12.06.05

It's 09:00, and I'm at the shop o' doom. Dean Martin is doodley-noodling on the stereo. People have come into the shop and wanted shit done.

"Yes sir! Your 4,000 black and white copies, tri-folded, will be le dernier cri in neighbourhood association newsletter inserts. Now, mon chou whatever paper could a person of your obvious sophistication and good breeding possibly choose? I shan't have a restful moment until I know!"

*gak*

Yessirree Bob, the Susie Retail persona is firmly in place. She smiles vacuously while dreaming of tequila-toting cabana boys. Laughs like a kookaburra at witticisms hoary with age.

As we all know, anyone who works in a service position is sub-human.

On a side note, there was a customer who kept coming in to order stuff. Apparently, this is a form of courtship for him. It was this guy that told me if I did a good job with his crap, he'd take me out to dinner. I suppose this is a Great Reward, and one that I should be humbled and grateful to be offered.

ME: Dinner? With you?
CRETIN: Why yes. Just do a very good job making these posters/tickets/fliers.
ME: (breaking into genteel sobs of heretofore unknown hope and joy) Oh thank you. Thank you, sir. Your largesse is dazzling. Your magnamity is overwhelming. I...I...*sob*...

*koff*

When it became obvious that I was never, ever, ever going to go out with him he stopped picking up his orders.

I'm paid (a miniscule sum) to take customer orders. Period. This ain't a brothel. I ain't for rent.

Goodness. I am bitter.

So tonight, I'm taking myself to a brand-new tango venue. It's their opening night.

Fingers are crossed.

PS: Tango by Carlos Saura? Whoa. Beautiful. Xat sez, check it out.

Go. Be fabulous.

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