complain-a-lot

I think I’m going to stop doing nightly recaps of the shifts I’m working during the closing down of my bookstore. The reason that I started is that I wanted a record of the process as it happened, but very quickly, it just turned into a nightly bitch session.

I need to relegate that to my own disordered mind and possibly to Tyler, privately. Doing it here is just making me a bitchier person and I definitely do not want to go back down that road again.

Tonight I pissed off not one but two ladies because I wasn’t asking for the paid membership card. I’m not sure I’m fully to blame for that because we were told not too long ago to quit asking. The first lady got pissed off because this had happened after the transaction was over, and I can understand her disgruntledness at that, but she got uppity and left before I was able to explain to her that we could have canceled the transaction out and started fresh. So I wrote that one off fairly quickly.

The second woman didn’t even give me a chance to complete the transaction. She asked why I didn’t ask for the card, and I went through the usual spiel I’ve been using the last few days. “Do you have the paid one?” “That don’t matter,” she snapped, leaning over the counter. “Why didn’t you ask? You s’poseda ask.”

I instantly got angry because if there’s one thing I hate more than being questioned about why I do things, it’s being questioned in poorly-enunciated, low-grammar backwoods trash accents. “Because I no longer have to,” I snapped back. And I mean snapped. I put my face directly in hers and I growled. “I. Don’t. Have. To.

She threw the cookies she was going to buy into the Blu-Ray basket and went off to find the service manager. Not before telling me that I was the reason this store was going under. Rather, “people like you.She used the term ‘people like you,’ and that made me madder.

That’s right, this was all over a bag of cookies, priced at $1.50. Over fifteen cents.

I spent the rest of the night seething over it, hoping for all that is holy that we finally end the discount card use this week. And then my thoughts got more vile. I wished that woman harm. I wished that she had a stroke, or something painful and befitting someone that I felt was like the shrew-like mother in Carrie. And I wanted to come back here and type all that out on my blog when I got home.

I feel ashamed of that now. I typed it out because I needed to see how it felt. It felt good, but briefly. Then I just felt dumb. The better thing, the classier thing to do, was to just talk this out, like I did earlier tonight with Tyler, and let it go.

It is so hard for me to let things go, and in this instance it makes me no better than that woman who threw her cookies. She threw a fit over fifteen cents. And here I was wanting her dead over fifteen cents.

No more of this, I told myself.

No more war stories.

I’m going to post pix of my store as we go through each shift, on Facebook as I have been the last two weeks. This will be a better way for me to memorialize this unique time in my life in the workforce, rather than coming on here, a blog that was meant to cover my writing Bloodbound, and bitching it up something royal.

But one opinion about this night will not change:

This woman was in her late 60s, and this was over fifteen cents. She still needs to grow the hell up.

And I will continue to try.

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