Miracles Can Happen

So, it's been awhile since my last post for several reasons. One: I'm lazy. Two: I've become addicted to Team Fortress 2. It's awesome. Three, and most importantly: Big changes at work!

I have my own office now (woot!), so I can officially close off the world and specifically the dreaded B.D.G. Which I have had fun doing for the past couple weeks now. Okay, in all honesty, it's not so much an office as the supply closet with a desk shoved in among the cobwebs, but you don't see me complaining! I don't have to sit next to B.D.G. anymore, so I say bring on the spiders! Oooh right.

Not so fun? Having to hear her grating, nasally voice every two seconds when she calls (because she's to lazy to walk the 10 feet to my office) and have her give me more work to do. Blegh. And since the more work is usually fixing her incompetency, it's double BLEGH. That is the only word, or pseudo word, capable of describing the conundrum I find myself in. See? Working here for 3 and a half years really has made my IQ drop. Yup. It's a pickle.

Ahh well. In other more dramatic news, apparently the Boss-Man has finally realized that his daughter is insane, because two weeks from now we're having a "professional business consultant" (yeah, I couldn't believe that was a real job either) come and teach us "team building." I really hope they don't try to make us do that trust exercise where you fall backward and someone has to catch you. I don't do trust. Or falling. Or exercise for that matter, but I digress. We'll apparently have to sit around for this 6 (!) hour meeting and learn how to spell T-E-A-M. Did you know there's no "I" in it? It was news to me, too.

I don't really get what is supposedly going to be accomplished here. I mean, at the end of the day, the Boss's daughter will still hate me, will still consider it her sole purpose in life to make my life a living hell, and she'll still get away with it because she's a spoiled, rich, doughy-faced gremlin who has her Daddy wrapped around her $300 stiletto. It doesn't really matter what some peppy "consultant" (and I use that term loosely) says or doesn't say. Even if she told Boss-Man that the only way to fix his company was to fire his spawn-child, he wouldn't do it. So, again I say, what is the point?

Oh, hey, did I mention I've been looking for another job? Yeah, too bad the economy's gone down the tubes and there aren't any.

The Holiday of Labor

Labor Day Monday dawned bright and clear with the smell of barbecue wafting on the early morning breeze. Unfortunately, there would be no Labor Day celebration for me. Like all good retailopians everywhere, I had to get up at the crack of dawn, throw on my hideously unattractive "sale day" uniform (complete with button-down denim shirt that hasn't been in style since the 80s) and go to work.

While others get to celebrate, uh...wait...what exactly is celebrated on Labor Day? Labor? People who labor? People in labor? I'm confused. But I digress. Let's try again, shall we?

While others get to celebrate Labor Day (whatever it may be for) with barbecue and family gatherings and fireworks, I get to stand at a cash register and wait on all of my favorite customers.

Look! Here comes the dirty old man who asked if we carried "dirty books" shortly before propositioning me the other day. He's buying one of our sheep puppets. And he's picking my register to check-out at. Well, of course he is. Oh, goody, and now he's shoving his sheep puppet in my face and making "baaaaa" sounds and I have to stand there and smile and say, "will that be all today, sir?" and hope beyond hope that the answer is yes so he gets the hell out of here.

And now Big Bertha is walking in. Since it's such a pleasant day out, she's poured her ample frame into a pair of daisy dukes. The fabric is not enough to completely cover the crotch area, and oh, God. Oh, God! I could have lived such a long and happy life without seeing that peeking out at me.

After the endless stream of disturbed and disheveled customers, finally we can lock the doors and flip the welcome sign to CLOSED. If only it was time to go home. But, no. I still get to clean up after the invasion. All my nice, neat shelves are in disarray. Why, oh why is it so difficult to put a book back where it belongs when you decide you don't want it? And is it completely impossible to put your trash in the trash can instead of dropping it on the floor?

And what the hell is that in the toilet? Flush it down, people! Flush it down! I don't care how proud you are of your daily turd (or judging by the size of it, weekly turd), nobody else wants to see it!

Finally, after 12 hours of dealing with the bottom rung of human existence, I can go home and sleep. Hopefully it will be a nice, dreamless sleep and I will wake up tomorrow refreshed and with the horros of Labor Day blocked from my memory.

The Comment Debacle

To all my loyal fans:

I believe I have fixed the evil comment problem that has been plaguing my blog since I did some updates the other week. So, hopefully it is all fixed now, and if you see something that you just have to comment on because it's so witty and venomous, then please give it a try! And if it's not actually fixed yet...well...I'm working on it, dammit!

A Foul Stench

Ahhh, a day in the life of a retail cashier. I stand at my post as the sun begins to peak above the clouds, golden streams of light cascading down upon me. I squint to see my computer screen past the glare. I can't make it out. I reposition myself. Still no luck. The customer is getting impatient. She wants to know how much she owes (and apparently is unable to read the total on the little screen that faces her).

I glance longingly at the expensive designer blinds on the windows, and then my gaze turns to B.D.G. sigh. Unfortunately, though we paid hundreds of dollars for these custom mini-blinds, B.D.G. does not allow us to use them. The showroom needs light she says, and as I slowly go blind each day, my optometrist is reaping the rewards.

I lean over the counter to read the little screen facing the customer, completely invading her personal space in the process, and read her total to her. I really don't understand how customers can be so unobservant. Maybe they think we don't work hard enough as it is. It builds character when we have to use our brain twice as hard to make up for the empty space between their ears.

Just as the customer is walking out, a spider spindles its way down from the rafters and lands next to my keyboard....two inches away from my hand. This is not my day. Why do I have to work in this filthy warehouse with its creepy crawly spiders and lack of air conditioning? Why can't I work in the mall folding sweater vests? Sure, I'd get paid half as much, but at least I wouldn't be battling arachnids.

As if my day couldn't get any worse, all of a sudden Boss Man appears carrying a canister of "air freshener." (I use that term loosely).

"Have you noticed that it's starting to smell very bad in here?" he says, looking concerned and sniffing at the air. I steal a glance at B.D.G. whose face is glowing red.

"No, I haven't noticed any smell." I say. This isn't entirely true. It's true that it doesn't smell bad right now. But lately, B.D.G. seems to have developed a bad case of, well....what's the polite way of saying this? Gaseous eruptions that can easily be mistaken for small earthquakes. She must be on one of her new-fangeled diets. Like the kind where all you can eat is beans.

But I can't very well tell my boss that the smell he is concerning himself with is coming from the evil spawn of his loins, and is most likely the stench of all of the souls she's crushed rotting on the bottom of her Jimmy Choos.

"Oh, yes daddy," B.D.G. says jumping up. (Yes, she does still call Boss Man 'daddy,' even in the work place). "I have noticed that it's been smelling very bad in here. cough cough. It's been smelling awfully musty lately. I think there must be mold growing somewhere." She looks around frantically to emphasise her point.

Mold. Uh-huh.

"Ahh, yes. I though so," Boss Man replies, and then proceeds to empty the entire jumbo-sized canister of "air freshener" throughout the room.

Now the place smells like decaying baby powder. The air is heavy with it. There is actually a visible cloud engulfing our heads. I can't breathe. I can feel my lungs closing off. This is the end, I just know it. I see light. Blinding light. Oh no, wait. That's just the damn sun again.

Oh, okay. The air is clearing now. I'm left with a splitting headache but I don't appear to be dying. I find that I'm actually a little disappointed.

Karma's a Bitch, Ain't It?

I feel like a minuscule human being for finding glee in another person's misery. But I can't help it. Apparently yesterday (my day off), B.D.G. contracted some sort of rare cross between the flesh eating virus and poison ivy. Her face looks like soggy pizza dough covered in oozing, angry red pustules.

I know I really, really should feel bad for her instead of snickering behind my computer monitor all day today. I mean, it must be awful. I know what pride she takes in her appearance each day. And now her face totally clashes with that new pink cashmere sweater set she just bought. You know, the one that cost more than I get paid in a week.

And she couldn't even call in sick and hide in a darkened room because our latest sale flier was due at the printer's today and she hadn't even started it yet. So, she not only had to come into work looking like the rabid dough boy, but then she had to actually, you know, work.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, her daddy forced her to hand me the flier and actually ask me to proof-read it. Yeah, I couldn't believe it either. She did wait until 4:30 to give it to me. And as if her day wasn't bad enough already, I went and pointed out all these typos. Life is such a bitch sometimes.

The straw that seemed to break the camel's back was when I pointed out how ironic it was that she had spelled vengeance wrong. I hadn't ever actually seen someone shoot daggers out of their eyes before but apparently it is possible, folks. Rare, but possible.

The Joys of Walmart

Grocery shopping always puts me in such a bad mood. For one thing, I absolutely despise crowded areas. And Walmart is always crowded with stinky, sweaty, staring people. What is it about Walmart that just screams "personal hygiene not required"? They really should post signs saying that customers are required to have bathed in the last 24 hours.

Usually, because I'm doing my grocery shopping in the wee hours of the morning (to avoid crowds as much as possible) the lines at checkout aren't all that long. But the cashiers are rather unbearable.

Yes, even in Retailopia, there is a hierarchy, and the cashiers at Walmart are the Untouchable class. They do spend their days scanning deli meats, womens size 3X underwear, and lighter fluid all day. They get paid next to nothing, and are so miserable they usually can't even muster a convincing "how are you today?"

And they absolutely despise anyone who shops with coupons. Last week for instance, the cashier completely ignored my coupon pile and rings me through without them. When I point them out to her (for the second time) she starts randomly punching buttons and says "well, too late now, the transaction's gone through. That's what you get for swiping your card early."

Now, I know this isn't true. I am afterall, a fellow cashier. I know exactly how the system works and she was lying through her decaying teeth.

Then today, I have a coupon for a free carton of my favorite ice cream. Not a "buy one, get one free" - an actual plain old "get one free" coupon. I have said coupon because I wrote to the ice cream company a few weeks ago and complained that my latest carton of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough tasted like an old lady's foot. So they sent me a free coupon.

So, when I'm at checkout, the cashier is busy chattering away to the customer before me who has already finished checking out. I very diligently hand my coupons to the cashier and she starts swiping them, still chatting away to her long-lost best friend. Of course the ice cream coupon doesn't scan on her first go, so she glances down at it.

"Why does this say you get one free? You can't just get a free ice cream. I mean, what does that even mean? You have to buy something too," she says.

"I don't believe that's what the coupon says," I say evenly.

"Well, I'm gonna have to read all the fine print," she says, giving me a susipicious look like it's a counterfeit coupon or something. Who knows, maybe there's been a run on forged coupons lately. The economy has been pretty bad.

Finally, after reading every single iota of print on both front and back she heaves a hefty sigh and says, "well I suppose I'll have to give it to you." Well, of course you do. And don't act like it's that big a deal, woman. It's for a $2.99 carton of ice cream. It's not gonna kill you.

I think I'm mostly annoyed at this exchange because I can't fathom caring enough about my retail cashier job to read the fine print on coupons. I can't say that I even read the large print. If a coupon doesn't scan, I just type in the 55 cents off or whatever and move on with my life.

Of course, maybe counterfeit coupons aren't as common in the book world as they are in Walmart. Apparently, you just can't trust the unbathed masses anymore.

The Shack

What is it about the book The Shack that has people acting like maniacs? Even though this book has been out for over two years, we are only now beginning to carry it at the Christian bookstore where I work. (Yes, we are rather slow on the uptake - perhaps that's why business is so bad!)

People seem to either absolutely LOVE this book and think it's the greatest thing since sliced bread, or they HATE it and condemn anyone who reads it to hell (you think I'm joking, but I'm serious). I've read the book, and I have to say I wasn't impressed in either direction.

For starters, it's horribly written. I mean, the man cannot write. Long ago I came to the conclusion that people in general, and Christians in particular, wouldn't know good literature if it reached off the shelf and whacked them upside the head. The fact that this book was even published to begin with makes me certain that someday I too will be able to say I'm a published author. At least I can actually string a coherent sentence together which is more than one can say for a lot of the best-selling 'authors' out there. But I digress.

Back to The Shack. So, we just got this book in after months of people requesting it, and literally 2 minutes after we put it on our website last week, the trouble begins. We've been getting at least a couple emails a day, everyday, by "shocked" and "disgusted" customers asking how we can carry such heresy.

The customer today emailed to tell us that we will have to answer to the Lord for the people who are led astray after purchasing this book from us. What the hell?! It's a book! She accused us of only caring about making a profit (uhhh, hello? That's called running a business). Then, she went on to say that if we did not stop carrying this title IMMEDIATELY she would remove herself from our mailing list. Well, jolly good for you.

Now, to all you customers out there, let me point something out: Nobody gives a flying monkey if you don't purchase from their company again unless you are a hella' big spender. And I mean, purchasing every week and spending thousands upon thousands of dollars a year. Then we might care. But alas, this customer has only ordered from us once in their entire existence and that purchase was $22. (Yes, we really do look that type of stuff up and debate whether it would matter if said customer stopped ordering - and in this case, it sure as hell didn't.)

But I mean, are you serious? We will have to answer to God for selling a book? I've read some reviews of this book where the reviewer says that people who read The Shack are jeopardizing their chances at getting into heaven. I've read other reviews that have said you won't get into heaven unless you do read this book. It's no wonder people think Christians are a bunch of nutters. Tearing each other apart over a book, and a badly written one at that. It's shameful, and I'm embarassed for the lot of you so-called 'Christians' out there!

There. I'm done ranting. I'll just hop on off my soapbox now. I feel much better.