Well, shit.

It’s been awhile. My sincerest apologies. You can send all complaints to the “I work in retail; the holidays are finally almost over” Department. The little free time I did have I spent reading, eating Cap’n Crunch (the Cap’n and I, may I say, made it happen on many occasions), and appreciating the deafening silence of being home and thusly not at work. However, it’s a new year and there are new stories to share.

 

1. Crasian 

Life has been full of ups and downs for my favorite cuckoobonkers person. She has weathered a Universal Divorce from the Emperor of the Universe; she has proclaimed her love/hatred for Anderson Cooper; she has given a full-size unused (!!) Chanel lipstick to a terrified barista; she has touched me with her icy cup of water and run away, cackling. However, one of the funniest recent tales doesn’t involve me, or even my store. 

Crasian likes to make her rounds, kind of like a doctor, but only if that doctor was slightly unhinged and had a fondness for Karl Lagerfeld. Regardless, she makes frequent visits to other bookstores and cafes in the area, but also to a local mall. At this local mall works a former employee of my store, and it is there that our story takes place.

He is aware of the Crasian’s crasianosity, and also gets a kick out of provoking her. In some ways, this could be interpreted as cruel; however, she once asked somebody if they “had a death wish” because they would not wait on her, so maybe she deserves this a little bit. Anyway, he keeps in touch with several current employees, and every so often finds out the latest thing Crasian has said, in the hopes of bringing it up in conversation with her. She visits the new store that he works at, but she won’t actually step foot inside — she stands in the doorway, and talks to the same employee (not the one from my store) and refuses to go any further. Old employee will pass on the newest Crasian episode to the doorway employee, and he will then pass it on to Crasian, in the hopes of getting a reaction out of her. As she usually feigns memory loss or will act completely normal when anyone tries to bring up a past thing she’s said, I suppose it was only a matter of time before she actually reacted.

One day, Crasian came into my store and was talking to Chris about being a “Shadow Hunter”, whatever the hell that means. I can only hope it means she’s secretly a superhero, fighting in the shadows of the night for truth, love, and justice. But it’s probably just a code word for “cuckoobonkers”. So Chris relayed this to the former employee, who relayed this to the doorway employee, who let the bomb drop later that week when Crasian waddled up to him.

“I hear you’re a Shadow Hunter,” he whispered to her. 

“What?” she asked.

“SO AM I,” he gasped, and she turned tail and ran away. 

First of all, that’s amazingly funny. Secondly, I felt really sad after I heard about it, because, after all, she is crazy and we shouldn’t be treating her like that. Thirdly, she is crazy and.. well, she is crazy. It rubs off on you after awhile. 

The other day, she came up to me, patted me on the arm, and asked if I was okay. This is a fairly common occurrence; I must look fairly miserable at work. I assured her that I was fine, but she didn’t believe me.

“Did your boyfriend break up with you?” she whispered.

“..no, he just works somewhere else now,” I said.

“So you don’t see him everyday? I understand. I UNDERSTAND. It’s going to be okay,” she said, in the most soothing way a lunatic can sound soothing. I nodded, and she waved goodbye, waddling towards the wedding magazines. I guess not even a Universal Divorce can keep her spirits down.

And so that brings me to:

2. The Aforementioned Boyfriend, Whose Name is Justin

He is indeed employed elsewhere; you read that correctly. It is a place full of magic, wonderment, and oh yes, video games. It is true at last; The Tall One is animating video games for a living. It’s only been a couple weeks, but it is still exciting news, and perhaps more exciting news will follow shortly. But in the meantime, he is very tall, and very pleased with himself, and this means I had better get a job not in retail one of these days. Soon, soon.

3. My Teeth

Because it’s always about my teeth at some point, isn’t it? Well, today I went to the orthodontist and it was one of Those Visits. The majority of the time, it’s a wire out here, a new wire in there, swapping out of bands, and we all go home happy. Unfortunately, there were enough of those that today was bound to happen, and happen it did.

Last time I went, roughly five or six weeks ago, I had my bottom wire adjusted. The orthodontist bent two small skinny U-shapes, on either side of my four front bottom teeth, and led me to believe it was supposed to change the course of the future. Well, for my teeth; not really for anything truly life-changing. And so I went home, slightly sore, but in a mite more pain than usual. Because, you see, while the left U-shape was behaving itself, the right U-shape was cackling maniacally and ramming itself into my mouth. An altogether unpleasant experience. I waited it out for five days, thinking perhaps I needed to adjust (because things of this nature have happened before), but it became clear that my wire needed adjusting instead. I popped in for an emergency visit, whereupon the orthodontist, in all his toothly glory, said, “Ooh! That’s poking you, isn’t it?”

I am glad to know that my teeth are making payments on his Mercedes.

He bent the wire back within a matter of seconds, and sent me on my merry way again. Unfortunately, while the wire was indeed fixed, it was not fixed enough, and I spent the last five weeks going through tubes of Orajel. (I would have gone back again, but I didn’t see the point. The more I complain, the more painful the visits can be sometimes, so it’s better to just suck it up and buy stock in Orajel.) 

Of course, a mere two days ago, my teeth shifted that blessed centimeter, and the wire was at last away from the insides of my mouth. (It hadn’t been able to heal properly, because the wire kept rubbing against the spot. Aren’t you pleased you got braces when you were eleven, like normal people do?) So today when I tra-la-laed to the orthodontist, I was feeling better, mouthwise, than usual.

This feeling dissolved about fifteen minutes into the appointment.

There are six chairs total in the office; four in the big, main room, and two in a room that is an offshoot of the main one. I used to assume the two-chaired room was the one reserved for screamers, cryers, and the patients that nobody wanted to deal with, because I used to always be there. Now I know that it has no significance whatsoever; it’s whatever chair happens to be free. Anyway, today I was in the big room, the 2nd chair from the window, but the 3rd chair, if you were counting them the other way. I was waiting for the orthodontist to check my teeth first, because he’s the one who pokes around, tells a hygenist what to do, and then they are the ones who do the real work. The orthodontist will come back at the end, take one last look at my pathetic teef, and say, “Okay, see you in six weeks!”

Good to know, again, that he is getting paid the big bucks.

So there I sat, in my chair, awaiting the orthodontist’s unmistakable cologne and prodding fingers. He cologned over, prodded, nodded, and went on to the next patient. I also learned that I have another three months before the gaps on the top of my mouth close up. Considering they were supposed to close up, oh, hm, December of 2007, let’s hope it really happens this time. (My teeth are older and thusly slow movers. Again, aren’t you happy that you had braces when you were eleven?)

All of the other chairs were filled, and they were short a hygenist this morning, so it was getting a little hectic. One hygenist asked the orthodontist if the 3rd chair (the girl next to me, technically) was ready for her wire. The orthodontist, who was poking at the teeth in the 1st chair (on the other side of me) said, “Yes, she is” and turned his attention back to the 1st chair’s teeth. The hygenist proceeded to put in the 3rd chair’s wire, pronounced it done, and the orthodontist said, “No, not her! I meant HER!” Pointing to me.

The hygenist blinked for a minute. The orthodontist said, “I thought you asked if HER wire was ready, and it is! I hadn’t looked at that other wire yet!” (He has to approve any changes made to a wire, or bracket, or whatever, before it’s put in anyone’s mouth.) By then, 3rd chair had already walked back over to her mother, so the hygenist had to call her back and proceed to take out the wire that she had just put in. A frustrating situation, to be sure, but misunderstandings happen. 

However, by the time that same hygenist had taken out 3rd chair’s wire and come over to put in MY wire, she was not exactly happy. She wasn’t really mad, either, just slightly annoyed. It’s not like putting in wires is easy, and it’s certainly not easy to take them out again, and she also kind of was reprimanded in front of everyone even though technically, it was more the ortho’s fault than hers. He did apologize, but the damage was done.

So you can imagine my complete and utter horror when, in the midst putting the wire back on my upper teeth, she jammed it right into the gums above my back molars.

Let us take a moment of silence for my inflamed gums.

Tears were rolling down my face, unashamed, as she muttered, apologized, stood up and walked over to get her glasses (that I guess she should have been wearing to begin with.. sigh), muttered again, apologized again, and she attempted to remove the wire from my gums. She poked me again. Harder.

Let us take an hour of silence.

The bit of wire was eventually extracted from my gums, and I was told to “brush back there”, even after we both agreed it’s a pretty tight squeeze, what with the metal band around my back molars and tangle of wires and things. I can only brush so well, madame, and my teeth do not deserve such torment. 

I slathered on a layer of Orajel when I got in the car, before driving home, and I think it’s finally begun to uninflame itself. But really. REALLY.

4. One last one, for good measure.

There are many delightful customer stories to share, but this one is a favorite.

I was assisting at the register the other day because we were a bit short-handed. A girl approached me, probably around my age but I’m betting a couple years older, and presented me with a Wedding Planning kit that she wanted to return.

“Do you have your receipt?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, and slid it across the counter. She was fairly short, with dark hair and big eyes and looked terrified of something. I don’t think it was of me; I think she’s just somebody who has that permanent “Deer in the Headlights” look going on. 

I looked at the receipt, which was a string of other wedding planning items, and I concluded that she had recently gotten engaged and bought a ton of crap the minute it happened, and was only just now realizing one only needs so many books and kits. Upon further inspection, I realized the date on there was older than 30 days.

“I’m sorry, I actually can’t take this back,” I said.

“Why not?” she asked, blinking stupidly.

“Well, it’s older than 30 days. We can only take back items with a receipt within 30 days,” I explained.

There was a quiet moment as she contemplated this.

“But it says 60 days on the back of the receipt,” she said, and turned it over. I didn’t look because I didn’t need to.

“It’s 60 with a gift receipt, yes. But 30 with a regular one. I apologize; I didn’t know what the date was on your receipt until you gave it to me.”

She stood there. I think a brain cell wept.

“Well, what am I supposed to DO with this?” she asked.

Can I just interject and say WHY do people ASK me that? What do you think I’m going to tell you? Surely you can donate this to a library, give it to a friend who is also newly engaged, or put it up for sale on the internet?

I apologized again.

“Can I see the manager, please?” she asked, bravely.

“I am the manager,” I told her, in a voice made of ice.

Now, that is a halftruth. I am not really a manager manager, per se, but as the only supervisor on the clock for the rest of the evening, I was technically a manager because I was in charge. However, this girl died a little bit when she heard me say that. A part of her was thinking, “YOU? HOW OLD ARE YOU, REALLY? BRACES? DO YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THIS?”

But all she said aloud was, “Okay.. um.. thank you.” 

She walked out the door and the cashier next to me hooted with laughter. 

It was a shining moment in an otherwise dull evening.