Mandy the Moralist Shopgirl

AngelBack on the perfume counter today.  I got lucky with make up two weeks in a row, but my bubble got burst this morning when I walked in and picked up the Angel.  I didn’t even get to ease back into things with Daisy or Light Blue.  Damn Angel.  Now I’ve got to spend all day breathing through my nose or feeling like I’m choking on chocolate and spiced rum.  Marisol claims that there’s no traces of rum in Angel, it’s a classy scent, but damn if it doesn’t smell just like my college hoodie after a long night at the frat houses in the spring.  That bitch Jenna is still on men’s shaving.  All she has to do is smile, wave a little and she’s got $400 in commission for the day locked up before lunch.  For real, how hard is it to sell shaving products to men who came into Macy’s looking for shaving products?  Meanwhile, I’m stuck squirting rum-chocolate juice onto ladies’ scarves and purses hoping they don’t turn around and smack me in the face.  When I sit back and stop harassing the customers, Marisol comes over and starts making threats about my numbers, my lack of enthusiasm, maybe I’m not a good salesperson.  I can sell the socks off a monkey, but I got to believe in the product myself.  The only people who wear Angel are old ladies and people who have nose damage.  I can’t in good conscience recommend it to the tourists and young girls in the city trying to get cool products.  I can steer them toward some Prada or Burberry, have them sniff some Ralph Lauren, but that’s where my involvement ends.

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