So at the consignment shop, we have to individually price and tag each item that comes through the sale's floor. On my end this can be fun or tedious depending on what items I have to do. For example, basket of baby clothes: tedious. As opposed to basket of Banana Republic blazers and sun dresses from the Gap in my size: fun. The entire process can be mind-numbing, but there's nothing that can ruin your day like a sheisty tagging gun.
Tagging guns are temperamental weapons of retail. They pretty much hurt like the Dickens when you stab yourself in the finger, but man do you feel like a champ when you get a clean line of merchandise through without fault. I like to call myself a tagging gun whisperer of sorts, the way I'm able to fix the needle or unlock the trigger. Granted, this is mostly because I just take the time to do it sometimes, but I think it's also because, unlike my fellow sales associates, I gave the tagging guns names.
Of course, we have several tagging guns, and if it weren't for the names, then we'd get them all confused, mistaking the good, working ones for the ones that stink and lock too often. I took it upon myself one day, along with Judy, to start naming them, so when our boss came to get the broken ones to get fixed, asking which ones to take, we replied:
"Oh, well, Bradley's broken."
"What?"
"No, that's Micah. Bradley's the one broken. Blake works most of the time too."
He left, laughing at us, telling our other boss that we've been working in the front too long.
Little does he know, they're named after boys we like.
Oh, God. We have been working too long, haven't we?
