Customer 1: “Hey there, bubba. Let me have a big ol’ bottle of poppers.”
Me: “I’m afraid we don’t sell poppers, but we do have a fine selection of solvents and polish removers.”
Customer 1: [unamused] “You know what I mean, bubba.”
Me: “Yes, I do. Which solvent or polish remover can I get you today?”
[He makes a selection and pays.]
Customer 1: “Okay, bubba, now you just open up that bottle and take a big ol’ whiff.”
Me: “Sorry, no can do.”
Customer 1: “Aw, c’mon, bubba.”
Customer 1: [even less amused] “Fine. G’night, bubba.”
[He exits. Then, later…]
Customer 2: “Hi, lover.”
[He makes a lap of the store and heads back to the door.]
Customer 2: “Thanks, lover.”
And I’m just sitting behind the counter, pulsating with resentments and silently screaming, “MY NAME IS MARJORIE.”
Which… really doesn’t convey the righteous indignation I was hoping for. I may need to find a more aggressive nickname — somebody do some research and let me know if Leonidas is available. Or Caligula. Or pretty much anything Greco-Roman and stabby.
ETA: I have since discovered that the Greek translation of Marjorie is Margaritári, which sounds both drunken and stabby. Referring to myself in third person from here on out, Margaritári will be taking the rest of the afternoon off to execute Phoenican emissaries and snuggle Gerard Butler. Hold Margaritári’s calls.