No Jury of Retail Workers Would Convict Me

Mrs. F. and her husband were in the store a couple of weeks ago to buy sheets. She wanted something neutral but brownish for a guest room. After rejecting the few neutral patterns we have on sale (and god forbid she buy something in the full-price line), she and her husband latched onto a pattern called "Zelda" - a loud, eye-bending, ugly-as-hell, brown and beige zebra stripe. They liked the sheets (because they were cheap), and then bickered at length over what coverlet to get - or get a duvet cover instead of a coverlet? Which pattern duvet cover - Zelda or "Bivouac", a very ugly brown/beige/black plaid? A solid beige? Cool beige or warm beige?

After an hour or so they nailed down which one they wanted (zebra sheets and plaid coverlet), and then decided that they needed a dust ruffle, and started in all over again with the bickering and indecision. By this time, I wanted a stiff drink (and I don't drink!), but the fun had only just begun. See, with a dust ruffle, there is not only the bed size, but the drop to consider - the distance from the box spring to the floor. There is no standard size; it varies depending on the thickness of the box spring and height of the bed frame. I had to explain this. I had to explain why a queen, California king or twin won't work on a double bed; I had to explain box pleat v. ruffled; I had to explain plateau v. panel skirt, and how to adjust the drop on a panel skirt. Mr. F. got this idea fairly quickly, but when I tried to explain it to Mrs. F., she stared at me, totally bewildered. I felt as if I was trying to explain it to a pigeon or a goat or a jar of mayonnaise or something which has a total lack of comprehension.

After a lot more explaining (on my part) and bickering (on theirs), and comparing and waffling, Mrs. F. decided on a plain sand-colored skirt, but did not know the drop she needed. So they bought the sheets and shams and coverlet, and said they'd go home, measure and call or come back to buy the skirt.

Later that afternoon, Mr. F. came back and bought the 18" full-size solid sand ruffled skirt. Good riddance, I thought as he left, to both the hideous sheets and the PIA customers.

Then - this past Sunday, Mrs. F. called. The skirt was the wrong size. Labeled full, it was a twin. She'd opened it, thrown out the packaging and had it ironed. Could she still return it?

Deep sigh. If something is mislabeled, and the customer bought it in good faith, then of course we have to take it back, so I said yes. She said she'd be in Thursday, when I'd be there all day, because she didn't want to deal with my manager Nancy. I have a feeling that she knows Nancy and has dealt with her before, and since Nancy does not give any quarter to fools, did not want to deal with her again.

So this morning I was running around, trying to fill special orders and do a big pile of shipping, when Mrs F. came in with the skirt draped over a cleaner's hanger. I apologized for the mislabeling (not my fault, of course, but y'know) and, assuming she did not have the receipt, set about trying to determine how much I was going to have to refund her. But before I'd done that, Mrs. F. started in.

"Do you have a birthday gift for my daughter?"

I paused, thinking, am I supposed to give your daughter a gift?

"She's kind of artsy," she continued in her faint, uncertain voice.

I said that we don't have much that's really "artsy" (it is a linen shop, after all), the only thing being a book of panoramic photos of Paris. But Mrs. F. had her eye on a small, thin terry bathrobe, recently marked down from an obscene $310 to a slightly less obscene $186. She flipped the tag over and read it. "Is that the price? Good god! Get out of here! Can't you do any better than that?"

Here I have to pause and say something. Bargaining at a flea market is fine. Bargaining at a farmers' market, if you are buying enough stuff, can be acceptable.

But you DO NOT go into a high-end (or low end, come to think of it) shop and haggle with the sales clerks. This is NOT the Souk in Marrakesh! The sales clerks are at the bottom of the retail authority totem pole, and do not have the authority to knock off a few bucks or a few percentage points from the price. It is akin to going into a school and haggling with the teacher's aide about tuition. You might wear down some of us through your single-minded persistence, but though you may save a negligible amount, you damage your karma, and leave the store with the sales staff hissing insults and making faces and rude gestures at your retreating form, and making crude and unkind remarks about your IQ.

Back to Mrs. F.: I told her that this pattern of robe was just marked down and is at 40% off, firm.

"I want something for under a hundred dollars," she said. Whether she realistically expected me to knock $87 off the $186 price, I do not know.

So away we went, around and around the store. "Any small robes other than this? How about any extra-smalls? How about this one? Can you give me a better price? Is there someone you can ask to find out if you can reduce the price? How about small PJs? No? can you go look in the back? Can you call the other stores and find one for me?"

I finally said, loudly, "I don't have the authority to lower the prices! I only work here part time!"

I think that finally got through to her, but she went back to the first robe and hemmed and hawed, and complained and whined (whining is SO unbecoming in adults), and finally, just to get rid of her, I said, "I can bring it down to $150, but I CAN NOT make it any less than that."

She sighed and grimaced and finally said she'd take it, though it was expensive and probably too big ("Are you sure you don't have this in extra-small?").

So... I went back to trying to find out how much she'd paid for the damn dust ruffle (remember the dust ruffle?) while she looked the robe over.

"Oh, it's damaged," she said. "Look at this - it's damaged."

I squinted, peering at where she was plucking with her manicured nails, exacerbating a place where a single loop of terry stuck up about half a millimeter above the rest. "I still can't bring it down to less than $150."

"Do you have another?"

I know that we don't; this is a onesie. But I went to the back room and tore robes off the shelf, seething, wanting to punch the wall (at the very least). Then I heard her coming, and figured she was on her way into the stock room, so I threw the robes back onto the shelf and returned to the front. "I'm sorry, that's the only one."

"God damn it," she said. I felt the same way. If I could have sold her a fresh robe and shoved her out the door, I would have, in a heartbeat. But I knew I was going to have to do a return on the dust ruffle with no sale to cancel the hit I'd take in dollars. Again I resumed trying to find the price of the refund.

A forlorn hope: "Would you happen to have your receipt, so I can refund the correct price?" But of course she didn't.

Deep sigh.... I finally just took a guess and said that I thought that $75 sounded right, and she agreed. It was probably too much, but I didn't care. It would be worth the extra money just to be rid of her.

So as I was ringing up the refund, the FedEx guy came in with some packages, and Mrs. F. accosted him. "Can you tell me where the ----- ---- is?"

He hesitated, looking a little alarmed. "The ----- ---- Spa?"

She said yes, the spa, and he gave her directions, which naturally she didn't understand, so he had to start over. He glanced at me, his eyes big; I looked back at him the same way.

I was ringing the refund - hands shaking - pushed the wrong button - had to start over. Scribbled an illegible signature for the FedEx guy and sent him on his way, and finally got the refund to go through. Mrs. F. was now impatient and in a hurry to get to her appointment at the spa she didn't know how to find. She told me to call other stores and find the robe she wanted, and send it to her - she TOLD me, did not ask. I jotted her number on a paper and said I'd call right away. (Not going to. To hell with it; it'd only encourage her.) She finally left, saying "Have a nice day."

"Too late," I said, hopefully loud enough so she heard.

Now, there are people I genuinely like to see come through the door: Mrs. E., a sweet, soft-spoken Frenchwoman, and her sister M., are my favorites, the nicest people you could hope to meet; Mr. and Mrs. L. from Massachusetts; the L's from New York; Ava S., who never spends less than $1000 and is funny and pleasant, if a tad frenetic; Mr. B., a flouncy, expressive, effusive gay man who is more feminine than I am. There are also Mary S. and Judy H., both fellow retail workers; Judy in particular is always sympathetic and ready for a good mutual gripe.

Then there are people like Mrs. F., who make me want to scream and swear, make me think that going out in the yard and dropping a sledgehammer on my foot would be more enjoyable than one single minute more spent in retail. Then there's Mrs. L.B.G., who flits around the store with the same amount of native intelligence in her eyes as a Snickers bar, who once kept us 45 minutes after closing on the Sunday of Black Friday weekend, asking "Is this powder-roomy or bathroomy?" and "What color is this?" and "Will my granddaughter like this?" and (swear to god) "Is this pretty?" and then had the effrontery to complain about the size of the bow I had tied in the ribbon on the package that I was in no way obligated to wrap for her. "Oh, I'm so disappointed," she said sadly, with light flashing off the almond-sized diamond on her finger. "The bow is too small."

Linda intervened, seeing that I was about to tie a very small bow indeed around Mrs. L.B.G's neck. I went to the back room and tried not to have an infarction, while I could hear Mrs. L.B.G. saying, "Some people have such a short fuse. All I want is a pretty gift to give. Is that too much to ask?"

Then there's Lucie G... but she's fodder for another post - maybe even a whole blog of her own.

I think I've blown off my head of steam... the cup of strong chamomile tea I just finished helped, too. Hungry now... time for lunch. 12:29pm

-----
After I scribbled this in my notebook, I went to warm up my lunch, and found that the soup I'd brought had "gone off", and mice had raided my box of crackers, leaving me with nothing but a Rice Krispies treat and a jar of peanut butter for lunch. I hung the "back in 15" sign in the door and headed for the car, when someone drove in. I was then badgered for 25 minutes by a woman with an appallingly nasal voice who wanted something sleek and elegant and black & white, but cheap and disposable because her husband is a slob. She kept standing too close to me, too.

When she left I made a dash for the supermarket and got soup and a salad at the deli, and for a blissful hour got to sit still, savor my food, thinking the day had to improve from here.

Then at about 2.30pm, Mrs. F came back!!! She was fresh and relaxed from the spa, and asked if I'd heard back from the other stores about her robe. I lied - said I'd called and left messages but hadn't heard back, and would let her know as soon as I found out what was up. She whined, and grimaced, and said she wanted me to call them NOW. Backed into a corner, I hadn't any choice, so called one outlet - no luck. Called another - got put on hold for nearly 10 minutes - pacing, with Mrs. F. following me as I paced.

The 2nd outlet had one, thank all the gods and goddesses in the firmament! Then Mrs. F. had detailed instructions - where to send it, how to send it, how to wrap it, enclose a card, take price off, make sure it gets to NY by the first of May, etc. etc. etc. I assured her it would all be taken care of, and she finally left, and at least she did thank me for my trouble.

Then about 10 minutes later she called and reminded me to be sure the price was removed before the robe was sent.

Incidentally, the robe is going to someone in an apartment overlooking Central Park, to wear at her beach house.

You know the show "Dirty Jobs"? I have a mind to tell Mike Rowe that he should spend a day in retail, being badgered, insulted, sneered at and ordered around by rich, whining, spoiled, clueless airheads with elephantine senses of entitlement. I'm sure he'd prefer scraping out garbage trucks, kennels and bilges. At least the filth he gets into washes off.

_____

When I got to work on April 28, I learned that Mrs. F's daughter didn't like the robe, and wanted to exchange it.

Snow on Daffodils

A few weeks ago, it was Spring. Officially, of course, on March 20th, when the sun crossed the Equator on its way north. About 2 weeks after that, it was summer here. Not calendrical summer, of course, but with the sun beating down on us and temperatures pushing 85 degrees - of course that's summer, isn't it?

At around the time of the equinox, there was a spell of quite pleasant, mild weather - sunny, a warm southwest breeze, temperatures climbing into the 60s and even the lower 70s in the odd warm spot. This lasted about 5 days before the weather turned off cold and rainy-snowy again. We had quite a lot of rain, though not as much as RI and coastal MA. No floods here to speak of - only what is common in springtime.

After the hard rains blew out to sea, we hit another warm spell. Not warm - HOT. Even the cool, sheltered hollows were in the low 70s, and the broad, sunny valleys climbed into the mid and upper 80s. It was glorious. People came outdoors the way ladybugs appear in the springtime, reveling in the return of warmth. Obscenely loud motorcycles filled the roads. Convertible tops were folded back.

Snow shrank and disappeared, and rivers rose. Buds popped on the lilacs and popples, and maples bloomed, putting an end to the sugaring season. Coltsfoot emerged through the crust of sand and dirt on the roadsides, dusting the ground with gold, and daffodils and forsythia burst into golden bloom. Birds came back - song sparrows, white-throated sparrows, chipping sparrows, phoebes, swallows, blackbirds.

Of course we all knew it would not last. April is nothing if not fickle, and about a week after the summer-like warmth had begun, it ended. Clouds rolled in and the wind turned from SW to NW, and it began to rain.

The weather since then has been unsettled - some cool, brisk days, with a thin, sharp wind that cuts away any warmth the sun might provide; dark, lowering days of rain and fog; a couple of winter-cold days, with ice on the bird bath and wet snowflakes plopping to the ground. Higher places are dusted with a fresh coating of snow; some places got as much as 4 inches.

This morning I took pity on a daffodil. It had sprouted up and budded just at the end of the warm spell, and had opened its flower to cold wind and cloudy skies. it looked cheerful despite the chill, a little, single splash of bright yellow against the soggy brown of last year's fallen leaves. Two nights ago, however, it snowed - not enough to stick, but enough to bend the poor daff until its golden head was lying on the leaves.

I passed it a couple of times, feeling sorry for it, but today I could stand it no longer. Something - wind, a scuttling mouse, a scratching bird - had kicked some leaves up and nearly buried the flower, so I picked it, and now it is standing up in a glass of water on the kitchen counter. Not in its natural home, but once again with its head up.

That's April. Sweet and fickle, blowing hot and cold, promising and then denying. Snow on daffodils.