As a seller of fabulous plus size contemporary and vintage clothing on (ugh) Ebay, I am often subject to the petty annoyances of the site, about which I have written here.
However, today's newest aggravation comes from another place altogether...our beloved United States Postal Service. They have again raised their rates, and not only that. They have revamped their shipping system. It might as well be in Sanscrit. I did try to read some of the information, but I confess, after ten minutes, I had to lie down and have my maid dab my temples with eau de cologne.
So I sent in my personal assistant this morning to go figure it out and change the listings accordingly at the Bodacious House of Style immédiatement.
You THINK she would be up to the task, I mean, I do pay her to get things done.
Well. I was recovering, reading Meg Cabot's novel Queen of Babble (about which I will be interviewing her in the first week of June), when I heard an absolute BANSHEE WAIL from the direction of my office! I slipped on a wisp of silk chiffon and high-heeled satin mules and made my way down the corridor to see what was up, Bucky at my heels.
My assistant lay CRUMPLED on the floor, sobbing.
"Get up, you ridiculous peasant!" I said as gently as possible. I mean really, this was during business hours. She can have a nervous breakdown on her own time as far as I am concerned.
"I can't," she moaned. "The postage...it's all so...I don't know how to do it...the website doesn't make any sense...please don't make me do this!"
I stared down at her prone form, dressed in a cheap Forever 21 print dress and (ugh) leggings.
"Then you will just have to figure it out," I snapped, and turned on my heel. "And do not get mucus on the Aubusson."
However, as I strode back to my boudoir, I confess, I felt a pang of sympathy for the little idiot. This was such an unfamiliar emotion it momentarily stopped me in my tracks, causing Bucky to bump into me. If I, with my superior intellect, could not understand the new Postal Rates, how could this poor fool?
I returned to the office, where my assistant had pulled herself up to a seated position on the carpet, wiping her nose with a tissue. I quickly inspected the Aubusson for stains but found none. Tres bon.
"Ne vous inquietez pas," I said. "Perhaps my response was a touch harsh. You still have to figure it out. BUT--give yourself some time. You have until your lunch break." I felt quite the gracious lady of the manor, I must confess. I closed the office door behind me, listening to the soft sobs.
But then I shook it off. Sympathy for the help is something one cannot afford, nçest pas?
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog