THE BODY SHOP: EPIC FAIL

On Saturday I run in a 5k.  It's not a typical 5k; it's a muddy 5k, also known as The Dirty Girl Mud Run.  The story of the mud run, while interesting, will have to wait another day or two, but the experience does tie in with today's blog entry because of the smell.

That's right: The Smell.

First of all, the course is fantastic considering the sponsors have less than a week to pull it all together at a new venue.  Secondly, some of the course is a mile-long trek through the backwoods cross-country trails that are littered with tree roots and small boulders - a haven to twisted ankles and displaced knees -- with several mud pools built into the natural landscape.  The mud in the inflatable obstacles outside of this trail smells rich like loam or good old-fashioned mud pies; the backwoods mud smells like something emitted from the deep and twisted bowels of the earth. 

Right after finishing the muddy trail run, we hit not one, not two, but three man-made mud obstacles in a row.  The first two are quick: slide down into mud then crawl on your belly through the mud.  The third obstacle has a long waiting line because only six people can go at a time.  My running partner and I hunker in for a twenty minute wait.

Suddenly, I smell "it." 

My nostrils grab on to a beautiful aroma.  Never the one to keep my big trap shut, I announce, "Okay, someone here smells ... really good.  Like I am not even kidding.  Someone smells fantastic!"

It takes a moment before the embarrassed woman in front of me turns and admits that it is she who smells like spring flowers instead of disgusting, septic-y backwater (like the rest of us).  The woman names the scent and the store where she bought it. 

Sunday rolls around and the store, simply called The Body Shop, is open at the Mall at Rockingham Park (which is different than the Rockingham Park Mall, an older strip mall which used to be a regular covered mall located a spitting distance from the newer, chic-er Mall at Rockingham Park; apparently we ran out of mall names up here).  I convince one of my partners in crime to come along for the ride.

When we find The Body Shop, it is located upstairs in a well-positioned storefront.  We walk in, explain our dilemma to the sales girl, and she sprays out (onto a testing strip) the scent, or darn close to it.  I ask her how much the bottle of fragrance is, and she stops speaking as if she has been put into a stranglehold.

"Well, this one isn't exactly for sale."

Not ... for ... sale.  Wait.  I AM in a mall, and I AM in a store, and I AM shopping.  I thought these simple requirements (mall, store, shopping) would be the cornerstone of any good shopkeeper's business.

"You have to be a member of our club."

Say, what?  I am dumbfounded.  The clerk notices this.

She stammers, "Yes, only club members are allowed to make purchases on our products here..."

I'm sorry, Tinkerbell, are you speaking to me?  Still?  Because I totally lost you right before say what.

Suddenly, springing forth from the back room behind the counter like Hydra rising from the swamps of Lerna, a flamboyant young man joins the fray.  After berating my friend and me for not only being non-members of their club but for not even knowing that there is such a club, charming Hyrda-Dude announces that "Members of the club are our customer base!"

No, Hydra-Dude, I am your customer base.  I am standing in your store, cash in hand, asking for one large bottle of the fragrance with a spray diffuser for the top. Cha-ching, cha-ching!

The Body Shop product selection:  FAIL
The Body Shop customer service:  FAIL

But it's not over yet, no way, no how.  Hydra-Dude continues to lecture me about the finer points of marketing and direct sales to their unique clientele (members of their "club"), explaining the business as if I weren't the daughter of an advertising and marketing executive, as if I hadn't worked part-time in the advertising business for a while as a Girl Friday (assistant, for the young folk), as if I were exactly the kind of low-life customer their store didn't ever want to see shopping there.

Words are exchanged, mostly by the loud-mouthed, ill-trained, extremely rude Hydra-Dude who probably shouldn't be working with fragrances any more than a male pervert should be working at Victoria's Secret (not that any are - I'm just stretching a point here). 

Yes, my children, your mama made a scene.  Again.

My friend and I turn to leave the store, and, as we are in the doorway, Hydra-Dude and Tinkerbell scream, "HAVE A NICE DAY!" and roll into a loud laughing fit.

But guess what!  Guess who laughs last? 

I do.  I laugh last because I email the corporate headquarters to tell them what happened, where, and when.  Then I inform them that they don't know MY CLUB, nor are they familiar with MY CUSTOMER BASE, and I just wanted to return the favor ... you know ... before this goes to print.

The Body Shop shopping experience?  FAIL.  MAJOR FAIL.  EPIC FRIGGING FAIL.

The best part -- I will never shop there; I will encourage all of you never to shop there; and today I spend money at Bath and Body Works instead, where the customer service, I might add, at least on Sunday at the Mall at Rockingham Park is stellar, majorly stellar, epically frigging stellar.

Hydra-Dude and Tinkerbell, may YOU have a nice day.  (Snicker, snicker, snicker.)