Look! I'm linking!

My friends over at Box Box Stick (annnnnnnnd...I just got what that means when you have two girls and one guy as your cast. Neat.), just put up their first podcast. It's basically just them talking about their days, their lives, their favorite drinks, etc., but they happen to be naturally delightful and funny people (as all my friends are. except that one -- you guys know who I'm talking about...). Moral of the story: you should check them out.

Anyways, Becca was talking about this lady who came in to return something at the baby boutique where she works. The problem with this interaction was that the return item was over a year old. The company whose name was on the onesie or the goofy hat -- or whatever it was that had come from the baby store in some forgotten and long-past era -- didn't even exist anymore. But the woman was quite insistent that it was within her rights to return it, and even got a little bit rude. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty horrible experience for poor Becca, and I felt bad for her, really, but at the same time...I kind of love that random return woman.

Really, who has the cajones to do something like that?

"Yes, I realize it was handsewn by palace maidens in the dark ages, and yes, I do realize that no self-respecting baby would wear this particular style of goofy hat in this day and age, but, you see, I simply don't want it anymore." Her kid had probably worn it and outgrown it ("Oh, the tooth-marks? And the fraying? I take no responsibility for the fact that your store sells raggedy things."). I just have to admire her a little bit.

I rarely return things, even when they are brand new. In fact, the entire shopping experience is something of a challenge for me because, rather than going into a store with the goal of purchasing something, I go in with only the overwhelming desire to make the salespeople like me.

It's probably disgusting to watch me in a store; I creep noiselessly from rack to rack, trying not to disturb the salespeople. They ask if I need help, and I say, "Oh! No need, I can get it!" as I try unsuccessfully to find things in my size or pull a box off the top shelf. I kowtow, I grimace, I scrape.

The dressing room is even worse, particularly in small stores, where you have to leave the safe confines of your personal cube and walk into the store to see a mirror. They always have an opinion (usually something along the lines of, "You should totally buy that!"), and it always kills me to disagree. "Yeah! I mean, the whole 'doesn't actually button right over my boobs' thing is totally in, right?!" or "Oh, definitely, I mean, I've been looking for a dress with strategically placed crotchal pockets [true story]!"

And then there are the returns. When asked why I am returning their perfectly fine product, I can never just say, "Buyer's remorse." or "Well, I didn't want it and was bullied into it by a salesperson." I always need a story. A favorite of mine is that I bought it for my sister (conceivably a twin, since the shirt or skirt being returned is obviously in my size), who decided she didn't like it. I like this one because it moves the blame onto someone else, and I can sit and commiserate with the checkout girl about what a fool the sister is to not want such a great item.

I don't know why I do this. Someday soon, I'm going to have to accept that it's the salespeople's job to accept returns. Or I'll just have to get over my aversion to the crotch-pocket dress that is currently taking up space in my closet.

thelaurenbell's List of Things that should Just Stop Trying...

...because they are so painfully bad:

2) The Rite-Aid (Rite-aid? RITE-AID?) on the corner of 5th St. and 7th Ave.

You all thought I had forgotten this thread, didn't you? You thought the heading on the first go-around was just a clever ploy for bashing the NYT, and, well, it was. BUT no matter how mind-numbingly awful the Times is; no matter how far ahead on the list it lies; no matter how much like the sun the badness of the Times is, in comparison to the other, wee, inconsequential celestial bodies in our scale-model-of-the-universe metaphor for awfulness, there are some other things that manage to similarly melt my face off by force of sheer incompetence and wtf-osity. 

One of these things is the neighborhood Rite-Aid.

Even disregarding, momentarily, the stacks upon stacks of never-unpacked/shelved random items (a pile of Heineken mini-kegs once prevented me from getting in the door -- a good situation to stumble upon in my apartment, a bad one when I really need new deodorant), the Rite-Aid stands out as a blackened pit of retail despair. 

There is only ever one person manning the 4-register counter. Yes, other people do work there, but they manage to stay far away from any place where they might actually be needed by the customers. There is one particularly charming young lad who sees it as his duty to hide -- freakin' HIDE -- in the lipstick/ladies' hair products aisle. I have been leered at more times than I can remember by this little turd, and still, every time I turn the corner, he manages to freak me out. 

What is he doing back there? Does he have an undying passion for categorizing each color of lipstick by a different strategy every morning -- alphabetically, by color family, by the stereotype of womanhood for which they are named (flowers here, shades of sunlight/sunset here)? If that's the case, than he has my utmost sympathy for his lipstick affliction (coincidentally the name of my grrrl rock band), and I beseech the RITE-AID, to bequeath at least one "employee of the month" plaque to him each and every 30-day period, without fail, for his unswerving dedication. 

As a matter of fact, the lipstick man is so focused on the incredible task set before him each morning that he can't be bothered to help me when I moved beyond the narrow scope of his interests and into the razor section. This is unfortunate because the razors happen to be locked up -- a situation that forces me, again, to ask the RITE-AID some serious questions, as though it is a sentient being. These questions are along the lines of, "RITE-AID, what sort of rasorial crime could be so horrible as to merit imprisonment in your dank and dusty aisles?" 

There are a great number of expensive products in a RITE-AID: fancy face lotions infused with diamonds and the blood of lambs, various barely-legal medications, giant vats of Flintstones vitamins, etc. -- which I can understand wanting to protect against thieving little hands, but a $12 pack of disposable Schicks? Really? Asking Lips mcGee for help in getting those out is just asking to be inched closer to "please get the KY Jelly behind the counter" in the leering spectrum. I don't need that.

Foiled in my attempt to get razors on my last, hellish visit to the RITE-AID (and, yeah, I keep wanting to make a WRONG-AID joke, but that would be embarrassing for everyone involved), I went for the simplest of products: a band-aid. Feeling cheap and surly, I went for the basic RITE-AID brand of "sheer bandages." Upon getting these "sheer bandages" home and attempting to put one on my skin, I discovered that "sheer" in RITE-AID language, means "kinda darkish-tannish and DEFINITELY OPAQUE." Interesting. I don't really mind non-sheer bandages (though they do make it hard to discreetly cover the disgusting random infection that my elbow is currently cultivating), but it's the lying, RITE-AID, that really disappoints me.