Call it sad, call it funny. Call is frustrating, call it simply foreign ways.
Call it whatever you like, I've finally had it with you↘ today.
I didn't say a word when you double-weighed my fruit and vegetables to make sure I didn't sneak in an extra piece or two after I'd got them off the scales.
I didn't say a word when you asked for my receipt to check if it matched the contents of my trolley at the door (well, about that... sorry for staring you down and pretending not to understand).
I didn't say a word, I was good-humoured enough to assume that you were just doing your job.
But enough is enough and I'm afraid I did say a word or two today when you practically accused me of stealing my husband's credit card. I don't care if that's not the exact word you used, whatever you said, was enough, especially as I only got half, anyways. It was already enough that the cashier had refused to ring up my items and accused me of trying to use a card that was not real. Yeah, I know, her words, not mine. It was already enough that I was not alone but with lovely Baby, just trying to rush through. It was already enough that she forced me to create a scene with more eyes than I like on me. It was already enough that staring her down did not work and I was forced to open my mouth and get engaged in an unpleasant argument in Russian, yep, still all eyes and ever more eyes on me. But then she yelled your unpleasant name and you rushed over and held me up and took the card that apparently was not mine but Husband's and it was more than enough that I had figure out how to get it back. It was more than enough that you kept insisting I was to leave without the products I had spent the past half hour hunting down, and that's that.
I am not happy that I actually had to call Husband's assistant for help - she said whatever she did and I had no choice but wave Husband's business card (the only cyrillic semi-identification I have on me as last time you couldn't be bothered with mine that was non-cyrillic, either) under your nose to prove that I was not him. The combination of the two weirdly did its magic because all of a sudden but not without considerable scrutiny you decided to accept my card and let me through but as it turns out, neither Husband's assistant or I managed to figure out what really was the problem and how it got solved.
Until I had a sudden flashback in the car on the way home, was enlightened and now it all made (sad, funny, frustrating, foreign) sense. For you see, all of a sudden I remembered that both you and the cashier kept saying and pointing to my name.
My name is Andrea. That's what's on my card.
The Russians/Ukrainians pronounce it Andreya.
If you speak Russian, you have probably already worked it out.
Andrey is a Russian male name (Andrew). Andreya is the genitive (Andrew's).
At this particular store the cashiers assume that what's written on my card is actually not my name, Andrea XXXXXX but rather, Andreya, or Andrew's card. Apparently my husband's card. But just giving them proof that Husband is not Andrey is enough.
Call it sad. Call it funny. Call it frustrating, call it foreign. This is what's been happening to me for weeks.
Do you see why this blog saves me sometimes?
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