This one has a visual that you'll need to help me with.
First, imagine an OF standing waaaaayyyyyy to close to you. Then, imagine said OF bringing his hands up to either side of your face, fingers spread, cupped to make a sort-of-maybe-looks-like-a-circle. Finally, he speaks, "9 or 10 inch pot!"
Stare at him in absolute amazement that he's allowed out without supervision.
He repeats, "9 or 10 inch pot!" (hands still all-up-in-yer-face)
Blink.
"9 or 10 inch pot!" (hands still all-up-in-yer-face)
Now it's your turn to speak, "What kind of pot?"
"9 or 10 inch" (tilts hand signal so his fingers, just barely not-touching you, encircle your face)
His supervision comes over and says, "you know, a round pot." 'cuz, that was the part that wasn't clear. Thanks so much for clearing that up!
Blink.
Ask, "With or without plants already in it?"
OF sez "9 or 10 inch pot"
Supervision sez "Er, ah, without I guess."
Other than the whole stranger standing in my personal space, and the hands all-up-in-my-face, and the lack of coherent customer thought processes & sentence structure, this was all perfectly normal, right?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Random Weirdness
Yesterday I took the Howler & a friend of hers to the rinky-dink "first bash of summer" carnival. It's not that big (three hours there is waaayyyy too long.)
It's sponsored by the Red Cross, and this year, they had a tent sent up, with a rummage sale going on. It was amusing to look at some of the truly tacky things they had there for sale.
While I was standing near said rummage waiting for the Howler & Co to return from their adventures on the ferris wheel, a random passerby commented to me, "Well, there's nothing there I'd sell my soul to the devil to own."
I don't even need to make eye contact anymore!
It's sponsored by the Red Cross, and this year, they had a tent sent up, with a rummage sale going on. It was amusing to look at some of the truly tacky things they had there for sale.
While I was standing near said rummage waiting for the Howler & Co to return from their adventures on the ferris wheel, a random passerby commented to me, "Well, there's nothing there I'd sell my soul to the devil to own."
I don't even need to make eye contact anymore!
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
To Box or Not To Box
I have spent the holiday weekend fulfilling customer requests for trays or boxes. We do not normally *provide* said trays or boxes, and the company says that we are not to keep the trays available for the customers at checkout. We throw them in the dumpster--and while the company is willing to overlook our having those trays handy during the open for business hours, at the end of every day, we are required to gather up whatever we've saved, and chuck 'em in the dumpster.
If anyone brings us a tray, they can have it--like I said, we throw them away. On a good day, we have plenty to hand out, but in general, we aren't allowed to keep 'em handy, and we don't. (They do clutter up the place, and they are pretty filthy.)
Anyone who has ever been nagged to death by a child knows that simply asking over and over and over and over and over, no matter how you change the wording around, does not magically create whatever is being nagged for.
Oh, wait, never mind.
Of course it does--except when you're asking for a tray or box that does not exist. If you can't see it hanging out here with me by the register, I do not have it. Period.
I can call every vest wearing associate in the store, and you still ain't getting a box or a tray.
I've been saying it for 7 years: "I'm sorry, I don't have a box or a tray. I have plastic bags, and I have sheets of plastic. Bags. Plastic. Bags. Plastic."
No matter how many times, in as many minutes, you ask me about boxes or trays.
Unless, of course, you're the one person in all this time, who brings me flowers snuggled into a tray that was just exactly made just exactly for those flowers, and asks, "Shouldn't you be putting these in bags? Are you sure they're safe for the trip home in this tray?"
Eye rolling cashier says "What?"
If anyone brings us a tray, they can have it--like I said, we throw them away. On a good day, we have plenty to hand out, but in general, we aren't allowed to keep 'em handy, and we don't. (They do clutter up the place, and they are pretty filthy.)
Anyone who has ever been nagged to death by a child knows that simply asking over and over and over and over and over, no matter how you change the wording around, does not magically create whatever is being nagged for.
Oh, wait, never mind.
Of course it does--except when you're asking for a tray or box that does not exist. If you can't see it hanging out here with me by the register, I do not have it. Period.
I can call every vest wearing associate in the store, and you still ain't getting a box or a tray.
I've been saying it for 7 years: "I'm sorry, I don't have a box or a tray. I have plastic bags, and I have sheets of plastic. Bags. Plastic. Bags. Plastic."
No matter how many times, in as many minutes, you ask me about boxes or trays.
Unless, of course, you're the one person in all this time, who brings me flowers snuggled into a tray that was just exactly made just exactly for those flowers, and asks, "Shouldn't you be putting these in bags? Are you sure they're safe for the trip home in this tray?"
Eye rolling cashier says "What?"
Sunday, May 30, 2010
It's Time for ... Family Feud
Grrr Argh.
And this will be the RD Condensed version: my brother is a very self-centered person. He is currently in the habit of borrowing my Sweetie & my (step) Dad's tools and keeping them for upwards of a year. There are things he borrowed at the beginning of his "little" project--and at least one none-too-cheap item is currently unaccounted for.
His MO is that he will call me (or the Gator) and ask if he can borrow something. (No lie, a few weeks ago, The Crown Prince called me and wanted me to go into my attic and look through the stuff he's still storing here for an I-don't-know-whatsis. When I told him to c'mon over and look, he suggested that my Sweetie do it when he got home from work...and when I insisted that he come over whenever he wanted and help himself to looking through his stuff for the whatsis, he said, "It's not that important.") Gator always says, "Of course, your Majesty" and I usually say, "I'll give him the message and we'll let you know." The Crown Prince ALWAYS gets his way, one way or another.
Currently, though, the menfolk in the family (My Sweetie and My S.Dad) are working on getting the other 1/2 of the duplex ready to be rented to new and hopefully improved tenants. The C.P. spent a few hours "painting."
After spending upwards of 3 hours in the same building as S.Dad, the C.P. leaves (and of course, the job is unfinished! Why on earth would anyone expect him to actually FINISH what he started?!) and waits patiently until I get home from work to call and ask me to go tell S.Dad that he's borrowing this one thingybob.
I ask him a legitimate question: "What if he needs that tonight for what he's working on?"
The C.P. calls me a "smartass" and hangs up. Hasn't really spoken to me since. (Yes, devastating, I'm sure.) The Gator promptly takes up his cause: I am assinine, and she will continue to bitch at S.Dad and My Sweetie, until one, or the other, agrees.
So far, neither has agreed. And she won't mention it to me. I talked to my sister last night--the Waffle. She usually sides with my mother, on all things, simply because she'd rather pick her own fights with me, but partly because she'd honestly rather fight with me than with the Gator.
Waffle actually agreed with me...and even reminded me how The C.P. got his name.
And this will be the RD Condensed version: my brother is a very self-centered person. He is currently in the habit of borrowing my Sweetie & my (step) Dad's tools and keeping them for upwards of a year. There are things he borrowed at the beginning of his "little" project--and at least one none-too-cheap item is currently unaccounted for.
His MO is that he will call me (or the Gator) and ask if he can borrow something. (No lie, a few weeks ago, The Crown Prince called me and wanted me to go into my attic and look through the stuff he's still storing here for an I-don't-know-whatsis. When I told him to c'mon over and look, he suggested that my Sweetie do it when he got home from work...and when I insisted that he come over whenever he wanted and help himself to looking through his stuff for the whatsis, he said, "It's not that important.") Gator always says, "Of course, your Majesty" and I usually say, "I'll give him the message and we'll let you know." The Crown Prince ALWAYS gets his way, one way or another.
Currently, though, the menfolk in the family (My Sweetie and My S.Dad) are working on getting the other 1/2 of the duplex ready to be rented to new and hopefully improved tenants. The C.P. spent a few hours "painting."
After spending upwards of 3 hours in the same building as S.Dad, the C.P. leaves (and of course, the job is unfinished! Why on earth would anyone expect him to actually FINISH what he started?!) and waits patiently until I get home from work to call and ask me to go tell S.Dad that he's borrowing this one thingybob.
I ask him a legitimate question: "What if he needs that tonight for what he's working on?"
The C.P. calls me a "smartass" and hangs up. Hasn't really spoken to me since. (Yes, devastating, I'm sure.) The Gator promptly takes up his cause: I am assinine, and she will continue to bitch at S.Dad and My Sweetie, until one, or the other, agrees.
So far, neither has agreed. And she won't mention it to me. I talked to my sister last night--the Waffle. She usually sides with my mother, on all things, simply because she'd rather pick her own fights with me, but partly because she'd honestly rather fight with me than with the Gator.
Waffle actually agreed with me...and even reminded me how The C.P. got his name.
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?)
Saturday, May 08, 2010
Blowin' in the Wind
Today it was mighty nipply in the garden center. The wind picked up, and by wind, I mean, yet again, I'm having visions of Dorothy house landing on top of me. But, being Mother's Day weekend, we're busier than a one legged man at an ass kicking contest.
Which means, of course, that at least one Nut was out without supervision.
A couple comes up with one of the largest carts we supply the money dropping masses, and, of course, the cart is chock full o' stuff. I go about my business--I begin scanning my little heart out. This couple, apparently, are micromanagers from Wayback, because they are not only telling me how many of what, but actually shoving things at me in an almost polite way of directing how the checkout process goes. (And that means I mostly ignore what they're shoving at me, and do it my way. I do that, not out of rudeness, but because I know how my own brain works, and I make fewer mistakes if left to do my job my way. Safer for everyone if y'all'd just get the hell out of my way and let ME be the cashier, donchano.)
While in the midst of doing my job (and ignoring the micromanagers) a woman approaches, shoves past the persons currently in the process, and demands to know if this register is "Open for business."
I tell her, why, "Yes, it is." I continue to scan the micro's merchandise.
She then steps around me to my opposite side, shoving her way between the micromanager man and his cart and says, "So, I can check out now?"
I tell her, in my best almost not sarcastic tone, "When I'm done with this transaction. I'll be with you as soon as I can." I go back to finishing up my counting and scanning for accuracy.
She shoots a nasty look at the micromanagers and says to her escort, in a snippy tone, "It's too cold out here for me! Come get me when she's ready."
As if I told her to "go F* yourself, I'm on the phone" or something.
The micromanagers immediately lighten up, though,and back off, and let me do my job, my way.
Win-Win, if you ask me.
This also leads me to recall the Jackass last weekend, who basically did the same thing. Several registers are already open, and Mr & Mrs Jackass get into my line. The customer in front of him wanted to know how the plant guarantee worked, and he & I were discussing how we could best get him the credit for his dead plants. The entire conversation took less time than most scan, total, & pay transactions, but Mr Jackass interrupts and demands to know "just how much longer are you gonna be? should I move into a different line, or what?"
Wow. Actually, not so much *wow* because he does this every time he's expected to behave like a civilized human being. You know, all that stuff you learned in kindergarten about waiting your turn and treating others nicely...yeah, well, he missed that day. I don't think Mr Jackass has EVER been in our store that he didn't demand that he be helped/checked out/had his ass wiped before anyone else who was there before him. The size of his sense of entitlement is surpassed only by his general jackassedness, and is oppositely proportionate to his ...er, uhm, you know whatis. (I say that because his behavior all-but screams "over compensating-over compensating-over compensating.")
Some day, I'm not gonna need that job, and all hell is, literally, gonna break loose.
Which means, of course, that at least one Nut was out without supervision.
A couple comes up with one of the largest carts we supply the money dropping masses, and, of course, the cart is chock full o' stuff. I go about my business--I begin scanning my little heart out. This couple, apparently, are micromanagers from Wayback, because they are not only telling me how many of what, but actually shoving things at me in an almost polite way of directing how the checkout process goes. (And that means I mostly ignore what they're shoving at me, and do it my way. I do that, not out of rudeness, but because I know how my own brain works, and I make fewer mistakes if left to do my job my way. Safer for everyone if y'all'd just get the hell out of my way and let ME be the cashier, donchano.)
While in the midst of doing my job (and ignoring the micromanagers) a woman approaches, shoves past the persons currently in the process, and demands to know if this register is "Open for business."
I tell her, why, "Yes, it is." I continue to scan the micro's merchandise.
She then steps around me to my opposite side, shoving her way between the micromanager man and his cart and says, "So, I can check out now?"
I tell her, in my best almost not sarcastic tone, "When I'm done with this transaction. I'll be with you as soon as I can." I go back to finishing up my counting and scanning for accuracy.
She shoots a nasty look at the micromanagers and says to her escort, in a snippy tone, "It's too cold out here for me! Come get me when she's ready."
As if I told her to "go F* yourself, I'm on the phone" or something.
The micromanagers immediately lighten up, though,and back off, and let me do my job, my way.
Win-Win, if you ask me.
This also leads me to recall the Jackass last weekend, who basically did the same thing. Several registers are already open, and Mr & Mrs Jackass get into my line. The customer in front of him wanted to know how the plant guarantee worked, and he & I were discussing how we could best get him the credit for his dead plants. The entire conversation took less time than most scan, total, & pay transactions, but Mr Jackass interrupts and demands to know "just how much longer are you gonna be? should I move into a different line, or what?"
Wow. Actually, not so much *wow* because he does this every time he's expected to behave like a civilized human being. You know, all that stuff you learned in kindergarten about waiting your turn and treating others nicely...yeah, well, he missed that day. I don't think Mr Jackass has EVER been in our store that he didn't demand that he be helped/checked out/had his ass wiped before anyone else who was there before him. The size of his sense of entitlement is surpassed only by his general jackassedness, and is oppositely proportionate to his ...er, uhm, you know whatis. (I say that because his behavior all-but screams "over compensating-over compensating-over compensating.")
Some day, I'm not gonna need that job, and all hell is, literally, gonna break loose.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Just Where Do I Begin?
Oh, yeah. In the Garden Center.
Our credit card swiper machines have screens that are hard to see, especially in bright sunlight. It was a nice day, but not overly bright...which, as it happens, was the theme for that day.
One of the first customers I had this year was a woman who couldn't follow directions. I say this because after she swiped her card, and commented on how the screen was easier to see, she couldn't seem to understand what "Hit *done* in the upper right corner" meant. Since I talk my customers through the credit card process, and she spoke as if she'd been out shopping before, I didn't think it was such a hard thing: you know, look at the upper right corner of the screen, poke the screen in the appropriate area.
Yep. Too much of a concept for her. She signed her name just fine, but every time I said to "hit *done* in the upper right corner" she moved her hand confidently to the left and cleared her signature. She's say variations of "Oh, did it stop working?" and I'd have to ask her to sign again. And again. And again. And again. Finally, Einstein's progeny, a little snippy, says, "Do you mean MY right?" As if it would make any sense or be of any help to say, "Right" and mean MY right.
Even after I confirmed that it was "Yes, YOUR right" she still had trouble with the concept of her right.
Our credit card swiper machines have screens that are hard to see, especially in bright sunlight. It was a nice day, but not overly bright...which, as it happens, was the theme for that day.
One of the first customers I had this year was a woman who couldn't follow directions. I say this because after she swiped her card, and commented on how the screen was easier to see, she couldn't seem to understand what "Hit *done* in the upper right corner" meant. Since I talk my customers through the credit card process, and she spoke as if she'd been out shopping before, I didn't think it was such a hard thing: you know, look at the upper right corner of the screen, poke the screen in the appropriate area.
Yep. Too much of a concept for her. She signed her name just fine, but every time I said to "hit *done* in the upper right corner" she moved her hand confidently to the left and cleared her signature. She's say variations of "Oh, did it stop working?" and I'd have to ask her to sign again. And again. And again. And again. Finally, Einstein's progeny, a little snippy, says, "Do you mean MY right?" As if it would make any sense or be of any help to say, "Right" and mean MY right.
Even after I confirmed that it was "Yes, YOUR right" she still had trouble with the concept of her right.
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