Misspelled Tattoo

It’s the time of the year when many retailers start hiring their holiday help. It used to be Christmas help, but now it’s just generic, politically correct, “holiday help.” God bless retailers everyone. Even with sales projections down by 1 percent from last year, retailers are still hoping that Santa will work his magic--but it’s difficult to trust the only man who lives in the Arctic and still drives a sleigh.
 
Well, just yesterday I was in one of my favorite retailers (I won’t mention their name) and I realized that there were temps (aka the lowest form of humanity on the retail hierarchy) all over the place. It was delightful. The holiday season has begun. I was asked if I needed help at least a dozen times over.
 
Now you know I’m a seasoned shopper, and I know this particular store especially well. I’m also obsessively compulsive as visual merchandisers are wont to be. I was in the men’s shoe department perusing a table of cordovan tasseled loafers, straightening up. The shoes were grossly out of alignment, by at least as much of a quarter of an inch, and it was driving me crazy. Anyway, carpe diem, I decided to take the opportunity to rearrange them by style and price point, which seemed perfectly reasonable to me. I looked just like I belonged on the sales floor, busy and officious. (FYI: I’d never pass this retailer’s psychological test, but I digress.) It was no surprise to me when a misguided tourist asked me where they could find the elevator. I barely got an “Ola” out of my mouth when a well-meaning holiday helper interrupted. I wouldn’t take issue, but he directed the customer towards the escalator thattakes you to “Juniors,” which is the next best thing to schizophrenia at this store. The mind reels!
 
As for standards in the great American retail landscape, despite the talent out there, some stores will hire anyone; you’d think they’d be more discriminating. Let me paint the picture…The holiday helper was all of 19 (maybe), with a Christen Soriano wispy boy coif, black channel polish on his pinky (only), chattering silver cuffs, a discrete amount of eyeliner and a tattoo poking out of the back of his neck that read “Only God juges me.”(Maybe he couldn’t read it, it was on the back of his neck, after all.) I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt, and accept “juges” sort of as in the way Carson Kressley of “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy” would “jujje” someone’s hair. But no, it was meant as in “judges,” to pronounce a declarative analysis of right or wrong, or good and bad.
 
So I will take his misspelled tattoo to heart and I will not “juge” him. As for God, I doubt he shops at this store; he always seemed more like a Nordstrom kind of guy to me.

 

--Ron Knoth, Guest Blogger

Comments

[Ron Knoth]

Dear Alfred, Jen and Hardliner,

As you may know I make three mistakes a year. That's all I'm allowed. This would be my second mistake this year. I still have two months to go, to use up my third. Indeed, you are 100% correct, Santa lives in the Artic (aka North Pole). It's a good thing I teach about fashion, and not Geography. Gracious, Santa will now leave me a lump of coal.

PS To Alfred, I just came back from Zara on Fith Avenue, where I rearranged their clearance items while my companion was trying on clothes. It looked so much better after I got done!

[www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1485071317]

Ha! I thought I was the only crazy out there who re-merchandised other retailers displays while out shopping. I even changed a mannequin at store once :)

[Jen]

Santa lives in the Arctic. Not Antarctica. :)

[hardliner]

Hey Ron,
as always you're an enjoyable read, but just one little thing.... Santa lives in the artic not the antartic. But he is still the only man there who drives a sleigh with 8 tiny reindeer for motive power. But hay is still probably cheaper than gas so he might as well go for it. Look forward to reading more soon, maybe I'll even have a chance to pen a ditty myself.