Apparently, good taste and common sense are no longer considered either good or common.
I can say that. I’m an HR manager. I see the absolute best, and absolute worst, both the general public and my employees have to offer.
Working in retail is eye-opening, to say the least.
In the six months that I’ve been doing this particular job, I’ve seen an entry-level employee punch a senior manager. I’ve seen a petite, harmless-looking woman climb up in the face of a man three times her size and verbally assault him, spittle flying. I’ve seen a senior manager invite an entry-level employee out drinking.
I’ve processed FMLA maternity leave for a woman who was impregnated by a married fellow employee who was her junior in both age and rank.
If you think working in retail on a sales floor will sour you on the human race, you should come sit in my office for an afternoon.
And it just keeps getting more and more interesting.
Retail in general – as a reflection on the human (American) condition, is not confidence-inspiring. We went to a drugstore tonight to pick up Rhett’s medication (and pay for Sharkman’s, because [edited for inappropriate exmarital referential content], but I digress…). Lest I be distracted by the temptation of telling you all about how my husband was squeeing over stuffed Santas, allow me to share with you instead a holiday horror.
There were Jersey Shore ornaments.
As in, the things you hang on Christmas trees in your living room window from bendy little metal hooks. Or ribbons, if you’re some demented Martha Stewart type.
Ornaments. Of Snooki, and the Sensation, or Situation, or whateverthefuck he’s called. And the other guy. Because the only two Jersey Shore characters I can name are Snooki and the Snitch. I mean, Sitch. I mean, whatever.
At least, I think they were supposed to be those characters. And no, they’re not people, they’re characters. I’m not really sure that’s what they were supposed to be, though. For one thing, they weren’t quite orange enough to be completely recognizable.
And for another, I’m relatively certain that I’ve actually managed to avoid looking at anything in popular media long enough to recognize any of those train wrecks.
Thanks be to the tiny baby Jeezus for that.
I’ll spare you my agonized wailing – the elegantly coiffed shopping demographic at the drugstore got plenty of that.
But I might not have been quite so traumatized if I hadn’t been subjected already to waiting in line behind a young lady who forgot her clothing at home this evening.
This striking Amazon of a girl (no, really. I’m 5’4″ (almost) and this chick was at least 5’10”. Amazon is the appropriate term) was wearing a pair of stretchy cotton boy shorts – like the panties style. She had on a light grey camisole over a dark bra. When she turned her back to me, there was butt cheek hanging out the bottom of her bottoms.
Did I mention it’s 18* outside this evening? We’re having a cold snap.
And these were her clothes.
It was People of Walmart, right in front of me, live and in color.
So of course my camera phone is broken.
The one time in my entire life to date that I see something that internet worthy, and I can’t even take a damn picture.
This is precisely my luck, let me tell you.
Did I also mention that she was approximately 65 pounds overweight?
Now, don’t go jumping my shit about how big is beautiful and how modern mainstream media has bastardized feminine beauty in all its variety. I know all that. I don’t like skinny chicks, either. I don’t think you have to be built like Barbie.
But there is such a thing as playing to your strengths, and this poor, unfortunate soul had n o n e.
In a week where I have performed three formal investigations for such basic human stupidity as a) screaming at a coworker in the middle of the sales floor, b) not locking a company vehicle and allowing said vehicle to be robbed clean by other savory types, and c) making sexual innuendo in a closed room to another, junior employee of the opposite sex, this was just not the day for a visual assault of this level of violence.
For the love of dog, as my darling Tomboyus Femmenus would say (did I even kind of spell that right???), get a grip, get a clue, and put on some damn clothes.