That Sucking Noise

I am vulgar. Just ask my mother. And that's your only warning.

I work with some great people. And I work with some lazy, disgusting, stupid people. Two of the worse ones are also fat, and getting fatter. I don't mean they have a little meat on 'em, I mean, they are flat out FAT. I don't care, mostly, but they are also the laziest, back-stabbingest, and personality-less women I've ever had the displeasure to get to know.

Their fat doesn't bother me, as I was once fat myself. (OK. full disclosure, I'm still not-thin, but I ain't FAT. And I hope to never have my bubble burst that I was fat AND disgusting. Just sayin') What bothers me that as these two get fattER, as they get laziER, their approval rating with the men in the store gets higher.

For both of them, their sum-total personality aspects are that they make it clear they have no CLUE how large they are, and they will work very hard (and, from what I've observed, go to any lengths) to NOT do their jobs.

One is the spitting image, I swear it!, of Miss Piggy. The other is very blonde with blue eyes just a floating in batting eyelashes, and apparently, it's true:  blondes do get away with murder. How shallow are these guys, anyway?

I have my theories on why they get the pass on work...it involves golf balls and garden hoses.

So, I work til close last night..with BOTH of them. I am alternately pissed off, disgusted, and humored by my own vile thoughts. This culminated in ending the evening making sucking noises while waiting to be set free.

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssuck. sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssuck. ssssssssssssuck.

Because they do. In more ways than one.

That's Not the Funny Part

My sister sends us a Christmas card every year. It usually arrives shortly after she gets home.

That's not the funny part.

This is: one year, she sent us a card, but didn't put a return address, and forgot to sign it. She was kinda mad when I never let her know how funny the card was. We all had a good laugh when we realized what a dip she is.

It gets even funnier, though.

This year, we get a card from her. It has a return address (yes, it was hers) and she had signed it.

That's not the funny part.

This is: She had our address wrong on it.

It got delivered anyway.

No, that's not a funny part.

But this is: I live in the house we grew up in. She lived her for 20+ years herself.

Tis the Season

For the extra special weirdness.

Tonight at work, I was approached by a woman who began our conversation with, "Hey. I just wanted to tell you....in case anybody asks about the diarrhea..."

Honestly, it doesn't really matter what was said after that. Honestly.

Satan Rules

Yeppers. More stories from the self-checkout. The best part? Happened all in one day.

There were dozens of people (mostly women, I might add) who have a deep resentment of the self-checkouts. The comments I hear usually range from "these take jobs away from real people!" to "I don't use them because they don't work very well."

And, of course, there's always the idiot (or 3) who stand in front of the one unit that is dark, with signs on it that says, "out of order." Seriously. If there are 4 units there, and 3 of them have pretty lights, moving pictures, and sound, Why TF are you lining up in front of the one that is not only clearly marked, but dark and silent? And why do you look confused when I tell you, "sorry, that one's not working right now"? And there's always those morons who line up behind the person who is using one of the working units....while the other units sit there, basically talking to themselves. Why? I can't believe that I am among the few who are actually aware of what's going on around me (and I don't think it's because I work with one of these beasts. Honestly.)

Early in the day:
One woman stands out because she allowed me to scan her crap, then, when handing me the money, she says, loudly, "I DON'T WANT TO GIVE THAT THING MY MONEY!" to the guy with her. He just rolls his eyes and says, "Whaaaat?" She says again, "THAT THING! THAT THING! I DON'T WANT IT TO GET MY MONEY!" He takes her bills from her and hands them to me, telling her quietly, "It's OK Ma, it's okay. We'll be in the car soon."

and then:
The bestest customer of that day was the woman who grudgingly allowed me to help her use the machine, and then, when I'm saying "Thank you for shopping" she tells me, "THESE MACHINES ARE SATAN! YOU ARE ITS MINION!" and while I stand there, with my jaw on on the floor, she says, "I MEAN IT! SATAN! *points at the machine* MINION! *points at me*" and then she leaves.

Of course, I giggled the rest of the day, and shared the information with coworkers, managers, and other, non-mental patient customers.

It Really Isn't About You

I hate people, but I especially hate grumpy, pushy, in-a-hurry old hags.

Monday was definitely MONDAY. I misplaced my car keys twice while trying to get out the door. For the first hour or so I was there, the garden center was not my happy place. Still better than being inside, but not by much.

Had Granny in her gators come in, ask me about trees, then wander off. She parked in the loading zone, effectively making her own parking space. It was fun to watch traffic swerve to keep from side-swiping her.

When she got back to the register, of course there was another customer who came up at the same time. And the fucktards who were looking at trees, but couldn't read the signage to tell them how much.

Granny had this gawd-awful light-up wreath with no item number or tag. F'ugly thing didn't even have a model number on it. Granny going in didn't have on a Santa hat. Granny has one on now...and it didn't have a tag of any sort either. Trying to look up these item numbers proved the impossible dream, and calling inside merely got me company in my frustration.

Granny decides to go inside to see if she can search something up for me. So I scan the next guy's crap. Sometime after Granny shut down my productivity, one of those in-a-hurry-hags also joined the line. While that guy was paying, Granny comes back. She's got nothing.

While she's telling me she's got nothing, in-a-hurry-hag shoves up my counter, waves her less than $6 in bows in my face and screeches, "Can you just take my money already? I want out of here!"

I politely (not just politely for me, neither) explain that I'm taking care of this customer and I'll be with her as soon as I possibly can. She shrieks something unintelligible and stomps off.

I finally get Granny taken care of and apologize for the problems. Hag has already stomped out thru the gate with her bag.

I learn later that Hag has been inside, and given an earful to two of my co-workers. Hag was kind enough to blame "the pain in the ass" customer, instead of me.

Schleppin' Them Trees

It's that time of year again--live cut Christmas tree schlepping time. I love being outside, even in the cold, even in the claustrophobically little toothpick & saran wrap hut--I swear it keeps getting smaller!

I don't even mind sweeping the bajillions of pine needles, the pine sap on my gloves & coat, or smelling like Pine Sol at the end of a shift.

What I mind are the people who are even weirder about my being out there. The comments about the cold--today was NOT cold people! COLD is when you can see your breath. Today was sunny and mostly chilly.

What irritates me are the people who come in and say, "We'd like to get a tree. Do we need to bring it in here?" and after I offer them the lovely trimming of the lower branches, taking a nip off the trunk and putting it thru the binder to make it easier to schlep home, they ask again, "So, do I need to bring it in here?" It's like buying a live Christmas tree is brain surgery.

Today's special nitwits were the woman who stood and watched me sweep up the second round of bajillion pine needs, huffed at me, then started to walk off. I'm glad she huffed because I didn't know she was there. I asked if I could help her, and she said, "I need to buy this," disgustedly. She was holding a tree stand. I told her I could do that, and she acted all pissed off. There's a reason I hate people.

The most important man in the world was in today also. He wanted me to follow him around while he figured out how much the trees cost (which he asked me, then repeated everything I'd just read off the sign). He finally chose a tree, then came to me (no, I was not following him around--if he needs an audience, he needs to get his own) and asked if he needed to bring it in. I, of course, went thru the "we can... blah blah blah" bit, so he could ask again, "Do I need to bring the tree in to you to pay?" I got to tell him only if he needed any of that stuff done for him. He dragged the tree in, and couldn't seem to make up his mind if he could trust me to handle the tree, or if he should keep his hands on it. He knows I can't be trusted.

As I trim off the branches at the bottom, he says, "I think it'd be better if I did that." He seriously thought I'd let him trim that tree, right then, right there.

Dude needs behavior therapy, not a chainsaw.

Really? You think I'll just randomly let you have a chainsaw?

Report on the Day

Thanksgiving at the Mumple's:  Loads of people. Each one, odder than the last, no matter how you stack 'em.

This year, we made a new world record. My mother was at my house for a full hour before she pissed me off & I wanted to punch her in the head.

This year, we also got to listen to my mother, who is practically deaf, my aunt is just plain nuts, and my grandmother who, at 94, has forgotten more than she remembers, discuss how to prepare cranberry sauce made from real, whole cranberries.

This year, my sister did her best to imitate a door. She would enter a room, then stop dead in her tracks and stand stock still for upwards of 2 minutes before regaining forward momentum.

This year, my brother did not, I repeat, did not confirm that he is the reigning king jackwagon in creating retail workers' nightmares.

I can't wait for Christmas! (NOT)