Long ago, in a Big Red Star far, far away, Without Nametag got trapped in a horrible land called "Cosmetics." Being that I had proved myself to be a worthy on-call slave, loved by managers for reliability, I would sometimes be placed in situations that were not the norm.
There came a day when I clocked on and the cosmetics manager Bettie Page asked me to fill a spot at one of the counters. Now, cosmetics people are a special breed. They get commission, and hours in that department are not available for pick-up. They are specially trained. And being that I am the sort of female that shrugs off make-up, it was fine by me that I never ended up there.
But Bettie needed me to fill a spot for a few hours during some kind of promotion. The girl in charge of the counter told me to just do simple stuff. But trying to find specific things in unmarked drawers was like trying to cook an elaborate meal in someone else's kitchen. And the counter girls were super-busy, so no chance of asking them. The phone rang. No one was available to pick it up, so I went ahead. I should have just let it ring.
"Face Paint counter, this is Without Nametag, how may I provide outstanding service?"
"Yes. Hi. How late are you open today? Is my favorite Paint girl working now? And also, when does the Dohggashes event start?"
"Um, ten pm, it looks like she's off today, and I'm sorry, which event?" I was juggling a calendar with tiny writing, trying to determine what she was talking about.
"Dohttashes. What date?" She sounded annoyed that she'd had to repeat herself, despite the fact that she could probably hear the cacophony of noise on my end from the crowds in the store.
"Um, I'm not seeing that event on the calendar. Gohddashes?" I was really just trying to be helpful, but really I had no idea of what was going on besides the fact that there were not enough counter girls, and too many customers. I couldn't hear her, and couldn't figure out if what she was saying was gibberish or not. "I'm really sorry, I'm not understanding. I'm just filling in at this counter. I'm not a cosmetics person."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. As I've said, I'm just filling in for someone, just answering the phone." And getting frustrated because I can't fucking hear. "Could you repeat it for me again?"
"Kohdashes! You're so stupid! How can you work there and not know what drohmashes is?" Now she's irate, and telling me that I'm stupid, and I still can't figure out what word she's yelling at me.
"Open your ears, bitch! Did you not hear me say that I don't work in this department?" I wanted to bark back. But too many years of crustomer service have drilled into me that the correct response is to once again apologize, repeat that I do not work in cosmetics, and ask again what she was asking about.
"Doh'mmashes! Fucking dohmmashes! You're the dumbest fucking bitch I've ever talked to, and you need to be fired right fucking now!" And she promptly hung up on me.
Of course the counter manager became available as I was hanging up the phone. Wearily, I asked, "What is dohmmashes, please?"
She frowned and repeated the word, then asked "Oh, Doll Lashes? A new mascara that's coming out."
Never in a million years would I have guessed that that was what this bitch was hollering at me. In hindsight, I should have just asked her to spell it, but it would be just my luck that she couldn't spell, and would rattle off a bunch of random letters, an ampersand, and a semi-colon.
Let the phone ring if you value your sanity,