I consider myself to be an artist. As a result, I am often forced to seek employment in the retail and/or customer service industry in order to pay my rent. These are my adventures in this fascinating world. The names and places have been changed to protect the innocent. And my job.

In an article about holiday shopping recently published in what some might consider a “reputable” newspaper, a reporter described an encounter she had in a store in South Pasadena. “We got attitude from a bored-looking shopgirl at (store name).” I’m fairly certain that she was talking about me.

I’m offended.

First of all, SHOPGIRL!?! I am nearly thirty years old and thus am far too old to be referred to as a shopgirl (a word, incidentally, that my spellcheck fails to recognize). Sorry, Steve Martin, but as it is no longer 1953 we have come to prefer the term Sales Associate, or even Customer Service Representative. Irritatingly PC terms, I’ll admit, but still better than the diminutive “shopgirl” or its partner “sales girl.” Really, using any label involving the word “girl” to describe a female over the age of 15 (except “girlfriend” which manages to stay relevant for women. To a point. Once you qualify for a senior discount the girlfriend label just seems either tragically sad or tragically cute) is something to be avoided.

Second, to the question of bored-looking. Anyone who has had the honor of working in retail (particularly in a small boutique) knows that it’s a painfully tedious job. People who vomit out the catch phrase “If you’ve got time to lean you’ve got time to clean” are liars. You can only straighten racks and refold sweaters so many times before you simply run out of things to do. And since I fail to get the joy in fucking around on the internet that comes so easily to most people, yeah, I’m fucking bored. I’m sure that the life of someone who writes hard-hitting journalistic opuses about SHOPPING must be intolerably exciting, but I defy her to spend a day sitting behind a counter analyzing the pattern in the carpet and counting ceiling tiles waiting for 6:00 and see how ecstatic she is by the end of the day.

Now, as to my attitude, let me tell you what went down. She and her friend came into my shop and wandered around for a bit. When I asked her if she was looking for anything in particular she said, “Yeah, do you have anything that’s, like, a gift?”

I took a moment to formulate an appropriate response to her dipshit question. It’s a fucking clothing store! And really, anything can be a gift. Which is exactly what I told her. Minus the fucking clothing store part. I’m sorry if she thought that was me giving her attitude, but you know what they say, ask a stupid question…

One more quick point, and I hope this doesn’t sound whiny, but it’s a fact that I think most people choose to ignore. People who work in customer service jobs are, contrary to popular belief, human. I can’t count the number of times that customers have taken out the fact that they were having a shitty day on me if I had the misfortune to be their waitress (a gender specific term that does not offend me, oddly). I once attended a funeral for a friend in the afternoon and then went into my serving job that night, only to have customers bitch me out for having to wait ten minutes for their appetizer. I wanted to shout at them that I had buried a friend that day, but we don’t have that luxury. We, the ones with aprons and nametags and plastered on smiles, are people too. We have shitty days. We get dumped, we get parking tickets, we fail exams and have fights with our parents. And yes, we sometimes take it personally.

So, next time you go out to eat or go into a store, before you judge the person bringing your food or ringing up your purchase, remember that she might have just quit smoking, he might be hungover, and you’ve probably felt that way once or twice yourself.

In conclusion, this reporter can blow me. And she’d better tenderly caress my balls while she does it.

Shannon Roberts, 12-2-08