Several for the File

The Crazy who comes in 2 or 3 times a year, more altered each time she's in.

Last year, she was looking for things she had in her hands (her keys and purse), and the chainlink fence she paid for, then pulled out of the way, leaned on and fell asleep on. She kept snoring and snorting and waking herself up, commenting on how noisy it is here.

This time, she stopped just short of ramming her cart into the obviously closed and locked 2nd gate and said very loudly, "Oh! Can't you get out here?"

I directed her to the wide open gate. She didn't go through it.

****

I also enjoyed chatting with the woman who wanted to know if we had portulacca. I told her where it would be. She scooted off (it might have been a scurry, it was hard to tell) to find it. She came back, wanting to know what *sizes* it came in. I explained: 24 cell packs or 6 packs that I've seen so far. She scurried that time for sure.

She came back to me, to ask if she could break it apart. She didn't specify, and I was smart enough to NOT ask which ones--the 6 or the 24 packs. I just told her "No, it comes the way it comes."

****

I thought the woman who wanted last month's pre-season prices was classic. She kept telling me how many she needed...as if that matters. We don't sell those in bulk. Sorry. And we don't *honor* prices from 2 or more weeks ago. You buy today, you get today's prices.

She ended up buying them anyway--at today's prices.

****

I always enjoy the people who demand *trays or boxes* for their 3 smallish plants--even when they can see that I don't have trays or boxes. The ones who bring up several plants pulled from said trays and boxes, and ask if I have said trays or boxes...I want to scream,"YOU LEFT TRAYS ON THE TABLES--WHY DIDN'T YOU BRING THEM UP?"

Those are usually the ones who can't fathom that we GIVE the stupid trays away--if I have them handy, or you bring them up with you.

****

A correllary to trays and boxes: Do you have a paper towel? Ewwww. It's so dirty and wet.

DUH, you blithering idiot! It's a GARDEN center. It's got things like plants that are IN dirt and that need water.

These are the same people who bitch when we haven't been able to water continually throughout the day and the plants are dry.

****

The chick who dragged her H and 2 carts of stuff to the register, insisted that I start ringing the stuff up, and then who sent him in one direction and headed off in another to finish her shopping.

I know the people behind her didn't mind waiting that extra 20 minutes for them to finish up.

****

The woman who brought me her selections, then DEMANDED (not just asked, mind you, demanded) to know "what's that cost?" before I even got near her stuff.

I'm sure she thought I was snippy when I said, "I don't know, Ma'am. I do need to scan it first."

"Well, they said it was $7 something."

"Okay, let me scan it and we'll see what comes up."

DUH.

****

And finally, today was the *close talker* day. How I managed to not be run over and stepped on, I don't know.

If the person could not be standing directly on top of me (much like a 2 year old clinging to his mother in a new place), I got their carts snug against the counter. I also had to say "Excuse me" to get around them to actually scan and ring up their stuff. They wouldn't put it on the counter, but didn't want me near it.

I Know Where I Am

Do you?

I had a customer tonight argue with me about whether or not I can print her check.

Yes, she argued with me.

She handed me the signed check, so I filled it out for her, telling her that she would need to initial each line I filled out so that her bank, and my cash office would know that she asked me to fill it out and that I filled it out correctly.

At that point, she said, "You can't print it?"

I answered with my standard "We may be the only place in town that can't, but no, I can't."

"Those girls up front never have a problem printing it."

"No, Ma'am, they can't print it."

"They do every other time I'm here."

"No, Ma'am, I'm sorry, but in the almost 7 years we've been open, we haven't be able to print checks."

She squints at me, then says, "Oh. This isn't Waaaaaaaalmart."

I so wanted to say, "DUUUUUUUH." But I didn't. I should get a cookie for that.

Idiot of the Week

That'd be me.

Yesterday, at work, I got cut. It's more of a gouge really. I knew, at the time, that it wasn't going to be pretty, but I didn't want, nor need, stitches or anything like that.

I didn't look forward to the time I'd end up spending filling out the accident form, going to pee in a cup, etc. etc. etc. I especially didn't look forward to having anyone digging around in it, for some medical guy to tell me they can't (or won't) stitch it.

I'm not worried about the piss-test--I've got no reason to worry. But I didn't relish the waste of time. I hate wasting time, and I hate hassles.

Cleaning it (and keeping it clean and relatively dry) yesterday, this morning I wake up and realize it's been 6.5 years since my last tetnus shot. If you have any kind of deep or puncture wound, it's recommended that you get a booster if it's been more than 5 years.

Crap and double crap.

I call the doc. They recommend the dammed shot. Idiot and double idiot. Why wasn't I thinking?

I call work, thinking that if I explain, they'll tell me it's been too much time and filling out the form now will be a problem. They tell me the opposite. I now have to find someone to Howler-sit so I can go fill out a stupid form and go pee in a cup.

Simply by being Mumple, I have to get this shot. If there are odds out there on the chances I'll get tetnus, my money is on my getting it. The higher the odds that I won't, the more likely it is that I will get it.

Mumple luck is that strong, and that crappy. And, since we're leaving Friday to go to the in-laws, the chances of my swelling up and dying over a *little cut* increase exponentially.

So, I will be filling out a form, literally a day late and a dollar short, and ruining my rep as a THINKER and a DOER at work.

This week, I am the Village Idiot.

I hate that.

Things You Buy In Pairs

Signs that read

NO TRESSPASSING

and an 18" length of black iron pipe.

Yes, I had to ask. Although she said, "No." and laughed, I'll betcha she needs another length of pipe.

Could You Find Your Ass?

I just want to say first, that my son is a teenage boy. It's not attractive, for oh-so-many reasons. I do not go to work to deal with that kind of lethargic, deer-caught-in-the-headlights interaction. I go to work, in part, to NOT be with my children. I expect, when I am at work, to not have to deal with my children.

I'd also like to say that this is one of *those* people--the ones who simply looking at him irritates me. Part of it is me, I readily admit. The other part is that the few interactions I have had with him have left me wanting to take of my shoe and bitch slap some sense into him.

But, we count our blessings--he has shown an aptitude for actually finding the building. (Unlike the Infinity Girl, who gets lost on her lunch hour.) He also, more or less, shows up when he's expected to.

His vocabulary is akin to a Neanderthal, though. His entire communication repartee can be summed up thusly: Blank Stare or "I don't know." If he's really on a roll, you'll get both.

If he needed to write a personal ad it would read like this:

SWM, 19. Non-Thinker, Non-Communicator. Refuses to use phones; Cannot answer simple questions. If you like blank stares and drunk driving (and getting caught), I'm your guy. I can get lost in a shoe box. Call me today!

God, he irrititates me. I spent about 3 hours working next to him outside yesterday, and in all honesty, I'd rather have Infinity Girl (doesn't have a personality at all that I've seen) or her sidekick, the I Want Out Early woman (she also seems to have trouble finding anything in the store that isn't the breakroom or the door).

Everything I asked him (since he was there earlier than I was) I was told "I don't know." Anything I said to him got me the blank stare. Customers got both. He would tell them, "I don't know." then stare at them stupidly until they walked away.

I'm actually impressed that he does manage to find the building and come to work as often as he does, though. I don't think he could find his ass with both hand, a map, and a guide. But, I'd also wager that if he DID happen to find his ass, and you asked him what it was, he'd say, "I don't know."

Snoozefest 2007

Ever come across someone who thinks their writing is so funny they have to tell you when it's funny? I'm assuming this person got in the habit of telling others where the funny parts are, because if she were a journalist, as she claims, newspapers and magazines don't have laff tracks and the editors wisely edited out all her hints at where to laugh (or cry).

I'm self-centered. This woman is smug. And I've been reading her blog, trying to figure out why. There's no picture of her on it, at least not a real one (the one that's there looks like it came from public domain *stock* photos), so there's no way to tell if she was hottie in her younger years and just never adjusted to the sagging and bagging her body is now doing. She doesn't strike me as horribly intelligent, either.

It reads like it's all one big *inside joke* and, like the cool kids in gym class, expects the rest of us to laugh when she tells us to, so she can feel better about herself, and snicker about us behind our backs.

I hope that anyone who reads this and finds it dull (laugh or not at your own discretion) will tell me. If you hate it, and totally think I'm rude, say so (it won't get deleted).

God, when I'm old and flabby (okay, older and flabbier) some one please shoot me if I'm that dense.

"Intimates"

I went shopping this week for bras.

I had to try some on to find out what size. I don't need someone else fingering the girls to figure out what fits. Luckily, WalMart does not offer this service.

I discovered that the girls are bigger than they were. I've lost about 10lbs, so this surprised me. I'm assuming gravity has a hand in this, and it's not as exciting as it was, all those ages ago, when I went from A cups to Bs.

It's also not nearly as exciting as needing to buy bigger bras because pregnancy has made them humongous. Actually, at that point, I think the girls were what would be classified as "knockers" because they were big enough to knock things over--not the least of which was me, if, for any reason, they had gained momentum of their own.

At that point, I also experienced the loathsome feeling that certain men were talking to them, not me. It was creepy, and not at all fun. At first, I didn't know what had changed. Apparently, if your tits become roughly the size of small watermelons in a short period of time, you actually do lose intelligence points.

After giving birth, they did shrink back to *normal* size, and yet again, I was on the hunt for bras.

There are few things more traumatic than shopping for a bra, and even being not-so body conscious and not really worrying about the size enumeration, I did not enjoy it then. I did not enjoy it now.

I was Howlerless for a few hours, and it was a task that had to be done. Desperately.

So, off to WalMart's women's department, to peruse the choices. Every blasted one of them was padded with underwires.

I don't mean to be rude, but I'm confused as to why, exactly, an A cup needs a sturdy underwire. These are hooters that do not hoot. They are knockers that do not knock. They are barely a mouthful. They can be free and lose and not look free and loose, unless, of course, the temperatures drop or someone rubs them the right way.

The few models that did not have hardware that would prohibit you from boarding the airplane were barely more than ace bandages with straps and a pretty rose applique.

All but the ace bandages also had padding. (Apparently, for your $4.88, you aren't getting any of the *good* stuff). Padding, in an A cup, I understand. If you're a member of the IBTC, padding can be a good thing.

I don't wear an A cup, so I didn't spend much time pondering this.

I am looking for the larger sizes--and every blasted one of them has padding. I am astounded that the "Nurvy Curvy" bras for plus sizes have padding. Enough padding to suit up a football team.

Let's get serious. These are not ideas that were stitched together by women. Women know that padding bunches after too many washings, even on the gentle cycle. Not many women today have the time for hand washing, and I assume, even if they did, the damned padding would still bunch up eventually, rendering the bra useless. Who wants lumpy looking breasts? Who wants their very personal, up front areas bunched up in an odd, unnatural fashion--other than Madonna, I mean.

God knows I don't.

Padding also itches, and for someone who is full-speed ahead into menopause and hot flashes, any kind of insulation is a bad idea.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that someone who is a 48DD needs, or wants padding.

And every one of these Over-the-Shoulder-Boulder-Holders was labelled as being designed "for women, by women" in some fashion.

Just who are they shitting? Even if you believe that the average IQ of all WalMart bra shoppers may not be that high, I'm sure at least some of us CAN read this lie and identify it as a lie.