Newsflash

Yesterday, the entire world--at least, the center of it: my hometown--was without cellphone service from a major carrier. A goodly number of the people I work with, of all ages and levels of self-importance, were literally adrift and angry about it. (Apparently said major carrier's technical mechanic guy killed over a dozen towers in our service area.)

Several of those co workers were blathering on about how they were missing important emergency information/texts/calls. One woman was majorly pissed because her daughter MIGHT miss a day's work because she couldn't get the call to go to work. (First, they miss the point that it's a great big ol' IF they tried to call her; Second, Mama was gonna call to "take care of it" for her baby girl. In my opinion, but if she's big girl enough to be a substitute teacher, she's a big enough girl to take care of her own cellphone problems. Mama needs to get a hobby.)

Well, as the day went on, the service still wasn't fixed. The ranting cooled a bit, but I kept hearing about the "emergencies" that these people were missing. Things like a text from a friend regarding whether or not she was breaking up with her boyfriend, the call from the ol' boyfriend on whether or not he wiped his own ass, blah blah blah.

Seriously, these people don't realize what an emergency really is: Emergencies are about the loss of limbs, copious blood loss, bodily mangling, and death. NOT about whether or not we're partying tonight.

Then there were those who were "trying to run a business here." Really? Wow. Nobody in the history of America ever tried to run a business with telephone service out! Honest! Decades before cellphones and computers, landline telephone service would occasionally go out--things like lines going down, transformers being blown, etc, would cause service to go out...and get this! Business continued! And few people got pissed off enough to make idiotic statements like "They OWE me service!"

Sure, you pay for cellphone service, but accidents happen. Your not being connected to 15,000 other people will, barring some bizarre and ironic incident, NOT kill any of you. Especially not the for the 12-24 hours you are without your service. Big Shocker, that. They'll still be where they are, and you'll still be where you are. Worse case scenario, your Farmville farm will still be there, and your insecure, needy friends will manage to survive without your constant input.

Chances are pretty good that you'll all still be the self-centered, self-important people you have been all this time, too.

This Little Piggy...

Ain't no piggy. No how. No way.

I don't care that you tell me the story about breakfast: it's a day's work for the ol' chicken, but a life commitment for the lil' piggy. I don't care how creative you are in making that lil' metaphor be about working in Retail Hell. I don't care how it relates to being Flypaper for Freaks.

And, I seriously do not appreciate being called a pig--no matter how managerially you meant it, no matter how well you tell that stupid story.

No matter what you promise, I know that your promise will Fail me, so, "uh, hell NO, I am not a pig."

"Oh, Spongebob, WHY?!"

Thursday I was in Hell. Okay, so it was really the returns desk, but it seemed like Hell. (Everything that could go wrong, did; and I spent time having to ask repeatedly to get the simplest things I needed. It was very like working there when we first opened, but I digress)



At one point in my less than lovely day, Mrs Puff, from the Nickelodeon cartoon Spongebob Squarepants, came in with a return.

source

While processing her return, the phone began to ring. After each ring, Mrs Puff said, "HELLO!" The phone rang at least 3 times.

Now That You Mention It

Lately, I have had a run of people who tell me odd facts about themselves for no discernable reason.

Like the guy last week, who, after I asked him if he needed help, whipped out his cellphone, scrolled through it, held it up (yes, inches from my face--apparently "personal space" is a totally outdated concept!) and said, "That's my mom. She's dead."

And the woman yesterday who while telling me that she needed a particular kind of mulch, tells me, "My husband died this year."

Er, uhm, since when does a retail shopping trip involve dead people?

Something

Today, while doing my job--you know, where I stand at the register and actually scan merchandise, accept payment, and grovel for dead presidents--I experienced something so radically stupid, I still can't believe it happened.

While ringing out customers, a woman brings plants to a register I am not anywhere near. She is facing me, with her plants on the counter, watching me ring out customers.

When the customers are all gone on their merry ways, she still standing there, plucking the dead blooms off the plants. (of course, she's leaving those dead heads on the counter) I brush off my counter--the one attached to the register I'm actually using.

She's looking at me like I'm the stupid one here, and she says, "Isn't this the register you're supposed to be at?"

I respond: "I'm running on this register." I nod at the machine she watched me use to ring out those other people.

"Oh. I assumed you'd be using this one." Er, uh, yah, dipwad, mostly because the gate nearest to it is closed, and I haven't been anywhere near it since 7:30am today.

I respond: "Do you need help getting your plants over here?"

"Nooooooo, but, someone has left something here." She raises her eyebrows at me, like that should be the end of the issue--and I should jump to it, and use the register SHE chose.

I walk over, wondering just what in the hell she's seeing because there's been nothing on that counter all day except for her dead heads and some windblown dirt. What she is trying to tell me is "something" that would lead a normal, thinking person to believe it's an open register is the credit card machine, wrapped and cover in a plastic bag.

"Oh, that is the credit card machine. We have to cover the unused ones out here so they don't fill up with water."

Thank God for those new sunglasses...they keep the bleeting masses from seeing my eyes roll up in my head.

Random

I don't twit, so these have to be saved up and stuffed together in a rant that encompasses this entire summer:

~ Guy who wanted "Regluuuurrrrrr Miracle Gro" I walked him to it, explained that this is it, and he just shouted "REGLUUUUURRRRRR" over and over. His supervision, aka wife, walked up, took the large box from me carefully, said, "This is exactly what we needed! Thank you!" took him by the leash and walked away.

~ Woman who comes in EVERY July and asks for "Mir-Acid" Every July, we explain that it's called "Miracle Gro for Acid Loving Plants" and every year she buys some. I strongly suspect that when she dies, her executor will find a room in her house just crammed with unopened boxes of the stuff.

~ Hundreds of morons, idiots, and the occasional fuckwit who come in on bright sunny days, and use credit cards to pay. They know the screen can't be seen, because every person in front of them in line has said the same thing they are now saying, "I CAN'T SEE THIS SCREEN!" while refusing to follow the simple directions I give them, and/or figure out what the arrows drawn on the outside of the screen mean. I especially have enjoyed watching these people tap the obviously hand drawn arrows, and exclaim, "I don't think it's working!" and I have reserved a special spot in the crack of my ass for the hundreds who have wasted my time and theirs stating, "You need a new machine." I don't need a new machine, you need to shut your piehole, follow the directions I'm giving you, and try to be smarter than the object you're working with.

~ Woman wandering through the flooring department, looking for garden stepping stones. She's probably married to the idiot who wanted to find fake grass in the garden center last year.

~ Any person currently looking for gardenias. It's a spring bloomer, and it's not a perennial in our zone. We don't have 'em, and I don't care if your "husband said he saw them here." Toots, he saw them here in MAY. This is now August. Do the math. BTW, this isn't Florida, so I don't care how well hibiscus "winter over" there.

~ Every old biddy who asks, "is this on special?" when they stood by the fence and watched us unload it from the truck.

~ The OF who comes in once a week since the end of June and demands to know what we think we're doing still having plants to sell. Same OF (they all look alike, honest!) who wanders around, comes back, and tells me that no one is going to buy trees, perennials, and shrubs.

~ Woman who came in screaming that she needed clematis bulbs. I asked her for clarification, 'cuz I know that clematis do not grow from bulbs. She continued to shriek at me that "oh, yes, they do" and demanded to know where she was gonna find 'em. She's gonna find 'em NO PLACE, and I hope she loses her voice, shrieking like that.

~People who come in and buy only the clearance plants, but can't retain the idea that we manually change the price. If you're hear every freaking day, and we have the same freaking conversation every freaking day, and you can't remember it, TAKE NOTES, refer to them often. I work retail, not child care, and if I wanted to have to repeat myself incessantly to the same people all day every day, I'd stay home with my own children.

~If you bring your ADHD 7 year old out into public, at least respond to the kid every 15billionth time he says, "Hey dad, look at this" Seriously.

~ The fruity little guy who brought his ever-so-special flower to the wrong register, stood there for a full 10 minutes watching me ring out about 8 customers, waited until the line backed up again, then came over, weaving his way through the line while toting his special flower in a swishy, swinging way to come behind my register, lean over my shoulder to say (no, not whisper) "I'm gonna leave this right here with you" depositing his special flower immediately behind me needs to get over himself. Move your special flower out of my way, and back the fuck up.

And finally, I do so appreciate the "No Shirt, No Service" rule we have these days. I spent 15 minutes early one morning, watching as a van pulled up the entrance, and a fat man gets out. Then waits for him to peel off his shirt, and turn it right-side out, put it back on, before parking. I am ever so glad I got new glasses so I can see.

BMOC

A few weeks ago, I attended my class reunion. It's hard to imagine that it's been 25 years since I graduated from high school. Most days, I don't feel a day over 107 or so, and in some ways, I haven't changed. I discovered this weekend, that in some ways, neither did anyone else. All things considered, we still look pretty good.

High school wasn't that great pinnacle of youth for me, as I didn't feel like I fit in much. I was, to be honest, shy almost to the painful point, and I didn't have the same opinions as everyone else. Mostly, I waited to college to figure out that I could be who I wanted to be, and have been working towards that since.

But I like going to these things. I'm shallow enough to admit that I enjoy seeing how life has kicked the crap out of others and comparing it to how life has kicked the crap out of me. In some cases, I really do enjoy seeing that those few chicks who were ever-so-much-better-than-thou are overweight--to the point that Omar is making their dresses; and that the BMOC is overweight, balding, and not-quite-as-fab as he was so convinced he was.

Thing is, I proudly admit that I color the gray in my hair, and while Omar isn't making my outfits, I do not buy clothes that promote the idea that I am not aging. I'm lucky enough to find an outfit for the occasion that is attractive, and doesn't lead anyone to think, "God, does she realize how old we are?!"

This time, I heard a lot of comments centering on the idea that I haven't changed much--apparently, in high school, I was smart, funny--hilarious actually, and relatively pretty. Go figure. That's not how I remember it, but I'm also shallow enough to want to believe it.

But, this post is about that BMOC from high school. Wasn't he fantastic? Popular. Athletic. Class Officer. Fab-U-Luss, you betcha.

For anyone not sporting their glasses that Friday night (and yes, that vanity sucked in many!) he is overweight. Maybe not grossly overweight, but he's certainly not in any shape that would be considered smaller than a pear, or a large melon.

His hair is also thinning. Not as much as that football player guy who, despite the weight gain and the male pattern baldness is still mostly attractive, but, you know, Mr BMOC has a comb over in his future. I'm guessing before the next reunion, if the bellyweight and cholestrol don't get him first.

Anyway, Mr BMOC was never, in my opinion, a very nice person. Even as children, he was cruel in his jokes on those of us who were quiet and/or shy. And he always loved having an audience for those jokes. Nothing overtly dramatic, but cruel, just the same. Cruel enough that I still flinch when first spying him in room.

Mr BMOC married his soulmate. I say that, because Mrs BMOC was equally cruel. Except that she had a penchant for hitting me in the stomach. Once a week, at Brownies meetings, she'd nail me as soon as I got there. If she missed me coming, she'd be sure to get me before we left. Try walking home in February in western PA crying, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt, and trying to catch your breath, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt. And then trying to convince your mom that nothing happened, and your eyes and cheeks were red and chapped because it was that cold out. My stomach still clenches, and I flinch, whenever I see her anywhere. Hell, sometimes I do the reflex reaction when I just think about her at those Girl Scout meetings.

Mr BMOC was obviously sober that Friday, and hugged me, told me I looked good, as he worked the room.

I had to go outside and have a cigarette to get the stink off.