9 posts tagged “customer”

good grief.

what a shift.

I suspected that things were going to gang a bit agley during this shift when I stepped into the ladies' room before starting my shift.  While applying powder and lipstick, I saw this conversation between a woman and her three-ish grandson, who was washing his hands:

Grandson:  "Don't WANNA wash hands!"

Grandma: "Okay, then just wipe them with this wet paper towel."

(Grandson does so, then throws wet and germy paper towel on the floor.  His older sister reaches to pick it up.)

Grandma: "Oh, just leave that; they get paid to do that." (ie, clean up such messes)

They leave restroom.  They couldn't have known that I worked there.

What the heck?  Oh, c'mon, ubicaritas, I said.  This one thing doesn't mean that the shift is going to go badly.  Honestly, lighten up already.

Not ten minutes later, I am blissfully sipping an iced coffee.  I go to set it on a shelf at the customer service desk and somehow misjudge the distance.  I spend the next twenty minutes wiping  hazelnut latte off of the desk, the computer screens, the binders, the phone book, the keyboards, the signs, etc.  How on earth did eight ounces or so of liquid splatter that far and that effectively?  Eh, whatever.  Didn't really need the caffeine anyway, right? 

The phone rings.  "Do you sell books by black authors?" No, we have a strict whites-only policy.  "Yes ma'am, we do."

Help various customers. 

The phone rings again.  "So y'all are selling books now?"  No, we've decided to focus exclusively on armadillos..  "Yes, we do."

Help various other customers, many of whom want to know if we have items in stock, but don't want them when we do.  What the heck?

The phone rings again.  "Do you have AP study guides?"  "Yes, we do; for which AP test did you need a guide?"  "Um, like, the AP test!"  "Yes, but which one?  English?  Literature?  Physics?  US History?"  "Um, I dunno." My suggestion:  don't.  even.  bother.

Help more customers, one of whom has been assigned to read "the fiction (?!?!!!!) book Hiroshima" for his summer reading list.  I discovered during the course of the conversation that this person a) was a sophmore in high school and b) did not know that Hiroshima was one of the two locations where the atomic bomb was dropped, though he was pretty sure it was dropped "in the 50s during the Vietnam War."  I have seen the future, and it is ignorant.

Then there was the delightful little old lady who called and wanted books on gardening.  I could have spent all evening with her (and very nearly did).  Well educated, certainly from the East Coast (my guess was Rhode Island).  Has a voice EXACTLY like that of my first "voice teacher" (we saw each other for two weeks straight every year or so, and would sing for most of that time.).  Just the nicest person.  I did make a $140 sale by the time all was said and done, and I know that she'll be a loyal customer from now on, but (to my mind) more importantly we laughed together as I found and ordered her books.  She sounded both housebound and handicapped in some way (she had to call back later for something else as she needed to wait for someone to get home so that he could go upstairs and get some information for her) and clearly was delighted that someone would spend some time just chatting as well.  While she was rather time-consuming, it was worth every minute.

Part of the problem this evening was that we were so bloody short-staffed.  One cashier, one supervisor who spent most of his time either cashiering or answering calls for a supervisor from different areas of the store, one manager, and TWO people on the floor.  TWO.  Ergo, if one of us was on the phone, the other was swamped.  And that phone never did seem to stop ringing.  I was taking care of at least two lines for most of the evening.

At about 9 (we close at 11) I was told that I was in charge of the kids' section for cleanup.  I got back there just long enough to see that it looked as though a bomb had gone off over there.  I was called back to wait on customers and only got to start tidying at 10:40.  I could have cried.

All nights must end, however, and we finally left at about 12:20.  Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Shortly after nine (I think...time seemed to blur together a lot tonight) a diva friend stopped in to get some books.  While we didn't have a chance to talk, I did get a quick hug.  Someone (capital S)  must have known I needed one! 

The benadryl is starting to kick in, and I must go take out the contacts and then go to bed.  I am not in the least above sleeping twelve hours or so tonight.

Most of my customers--say about 90%--are totally unremarkable.

Another 5% are memorable solely because of their utter illiteracy or stupidity.  Examples include this from a...rural...gentleman, attired in cutoff jeans, a wifebeater, and a grungy baseball cap that didn't sufficiently disguise his blond mullet:

"Yes ma'am, ah'd like that there book on duhve huntin'."

"Dove hunting?"

"Yeah, mah boy has ter read it fer school." 

"Err, do you know the author's name?" 

"Naw, ah ain't much inter books.  But maybe the last name had somethin' to do with a war."

"Well, could you tell me a little about it?"

"Ah know it's kinder famous, but ah can't saih for shurr wahy."

"I...see.  And your son has to read it for school.  It's a book about hunting?" (where is this school district, and what the...?)

"Yah, ah dunn toled you that.  Do y'all have it?"

(I really don't get paid enough) "Did the school happen to send you a letter with the title of the book?"

"'Fraid ah'm not real shur, ma'am.  The school sends a lotta mail, but ah figger the wife takes care of it." (I can't imagine why)

(suddenly, his face brightens)  "But mah son goes to (insert name of public school in boonies near cowtown here).  What're they readin'?"

Suddenly, a shaft of light breaks through the fog.  I remember a couple of kids from this school coming in last week.  We aren't the closest store by any stretch, but they happened to be in cowtown that day, and got the book from our store.  What was the title?  Oh, surely not.  Surely not.

"Sir, it wouldn't be To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, would it?"

It was.

Le sigh.

Of the remaining 5%, 2% are briefly memorable because of snottiness, phone-against-the-ear-itis (symptoms include an inability to hear the cashier ask you to step out of line and go to her register, an inability to understand why the bookseller will NOT, if she has other customers, stand next to you and wait for you to finish your phone conversation before assisting you, and an inability to understand complicated directions like "please slide your card here and enter your PIN or press clear), or just outright RUDENESS (b*tching out the bookseller because you had a bad experience at a store in this chain five years before she was legally old enough to be employed by this store, for example, and offering this as an excuse for why we should give you a discount).

Another 1% are the ones who send the booksellers running the MINUTE they walk into the store.  These are usually regular customers who a) want to tell you that Harry Potter is REAL and they need to find the Marauder's Map and where is it shelved?, b) want to corner you to tell you all about their political views (which, no matter what your political bent, will ALWAYS be the exact opposite of yours), c) want to get entirely too hands-on with the female booksellers, d) throw a fit because their frappuccino is "too sweet"--but always order the same frappuccino, and/or e) will ask you to spend thirty minutes looking up obscure or impossible-to-find books with little or no information--"I think it was published in 1910 and had 'fieldmice' in the title, but I'm not sure."

Finally, there are the 2% who either make me laugh, make my day, make my week, or who just make an impact on me that I won't forget.  Or they'll do something so completely unexpected that I do a quadruple-take.

I had one of the latter the other night.

I saw a couple walking through History/Current Events, greeted them, and asked if they needed any help.

This couple was perhaps in their late fifties, and had, I suspect, been married for some time.  She had her arm through his, and they were chatting and laughing like a couple in their twenties.  It was neat to see.

If J. Random Invididual had looked at them, he probably wouldn't have been impressed.  They were both blondish, medium height, maybe a little extra weight.  No outstanding features beyond nice smiles and the fact that they were clearly still very much in love.

After I greeted them, they smiled at me and said that they didn't need any help, and how was I doing?  I replied with some sort of brief response--"fine," "great," "fantastic," etc--and continued on my way back to music to help a music seller with something.  Perfectly normal interaction, happens literally hundreds of times during a shift.  I thought no more about it.

About three minutes later, I saw the couple walk into music.  They came and stood near me while I finished with a customer.  Once the other customer left, I turned to the couple.

The guy walked over, took my hand, smiled (very kind smile) and said, "We just wanted to apologize.  I don't think we were very polite back there; we were a bit preoccupied.  Thanks for asking us how we were doing, and again, we didn't mean to be impolite."

Me: (astonished stare) "Good grief, you were fine.  I didn't think you were at all impolite.  In fact, you even asked me how I was doing." (wondering vaguely "what the heck?...")

Her: "Oh, well, we thought we'd been a bit abrupt."

Me: "I didn't.  Don't worry about it."

Him: (still smiling) "Well, I'm glad you felt that way.  Listen, you have a really nice evening, okay?"

Me" ...Yeah, you too.  Come back and see us again."

(stands in music department, blinking for several seconds)

They walked out of the store, still hand-in-hand.

Yes, two very nice customers apologized for being insufficiently nice by no one's standards but their own (obviously very high) ones.

In short, I'm expecting the Four Horsemen to make an appearance any minute.  Be warned.  You heard it here first.  It's the only possible explanation.

Now, if I could figure out why so many people felt compelled to wear cat ear headbands into the store tonight.  There was no obvious connection between any of them.  Different ages (youngest about 13, oldest about 40), male and female, different races (white, asian, hispanic), different socioeconomic backgrounds (the ears were worn with everything from grungy jeans to a local private school uniform), different religions (one guy wore a cross, one gal was wearing a pentogram pendant) etc.  Very odd.  The Mr. Clean dude with the cat ear headband will, I think, be forever etched in my memory.

(shakes head)

Overall, it was a really nice night.  I'd had entirely too much coffee (didn't sleep much or well last night) and was consequently very (and unusually) perky/upbeat/engaging.  On the sales floor, I think I'm ordinarily pleasant but quiet and rather low-key.  With that much coffee, I chattered nonstop, I laughed (and made most of the customers laugh), I got several people to sign up for the idiotic card program, etc, etc.  The rest of the crew found this hysterical.  (no more espresso after 5, ubi.)

And people wonder why I don't drink, when mere caffeine does this to me!  Can you imagine?

Ooof.  I just crashed.  Must. go. to. bed. now.

This was a rather peculiar night.

Not bad.  Not necessarily good.  Just peculiar.

First of all, I seem to attract people who want to tell me their life stories.  This occurs to the point of ridiculousness.  People I have NEVER MET BEFORE will walk up to me and tell me all about their childhood.  This would be handy if I wanted to be a police officer or clinical therapist.  I have no interest in either career, and, frankly, sometimes less than no interest in the lives of people I've never met before.

Now, don't get me wrong: I don't mind people I know talking to me if they need to vent.  People who know me know that if they tell me something, it doesn't go further.  People also tend to feel safe when they talk to me, so they tell me more than they tell other people.  I don't know why.  They just do.  This can be positive or negative, though I occasionally lean a bit more towards the latter.  At least, I certainly did at one former job where I worked with pregnant moms and expecting families a lot.  (Yes folks, I've known how babies come for quite some time now, but I don't need to know exactly how this one was created, mmkay?  Let's stick with nursery themes and furniture styles.  Thank you.)  Don't get me wrong; I feel honored when people I know (even if it's slightly) trust me with information.  I just find it odd when people I've never laid eyes on previously start telling me about their private lives. 

Today I met possibly the MOST extreme example of this ever.  And the weirdest part of it was that instead of mentally wondering "what the hell?" I actually felt like I learned something from this person, and even hope she comes back to the store sometime when I'm not on the clock so we can sit down, have a cup of tea, and talk about life.

Picture an older lady, probably about 80.  Long black skirt, neat black print long-sleeved button-down blouse, tidy broach at the throat, white and perfectly coiffed hair.  She's browsing on this table.  I, the courteous sales associate, approach her.

Me: Ma'am, is there anything I can help you find today?

Her:  No, but thanks for asking.  I just love coming into bookstores!  I'm thinking I might get some travel books, because I can't really travel much, but I love reading about other places.  It's so much fun to read about all the customs and sights!  Besides, that way when I meet someone who has travelled, I can talk to them about that country and really know something about it.  I'm not very well-educated, but I am rather well-read, and I just enjoy being around books and talking about them (the elipses indicate stretches of conversation that I don't remember)...you know, my ancestors came over on the boat from Czechoslavakia, and I feel so grateful they came here.  I mean, they had to travel over a considerable stretch of land to get to a port before taking off, and then they came here to America.  Not South America or Canada or Australia, but here.  Not that there's anything wrong with those places, but it's so beautiful and so much more temperate here....I'm Catholic by choice, you might say; my mother died giving birth to me; she bled to death, and when my father remarried, we became Protestant until I was old enough to choose.  But you know, I remember hearing in Sunday School that Jesus loved me, and I really believed it then and now.  It's harder for me to get down on my knees now, but used to be that if I was sad about something--and I've had things to be sad over--I could just get down on my knees, tell him about it, figure out if I did something wrong and if so what it was, and then just go on.  I never have really gotten angry or bitter at Him, and I'm glad of that.  I did miss my mother; it would have been so nice to know her, but I know I'll see her soon, and I figure she's spent all this time up there having God's ear about me...I can't believe how people nowadays talk about being "bored."  They don't know how to communicate; they talk at each other rather than to each other.  They have to be entertained in order to be together, and have to be going all the time.  Isn't it nice, though, to sometimes just sit and be, and know that if you fall asleep then you probably needed the rest anyway?  I've never been bored in all my life; there's always too much to do.  And I have friends, but I also think I'm really good company, and don't mind being alone.  People have lost that, I think.

Me:...

Bear in mind, this is only the part I remember.  There was a lot more.  And until I finally wrapped up the "conversation" (I could feel management giving me the evil eye) I said NOTHING beyond "mmhmm," "uh-huh," "I see" or "really."  NOTHING.

I don't know quite what to think of this.  I really don't.  On the one hand, I think I heard several messages in there I needed to hear (trusting in the Divine, being around people who are good for me, etc).

On the other hand, I'm wondering if I'm being told that I talk too much.  Hmmm.  Maybe I'm supposed to talk less and listen more.

And on a third hand, do I have some sort of sign on my back that says "Therapist"?  Because really: who upon meeting someone for the first time in this setting gets told about the other person's heritage, religion, birth circumstances, and philosophy of life?

Finally, if I EVER see her in line to check out during the Christmas rush, I will finagle it so that I don't check her out!

On that note, I'm going to bed.  Good grief.

Those of us who work and have worked in customer service bond quickly.  We tend to be extremely understanding when waiting in a line ("oy, can you IMAGINE having to work on that one register during Christmas?") or when facing a waiter with an attitude ("must have been stiffed by the last customers, let's be sure to leave 20-25%").  There are rare, if beautiful moments, when we can really make another retail slave's life happier.  This was one of them.

While waiting for my sushi takeout (mmm...sushi) from the wonderful Japanese place, I walked over to the used book store to browse.  Okay, who am I kidding?  Browsing?  Of course I got something.

While waiting in line, I noticed two things. 

First, that the guy behind the register had stopped at my store last night to pick up a CD.  He had been wearing a T-shirt for the store at which he works, and I'd teased him about "fraternizing with the enemy" by coming into my store (same type of business, different corporation).  We'd laughed a little, and agreed that each store had its merits.

Second, that he was being thoroughly cussed out by the person in front of me because the manager had refused to mark the VHS tape down to 50 cents from the $4 at which it was stickered.  The manager had indicated that the prices were, well, AS MARKED.  After the manager walked away, this female started screeching at the employee about "this isn't good customer service," "no one will buy this tape for $4, that's a ridiculous price," "I can't believe this place," and, finally, "that's way overpriced, but no one will buy it.  You've lost yourself a sale!"

At that point, another employee opened the register next to the other and asked me if I'd like to check out there.  Suddenly, I was inspired to utter fiendishness.  The idiot customer had just said (for the third time, by my count) "You've lost yourself a sale," in a tone of voice that indicated that the loss of the $4 sale would a) figure greatly on the employee's yearly evaluation, b) ensure that the employee would never get a raise or promotion, graduate college, be involved in a good relationship or even own a goldfish due to his rank incompetence, and c) permanantly bankrupt the employee's company, his store, each of his coworkers, and land him in jail for income tax evasion and questionable behavior with tapirs.

As I stepped over the register, I glanced over the counter to where the "overpriced" VHS tape was and squealed in a voice about an octave and a half higher than my usual speaking voice "Ohmigosh!  Hudson Hawk?  I've looked, like, EVERYWHERE for that movie!  I'll take it!  I can't believe I, like,  found it!  Ohmigosh!" (Note aside: I do not, in ordinary life, murder the English language to that extent.  Desperate times, however, call for desperate measures.)

The other customer fumed, raved, raged, hollered, howled and snarled, but couldn't deny that she'd said she wasn't going to buy it.  (three times, minimum.) After she left, I returned it.  The guy behind the counter was laughing so hard that he could barely process the return, and has vowed to help me out in the future if he's in my store and sees something like this going on.

Booksellers of the world, unite against rude entitlement junkies!  I can see it now: by day, we work at our $7-an-hour jobs.  By night, we roam the aisles of other stores, seeking to aid other abused retail slaves.  World peace through mutual assistance!

I'm off for eight days!  Woohoo!

Dear Ma'am,

You are approximately 80.  Maybe 90.  And in a MOOD.  Oh yes, a MOOD. 

Now, I can handle WOACA (women of a certain age).  I practically specialize in them.  The other customer service folks call ME when they get a WOACA because I can charm a fly off off of rotten meat (or something like that).  Open the blue eyes extra big, place oh-dear-I-do-hope-I-can-help-you-because-if-I-don't-I'll-just-DIE expression on face, say "ma'am" every other word, ask repeatedly if there is ANYTHING else I can get/do, and finish off with the $3,000 smile and the fake Southern drawl (no one ever notices that this drawl isn't acquired until the end of the transaction) as I say, "y'all have a BEAUTIFUL day, ma'am!"  If they're buying hymn/gospel music, I tell them "y'all have a real blessed day, now."  (if my English teacher mother from upstate New York could hear this, she'd need CPR).

You came into my department and asked me about a song you'd heard on the radio.  All you could tell me was that the singer was a "Shelby Wynn, NO E at the end of 'wynn,' I TOLD you that!"  You couldn't tell me if she sang classical, country, folk, jazz, rock or Disney soundtracks.  Nor could you tell me the name of the song, any line from the song, or the station on which you heard this song.

I think I've done reasonably well if I (who specialize in anything classical, knows something about 50/60s rock and girl groups, and can find the most popular groups in the pop rock section sheerly through repetition) determine that you are looking for "You Don't Have to Say You Loved Me," as performed by Shelby Lynne (with, incidentally, an e and an l, sans the w) on her latest album Just a Little Lovin'.  I might add that this took me less than five minutes and I kept up the patter about what other music you like ('don't listen to much music,"), what books you read ("don't read many books") and what shows you enjoy watching ('tv is a waste of money, why can't you find this?") the entire time.  I even taught you how to use the electronic system by which you can listen to practically any song you want.

The proper responses to "y'all have a beautiful day, ma'am" include a) "you, too," b) "thank you," and c) all sorts of other pleasantries.  At least, that's the way I was brought up.  They do not include a) rolling your eyes, b) stomping away, or c) complaining loudly and vituperatively about the "wait."

Initially, I was mildly irritated by your response.  Then I was thoughtful.

Because if you don't listen to music, don't read, don't watch TV, what do you do?

When you opened your wallet to pay me, you didn't have any pictures in it.

You were wearing a wedding band--but on your right hand.

And when a mom walked into the department with her kid, I caught a very brief and equally wistful look on your face before you turned back to continue with the snarkiness.

And if the only way for you to react is to act like this, then okay.  Maybe it'll make you feel better.  I doubt I'll remember you (except in this blog) a month from now.  Does anyone else?

So, in a way, I kind of hope you come back.  I'd like to introduce you to some gorgeous music, and perhaps some good books.  For that matter, everyone should try a mocha latte at least once in their lives!

So while I might not have meant it wholeheartedly when I said, "Come back and see us again!" I think I do. 

Come back and see us again.

ubicaritas

One of the things I actually enjoy about customer service is watching the wide variety of people who pass through my store.  A few touch my soul in a way that I remember for years; many make no lasting impression; some others are just. plain. WEIRD.  I think that this evening displayed a slice, if you will, of all of the above.

• First, I had the African (as in, had a heavy, possibly Nigerian? accent) gentleman who clearly remembered me from a past visit to my store.  I don't remember him at ALL, but hey, he was obviously positively impressed with the last visit, so I wasn't going to object.  :D  He picked out a few cds that he'll be getting with his next paycheck, and then went on to catch the bus.  As he left, he mentioned that he'd be getting his new stereo system next month, and that he was really looking forward to it because of the quality of the sound.  He even knows which cd will be the first he'll play, and then said, "When I set up the stereo system and hear this music, I must cry.  It is just so beautiful.  My friends, they look at me and they say, 'For what do you cry?'.  I do not think that most people understand this, but I have to cry.  It is so beautiful."  I smiled and assured him that I understood.  I rarely (okay, virtually never) cry, but when I have in the last five years or so I would have to say that it was due to some achingly beautiful piece of music.
• Then, I had the really strange guy who yacked my ear off about the movie Luther (which I will never, ever, EVER see), started to get a bit innapropriate and personal with a customer who I knew who he had never met ("Why did you leave your country of origin?  What school do you go to?  What is your major?  Why did you pick that major?).  She was clearly uncomfortable (actually, once he left she said, "WHAT a horrible man!   Do you have to put up with many of these?"), but he was not getting the hint to leave her alone.  I rescued her and went to wait on another customer; he went away, but (le sigh) returned after a bit.  As I rang his purchase, he told me that a) the dresses in Pride and Prejudice were too "antebellum" (yes, you read that correctly), b) that he liked how I wore my hair ("very Victorian,") and that c) he would "like to see how I'd look in Victorian period dress, and he knew just the seamstress if I was interested."  I said, "I think not."  He left at that point; one more remark and I was going to call a manager to ask him to leave.  She would have, too, as he had already bent her ear on various subjects for almost forty minutes.  Yuck.
• Next, there was the couple in their late 30s/mid 40s who purchased American Gangster and some Sting cds.  She was in a power wheelchair due to (my guess) MS or something similar.  As they looked at a display, she unconsciously leaned forward to get a better look at something.  He leaned down and gently rubbed her back (nothing innapropriate, just gentle).  You could see how much they were in love.  Brightened my evening.
• Of course, my full-moon-with-an-eclipse-coming evening wouldn't be complete without the herd of guys in their late teens-mid-20s who set off every loss-prevention bell in my head, but (aside from making a ghastly mess in Pop Rock) were not caught doing anything.  There were six or seven of them (and they all were together) back in Music at one point; kept milling around, distracting me, asking unnecessary questions, etc.  The one with the mohawk (which was, incidentally, glued on) was particularly annoyed when it turned out that we do not regularly stock the Insane Clown Posse's albums.
• There were also the spawn of Satan (oh, excuse me, I mean younger customers) whose grandmother had me hold a few DVDs (which she was getting for these imps) while she went and got a couple of books.   I was in mid-transaction with Victorian-period-dress dude when these little wretches came back to Music, pounded their fists on the counter, and said, "We want our stuff NOW!"  I looked at them icily and said, "When I am finished with this gentleman's transaction, I will be able to wait on you.  Kindly give me a few minutes" before resuming the transaction with the other customer.  While in "real life" I don't like that I seem to terrify small children, I must confess that it is remarkably handy in retail.  They both shut up and waited politely until I finished.
• My final customer of the day was a...large...woman of about 60 years in an unfortunate red-and-white Hawaiian-style shirt and some applied-with-a-spatula pancake makeup.  As I finished ringing her transaction, her cell phone began to blare a ringtone of which I had been previously (and happily) unaware.  The refrain seemed to be along the lines of "She thinks my tractor's sexy; it really turns her on."  I kept a straight face, and mentally thanked my father for teaching me how to keep a poker face at a young age. (edit: out of curiousity, I Googled the lyrics.  This song really does exist.  I don't know why.) 

The tally?  One customer who I'll remember positively for a long time, two who just brightened my evening by being themselves, one guy who I will probably have tossed from the store if he ever approaches me again (okay, that's a bit unusual; I don't usually have them quite that weird), some peculiar come-out-at-the-full-of-the-moon types, some kids to whom I may or may not have taught the bare minimum of manners, and one just laugh-out-loud-after-she-leaves-the-store funny customer.

C'est la vie in customer service!

1) Valentine's Day:

I think it says a lot about my view of the whole service industry that my honest-to-goodness reaction upon driving past a local (and popular) Italian place on Valentine's Day was not a) depression that I wasn't going there that evening, b) depression that I wasn't spending the evening romantically as I am (as always) terminally single, or even c) jealousy of the various females going in there on their dates' arms, but d) (said to fellow customer-service-slaves themaureencorps and shewhomustbeobeyed) "good gosh, can you imagine having to WORK there tonight?"

I spent the evening with some good friends, comfy clothes, and hysterically funny/hysterically funny-cause-they're-so-bad shows and movies.  Keeping Up Appearances and (of all things) Robin Hood: Men In Tights, to be exact.  The former was just funny, while the second was so incredibly and mind-bogglingly awful that it was funny. 

As a side note, black raspberry chocolate ice cream should be a controlled substance.  My only "control" for the stuff is to leave anything left over at themaureencorps/shewhomustbeobeyed's house, or it WILL become one with my hips.  As it is, I'm about to break in a new Pilates video.

2) School/Life:

Musical madness.  Go to class, go to rehearsal, go to work, go home at midnight and collapse into bed.  Wash and repeat.  It's all good, and it's all crazy.  I'm trying to come up with a plan that would allow me to not work and just attend class starting in my junior year or perhaps even a year from now.  I LOVE what I'm doing in school; it really is wonderful.  I enjoy all my classes--even the theory!  It's just that I am absolutely stretched to my limit time-wise, and, frankly, I am not giving a lot of things the attention they deserve.  I know that there are a lot of things I could do better if I just had more TIME.  Ha. 

well, sort of.

This customer walks into the music department and asks me to help him find a CD. 

Ordinarily, it drives me a bit batty when any customer prefaces any request with something along the line of "I don't know the name of the artist"/"I'm not sure what song it was but it had the word 'love' in it"/"I'm not sure what genre it is; it could be heavy metal, but it might be new age" or (my personal favorite, and one that I've actually gotten) "Do you sell CDs?".  For this guy I made an exception.

He (incidentally, this was a big dude--well over six feet, a good 250-275, ponytail, looked kind of bikerish) handed me a slip of paper on which was written a name and what appeared to be a song title.  The handwriting made mine look copperplate.  And I've been told several times that if I wanted to be a doctor, I'd already have the handwriting for it.  But I digress. 

Then he said, "I've been to three different stores and none of them can find this guy or this song.  My son really wants to get this for his girlfriend for Christmas."

(Okay, this piques my curiosity.  I mean, who sends his dad out shopping for his girlfriend?)

So I search for the artist's name, based on what I am deciphering from the paper.  No dice.  As I continue to search (trying all kinds of different variations on the name and song title) I chat with the dad.  All we know for certain is that this music is probably country.  And since I know very little about country music and the dad knows NOTHING ("I''m strictly a metal and rock man, myself,") this is gonna take some time.  Turns out his son is in Afghanistan and won't be home for Christmas, but he wants his girlfriend to get this cd because she loves country music.

Finally I find an artist with the same last name but a somewhat different (same first initial) first name. The artist has a recording (which we do have) that features a song that is almost identical to the song named on this scrap of paper.  I get the cd, and hand it to the dad.  All of a sudden, this big tough biker guy gets really quiet.  Then he says, "That has t'be it.  Except for the long hair, that guy looks just like my son.  Looks like his momma, God rest her soul.  No wonder she wants this.  She'll be so surprised to get this; they decided to wait to do presents 'til he got back!"

Then he reaches over and gives me a hug and says, "Thanks for finding this; you did a great job.  You tell your manager he needs to pay you more!  Merry Christmas!"

It's amazing how many opportunities I get to touch people's lives, both on the bookfloor and in music.  I get to recommend books for people who want to get "baby's first books."  About a month ago, I helped a woman pick out an audio book for her mom, who was dying of cancer but still wanted a book for her birthday.  Then today, I got to make sure that some service member (whether Army, Navy or Marine I'll never know, and it doesn't matter) was able to tell his girlfriend "Merry Christmas."  Today I also helped a coworker keep an eye on a kid with Down's for a few minutes (very well-behaved kid who is in the store all the time) so his parents could grab a quick cup of coffee in the cafe.  (No, I doubt that corporate would approve, but y'know what?  We had no other customers, the parents were in the building, and the parents know my coworker.).

There are times when I hate customer service with a passion.  I know for a fact that I can't do this for the rest of my life or I would go stark raving mad from irritation and boredom.  However, there are moments--like when I helped that guy today, or when, a month ago, I got that woman's mom the perfect gift--when I know that I've brought joy into the lives and eased the pain (even if just by saying "I'm sorry" and handing her a book of which she had good memories that included her mom) of a few people. 

And that's something I really want to accomplish with my music.  Music has the power to make people smile, to lighten loads, to bring joy, to diminish pain, to bring healing tears--for the musician and for others around her.  To quote a Joseph Martin song I sang in high school (this song, oddly enough, has stuck in my head to the point that it has become something of a mantra):

Let music never die in me!  Forever let my spirit sing!

After all the crazy customer stories, there's this one that just broke my heart.  Maybe it was a week for that, 'cause there's another I want to post when I have more free time.

As I rang up a customer's order, I chatted with him about the items he was buying, which included several very good children's books.  He was tall, about 60ish, very dignified.  When I asked him about the books, he said, "They're for my granddaughter."  "Oh," I said, perkily, "Does she like to read?"  "Yeah, she does.  She learned to really love books while she was in treatment."  He paused, and I tried to figure out what to say next.  Then he said, "Y'know, cancer's something that's supposed to happen to people my age.  It isn't supposed to happen to four-year-olds.  She just had some tests run; they told us a few months ago she had a 98% chance of beating this thing, and now it's down to 37%."

What could I say?  I couldn't.  All I could do was reach over and pat his hand, tell him to take care, hand him the receipt and then turn to the next customer and say, "Next."

You're so right, sir.  Cancer isn't supposed to happen to four-year-olds.