  Day Thirteen: Friday (not the 13th, but freaky nonetheless) Chicken Little goes to the mall. The lovely and talented Mrs. R. W. F*ckyface-McF*ckhead tore hubby a new one last night so he dutifully jogged down to the mall to make it our problem. Cut the freak a check, Gigi's been saying it since August when he first started becoming such a vocal "good customer. " There are "good customers" (and by "good" I of course mean "bad") and then there is Mr. R.W. F*ckyface-McF*ckhead and his lovely and talented wifey and their magnificent boxes of hate. Their $1500 worth of hand-crafted custom-ordered Brazillian cherry wood jewelry boxes for wifey's jewel collection that are never ever going to be perfectly matched enough for wifey, who perpetrates some form of spousal abuse on hubby who runs (I mean literally- he's always sweating every time he comes in and he never uses the phone) to us to complain some more and insist on gift certificates to make up for all his pain and suffering. We don't want to give him gift certificates because that would mean he would come back to buy more things which will not be perfect enough. What of our pain and suffering you wackjob? The problem last night was that the boxes had been delayed (the re-boxes, actually, this is round three of trying to make a set to Mrs. F-McF's psychotic standards) in production.
The excuse was that the boxmaker's wife had had a stroke. This is very sad. Very very sad. But Mr. F*ckyface was not interested in excuses. "I'm not interested in excuses. You and I, I think are seeing this situation from very different perspectives," (thought bubble- you got that right, Jim! ) "and my perspective is that none of this is very professional. You need to make this right. I deserve some kind of compensation. " Beth tried to get a word in edgewise about handmade boxes and how they don't generally match the same way mass produced happy meal pieces of crap do, only she used better language.
"No, I'm not interested in your excuses. You see, you don't have to live with my wife. " His exact words. Thought bubble- please, Mr. F*ckyface, do not attempt to use your poor life choice making abilities as a rationale for coming in and peeing on our parade. Rather than shooting another $1200 on a jewelry box that will not be right, will never be right-- the box is only a symptom, don't you see?-- I'm thinking our sweaty boy's pocket cash is better spent on a vicious pit bull divorce lawyer.
It capped a lovely evening shift which had started with the ceiling falling in after a recent rainstorm and flooding all the fancy cutting boards. Our industrial carpet looks like something large peed on it. Good thing I didn't have to handle Mr. F-McF (I was playing in the backstock area when he came in- plus I called neverending "not it" on this one a long time ago.
) I wouldn't have been able to hear much of what he said over the pounding in my ears. Even overhearing it made my blood boil. Happy thought bubbles, I kept saying to myself, happy thought bubbles. Professor Plum with the scrimshaw letter opener at the cash register. Today is Friday, but it is my Wednesday. We got three seasonal employees and a van ful of freight which we could not unpack because of the problem of shipping a giant concrete chicken (one of our bestsellers) across country. I gotta tell ya, though, the peppermint mochas at Starbucks- yum yum. 
