Phone Home

I rant a lot about the stupidity that I encounter at work. Especially with the phone calls. I don't know if I get an inordinate number of these stupidity calls, or if it's my perspective on them, but either way, here's several years worth of 'em:

• When dialing into our store, the first voice you hear is automated, and the first thing it says is, "Thank you for calling " I realize that it probably pays a lot of businesses to put the wrong name in there, so once you get a real live person, it makes perfect sense to say, "Is this ?" You can justify it by telling me that because the real live person is required by company phone protocol to say, "How may I direct your call?" without identifying the store (again) but seriously? You dial the store's number, and when it connects to us, we identify ourselves...you still need to ask? Really?

• Our store has the words "Home Improvement" in it's official name. Do you really think it's helpful, when asked, "How may I direct your call?" to ask for the "Home improvement department" and to get pissy when asked for more specific information?

• I do know that there are entire stores devoted wholly to plumbing and heating supplies. I understand that many places who carry those kinds of things lump those two things together. But when you call and ask to be connected with "plumbing and heating" and I tell you that in our store, those are in two separate departments, and you argue with me over needing to speak to plumbing AND heating, there's a 50-50 chance I'm gonna guess wrong in which one you really need. Play along and pretend that, because I work there, I actually do know which is kept where.

• Along that with that thought...if you ask me for something (say, caulk or glue) that is in a department that doesn't make sense to you, can you, just for shits & giggles, accept that when I connect you with the paint department, and you don't tell them what you need, and they transfer you back to me, and I explain that it's in the paint department, and then send your call back to the paint department, that I just might know more about what's in this store and where it's kept, you know, because I work there. If you must insist that it's not going to be where you're told it's going to be, don't get mad and call Customer Care and report me as unhelpful--it's not me with the problem understanding English.

• If you're going to assume that everything we say to you is lie anyway, why do you bother with us? Do you enjoy the stress? 'Cuz quite honestly, even if you do, I don't, and I think, in this instance, it's not nice to share.

• If for some reason the gods of retail personally have a grudge against you, and we have collectively managed to piss in your oatmeal every blessed time you call or come in here, take the hint: stop shopping here. Stop calling. Stop. Just STOP. If it's THAT bad, you can control where you go to get whatever the hell it is you need. (and the flip side of that is if you're asshole enough to make every person you've ever been in contact with hate you and feel ill when they see you, please consider whether or not the problem is really YOU. 14,000 others in your community can't be all wrong.)

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Again with the Chaos.

Michelle shows up one day last week--she doesn't usually just "drop in"--so we knew something was up.

She begins the conversation with, "I was just hit on." there's a long pause, then, "at the soup kitchen!" And she's disgusted that this happened.

Apparently even the indigent & disabled have cellphones and are clamoring for her number. She has steadfastly refused all this guy's (gawd, I'm hoping it's a guy, although, now that I'm thinking about it, she was never actually stated that "he" was) advances. Even when "he's" tried to get her mother to stage a celibacy intervention.

Chaos loves to tell stories backwards--meaning she starts at the end and then works her way to the beginning. And then, it just gets stranger.

It's sloppy joe night at the soup kitchen, and Omi, who spawned this Chaos, donates cash so they can "eat out."

Chaos is a germophobe, so even the idea that she's eating in a church basement soup kitchen is laugh worthy. She also questions the contents of any meal not prepared at the local supermarket deli, and "loose meat" sammiches are always in the questionable content category.

So they find seats, and the soup kitchen helpers--who were all cafeteria ladies in previous lives--send over their sammiches. The lady plunks the plate in front of Chaos, Queen of Germophobes, and pats the sloppy joe. Yes, she manhandles a severe germophobe's sammich.

Later in the meal, the cafeteria lady offers coffee. Chaos accepts, thinking that scalding liquid will kill any lingering germs in her stomach....cafeteria lady pulls the coffee mug close enough to pour...with her finger entirely inside the mug.

Poor Chaos. Her one fancy meal of the month...covered in cafeteria lady cooties and illicit indigents.

Chaos Thy Name is Michelle

So, I've told stories about my neighbor, and I'm not even bothering to give her a nick. Of course, I'll end up referring to her as "Chaos" in the future, but until then...it's all bets are off.

This is the friend who came to my house after having a hysterectomy and after commenting how itchy the healing process had become, asked, "We're good friends, right? You and I are good friends, not just neighbors, right?" I knew where THAT was going and refused to answer any further questions.

Later, when she started to admire my spatulas, I ran.

Mostly, I think she does this for the effect--I'm used to being the totally unpredictable one and here she is, stealing my thunder. Yes, she leaves me speechless at times. Most times, it's speechless from laughing, but still. Speech. Less. Me. Be afraid, I'm buying her a bus ticket to visit you.

A week or so ago, she shows up at my house. I'm sitting on the patio, minding my own bees wax. She's on her cellphone, in the middle of a conversation. She walks over to me and mid-sentence in her conversations with I-don't-even-begin-to-know, leans over and says, "Motorboat me baby!"

As I sit there, totally flummoxed, she stands up, and continues her conversation about her cellphone provider account.

I manage to ask, "You were on hold, right?" She shakes her head "no."

She's weird as hell, but she makes me laugh for all the wrong reasons. And I rejoice that I actually do have friends.

Hi! I'm Mumple, and I'll Be Blogging Again

Hi! I know I fell off the planet at some point. Mostly, it was an intensely stressful funk (also known as depression) and luckily, with sunshine and listening to The Talking Heads, I am trying to crawl back out of it without medication. Yay me.

So very much has happened, mostly stress inducing, and while most of it is blog-worthy, I just wasn't up to making it funny. Absolutely because I wasn't finding the humor in it. I've now hit the proverbial wall, and, well, FUCK IT. Fuck the stress--and those assholes causing it--I'm going to find the funny if it kills me, and I while I don't actively want it (or anything/anyone) else to kill them, I won't mourn their passing from my universe.

I guess what I'm saying it Fuck It, and Fuck Them. Watch out world, I'm baaaaa-aaaaack (for reals)!

1-800-IR-ID10T

Saturday at work, I had a lovely experience with couple from the inbred county to the north.

They come to my register, and tell me "I got a thing in there." He jabs a finger at the register screen. I scan the few items they are also carrying, then ask for their phone number.

"000-IR-ID10T" I dutifully type the number...and nothing. I get a listing of nothing. I ask if that's the phone number he gave to "them" back in appliances. He says, "That's my number."

"There's nothing coming up under that. I'll have to call back and see..."

He says, "That's not the number I gave them, though."

"OooooooooooooooKay. What's the number you gave them?" I'm ready to retype a number.

"My contact number. Like they asked for."

"OOOOooooooooooooooooKay. What would that number be?" Still ready to retype the number.

"My cellphone."

"Could I have that number then, please?" Still ready to retype the number.

"IR-ID10T-000" I type that in, and whaddaya know...it's there! What a concept.

He adds, "I don't know why it didn't come up under my home number."

I can't help myself...."Did you give them your home number?"

"Nope."

Is it really this hard? Really?

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.