Apparently Santa has no idea what to do with himself in the off season. I saw a dead ringer for Saint Nick--albeit in a pair of dirty jean overalls and with skin more sunburnt than merrily rosy--walking through my store for several hours the other day. This wouldn't have been of note were it not for the fact that he was pushing a shopping cart backwards through the aisles the whole time, handle curving out in front as if it fully expected to have animatronic reindeer lashed to it at any moment.
Or at least an animatronic singing buck. (See: studies, part 3)
Following close behind him most of the time was a small, irritable woman who insisted on carrying her entire find--including furniture items--in her arms, then proceeded to complain about the weight when she dumped them on the cashier.
Holograms: The Latest Fashion Trend
We have some of our more expensive items locked in glass cases in front of the cash registers. A woman with a barely interpretable accent asked me to open one of them one day so she could look at a fairly nondescript wristwatch. She turned it this way and that, tapped on it in various places, then looked up at me.
"Is real?"
I looked at the watch.
"Er, well, the brand isn't a particularly well-known one, so I imagine it is an original of the--"
"Yeayea, no--is it REAL?"
"Is...is the watch real?"
Fervent nodding.
"Yes. Yes, I imagine so."
Losing--And Finding--My Religion
Our at-work radio is not something I'm proud of. It's a light rock station piped in from Greenville, SC, just when I thought I'd escaped everything from that soul-barren pit. I have a song from it stuck in my head right now. I don't know the title. I don't know the artist. I don't even really know the words. I just have the tune echoing and re-echoing in the musical battleground that my mind has become, a minefield littered with Elton John, Christina Aguilera, and Taylor Swift. Occasionally the Allies try to regroup, Tracy Chapman and Eric Clapton sending out desperate signals (mostly minor chords) to the massed encampment of the gypsy punk jazz blues folk rock resistance, but they rarely receive an answer.
So it's a sad day when that radio station going out is a cause for regret. I have come to know that day. I learned from one of the other leads that we have a list of four radio stations we're allowed to listen to. I switched to the nearest one, and was rewarded with the following riveting dialogue:
Stupid Man Announcer: So, apparently a mathematician in Greenville, South Carolina says he's found a formula that will allow him to solve any sudoku puzzle.
Backup Female Announcer Who Never Says Anything Longer Than a Syllable: Oh?
Stupid Man Announcer: You know what I say? GET A LIFE!
BFAWNSALTS: *hysterical laughter, approximating the sound of an elephant going into labor*
Stupid Man Announcer: Apparently Madonna has adopted ANOTHER baby!
BFAWNSALTS: Oh?
Stupid Man Announcer: Maybe she wanted a playmate for her boyfriend!
BFAWNSALTS: *high-frequency "awwwooooowoooooo!!!", sort of like if someone spilled their milk in the cafeteria in 8th grade*
Even better, Stupid Man Announcer came to the following conclusion on gender differences: "Now, if a woman is still a virgin when she's 27, you could say she's just been good. But for a guy...man...something's wrong."
I don't even know where to start on that one.
I don't even know where to start on that one.
As a brighter point to that day, I had a marvelous find: a t-shirt with a well-worn picture on it of a monk (in full habit) bouncing on a trampoline. The only text, bold and huge: JUMPING FOR JESUS!
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