Dear Shitty Parents,
I know this is not a polite way to start off a letter, but who the fuck do you think you are? There is not enough coffee in the world to protect me from your OC superiority complex. I know I smile a lot. And yes, I’m pretty damn good at making the Children’s Department look like Disneyland. However, I did not think it was endearing that you referred to me as a “super nanny.” I am a stressed out twenty-something trying to make some money while finishing school so I can get out of this suburban nightmare. So, no, I am not your super nanny. And I am most certainly not your bitch.
I think it’s time we get a few things straight, Mrs. Jones and friends. [It’s never the dads.]
1. Your child is not mine to watch. I don’t want one, and most certainly not yours. Even if I desired to have a child, yours would be the last one I wanted. Are we clear?
2. And second of all, your child is crying whilst slobbering on Goodnight Moon. There is not enough Purell in the universe to undo what your offspring just did to that board book.
3. I DON’T KNOW WHAT “SQUARE-SHAPED BOOK WITH A YELLOW COVER” YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT. SEE YA PREFERABLY NEVER.
4. It’s so unfortunate that you have three shitty kids to watch. Like, I totally feel for you, but you’re a terrible human being. Why are you letting your little assholes throw beanie babies all over my beautiful disaster of a department? Let me guess. You’re probably that lady who leaves her clothes on the floor in the Nordstrom fitting rooms. Who do you think picks that shit up when you don’t? Think. About. It. It’s customers like you that make me furiously scroll through Craigslist at 1 in the morning.
5. Please note that this store is set up for you to come in and purchase products. It is not a recreation center. Really. Are you going to buy that novelty sound book that your kid is playing over and over and over and over again? Your mini-me is super talented with that button and all, but have some respect. People come to our store hoping to buy an unused toy. This isn’t a thrift store. This isn’t your home. Oh, and FYI: Toys stay in the box. Your child is literally taking them out in front of you. Are you kidding me with this shit?
6. “Um, do you work here?” is a question I get asked far too often. I’m holding a scanner and wearing a name tag at the same time. I just picked your child’s chewed up book off the floor. I work here. I mean, come on, the name tag should be the obvious giveaway. You just wasted 10 seconds of my life with your idiotic question. Speaking of which, it’s Elin. E-lynne. Not Ellen. Anyways, yeah, I work here. Unfortunately. What do you want?
Love or whatever,
Your Friendly Retail Slave