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?
Showing posts with label smiley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label smiley. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Step Away From the Ritalin...
Monday night, I got to be at the Customer Service Desk--a special level of Hell. Smiley was at Returns, so, of course, I got to answer the bulk of the phone calls. Not that she wasn't absolutely fabulous as she hung on to the fake door that appeared on the side of the desk several years ago, but it would've been nice if she had realized that ringing wasn't just in her head.
Anyway, I gets me a doozy of a call. Ten freaking minutes of listening to the inbred moron on the other end repeat the entire story of his last trip in...including how they left one of their bags at the store. I know, from being there, that there is a bag of "left at the register" electrical outlets at the Return desk, and finally, while stretching the natural laws of the universe and the phone cord, get Smiley to hand me that bag.
I ask specific questions about what Enos left with us. He starts the whole story over again.
At some point, it occurs to Enos that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, so he tells me he'll put his wife on. This is usually good news. Obviously, I am still way too optimistic for my own good.
She gets on the phone and asks me what I want. Like I called them. He tells her what's going on--mostly that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. So she launches into the Saga of Enos & Mabel at the home improvement store.
Oh, yeah. The retail-hell version of He Said/She Said. Kill me now.
Finally, I get to ask if they have their receipt. She says yes. I tell her to get a pen so she can mark the items they left, and my name on the receipt. She asks me why she needs a pen. I explain again. She launches in to the Saga again.
I'm about done with this idiocy, and I have a line forming, and Smiley still isn't really answering the phone. I shut Mabel down, and tell her to bring in her receipt and we'll get her the items they can't find.
And then, Tuesday, the Saga Continues. And it's better in sequel form.
Mabel arrives. She approaches me at the Return Desk, and demands to know if I was working last night. God help me. She begins rooting in her luggage, er, ah, purse. She sets 2 quarts of some lacquer I've never even heard of before on the counter. She then tells the guy who is standing behind her, that he can go, 'cuz she's gonna be awhile. I should've put my finger down my throat and went home then.
The entire time I'm trying to help the hapless soul who took her at her word, she's talking to me. Not answering the questions I'm asking him, just talking to me. As if he didn't exist, and as if she hadn't told him to "go ahead."
Finally, it is her turn again. She refuses to hand me receipts, until I tell her (after checking, of course) that this lacquer isn't ours. She insists that it is, and hands me a receipt for stain. I call the paint department, and he says, "we don't sell that." 15 minutes of this, and she's not only talking about everything ELSE she wants to deal with--including the stuff Enos called about last night, and stuff she brought in to match up for the project they're doing. She still refuses to let me see her receipts.
I get through the return part of this...and we move on to dealing with the rest of her fast talking idiocy. Yet again, I get to hear the Saga of Enos & Mabel. Twice. She borrows my pen...so she can circle random numbers on the receipt she won't let me see. While telling me, for the billionth time, the Saga.
In the meantime, I actually get to answer the phone and transfer calls--all while she's blathering on...and on....and on...
Finally, I get the pen, and the receipt away from her. I've already told her that I can and will refund the stuff they called about. This launches yet another telling of the Saga. I find what I need on the receipt. Because I've been sucked into this particular level of Hell, I'm stupid enough to say, "Okay, I'm refunding 18 electrical outlets and..."
She leans in really really close to me, all bug-eyed, and says very snottily, " THERE WAS A GRAY ONE, TOO." She reaches for the receipt.
I respond with (in the same snotty tone) "YES. IF I CAN FINISH WHAT I WAS SAYING." I take a deep breath and make sure she's not getting that receipt away from me. "18 ALMOND OUTLETS. 1 GRAY ONE." and turn to the register to actually do the refund.
Remarkably, she launches the beginning of the Saga of Enos & Mabel AGAIN.
While praying for a bolt of lighting, a truck, an elephant, oh hell, ANYTHING to please strike me dead right now, I manage to complete her refund and send her on her way. Mostly because once I handed her those receipts, and saying the magic words "Have a good night", I walked as far away from her as physically possible.
Anyway, I gets me a doozy of a call. Ten freaking minutes of listening to the inbred moron on the other end repeat the entire story of his last trip in...including how they left one of their bags at the store. I know, from being there, that there is a bag of "left at the register" electrical outlets at the Return desk, and finally, while stretching the natural laws of the universe and the phone cord, get Smiley to hand me that bag.
I ask specific questions about what Enos left with us. He starts the whole story over again.
At some point, it occurs to Enos that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, so he tells me he'll put his wife on. This is usually good news. Obviously, I am still way too optimistic for my own good.
She gets on the phone and asks me what I want. Like I called them. He tells her what's going on--mostly that he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. So she launches into the Saga of Enos & Mabel at the home improvement store.
Oh, yeah. The retail-hell version of He Said/She Said. Kill me now.
Finally, I get to ask if they have their receipt. She says yes. I tell her to get a pen so she can mark the items they left, and my name on the receipt. She asks me why she needs a pen. I explain again. She launches in to the Saga again.
I'm about done with this idiocy, and I have a line forming, and Smiley still isn't really answering the phone. I shut Mabel down, and tell her to bring in her receipt and we'll get her the items they can't find.
And then, Tuesday, the Saga Continues. And it's better in sequel form.
Mabel arrives. She approaches me at the Return Desk, and demands to know if I was working last night. God help me. She begins rooting in her luggage, er, ah, purse. She sets 2 quarts of some lacquer I've never even heard of before on the counter. She then tells the guy who is standing behind her, that he can go, 'cuz she's gonna be awhile. I should've put my finger down my throat and went home then.
The entire time I'm trying to help the hapless soul who took her at her word, she's talking to me. Not answering the questions I'm asking him, just talking to me. As if he didn't exist, and as if she hadn't told him to "go ahead."
Finally, it is her turn again. She refuses to hand me receipts, until I tell her (after checking, of course) that this lacquer isn't ours. She insists that it is, and hands me a receipt for stain. I call the paint department, and he says, "we don't sell that." 15 minutes of this, and she's not only talking about everything ELSE she wants to deal with--including the stuff Enos called about last night, and stuff she brought in to match up for the project they're doing. She still refuses to let me see her receipts.
I get through the return part of this...and we move on to dealing with the rest of her fast talking idiocy. Yet again, I get to hear the Saga of Enos & Mabel. Twice. She borrows my pen...so she can circle random numbers on the receipt she won't let me see. While telling me, for the billionth time, the Saga.
In the meantime, I actually get to answer the phone and transfer calls--all while she's blathering on...and on....and on...
Finally, I get the pen, and the receipt away from her. I've already told her that I can and will refund the stuff they called about. This launches yet another telling of the Saga. I find what I need on the receipt. Because I've been sucked into this particular level of Hell, I'm stupid enough to say, "Okay, I'm refunding 18 electrical outlets and..."
She leans in really really close to me, all bug-eyed, and says very snottily, " THERE WAS A GRAY ONE, TOO." She reaches for the receipt.
I respond with (in the same snotty tone) "YES. IF I CAN FINISH WHAT I WAS SAYING." I take a deep breath and make sure she's not getting that receipt away from me. "18 ALMOND OUTLETS. 1 GRAY ONE." and turn to the register to actually do the refund.
Remarkably, she launches the beginning of the Saga of Enos & Mabel AGAIN.
While praying for a bolt of lighting, a truck, an elephant, oh hell, ANYTHING to please strike me dead right now, I manage to complete her refund and send her on her way. Mostly because once I handed her those receipts, and saying the magic words "Have a good night", I walked as far away from her as physically possible.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Ringing in Yer Ears
Saturday, at work, I got to spend time with ol' Smiley. You know what's coming next, don't you? YES! Another story about getting paid to be really really stupid.
Imagine, if you will, two registers right smack next to each other. Imagine, also, if you will, ol' Smiley running one of them. Keep in mind that both registers currently have phones that work hanging on them.
Ol' Smiley is at the left hand register. Suddenly, there's a noise, remarkably like a telephone ringing. First, Smiley glances around to see if anyone acts like they can hear that obnoxious ringing noise. Next, she picks up the handset of the one closest to her (I know! I was surprised, too!)
Apparently, the bad ol' telephone just kept on a-ringing.
You guessed it! It was the phone on the other register. The one right smack next to ol' Smiley.
She hung her handset up. The ringing continues. She glances around again. Nope, no one else seems to be able to hear it--no one else is going to answer that other phone.
She picks up her handset again, listens carefully to the dial tone (and still hears that nasty ringing noise,) holds her handset out and looks at it as if it were some sort of curiosity. Like you do, when you can't figure out how the magic trick works.
She shrugs, hangs the phone back up on it's hook.
The ringing continues.
I dodge customers, carts, two school buses, a parade, and Godzilla, and answer the damned thing that is still ringing.
When I'm off the phone, I walk carefully back through the battlefield, dodging landmines, small dogs, and three picnics. I tell ol' Smiley, that the phone on the register right smack next to her works, too.
Yet again, I'm explaining that I'd try to be nicer if ol' Smiley tried to be smarter. (And I ask, yet again, how in the hell does she find the building to come to work every day?)
Imagine, if you will, two registers right smack next to each other. Imagine, also, if you will, ol' Smiley running one of them. Keep in mind that both registers currently have phones that work hanging on them.
Ol' Smiley is at the left hand register. Suddenly, there's a noise, remarkably like a telephone ringing. First, Smiley glances around to see if anyone acts like they can hear that obnoxious ringing noise. Next, she picks up the handset of the one closest to her (I know! I was surprised, too!)
Apparently, the bad ol' telephone just kept on a-ringing.
You guessed it! It was the phone on the other register. The one right smack next to ol' Smiley.
She hung her handset up. The ringing continues. She glances around again. Nope, no one else seems to be able to hear it--no one else is going to answer that other phone.
She picks up her handset again, listens carefully to the dial tone (and still hears that nasty ringing noise,) holds her handset out and looks at it as if it were some sort of curiosity. Like you do, when you can't figure out how the magic trick works.
She shrugs, hangs the phone back up on it's hook.
The ringing continues.
I dodge customers, carts, two school buses, a parade, and Godzilla, and answer the damned thing that is still ringing.
When I'm off the phone, I walk carefully back through the battlefield, dodging landmines, small dogs, and three picnics. I tell ol' Smiley, that the phone on the register right smack next to her works, too.
Yet again, I'm explaining that I'd try to be nicer if ol' Smiley tried to be smarter. (And I ask, yet again, how in the hell does she find the building to come to work every day?)
Sunday, February 08, 2009
More on the Smiling Cashier
Stupid people smile a lot (and people like me mostly grimace--it may look like a smile, but it's more an effort to not vomit on your shoes.)
I have more observations on the Smiling Cashier.
Several days ago, I had a conversation with a co-worker on the oddities that are the Smiling Cashier. First and foremost, we both noticed that she will not bend over. My co worker noted that it was "odd" to not ever bend over, and I commented that if there's a chance you'll get lost on your way back up, it's not a good idea to bend over in the first place. (At that point, I was told I was an ass. Probably right, but an ass just the same. Personally, I'm offended--I may be an ass, but it's not because I'm honest or right, it's just because I'm an ass.)
So, Saturday, I saw the impossible. The Smiler bent at the waist (and, for the record, there was no crack, thank-you-very-much.) She didn't get lost and it didn't seem like she had physical discomfort, so now, I have to say, I just don't get it. Why won't she BEND? She doesn't bend at the waist or the knees. I don't get it.
Later in the day, she hit a snag with a gift card. The PIN number was barely readable. This is a pain in the arse, but not really a problem. She made ONE guess at it, and since you get two chances to get it right, she made the SAME guess the second time. Of course, the system won't accept that, and it spit out the standard "Call this toll free number for assistance" slip. She turned to ME, not the head cashier next to her. (Granted, that head cashier was on a register with a customer at the time, but seriously? The Smiler calls ME over any supervisor--I am not a supervisor!--if I'm visible to her. She'll call me on the phone if need be. One time dial. That's it. If there's no answer, or it's busy, she calls me. If I tell her to call someone else, she acts like they charge her to use the phone. *sigh*)
So, I step in. Since I've got my own stuff to cover (self-checkout baby, I'm the Queen!) I tell her to go over there and cover that while I'm dealing with this.
She stands behind me, just enough out of the way to not get elbowed. My spot is now without coverage, but I'm up to my neck in someone else's problem and an automated phone system.
When I realize she's still standing there, but there are customers at the SCO, I tell her to go cover SCO. She says, "I'm watching it from here." Now, for a normal person, I wouldn't be worried. But this is a woman who will stand, smiling, watching someone who needs assistance not get it. (Oh. Did you need help with that?) She also moves slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter. Yeah, standing here is going to keep us both in jobs. "Get over there, NOW." Yes, I was snippy about it.
I get that the register has her number on it--and if I screw something up, they're going to be looking at her. BUT, in my defense, MY number is on the SCO central terminal (where I told her to go), and I have the middle management equivalent of backup next to me, AND, to brag on myself for a minute, I'd be sure the Powers-That-Be would know that, for that invoice, I was the one calling the shots, regardless of whose number is on it, it's MY behind that should roast for any mistakes. I like my credit when it's due, but I'll take my lumps if I earned 'em too. (And this is well known by management--she was relieved of responsibility from that point forward on that invoice.)
No, I don't think she was worried I'd make a mistake and God knows she wouldn't have learned anything from it even if she had been able to remember what I did past her quitting time; I honestly think she was afraid to be at the SCO for fear she'd have to actually help a customer.
I've watched her this past 6 weeks of being trapped inside the building. The more customers we have marching through our freshly mopped floors, the further back she stands. No customers? She's in the aisle, standing and smiling. Mobbed with customers? She's standing in the register lane, even with the leading edge of the counter, hunched over so she's barely seen unless you almost step on her. If there gets to be more than one person at a time in any line, we have to open more registers because she'll be there, but she'll try and make herself invisible so nobody asks her anything.
I also notice that any customer who asks her any question that doesn't start and end with, "Are you open?" she immediately refers them to someone else. "Where are the ceiling fans?" and she'll defer to whoever else is available--which happens to be me these days. (For the record, ceiling fans are directly in front of her--on display. Same with batteries, and the batteries are part of what she's hiding behind.
Now, before you, the reader, says, "Wow. You are an ass." let me explain--I understand that not everyone's brain runs like mine. I get that for some people, seeing the merchandise 5 days a week for 52 weeks a year for upwards of 3 years doesn't cause even a minimum of memory retention in some people. But, I do believe that in this case, she willfully chooses to not have a clue--whether it's from a fear of making a mistake (although, generally speaking, you have to actually DO something in order to make a mistake) or whether it's just that she doesn't care to know, it's annoying to ALWAYS have to interupt MY job duties to cover for her.
Again, case in point: Our store received an email. There's a theft ring going 'round, and the email describes the thieving jerks, what they are stealing and how they are stealing it. What information from this email does she retain? The vague description of the guys . The arbitrary number observed at the latest hit ("three young males"--now, there's a description that makes it easy to spot 'em). She doesn't clue in on the modus operandii; she doesn't begin opening everything that should be being opened anyway. "Three young guys." Yeah yeah yeah. I know, but it's three young guys. 'Cuz, you know, a theft ring would never, ever change the way it's stealing in order to avoid being caught.
The scariest of all possibilities? Her boyfriend is ever dumber.
I have more observations on the Smiling Cashier.
Several days ago, I had a conversation with a co-worker on the oddities that are the Smiling Cashier. First and foremost, we both noticed that she will not bend over. My co worker noted that it was "odd" to not ever bend over, and I commented that if there's a chance you'll get lost on your way back up, it's not a good idea to bend over in the first place. (At that point, I was told I was an ass. Probably right, but an ass just the same. Personally, I'm offended--I may be an ass, but it's not because I'm honest or right, it's just because I'm an ass.)
So, Saturday, I saw the impossible. The Smiler bent at the waist (and, for the record, there was no crack, thank-you-very-much.) She didn't get lost and it didn't seem like she had physical discomfort, so now, I have to say, I just don't get it. Why won't she BEND? She doesn't bend at the waist or the knees. I don't get it.
Later in the day, she hit a snag with a gift card. The PIN number was barely readable. This is a pain in the arse, but not really a problem. She made ONE guess at it, and since you get two chances to get it right, she made the SAME guess the second time. Of course, the system won't accept that, and it spit out the standard "Call this toll free number for assistance" slip. She turned to ME, not the head cashier next to her. (Granted, that head cashier was on a register with a customer at the time, but seriously? The Smiler calls ME over any supervisor--I am not a supervisor!--if I'm visible to her. She'll call me on the phone if need be. One time dial. That's it. If there's no answer, or it's busy, she calls me. If I tell her to call someone else, she acts like they charge her to use the phone. *sigh*)
So, I step in. Since I've got my own stuff to cover (self-checkout baby, I'm the Queen!) I tell her to go over there and cover that while I'm dealing with this.
She stands behind me, just enough out of the way to not get elbowed. My spot is now without coverage, but I'm up to my neck in someone else's problem and an automated phone system.
When I realize she's still standing there, but there are customers at the SCO, I tell her to go cover SCO. She says, "I'm watching it from here." Now, for a normal person, I wouldn't be worried. But this is a woman who will stand, smiling, watching someone who needs assistance not get it. (Oh. Did you need help with that?) She also moves slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter. Yeah, standing here is going to keep us both in jobs. "Get over there, NOW." Yes, I was snippy about it.
I get that the register has her number on it--and if I screw something up, they're going to be looking at her. BUT, in my defense, MY number is on the SCO central terminal (where I told her to go), and I have the middle management equivalent of backup next to me, AND, to brag on myself for a minute, I'd be sure the Powers-That-Be would know that, for that invoice, I was the one calling the shots, regardless of whose number is on it, it's MY behind that should roast for any mistakes. I like my credit when it's due, but I'll take my lumps if I earned 'em too. (And this is well known by management--she was relieved of responsibility from that point forward on that invoice.)
No, I don't think she was worried I'd make a mistake and God knows she wouldn't have learned anything from it even if she had been able to remember what I did past her quitting time; I honestly think she was afraid to be at the SCO for fear she'd have to actually help a customer.
I've watched her this past 6 weeks of being trapped inside the building. The more customers we have marching through our freshly mopped floors, the further back she stands. No customers? She's in the aisle, standing and smiling. Mobbed with customers? She's standing in the register lane, even with the leading edge of the counter, hunched over so she's barely seen unless you almost step on her. If there gets to be more than one person at a time in any line, we have to open more registers because she'll be there, but she'll try and make herself invisible so nobody asks her anything.
I also notice that any customer who asks her any question that doesn't start and end with, "Are you open?" she immediately refers them to someone else. "Where are the ceiling fans?" and she'll defer to whoever else is available--which happens to be me these days. (For the record, ceiling fans are directly in front of her--on display. Same with batteries, and the batteries are part of what she's hiding behind.
Now, before you, the reader, says, "Wow. You are an ass." let me explain--I understand that not everyone's brain runs like mine. I get that for some people, seeing the merchandise 5 days a week for 52 weeks a year for upwards of 3 years doesn't cause even a minimum of memory retention in some people. But, I do believe that in this case, she willfully chooses to not have a clue--whether it's from a fear of making a mistake (although, generally speaking, you have to actually DO something in order to make a mistake) or whether it's just that she doesn't care to know, it's annoying to ALWAYS have to interupt MY job duties to cover for her.
Again, case in point: Our store received an email. There's a theft ring going 'round, and the email describes the thieving jerks, what they are stealing and how they are stealing it. What information from this email does she retain? The vague description of the guys . The arbitrary number observed at the latest hit ("three young males"--now, there's a description that makes it easy to spot 'em). She doesn't clue in on the modus operandii; she doesn't begin opening everything that should be being opened anyway. "Three young guys." Yeah yeah yeah. I know, but it's three young guys. 'Cuz, you know, a theft ring would never, ever change the way it's stealing in order to avoid being caught.
The scariest of all possibilities? Her boyfriend is ever dumber.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Adventures in Self-Checkout vol. 2
There are currently 4 self checkout terminals in our store. They have a lovely (that's sarcasm) computer animated video that briefly and non-verbally explains the process. That means, they feature moving pictures to demonstrate how to use one.
One of these monstrosities has a habit of not working. In the almost 3 years we've had the beast, it's been "down" and "not working right" for most of that time. If we get one full week of the thing working, we're all impressed, and whispering when near it, for fear of jinxing it. Mostly because, when jinxed, the thing drops pieces of itself off. Like the pinpad/signature screen. Yes, I mean that when it decides to show its displeasure with being in our little sink-hole of a city, it rejects its own parts.
Now, I realize that the Amish (you know, the people in the funky clothes from the Harrison Ford "classic" Witness) don't have much experience with computers, or televisions. Nothing was quite as surreal as seeing a youngish Amish couple standing at the SCO, waving merchandise in front of the video screen on the one that keeps breaking down. Now, I'm sure some of the bleeting hearts will say I'm being "rough" or "rude" about the Amish. But I'm not. You see, there were three other units with moving pictures, lights, and, dare I say it? No bags over every parts upon which a bag could be secured. These people looked at FOUR freaking TV screens, and chose the one that was DARK, COVERED OVER, and not responsive.
Let me just say it: Okay, you Amish twit, you choose to not have or use technology, so, GO WITH THAT. Just Say No and keep moving to a regular register.
Now, along with the Amish, I have to say that the English, or at least those with what sound like an English Accent, shouldn't be allowed near the self-checkouts either. I don't know, and don't care to find out, if all English people are this stupid, or if it's just the ones I meet at the SCO. I'm guessing it's more like "most" because it's rare to find "all" of anything about any one group of people.
Siderant: why don't the English understand English? The Self Checkout speaks English better than many of the customers I see in a day. Hell, the machine has better language skills than the VP of the PTA at my daughter's school. Why is that?
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Spin and Marty are asked (in a snippy English accent) "Excuse me, but what does it mean by a pinpad? There's no pin."
Ahhh. Having to smile and politely say, "Oh, that's this. (touching the pinpad lightly)" and wait for the obligatory "Wha?" just fantastically made my day. I especially enjoyed how the pissy English wench tried to tell me it was my fault she didn't know what it meant.
Just say it: Okay, English Wench, if you don't like how we do things in America, and if it's too much for us to ask that you adjust yourself to being here, JUST GO HOME. Ta ta.
Ahhh, I'm feeling better now already.
One of these monstrosities has a habit of not working. In the almost 3 years we've had the beast, it's been "down" and "not working right" for most of that time. If we get one full week of the thing working, we're all impressed, and whispering when near it, for fear of jinxing it. Mostly because, when jinxed, the thing drops pieces of itself off. Like the pinpad/signature screen. Yes, I mean that when it decides to show its displeasure with being in our little sink-hole of a city, it rejects its own parts.
Now, I realize that the Amish (you know, the people in the funky clothes from the Harrison Ford "classic" Witness) don't have much experience with computers, or televisions. Nothing was quite as surreal as seeing a youngish Amish couple standing at the SCO, waving merchandise in front of the video screen on the one that keeps breaking down. Now, I'm sure some of the bleeting hearts will say I'm being "rough" or "rude" about the Amish. But I'm not. You see, there were three other units with moving pictures, lights, and, dare I say it? No bags over every parts upon which a bag could be secured. These people looked at FOUR freaking TV screens, and chose the one that was DARK, COVERED OVER, and not responsive.
Let me just say it: Okay, you Amish twit, you choose to not have or use technology, so, GO WITH THAT. Just Say No and keep moving to a regular register.
Now, along with the Amish, I have to say that the English, or at least those with what sound like an English Accent, shouldn't be allowed near the self-checkouts either. I don't know, and don't care to find out, if all English people are this stupid, or if it's just the ones I meet at the SCO. I'm guessing it's more like "most" because it's rare to find "all" of anything about any one group of people.
Siderant: why don't the English understand English? The Self Checkout speaks English better than many of the customers I see in a day. Hell, the machine has better language skills than the VP of the PTA at my daughter's school. Why is that?
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Spin and Marty are asked (in a snippy English accent) "Excuse me, but what does it mean by a pinpad? There's no pin."
Ahhh. Having to smile and politely say, "Oh, that's this. (touching the pinpad lightly)" and wait for the obligatory "Wha?" just fantastically made my day. I especially enjoyed how the pissy English wench tried to tell me it was my fault she didn't know what it meant.
Just say it: Okay, English Wench, if you don't like how we do things in America, and if it's too much for us to ask that you adjust yourself to being here, JUST GO HOME. Ta ta.
Ahhh, I'm feeling better now already.
Adventures in Self-Checkout vol. 1
So, at work, while being trapped inside with all these freaking people, I spend a lot of my time at the Self Checkouts (SCO.) It's so great--I mean, added with the benefits of having to look busy, I get to watch things like this:
The Smiling Cashier on Register #8: She get dumber every time she pees. It's rough and vulgar, but I swear to God it's true. In one week (ONE WEEK, people) she managed to not know how to put a bag in the wastebasket under her register. It's a standard-issue smallish wastebasket, and the bags were right there--less than 2.5 feet from the thing. Since the closing cashier didn't put one in, she had no clue how to put one in at open, either. I had to explain it to her without rolling my eyes or using the words "fuckwit." Try that when you're not a morning person.
The next day, the Smiling Cashier on Register #8 didn't turn the light on--the light that makes the pretty #8 noticable--for upwards of 50 minutes. Now, I have an excuse as to why I don't turn on the lights: I spend 9 months of my year at either the garden register or the return desk. Neither of my usual haunts at work have pretty lights, so, of course, my brain doesn't think, "turn on the light, dummy." When told to turn on her light (not by me--it ain't my place to tell her such things) she says, and I quote, "Oh, yeah. I was wondering when someone was gonna get that turned on."
She doesn't go up the ladders for downstocking. I get that--the ladders make me feel woozy, so if I had a genuine terror of heights, there's no way I'd go up one. But she doesn't BEND either. Now, on the one hand, it means that nobody ever has to fear seeing her ass crack. But, then, too, that means that anything lower than her elbow is somebody else's problem. I asked her, on the third morning this week, to check the batteries on the endcap, and I'd get them down to get the holes filled. She wrote down 6 item numbers--all six were no lower than her bellybutton. Most of the true holes were lower. She watched me bend over and get that information myself and said, "Yeah, uh, I just did a quick visual on that." It took everything I had to say, "Yeah, uh, it's mostly VISUAL when downstocking, fuckwit." but instead, I said, "Well, I'm bending over."
I'm getting very good at not rolling my eyes and not shrieking in pain from the effort.
The Smiling Cashier on Register #8: She get dumber every time she pees. It's rough and vulgar, but I swear to God it's true. In one week (ONE WEEK, people) she managed to not know how to put a bag in the wastebasket under her register. It's a standard-issue smallish wastebasket, and the bags were right there--less than 2.5 feet from the thing. Since the closing cashier didn't put one in, she had no clue how to put one in at open, either. I had to explain it to her without rolling my eyes or using the words "fuckwit." Try that when you're not a morning person.
The next day, the Smiling Cashier on Register #8 didn't turn the light on--the light that makes the pretty #8 noticable--for upwards of 50 minutes. Now, I have an excuse as to why I don't turn on the lights: I spend 9 months of my year at either the garden register or the return desk. Neither of my usual haunts at work have pretty lights, so, of course, my brain doesn't think, "turn on the light, dummy." When told to turn on her light (not by me--it ain't my place to tell her such things) she says, and I quote, "Oh, yeah. I was wondering when someone was gonna get that turned on."
She doesn't go up the ladders for downstocking. I get that--the ladders make me feel woozy, so if I had a genuine terror of heights, there's no way I'd go up one. But she doesn't BEND either. Now, on the one hand, it means that nobody ever has to fear seeing her ass crack. But, then, too, that means that anything lower than her elbow is somebody else's problem. I asked her, on the third morning this week, to check the batteries on the endcap, and I'd get them down to get the holes filled. She wrote down 6 item numbers--all six were no lower than her bellybutton. Most of the true holes were lower. She watched me bend over and get that information myself and said, "Yeah, uh, I just did a quick visual on that." It took everything I had to say, "Yeah, uh, it's mostly VISUAL when downstocking, fuckwit." but instead, I said, "Well, I'm bending over."
I'm getting very good at not rolling my eyes and not shrieking in pain from the effort.
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