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.)

Compliments

You know, I gotta say, one of the best compliments EVER is when you walk into where you work, and the good-looking younger guys stop and look at ya, before they realize who you are.

Then, when they tell your Sweetie how good you're lookin'...Well, that just about gives you an big ol' ego.

YAY me.

Viral

If you hadn't noticed, it's cold & flu season. And that means, in Retail Hell, it's also paranoia time.

What that means is that every cash register, counter, and phone smells of Lysol, and that's not perfume, it's disinfectant hand sanitizer.

The Weasel has been coughing. And every time he coughed on Saturday, he also offered to lick a keyboard, a counter, a phone.

With one exception: Me. He coughed, and when I asked him if he was infectious, he offered to lick me to find out.

Er, uhm, NO.

When telling My Sweetie this little tale of modern healthy living, My Sweetie asked if the guy had been more specific...then offered his own services. But My Sweetie was specific with his offer.

'nuff said.

Who's On First?

My Sweetie has been married before. Before me, I mean. His first wife was, basically, his HS sweetheart. They were on-again-off-again for their entire history. And they got married (by his admission) because both of their families thought that they should be married, not just shacked up. Their actual marriage lasted less than a year, although they were still together after the divorce. (He'll be the first to admit that his so-called romatic history is fraught with strangeness. Lifetime Channel Movie-of-the-Week strangeness. If someone had been murdered, Ann Rule would love this story strangeness.)

When he was moving here, from there, the divorce was already in progress, but they both thought that a total change of scene would do some good. They let the divorce go through anyway, and moved here.

Of course, the way he tells it, the weekend they moved was "shit kicker weekend" here. It's hilarious to think that from hillbilly farmtown PA he moved here, and thought here was backward, small town, hillbilly-ish.

Needless to say, they settled in and continued on their merry self-destructive ways. They eventually had the obligatory ugly split, and he met wife #2, aka Roly-Poly Trolly (the sociopath.)

That's the back story. Which you need to know to understand this: My mother-in-law told my Sweetie that she thinks I've got some jealousy regarding the First Ex. And this is why she thinks that:

I've been told that the First was petite. Small. Thin. Cute. Now, I've seen pictures, and even taking into consideration the horror of 80's fashions (those puffy pants and suspenders, really, why did we think that looked good?!) and the 10 lbs the camera supposedly adds...she wasn't that small. And no, I've seen pics from several angles, and even taking away the 80's fashion, and big hair and the 10 lbs the camera added, maybe, maybe on their wedding day she was small. But for their entire relationship? Uh, no. And yes, I'm a petty, judgemental, Grinch-hearted woman enough to see that. Even if he, and his family, isn't.

Onward: Once, while tripping through the drawer of years-old pics at his parents house, My Sweetie and I came across the photos from their wedding. Oh, MY! But it was 80's. Hillbilly 80's. Hillbilly 80's teenager. I giggled. I guffawed. I roared with laughter (honestly, did anyone really think that a fru-fru lacey tiered cloud of marshmallow fluff with teeny weeny pink bows ala Bjork channelling Scarlet O'Hara would look good on anybody? Seriously? The hoop on that thing could've housed Barnum & Bailey!)

It was, as they say, all fun and games until someone takes a picture of My Sweetie kissing that woman. And I found it. And I stopped laughing. There were DOUBLE prints. Can you imagine?

My mother-in-law, thought my reaction was adorable. Cute. Funny.

No, I did not destroy those blasted double prints, although I really really wanted to. A Pagan Ritual Burning would have been good about then.

My mother-in-law commented that, didn't I know? They were married. And I did, of course, already know their history together.

Sure, sure, whatever. He had no business kissing that woman. I don't care if they were married, he should not have kissed her. EVER.

My mother-in-law maintained that I was cute for feeling that way. Funny. Adorable.

Until later, when the Ol' Man discovered an old scrapbook he forgot he still had...and there it was: the picture of my mother-in-law's Sweetie, her husband of 50 years, with his arm around some woman. A woman who was, obviously, from the picture, someone special to him.

The Ol' Man's photo of him with his arm around some woman, and the double prints of My Sweetie kissing that woman both went away that day. (none of the other pics went, just those horrid, objectionable ones.)

And, best of all, my reaction is no longer cute. Nor funny. Nor adorable.