One thing I’ve learned working at Diverse Universe: there are many, many, many straight people who are still quite unaware that the rainbow is a symbol of gay pride. I know this because even though the front of the store is decked out with rainbows galore (not to mention the giant banner advertising Gay Fuel in the window), there are lots of straight people who wander in the store without realizing what sort of store they’ve entered. They usually make it to the middle of the store before it starts to sink in that the pictures they’re seeing feature women with women, and more shockingly, men with men. A few of these people continue to browse with curiosity, many quietly turn and walk out the door, but a few (mostly straight men) freak out a little bit and dash out the door in fear of catching “the gay.” This happens at least once a week, and I’ve learned just to take it in stride.

Yesterday, in the midst of all the Christmas shopping madness (meaning we had a store full of people), a straight couple walked in the door and separated as they browsed. The girl was in the middle of the store, the guy was still near the front, when suddenly something clicked in his head. “Oh SHIT!” he exclaimed, and hightailed it out the door. She noticed this, but she was still looking around. She continued to browse for a minute or two, then she quietly left.

I was bouncing back and forth between the stores putting up all the cute new stuff that showed up just in time for the last minute shoppers, and as I made a trip over to City Dweller to take an armful over there, I saw her reading him the riot act. I only heard bits and pieces because I didn’t want to be obvious about listening, but I heard him say, “That was a perfectly normal reaction,” to which she replied, “You think that was acceptable? I don’t. I think that was rude and ignorant.” He was still sort of laughing it off as a joke, but man, she was pissed. From inside City Dweller I could hear them continuing to argue. She was getting louder - and though I couldn’t understand what she was saying - it was clear she was giving him absolute hell.

This alone made me love her. I went back to Diverse and told Marshall about it, and we both agreed that she was awesome. But we had no idea how awesome she was until a few minutes later, when they both walked into the store. Marshall was ringing up a customer and I was working on some stock, so they patiently waited for Marshall to be free. As soon as he was, the guy spoke up: “I just wanted to come back in here and apologize for the way I acted earlier. That was rude and completely inappropriate, and I’m very sorry I did that.”

Seriously, it was all I could do to not yell out, “You GO girl!”

A couple of days ago a guy and a girl walked into City Dweller, walked around for a few minutes, then the guy came to the counter. “So what new stuff have you got in?” Since this was someone I didn’t recognize as a regular, I had to ask when he was last in to gauge what stuff would be new since his last visit. “Oh… it’s probably been a year or so.”

Like I can tell you what’s new, throughout the whole store, in the last year?

So I tried to narrow it down a little by asking what kind of stuff he was looking for. “You know, fun accoutrements, like a fondue pot. A cute fondue pot.” (No, I’m not kidding, he used the word accoutrements to refer to a “cute fondue pot”.) I just stared at him, slightly dumbfounded, for a few moments, and all I could think to respond with was, “Um, we don’t really carry a lot of things like fondue pots. We have some barware, a few cute coffee mugs and such…” and I trailed off without a clue as to which direction to go from there.

He sighed (not without a large amount of attitude) and walked over and whispered something to his girlfriend, at which point they both snickered a little then left.

I am still quite confused by that encounter.

One of the things I love about my job is that I meet a lot of people, and I like to meet lots of people, so this is a good thing overall. The problem is that I don’t always remember these people as well as they remember me.

I have always been a people person, the epitome of what comes to mind someone is described as a people person in fact. Being a chatty person runs in my blood (as anyone who’s met even one of my blood relatives could testify to) and I’m generally a nice, pleasant person to chat with. Though I sometimes find it inane and silly, I am skilled in the art of small talk. I have been known to quip that I am the sort of person who could talk to a brick wall and have a perfectly engaging conversation.

This means I am well suited to my current career. One of the things that makes the small mom-n-pop types shops charming (in my opnion anyway) is that you tend to get to know the people who work there, who are always there, rather than just being just another check-out clerk wearing a uniform in a mega store where turnover runs about 80%. If you go into a small shop and the staff is familiar, you feel comfortable and at ease. (Well, as long as the staff is amiable. I suppose if it’s a really snotty person you probably wouldn’t go back.) I like to chat with my customers, and I tend to have long conversations with a large number of them, about everything. We talk about politics, movies, music, the weather, whatever. Most times I think to ask their name at some point in the conversation, and I make a mental note to try and remember it.

Sometimes that’s an easy task. There are some people who really stand out, and I’m able to remember their names - as well as other bits of the conversation - quite easliy. With a few of them, it’s because we really connect, and the conversation moves beyond small talk. Zane is a good example of this. He came in to the store one fateful Saturday afternoon, and I now count him among one of my very good friends. (Even if circumstance has prevented me from making it over to his side of town for a visit in too long a while now.) Those who rent movies from us are easy to remember as well, because I have to put their name into the computer to ring up the rental. Occsaionally it’s because the person I’m conversing with is a nutjob - one of the legions of crazies in the world - and they’re just so out there it would be more of a challenge to forget them.

The majority of the people I talk with sort of all blend together. I have the same conversations over and over some days, and it’s hard to remember who I told what to, not to mention what that person’s name was. This isn’t to say that these aren’t perfectly nice and interesting people, or that I have no desire to get to know them better. It’s just that I talk to so many people in an average day it’s hard to keep them all, well, straight would be the wrong word given where I work, but you know what I mean. The fact that we seem to have a million customers named John or David or Joe doesn’t help either.

Most of the time these people remember me more easily than I remember them. I don’t mean that I’m just so uber-impressive¹ that they can’t forget me; even my ego isn’t quite that big. Somehow though, probably because one doesn’t tend to strike up a conversation with a straight girl working in a gay store on a daily basis, I manage to carve myself a nice little niche in their memories. For most people, this probably wouldn’t seem like much of a problem; indeed, most people would probably start to think that they were in fact just so cool that everyone always remembered them. (I know this is not the case with me, honestly, as most of my life I have been the person who everyone sort of knows because we’ve talked once or twice, but I rarely strike someone as memorable until the second or third conversation at least. Being good at small talk does have it’s disadvantages.)

I struggle with this phenomena though. I don’t like having to fish around to figure out which person this is that I’ve talked with before, and what we talked about, and have I told him that I used to live in LA or that I’m actually straight? I sometimes feel like an asshole for not remembering them right away, needing the nudges and reminders that set me straight as to which cute gay boy it is I’m talking to at that moment. I feel like an asshole because I’ve been on the other side of the counter, and we’d all like to think we’re interesting enough that the girl working at the store remembers the conversation she had with us a month ago as vividly as we remember it. So I try really, really hard to remember these people, to remember their names and the details of the conversations, but as good as my memory is, I sometimes get them confused.

So if you find yourself being that person on the other side of the counter, don’t be offended if the girl ringing up your purchase has to clarify who you are. It doesn’t mean that you’re not an interesting person… it’s just that she meets so many interesting people in a day it’s hard to remember them all.

Mind you, if she just looks at you with a fake smile and nods her head as you talk, you’re probably a boring twit who is only distracting her from other more interesting pursuits, like finishing up the monthly financials paperwork. You should keep that in mind.

¹ That “uber” is just for you Craig. I realized I haven’t given you one for a while, so I had to slip it in there.

For your entertainment, I present this re-enactment of the slightly insane conversation I found myself participating in while working in the not-gay store just a bit ago, proving that persistence is not always a virtue.

(SHOPPER walks in the store, and walks around for a few minutes, then approaches the counter.)

SHOPPER: Do you have stickers? Funny car stickers?

ME: No, sorry.

SHOPPER: You don’t have stickers?

ME: No.

SHOPPER: What do you have?

ME (wondering what he might have missed in his walkthrough): Candles, bath & beauty, cards, frames, magnets, buttons, lamps, vases, barware…

SHOPPER: You don’t have t-shirts?

ME: No, sorry.

SHOPPER: No t-shirts?

ME: No.

SHOPPER: No t-shirts or stickers?

ME: No.

SHOPPER (while staring directly at the candles): Where are the candles?

ME (gently pointing straight ahead): All along that wall there.

SHOPPER: Oh ok.

(SHOPPER proceeds to ignore the candles entirely, walks over to the frames instead, looks around for a second, then walks back to the front and stares at me for a second.)

SHOPPER: Ok, thank you.

ME: You’re welcome, thank you for stopping in.

(At this point I am pretty sure - and a bit relieved - that SHOPPER is headed out the door. But no. SHOPPER walks around the store again, then back up to the front counter.)

SHOPPER: So you don’t have stickers? No funny stickers?

ME: Um, no.

SHOPPER: Do you know where I can get funny stickers? I went to the store on the corner and he said only gay and lesbian stickers were there. I don’t want those. I want funny stickers. You don’t have funny stickers?

ME: No, and I’m not really sure where you could find them around here. Sorry.

SHOPPER: No funny t-shirts either? No stickers or t-shirts?

ME: No, sorry.

SHOPPER: They only had gay and lesbian stickers. That’s not what I want. You don’t know where I can find funny stickers?

ME (as patiently as I can muster at this point): No.

SHOPPER: Ok, thank you.

(SHOPPER continues to browse at the front for one second more, then dejectedly wanders out the door.)

_{*The quote from the title has been attributed to Benjamin Franklin.}

As much as I feel like I am a part of the gay community (in the same sense that PFLAG is a part of the community), I can’t pretend to know what it’s like for a gay man or lesbian to come out of the closet; to admit to family and friends that you are in fact a homosexual. I can’t fathom having kept a big part of my life a secret for years, and then choosing to reveal that secret, knowing full well that it may be met with hostility, anger, shame, etc. This is because I am, in fact, a heterosexual and that isn’t really an issue for us straight folk. Though I do believe, if I were gay, I would have told everyone about it pretty quickly. I’m not very good at keeping secrets really (you might want to remember that if you’re talking to me…) and I will more or less tell you anything about me you want to know, and may well tell you things about me you don’t want to know. (Though I do have a few things I don’t share easily - a girl has to have some mystique.)

In the last year though, I’ve gotten a little taste of what it must be like, albeit at a very different intensity level. This is because, at least once a week, I find myself having to come out of the closet as a hetero.

For those of you who have not picked up on this yet, I work at a gay & lesbian department store sort of shop. We sell gay & lesbian themed books, movies, music, magazines, and all things rainbow and pride. (In addition to the ever popular porn, lube, and sex toys.) I am the sole heterosexual employee at the store, and I sometimes feel like I should be wearing a big sign that says “Hey! I’m a straight girl! Don’t hate me because I’m straight.”

It’s not that I feel the need to declare my sexual orientation constantly. Just like anyone else who works anywhere else, the fact that I prefer intimate relationships with men has absolutely nothing to do with my ability to work the cash register. But I talk to my customers a lot (I talk a lot in general. You think I’m wordy here? Just come in to say hi sometime.) and, maybe because of what I’m selling, conversations with my customers almost always include some moment where I reveal my hetero-ness. Sometimes it’s because I say something about my boyfriend, or I’m asked by a new girl in town where to go to meet girls, or I’m offering my opinion when someone’s trying to decide on a rental. (”Yes, the Bel Ami titles are very popular - and rightly so. Yes, I’ve watched a couple myself, yum, so many cute boys… doing so many things…”) Occasionally, it’s because I’m getting hit on by a woman, and I feel like I should be honest about the situation, though I will admit I’m always immensely flattered by such attention. I usually have no problems with this, and near as I can tell, my customers don’t either. It’s kind of like the skinny bitches (um, I mean ladies) who work in Lane Bryant. They may not be fat girls, but does that really mean they can’t work at a store that caters to those of us of a slightly larger persuasion?

I suppose that everyone who comes in the store for the first time assumes - because I work there - that I’m a lesbian. I don’t really mind this assumption, and truthfully, I would probably think the same thing. I do have the fashion sense of the stereotypical butch dyke, so I can totally understand why someone would think the girl behind the counter at the gay store, who is wearing a men’s plaid flannel button down shirt and jeans with black boots, is a big ole carpet muncher. But this sometimes presents a challenge. Ever so often we will be visited by the type of lesbian I refer to as a man-hater. The man-haters, for whatever reason, seem to have the opinion that men - gay, straight, whatever - are the root of all evil in the world. They are usually vocally appreciative that there’s a woman working at the store, and they generally seem to assume that I am of their ilk.

By the by, I happen to like the members of the opposite sex quite a bit. Most of my closest friends throughout my life have been men, straight, gay or otherwise, and all of my sexual relationships have been with men. I’ve never even experimented really, though I did get kissed by a lesbian once. There have been times in my life when I’ve questioned why I like men (because some of them are indeed evil), but the answer always comes back to me: to put it bluntly, I like dick.

Ok, maybe it’s a little more complicated than that, but that’s the basic idea.

Anyway, after exchanging the usual pleasantries of conversation with the man-haters, often there comes a point where they make some disparaging remark about men, usually while bitching a little about the abundance of penis-oriented merchandise as compared to the boobie stuff (there’s just a lot more merchandise aimed at men available - believe me, we get in as much of the women’s stuff as we can find). Then I have to decide whether to let their assumptions ride or politely correct their impression of me. To be honest, for the man-haters I usually just let it ride. I will remain as pleasant and helpful as ever, but I only really answer direct questions and I don’t get very chatty with them. I’ve even had to play the pronoun game, cleverly omitting the “he” when speaking of my significant other and dodging questions about my living arrangements. I always feel a little bit creepy after one of these encounters; I feel like a liar.

So I’ve gotten a little taste of what it’s like to pretend… to cover up who you really are and fake it, if only for a little while. I don’t envy anyone who’s living the double life because I know I wouldn’t be able to take the pressure. A few minutes of this every once in a while is more than I can really take.

Still though, I’m a bit perplexed about something that happened a couple of days ago.

A man came in alone when the store was empty. He browsed a bit, then timidly approached the counter.

Random Guy: “It must be fun working in a place like this.”
Me: “Yep, it is. I am one of the lucky ones that can truly say I love my job.”
Random Guy: “Can I ask you a question? I hope you don’t mind me asking, it’s a little personal, but you know, this is a kind of open place right…?”
Me: “I guess…”
Random Guy: “Are you a transexual?”
Me: “… uh, no… um…”

Unfortunately, before I could say the next thing I was thinking, which was of course, “Why would you think I am??”, the phone rang. While I answered the caller’s question, Random Guy ducked out the door in a hurry.

If I ever see him again, I intend to ask him that question. It’s kind of bugging me.

P.S. - I had the husky voice long before I started smoking, so all you anti-smokers out there can just shut it. (I sang baritone - yes, BARITONE - in chorus in middle school because none of the boys at that age could sing that low. It’s always been this way.)

Logo - the first 24 hour gay & lesbian themed TV network - is starting June 30. Well, if you live in a city where the cable company realizes there’s an audience for it, it’s starting June 30. Unfortunately, it would appear that Cox cable doesn’t realize that Lakewood, OH has a large gay population, and would probably appreciate the opportunity to check this out. Actually, Cox cable for the Greater Cleveland area won’t be carrying it, according to the guy from Logo I just talked to. I’m not sure about Adelphia yet. (But since I have Cox myself, that’s who I’m really worried about.)

I’m not going to debate the merits of the channel (brought to you by MTV Networks - so I’m sure I’ll have some griping to do eventually) - but I will say that I want it. I signed up on their site (via the Get Ready section), and they’re going to gather that information to send to the cable companies. I know there are more important things in the world I should be worrying about on a daily basis, but right now I just want my Gay TV!

Wait… it’s really not what you’re thinking.

I, like millions of other women in the world, suffer from cramps for a couple days every month. I usually just take 2 Aleve and I’m over it. This morning, I found myself Aleve-less as the pains set in. I was headed to the drugstore anyway to pick up a few things for the store, so I swung by the pain reliever aisle. Now, I have Aleve at home, I just don’t have it with me here at work, so it seemed silly and wasteful to buy more Aleve. It dawned on me that there are medications that are specifically designed for women dealing with the issues I’m dealing with at the moment. (Or at least these medicines are marketed as such.) I have never tried any of these panaceas, mainly because I can’t justify buying something that is so specialized (even if it does claim to solve all of the ills of the menstrual cycle) when the Aleve works just fine for the cramps. But since I was going to have to buy something anyway, and I didn’t want to buy more Aleve, I decided to go for it; live a little. (I’m such a free spirit!) After some careful consideration (I’m a label reader - I like to know what I’m taking.) I picked up Midol Menstrual Complete.

Right there, on the label that I read, it says “When using this product you may get drowsy”, but this is something I decided was a bluff. Almost every over-the-counter medicine has this warning on it these days, but the majority of the time this isn’t an issue for me. Besides, one of the three active ingredients for Midol Menstrual Complete is caffeine. 120mg worth in one dose… so, yeah. It’s got caffeine in it… surely it doesn’t cause drowsiness.

To be fair, I wasn’t entirely wrong in my assessment. I don’t feel drowsy… I feel DRUNK. I mean, I am feeling a right bit of fucked up at the moment. This would probably be perfectly ok to me were I at home or at a party or something. In fact, this is information I’m definitely going to file away for later reference when I want to feel fucked up. The problem is, I’m at work. I’m trying to put new lube up for sale on the web site and complete cash transactions with customers in the store. I’m trying to be alert and semi-perky as people come in to shop. (As perky as a gal like me can get anyway.) I’m trying hard to function normally, but this OVER-THE-COUNTER drug is making it very, very, very hard to do so. I want to talk. I want to ramble incoherently. Having The Bravery playing in the background isn’t helping either… I want to dance. Maybe even a bit of drunken flailing!

I did manage find what it is that’s causing this. The three active ingredients for Midol Menstrual Complete are acetaminophen (Tylenol), caffeine (my drug of choice), and pyrilamine maleate. WTF is pyrilamine maleate? Glad you asked.

It’s listed on the package as a diuretic. The purpose this would be intended for is to relieve water retention, thus helping the whole bloated feeling, with a possible side effect of having to pee a LOT. However, when I did a little research on pyrilamine maleate, I discovered that it has a few other uses. Most commonly it is apparently used as an antihistamine, I’m guessing to battle allergies. But… here’s where it gets interesting: its other possible uses are as a sedative and as a HYPNOTIC. A hypnotic… right here in my Midol. DUUUUUDE.

My observation: Valentine’s Day makes people bitchy, especially men. They all appeared to be sort of pissed about having to shop for cutesy cards and lovey-dovey romantic frou-frou. Even the gay men, many of whom simply loooooove to shop, seemed to be shopping out of some sense of obligation today.

My favorite bitchy guy moment today…

“Wow, you really don’t have many Valentine’s Day cards, do you? You should have more than this.”

That’s because you waited till the ACTUAL day to get the card, bucko. Guess what? Smarter people than you already got all the good ones; we’ve had them out for nearly a month now. You waited till the last minute, so you’re stuck with choosing from what’s left. Suck it up.

For the record, I’ve been with my boyfriend for well over 3 years, and I *still* hate Valentine’s Day. I’m not very good at the whole mushy romantic thing… so it’s a holiday obligation that I’m simply destined to fail. Here’s what we did for Valentine’s Day: We watched American Dad together, thanks to the DVR, while I ate the grilled ham, bacon, & cheese sandwich that he made me for dinner. (Verdict on American Dad: Not as funny as Family Guy, but still better than Super Milk Chan. But I’ve got higher hopes for Robot Chicken… it looks like a live action Twisted Toyfare Theater.)

Then he went to bed, while I finished up some work. Whoo! Bet all you single folks are terribly jealous now… positively green with envy, aren’t you?

If you are in a small gift shop, that specializes in cards, which is VERY crowded, on a holiday that requires people to go out and buy cards for their loved ones whether they want to or not, with your child who is approximately 2 years of age - DO NOT ENCOURAGE THE CHILD TO PLAY WITH THE LARGE DISPLAY OF WIND CHIMES TO KEEP HIM/HER OCCUPIED.

I, and many shoppers, thank you kindly for your support in this matter.

Tinkling wind chimes can be a very soothing sound when one set is played upon by a slight breeze. Twenty different styles of wind chimes, all in slightly different pitches, being beat upon at once by a small child is more like medieval torture.

Almost 5 years ago, faced with the reality that the company that I was working for at the time would probably not be around much longer¹, I took a position at a company which proved itself evil incarnate. In my first three months working there, the nice guy CEO was fired (using the “he wants to spend more time with his family” line), the notoriously ruthless majority shareholder/Chairman of the Board took over, my boss (who was the only barrier between me and the aforementioned ogre) revealed she was pregnant and more or less mentally checked out of the work world in favor of shopping for baby stuff, and the descent into hell began. I commenced searching for another job immediately, but this was in early 2001, when the tech bubble popped. There were simply too few jobs in the Internet industry to accomodate the thousands who were suddenly looking for work in said industry. I was considered to be one of the lucky ones, as I did actually have steady employment.

By the summer of 2003, my despair from working for Satan and his minions had spilled into my personal life and was making me just an eency bit psychotic. My boyfriend gets many points for sticking with me back then; it can’t be easy to date Super Mega Psycho Bitch. Something had to change.

Luckily, Satan’s sweatshop was prospering, despite managing to piss off nearly every customer it had. This meant that the stock options I’d been given a year after I was hired, though less than worthless as the time of issue, were suddenly a cash cow. A large one. So in August 2003, I was able to sell off my available options for a sum that was literally more than half my annual salary. Around the same time all this was happening, my best friend of many years and I were discussing the fact that he wanted me to come work for him in Cleveland, OH in the two stores that he owned. A year before, even a few months before, this probably wouldn’t have been thinkable. But with a bank account full of moola, this was not only do-able, it was enticing.

I freed myself from corporate slavery. I returned to retail, willingly. And I couldn’t be happier about the decision. (Poor, but happy.)
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