Monday, May 5, 2008

Beyond "Granola."

I forgot to tell my coworkers about this last bit...

I had a tough couple of patients/customers today, the kind who need your assistance with something that you can't wrap up the same day, but that instead requires an insane amount of follow through and that will SURELY be all for not, when they are thankless and down right rude about your presumed failure. How's that for a run on rant of a sentence. Truly, I love my job and caring for the people who make my job possible is what I'm all about. UNLESS... those people turn on me and act as if they are the King or Queen of Siam and expect me to play chicken in the road of life they barrel down called Arrogance N. W. or Absolute Ass Way.

In any event, one of these thorny-types was truly wacky today and I'm trying to convince myself that it won't be necessary to run away for three weeks in order to avoid the unpleasantness of their return. This particular person was looking for a particular product and had never been in to see us before, but acted as if I should have known to order in fifteen of the exact type of frame she wanted in advance of her "viewing appointment." Sorry, doesn't work that way. I offered in the fifteen nicest ways I know how, to take care of this person and to order what they wanted, but getting to the point where they were leaving and I had a plan for what to order was like sitting through a dental cleaning. Painful, cold, frustrating (because someone keeps talking to you and you can't respond) and infuriating because you are actually CHARGED for this TORTURE! While we were working through the pain of it all, there was a child present... I say child because I'm still not sure if it was a boy or a girl. This child was approximately eight years old and had matted, nasty dreads down to their bum. The hair on this little person's head was like a wild beast that had been rubbing against one hundred balloons for twenty-four hours straight creating an intense amount of friction, static and CHAOS atop their wee head and the hair was thus outrageously unbearable for someone like myself who sees a head of hair and instantly wants to braid it. You could not in a million years braid the hair on that child's head, as long and thick and lovely as it might be in it's natural state, they have ruined it and made the child appear like an extra in Waterworld. The point of this commentary wasn't even about the hair however, it was about the thing the child said. You do need to have a visual though to make the comment even more peculiar.

While I was working with the parent, the child kept interrupting and asking to be allowed to "spit on to it's fingers and then rub the spit in to the parents eyebrows." Huh!?!? WTF. An insatiable desire to spit-grease your mom or dad's eyebrows is WACKO. So, if you can believe it, the parent declined the child's offer several times and when the child kept on pressing the issue the argument was made that "you let me do it this morning in bed." To which I quietly
replied... "Oh, that's the problem. You have bed hair."

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