Ice Cubes for Baby!

I’m standing with a coworker as we watch a customer with a crying baby in a stroller. The baby won’t stop crying, and I assume he’s thirsty, because his mother is trying to open a drink cup. Mind you, he looks about six-months old (and my coworker tells me babies that old shouldn’t be drinking water, soda or anything like this).

Well, don’t worry, there is no water left in this lady’s iced coffee cup. So instead she starts pouring ice cubes into her child’s mouth, nay make that toddler, nay make that infant-close-to-newborn baby’s mouth. So an ice cube drops in roughly the same size as the child’s mouth and disappears. We stand there watching in amazement. I don’t know if this woman expects her toothless son to chew on the ice, or to know how to suck an ice-cold cube. Of course, the expected happens, and the baby begins to choke–well actually, more like the child can’t breathe because the ice cube gets lodged in the back of his mouth.

So she quickly starts patting his chest. Then she frantically unbuckles the baby from the stroller. Then she turns him over in the air and starts slapping his back. I’m not entirely sure if an ice cube even pops out or if the child has already swallowed it. She continues to check her baby and looks inside his mouth. By now my coworker goes to offer the customer help.

The woman is Japanese and doesn’t speak English, so I look for a coworker who can offer her help–either telling her we have a drinking fountain in the back, and we have fitting rooms if she needs to nurse or something. Instead, the woman ignores all of us, and rushes away with her baby and disappears.

No further comment.

Customer Types: The Dumb,

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Milk Made

I’m standing folding, and a couple with one of those monster strollers that are made for two children come barging in. They barely have enough room to fit the strollers as they start to shove and push. As they do this, one of their lovely, beautiful boys decides it’s time to toss, drop, or throw his cup at the glass door. And it splatters, covering the lower-half of the door, and spills all over the floor–inside and outside of the store. I immediately get some help, and run to get a mop. By the time I come back, the couple have done a spill-and-run. Then I look closely at the spill and realize it’s MILK. Fresh, creamy, white milk lays splattered on the door and floor.

One guy tries to clean the glass with glass-cleaner and a pile of napkins, but it just smears. The hot sun and milk have already started to turn into a nice, thick cream. He has to clean the door several times before he gives up, still able to see the smear.

I have a mop and disinfectant, but I quickly realize I didn’t put enough hot water into the mop bucket, as the clear water turns milky white. Seriously, how much milk was this kid drinking? Maybe it was melted ice cream. I just couldn’t wait until the hot sun starts to bake the dairy and turn it rotten. The smell will be unbelievable. I clean the floor so well it actually looks cleaner than the surrounding area, which utterly surprises me.

As I’m bending over mopping deep into the grills that are outside our store, the glass door slams open, barely missing my face as I move out-of-the-way. Lo-and-behold, it is the same family (I want to use some terrible adjectives right now) barging out of the store, slamming into the door. I catch the door, throwing the mop handle into my other hand, and the man just looks at me. I never heard an apology from them, either from spilling their cottage cheese on our store or almost cracking my face. And, of course, did they buy anything? Oh no way, of course not. They bought nothing, just spilled and left. Thank you very much for being (CENSORED).

Customer Types: Capitalist, Modern Slave-Owner, Piggies, Unapologetic

It’s All Your Fault, Mommy!

I am on the sales floor and there is a mother with a stroller and her daughter is walking nearby. Inside the stroller, the woman has her large son sitting up–and he’s far too large to even be in a stroller at this point, so I assume she’s training him for a life of laziness. Her large son decides to lay back–I guess she had too many bags (probably five or six) hanging from the handles–he shifted all the weight to the back, so the stroller fell backwards. He hits the floor and a lot of screaming and crying ensues. The mother struggles to lift the stroller while trying to get her son to stop crying. As all of this is happening, the woman’s daughter (3-4 years old) points and screams at her mother, “It’s your fault, mommy! It’s all your fault!!!” This continues for several minutes. Screaming, crying, and “It’s all your fault mommy!”

Now this is a moment to remember.