is not so happy, and mostly awful.

A customer comes in. She wants to exchange one book for the other, because her daughter had already read the first in the series and needed the second instead. However, she didn’t have her receipt. I explained that we need the receipt. She went from normal to irate in 2.0 seconds.

Customer: SHE ALREADY THIS I WANT TO RETURN IT AND GET THE OTHER ONE I BOUGHT THIS HERE THIS IS YOUR STICKER I AM GOING TO RETURN THIS AND GET THAT ONE

Me: That’s fine, I see that, you NEED a receipt though –

Customer (talking over me like I am not there): I AM GOING TO RETURN THIS BOOK I BOUGHT THIS HERE I DO NOT HAVE THE RECEIPT OKAY I AM GOING TO RETURN THIS

Me: ..no, you NEED to have the RECEIPT.

It went on like this for another minute until the daughter appeared with the receipt in hand. The mother and daughter had a ton of receipts wrapped around four or five gift cards from the store. I suppose it is terribly, terribly hard to keep track of so many gift cards. Imagine if those gift cards were babies! Poor things, they’d never get fed.

Customer: I HAVE MY RECEIPT, I AM GOING TO RETURN THIS BOOK.

Me (breathing sigh of relief which was only temporary): Okay, fine. You owe another $3.71.

Customer: Okay, here’s a gift card with a couple dollars and some change left on it.

Me: You still owe ninety-four cents.

Customer: Okay, here’s this gift card.. how much is left on this?

(You can’t check the balance of a gift card mid-transaction, and as it was extremely busy, I was not about to go hop on another register just to check the card and then come back. 99.9% of customers are ignored when they ask to check the balance mid-transaction. They usually don’t care, because the balance is printed on the receipt at the end anyway. So I continue doing the exchange.)

Me: This one has.. $49.06 left on it.

Customer: WELL IF I HAD KNOWN IT HAD THAT MUCH ON IT I WOULDN’T HAVE GIVEN IT TO YOU, I WOULD HAVE GIVEN YOU THIS OTHER ONE, I ASKED YOU TO CHECK THE BALANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (breathes fire)

Me: I can’t DO THAT mid-transaction. I was in the middle of the transaction.

Customer: Well, can you put the ninety-four cents back on it??!?!?!?!?!??!?! (breathes fire)

Me: No, these aren’t reloadable. (They never have been)

Customer: WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT IF I ASKED YOU TO CHECK THE BALANCE (breathes fire)

Me: I was in the middle of the transaction. I was doing the return for YOU. I can’t go back. I can return the ninety-four cents and put it on a brand-new card, but not this one.

Customer: WELL HOW DOES THAT HELP mumble mumble mumble

Me: Look, I’m sorry. I apologi –

Customer: THANKS.

Me: But I can’t go back.

Customer (to daughter): FORGET THIS BOOKSTORE, WE’RE GOING TO (insert rival chain here)

Considering she didn’t lose any fucking money, I don’t know why the hell she was being such a dickslap. Look, I’m sure it’s so nice and comforting to have a $50 gift card instead of a $49.06 one, but GET. THE. FUCK. OVER. IT. You are a GROWN WOMAN, I am sure your daughter was thoroughly embarrassed (the children generally are in these situations), and I was not about to bend over backwards for somebody like you. If you are going to be rude and talk to me like I am mentally deficient and have earmuffs on, then I will do evil wicked naughty things like let you pay for a book that you almost could not return for in the first place but luckily you found the receipt at the last minute. Have fun using our gift cards at the other store, lady. Oh, wait. You won’t be able to.

Seriously, and you wonder why retail managers grow up and hate themselves. It’s people like you, madame, who are not making this world go round, but instead square. Thanks. Have a nice day.

From Superman to seduction, madness to mayhem.

Yesterday was Halloween, and thusly I spent the first half of it dressed like this:

All I can really say is that if you never want to wait on a customer at work again, wear that outfit. I lost count of how many people stared at me for a full minute, debating whether or not to ask me for help. It was even funnier because I was the only person in costume at work, thereby making me Superior On At Least Nine Levels, and also kind of a weirdo. But when the customer finally asked if we had a particular book or where a book was located, they could not make eye contact with me. It was the horn, just the horn. People are silly. And obv. jealous.

In any event, later that night my sister and I went to Philly for Of Montreal. The earlier madness of the parade had all but disappeared, and the city was instead crawling with bizarre costumes (making the unicorn seem rather tame). I opted for a lion mask that I’ve owned since age six, because I was afraid of wrecking the horn. And I can now safely say that yes, I would have come home a damaged and traumatized unicorn, so it’s probably better that I didn’t go with that. Plus it was so hot that I wouldn’t have made it out alive.

I’ve seen Of Montreal once before, again with the sis, and was prepared for a completely wild show. Add to the mix that it was Halloween, and well, I knew it was going to be even crazier.

I was nowhere near prepared for what happened.

The opener was Gang Gang Dance, a group of three guys and a girl, who is the singer. We didn’t even know who the opening act was going to be until we got there (because it didn’t really matter; Of Montreal was going to outshine them no matter what), and they turned out to be a pleasant surprise. A wailing, screeching, howling, screaming, drum-slapping, cymbal-crashing, rhythmic surprise. It was akin to being stuck in the tunnel scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory WHICH DOES NOT MEAN IT WAS BAD, just a bit trippy and made my brain hurt a little.

It seemed to take longer than usual for Kevin Barnes and his medley gang of crazies to alight the stage, but it was more than worth the wait. We were treated to the entire band minus Kevin coming out first, clad in variations of Superman costumes, climbing stairs and platforms to get to their various spots on stage. The lights then dimmed, the music thumped louder, and Kevin himself was carried out in a square, curtained box (think something along the lines of like, Cleopatra) by four golden Buddhas. Yes. Golden Buddhas.

He clambered out of the box, also dressed as Superman, and then it really began. Later costume changes included a pope – complete with a sexy nun affixing glittering sandals to his feet, a fuzzy purple bathrobe, gold hot pants with a shiny purple belt, getting covered from head to toe and all bits inbetween with red paint by the troupe of Buddhas (who had several zillion costumes themselves, such as giraffe, pig, tiger, and cockatoo heads, gigantic Hulk hands, ninja, bandits, afros and other wigs of all shapes and sizes, underwear, mustaches, bodysuits with pubic hair glued on and body parts scribbled in,…), a sequined blue jacket with matching blue frames and a large fuzzy pink fanny pack with his initials; for the grand finale, he hung himself, appeared again from within a large, silver cylindrical tube in the aforementioned hot pants, jumped around some more, and eventually emerged from a coffin in a whipped cream bodysuit.

I don’t think I could even make something like that up.

The final song of the night was Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” – arguably the most commercial, but still a song that defines a movement, a generation, and one that just hasn’t honestly been hammered out in concert in a long, long time. The Electric Factory erupted in mid-90s angst. It was insane, and the perfect end to a perfect concert. Well, not entirely perfect, as Lucas would say. There were a lot of shoves, pushes, people trying to get to the front, people smoking things they shouldn’t have been smoking, and other usual crowd experiences. But you have to expect it with any concert, and certainly Of Montreal is no exception, so we just dealt with it and thankfully kept all of our limbs attached. Though my left arm is aching to the point where when I woke up this morning, I thought I had had a shot yesterday and just didn’t remember. My ears, also, were ringing until approximately 10 am, and my throat is sore from all the screaming. But it was an amazing show, and though I am a bit sad we didn’t get to see the horse that was in NYC, it was completely worth every schedule change and shift switch and penny I spent to see them live again.

Thanks, Of Montreal. Thanks for keeping it real, and by ‘real’ I mean orgyravedancepartyremixdelight.

Also, that guy in your dance troupe has the most wicked mustache I have ever seen. He deserves a medal.