Sometimes when things aren’t going my way, I like to go clothes shopping--say, at Banana Republic. I make a point to get to know the names of all the people working there. Then I take my things to the cash register. The woman behind the counter says “And did anyone help you today?”

In response, I say something like: “Natasha tried to help me, but she’s pretty creepy. Her eyes kind of fall to the left, like marbles.  I couldn’t say more than two words to her.

“Then there’s Chad. He’s not gay, by the way.  He just said that to get the job.  He knows about as much about fashion as Paris Hilton knows about abstinence.

“I think Rachael wants your job.  She said a few words to me about the new charcoal slacks that the store just got, and then she went out in the hall to text her friend about her scary, harridan boss.

“So anyway, if you’re asking who should get the commission for these purchases I’m making, I recommend you split it among all of them, because they were all equally unhelpful.”

Then I leave the store, walking slowly enough that I can hear the furor start behind me.  The only problem with this hobby is that you generally can’t go back to the store again.  I’ve had to start moving further and further out of my area.  I just got back from a Banana Republic near the Oregon border.