T.M.I.

I learned from an early age that I have the kind of face which encourages strangers to disclose their deep-seated fears and aspirations. In customer service, this "gift" often causes full-blown psychoanalytic sessions over seemingly simple transactions. Today, a frequent customer of mine sarcastically responded to "How are you?" with "Oh just lovely," and then proceeded to grocery-list the assignments she'd just been given in her class. First of all, I only required a one-word answer to my insincerely polite question. Second of all, this woman is a squat hobbit who wears brightly patterned moo moos, mismatched jewelry of the extraordinarily large variety, headbands to tie back her frizzy nest, and lipstick with no particular boundaries (see above photo). I love bold fashions, unless it's obviously unintentional; this woman may or may not have severe psychological disorders fueling her wardrobe choices. Today, rather than write a seven page fax to her lawyer in illegible serial-killer script, like she usually does, she sent out some trust fund related documents (now it all makes sense). Afterward, she fussed for a while, with musical theatre blaring out of her headphones and jewelry jangling a beat to match the Gershwin, then finally spilled it: "I'm just so upset about all that work. I mean, I went to prep school, and I've never encountered anything like that. The professor is normally a psychotherapist, so where is her real psychotherapist's empathy? I'm going to see my psychotherapist now, so that'll be good." Mind you, this is not an uncommon monologue; I'm her best friend.

On a totally unrelated note, in so far as it only has to do with another customer; I overheard the most repugnant cell phone conversation, which should have been had in the privacy of the woman's own home. Let's just say that the phrase, "She got herself into this mess because she likes dick so much," was uttered more than once.