The Duchess Lists

Top 10 Reasons I Will Never Receive a Promotion

Somehow, by some miracle, I am employable. Barely. But still. In the time that I have been employed in retail, I have had much time to think. And to scheme. I don't plan. I scheme. These schemes, while outlandish to some, are probably brilliant. Maybe I'm just biased though because it is my brain and I've become accustomed to its madness. These schemes, while probably brilliant, also make me totally ineligible to ever be promoted to anything anywhere. You don't generally promote deranged people, I guess. I think its somewhere in the company policy.

1. My continuing investigations into the fate of Barbie's missing younger sister Kelly.

Seriously, I cannot be the only one who is suspicious of all the shadiness that surrounds that little plastic family. It's not a Dream House, it's a House of LIES.

2. My passionate advocacy for capes.

Honestly, the uniform is lacking a certain...pizazz. I feel that capes would not only fill the gaping Pizazz Void (legit term that I just invented, basically a synonym for Chasm of Despair), but it would also fill each moment with a sense of dramatic flair. Think about how amazing you would feel stalking around the store on a mission of some sort, or like...swooping into customer service to save the day or something. DRAMA. MYSTERY. PIZZAZZ. CAPES.

*Side note: my manager told me today that if I can boost sales, he will advocate on my behalf to get me a cape. Legit.*

3. Incessant Britishisms.

This may or may not have begun with my declaration of my faux royal status as The Duchess, and continued with perch atop a stock bunker while exclaiming the names on all the boxes I was stacking in a British accent while wearing a Winnie the Pooh costume on my head. It was exacerbated by the guys in the truck bay declaring themselves to be One Direction and having conversations entirely in accents. British accents were subsequently banned at work...but I can't stop. Can't stop, won't stop. The Duchess lives on the edge y'all.

4. My tendency to consume large peppermint mochas and then begin rapping Run DMC songs.

I only know the first few lines of "Its Tricky," but it is most definitely enough to inspire awkward dance moves and the pursuit of coworkers while in full dance/rap mode. I'm a born performer.

5. The continuing quest to be a member (even honorary) of the 500s.

These are the guys who carry out all the boxes and stuff. I want to possess the strength and the swagger to strut around with boxes and all that. I imagine that every time they do a carry out, this is what they see and hear:

6. My campaign to get the right to ride a bike around the store in order to perform my job more swiftly, more effectively, and more recklessly. 

Think about how many people I could help, just barreling through the store on a bike decked out with a basket and streamers and a bell. People would be all "Hey Duchess, can you help me find this fancy new giraffe toy that sings Barry Manilow songs while shooting fireworks out of its horns?" and I'd be all "But of course! Follow me!!" and then I would peddle off gracefully, cape flowing out behind me like a triumphant flag of awesome.

7. The Legend of BPPetey.

BPPetey is a fuzzy little rhino toy I found at my register one day. I named him in a punny and endearing sort of way (which is, to my knowledge, the ONLY way to name things) and he has become well known and loved. Days later, I opened a Kinder Surprise egg to find my very own BPPetey, and he has now found his home at the customer service desk. FATE.

8. My ongoing efforts to obtain the shelf tags to products containing either a faintly sexual or inappropriate name, OR shelf tags of products that are AWESOME. 

The other day, I discovered the existence of a Robo-Gangster Battle Yacht. YEAH. Screw you Donald Trump, you didn't think of it first and now I'm going to make a killing (hah) on my franchise of battle yachts. Also, this:

9. Sometimes I wear a tiara to work.

10. My never ending desire to make a dramatic entrance through the swinging doors in the back of the store.

This vision plays out as follows: I am wearing my employee dress code sanctioned cape (see what I did there?), I throw a smoke bomb out the saloon doors, and suddenly I throw those doors open and stride through majestically, cape trailing behind, wind blowing faintly enough to make my hair move in that super exotic and glorious way, and people will just stop and be like "W. T. F. That was splendiforous." And I'll just stride right on past as if it was no big deal, but we'll all know. The game has just been changed. SHWABAM.