Close Enough For Government Work

This lovely rainy morning in PA, I was scheduled to work from 10am to 7pm. I was scheduled, happily, I might add, to be outside selling Christmas trees.

I spent all of 1 hour outside...happy, AFTER they decided to get my passive-aggressive ass a heater. The toothpicks & saran wrap hut is always a happy place when I do actually have a little bit of heat that I don't have produce my-own-self.

Anyway, about an hour into my lovely rainy day in PA, I have a real-live customer. He plunks his two Christmas cacti on my counter and I scan 'em. I'm still in my happy place. I hit the total button, and he hands me a $20 bill and a nickel to pay for it. I owe him $1.01 in change...and as the drawer comes open, I gots nuttin'.

Well, actually, what I have is great big fistfuls of AIR. Apparently, no one thought to tell the money girl to put, you know, money in that drawer.

So, okay. I've played this game before. Call and get the guy his change...and they'll bring me money so I can continue my day in my happy place.

Guy takes his stuff to his car. He comes back, in time to see one person bring me ONE dollar and ONE penny. He saw the gaping black hole-ness of my money drawer, so he knows I do not have any money...and that the one person who came outside WITH any money did NOT bring me more than ONE dollar and ONE cent.

What do you think this jackass does?

You'd be correct if you say, "He chooses something ELSE to purchase and brings it up to me....and hands me another $20 bill to pay for it."

That's right: he KNOWS I have no way to give him change. So he hands me another $20 bill to pay for $8.46 cents worth of crap. He tells me, "I only have 20's."

I tell him, "I don't have any thing more than the $20 bill and the nickel you just gave me a few minutes ago."

He tells me, "I only have a $20."

I tell him I can call and see if they can bring me his change from inside, OR he can go inside and pay in there.

He begins to dig thru his wallet, and he comes up with one $5 bill and two $1 bills. He hands that to me and says, "There, close enough."

I tell him I need another $1.46. He tells me he doesn't have it. I tell him I cannot accept $7 for the $8.46 purchase he's making

He says, "it's all I have."

I ask him, "Did you see my empty drawer last time?" He scrounges thru his pockets and hands me another $1 bill. "There, that's close enough."

I tell him, "No sir, it's not. I still need 46 cents."

He blinks at me for a few minutes, then hands me 44 cents. I declare it "Close enough for government work!" and then, after he leaves, they close my happy place and send me inside.

75% Off Your IQ

Customer brings an item to the register that is marked 75% off. We have to reduce the price at the register, so we do. We had to get the regular price, then do the math--I always CYA and do the math. The customer watches me do the math, and then argues that the $1.50 price that is typed into the register is wrong.

Guy: It's supposed to be 75% off.

Cashier: Yes, and that's what I reduced it to.

Guy: No, I watched her do the math. She did 25%, not 75%.

I step in to help her out, in part because I did the math for her, and in part because she's already having a really bad day and is stressed out.

M: Sir, $1.50 is 75% off the original price.

Guy, still arguing: But you did 25%.

M: Yes, because you are paying 25% of the original price.

Guy: I don't get it. It's supposed to be 75% off. That'd be less than $3.

M: Yes, sir. 75% off means you will pay 25% for it. And $1.50 is less than $3 dollars.

Guy: But that's not what you have up there.

M: Yes, sir, it is. $1.50 is the price you will pay, before tax.

Guy: But it's supposed to be 75% off.

I show him the "long" way to do the math. I times the original price by the percent off (75%, in case you forgot) and get $4.50. I then subtract 4.50 from 6.00 and get the $1.50 that's showing on my register.

Guy: That's what I'm saying. I should pay $1.50, not $4.50.

M: Yes, sir, and THAT IS WHAT IT SAYS, RIGHT HERE. (I point, again, to the price listed on my screen)

Guy: Is that less than $3? 75% off is less than $3.

M: YES.

Ho Ho Ho

We are in full Christmas mode:  the music, the crap, the tinsel, more crap, the wreaths, the trees, the crap. And don't forget the life size talking Santa.

Apparently, the last of the life size talking Santas was sold...and the lucky customer will be in later to pick him up, so he is currently standing behind the registers, near the first aid wall box. Also near the wall box is the Cart Test, that lovely collection of crap that we, as cashiers, must scan, while looking for the hidden treasures (read: things stuffed into other things in an effort to reinforce to us to open everything during the check out process.)

Today, I notice that Santa is moving, even though he's not plugged in. There's someone squatting down in front of Santa with their hands up his pants, and the top half of their head cover by his coat...Santa is leaning forward...

Regardless of why Santa needed moved, I am amused by taking it out of context and giggling about it all day.

Up On The Housetop...

My Sweetie talked to his mother today. Apparently, his father decided that today would be a good day to clean out the chimney, so the woodstove would fireup better.

Keeping in mind that the Old Man didn't want to get up on the ladder last month to clean out his gutters, or his daughters gutters, he got out the ladder and got up on the roof. He had his scrubbing brush with him and he scrubs the crud out of the chimney.

He then realizes that at 83 years old, and with gout in his foot & leg, he can't get his legs swung back onto the smaller of his two ladders to get down.

My mother-in-law and the anxiety prone sister-in-law have to get the big aluminum ladder from the garage and drag it around to where they can put it up to the roof so he can get down. If they hadn't been home, or my mother-in-law had been home alone, he'd have been stuck up there for hours, or until the fire department was called.

Lovely.

Phone-A-Friend

So much stupidity and insanity... all in one 8 hour day. Lucky lucky me.

First, I answered the phone.

"How may I direct your call?"

"How would I know? What do you think? Water heaters, I guess."

Sure, you betcha! Water heaters it is!

Next, we have the phone call I took in the middle of all this: Guy calls and wants me to look up his mastercard (we have a store-only card, a visa, and now an American Express, but no mastercard) and tell him his sales history. I explain he needs to call his card company, and they can give him that info...he insists that I can not only look up his mastercard history, I can give him his receipt FROM 2 YEARS AGO!

What fucking plane of reality do these people live on...and how do they manage to direct dial me?

memorieeeeeeeeeeessssss

My previous post reminded me of several other Name Yer Own Pricers; I honestly don't know if I've posted about them before or not. If I have, you get a recap, if I haven't, it's like it's all new to you.

A few years after we opened, guy comes into the garden center with his receipt from last year. He wanted more retaining wall block, and he wanted them for last year's price. If I remember correctly, his receipt was from early in the spring, and the day he came in, demanding we match the price was later the following summer. The receipt was better than 12 months old. He spoke to me, at least one other person, and a manager, and still didn't get last year's price.

Then there was the woman who came in, twice, and wanted me to match a competitor's fencing price. The great thing about it was that the first time she was in, the competitor didn't have a location in our city. So I had to scramble to make long distance calls. The Asshat was still there at that time and said, "OK." I was instructed by the Asshat to write on her receipt that we would match the price for the month of April. She came back in, in August or September, bearing that receipt, and demanded that I match that price. Luckily, the Asshat was there that day, and he said, "Oh hell no. Call and verify this time." So I jump thru about 15 hoops and call the store in our city--because even though she's saying the price was from the location in the college town 30 minutes away, the Asshat said, "Call local." The local place said they don't stock it. So, after jumping thru several more hoops for a long distance code, I finally call the place she says has it for a better price. Are you ready for the big shock? That store doesn't carry wooden fencing at all! She tells me I called the wrong place. I tell her I will be glad to call them back. She then says that the guy there was lying, and I was going to match it anyway. The Asshat, for once, did the right thing and said, "Oh HELL No." and she paid our price, that day, whether she wanted to or not. HAH!

Of course, this year, I got the genius who came in on a rainy day and wanted us to find and hold damaged wooden fencing for him. And he's gonna tell us what he's gonna pay for it. BWAHAHAHA! Our man in the department went out in the rain, explained that the "rustic" part of the product description meant that it wasn't going to be perfect--it wasn't meant to be--and then told the guy a more reasonable damaged price for the ones that actually were damaged.(guy wanted to pay $1 or $2 a 4x6 panel; guy paid $7 a panel.)

Of course, we always have those lovely people who think that if a box is dusty, it warrants a discount of 80% or more. We're a big-box store with the word WAREHOUSE in our name. Really? REALLY?!

And then everyone wonders why I hate people.

Really?!

Saturday night I was working. I was in lumber. I hate being there, in part because the pukes they have working on the floor are, well, pukes. If I wanted to be ignored by children, I could stay home and be ignored by my own children, wearing comfortable pj's.

Anyway, this couple comes in, asks numerous questions regarding patio blocks, and then goes on their merry way to gather whatever it is they need from building materials.

When they return to my register, Mister says, "Those sheets of insulation should be $12." I respond, "Okay, why?"

He pulls out a receipt and says, "They matched the price before when I got them."

Okay. "Could I see the receipt." He obviously didn't want me to see it, up close and personal-like. Once I saw it, I knew why...it was from last April.

"Sir, this receipt is from last April. Do you have a more recent receipt?"

"No. Match that. The guy said you'd match it when I came back."

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't match a price from that long ago. Were we matching a price back in April?"

"Yes, and that guy said you'd match it when I came back."

"Well, yes, if you'd come back in during the month of April, we would have. Do you remember whose price we were matching? I can call them now and match today's price for you."

"uhm, I don't know. maybe. I don't know. That guy didn't call anyone last time."

"No, sir, he wouldn't necessarily need to. He may have already known that their price was lower than ours. Are you sure it was ?"

"No, I'm not sure. They didn't call before. And they said you'd match it when I came back to finish my project."

"Sir, I'm sorry. Did you tell them it'd be six months before you'd be back?"

"No, I didn't. They said they'd match it, when I came back. They didn't call anyone, they didn't do this. You have a price match policy."

"Yessir, we do have that policy. And as I've said, they may have already been aware of the competitor's price difference, because they'd already called before you came in. Our price match policy is generally good for about 2 weeks, and that price is from last April. I need a more recent price in order to match it."

"Call the manager of this department. He'll match it." (I already know that they will NOT match a price from 6 months ago. We're desperate for sales, but we're not here as a Name-Yer-Own-Pricing kind of place. DUH)

"The department manager isn't here tonight, and the guys I have on the floor can't match a price without calling the store whose price we're matching."

"Then call another manager. They didn't do this before. They said they could match it when I came back."

"Okay, I'll call the store manager, but I doubt he'll match a price from anywhere from six months ago." I call the manager on duty, explain that I have a receipt from April 4, this year, and the customer says that at that time, we matched pricing. Manager says that he didn't know carried insulation, and that we will not match a price from six months ago. If the customer can name a business that carries this product, and I can call that business tonight, we will match today's price. The customer can hear what I'm saying, and I am repeating what the manager says, sentence by sentence.

"Sir, I talked with the store manager, and says that I can call to verify today's pricing at the store we previously matched, but I have to call tonight. He cannot match a price from six months ago."

Mister is now getting pissy, and says, "But they said they'd match it when I came back."

"Yes, sir, I understand. But I cannot go against what the manager says and match a price from six months ago."

Mister paid our price. He wasn't happy, but he paid it.

New Moon, sans vampires

I've had several weeks of random stupidity I've collected for just this one post.

The hairy guy who walked to the back of the garden center, then came back up front. Huffing and puffing past several of the large, flat blue carts to say, "I need that cart." Reaching for the one cart in the entire place that already has merchandise on it. I tell him, "uh, no, sir. That's being used. I can..." He grabs that cart, and says, "Yup. This one right here." I tell him again, "No, sir, there are other..." He is insistant: THIS one, right HERE. Right now. I have to physically take the cart (with someone else's stuff) and tell him I'll call and get someone to get him one. Hairy guy wanders away to the back of the garden center.

Nutjob woman who wants to know the price of a bag of potting soil. I ask questions about which brand, size, formula...and she bitches me out, saying, "You can't never get no help 'round here."

Woman who brought me a cart of plants and said she was ready to pay...then, as I scan the crap, she says, "Oh, I'll be right back." and wanders off. Other customers come up, so I clear my screen. She comes back, with one more thing, plunks it down and says, "I'm ready." I start to scan everything again, and she says, "Oh, I'll be right back." AGAIN! So I clear my screen, ring out others...and she reappears and says, "Don't you have all this ready to go yet?"

A dipwad who cam up and asked if she could use a specific flat blue cart. I tell her, "yes" of course. She then asked if it was the "right cart" as opposed to the left one, I suppose. I do the good customer service thing...and ask her what she's going to use it for. She tells me "Fencing" so I ask her which kind of fencing. She replies, "6 foot." Because that makes it totally clear! I show her the other options for carts: she demands to know if this is the "right cart." Since I am unable to commit to the decision for her, she gets pissed, snaps "Oh, never mind! I just wanted to know if this was the right cart." and leaves. Ta-ta fuckwit!

Genius who comes up to the farthest register--the one that is closed up, covered over, and is practically impossible to actually get to since it's covered with dustpans, brooms, coats, and various useless items that no one has thrown out yet--and squawks "is this open for business?" I tell her that "yes, I am" and walk over, scan her crap and move back to the register that is actually being used that day. She drags herself and her stuff over to me (finally) and pays. When I move to hand her the change, she shakes open her very large carpet bag and says, "Just chuck it in here dearie"

Woman who juggles her way to the register with a large bag of bird seed, a bird feeder and suet cakes. She refuses to set any of it down until I've scanned it (seriously, what's with people who refuse to let me do my job in an efficient manner? Do they think I'm going to swap what they've actually chosen for something else? Or that I'll smash it to hell and back and still expect them to pay for it? What?) After she juggles things so I can ring them up, she sets them down. Then she walks off without the bird feeder or the suet cakes.

Bleah

Mr Skeevy is back to work after his surgery. Damn! I was hoping he wasn't coming back!

And now, after several weeks back, he's all up in my face being nice. I hate that.

I hate the fakeness of it. I hate that he's forever trying it. And I just hate him.

I have tried to "just be nice" and "get along" but you know what? Sometimes, that really is more energy and effort than anybody's worth. He's the kind of guy where is you respond to his "hello" it means that you & he are good buddies and you want to have a conversation with him.

What bothers me about it is that I get the feeling he is also up to something: something mean, and skeevy. My Sweetie says, "Oh, he just wants you." He says that with a straight face. Probably just to see if I develop a facial tic.

Short of saying, "fuck off forever, skeevy loser" how do I get rid of this chump before he starts to hump my leg? (and btw, I told him, within 2 months of knowing him, "Not if you were the last man on earth AND both my hands were cut off" and yet, here is still is, trying to...I don't know what.)

Bathroom Humor

So, about the Freaklet.

Apparently, management has finally figured out that YES! They can stop her from dumpster diving. HURRAH!

I've learned that she is not as stupid as she acts. She is, however, weird as fuck. But not stupid.

I figured as much the evening I was at the return desk and I asked that the front end trash be gathered BEFORE I took my last cart back to receiving. She had to get me the trash, which meant that she wouldn't be able to slapfoot her way into oblivion while the rest of us clean the bathroom. Little wench tore one of the bags! Spilled all over the floor and I had to clean it up. (for the record, I have done 11 years of hauling trash back and have NEVER had a bag tear on its own)

Last Monday, I worked 'til close...and so did the Freaklet. They send me back to clean the bathrooms....and send me the Freaklet as help. I had told them earlier that night that the Freaklet needs to scrub her some toilets.

And that's what she did! bwhahahahahahahaha!

She was in the supply closet wasting time with the mop buckets...and I made her put on gloves, get the bleach water and toilet brush...and she scrubbed toilets! I told her to start at the "farthest stall" and she slapfoots herself past me and says in a cartoonish voice, "do you mean that last one all the way down there?"

Then she stood there, in the stall, sloshing the water in the bucket. She's slapfooting her way past me when I asked her, "Are you done with all the toilets already?"

She says, "Oh" psychotic giggle "is that what you meant?"

YES! You fucknugget!

She says, still using her false cartoon voice, "well, oh, whose job is it to do this?"

EVERYBODY'S!

"Oh, so it's YOUR job, then?"

NO, FUCKNUGGET! I tell her, "No, it's not MY job. It's EVERYBODY'S job. And tonight it's YOUR TURN!"

I spend the rest of the time cleaning the sinks and mirrors. I then drag her unwilling ass to the breakroom, where she is desperate to take the garbage and run. I don't let her. She takes off her gloves...and I inform her that she'll just get another pair for round #2: the men's room.

She then wants to know whose job it is, normally, to clean the men's room. I inform her AGAIN that it's HER job tonight. She's still itching to get the garbage and slapfoot her way into oblivion.

We finish the men's room (yes, she did the toilets correctly this time; she CAN be taught! bwhahahahahaha) and I tell her to mop the women's room. I'm taking away her fun--I'm taking the garbage!

She spends a few minutes fucking around with the garbage can trying to get the door propped open, and I fix that problem for her. She then starts mopping each individual tile...I tell her to go to the back of the bathroom and mop her way to the door, because she is NOT going to mop and walk all thru it so it looks like it wasn't mopped. She comments, "Well, it's rather pointless, really. We'll just have to mop it again tomorrow."

DAMMIT! I missed the opportunity to tell her, "well, with that reasoning, it'd be pointless to shower or brush our teeth, but most of us do those things every day anyway."

She has spent this week complaining to all and sundry how bossy I am...and today, she changed tack, and decided to comment about how "That Mumple and I just don't jibe. I can get along with anybody, really, but she and I, we just don't, I don't know....we don't jibe." Well, yeah, she's right: we don't jibe, because I don't see putting up with someone playing stupid to get out of work as reason enough for me to do their job too.

bwhahahahahaha! I am actually looking forward to the next time the little Freaklet and I work 'til close. It'll be fun! (oh, and I plan to learn how to do her little freaklet giggle so I can sneak up behind people and scare 'em!)

And Another One

Last night, I had a customer who wanted to order damaged fencing. Said he'd wait a few days to pick it up.

He wasn't happy that he'd have to go out in the rain, and meet with an associate in the department and go thru the fence panels to find the damaged ones he was looking for. He had said there were 8 damaged panels back there.

There were 6 damaged panels. He tried the usual--oh, there's a splinter on this one, I should get it for $1.00. (the panels he wanted were $25 each) Uhm, NO.

Mr Damaged came up to the register and said that there were 6 panels, $5 each. A phone call corrected him--There were 5 for $5, and one for $10.

Nice try, dude.

So Many Freaks...

So Little Time.

There have literally been so many weird little people doing small twitchy things, it's hard to remember them all. So we'll just go ahead and use what we can remember.

Large, sweating, panting, hairy dude who walked past no less than 6 flat carts to come up past the registers at the one flat cart that has merchandise on it. He says, "Imma just gonna take this cart." and I says, "Uhm, No." He says, "Imma just takin' this cart." I says, "Uhm, No." I offer to call someone to bring him a cart, back where he started, and so he walks back past those 6 empty flat carts and waits.

Nasty wobbly hag who shushes me during transactions. Look, Lady, don't get shushy with me, and don't think that I'm putting up with your drunken attitude.

OF Jackass & wife: if you ask me where something is, and I say, "Let me look and see if it's still out front" don't tell me to "just point!" If you want my help, let me help...if you don't want my help, shut the fuck up and leave me alone. Also, once your transaction is done, don't get snippy with me when your receipt specifically spells out that you got that stuff at a cheaper price. Mostly, just don't give me any shit.

If you call the store, and talk to two other people who tell you that we don't physically have what you want, don't keep nagging us about the internet saying we do have it. Then order it from the internet, and shut the fuck up. And if the store that is 20 minutes away does have it in their store, GO THERE, and shut the fuck up. Don't call back and insist that our store gets it stock from the other store (we don't, fucktard.) Stop calling, we are unable to reach up our asses and provide something that does not exist.

REALLY?!

Today was the first day of school. And I was invited to go have a cup of coffee with some other Moms. Last year, we went to Java Joey's, which was nice, if a little sunny & warm out on the patio. This year, it was off to Stew's Brews.

Never having been there, and only being vaguely aware that they existed, I was looking forward to it.

Then I got there.

There was a line. It's a small, hole-in-the-wall kind of place. So it wasn't actually a line, it was almost like a mosh pit.

Then, when I said, "cappucino" she heard me say "tea" So naturally I was confused when she asked me if I wanted the English Breakfast variety. We got thru that, and she said, "I'll bring it back to the table with everyone else's." Uh, OK.

So, I went back to the table, talked with other moms--some are new to the area--and waited. Two cups of coffee came to us. And I waited, and talked some more. And then I waited. Someone else's coffee finally came out (I had ordered probably an hour ago) and the Tea Lady said, "OK then. That's everyone, right?" And I waved a little wave and said, "er, uh, I'm still waiting for my cappucino."

So I got to wait some more.

And when it finally arrived, she plunked that sucker down in front of me and said, "Oh, there's not so much foam on the top." Since I really REALLY didn't want to wait any longer, I said (and YES I WAS NICE) "That's OK. It's fine." *weak smile*

The Tea Lady responded with, "Yes it is. Be glad you got it at all!" *BIG SHIT EATIN' GRIN*

If I knew this woman, it'd be one thing. If I'd ever slapped eyes on her before, even briefly, that'd be that same one thing. I work with the public, and I get that they were surprisingly busy this first day of school/Tuesday. Hell, I even understand that as a Mumple, there's gonna be screw ups in my order when I'm out!

But I really wasn't impressed by that AT ALL.

Incompetence

I'm seriously pissed.

The Howler's school is being renovated. Renovations started back in March. Since it rained most of March, from the beginning, the renovation has been a clusterfuck. When the weather finally cleared enough to begin the work tearing out the parking lot & basketball court still took more time than expected...by the time school let out in June, the construction was well over a month behind. Efforts were not made to catch up. By the beginning of July, it was clear to everyone except the school board that the new gym would not be ready for school to begin in August.

Lovely. No arrangements beyond denial, and certainly the construction crews worked only as originally scheduled.

Today is the last day of summer vacation here.

With the Howler's asthma, I have to get a signature from her doc, and have the form and her rescue inhaler at the school before school begins tomorrow. This is, of course, slacker hell for me. I got it together last week, and planned to take it over to the school today.

My mother's neighbor is a teacher at the school, so I have a little bit of an inside track to know what's actually going on in the building. The health aide (nurse) was moved, and we have a new one this year. The old one, whatever her issues, at least knew my Howler, and my Howler's asthma. Luckily, her asthma is exercise induced/virus triggered, not due to allergies, as the dust being generated by the renovations is an issue.

Today, when dropping off her inhaler, the nurse isn't available, and the principal was going to call us regarding the Howler's asthma & the renovation dust. (The Howler's teacher called last night, so I had a head's up.)

The principal offered THE DAY BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS to have the Howler & her asthma moved to ANY OTHER elementary school in the district. THE DAY BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS! When she fucking KNEW since at least the middle of July that the renovation was 2 fucking months behind schedule...and that if dust were an issue for the Howler, this was an option that should have been offered THEN.

We would not be able to move the Howler, unless absolutely necessary, due to transportation issues (they'd let her attend another school, but transportation would still be mine to deal with.)

And to offer it today is about 2 months too late. If it were something I had wanted to consider, giving me less than 24 hours to figure it out and get r dun really isn't the way to do it!

Jumping Jesus on the pogostick! This really is incompentence! It's not even fucking denial at this point!

Stupid fucktard school district.

Maaaarcoooooooooo

Polo!

The other day at work, the doors slid open and a voice rang out. "Marco!" There was no answering "Polo!" and as the doors shut, the customer in front of me asked, "Do you often play that here?"

You Might Be A Moron If...

I ask you if you would like a piece of plastic for under your wet-and-dripping plants/mulch/dirt and you say, "Oh! Do you have some? That would be great!" (Seriously, do you often go into stores and have people offer you things that they don't have? Really?)

you ask me where something is, and I tell you; you come back to me and tell me that's not what you're looking for. When I finally pry the word for what you are looking for out of thin air and tell you where that is, you say to me, "You didn't tell me to look there before." (and since you are a moron, if you say that to me at this point, I AM going to say to you, "YOU didn't tell me THAT is what you wanted before, that's why.")

The Freaklet

There's just something about that girl that creeps me out. In my soul, I mean. Ever read Steven King? Every time I look at her, my eyes just unfocus and glide right past her. Every time I have to look at her, a immediately think of the things that came out of the car in From a Buick 8.

Honestly.

She just ain't right.

She has been told, repeatedly to STOP going through the garbage cans. (Between her and the stubborn ass who had strep throat, they infected at least 3 other people) She collects the pop cans, I don't want to know why.

When she calls me to get the cooler count, it takes fully 5 minutes for her to tell me what she wants. I usually just talk over her.

Every evening at closing time, she goes back to the breakroom, and counts the holes in her work vest. It's killing me not to scream, "It has exactly the same number of fucking holes today as it did yesterday! Put it the fuck in your locker and move your ass to the front so we can all go the fuck home."

I don't though. That would be horribly rude and uncalled for. She's not really hurting me by counting the holes in her vest. It's just weird as fuck, and as long as weird as fuck isn't touching me, it's not my problem.

She also, after the daily accounting, moves each pen and piece of paper from her vest pockets to her purse. I'm not sure what else she has in her purse, but it's painful to watch her try to cram those few items, one at a time (and no, they can't be removed from said vest pocket until time to cram them into the purse,) into that small overfilled purse.

Today, in the breakroom, she decided to go into a long, involved tale about the spider. The spider is apparently her new friend at work. She says it is as big as her hand. She says that it deserves to live, and she is actively warning people to watch out to not kill it.

She is also very disturbed by the rumor going around about her: they're saying she's quitting.

We can dream, can't we? (and no, I did not start the rumor. I don't do rumors.)

How Hard Is This, Really

Is this a man thing or what? Oops! Sorry, I don't mean "man" thing, I mean "older boy who managed to get this job" thing.

There's a whole passel of 'em that when I ask a "yes" or "no" question, I get told a lot of other things--but they can't say, "Yes" or "No" It's like no one ever taught them those words.

And I love when I ask them to actually do something, they ask me "why?" Or when I tell them I have a customer that is asking for help loading something, these pukes don't respond, they just stay on the phone, breathing. I have to actually say, "Can YOU do this?" because I often call them and tell them unrelated tidbits for no discernable reason.

Really? REALLY!

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The Good: It's July, and I'm still outside. Also, even though they're total fuckwits about scheduling (I requested Wed-Thu-Fri-Sat-Sun off; was schedule Fri. Asked about it, was taken off the Fri schedule....but still put on the Sat schedule. Fuckwittage at it's finest) and I'm working Fri-Sat, My Sweetie will leave sometime on Friday to take the Howler to Grandma's house to spend the week. That means that I have my own Mini-Vacation. And that means beer. And maybe a girls' night out. But I definitely have beer in my near future.

The Bad: I'll miss them terribly. But I'll have beer to console myself. I'll manage. Also, there's a Howler free week, which means that I will not have to use "that voice" (I hate "that voice") I will also have a week in which I will not channel the Gator. YAY!

The Ugly: It's July, and while I'm still in the garden center, it was pretty hot out there yesterday. And getting stupid, and feeling sick in the heat? Yeah, well, there's more fuckwittage here, too. Yesterday it was 85F at 10am. I told them that while the breakboard had my afternoon break at 1:30pm, that wasn't going to work because I went to lunch from 10-11. Even with breaks ALWAYS running late, 2.5 hours in that kind of heat with out a break--even if you do provide cold water with ice in it--isn't going to work. They needed to schedule a heat break in there--and if they needed to, move the break they already had scheduled.

What did they do? They didn't even bother to try to find coverage for me until after 12:30pm. At 12:40pm, I called, because, remarkably enough, I was getting stupid and feeling sick. I tell the first fuckwit...he says, "I'm trying to find you coverage now." So I tell him that I'm already feeling sick. Their solution? Call me back and tell me that I can come inside to run register, instead.

Listen Up Fuckwits! It's ALMOST as hot standing on the front end in July. And since we're not allowed to have anything to drink while on the front line, this is NOT a solution. You're basically telling me that, since I'm already into feeling sick from the heat, you'll let me move inside to where it's only marginally cooler, and not let me have anything to drink, too. That makes a whole lot of sense: I can vomit or pass out where you can see me, instead of out here by myself. Either way, you're going to ride my ass and give me hell, so yeah, baby. Sign me up for that gig.

After finally deciding to allow me to go inside and SIT and COOL DOWN, I go back outside. The fuckwit cow calls and tells me that I'm going to go inside anyway. Uh, NO, I'm not. Why should I be punished for this?

They then sent someone out to "check" on me (day late and dollar short, fuckwits) and she tells me to "take it easy" and sit. Yeah, like I'm going to sit at this point. I hear every week how I'm not allowed to sit unless I have a doc's excuse, and now, suddenly, I'll be "forgiven" if I sit? Do I look stupid to you? Really?

I told her that "no, I'm not taking that chance. They can't just give me a heat break when I ask for it, I'm not counting on their forgiveness if I sit. I'll just stay out here, standing, sweeping, whatever, and they can figure out what's right and fair when I keel over--because I will NOT be asking for heat break EVER again. They can write me up and fire me for not helping customers after I'm dead from the heat."

Fuckwits.

(and thanks, Blue, for the title)

Are You High?

You're not high...just remarkably stupid. Oh, sorry about your luck.

Friday and Saturday, every customer acted drunk. Saturday, one woman was visibly wobbly. But she wasn't Customer of the Week.

Friday and Saturday, the woman with her glasses all askew was in, asking exactly the same questions both days. It was really difficult to not say, "Same place I told you it was yesterday." And she wasn't Customer of the Week either.

The Customer of the Week was the woman who approached me, leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "How much are your $12.98 plants?"

The full conversation continued: "The $12.98 plants?"

CotW: "Yes. The plants for $12.98."

Mumple: "Why, they're................................$12.98."

More Turnip

So, the Turnip seems to be my albatross. God, he's fabulous. Here's why:

At the beginning of the season, none of the newbies would ask me anything. Because I'm not management of any kind (although, in all fairness, I am too fabulous to be one) I therefore could not possibly know anything of any importance.

Remembering that management had a cashier who had been employed with us for all of 3 months doing their actual register training, this is phenomenal--I mean, REALLY? This newbie savant is there 3 months and she's doing the hands-on training, and I've been there 11 years and I know nothing? Classic. But I digress.

The Turnip has managed to grasp the basic concept that I know more than he does (this couldn't have been that difficult, considering that he is the Turnip.) Anyway, a cusotmer approaches him and asks a question. He tells the customer to stand in my line and wait for ME to answer it. The question was something that could easily have been discovered by picking up the phone and asking whoever answered the phone--he could have chosen between two departments, too. The options for getting the customer an answer were endless.

But the customer had to wait for me in order to get that answer. And they keep sending this genius outside with me. I never should have complained about the ones who are afraid of the phone, register, and customers.

Kill me now.

Stupid Guy Says

Last night, I had the pleasure of working near the Turnip. It was good value because of this:

Customer approaches Turnip and says, "Do you have tomato stakes?"

Turnip says, "Tomato stakes?"

Customer says, "Toe-May-Toe Sssssstakes."

Turnip says, " "

Customer says, "You know, pieces of wood you put in the ground and use to keep your tomato plants upright?!!!!!"

Turnip says, " "

Mumple says, "yessir, they're right over here." and gets the customer what he needs.

Turnip says, " "

This is the generation that will be running the world soon....I am very very afraid.

It Won't Hurt a Bit!

Fucking morons.

All the new people are afraid of the phone. They don't like to answer 'em, they don't like to use 'em, they flat-out refuse to page on 'em. It's like the entire nation has suddenly gone insane. And by insane, I mean stupid.

These are the people who are attached to their cellphones, though. They can't take a piss without having to text or tweet about it, and yet, show them a real telephone, and they are dumbfounded and afeared of it, much as I assume primitive people were of fire.

Yesterday, I got to work with the Turnip. And having decided that these new people are either going to actually use the telephone AND page, or they're going to have customer complaints to the unemployment lines.

The Turnip forgot to give a grumpass OF his change. It happens, not a big deal, really. And of course, no other customer in the tri-state area is paying with cash, so he's got to call to get the drawer open. (Yeah, it helped that the OF stood there, saying stupid shit like, "So, what? You just don't give change to people?" the asshole.)

The L&G department manager should be out here somewhere, so page him. The Turnip immediately begins trying to remember the extension number so he can call. Honey! Manager-man doesn't have their phone, so calling it is a waste of time. You're going to page.

I swear, the Turnip actually began trembling! Shaking in his shoes, he was!

I hand him the phone, I tell him what he's going to say, and I hit the buttons...he holds the receiver about 14 feet away from him and talks in his every day, normal, not-there voice. Nobody heard it except me. I made him do it again, telling him, "This time, use your outside voice."

He manages to do it, and he didn't die. Asshole OF is still making snotty comments. (Asshole also didn't like it that I deactivated the alarm chip, either, and had asshole stuff to say about that, too.)

Later, while Turnip was on his lunch hour, this genius in a red vest comes up to me and says, "Hey, can you unlock a wheelbarrow?" I tell him, nope, call 806, and ask if the customer has a receipt. 10 minutes later, Dexter the Boy Genius tells me "yes" the customer does have a receipt.

"See how easy that was to answer? Didn't hurt you a bit, did it?"

All the people he tried to call were already on the phone. I tell him to page 'em. He says he doesn't know how. I sez, "Well, Dexter, you're in luck--I've got a phone right here that will work." He refuses to come near it. Tells me to page it for him.

"You work here, dude, and it's your customer, you WILL page it, or your customer will stand there until telepathy becomes an accepted form of communication."

He tries one last time and the call goes through. Dammit! I was on a roll, too.

How Was Your Day?

Mine was about as Mumpletastic as it gets.

First, I discover that they've taken away all the stuff I've managed to acquire that we generally NEED in the garden center. Like the phone book, so I can actually call for competitor price verification, which saves me time swearing under my breath as I either sit on hold, or have some fuckwit not listen to me tell them what I actually need while they explain the price match policy to me. Then I get to grit my teeth in an unattrative fashion and say things like, "Okay. Now, I'm going to tell you again what I need, you're going to fucking listen this time."

Second, the monitor on the register customers are trained to come to died. Well, not died, exactly, just decided that 1/8th of an inch is all the visibility we needed.

Third, I had to call the un-help desk, where they were first confused that I technically have two last names, and then they had to transfer me to the superior not-listening clueless guy. He told me to just look around the back of the monitor...K, Dude, I have to put down the phone, walk around the metal kiosk, open the little sliding window...THEN look around the back of the monitor. He kept telling me that it's set up "just like your computer monitor at home, ma'am." Yeah, well, whatever. Should've told him I have a lap top. Let him tell me it's the same thing then! Idiot. Then Captain Clueless kept telling me that I was looking for a blue cord or a blue plug with the side screws. Sure, sure I am. What part of "I have a white cord and a black cord are you not understanding?" Continuing to stress the "OR" in your lack of reality is not helping me. Finally, I just put the phone down, close the sliding window, walk back around the front of my register, pop off the front plate (the one we're told to never-ever-never touch) and tell him, "I'm taking off the front plate thing to see the cords in there." To which the Cap'n tells me "It's on the back of your monitor ma'am." (You fucking think so? Am I stuttering, or do you just not understand English?) I find the blue plug, but since the keyboard is on a short leash and can't be moved very far, and I do not have freakishly small hands, I have to actually contort my arms and twist my wrists in order to touch it, nevermind being able to unscrew it. (and btw, Cap'n, you continuing to tell me that the reality suckage I'm experiencing isn't really like that isn't helping.) Unplug, jiggle jiggle, twist, scrape, owie, plug in. "Ma'am, your monitor is dead. Here's your Incident #, and we'll have someone there to pretend to fix it by the end of this year." LOVELY.

Fourth, the guy who was in who demanded, while I was scanning another present customer's merchandise, that I tell him where the "shields" were. Gave him my best guess and continued scanning. He demanded again, that I tell him if we had the very specific "shields" he wanted...got pissed, stomped back out to his vehicle, and peeled out of the parking lot. Ta ta, you ass.

Fifth, working with the Turnip.

Sixth, the woman who wanted the cheap-o, but not clearanced hanging baskets. When told where they were, and how to identify them ("out front, point to right, on the A-frame) she wandered out front shrieking, "A? What's an A? Do you know what she meant by A?"

We come to the end of my day...and I ask you, again, where do they find them and why do they keep sending them to me?

Fabulously Full Moon

1) From the WTF File: First person I dealt with yesterday: woman who apparently believed I was blind. She kept pointing to the bottom of her cart and yelling "That! Down there!" I said, "OK" each time, and continued doing my job. This went on for several minutes, until she finally said, "THAT! DOWN! THERE!" and since I was to the point where I was going to deal with "that! down there" anyway, I did just that. As I'm giving her the total, she says, "You must be new; I haven't used you before."

2) From the For The Record File: the 2nd gate is closed. There are no bodies--live, or stupid--near the registers near that closed gate...that means that those registers aren't open. Plunking all your crap onto the counter, and standing there watching as the cashier who are at the open registers collect money from others SHOULD be a clue that you're in the wrong line. But since it's not, continuing to stand there, and loudly saying, "I'M READY NOW" just makes us all certain that what you're ready for is a Reality Check.

3) From the Do I Look Like Miss Cleo? File: I don't read minds. The other people who work here don't read minds, either. When you tell me "Pine Bark Mini Nuggets." and you are blathering about how you need mulch, there's a 100% chance of you getting Pine Bark Mini Nuggets, regardless of what you're thinking you need. Actually speaking the real name of what you need helps others know what it is, exactly, you need. Shoving someone else out of the way as you stomp up to me because YOU couldn't be bothered to sort out your deranged thoughts before paying me, is not going to make you my priority. In this particular instance, I'm very glad I can't read minds, because I'm guessing yours is a very very scary place to be.

4) From the Don't Drink Your Lunch & Then Come See Me File: Since there were two of you yesterday, I liked the woman who just didn't seem to really know where she was or what she was doing far better than the red-faced guy who was talking louder isn't going to make you slur your words less. Asking every person you see the same question, regardless of how many times you've shouted it before, still makes you obnoxious. Switching questions every 5th person (no, they don't all work here) doesn't help, either.

5) I can tell it's the Full Moon because they all want to stand right up next to me--totally in my personal space, leaning in, breathing heavily. Ewwwww.

Classic

The AC in the Gator's car isn't working properly. It doesn't get cold enough--or rather, it gets slightly cool, but not really cold.

She took it to the dealer, who checked and re-checked...nope. Nothing's wrong, there's nothing to fix. "Sorry that the little light didn't come on for you, it light up just fine for us."

Finally, the guys at the shop got it to work.

They showed her how to actually push the button in, instead of just tap it. (and, I'm sure, they added a mental "DUH" after her name in their appointment book.)

Garbage Day

Today was..................interesting.

And it was Garbage Day.

I've noticed lately that the one little freaklet they hired this spring, on top of being really weird in a creepy, unattached to this reality kind of way, is also rooting through the garbage cans.

I don't know why. I don't want to know why.

And, this morning, one of the very first non employees I encountered said, "I've noticed that you have some plants in the garbage can. Can I have them?"

Er, uh, No.

Not Funny Really, But It's Really Funny

Today was really fricking HOT! It's still really fricking HOT!

My Sweetie says, "I'm gonna call the fam. I worry about my old people in the heat."

I sez, "Yeah, well, I do too, but if you'd just remember to put out an extra bowl of cold water and add ice cubes, they usually do okay."

He sez, "My old people aren't as bitchy as your old people."

I sez, "Yeah, that'd be why I don't always give mine ice."

Funny isn't always nice, yanno.

Inanimate Objects Are Dumber Than They Appear

So saith the Mumple.

At work, every Spring, they hire a new crop of morons. Usually, there's one or two bright spots--the ones who won't last because they're smart enough to get out quickly--and a whole slew of jerkoffs and idiots.

This year, we have a rousing crew: the ex-teacher who believes that it's okay to not do any work; the former LPN who thinks we're all stupider than her (HAH!); the Turnip, and the Ostrich.

I'm also adding the Cow, who has worked there almost as long as I have, but is currently riding my ass harder than a Pony Express boy being chased by the Comanches.

Those who have former professions refuse to acknowledge that they're new here, and they also refuse to accept than anyone less than a store manager could possibly have anything to teach them. Assholes. The former Florence Nightingale has been to management twice about me--and the hell of it is, I don't even fucking talk to her, or even stand near her. The bitch.

The Ostrich--he's about 7 feet tall, with his panties hanging out, and spends a lot of his time with his eyes bugged out of his head, looking around jerkily, much like the little birdies who frequent the garden center. He is every day of 18 years old, and has already proven he's dumber than the guy whose vocabulary consists of shoulder shrugs and grunts. At least the Grunt manages to find the building when he's scheduled. He also thinks that, being this stupid AND being this new, means that he's qualified to help another cashier if there's an issue, like an asshole customer with a gripe about a price. He can't figure out how to use the phone (yes, I hate to admit it, but he's dumber than Smiley, too) I've personally showed him how to look up an item number at least 300 times...and each and every time, he says, "Oh, I didn't know that."

And if I didn't find the Ostrich annoying as fuck, they now send me the Turnip. The Turnip starts getting on my nerves by being fidgety with the metal kiosk the register resides in. That hinge isn't made to be swung back and forth for upwards of 10 minutes at a time... I fixed that problem by walking over, telling him to watch his head, pulling it out, folding it up and shoving it in where he can't swing it anymore. Then, he spends his entire 8 hour shift, huddled up behind the register--by huddled up, I mean he's making himself nearly invisible there. He watches as upwards of 5 customers line up at my register, and watches from a safe distance as I have to ring up each and every one of them. He refuses to move from immediately behind the register.

Of the 15 or so people they've hired, all but 3 or 4 of them have the amazing ability to become invisible. They stand, mostly behind but not quite near the register, and watch. They watch customers line up. They watch others sweep. They watch us move carts out of the aisles. They don't retain any information about where things are in the garden center, the store, the world.

We (those of us who have spent the past several years out there by ourselves) have figured out that if we put these people on the busiest registers, lines don't move as quickly, but they move. And everyone can be busy, because customers can sense the aura of stupidity on these, and get help from those of us who actually know something, and have the language skills to communicate with them.

My favoritest part of the past two weeks was being out there, and having the supervisor of the day (who was not the Cow) say, "I want you and you on these two busiest registers. I want lines to move." Then, we got to run register and answer questions and do everything ourselves anyway. Instead of using the system that we know works, and you know, have it actually work. (and in the process having these people do the "sink or swim" thing.)

I tried to explain that she might as well send those others back inside, since she was effectively cutting off my nose to spite her face. She snapped, "Well, let's try it my way today." So I snapped, "Oh, yes, of course, I wouldn't know a fucking thing about what would actually work out here!" For the better part of three hours, then, I referred every question, every issue, every problem to her...and whatever she said, I responded with, "of course. I wouldn't know, would I?" She's also on a jag where she constantly telling me to "be nice" as if my being nice would make these people smarter.

I really think I'm getting senile, 'cuz I actually thought that when they scheduled more than one of us at the same time out there, that it'd actually mean there'd be help--you know, that they'd have the newbies who aren't afraid of the phone, the customers, and the register out there.

It's like having indoor plumbing and still pissing outside in your yard.

Digging It

This OF comes to the register. He asks about the prices of the plants he's brought. One has the necessary yellow sticker, so it's going to be reduced. The rest don't have that sticker, so, er, uh, NO, they ain't.

He keeps telling me that they were all on "that shelf." Which isn't helpful, because they've got no sticker, and no black line through the UPC code. They also don't look distressed, so I'm not going to mark 'em down. No matter what he tells me.

He doesn't want 'em then. Of course.

I tell him his total, sans the non-discounted plants. He reaches into his pocket...

He's elbow deep, swaying forward and back, leaning into the counter...

There's no jingly noise that would indicate that there's change in that pocket. I'm getting nervous about he's doing...he's still digging on whatever it is.

His face is contorting and the full body movements he's making are starting to get, uhm, well, odd. It's not a seizure.

At this point, I'm pretty far along the nervous about what I'm witnessing. And I'm quite honestly afraid of what he's going to try to hand me when he finally completes whatever it is he's doing.

I'll never complain about the leg humpers again.

I'm Baaa-aaack

Whether you like it or not.

So, the garden center is open and we're having spring-like weather on Thursdays.

The rain and cold are not slowing down the foot traffic, but it is, yet again, inspiring these morons to complain about how wet it is. DUH.

I also like the 3 people yesterday who walked into the open-air, no-roof, not-inside-a-building garden center and proclaimed, "WOW! It's warmer in here!" I suppose these are the people who think that a Quarter Pounder with Cheese is nutrious because there's tomato and cheese on it (that's 3 food groups!)

Sweet niblets.

My rant today is actually about this woman I work with--my current manager. I'm not gonna go into the entire history between us, but we'll just say that pre-Lowes, she was a pig who dated the jackass I was engaged to. (Yes, I owe her, in part, with dodging that bullet, but that's sooo not the point.)

Anyway, after slightly more than 11 years, we've both grown up and gotten over it. BUT, lately, she's really riding my ass, nit-picking how I do my job.

I have spent the last 5 years (maybe more, they all just bleed together) out in the garden center, BY MYSELF, doing my job. For 6 days of the year, they'd schedule a 2nd (but only a 2nd) person out there with me. And on at least 4 of those 6 days, they'd pull that 2nd person back INSIDE the store, because somebody needed to straighten light bulbs. No matter how busy we were, or what was exploding, I was out there, effectively, by myself, running that register.

Now, suddenly, this year, they're actually scheduling upwards of 4 cashiers, even on weekdays. Even when it rains. (we won't even discuss how there's no register tape anywhere in the building for that 4th register, so it doesn't matter if we have people to run it or not, it's not going to work)

They're opening the 2nd gate on the weekends, when we're at our busiest. They've fixed the EAS--the alarm thing that goes off when high theft items don't get their little security tags deactivated. That thing hasn't worked right since about 3 weeks after it was installed, and VIOLA! It now works.

They also keep coming out and telling me that I have to turn in all the scan books because they're not complete. I keep telling them that they ARE complete, they're just not all falling out of the warped and ineffective binders we've had since the store opened. I refuse to give them the books. (and, ftr, I've been asking for new binders for at least 3 years)

I keep telling them they need to come out when I'm there--not because I'm a control freak, but because then I can show them that I have those dayumed books ready to go, usable, and since I split them, we don't have to spend valuable customer service time trying to shove 'em all back together. Idiots.

Oh, my rant. The original one, I mean: this manager sow is now choosing to be the one standing at the open double gates. She spends her time telling me to "mind your own business and run your register."

So guess what! This coming weekend, I will be doing just exactly that. Whatever the customer is asking me, regardless of whether it's "where are the perennials" or "do you have...." I'm going to refer them to her. I am going to do nothing more, and nothing less than run my register.

SHE can have all the freaks, weirdos, idiots, retards, and leg humpers. And the grumps, the whiners, and the annoyers. Every fucking one of them!

Hope she enjoys being manager then.

Tee Hee

Today, when I got to work, I noticed that the thing I tripped over 2 weeks ago is now festively adorned with yellow CAUTION tape.

Seriously.

Turns out that the post itself has deteriorated enough to be wobbly, and the CAUTION tape is to help keep it upright.

That's right: the CAUTION warning is to keep a tripping post upright, not the dip who trips on it upright.

I giggled all dayumed day, though.

Owie!

one foot
two foot
caught foot
fall

That said, let me tell you about something I'm hoping you won't see on Fail Blog:

Yesterday, at work, I fell. My left foot caught on the protective post by the alarm system, and my right foot decided that my left foot should not be having all the fun...and I landed on my knees.

That's right: full on both my knees. It hurt so bad, I did ask that someone shoot me to put me out of my misery.

I've never known any of those people to move that fast in all my days there. And I now appreciate my knees and the work they do. Did you know that your knees work hard to keep you upright, and also in almost every movement you make? Well, nearly cracking a few of my own kneecaps has shown me the truth!

It's utterly amazing that I didn't also land on something hard enough to crack my skull open. The counter by the register, the wooden frame of the hut...I fell directly in the space that is, quite literally, just big enough for a person. I also somehow, brought my arms up to cushion my head, so I wasn't literally eating concrete.

I had to have help to get up, and to walk at first, but I came up laughing--a little public humiliation is healthy. Especially fun was being quizzed on what day it was...which I managed to answer correctly. And when asked if I knew where I was, I correctly responded with, "I'm in Hell." bwhahahahahahahaha

After 30 minutes and an ice pack, the pain wasn't getting better, so I did need to fill out the forms and take the drug test. Told 'em I wouldn't pass it, as I hadn't studied.

Nub, all full of sympathy and compassion for my pain (jokes on you--he was laughing harder than I was) took pictures of me with his cellphone during the drug test. They do the testing in-house and it's basically sucking on a disgusting tasting Q-tip. And keeping your mouth shut. Hence, pictures: proof that I could keep my mouth shut for a full 3 minutes all in a row. Nub then offered to call an ambulance, and to document with more pics. Uh, No.

Anyway, 3 hours at the ER to tell me that I hadn't cracked anything important. But it hurts like hell. The ER nurse informed me that, while taking the pain meds they were prescribing, I shouldn't do anything dangerous--so I said, "Like walking?"

Oh, and for what it's worth, I didn't swear until Nub actually showed up. I didn't swear while lying there in excruciating pain; I didn't swear when getting up; I didn't swear while trying to walk; I didn't swear at the ER when the doc touched my knees. I did't swear when getting the Xrays either. All that not swearing took quite an effort.

No wonder I'm very tired today.

Anniversary

Tomorrow would have been my dad's 76th birthday. Saturday is the 22nd anniversary of his death.

I was told once, "You never entirely get over it. You still miss that person, no matter how long they've been gone."

I've learned that this is true. I was 21 when he died. The Toad was exactly 3 months old. We'd spent those last months, as a family, dealing with Dad's mortality--he was terminal with lung cancer, and there was no doubt that what time we had was exactly all the time we'd have.

Some years, I just feel blue and out-of-sorts. Other years, it hits like a ton of bricks. I used to think it was the milestone years that it would hurt more, but it's not. This year, it's already knocking me flat. I suppose I could justify it by saying that the last 18 months or so have been emotionally difficult, but I don't know that's the answer.

Rather than depress everyone around me, I'm trying to concentrate on the things that make me feel better when I remember him. He loved practical jokes. The good kind--the kind that follow the rules of 1) no personal damage to body or property; 2) no public humiliation or lies; 3) it'd be funny if someone did it to you.

So, in that spirit, I give you one of the funniest things he ever pulled--something that still makes us crack up laughing when we talk about it. My sister, at some point during later-childhood/not-quite-teendom, acquired a rubber bat. She was forever putting it in my dresser drawers, coat pockets, etc., mostly because I hated it. I hated the surprise of "what is this" and I hated the feel of the thing. It was squooshy in a way that just didn't feel right. I would also scream like a little girl (I'm told it was a heart-stopping, high-pitched, blood-curdling scream.)

My brother would get in on the fun by taking it and shoving it in my face at various moments--which lead to the aforementioned screaming, and cause my sister to yell and try to beat the tar out of him. Which also meant that all three of us would get hell from my mother.

My father decided one day to get my brother to stop his insanity (he was also, at this point, on a jag where everything that could be turned into an annoying physical gag was going to be.) My brother also had gotten into the bad habit of swinging his coat over his head as he stuffed his arms into it, knocking things and people out of the way.

So, my dad took two or three feet of fishing line, and tied the rubber bat to my brother's coat. He then made some excuse to get my brother to put on the coat. Dad made it sound very urgent that my brother hurry to get that coat on... My brother grabbed the coat. He swung the coat. A bat swooped at him. He swung the coat at the bat. The bat swooped again. My brother, by this time, is yelling and screaming. My dad is laughing so hard he can't breathe. My brother is still swinging the coat and the bat is still swooping at him, with an audience. Finally he subdued the bat by throwing the coat on the floor and stomping on it.

He is not amused, although everyone else in the family is.

Is it any wonder I'm as goofy as I am?

Why Bother?

What is it with people who think that because we work retail, it's probably not really work? Take, for example, the skeletal woman who came in the doors, looked at me, and asked, "Where are the blocks that click together for floors?" While I was beginning to answer, her husband came in, and she said, "We need to go to flooring, it's this way." and they walked away.

Then, there's the guy that comes in and asks me where the pvc pipe is. While I try to tell him which aisle I think it's in (face it, people, pvc pipe is not something I'm going to go look at, if I can help it) he corrects my "aisle 13" and then heads to where he said it was.

Finally, we have the jackass that comes in nearly every day, and ALWAYS asks if we have something....like drywall screws. His jackass trick is to stand in front of the drywall screws, looking at them, and asking if we have them. I got to be the lucky girl on Saturday, and it went like this:

Jackass: Don't you have any spring flowers this year?

Me: Yes. That's what all this is. *moves arms to indicate the entire garden center*

Jack: So you think you'll be getting them in soon?

Me: That's what all this is out here. *more non-verbal cluage*

Jack: No, I mean spring flowers. That bloom now.

Me: THAT is what ALL this IS. *again with the non-verbal cluage*

Jack: Would they be inside then?

Me: No. THAT is WHAT ALL this IS out HERE. *even more non-verbal cluage*

Jack: Oh.

Confused

My day started at work. Yes, it was morning. It was pretty humdrum, until about 11am. Then, of course, I get this call.

I love the calls that answer "How may I direct your call?" with "uhm, I dunno." The only thing better than that is when the answer is snippy and mean, accusing me of Gawd-Alone-Knows-What.

So, of course, it was a phone call that began with "Well, I don't know."

That was the high point of the call. The woman was calling for her sister who lived in Ohio, who had been in in February to purchase a stove for their brother, who does not live in Ohio.

I take about 12 minutes to give her directions on how to find the date on the receipt. Then I take about 20 minutes to give her directions on how to find the invoice number. I explain, also, about 14 times, WHY I'm asking--I'm going to find and print a copy of this receipt so I can actually see if what she's telling me is even close to reality.

I get that done, and am looking at the receipt. It was an install. But she keeps saying, "Delivery" and that the Delivery guy pointed out the ding on the stove and said that we'd give her sister, who lives in Ohio, who bought the stove for their brother, who doesn't live in Ohio, a discount and refund some of her money.

In the meantime, every question I ask her, she tells me her brother wouldn't know, (and of course, she's calling for her sister who lives in Ohio) and then asks him anyway. There's now a card he's looking for. Somewhere in here, she begins asking me if the money back offer has expired yet, because they wanted to call and find out early enough so that it was timely. (The receipt is dates 2/12, and the stove arrived at the brother's house within 2 days.)

Finally, I get an answer to, "Was the guy who brought the stove wearing a red vest, driving a big box truck with our logo on the side?" The short answer was "no." I bet you can already guess that the long answer involved a side trip into Ohio, with her sister. Oh, and we had to discuss how she was calling now so she didn't wait too long.

The brother finds the card. And, miracles or miracles, it's actually pertinent to the issue at hand. She explains again about how her sister, who lives in Ohio, took their brother, who doesn't live in Ohio, to our store to purchase this stove. Our store, for the record, if I haven't told you before, is not in Ohio. And again, she starts about calling quickly so the "offer" will still be good.

I explain to her that I will have to do some research and call her back. She asks that I call her, not her sister in Ohio. I ask her to write down my name, today's date, and the time she called. I had to tell her, 58 times, what that date was. She asks again if it's "too late" to have "that offer."

Out of frustration, I finally cave: I tell her, "Well, ma'am, it was over a month ago. If there was an expiration on it, it's long gone. BUT I can tell you that we're going to do the right thing, regardless of how long ago it was." I did not add, but desperately wanted to, "Even if MY sister is in Ohio."

So I can call her back, I need her name. She instead requests that she give me her name, because her sister lives in Ohio, and her brother, who doesn't live in Ohio, gets confused. Honest To God, I almost died right there. I think I actually made a choking noise. Her sister might've heard it in Ohio.

She give me her name and phone number, explains again that her sister lives in Ohio, and apologizes and says that "sometimes I get confused, too."

What frightens me the most about this is not that her brother is actually the more confused of the two of them, it's that it was a natural gas stove--they have access to an open flame, with a never ending fuel supply.

And then, after I got home, I got to listen to my mother tell me the story of taking my aunt somewhere. Which is, after all, another post.

This 'Splains A LOT

Saturday, the Howler went off to Chuck E Cheese with Bonk & his Mom. I worked all dayumed day, and so did My Sweetie, so it was great--free babysitting.

I scurried out of work to be home and save Bonk's Mom from the hell-that-can-be-the-Howler, and she wasn't at her house. She wasn't at my house. She weren't nowheres I could see her. (Bonk & the Howler weren't here, neither.)

So, I called her. She didn't answer her phone, which I was hoping meant that she was driving, on the way home (ol' Chuck's place is about 1.5 hours from here--I'm not sure, because I have never once, in my *cough cough* years, set foot in one of those demon holes.) I called her house, too, just-in-case.

She called back about 20 minutes later. They were just getting in the car at that point. Stopping at Dunkin' Donuts (sure, makes sense: 2 spawn in the car, sugar 'em up for the trip home) and they'd be home as soon as they'd be home.

While awaiting the homecoming, the Gator called. She asked if the Howler enjoyed her day. I said yes. She asked what time the Howler got home, I said "she's not home yet."

"So, how do you know she enjoyed it?"

"cuz she said she did when I talked to Bonk's mom"

"what? how? if they're not home yet?"

"I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone." (mind-blowing concept, that.)

"Oh. Did you talk to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone?"

"Yes. I talked to Bonk's Mom on her cellphone."

"Did she say how soon they'd be home, then?"

"They're on the road as we speak. They'll be home in about an hour or so."

"So, they'll be home in about an hour or so?"

"Yes, they'll be home in about an hour or so."

The rest of the conversation went on like this for several more minutes. I know it wasn't that conversation psych shit that they teach you to be sure the other person knows you're listening...the Gator weren't listening. She was testing me to be sure I was listening to her--and to be sure I wasn't lying to her about anything.

Kill me now.

Let It Snow

As long as it's still snowing, I intend to use the opportunity to share some thinks from last December. Mostly because I wrote 'em out with pencil and paper, forgot about 'em, and found 'em again today. And it did snow last night. So there.

While I didn't get any QT in the garden center in December, I still got a doozy of a quiz regarding the fresh cut live trees we were selling.

A few days after Thanksgiving, my mother was blathering her way across local landlines...talking incessantly at me. She began quizzing me on whether or not I would be returned to the garden center. Then she asked if the "Fresh Cut" trees were in yet. (Not that she wanted one--it was a test.) When I said, "Yes" she asked if we were actually selling any. Again, I said, "Yes" She demanded to know HOW we were selling those trees, because, "You only have but FOUR of 'em, and they're in front of the garden center."

Choking back laughter, I tell her, "Those are the ones on DISPLAY, so you can see pricing and general size DUH." Oh, yes, I did too DUH her.

Undaunted, she demands, "Where are the REST of the trees, then?"

"They're INSIDE the fence."

Still confused--or convinced I'm lying--she demands to know how we're watering the those fresh cut trees if they're inside.

So I pronounce each syllable slooooooowly for her: "They're In Side The GAR DEN CEN TER FENCE, Not In Side The Build Ing."

Mom's still brighter than the woman who rolled in the gate on a cold late April day and said, "WOW! It's certainly warmer in here than it is out there."

Mr Fabulous

He works in the Paint department. He's one of those annoying optimists. Miss Piggy likes him.

Anyway, Mr Fabulous, the 80's called, and it wants its fashion back.

'nuff said.

Random Rants

Last night in Hell, er, uh, I mean, at work, I was, of course, at Returns. And the standard Return Rant goes like this:

Sure, there are some stores where you go to one place with the crap you're taking back, and you get the replacement crap, and then they subtract what you're bringing them back, and add what you're taking with you. You pay or they hand you back the difference. And sure, there are some places where they have registers scattered throughout the store, and you can approach any one of those and they can do that math for you. But where I work, we're very specific (and yes, we have our reasons) about where all that transferring takes place. And where I work, we don't do that math. We take back the crap, and we return your money. Then you go get your new crap, and take it to a special place where they take the money back. Again, there are reasons for this, not the least of which is that, believe it or not, people have been known to wander through a store, and swap stuff out on their own, and this is known as stealing.

Also, things like inventory control happen on, get this, NOT pricing. Even if you tell me two different items are the same price, it's my job to actually process a refund, and purchases are kept track of separately. No matter how many times you insist that I will do one transaction, "an Exchange," it's not going to happen. Not because I'm stubborn (which, of course, I am) but because it's not physically possible for me to do it. Computers can, and sometimes do, miraculous things, but in this case, an "Exchange" is NOT going to happen. No matter how special you think you are, it's simply NOT.

Along with that, let me tell you, once-and-for-all, we do not have face recognition technology, and my computer may very well "have all my stuff in there," unless you give me a clue, there ain't Jackshit going to happen for you. Cough up a receipt, or an ID. And no matter how important to the Universe you consider yourself, telling me you've given your phone number to God-Alone-Knows-Who for whatever reason is NOT the same as giving it to me when I ask for it. I ask for it for a reason, and that means I'm not fucking psychic, and, DUH, neither is this computerized cash register.

Next, for those who are new to Hell, perhaps they didn't make this clear in your orientation, or perhaps you were napping at that point, or perhaps you just figure that your 20-something year old ass isn't expected to actually pay attention to anyone who has already served several years in this particular incarnation of Hell, I don't care. You're wearing a vest, you're here to WORK. And in retail, as the Weasel enjoyed telling me all the fucking time, that means you do what you need to do to encourage the unwashed masses to spend their money here. (And duh, that's why you have a job, fucktard--those annoying customers do actually spend their money here.)

When I ask you to help me, or help a customer, I don't give a flying fuck if it's your department or not. I'd rather have a customer have compentent, knowledgeable help, but since that's not currently available, we'll take what we can get, and that, darling, is YOU.

And if I ask you to deliver a bunch of crap I've got that needs to go back to a department that isn't your department, but you walk right past that department. DUH, you can go there, I can't. Take it with you. I've considered it, and I have come to the conclusion that there while there is no I in Team, there are two I's in IdIot.

Maybe you haven't noticed, but there are no walls between these departments. You don't need a security clearance to go there. There's also no special training necessary to push a cart--trust me, Honey, I've seen dumber than you do it, you'll be fine. Take this crap, put it where it needs to go, and don't give me any crap about it. Do. Your. Job.

Thanks for stopping.

Quickie

A quick lil' post, donchano.

Yesterday, at work, I get this call:

mumple: How many I direct your call?

caller: I dunno. Maybe you can help me. *pause* Do you carry those strap on things?

m: *jaw just a-hanging

caller: Like for on your shoes in the ice.

Language Lessons

For the record, I do not speak Idiot. I hear it--I am surrounded by it--but mostly, I do not understand, nor do I speak it.

And everything seems to happen in that last 10 minutes before you're supposed to punch out and walk away.

That being said, at the very end of my work shift, seconds before my coverage got there, a man walks up to me and says, "How do I get that salt outside?"

Which, of course, is absolutely understandable to every thinking person on the planet.

I sez: What salt? Where? What outside?

He waves vaguely behind him: That salt. How do I get it outside?

Slowly coming off my senses: Well, go to any register, tell them how many bags of salt you need, and they'll get it rung up and call someone to help you load it.

Blinking, like a cow staring at a passing train: I want all of it. Out there.

Now I'm blinking, trying to not say something that will cost me my job: OK. I'll call someone and they'll help you get what you need.

I call the department, and am informed that there is more salt, of the same type, in aisle 22. How many bags does he need?

So, I ask the guy. He says: About that many. Again with the vague gestures toward the entry doors.

I'm in the car, headed for the wall...I ask the next natural question: How many bags are there?

I dunno. That many. Again with the gestures. I try rephrasing the question, and got more of the "that many" answer.

*sigh* I notice the clock...two minutes. TWO minutes, people. No way am I getting suckered into staying here for this. I've had enough grief and pain in the final 10 minutes of my shift in the last 7 days...no way, no how, am I staying for this. Customer Service at its finest be dayumed! Besides, my coverage is here.

I tell Department Dude he needs to come up to help the customer. I tell the Dopey Dude that the Department Dude will be right up. I look at my coverage and say, "I am OUTTA HERE!"

And I punch out and leave. Is it just me (no, really!) or are people actually getting dumber?

Smiley Sez...

nuttin'

No, really. Today, the return desk was quiet...until the end of my shift (I'm starting to sense a pattern here.)

Anyway, I convince this woman that she doesn't need to go to customer service desk. I can help her.

I'm on the register that just ran out of money. Grrrrreat! The line is backing up, because I'm trying to help this woman...because I ain't go no cash, and Smiley showed up and started a transaction on the register that does have money.

I convince Smiley to switch me registers as soon as she's done, and git r dun, as they say. Money shows up, so all is right in the world.

I ask who and where is my end-of-shift-coverage. The money bearer says, "uh, Smiley. And she's right here."

I look at Smiley, and say, "Oh! I must not have heard you when you told me! I thought you were just here to keep the line moving!"

Smiley just smiles and blinks.

I know I'm being irate here, but is it that hard, really, to tell me that you're here so I can leave when I'm done?

OOOOOOOOOOOOO-kay

Today was a lovely day at the return desk! No, really, it was. Right up til the end:

Mumple: How may I direct your call?

Phil: er, uh, I'm calling from DerGrowndhawgtown, an' uh, we were up dare an' got this here microwave. We need to know what ter do, cuz, the #2 quit workin' an' then 'nother number, an' now it turns on by itself, an' we cain't git it ter shut off or paws or nuttin' like dat. We want to bring it back. Can we do dat?

M: Okay.

Phil: er, well, we want ter bring it back.

M: Okay.

Phil: It's stainless steel, an' we like it an' all. Butta coupla numbers don' work an' it turns on by itself. Whut kin we do?

M: You can bring it back.

Phil: We wanna bring it back.

M: Okay.

Phil: So we kin jus' bring it back then?

M: Ayup.

Phil: er, uh, we can bring it back. Is there a special place we can bring it?

M: The return desk is right inside the main entrance doors. Bring it there, and we'll take care of it.

Phil: Jus' bring t'in?

M: Yes.

Phil: well, er, whut er yer 'ours up dare?

M: 7am to 9pm Monday through Saturday; 9am to 6pm on Sundays.

Phil: mmmmmmmmm. 9 to 6 on Sunday. Whut 'bout them dare udder sex days?

M: 7am to 9pm Monday through Saturday.

Phil: 'n we kin bring it back?

M: Yes.

Phil: k. bye.

Oh, how I wanted to tell him the hours of the store around my schedule. He'll be in tomorrow morning, or Saturday night...how do I know? Am I psychic? Hell no, he'll be in to tell me whole sorry story. Me. Me. Me. How they love me, and must come worship me.

All Good Things

and, of course, my job isn't necessarily considered a "good thing." At least not in the traditional sense.

Anyway, our new store manager arrived yesterday, and I was, of course, off. (no comments from you peanuts in the gallery, please.) I go in today at 4pm.

My concern has been that since our new store manager is also, technically, my 3rd cousin, I may be out of job. Now, everyone says, "cousins ain't that big a deal" but, then, this is where I've worked for 10+ years. And I've done this gig before. They say it's not a problem, then 6 months from now, it's a problem. Then, a year from now, it's a BIG problem. (Nevermind that I wouldn't know him if he stepped off the curb in front of me...)

Really, I don't care who else has fought that particular idiocy and won, I don't want to fight. (I know, I know, the Apocolypse cometh) I want to show up when I'm supposed to, do my job, collect my paycheck and not be touched by freaks. How this company usually handles this is that they have a written policy. They have exceptions to the policy. Then, somebody, somewhere, gets a wild hair and decides it IS TOO a problem and then the shit, as they say, rolls downhill. I'm ALWAYS downhill. That's what "plankton" in my job description means.

*sigh* after this many years of going through SSDY (same shit, different year) I'd just really like to get a "get out of jail free" card X infinity.

Valentines Suckage

We all know how much I hate Hallmark sponsored holidays. I hate the hype. I hate the in-yer-faceness of Valentine's Day. (for the record, the only made-up holiday that is worse than Valentine's Day is Mother's Day)

Soooooooooooo....
In honor of the impending lovefest, I'm going to tell you about a bad date (or two):

The first was in college. We'll call him Bob, and say that while living on campus, his parents lived about an hour away. He managed to talk them into letting him have the car, to make it a "real date." I don't remember most of the date (yes, I was sober, no, it wasn't memorable) until he tried to tell the cop that was about to write him a ticket that he was wearing contacts--his license said he was to wear corrective lenses. I should've known then what a lying ass he would turn out to be, but I was young, and stupid (WAS, people, WAS. Past tense. Don't start.)

The second was, oh, hell, in the late '90s. We'll call this one Joe. He invited me to stop by his apartment, and, in all honesty, I was lucky to make it out alive. Nothing dramatic enough to have police involvement, and certainly nothing traumatic....unless you consider that there was a very real chance that I was going to permanently stick to the furniture. Oh, and after I was stuck, that black dear-God-I-hope-its-only-mold growing in the corner of the bathroom would probably eat me.

I consider myself lucky that most of my truly frightening and skeevy encounters with people all involve working in retail, not love. But then, most of my dating history is from a time when the Weirdness Goddess thing hadn't fully kicked in, I count my cynical little blessings every February, though.

Circle of Life

When our store opened, there were a few basics that quickly became apparent: our management staff, while claiming to have close to 100 collective years of management experience, lied. They were a cluster fuck. A big, bad, lazy cluster fuck.

As managers exchanged, moved on, and thank-you-God left the building, the general atmosphere changed...sometimes better, and sometimes worse.

One of the very first people I met on my very firstest day there is now back, as an assistant store manager. I like the guy--he is the Abbott to everyone else's Costello. He's reliable and consistant--and we all know how much I like that in a person. (He also doesn't do what Useless and the Hag tend to do, which is make me explain several times over in minute detail what I need.)

But now that he's back, it's like the bad vibe/evil mojo came back with him. I've told him on several occasions that while I'm glad he's back, he should've left that bad mojo someplace else.

God love him, he always asks me to explain. And God love me, I do.

I enjoy having to wait two hours for change or more money to show up so I can do my job. Especially when I can see that the person I asked to bring it to me is sitting on her ass behind a desk, swapping jokes with the other key-carrier, who, remarkably enough, is also sitting on her ass.

I enjoy calling my immediate supervisor so he can tell me that he can't do it because he's on register, while the other 3 people capable of carrying that phone and those keys, can't have them, because Mr. In Charge doesn't wanna hand 'em over, even though he's going to be effectively useless to anyone who calls for the next hour.

I enjoy not having any clue how to do a transaction because A) the company changed how it's going to be done and B) training will be available 3 weeks after they implement the change. (Although, to be fair, that's still better training than we were originally offered--training back in the day consisted of someone handing me stuff and saying "here, do this" and walking away. Hell, half the time I didn't have access to the screens I needed to complete the idiotic thing, and who ever handed it to me would be pissed off at me for not being able to do it.)

So, back to what I was saying, "What goes 'round, comes 'round" and where I work, that means that every so often, the bad mojo hits and I'm right back where I started. Woot!

Wow, Just, WOW

So, I'm still taking phone calls from the Reality Challenged.

Seriously, how hard is it to actually LISTEN when someone answers your question? Especially if you don't have Clue 1 about inventions that actually exist?

Me: How may I direct your call?

Reality Challenged Caller: I don't know. Maybe you can help me.

M: (DEEP BREATH--this is going to be good.)

RCC: Do they even make a thing to pull the snow and ice off your roof?

M: A roof rake?

RCC: I don't know. Is that what they're called? I don't need a rake. It's for snow & ice on my roof.

M: Its a roof rake. I don't know if we still have...

RCC: What about a roof squee-gee? A squee-gee would do it.

There's gotta be something in the water.

The Doctor Is Out

Today, the Weasel sez to me, "I had one of the guys from Self-Important Asswipe Builders talk to me about you."

I sez, "Oh?"

He sez, "Yeah. Uhm, he's not happy because, and he knew your name, he said that when he comes in, you never remember him. I don't know the guy and never saw him before in my life. But he said, "yeah, that mumplegirl always asks for my ID, and she never remembers me."

I sez, "Self-Important Asswipe Builders? There's like a thousand of them, and I'm not often at that register, and in all honesty, they all look and smell alike--not attractive."

He sez, "Well, he said you didn't make him feel memorable."

I sez, "Well, if it's JimBob, I swear that kid never looks the same two days running."

He sez, "Nope. Not him. A different one. I told him that maybe you're just not observant."

I sez, "Well, you know, they also will tell me a name that's on the list, but it's not them. They do that a lot, too."

He sez, "I know. And you follow Da Rules. Which is good, but this is retail, and he said you don't make him feel important."

I sez, "Tell him to grow up."

He sez, "Mumple, mumple, mumple. I know, I know. But it's retail. It's retail."

So I sez, "I know it's retail. But retail ain't therapy. And if his self-image and self-esteem is so low that he needs ME to validate his existance, he needs to grow up, get a grip, and get some therapy. I'm not a therapist."

He just looks at me for a minute, then sez, "Mumple, it's retail."

sigh. Apparently, that Plankton designation on my name tag now includes being some asshole's ego validation.

Soap Is Your Friend

I spent today at the wrong end of the store--the lumber end. Bleck. On top of having to look at two of the most loathsome creatures ever to darken the store's doorway... and those were two that worked there. At least they understand the concept of SOAP and what it's used for.

Apparently, because it's January, a lot of the building type guys don't understand that, despite the cold weather, they STINK. As in, burn your nose hairs stink.

I know the difference between "showered within the past 24 hours, sweaty & dirty from work" smell (not highly attractive, but tolerable) and the "been on top of my woman, haven't seen soap nor hot water for at least 3 days, sweaty, ewwwww, it makes my eyes water" stench.

And for some reason, even in the middle of summer, outside, in the sun, digging in the yard, lawn mowing, blah blah blah sweaty people do NOT stink like this.

Now why is that? Do you men actually think that smell is attractive? IT'S NOT. Soap is attractive. And it's calling your name right now.

The Stupid Cat

Here's a helpful hint for those of you who need it:

A cat's nose, carefully hung directly over the keyboard, doesn't have much give when you shove it with your left hand.

Cold, Hard Cash

I'm beginning this by stating the obvious. Cash = CASH. Credit Cards do not = Cash. Checks do not = Cash.

No matter how many time you try to convince me of that, I'm still NOT going to believe you.

I'm sick and flat out tired of asking idiots who are returning stuff questions and having them lie to me. It's a fairly straight forward process, you fuckwits.

When I ask, "What's the reason for the return?" Do not tell me "it doan work" because, well, dummy, you look like you're not bright enough to own a pair of shoes that lace and tie, I don't really expect you to be able to wire this ceiling fan into the wiring in your house. Let's start over.

"What's the reason for the return?" Again, do not tell me that it's the wrong color. They're zipties, and no one on the planet, save Martha Stewart, expects the color to match anything already existing on the planet. And for the record, the chances of Martha Stewart showcasing your trailer park on any of her numerous borefests are somewhere around waaaayyyyy less than negative 532000. K?

And here we go again...

"What's the reason for the return?" Do not tell me that "dat guy back dare give me de wrong fing." While we employ the odd moron and the occasional idiot-savant, "dat guy back dare" only had the information YOU gave him to work with. I'm guessing it's more along the lines of "dat guy back dare didn't know what I mean 'cuz, hell ya, I don' know what I mean."

Deep breath:

Finally, when we get past the part about where you tell me all about your gall bladder surgery and how it kept you from returning this mouse shit covered box you stored in your basement during a damp 8 month period, when I ask you if you have your receipt, Why do you seem surprised that I'm NOT surprised you don't have it? And when I ask if you remember HOW you paid for it, don't tell me, "I jus' got it last week." Fuckwit, you just told me you were holed up in your house for 6 months recovering from a hangnail. Liar, liar! I only wish I could set you on fire.

When I explain that there's a chance I can use our fancy-schmany new computerized system to find your receipt, do you really believe that lying to me and saying, "Cash" is going to help me find your receipt?

And after I pretend to believe you, and do a search (which, btw, when I ask for your phone number, telling me, "it's in yer puter dare." doesn't really help me help you, yanno? I'm asking because, well, try not to hurt yourself on this concept, most retail establishments do NOT have retina scanning computer ID systems to enlighten us as to who you are--and to warn us to hide from idiots just exactly like you. Just answer my fucking question, will ya?)

Anyway, when I do the search, don't get pissy with me when I don't find your receipt. You LIED to me and made it harder for me to do my job, remember? My job is to pretend to believe you, and follow a proceedure that allows me to help people who tell me the truth.

Oh, and when I inform you that I haven't been able to find your receipt, I'm gonna try really really hard to keep my job and refrain from telling you that your receipt wasn't important enough for you to keep track of...if the deranged company is putting more effort into keeping track of your shit for you than you seem to be, you can move right along into the line to kiss my ass. Thanks for stopping.

And when you finally do admit that you used your VISA, or your DISCOVER card, do NOT get mad when I send the refund back into the electronic ether world you originally paid by. And if, God forbid, you paid with a check less than 15 days ago, it would save everyone a lot of pain and suffering if you'd just stab me in the eye BEFORE you inform me of how many checks you've written in your entire lifetime. As for the 4billion dollars you claim is in that account?

What you're now witnessing is a classic example of Someone Not Giving A Flying Fuck.

That's right, Joe Consumer. I don't give a flying fuck. I'm plankton in the food chain in this lovely devil-besotted company, and I can't do anything about your poor choices when it comes to how you paid.

If you can't get with the new century after more than a year or two, it's really not my problem.

(and for the record, I don't care how many times you tell me that "dis is all we bought. it's on dare" while nodding at the receipt, if the numbers don't match, and the description on the box qualifies as "close but no cigar", I'm unable to use the receipt to refund cash to you. Too bad, so sad, sucks to be you.)