I used to work overnights at a gas station/convenience store. We sold Lotto tickets. Both the type where you pick your numbers and check the results of a drawing and the scratchers. It was a pretty excellent job, really. I'd go in, do about two hours of cleaning, sit down and read for an hour, clean a few more things. Deal with a customer here and there. I had some regular customers who were pretty cool who'd pop in and keep me company for a bit. I also had some regular customers who I wanted to do medical experiments on. Okay, maybe not exactly medical experiments, but things like "Can I fit this bastard's head in a coffee pot?" And those bastards were the scratcher ticket assholes. And the people who drove up to the store stoned off their asses, but they're not the focus of this rant. Although The Human Torch is a great story. I'll tell it sometime.
Most people work for their money and I don't give a rat's ass how those people spend their money. You worked 45 hours this week, are tired and in pain, and want to spend a dollar in hopes of winning ten dollars? Go for it! The Mega Millions jackpot is really, really high this week? Buy a couple of tickets. You saved all year to go to Vegas and want to play Black Jack all weekend? Have fun! These are not the people I want to choke.
19 year old kid walks into the store. He just sold some pot outside, so he has a good chunk of cash in his pocket. He asks for a $1 scratch-off ticket. Stands at the counter, scratches it off, leaving a neat little pile of silver shavings on the counter, even though there is a trash can literally six inches away from him. The ticket is a $1 winner. So, kid turns the ticket back in, and asks for another ticket. Okay. Takes his second ticket. Scratches it off at the register, shavings pile, etc. This ticket is a loser. So he pulls another dollar out his pocket. Repeat. Loses. Pulls out another dollar. Scratch scratch. Messy messy. Lose. Another dollar. Repeat entire process until kid has spent $30, plus the tickets that actually won that were turned in. This is really annoying because it has eaten an hour of my time. There's no patience with this person. I can't continue to stock cigarettes. Because apparently I'm a fucking vending machine and am only there to hand some jackass an entire roll of lotto scratchers one ticket at a time. However the super assy behavior here is that THERE ARE OTHER FUCKING CUSTOMERS and this asshole refuses to get the fuck out of line so another customer can check out.
My boyfriend ran into an asshole like this at the store today, so it's not just the one particular drug-dealing kid at one-thirty in the morning like I used to deal with. These people are all over the place, being pains in everyone's ass. Some of them have actual jobs and aren't just drug dealers. Some are adults. Some come out during the fucking grocery rush between five and six p.m.
I do not care how many lottery tickets you purchase. If you want to buy fifty tickets, cool. Buy them all at once and get the fuck out of my way. If you buy one and are disappointed and want to try again, fine. Get back in the goddamn line for your separate transaction. But if you're prepared to spend $30 on tickets, spend $30, go to your car, leave a shavings mess in your own car, then come back inside and redeem the redeemable ones. You know what? I don't even fucking care if you scratch off two or three tickets at the counter PROVIDED I DON'T HAVE A LINE. If there's a line, buy what you're buying and come back if you want. I frequently had to tell the drug-dealing kid to move so I could ring up another customer. And he'd get so huffy and pissy! "I was here first." Yes. You were. For the last motherfucking twenty minutes. You're obviously not leaving any time soon, just fucking move so the line can keep moving. Otherwise another customer WILL run you down with a buggy and the cashier will not help you acquire medical assistance. We might just pour those scratcher shavings in your mouth while you're on the floor with wheel marks on your face.
Showing posts with label General Ass-ery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label General Ass-ery. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
Manufacturer Coupons Are Not Magic
Well, dear readers, I know what you've all been thinking: Hey, Roz hasn't had a solid, coherent rant in a while! Just vague anger and some nonsense about cats. Well, we'll fix that!
This jerk walks into my store tonight. I'll call her Bonzo. Bonzo has stocked up on coupons, $2.00 off Brand Dentifrice (yeah, that's right, folks! We're using pseudonyms for general products now!). Well, our store happens to have Brand Dentifrice on sale for $2.00 right now! So, holy crap! That means it's free! Wow! That's so awesome! Hey, if you use TWO $2.00 coupons on one tube of Dentifrice, that means we'll just give you $2.00 out of the register!
FUCK YOU!!!!
No. That's not what it means. It means that Dentifrice has given you a voucher to use for their product. You bring that voucher to the store. You buy your Dentifrice, surrendering that voucher. We then return that voucher to Dentifrice, and they reimburse the store. Dentifrice wants their name out there. They want you to try their product. They are not giving you two dollars. They are giving you a voucher for a particular product. It's not a fucking gift card to be used as you wish, it's intended to offset some or all of the price of one specific item. If that product happens to be on sale when you choose to use that voucher, well, cool beans. You got the product for free.
So, Bonzo walks up to the register with one tube of Dentifrice and two Dentifrice coupons. And pitches the fit to end all fits when my cashier won't open the register and give her two dollars.
*sigh*
Okay. ... Okay... I...just...can't even.
Who's familiar with WIC? WIC is a United States government program to assist low-income mothers in being able to provide essentials for their children. I have never worked for the government and have never received these benefits, so I have no idea how the decisions are made, but somehow it is decided which vouchers are beneficial for which families. And these vouchers are really specific, such as one dozen large Grade A eggs or one large box of Cheerios. Somebody cannot come into the store with a voucher for a gallon of milk and instead use it on a gallon of orange juice. They cannot use the value of a voucher for a dozen eggs off of a carton of 18 eggs. If the dozen eggs are on sale for $1.99 down from the regular price of $2.49, you don't get fifty cents back after using the voucher on the sale item eggs. The US government is giving you a dozen eggs, no tradesies, no backsies.
Manufacturer coupons generally aren't as specific as WIC vouchers, but if you boil away all of the excess, the concept is quite similar. Here is a voucher for an item. You cannot use two vouchers on the same item. Got it? One coupon for $2.00 off your $2.00 tube of Dentifrice.
Not clear enough? Grab a manufacturer coupon. Any manufacturer coupon. On the top, near the expiration date, you'll see one of two things. It will either say "No cash value" or "Cash value is 1/100th of one cent." In the first case, acknowledge that your promotional voucher to encourage you to take a certain item home with you has no cash value; it is a fucking voucher. In the second, you want some money back? Give me one hundred of those bitches, and I'll give you a fucking penny. If you have the time and resources to obtain and carry around one hundred copies of the same coupon, I'll give you a penny. Out of my pocket, if need be. You've used $5 worth of ink and $2 worth of a paper (yes, as a matter of fact, I am pulling numbers out of my ass). You've earned a penny. Good job.
If you succeeded in using two manufacturer coupons for one item, it is the equivalence of theft. "But Roz, isn't that a bit of a stretch?" No. No, it's not. So, let's say you go to a store with an old, poorly programmed, DOS-y piece of shit register that doesn't know how to accept coupons and you get a cashier who doesn't understand how they work. Cashier takes two $2.00 coupons for your one tube of Dentifrice and gives you two dollars out of the drawer. The store is not going to be reimbursed for that second coupon, because the item was not sold and shit isn't going to match up on the reconciliation. So congratulations. You've stolen two dollars from a store. Or same scenario, bad register, unaware employee, "here's two dollars back." This time, however, the manufacturer of Dentifrice just blindly reimburses the value of all coupons turned in. Well, then, you fucking tool, good job, you just stole $2.00 from the Dentifrice company. If you're going to steal, do retail workers everywhere a favor and just steal the damn product. It's less paperwork for all of us. And, extra bonus, if we catch you stealing physical merchandise, we can have you arrested. And that's a good source of entertainment.
This jerk walks into my store tonight. I'll call her Bonzo. Bonzo has stocked up on coupons, $2.00 off Brand Dentifrice (yeah, that's right, folks! We're using pseudonyms for general products now!). Well, our store happens to have Brand Dentifrice on sale for $2.00 right now! So, holy crap! That means it's free! Wow! That's so awesome! Hey, if you use TWO $2.00 coupons on one tube of Dentifrice, that means we'll just give you $2.00 out of the register!
FUCK YOU!!!!
No. That's not what it means. It means that Dentifrice has given you a voucher to use for their product. You bring that voucher to the store. You buy your Dentifrice, surrendering that voucher. We then return that voucher to Dentifrice, and they reimburse the store. Dentifrice wants their name out there. They want you to try their product. They are not giving you two dollars. They are giving you a voucher for a particular product. It's not a fucking gift card to be used as you wish, it's intended to offset some or all of the price of one specific item. If that product happens to be on sale when you choose to use that voucher, well, cool beans. You got the product for free.
So, Bonzo walks up to the register with one tube of Dentifrice and two Dentifrice coupons. And pitches the fit to end all fits when my cashier won't open the register and give her two dollars.
*sigh*
Okay. ... Okay... I...just...can't even.
Who's familiar with WIC? WIC is a United States government program to assist low-income mothers in being able to provide essentials for their children. I have never worked for the government and have never received these benefits, so I have no idea how the decisions are made, but somehow it is decided which vouchers are beneficial for which families. And these vouchers are really specific, such as one dozen large Grade A eggs or one large box of Cheerios. Somebody cannot come into the store with a voucher for a gallon of milk and instead use it on a gallon of orange juice. They cannot use the value of a voucher for a dozen eggs off of a carton of 18 eggs. If the dozen eggs are on sale for $1.99 down from the regular price of $2.49, you don't get fifty cents back after using the voucher on the sale item eggs. The US government is giving you a dozen eggs, no tradesies, no backsies.
Manufacturer coupons generally aren't as specific as WIC vouchers, but if you boil away all of the excess, the concept is quite similar. Here is a voucher for an item. You cannot use two vouchers on the same item. Got it? One coupon for $2.00 off your $2.00 tube of Dentifrice.
Not clear enough? Grab a manufacturer coupon. Any manufacturer coupon. On the top, near the expiration date, you'll see one of two things. It will either say "No cash value" or "Cash value is 1/100th of one cent." In the first case, acknowledge that your promotional voucher to encourage you to take a certain item home with you has no cash value; it is a fucking voucher. In the second, you want some money back? Give me one hundred of those bitches, and I'll give you a fucking penny. If you have the time and resources to obtain and carry around one hundred copies of the same coupon, I'll give you a penny. Out of my pocket, if need be. You've used $5 worth of ink and $2 worth of a paper (yes, as a matter of fact, I am pulling numbers out of my ass). You've earned a penny. Good job.
If you succeeded in using two manufacturer coupons for one item, it is the equivalence of theft. "But Roz, isn't that a bit of a stretch?" No. No, it's not. So, let's say you go to a store with an old, poorly programmed, DOS-y piece of shit register that doesn't know how to accept coupons and you get a cashier who doesn't understand how they work. Cashier takes two $2.00 coupons for your one tube of Dentifrice and gives you two dollars out of the drawer. The store is not going to be reimbursed for that second coupon, because the item was not sold and shit isn't going to match up on the reconciliation. So congratulations. You've stolen two dollars from a store. Or same scenario, bad register, unaware employee, "here's two dollars back." This time, however, the manufacturer of Dentifrice just blindly reimburses the value of all coupons turned in. Well, then, you fucking tool, good job, you just stole $2.00 from the Dentifrice company. If you're going to steal, do retail workers everywhere a favor and just steal the damn product. It's less paperwork for all of us. And, extra bonus, if we catch you stealing physical merchandise, we can have you arrested. And that's a good source of entertainment.
Friday, November 1, 2013
You Taking Advantage of Somebody Willing to Help You Doesn't Make that Person Weak. It Makes You an Asshole.
My intention for today's entry is to bitch about assholes who "borrow" money and how they need to be removed from our lives. I feel like it's going to get away from me and turn into a whole rant about bullshit "friend" behavior.
I used to work with this girl, who we'll call CeeCee. CeeCee was awkward, but a nice enough person. We spoke on the phone outside of work a few times, but never once did we hang out socially. Ultimately, I left that job, taking a different job from which I essentially brought home no paycheck but secured health insurance for myself and my partner. Everybody knew this was why I was leaving. To reiterate, I was essentially taking our two income home down to a one income home. I was personally banking about $10 a week after the cost of insurance.
So I left the first job. I heard nothing from anybody from the old job for a while. Nothing on Facebook. No phone calls. No big deal. I accepted that this likely meant they were just not going to be a part of my life anymore. That happens with workmates sometimes. Well, after about two months, I got out of work and found I had a voicemail. CeeCee, from the old job, had called to ask me to loan her $40. Now, I'll admit, I was kind of a jerk this time and didn't return her call. Fast forward a few years, and I receive another voicemail from her. I can't discuss too many details without revealing who she is, but in vague terms, she told me about something bad that had happened and that she needed some help, financially. I expressly told her I was working two jobs and could barely make ends meet, so I personally couldn't help much, but I did organize some fundraising efforts for her in this difficult situation. I offered all sorts of friendship and emotional support. I offered to be with her at the "event" for which she needed this financial assistance. She wound up not telling me when the "event" was to occur and never having a conversation with me about it after. In fact, I didn't hear from her again until about a week ago. When she called to ask me to loan her money. Because she got a second a job. And was getting paid that very day. But needed to borrow money for gas to get to work? Um, no. Needless to say, this phone call was not returned and I have made no attempts to contact her since.
I also had this friend who we'll call Jerk Ass Man, or simply JAM. A little less than a year ago, while I was working two jobs IN ADDITION TO my freelance work and pet-sitting gigs and was having a hard time making ends meet, JAM fucked up, caused a minor auto accident, didn't report it, was arrested, blah blah blah. Well, JAM has some issues with depression, and so has a hard time in difficult situations. I was afraid JAM would harm himself if left in jail, so I bailed him out. He was considered a flight risk, so it cost over $750 to get him released. I told him at the time that I understood he wouldn't be able to pay me back in cash, but I absolutely needed restitution for this amount of money - chores, cash here and there, food when it was left over, etc. He reimbursed me for about $20 and spent about 10 minutes helping my mother with a task. After that, he told me he had no intention of paying me back any further. I've considered taking him to small claims court. I'm still thinking about taking him to small claims court. Is $700 going to be the difference between me having a home or not? No. Is that an acceptable fucking thing to do? HELL NO. He recently sent me a text message saying that he was sorry for comments he had made about my weight. My response was basically "You don't have the type of power over me that would make me feel badly about myself because you can't accept my appearance. But if you truly feel badly about it GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK!" Was I perhaps harsh with this? Yeah, maybe. But it shouldn't need to be said! If I can barely make ends meet, you shouldn't be taking three weeks' pay from me and running away! JAM's response, btw, was the unfriend me on Facebook. Yep. My feelings are really hurt. I see the error of my ways in asking for my money back. I'm clearly in the wrong. Oh, wait. The opposite of that.
So, basically, this gets me thinking about the nature of friendships. If I only hear from you when you need money, you really just need to get the fuck out of my life. I mean, way, way, far out of my life. This is not at all the same as me saying if somebody I love who is beneficial to my life hits a roadbump, I won't help. If my best friend, who lives on the other side of the country now, called and said there was a family emergency and she needed to fly home, but couldn't afford the ticket, I would absolutely help her get home. But she also does stupid/awesome shit with me like talking to me on the phone when I'm really tired and have a long drive. And I wouldn't expect her to pay me back the cost of the ticket, because I know she'll be there for me in the future. Can you, dear readers, spot the major differences in these scenarios? (Also, love you, Jocelyn!)
So, some basic tips for interacting with people, even if they are being expressed a little incoherently because I'm tired, in pain, and distracted by the delightful horror movie marathon on my television, are:
I used to work with this girl, who we'll call CeeCee. CeeCee was awkward, but a nice enough person. We spoke on the phone outside of work a few times, but never once did we hang out socially. Ultimately, I left that job, taking a different job from which I essentially brought home no paycheck but secured health insurance for myself and my partner. Everybody knew this was why I was leaving. To reiterate, I was essentially taking our two income home down to a one income home. I was personally banking about $10 a week after the cost of insurance.
So I left the first job. I heard nothing from anybody from the old job for a while. Nothing on Facebook. No phone calls. No big deal. I accepted that this likely meant they were just not going to be a part of my life anymore. That happens with workmates sometimes. Well, after about two months, I got out of work and found I had a voicemail. CeeCee, from the old job, had called to ask me to loan her $40. Now, I'll admit, I was kind of a jerk this time and didn't return her call. Fast forward a few years, and I receive another voicemail from her. I can't discuss too many details without revealing who she is, but in vague terms, she told me about something bad that had happened and that she needed some help, financially. I expressly told her I was working two jobs and could barely make ends meet, so I personally couldn't help much, but I did organize some fundraising efforts for her in this difficult situation. I offered all sorts of friendship and emotional support. I offered to be with her at the "event" for which she needed this financial assistance. She wound up not telling me when the "event" was to occur and never having a conversation with me about it after. In fact, I didn't hear from her again until about a week ago. When she called to ask me to loan her money. Because she got a second a job. And was getting paid that very day. But needed to borrow money for gas to get to work? Um, no. Needless to say, this phone call was not returned and I have made no attempts to contact her since.
I also had this friend who we'll call Jerk Ass Man, or simply JAM. A little less than a year ago, while I was working two jobs IN ADDITION TO my freelance work and pet-sitting gigs and was having a hard time making ends meet, JAM fucked up, caused a minor auto accident, didn't report it, was arrested, blah blah blah. Well, JAM has some issues with depression, and so has a hard time in difficult situations. I was afraid JAM would harm himself if left in jail, so I bailed him out. He was considered a flight risk, so it cost over $750 to get him released. I told him at the time that I understood he wouldn't be able to pay me back in cash, but I absolutely needed restitution for this amount of money - chores, cash here and there, food when it was left over, etc. He reimbursed me for about $20 and spent about 10 minutes helping my mother with a task. After that, he told me he had no intention of paying me back any further. I've considered taking him to small claims court. I'm still thinking about taking him to small claims court. Is $700 going to be the difference between me having a home or not? No. Is that an acceptable fucking thing to do? HELL NO. He recently sent me a text message saying that he was sorry for comments he had made about my weight. My response was basically "You don't have the type of power over me that would make me feel badly about myself because you can't accept my appearance. But if you truly feel badly about it GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK!" Was I perhaps harsh with this? Yeah, maybe. But it shouldn't need to be said! If I can barely make ends meet, you shouldn't be taking three weeks' pay from me and running away! JAM's response, btw, was the unfriend me on Facebook. Yep. My feelings are really hurt. I see the error of my ways in asking for my money back. I'm clearly in the wrong. Oh, wait. The opposite of that.
So, basically, this gets me thinking about the nature of friendships. If I only hear from you when you need money, you really just need to get the fuck out of my life. I mean, way, way, far out of my life. This is not at all the same as me saying if somebody I love who is beneficial to my life hits a roadbump, I won't help. If my best friend, who lives on the other side of the country now, called and said there was a family emergency and she needed to fly home, but couldn't afford the ticket, I would absolutely help her get home. But she also does stupid/awesome shit with me like talking to me on the phone when I'm really tired and have a long drive. And I wouldn't expect her to pay me back the cost of the ticket, because I know she'll be there for me in the future. Can you, dear readers, spot the major differences in these scenarios? (Also, love you, Jocelyn!)
So, some basic tips for interacting with people, even if they are being expressed a little incoherently because I'm tired, in pain, and distracted by the delightful horror movie marathon on my television, are:
- If you want to keep somebody in your life, keep them in your life. Don't just call them when you need something. If you choose to be that type of person, don't expect to have people that want you around.
- Everybody needs something from somebody at some point. Good people understand that. If somebody helps you with something big, acknowledge it. You may not be able to reciprocate in the exact form of the help, but do something. Did somebody pay $700 to bail you out of jail? At least say "thank you." Collect cans on the side of the road and give them the change you receive from turning them in. Give them the JoAnn's Fabrics coupons you get in the mail. Don't fucking hack their Netflix account, rate the bullshit movies you watch to fuck up their taste profile, ask them to buy you lunch, and then clearly express you have no intention of paying them back.
- You taking advantage of somebody who is willing to help you doesn't make that person stupid or weak. It makes you an asshole.
- Fuck this nonsense, I'm calling my attorney and taking the bastard to small claims court.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Public Restroom Decorum
I can think of nothing that tempts to punch strangers in the face harder than encounters in a public restroom. I mean, goddamn, people are disgusting and obnoxious.
First off, I think it should be illegal to not wash your hands after using the restroom. I think this should be regarded an act of bioterrorism. Because seriously, what do you call it when someone rubs biohazardous substances with a thin sheet of paper with their bare hands then walks around touching common surfaces, spreading the biohazard all over? Seriously, Mandy Patinkin, get on this shit.
A lot of people realize that things in the loo are disgusting. The paper towel dispenser is not an exception to this. Different people have different tactics for getting their paper towel without resoiling their freshly washed hands. I, for example, use the lever on the dispenser to roll about two inches of towel out, wash my hands, rip off that short bit of towel, use it to dispense some more towel, throw out the first bit, dry my hands on the second portion of towel, turn off the sink with the towel, use said towel to open the door, then throw the towel in the trash. Sound pedantic? I'm actually skipping steps. I should dispense, wash, dispense, dry, dispense, turn off sink, dispense, open door.
So, here's the silly set up in the ladies room at work. There are two sinks. One sink has these lovely, long handles that you turn on and then, gasp, turn off when you're done. We'll call this Good Sink. The other is one of those monstrosities that you push the handle down on and it pops up whenever it damn well feels like it, so you have to keep turning the water on. And if you're OCD like me, that's fucking horrible, because you can't adequately wash your hands when you have to keep touching a dirty sink handle. Good Sink is on the right. Horrible Bacteria Time Loop Disaster in on the right. Next to the paper towel dispenser. So, here's a common scenario. I pop into the washroom to wash my hands, roll down the two inches of towel, start washing my hands. Some nasty, dirty person comes out of the stall, goes to HBTLD, splashes some cold water on her hands, takes my towel, and leaves without rolling more down for me. Or nasty, dirty person comes out, splashes cold water on her hands, then stands directly in front of the paper towel dispenser, poking at her eye makeup with her unclean hands, essentially just rubbing her ass all over the clean bit of towel I have hanging down. Incorrect Behavior. Correct Behavior: Step out of the stall, see somebody washing her hands, with a bit of paper towel hanging down from the dispenser. Common sense dictates that she's going to use that bit of paper towel to dispense more towel in a quasi-sanitary method. The woman in front of you was already washing her hands, so logic dictates she's probably almost done. Stand the fuck back, wait your goddamn turn, and don't touch her stuff. It's already awkward enough that you and this stranger were likely peeing at the same time, four feet apart. Don't impede her hand washing. Or, say she is particularly obsessive-compulsive and is taking five minutes to wash her hands instead of one. Hop onto HBTLD, wash your hands, use the towel, and ADVANCE MORE FUCKING TOWEL.
If you happen to be the person washing your hands whilst somebody is behind you waiting, leave the water running for them. It saves you having to figure out how to touch that disgusting faucet and acknowledges the other person's welcomeness to join in the fun that is handwashing.
Sometimes, people accidentally get some urine on the seat. There is a quite simple solution to this problem. Take a piece of toilet paper, and wipe the seat! When you piss all over the place and don't bother to clean up, you're basically just screaming "I'm disgusting!" And seriously, fuck you, disgusting people. I would hate to step foot in your home if you're so lazy and gross you can't even wipe up something that came out of your body. How fucking dare you suggest that somebody else clean up your bodily fluids? Pig bitch.
Ladies, your period sucks. I've been there; I get it. However, the situation sucking does not make it okay for you not to dispose of crap covered in your blood in an improper fashion. Yes, I'm not a moron. I do know it's not really blood. But I don't want to repeatedly type "Discharged uterine lining" so fucking deal. So, let's go over a list of gross stuff nobody should ever see in a public restroom:
-A tampon on the floor
- A pad that somebody has attempted to flush down the toilet
-A pad on the floor
-A pad/tampon sitting ON TOP of the trash can in the stall
-Blood. Anywhere. Ever.
-A pad/tampon sitting on top of the toilet paper dispenser
-A bloody pad/tampon in the trashcan, but unwrapped and at the top of the trashcan, so there's no possible way to put anything else in it or even change the liner without an extreme likelihood of touching some strange cunt's blood.
The proper response to the unfortunate situation of having to change your feminine hygiene materials in a public restroom are to remove it, wrap it in either toilet paper or a wrapper, and place it in the trashcan. Assuming the trash can has a hinged lid, close the trash can. Then wash your hands.
It's like kindergarten. Pick up after yourself, be considerate of others, and wash your fucking hands.
First off, I think it should be illegal to not wash your hands after using the restroom. I think this should be regarded an act of bioterrorism. Because seriously, what do you call it when someone rubs biohazardous substances with a thin sheet of paper with their bare hands then walks around touching common surfaces, spreading the biohazard all over? Seriously, Mandy Patinkin, get on this shit.
A lot of people realize that things in the loo are disgusting. The paper towel dispenser is not an exception to this. Different people have different tactics for getting their paper towel without resoiling their freshly washed hands. I, for example, use the lever on the dispenser to roll about two inches of towel out, wash my hands, rip off that short bit of towel, use it to dispense some more towel, throw out the first bit, dry my hands on the second portion of towel, turn off the sink with the towel, use said towel to open the door, then throw the towel in the trash. Sound pedantic? I'm actually skipping steps. I should dispense, wash, dispense, dry, dispense, turn off sink, dispense, open door.
So, here's the silly set up in the ladies room at work. There are two sinks. One sink has these lovely, long handles that you turn on and then, gasp, turn off when you're done. We'll call this Good Sink. The other is one of those monstrosities that you push the handle down on and it pops up whenever it damn well feels like it, so you have to keep turning the water on. And if you're OCD like me, that's fucking horrible, because you can't adequately wash your hands when you have to keep touching a dirty sink handle. Good Sink is on the right. Horrible Bacteria Time Loop Disaster in on the right. Next to the paper towel dispenser. So, here's a common scenario. I pop into the washroom to wash my hands, roll down the two inches of towel, start washing my hands. Some nasty, dirty person comes out of the stall, goes to HBTLD, splashes some cold water on her hands, takes my towel, and leaves without rolling more down for me. Or nasty, dirty person comes out, splashes cold water on her hands, then stands directly in front of the paper towel dispenser, poking at her eye makeup with her unclean hands, essentially just rubbing her ass all over the clean bit of towel I have hanging down. Incorrect Behavior. Correct Behavior: Step out of the stall, see somebody washing her hands, with a bit of paper towel hanging down from the dispenser. Common sense dictates that she's going to use that bit of paper towel to dispense more towel in a quasi-sanitary method. The woman in front of you was already washing her hands, so logic dictates she's probably almost done. Stand the fuck back, wait your goddamn turn, and don't touch her stuff. It's already awkward enough that you and this stranger were likely peeing at the same time, four feet apart. Don't impede her hand washing. Or, say she is particularly obsessive-compulsive and is taking five minutes to wash her hands instead of one. Hop onto HBTLD, wash your hands, use the towel, and ADVANCE MORE FUCKING TOWEL.
If you happen to be the person washing your hands whilst somebody is behind you waiting, leave the water running for them. It saves you having to figure out how to touch that disgusting faucet and acknowledges the other person's welcomeness to join in the fun that is handwashing.
Sometimes, people accidentally get some urine on the seat. There is a quite simple solution to this problem. Take a piece of toilet paper, and wipe the seat! When you piss all over the place and don't bother to clean up, you're basically just screaming "I'm disgusting!" And seriously, fuck you, disgusting people. I would hate to step foot in your home if you're so lazy and gross you can't even wipe up something that came out of your body. How fucking dare you suggest that somebody else clean up your bodily fluids? Pig bitch.
Ladies, your period sucks. I've been there; I get it. However, the situation sucking does not make it okay for you not to dispose of crap covered in your blood in an improper fashion. Yes, I'm not a moron. I do know it's not really blood. But I don't want to repeatedly type "Discharged uterine lining" so fucking deal. So, let's go over a list of gross stuff nobody should ever see in a public restroom:
-A tampon on the floor
- A pad that somebody has attempted to flush down the toilet
-A pad on the floor
-A pad/tampon sitting ON TOP of the trash can in the stall
-Blood. Anywhere. Ever.
-A pad/tampon sitting on top of the toilet paper dispenser
-A bloody pad/tampon in the trashcan, but unwrapped and at the top of the trashcan, so there's no possible way to put anything else in it or even change the liner without an extreme likelihood of touching some strange cunt's blood.
The proper response to the unfortunate situation of having to change your feminine hygiene materials in a public restroom are to remove it, wrap it in either toilet paper or a wrapper, and place it in the trashcan. Assuming the trash can has a hinged lid, close the trash can. Then wash your hands.
It's like kindergarten. Pick up after yourself, be considerate of others, and wash your fucking hands.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Some Commercials That Need to Be Punched in the Colon
Fucking commercials. Seriously, fucking commercials.
There's a series of commercials about dental products designed to reduce acid erosion. There's a pretty women with a drinking vessel, usually with a group of people. She's pretty, she's smiling, she's laughing. Then the narrator pops in with something moronic like "Jillian loves soda. But she doesn't know that it contains acid. Blah blah blah. Acid erosion of dentin. Blah blah blah. Protective mouthwash!"
If you don't know that soda contains acid, you don't deserve your fucking teeth. Not saying "Don't drink soda." Soda's awesome. Drink all the soda you want, because I sure as Hell am going to. But seriously. SERIOUSLY. You gotta know that shit contains acid. There's another advert in this series, "Becky loves coffee. But she doesn't know it contains damaging acid." Really?! Really, Captain Obvious Commercial Whore?! Does it contain acid?! Is it slippery? Does it smell like fucking bleach? Hmm, must not be a base! Does it have a neutral PH, no taste, and no smell? Must not be water! Does it produce carbon dioxide when it has MOTHER FUCKING CARBONATION added to it?! BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Acid, bitches!
The other commercial I want to punch in the cunt is a diaper commercial. It's kind of a before and after scenario of a mother with a young child. Part One: First time mother is breast-feeding her new baby in a restaurant. She's hiding in the corner, has a breast-feeding tent, looks all ashamed and nervous. Narrator says something like "You want to do everything right for your baby as a first time parent." Part Two: Same mother has a second baby; the first one is about three. In this scenario, the woman is sitting in the same restaurant, this time at a table in the middle of the dining room. She has her breast pulled out the neck of her shirt and is openly feeding her baby. The waiter comes over, looks surprised by what's going on, but doesn't say anything. Bitch mother snaps her fingers at him, points at her face, and says "Up here." Narrator says, "By the second one, you have things figured out. Live and learn and get our brand of diapers."
Okay, first off, I have nothing against breast feeding. At all. It's awesome that mothers breast feed. I mean, all the biological coolness of it aside, there are so many studies and so much evidence proving how beneficial breast feeding is to your child, developmentally and emotionally. This is a beautiful, natural thing, and there shouldn't be any shame about it, because it's not a shameful thing. I think it is indeed a damn disgrace that women feel they should have to hide in a corner or under a drape or, worst of all, in the restroom, to feed their child. You don't tell the three year old to sit in the corner in the bathroom and eat his grapes or whatever children eat. Babies deserve to eat in a clean environment, too.
My problem with this horrible fucking commercial is what a rude, nasty bitch this woman is. She shouldn't be ashamed of breast-feeding, but it's not out of line for somebody to have a moment of surprise when seeing a breast out. The waiter in the commercial wasn't going "Ewww! Gross!", "That's inappropriate!", or even "Whooooo! Titties!" Just a brief moment of surprise, and apparent contemplation of "Should I stay and ask for her order or should I leave her alone?" And the woman's response to this moment of surprise is to snap her fucking fingers in his face and snap "Up here." "By the second child, you have things figured out." What do you have figured out? How to be disrespectful to waiters? How to be rude in general? How to teach your children that you don't need to be polite to strangers? "It's okay, Johnny, he's just the waiter. You can always snap your fingers in the waiter's face." Hope that baby bites your nipple off, fictional bitch.
There's a series of commercials about dental products designed to reduce acid erosion. There's a pretty women with a drinking vessel, usually with a group of people. She's pretty, she's smiling, she's laughing. Then the narrator pops in with something moronic like "Jillian loves soda. But she doesn't know that it contains acid. Blah blah blah. Acid erosion of dentin. Blah blah blah. Protective mouthwash!"
If you don't know that soda contains acid, you don't deserve your fucking teeth. Not saying "Don't drink soda." Soda's awesome. Drink all the soda you want, because I sure as Hell am going to. But seriously. SERIOUSLY. You gotta know that shit contains acid. There's another advert in this series, "Becky loves coffee. But she doesn't know it contains damaging acid." Really?! Really, Captain Obvious Commercial Whore?! Does it contain acid?! Is it slippery? Does it smell like fucking bleach? Hmm, must not be a base! Does it have a neutral PH, no taste, and no smell? Must not be water! Does it produce carbon dioxide when it has MOTHER FUCKING CARBONATION added to it?! BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Acid, bitches!
The other commercial I want to punch in the cunt is a diaper commercial. It's kind of a before and after scenario of a mother with a young child. Part One: First time mother is breast-feeding her new baby in a restaurant. She's hiding in the corner, has a breast-feeding tent, looks all ashamed and nervous. Narrator says something like "You want to do everything right for your baby as a first time parent." Part Two: Same mother has a second baby; the first one is about three. In this scenario, the woman is sitting in the same restaurant, this time at a table in the middle of the dining room. She has her breast pulled out the neck of her shirt and is openly feeding her baby. The waiter comes over, looks surprised by what's going on, but doesn't say anything. Bitch mother snaps her fingers at him, points at her face, and says "Up here." Narrator says, "By the second one, you have things figured out. Live and learn and get our brand of diapers."
Okay, first off, I have nothing against breast feeding. At all. It's awesome that mothers breast feed. I mean, all the biological coolness of it aside, there are so many studies and so much evidence proving how beneficial breast feeding is to your child, developmentally and emotionally. This is a beautiful, natural thing, and there shouldn't be any shame about it, because it's not a shameful thing. I think it is indeed a damn disgrace that women feel they should have to hide in a corner or under a drape or, worst of all, in the restroom, to feed their child. You don't tell the three year old to sit in the corner in the bathroom and eat his grapes or whatever children eat. Babies deserve to eat in a clean environment, too.
My problem with this horrible fucking commercial is what a rude, nasty bitch this woman is. She shouldn't be ashamed of breast-feeding, but it's not out of line for somebody to have a moment of surprise when seeing a breast out. The waiter in the commercial wasn't going "Ewww! Gross!", "That's inappropriate!", or even "Whooooo! Titties!" Just a brief moment of surprise, and apparent contemplation of "Should I stay and ask for her order or should I leave her alone?" And the woman's response to this moment of surprise is to snap her fucking fingers in his face and snap "Up here." "By the second child, you have things figured out." What do you have figured out? How to be disrespectful to waiters? How to be rude in general? How to teach your children that you don't need to be polite to strangers? "It's okay, Johnny, he's just the waiter. You can always snap your fingers in the waiter's face." Hope that baby bites your nipple off, fictional bitch.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
I Would Have Bit Her in the Face, Too
Several years ago, I worked as a bather in the grooming salon at an inexplicably popular pet supply store. My first day there, the idiot girl training me told me that she will never work on pit bulls. Ever. I asked her why, and she told me that she had been attacked by a pit bull at work. I asked, "Well, what did you do to the dog?" half-joking. Holy shit, did she fuck up.
This girl, who I'll call Megan, was a bather. She took a pit bull into the back to bathe it. As will happen when you tie up a dog and spray water at it, the dog got scared. This dog broke the grooming loop (it's like a short leash that exists for the purpose of keeping the dog tethered to the grooming station), and, being scared, ran and hid under one of the elevated tubs that small dogs are bathed in. This stupid bitch got down on her hands and knees, stuck her face in the dog's face, then grabbed the dog's front legs and pulled it out from under the sink. Of fucking course it bit her. It doesn't have shit to do with what type of dog it was. I would have bit her if I'd been in the dog's place. When she told me this, I literally looked her in the face and said "You're a fucking moron; I want a different trainer."
I hope I don't need to explain to anybody why this was so stupid and why this girl was absolutely, one hundred percent at fault for this dog attacking her. If anybody needs clarification, leave me a note in the comments and I can elaborate. Basically what it boils down to is a small creature was scared, escaped from one form of perceived attack, then was pursued and attacked again and OF COURSE it defended itself.
The cherry on top of the idiot sundae? The moron was off from work on medical leave after she attacked this scared dog (which is fair, I suppose). Not only was she not terminated for attacking this dog and exhibiting overall poor judgment, when she returned from medical leave, she was promoted. The company promoted her because they were afraid she would sue for her own pathetic lack of judgment and stupid actions.
Not related to Megan's particular brand of stupid, but this also infuriates me, so I'll tag it on. One of the managers was believed to be homosexual. He was fired. The overall environment became extremely hostile against me when a good friend - who is flamboyantly gay - popped in to say hello one day. I thought this was just the store I worked at and that the individual store manager was an intolerant, discriminatory asshole. I have since met somebody who worked at another store, several hours away from where I worked. She was fired when it was discovered she was in a romantic relationship with another woman. She successfully sued. They did not reinstate her or promote her to make that lawsuit go away. That type of special treatment was reserved for dumb bitches who assault the dogs in the salon.
I won't name this particular company, but I will say I will not take my dog there for any grooming services. I will not allow them to cut his nails. They will not bathe him. No ear cleaning. No teeth cleaning. We go to PetCo for his nails (I do everything else at home). Shortly after I left that company, I went in to buy my dog a brush while it was on a super sale. The managers were rude to me, in my capacity as a customer. I did not buy the brush and have not purchased anything from that company since.
*EDIT* For some reason, I'm having difficulties replying to comments. So I wanted to address El Zacho's comment and point out that it's a "Simpsons" quote, not a true story. :-)
This girl, who I'll call Megan, was a bather. She took a pit bull into the back to bathe it. As will happen when you tie up a dog and spray water at it, the dog got scared. This dog broke the grooming loop (it's like a short leash that exists for the purpose of keeping the dog tethered to the grooming station), and, being scared, ran and hid under one of the elevated tubs that small dogs are bathed in. This stupid bitch got down on her hands and knees, stuck her face in the dog's face, then grabbed the dog's front legs and pulled it out from under the sink. Of fucking course it bit her. It doesn't have shit to do with what type of dog it was. I would have bit her if I'd been in the dog's place. When she told me this, I literally looked her in the face and said "You're a fucking moron; I want a different trainer."
I hope I don't need to explain to anybody why this was so stupid and why this girl was absolutely, one hundred percent at fault for this dog attacking her. If anybody needs clarification, leave me a note in the comments and I can elaborate. Basically what it boils down to is a small creature was scared, escaped from one form of perceived attack, then was pursued and attacked again and OF COURSE it defended itself.
The cherry on top of the idiot sundae? The moron was off from work on medical leave after she attacked this scared dog (which is fair, I suppose). Not only was she not terminated for attacking this dog and exhibiting overall poor judgment, when she returned from medical leave, she was promoted. The company promoted her because they were afraid she would sue for her own pathetic lack of judgment and stupid actions.
Not related to Megan's particular brand of stupid, but this also infuriates me, so I'll tag it on. One of the managers was believed to be homosexual. He was fired. The overall environment became extremely hostile against me when a good friend - who is flamboyantly gay - popped in to say hello one day. I thought this was just the store I worked at and that the individual store manager was an intolerant, discriminatory asshole. I have since met somebody who worked at another store, several hours away from where I worked. She was fired when it was discovered she was in a romantic relationship with another woman. She successfully sued. They did not reinstate her or promote her to make that lawsuit go away. That type of special treatment was reserved for dumb bitches who assault the dogs in the salon.
I won't name this particular company, but I will say I will not take my dog there for any grooming services. I will not allow them to cut his nails. They will not bathe him. No ear cleaning. No teeth cleaning. We go to PetCo for his nails (I do everything else at home). Shortly after I left that company, I went in to buy my dog a brush while it was on a super sale. The managers were rude to me, in my capacity as a customer. I did not buy the brush and have not purchased anything from that company since.
*EDIT* For some reason, I'm having difficulties replying to comments. So I wanted to address El Zacho's comment and point out that it's a "Simpsons" quote, not a true story. :-)
Thanks for Your Commentary on my Weight, Random Stranger. Bitch.
I needed help moving my old couch down three flights of stairs yesterday, so I bribed a friend with a homemade lasagne. This resulted in a hectic trip to the grocery store to purchase the items needed for a homemade lasagne. This is a 24 hour store, so I usually manage to avoid the busy hours and go around midnight. However, last minute need for lasagne items meant pre-evening trip to the grocery store.
So, I'm walking my fat ass around the grocery store, gathering the necessities for lasagne. In the pasta aisle, a woman approaches me and asks "Can I interest in a coupon for a free weight-loss smoothie?"
Now, I'm not as off-the-wall, screamy and aggressive as this blog may make me seem. So all I said was, "No, thanks, I'm good." But I was so mad about it, I honestly was hoping she would ask me again so I could feel justified in screaming at her. Some of the thoughts that went through my head are as follows:
Yeah, bitch, that's why I'm purchasing carbs and milk fat. Cause I want to lose weight. Clearly my concern with my weight is showing and I am obviously your key demographic.
Oh, I see you have A cup breasts. Can I interest you in a coupon for a push-up bra? You know, your ears stick out quite a bit. One of my co-workers is married to a plastic surgeon. Would you like his card? No? What? Is this rude? Is it rude of me to tell a stranger "There are things about your body that I personally find less than desirable; you should go change them"?
Or maybe just a solid "Wow, it's really rude for you to approach me with your stupid shit while I'm shopping. If I was interested in your bullshit rip-off products, I would do a Google search and find your company on my own. But thank you for judging me. You're sure to not alienate people by deliberately offending them. Piss off."
Or possibly just a silent face slap.
So, I'm walking my fat ass around the grocery store, gathering the necessities for lasagne. In the pasta aisle, a woman approaches me and asks "Can I interest in a coupon for a free weight-loss smoothie?"
Now, I'm not as off-the-wall, screamy and aggressive as this blog may make me seem. So all I said was, "No, thanks, I'm good." But I was so mad about it, I honestly was hoping she would ask me again so I could feel justified in screaming at her. Some of the thoughts that went through my head are as follows:
Yeah, bitch, that's why I'm purchasing carbs and milk fat. Cause I want to lose weight. Clearly my concern with my weight is showing and I am obviously your key demographic.
Oh, I see you have A cup breasts. Can I interest you in a coupon for a push-up bra? You know, your ears stick out quite a bit. One of my co-workers is married to a plastic surgeon. Would you like his card? No? What? Is this rude? Is it rude of me to tell a stranger "There are things about your body that I personally find less than desirable; you should go change them"?
Or maybe just a solid "Wow, it's really rude for you to approach me with your stupid shit while I'm shopping. If I was interested in your bullshit rip-off products, I would do a Google search and find your company on my own. But thank you for judging me. You're sure to not alienate people by deliberately offending them. Piss off."
Or possibly just a silent face slap.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
BUT YOU WORK HERE!!
So, this asshole walks into the store today. "How do I use your store's mobile app?"
"Let's look at it together."
"No! Just tell me what to do!"
"I don't know the app terribly well. I need to look at it as we go."
"But you work here! What do you mean you don't know the app?!"
"I work in a store, not in web development. I don't have an iPhone. If the store provided me with one, maybe I'd know the app. However, it's a different part of the company, and I'm actually not obligated to know it. I will gladly look at it with you, though."
"But you work here!"
"Where do you work?"
"I'm a receptionist at Blargity Blar Orthopedic Office."
"Oh, cool! So you know how to do custom fittings for prosthetic limbs?"
"No! God, you need to listen! I'm a receptionist! The doctors do the fittings."
"Oh. So you work for a company but don't know the details of things that aren't your department? That's weird. Why don't you know how to do everything?"
"I don't have the training to do fittings!"
"And I'm not an app developer. Would you like to figure it out together?"
The point of this, kids? Don't be that asshole who yells at somebody for not knowing every stupid detail of a company, especially when it comes to something like somebody in the store not knowing shit about the website, which is almost always a completely separate part of the company.
"Let's look at it together."
"No! Just tell me what to do!"
"I don't know the app terribly well. I need to look at it as we go."
"But you work here! What do you mean you don't know the app?!"
"I work in a store, not in web development. I don't have an iPhone. If the store provided me with one, maybe I'd know the app. However, it's a different part of the company, and I'm actually not obligated to know it. I will gladly look at it with you, though."
"But you work here!"
"Where do you work?"
"I'm a receptionist at Blargity Blar Orthopedic Office."
"Oh, cool! So you know how to do custom fittings for prosthetic limbs?"
"No! God, you need to listen! I'm a receptionist! The doctors do the fittings."
"Oh. So you work for a company but don't know the details of things that aren't your department? That's weird. Why don't you know how to do everything?"
"I don't have the training to do fittings!"
"And I'm not an app developer. Would you like to figure it out together?"
The point of this, kids? Don't be that asshole who yells at somebody for not knowing every stupid detail of a company, especially when it comes to something like somebody in the store not knowing shit about the website, which is almost always a completely separate part of the company.
How to Walk Your Dog Without Being an Asshole
This should come as a surprise to nobody: I like dogs. Okay, that's underselling. I really, really like dogs. Dogs are the best thing in the world (don't tell my cat!). Yay, dogs! I am particularly fond of big dogs, but I have nothing against little dogs. I was looking for a Jack Russel at one point...and wound up adopting a St. Bernard mix. Ten times the size is ten times the fun!
I take my giant dog for walks on a regular basis, LIKE ONE SHOULD. He loves it and I love it. My giant dog isn't really aware of how big he is. He is kind of scared of big dogs and he loves cats and small dogs. The cutest thing in the world is watching my dog play with my mother's next door neighbor's shih tzu. So, we'll go for a walk in my neighborhood when I get home from work and ultimately, we'll pass somebody walking a small dog (4 out of 5 times in my neighborhood, this is a young woman, so I will be using a generic "she" for the small dog walker. Men with small dogs, please don't take offense. A man with a dog is sexy, regardless of...well, anything. Men with dogs are always great). My dog sees this little dog and gets excited. His tail starting wagging hard, he gets a little panty, he starts sniffing the air, and he starts pulling, because he wants to go make a friend. Unless the Little Dog Woman says something like, "Oh, he looks sweet" or "Aw, look who wants to be friends!" I take my dog across the street. I know he's sweet, I know he wants to make friends, but he's also about 115 pounds and I can see where this could be absolutely terrifying to somebody with a 10 pound dog. So out of respect and decency, I take my dog across the street so as not to scare/upset Little Dog Woman or the little dog. My dog doesn't understand this. He gets upset and still wants to go back across the street and make friends with the little dog. Because Little Dog Woman is standing there, texting or lighting a cigarette or picking her ass or doing anything other than keeping her dog moving. I have a responsibility to move my dog and not allow him to be intimidating, but Little Dog Woman has a responsibility to keep moving and not stand there teasing my dog.
I feel like there's not much else I need to say about this, so I'll just recap. If you're walking your dog and see a dog you don't want to play with, KEEP MOVING. Oh, the other dog crossed the street? KEEP MOVING.
I take my giant dog for walks on a regular basis, LIKE ONE SHOULD. He loves it and I love it. My giant dog isn't really aware of how big he is. He is kind of scared of big dogs and he loves cats and small dogs. The cutest thing in the world is watching my dog play with my mother's next door neighbor's shih tzu. So, we'll go for a walk in my neighborhood when I get home from work and ultimately, we'll pass somebody walking a small dog (4 out of 5 times in my neighborhood, this is a young woman, so I will be using a generic "she" for the small dog walker. Men with small dogs, please don't take offense. A man with a dog is sexy, regardless of...well, anything. Men with dogs are always great). My dog sees this little dog and gets excited. His tail starting wagging hard, he gets a little panty, he starts sniffing the air, and he starts pulling, because he wants to go make a friend. Unless the Little Dog Woman says something like, "Oh, he looks sweet" or "Aw, look who wants to be friends!" I take my dog across the street. I know he's sweet, I know he wants to make friends, but he's also about 115 pounds and I can see where this could be absolutely terrifying to somebody with a 10 pound dog. So out of respect and decency, I take my dog across the street so as not to scare/upset Little Dog Woman or the little dog. My dog doesn't understand this. He gets upset and still wants to go back across the street and make friends with the little dog. Because Little Dog Woman is standing there, texting or lighting a cigarette or picking her ass or doing anything other than keeping her dog moving. I have a responsibility to move my dog and not allow him to be intimidating, but Little Dog Woman has a responsibility to keep moving and not stand there teasing my dog.
I feel like there's not much else I need to say about this, so I'll just recap. If you're walking your dog and see a dog you don't want to play with, KEEP MOVING. Oh, the other dog crossed the street? KEEP MOVING.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Terminable Offense? I Don't Care!
I once had a job that involved working in an area with lots of caustic and toxic chemicals. Through various federal regulations regarding health and safety, it is a violation to have consumables in the area where we used these chemicals. The area is pretty clearly defined. Most of the store has off-white floor tiling. The "No Consumables Beyond This Point" area has black flooring. Shall I break this down further? Don't take anything meant to be put in your mouth onto the black flooring. No drinks, no food. Simple, yes? This means we cannot take consumable merchandise over that threshold, nor can we take personal food or beverage over that threshold.
I had been finding drinks back in the No-Food-or-Drinks area on occasion. Mistakes get made, so I just mentioned it to the folks in my department. "Hey, I don't think it's anybody in the department" (even though I fucking know it is) "but don't let anybody take their stuff back here."
So, one day, my relief, who we'll call Andrew, came strolling in, a few minutes late, with an iced coffee. Now, I'm a caffeine addict. I like drinking things. And I don't like wasting money. So I would never tell somebody "Hey, throw out that delicious-looking beverage that you clearly just spent a nice little chunk of money on. No caffeine for you today." If somebody tucked a drink under their register, I would, and still do, turn a blind eye (assuming it's not alcoholic, of course). But I'm not going to ignore and allow things to happen that can levy a $25K fine. Oh, yes, folks, you read that right. Twenty-five thousand dollars for taking food or beverage into this area. So I said, "Hey, Andrew, don't take that back there."
"Whatever." And kept going.
"No, seriously. That's a huge OSHA violation. I don't care at all if you leave it by this register, but please don't take it back there."
"Meh."
"Seriously. If the health inspector were to walk in and see that, it would be a $25K fine. And as your friend, I'm telling you that I don't think our boss would let somebody keep their job after earning the store that type of fine. Or being found risking that type of fine."
"Yeah...I don't care."
So, you just flat-out told your supervisor you don't care if you violate health and safety policies, earn the store enormous fines, and/or get fired? Fucking seriously? Currently, I've been working a second job that I don't give half a shit about, while caring a lot about my current job. But I have also been seeking a better second job and recently found out that I am indeed being promoted. So I am successfully escaping from that job. I successfully escaped from the job I was working at during this story. As far as I know, this kid had not been searching for other jobs. And he's a kid. I have enough work history and enough good references that I could afford being fired one time. I was fired last summer. Less than a year later, I'm being promoted in my new job. He didn't have the history to be able to afford to get fired. He had had one job in the past, which he left on bad terms. He's not going to get any positive references from this job because his attitude was garbage. So let me put it this way: When you have no fucking prospects and are not eligible for unemployment, maybe you should care if you get fired.
Also, asshole, this isn't just a matter of you not doing your job, which you don't, and if it were my decision, your ass would be fired for that alone. You're putting the store in violation of federal policy. You are doing things that could get the store shut down. You don't care if you work? You don't care if you ruin any chance you have of working again? You want your girlfriend to support you forever? Fine. It's your choice to be a worthless piece of shit. But you're *way* out of line doing things that can cause everybody you work with to lose their jobs. Yeah, people make mistakes. I can see "Oh, no, I didn't know that was a huge fine. Let me move this drink." But no. "I don't care if I get fired and take everyone down with me."
And yes, kids, the end of this is that I talked to *my* supervisor. And yeah, it was a write-up. And no, I don't feel bad about it.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Fat Shaming, Part Two!
How fucking sad is it that this has a Part Two?
Just to recap, in case there are any new readers, Hi, I'm Roz, and I have a bit of extra girth. Quite a bit of extra girth. Yes, kids, I'm a fatty. And I'm so very cool with it. I do not feel limited in my activities or my movements, just in what clothes I can wear. I do not have weight-related health problems. I have a tremendous sex life. And I'm cute as Hell.
Yet, I frequently deal with stupid people and their fat-shaming. As you all may know from previous entries, I am required to suggestive sell junk food as a part of my job. I frequently get in response to this "Oh, no I'm watching my weight" or "That's really bad for you," while the customer glares at me. Really? Then I'll pretend I don't see your cart full of beer, cigarettes, and all of that cat food made by that company that refuses to do quality inspections and is well known for poisoning animals yet somehow damn near has a monopoly on pet food, oh, wait, it's because of assholes like you who think my weight (my choice) is a problem but don't care enough about the living creatures you're responsible for to make sure you're not poisoning them (not their choice). Yeah, how's that for a rant?!
The story that I meant to tell, however, is one that some of you may have heard already.
I was recently at the store where I work, and happened be showing somebody an old photo. A coworker, who we'll call Gita, walked by and saw this old photo of me from high school, posing with my sister. Now, in high school, I was a size six (still had some awesome hips, though). My non-American readers, this is what is frequently presented as the ideal size for a woman. Not the practical, most common, or realistic size. That's a twelve, which is really only 3 sizes larger (8, 10, 12). American sizes are stupid. I look at photos of me in high school and I think I looked kind of gross. You could see my individual ribs. I don't mean you could see my ribcage when I was topless. I mean, wearing a low cut shirt, you could count my ribs from my clavicle down. My bra size was 34B. I found an old bra the other day and laughed for about twenty minutes. Today, I don't look like a walking skeleton. I'm not going to share my dress size, but my bra size is 40DDD. So, notable difference. Gita looks at this photo of my sister and me, and asks "Is that you?" "Yep, about ten years ago." I'm not at all exaggerating about this. Her exact words were "What happened? That much of a difference in just ten years?!" and shook her head.
Why in the Hell would anybody think that okay to say to me? Why would anybody think that's okay to say to anybody?!
So, I bitched on Facebook about this, without mentioning Gita's name, just saying "a co-worker." I work two jobs, so I figured nobody would really be completely sure of who I meant. The next day, my workmate, let's call him Shawn, greeted me with, "So, I came into work today, and I saw Gita. And I asked her 'What happened to your face?' She got confused and went to look in the mirror, then I just smashed her face into the mirror. And I said 'What happened to your face? That much of a difference in just ten seconds?!' " Obviously, this didn't actually happen, but damn, did I get a laugh out of it. The kicker is, folks, that Gita's pretty chunky herself (I still think she's very pretty though).
Fat shaming: It gets dumber every day.
Just to recap, in case there are any new readers, Hi, I'm Roz, and I have a bit of extra girth. Quite a bit of extra girth. Yes, kids, I'm a fatty. And I'm so very cool with it. I do not feel limited in my activities or my movements, just in what clothes I can wear. I do not have weight-related health problems. I have a tremendous sex life. And I'm cute as Hell.
Yet, I frequently deal with stupid people and their fat-shaming. As you all may know from previous entries, I am required to suggestive sell junk food as a part of my job. I frequently get in response to this "Oh, no I'm watching my weight" or "That's really bad for you," while the customer glares at me. Really? Then I'll pretend I don't see your cart full of beer, cigarettes, and all of that cat food made by that company that refuses to do quality inspections and is well known for poisoning animals yet somehow damn near has a monopoly on pet food, oh, wait, it's because of assholes like you who think my weight (my choice) is a problem but don't care enough about the living creatures you're responsible for to make sure you're not poisoning them (not their choice). Yeah, how's that for a rant?!
The story that I meant to tell, however, is one that some of you may have heard already.
I was recently at the store where I work, and happened be showing somebody an old photo. A coworker, who we'll call Gita, walked by and saw this old photo of me from high school, posing with my sister. Now, in high school, I was a size six (still had some awesome hips, though). My non-American readers, this is what is frequently presented as the ideal size for a woman. Not the practical, most common, or realistic size. That's a twelve, which is really only 3 sizes larger (8, 10, 12). American sizes are stupid. I look at photos of me in high school and I think I looked kind of gross. You could see my individual ribs. I don't mean you could see my ribcage when I was topless. I mean, wearing a low cut shirt, you could count my ribs from my clavicle down. My bra size was 34B. I found an old bra the other day and laughed for about twenty minutes. Today, I don't look like a walking skeleton. I'm not going to share my dress size, but my bra size is 40DDD. So, notable difference. Gita looks at this photo of my sister and me, and asks "Is that you?" "Yep, about ten years ago." I'm not at all exaggerating about this. Her exact words were "What happened? That much of a difference in just ten years?!" and shook her head.
Why in the Hell would anybody think that okay to say to me? Why would anybody think that's okay to say to anybody?!
So, I bitched on Facebook about this, without mentioning Gita's name, just saying "a co-worker." I work two jobs, so I figured nobody would really be completely sure of who I meant. The next day, my workmate, let's call him Shawn, greeted me with, "So, I came into work today, and I saw Gita. And I asked her 'What happened to your face?' She got confused and went to look in the mirror, then I just smashed her face into the mirror. And I said 'What happened to your face? That much of a difference in just ten seconds?!' " Obviously, this didn't actually happen, but damn, did I get a laugh out of it. The kicker is, folks, that Gita's pretty chunky herself (I still think she's very pretty though).
Fat shaming: It gets dumber every day.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
The Responsibility of All People
I live in an apartment building. Based on other buildings I've lived in and/or visited, I'd say it's a pretty normal set up. Multiple floors, four units on each floor. So, on the top floor, each unit has a unit next door and a unit below, then a unit across the hall and one kitty-corner. Like I said, pretty normal.
My neighbor across the hall, who we'll call Garrett, likes to beat his girlfriend, who I'll call Lori. And Lori is a screamer. A very loud, very obvious screamer. I'm not shaming Lori for screaming when her boyfriend beats her. I'm merely pointing out that she is loud and it's very apparent when she's being beaten.
It's not uncommon for me to come home around midnight, and hear Lori screaming. From the entrance. I live on the top floor. As I climb the stairs, Lori's screaming becomes more coherent. "No! Stop! Don't! Please don't hit me!"
Yep. From two floors down, I can hear my neighbor screaming "Please don't hit me!" I usually can't hear the blows landing until I reach at least the second floor. By the time I reach the floor they and I live on, I'm debating if I should break the door down and pound this asshole myself or just call the police. So I go into my apartment, lock the door, and call the police. The police usually show up pretty quickly. Lori is usually still screaming when I buzz the police into the building.
By now, I figure you're all expecting a rant about this dick hole who beats his girlfriend. That's not what's going to happen. I trust you all know why it's not okay to beat your partner. The rant that's about to happen is about the other neighbors in the building. Specifically the neighbors who share common walls (or ceiling/floor in one case). If I can hear this shit from across the hall, you know the downstairs neighbors hear what's going on. You know the next-door neighbor hears what's happening. There's no way in Hell I'm the only person in the building who hears Lori screaming "Don't hit me!" followed by the sound of Garrett hitting her. Yet I'm the only person who has ever called the police.
It's so very rare that I'll bust out religion in any way, especially since I don't practice any religion, but here it comes. The Talmud states that it is the responsibility of all Jewish people to take care of all other Jewish people. My personal philosophy is to remove the word "Jewish" from that sentence. I know, I rage about silly things a lot. Mostly it's for the sake of humor. But if you look closely, most of my raging is about people mistreating other people (that and grammar. And maybe a little bit about Michael Buble, but I readily admit my contempt for him is unfounded and that he seems lovely in interviews). So, let's make that edit.
That's it. That's all everyone needs to know about social interaction. So if you hear your neighbor in a dangerous situation, DO SOMETHING! You don't need to charge over there with a baseball bat and physically defend her, but call the police. I can't force Lori to leave Garrett. The police can't force Lori to leave Garrett (though they can press charges on her behalf in my state). But every time I hear him beating her, I'm calling the police so that she has documentation if she ever does decide to leave and press charges. And when the people who in one way or another witness this abuse, how could she possibly feel safe leaving? Nothing says "Nobody will support you" like NOBODY SUPPORTING YOU! Refusal to report abuse is tantamount to saying "You're not worth defending." I find it tremendously upsetting that my other neighbors are okay with ignoring what goes on. Lori is a human being. No human being, no living creature, deserves that. Nobody deserves to be beaten, at all, ever, but sure as Hell not in their own home.
A few more anecdotes about people not giving a fuck about those around them.
I heard a commotion outside a few weeks ago. I got up, went to the window, and saw several fire trucks pulling into the apartment complex, to the building across the lot from mine. I stayed upstairs and out of the way until I saw the firefighters coming back outside and kind of milling around the parking lot. With the crisis under control, I ran downstairs and to the nearest slack-jawed gawker. "What's going on? Do you know if everyone's all right?"
"There's a fire."
"Yeah, I figured that much, given there are five fire trucks. Is everyone all right?"
"It's in that building."
"Yeah, dude, I have eyes. IS EVERYONE ALL RIGHT?!"
"Oh, I don't know. I didn't ask that."
Repeat with three more bystanders. Okay, at this point, we're not looking at "Ooh, somewhere down the road, Garrett might end up killing Lori. Let's make sure her body doesn't end up in the dumpster." We're looking at "Oh, Hell, somebody we know could be dead right now." Having the information wouldn't change anything. But if our neighbor had passed away, we could be helping her family. I finally found out after talking to the rental office that the fire occurred in the kitchen of an elderly woman and was started by improper use of her microwave and that she was fine.
Another example. My mother is terrified of snakes. Like seriously terrified. I lived about 25 minutes away from her when I received a 2 a.m. phone call of just incoherent screaming. Not even knowing what was wrong, my then boyfriend and I ran out the door and drove over to my mother's. When we pulled into the driveway and opened the car doors, we could hear my mother screaming, and heard the words, "No! No! No, Molly! Molly! Molly, no!" Molly is my mother's cat. We ran into the house and found my mother standing in the door to the bathroom screaming. Then we saw the small snake in her bathroom (the cat had tried to go into the bathroom, and my mother had been screaming to stop her from getting near the snake). I grabbed my mother and led her outside while my then-boyfriend grabbed the tiny snake and took it outside and far, far away from my mother's house. In the driveway, my mother continued to panic and scream, insisting Tom kill the snake. None of the neighbors called the police, or even bothered to look outside. True, most of them were likely asleep when this incident started, but there is no way she didn't wake up somebody. I definitely feel more strongly about this than I do about other incidents of unconcerned neighbors because, y'know, it's my mom. But seriously? Your neighbor's outside screaming for at least thirty minutes and you do NOTHING? NOTHING?! At least be narcissistic enough to be concerned for your own safety and call the police to say "My neighbor is screaming like she's being murdered. Can somebody go check and make sure we're all safe?"
It is the responsibility of all people to take care of all other people. All the time. Any time. Not just when it benefits you to do so.
My neighbor across the hall, who we'll call Garrett, likes to beat his girlfriend, who I'll call Lori. And Lori is a screamer. A very loud, very obvious screamer. I'm not shaming Lori for screaming when her boyfriend beats her. I'm merely pointing out that she is loud and it's very apparent when she's being beaten.
It's not uncommon for me to come home around midnight, and hear Lori screaming. From the entrance. I live on the top floor. As I climb the stairs, Lori's screaming becomes more coherent. "No! Stop! Don't! Please don't hit me!"
Yep. From two floors down, I can hear my neighbor screaming "Please don't hit me!" I usually can't hear the blows landing until I reach at least the second floor. By the time I reach the floor they and I live on, I'm debating if I should break the door down and pound this asshole myself or just call the police. So I go into my apartment, lock the door, and call the police. The police usually show up pretty quickly. Lori is usually still screaming when I buzz the police into the building.
By now, I figure you're all expecting a rant about this dick hole who beats his girlfriend. That's not what's going to happen. I trust you all know why it's not okay to beat your partner. The rant that's about to happen is about the other neighbors in the building. Specifically the neighbors who share common walls (or ceiling/floor in one case). If I can hear this shit from across the hall, you know the downstairs neighbors hear what's going on. You know the next-door neighbor hears what's happening. There's no way in Hell I'm the only person in the building who hears Lori screaming "Don't hit me!" followed by the sound of Garrett hitting her. Yet I'm the only person who has ever called the police.
It's so very rare that I'll bust out religion in any way, especially since I don't practice any religion, but here it comes. The Talmud states that it is the responsibility of all Jewish people to take care of all other Jewish people. My personal philosophy is to remove the word "Jewish" from that sentence. I know, I rage about silly things a lot. Mostly it's for the sake of humor. But if you look closely, most of my raging is about people mistreating other people (that and grammar. And maybe a little bit about Michael Buble, but I readily admit my contempt for him is unfounded and that he seems lovely in interviews). So, let's make that edit.
IT IS THE RESPONSIBILITY OF ALL PEOPLE TO TAKE CARE OF ALL OTHER PEOPLE.
A few more anecdotes about people not giving a fuck about those around them.
I heard a commotion outside a few weeks ago. I got up, went to the window, and saw several fire trucks pulling into the apartment complex, to the building across the lot from mine. I stayed upstairs and out of the way until I saw the firefighters coming back outside and kind of milling around the parking lot. With the crisis under control, I ran downstairs and to the nearest slack-jawed gawker. "What's going on? Do you know if everyone's all right?"
"There's a fire."
"Yeah, I figured that much, given there are five fire trucks. Is everyone all right?"
"It's in that building."
"Yeah, dude, I have eyes. IS EVERYONE ALL RIGHT?!"
"Oh, I don't know. I didn't ask that."
Repeat with three more bystanders. Okay, at this point, we're not looking at "Ooh, somewhere down the road, Garrett might end up killing Lori. Let's make sure her body doesn't end up in the dumpster." We're looking at "Oh, Hell, somebody we know could be dead right now." Having the information wouldn't change anything. But if our neighbor had passed away, we could be helping her family. I finally found out after talking to the rental office that the fire occurred in the kitchen of an elderly woman and was started by improper use of her microwave and that she was fine.
Another example. My mother is terrified of snakes. Like seriously terrified. I lived about 25 minutes away from her when I received a 2 a.m. phone call of just incoherent screaming. Not even knowing what was wrong, my then boyfriend and I ran out the door and drove over to my mother's. When we pulled into the driveway and opened the car doors, we could hear my mother screaming, and heard the words, "No! No! No, Molly! Molly! Molly, no!" Molly is my mother's cat. We ran into the house and found my mother standing in the door to the bathroom screaming. Then we saw the small snake in her bathroom (the cat had tried to go into the bathroom, and my mother had been screaming to stop her from getting near the snake). I grabbed my mother and led her outside while my then-boyfriend grabbed the tiny snake and took it outside and far, far away from my mother's house. In the driveway, my mother continued to panic and scream, insisting Tom kill the snake. None of the neighbors called the police, or even bothered to look outside. True, most of them were likely asleep when this incident started, but there is no way she didn't wake up somebody. I definitely feel more strongly about this than I do about other incidents of unconcerned neighbors because, y'know, it's my mom. But seriously? Your neighbor's outside screaming for at least thirty minutes and you do NOTHING? NOTHING?! At least be narcissistic enough to be concerned for your own safety and call the police to say "My neighbor is screaming like she's being murdered. Can somebody go check and make sure we're all safe?"
It is the responsibility of all people to take care of all other people. All the time. Any time. Not just when it benefits you to do so.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
The Saga of Gulp-N-Blow
Heads up, folks. This one probably isn't going to be super funny. I understand if you bail now.
So, I currently have two jobs. I really like one of those jobs (which I'm just going to call DrugStore USA). DrugStore USA's is a really good company to work for. They treat their employees very well, they care about their customers, my insurance is amazeballs, I love my co-workers, there's a lot of opportunity for career growth, blah blah blah, I really like it there. Unfortunately, I can't quite survive on my current hourly wage. So I work a second job, as a keyholder for a women's specialty clothing shop. In an outlet mall. As I grow more and more disgruntled, I call this company more and more ridiculous names. It has a three syllable name, which is lends itself to mockery quite well. In the past three months, I've gone from calling it its actual name, to an identifiable variant with "barf" replacing one syllable, to Barf-N-Blah, to Herp-N-Derp, and finally Gulp-N-Blow. I am extremely mature and this is perfectly reasonable behavior for somebody about to hit 30.
Oh, man, where to start with how ridiculous this place is? I'm going to just start by telling about the exit of my former boss, who I'll call Marie. Marie was always a little spacey and difficult to talk to, but around November she started getting a lot worse. By Black Friday, she was completely bonkers. She was showing up to work hours late for her shifts. I normally close at DrugStore USA, so I was opening at Gulp-N-Blow a few days a week. Marie would show up late with such frequency that she was making me late to DrugStore USA. Again, I love DrugStore USA and am not willing to risk my job there for a shitty part-time job with no advancement opportunities, so I quit. Then I promptly panicked about bills, called Marie, and told her I'd stay on the condition that I only worked Wednesday mornings (Wednesday being my regularly scheduled day off at DrugStore USA). It worked out well, because the other keyholder is in school all day Wednesdays and we needed somebody to open on Wednesdays. So yea! With this arrangement, my cable bill's paid, plus it's some extra money for groceries!
So Marie kept getting crazier. It came to a head on a Saturday night in February. Marie went out for a cigarette around 3:00, leaving two associates in the store alone (this itself is a violation of company policy and common sense - there should always be a member of management staff in the store). She just didn't bother to come back. The associates ran out of small bills and couldn't access the safe to get change, so they began turning away customers who could only pay in non-exact cash. They took turns calling Marie's cell phone, to no avail. Six hours after Marie left for a cigarette, it was time for the store to close, so the associates locked the door from the inside and left. They were unable to make a deposit because they weren't trained and didn't have access codes to complete end of day functions in the computer. The next day, the keyholders decided it was time to notify the district manager. Now, the districts for the company are insane, and the district manager was based over 800 miles away. So the district manager, who I'll call Jenna, hopped on plane and arrived at my store Monday morning to terminate Marie. Marie showed up three hours late, stoned off her ass. Couldn't hold her head up, couldn't speak in complete sentences, was just completely incoherent. So Jenna sent her home and told her to come back on Tuesday morning so they could finish their conversation. Marie never returned. Never signed her termination papers, never turned in her keys, nothing. And because this is a terrible joke of a company, the locks weren't changed and the safe code wasn't changed. So brilliant.
Our assistant manager, Renee, has been out on medical leave since November. So a 19 year old keyholder was acting as de facto manager until corporate started sending visiting managers out. Having management experience, I applied for the store manager job, as did the 19 year old, who I'll call Katy. We had two co-managers (Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Bitch) fly out from the other side of the country to conduct the search for our new manager. They rushed through my interview, wouldn't allow me to answer questions, and kept talking through the interview about how they were going to go a large department store and all of the things they wanted to get. Katy's interview was scheduled shortly after mine. They just completely forgot about her interview. The next day, I went in to Gulp N Blow before work at DrugStore USA, because we were short staffed and I was helping out. I was supposed to work 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. so I could get to my real job that I care about. 10 a.m., Tweedle Dumb called to say she and Tweedle Bitch were running a little late (yep, already an hour late). The two of them came flouncing in at 12:30p.m. with a bunch of shopping bags from stores in the mall. That night, I e-mailed the regional manager and withdrew my name from consideration for the store manager position. It was obvious to me that this ridiculous crap was deemed acceptable in this company's corporate culture, and I want nothing more to do with this company.
While Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Bitch were in town, I badly injured my ankle. I called off from work the day after they decided to show up three and a half hours late so I could go to urgent care and get my ankle X-Rayed. When I returned a few days later with my note to be off from work for a week, Tweedle Bitch said she had called me several times over the recent days. I did, indeed, receive a call from her the day before, but no others. So I said "I never received the other calls." To which she nastily said "Well, we have voicemail confirmations, so obviously you did." Seriously? Seriously, Bitch? Did you just accuse me of lying? About something as stupid as a voicemail? A) I don't fucking lie. B) Yeah, that's the way to treat your employees. It's a proven fact that being extremely disrespectful and calling your employees liars is the best way to achieve productivity. Oh, wait. Sorry, had that wrong. The exact opposite of that.
So, new manager comes in (we'll call her Andrea). She keeps asking me about my availability, which I'm holding firm on. I can work 9 to 5 on Wednesdays through Memorial Day, and then I'm not sure what will happen, because Wednesdays will become mandatory for me at DrugStore USA. This was not a condition of my being hired, but it was a condition of me not quitting six months ago. I've been stating to this company for six months that I am available Wednesday mornings until Memorial Day. Fucking period. This has stopped now, but for a while Andrea was calling me every day "What's your availability this week?" Same as it has been. Pay the Hell attention. So I'll go to work and there will be piles of clothes in various places in the store. Boxes torn open and half emptied. Rolling racks with tons of merchandise on them. And absolutely no notes or attempts at explanation as to what the Hell this stuff is there for. Oh, there's clothes on a rolling rack? Are these being marked down? Back stocked? Just put out on the floor? Set on fire? So I find things to do throughout the day, trying not to mess up the unexplained projects that were left in progress. Basically, what I'm getting at is that the store manager is making absolutely no attempt at communicating with me, despite my requests for her to do so.
Now Katy, the other keyholder, is on break from school, so she has totally open availability. Andrea is scheduling Katy to open on Wednesdays. So I didn't work at all last week and I'm not on the schedule for this week. Trust me, I don't want to be there, but I do want to not starve to death.
Basically, it's obvious to me they don't want me there. Cool. I don't want to be there either.
I'm about to get promoted at DrugStore USA. That promotion will come with a 45% raise. So obviously I'll be quitting Gulp-N-Blow the minute it's official and I have it in writing that the promotion is actually happening. We expect that info to be made official this week. So here's my thing. I don't think I need to give notice. I haven't been scheduled for two weeks, so obviously, Gulp-N-Blow can function without me just fine. They clearly don't want me there. They've shown no respect for me, and I really have no desire to show respect for them. I'm about to be promoted at the company I intend to retire from. I have a lot of really good references from DrugStore USA and from past employers, so I don't need Gulp-N-Blow as a reference. With as unprofessional and rude as they are, I don't even want them as reference. I think if I offered two weeks' notice, Andrea would just refuse and tell me to be done. And I don't really want that particular slap in the face. I think I'd rather just turn in my keys and announce that I won't be coming back, then insist on having a photocopy of the key log for proof that I turned my keys back in (Yeah, there's no trust here). So, folks, what are your thoughts? Give notice? Don't give notice? Sell the keys on eBay?
So, I currently have two jobs. I really like one of those jobs (which I'm just going to call DrugStore USA). DrugStore USA's is a really good company to work for. They treat their employees very well, they care about their customers, my insurance is amazeballs, I love my co-workers, there's a lot of opportunity for career growth, blah blah blah, I really like it there. Unfortunately, I can't quite survive on my current hourly wage. So I work a second job, as a keyholder for a women's specialty clothing shop. In an outlet mall. As I grow more and more disgruntled, I call this company more and more ridiculous names. It has a three syllable name, which is lends itself to mockery quite well. In the past three months, I've gone from calling it its actual name, to an identifiable variant with "barf" replacing one syllable, to Barf-N-Blah, to Herp-N-Derp, and finally Gulp-N-Blow. I am extremely mature and this is perfectly reasonable behavior for somebody about to hit 30.
Oh, man, where to start with how ridiculous this place is? I'm going to just start by telling about the exit of my former boss, who I'll call Marie. Marie was always a little spacey and difficult to talk to, but around November she started getting a lot worse. By Black Friday, she was completely bonkers. She was showing up to work hours late for her shifts. I normally close at DrugStore USA, so I was opening at Gulp-N-Blow a few days a week. Marie would show up late with such frequency that she was making me late to DrugStore USA. Again, I love DrugStore USA and am not willing to risk my job there for a shitty part-time job with no advancement opportunities, so I quit. Then I promptly panicked about bills, called Marie, and told her I'd stay on the condition that I only worked Wednesday mornings (Wednesday being my regularly scheduled day off at DrugStore USA). It worked out well, because the other keyholder is in school all day Wednesdays and we needed somebody to open on Wednesdays. So yea! With this arrangement, my cable bill's paid, plus it's some extra money for groceries!
So Marie kept getting crazier. It came to a head on a Saturday night in February. Marie went out for a cigarette around 3:00, leaving two associates in the store alone (this itself is a violation of company policy and common sense - there should always be a member of management staff in the store). She just didn't bother to come back. The associates ran out of small bills and couldn't access the safe to get change, so they began turning away customers who could only pay in non-exact cash. They took turns calling Marie's cell phone, to no avail. Six hours after Marie left for a cigarette, it was time for the store to close, so the associates locked the door from the inside and left. They were unable to make a deposit because they weren't trained and didn't have access codes to complete end of day functions in the computer. The next day, the keyholders decided it was time to notify the district manager. Now, the districts for the company are insane, and the district manager was based over 800 miles away. So the district manager, who I'll call Jenna, hopped on plane and arrived at my store Monday morning to terminate Marie. Marie showed up three hours late, stoned off her ass. Couldn't hold her head up, couldn't speak in complete sentences, was just completely incoherent. So Jenna sent her home and told her to come back on Tuesday morning so they could finish their conversation. Marie never returned. Never signed her termination papers, never turned in her keys, nothing. And because this is a terrible joke of a company, the locks weren't changed and the safe code wasn't changed. So brilliant.
Our assistant manager, Renee, has been out on medical leave since November. So a 19 year old keyholder was acting as de facto manager until corporate started sending visiting managers out. Having management experience, I applied for the store manager job, as did the 19 year old, who I'll call Katy. We had two co-managers (Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Bitch) fly out from the other side of the country to conduct the search for our new manager. They rushed through my interview, wouldn't allow me to answer questions, and kept talking through the interview about how they were going to go a large department store and all of the things they wanted to get. Katy's interview was scheduled shortly after mine. They just completely forgot about her interview. The next day, I went in to Gulp N Blow before work at DrugStore USA, because we were short staffed and I was helping out. I was supposed to work 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. so I could get to my real job that I care about. 10 a.m., Tweedle Dumb called to say she and Tweedle Bitch were running a little late (yep, already an hour late). The two of them came flouncing in at 12:30p.m. with a bunch of shopping bags from stores in the mall. That night, I e-mailed the regional manager and withdrew my name from consideration for the store manager position. It was obvious to me that this ridiculous crap was deemed acceptable in this company's corporate culture, and I want nothing more to do with this company.
While Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Bitch were in town, I badly injured my ankle. I called off from work the day after they decided to show up three and a half hours late so I could go to urgent care and get my ankle X-Rayed. When I returned a few days later with my note to be off from work for a week, Tweedle Bitch said she had called me several times over the recent days. I did, indeed, receive a call from her the day before, but no others. So I said "I never received the other calls." To which she nastily said "Well, we have voicemail confirmations, so obviously you did." Seriously? Seriously, Bitch? Did you just accuse me of lying? About something as stupid as a voicemail? A) I don't fucking lie. B) Yeah, that's the way to treat your employees. It's a proven fact that being extremely disrespectful and calling your employees liars is the best way to achieve productivity. Oh, wait. Sorry, had that wrong. The exact opposite of that.
So, new manager comes in (we'll call her Andrea). She keeps asking me about my availability, which I'm holding firm on. I can work 9 to 5 on Wednesdays through Memorial Day, and then I'm not sure what will happen, because Wednesdays will become mandatory for me at DrugStore USA. This was not a condition of my being hired, but it was a condition of me not quitting six months ago. I've been stating to this company for six months that I am available Wednesday mornings until Memorial Day. Fucking period. This has stopped now, but for a while Andrea was calling me every day "What's your availability this week?" Same as it has been. Pay the Hell attention. So I'll go to work and there will be piles of clothes in various places in the store. Boxes torn open and half emptied. Rolling racks with tons of merchandise on them. And absolutely no notes or attempts at explanation as to what the Hell this stuff is there for. Oh, there's clothes on a rolling rack? Are these being marked down? Back stocked? Just put out on the floor? Set on fire? So I find things to do throughout the day, trying not to mess up the unexplained projects that were left in progress. Basically, what I'm getting at is that the store manager is making absolutely no attempt at communicating with me, despite my requests for her to do so.
Now Katy, the other keyholder, is on break from school, so she has totally open availability. Andrea is scheduling Katy to open on Wednesdays. So I didn't work at all last week and I'm not on the schedule for this week. Trust me, I don't want to be there, but I do want to not starve to death.
Basically, it's obvious to me they don't want me there. Cool. I don't want to be there either.
I'm about to get promoted at DrugStore USA. That promotion will come with a 45% raise. So obviously I'll be quitting Gulp-N-Blow the minute it's official and I have it in writing that the promotion is actually happening. We expect that info to be made official this week. So here's my thing. I don't think I need to give notice. I haven't been scheduled for two weeks, so obviously, Gulp-N-Blow can function without me just fine. They clearly don't want me there. They've shown no respect for me, and I really have no desire to show respect for them. I'm about to be promoted at the company I intend to retire from. I have a lot of really good references from DrugStore USA and from past employers, so I don't need Gulp-N-Blow as a reference. With as unprofessional and rude as they are, I don't even want them as reference. I think if I offered two weeks' notice, Andrea would just refuse and tell me to be done. And I don't really want that particular slap in the face. I think I'd rather just turn in my keys and announce that I won't be coming back, then insist on having a photocopy of the key log for proof that I turned my keys back in (Yeah, there's no trust here). So, folks, what are your thoughts? Give notice? Don't give notice? Sell the keys on eBay?
Saturday, May 11, 2013
My Home; My Boundaries
Prepare yourselves for another exciting adventure in "Displeasure with the Male I'm Dating!"
So, I have never been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's been acknowledged by doctors that I have some wonky Obsessive Compulsive behaviours. I think the worst of these is that I can't handle when dogs blow their coats. For those of you who don't know what that means, here's a totally random result from Google Images Random Google Image Search Result. Just doing that Google search is making my skin crawl and I need to go brush my dog. Okay, back. I love dogs, I have no qualms about the fact that I usually have at least a little dog hair on me. I don't focus on the fact that dogs almost always walk through their own urine and that they roll in the dirt and are generally pretty dirty. My dog sleeps in the bed with me. What I get stuck on is these horrible little clumps of undercoat, poking their way through the uppercoat, looking lumpy and messy and uncomfortable and...*retching noises*. If I see a dog blowing its coat, I *can't* not run my fingers through its fur and try to get those horrible clumps out. It was the worst part about working at a pet store. I had to abandon my register on a few occasions to "pet" a dog, which really meant pulling those atrocious clumps of fur off the dog. I readily admit that this is fucking weird and I have no explanation as to why it bothers me so much. I'm just extremely glad that my wonderful dog is a mix breed and somehow, though the two prominent breeds in his lineage are notorious coat blowers, he does minimal coat blowing. Good job, doggie genetics. Good job.
What the fuck does this have to do with the male I'm dating? Well shut up, I'm getting to it.
So, we've established I have tremendously random compulsions. While it doesn't bother me when the cat decides it's time to cuddle with me right after standing in her filthy litter box, I can't handle human feet being near where my head belongs. When sex spontaneously occurs, I try very hard to make sure our heads are at the head of the bed. When I can't manipulate things in that manner, I have to change pillow cases, at least, if not the sheets. Lately, I've been sleeping on my couch a lot. When the boyfriend comes over to visit, I sit on the end of the couch where my head goes when I sleep, he sits on the other end of the couch. I'll get up to grab something from the kitchen, come back, and his nasty, disgusting feet are on my fucking pillow.
The first time this happened, I lovingly said, "Hey, Honey, I have a hard time with feet on my pillow. Please don't do that."
Instead of giving me a nice, understanding response, he snapped at me, "My feet are clean!"
Well, no. They're not. But that's not the point. The point's not even that I'm irrationally upset about it. The fucking point is, I asked you not to do something in my home. It's not something dangerous or ridiculously complicated that I'm asking for. Don't put your feet on my pillow. Is it a small thing? Yep. Am I being overly neurotic? Probably. But to my fucked up little mind, this request is similar to "Hey, would you mind not breaking my things?" Because he comes in, puts his feet on my pillow, and I can't use it again. It is exactly like breaking my things, because it renders my a personal possession of mine useless until I can "repair" (clean) or replace it. And again, it doesn't fucking matter why. You're in my home. If tell you "you're welcome to this bag of M&Ms, but please don't eat the yellow ones," don't eat the yellow M&Ms. Why? Who the Hell cares?! I'm allowing you in my home and offering things that I've spent my money on to you, go with my weird ass little requests. It doesn't matter if I'm saying "Hey, let's play WiiBowling, but my TV was expensive so please don't throw the WiiMote at it when you have a bad frame" or "Hey, let's sit in my living room, but please don't make me do laundry unnecessarily."
So, when I say "Don't put your feet on my pillow," you have a couple of options:
A) Don't put your fucking feet on my pillow
B) If you must put your feet on the couch near where I put my head, move my pillow first
C) Accidentally put your feet on my pillow because you forgot about this "weird" thing of mine, offer to replace it or at least realize I don't have a washing machine and give me the $2.75 it'll take for me to go down the the laundrymat and wash my pillow that you covered in your foot bacteria. Or at least apologize for forgetting about the quirk and doing this thing that I've told you upsets me
D) Do it repeatedly for the sake of upsetting me because you think you're funny, watch me saw off your fucking feet Cary-Elwes-in-Saw style, and dump your newly amputated ass for being a disrespectful dick who refuses to respect my personal boundaries.
So...does anybody know where I might sell some feet on the internet?
So, I have never been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it's been acknowledged by doctors that I have some wonky Obsessive Compulsive behaviours. I think the worst of these is that I can't handle when dogs blow their coats. For those of you who don't know what that means, here's a totally random result from Google Images Random Google Image Search Result. Just doing that Google search is making my skin crawl and I need to go brush my dog. Okay, back. I love dogs, I have no qualms about the fact that I usually have at least a little dog hair on me. I don't focus on the fact that dogs almost always walk through their own urine and that they roll in the dirt and are generally pretty dirty. My dog sleeps in the bed with me. What I get stuck on is these horrible little clumps of undercoat, poking their way through the uppercoat, looking lumpy and messy and uncomfortable and...*retching noises*. If I see a dog blowing its coat, I *can't* not run my fingers through its fur and try to get those horrible clumps out. It was the worst part about working at a pet store. I had to abandon my register on a few occasions to "pet" a dog, which really meant pulling those atrocious clumps of fur off the dog. I readily admit that this is fucking weird and I have no explanation as to why it bothers me so much. I'm just extremely glad that my wonderful dog is a mix breed and somehow, though the two prominent breeds in his lineage are notorious coat blowers, he does minimal coat blowing. Good job, doggie genetics. Good job.
What the fuck does this have to do with the male I'm dating? Well shut up, I'm getting to it.
So, we've established I have tremendously random compulsions. While it doesn't bother me when the cat decides it's time to cuddle with me right after standing in her filthy litter box, I can't handle human feet being near where my head belongs. When sex spontaneously occurs, I try very hard to make sure our heads are at the head of the bed. When I can't manipulate things in that manner, I have to change pillow cases, at least, if not the sheets. Lately, I've been sleeping on my couch a lot. When the boyfriend comes over to visit, I sit on the end of the couch where my head goes when I sleep, he sits on the other end of the couch. I'll get up to grab something from the kitchen, come back, and his nasty, disgusting feet are on my fucking pillow.
The first time this happened, I lovingly said, "Hey, Honey, I have a hard time with feet on my pillow. Please don't do that."
Instead of giving me a nice, understanding response, he snapped at me, "My feet are clean!"
Well, no. They're not. But that's not the point. The point's not even that I'm irrationally upset about it. The fucking point is, I asked you not to do something in my home. It's not something dangerous or ridiculously complicated that I'm asking for. Don't put your feet on my pillow. Is it a small thing? Yep. Am I being overly neurotic? Probably. But to my fucked up little mind, this request is similar to "Hey, would you mind not breaking my things?" Because he comes in, puts his feet on my pillow, and I can't use it again. It is exactly like breaking my things, because it renders my a personal possession of mine useless until I can "repair" (clean) or replace it. And again, it doesn't fucking matter why. You're in my home. If tell you "you're welcome to this bag of M&Ms, but please don't eat the yellow ones," don't eat the yellow M&Ms. Why? Who the Hell cares?! I'm allowing you in my home and offering things that I've spent my money on to you, go with my weird ass little requests. It doesn't matter if I'm saying "Hey, let's play WiiBowling, but my TV was expensive so please don't throw the WiiMote at it when you have a bad frame" or "Hey, let's sit in my living room, but please don't make me do laundry unnecessarily."
So, when I say "Don't put your feet on my pillow," you have a couple of options:
A) Don't put your fucking feet on my pillow
B) If you must put your feet on the couch near where I put my head, move my pillow first
C) Accidentally put your feet on my pillow because you forgot about this "weird" thing of mine, offer to replace it or at least realize I don't have a washing machine and give me the $2.75 it'll take for me to go down the the laundrymat and wash my pillow that you covered in your foot bacteria. Or at least apologize for forgetting about the quirk and doing this thing that I've told you upsets me
D) Do it repeatedly for the sake of upsetting me because you think you're funny, watch me saw off your fucking feet Cary-Elwes-in-Saw style, and dump your newly amputated ass for being a disrespectful dick who refuses to respect my personal boundaries.
So...does anybody know where I might sell some feet on the internet?
Friday, May 3, 2013
Do You Seriously Need to be Told It's Not Okay to Knock Over a 84-Year-Old Woman?!
I spoke to my mother on the phone tonight. She recently returned home after visiting her parents. My mother is 62 years old; her mother is 84. My grandmother is tiny, probably around 5'1". She has two bad shoulders and, as she's 84, is starting to develop some dementia and is starting to lose her equilibrium. In other words, she's a tiny old lady who is confused and wobbly.
So, my mom took my grandmother grocery shopping. The store they went to is a large Wal-Mart-esque store, only regional. There are two entrances to this store - one by general merchandise and one by grocery. Each entrance has six doors - three marked for enter, three marked for exit. My mom and my grandma were walking towards the exit. My mother now follows closely behind my grandmother, ready to catch her if she falls. So Grandma's going out the door closest to the cash registers, Mom's about six inches behind her. As they're walking through the door, a 6'2", heavy set, 30ish man decided my mom and my grandma were going too slow. Instead of taking literally two steps to the next door, he shoved past my Grandma going through the exit door. Literally pushed past her and wedged himself between the door frame and her cart, very nearly knocking her over. My mom, who always talks like a kindergarten teacher, yelled "Butt-head!" at him. The guy turned around and glowered at her. My mother, being angry this man almost hurt her mother, simply, "Yes. You. I'm talking to you." Then this bastard stepped towards my mother. Stepped towards my 62-year-old mother, with her bad knees. And her 84-year-old mother. Now, my mother does not look tremendously intimidating. She's 62. She's extremely heavy. She has trouble walking. She has had four surgeries for rotater cuff injuries. She looks like a harmless older lady. However, my mother also survived an abusive marriage. In fact, she threw her bastard of a husband out. She didn't leave. She threw him out. My mother has been a teacher for 37 years at an alternative high school in a city that has consistently been ranked one of the five most dangerous cities in the country. When this woman gets mad, she is absolutely fucking terrifying. I mentioned she's had four shoulder surgeries? Each one of those injuries was from her literally physically subduing and/or restraining raging teenagers who were beating the Hell out of each other. So when a big-boned, 30 years younger, 10 inches taller than her man stepped towards her, my mother stepped towards him, looked him in the eyes, and dead serious and perfectly calm, said "Bring it, Little Boy." He turned and didn't quite run out the door, but exited pretty quickly.
Two take aways from this. First: My mom's fucking awesome. Second: WTF, dude? What the fuck? Nothing about this behavior was necessary. He was literally less than an inch from assault. If he had actually bumped into this 84 year old, physically unstable woman, she would have fallen. If she had fallen, she almost certainly would have been injured. And then try to physically intimidate them when it was pointed out her was being an asshat? All because he's too rude and lazy to walk two steps further? Literally, two steps. I can't even justify taking the time and energy to explain why none of this is okay. If you need it explained, just go live in a cave. Never have human contact again. Seriously.
You know, what? One more take away. My mom is *really* fucking awesome. Every day. Not just because of this. Because of everything.
So, my mom took my grandmother grocery shopping. The store they went to is a large Wal-Mart-esque store, only regional. There are two entrances to this store - one by general merchandise and one by grocery. Each entrance has six doors - three marked for enter, three marked for exit. My mom and my grandma were walking towards the exit. My mother now follows closely behind my grandmother, ready to catch her if she falls. So Grandma's going out the door closest to the cash registers, Mom's about six inches behind her. As they're walking through the door, a 6'2", heavy set, 30ish man decided my mom and my grandma were going too slow. Instead of taking literally two steps to the next door, he shoved past my Grandma going through the exit door. Literally pushed past her and wedged himself between the door frame and her cart, very nearly knocking her over. My mom, who always talks like a kindergarten teacher, yelled "Butt-head!" at him. The guy turned around and glowered at her. My mother, being angry this man almost hurt her mother, simply, "Yes. You. I'm talking to you." Then this bastard stepped towards my mother. Stepped towards my 62-year-old mother, with her bad knees. And her 84-year-old mother. Now, my mother does not look tremendously intimidating. She's 62. She's extremely heavy. She has trouble walking. She has had four surgeries for rotater cuff injuries. She looks like a harmless older lady. However, my mother also survived an abusive marriage. In fact, she threw her bastard of a husband out. She didn't leave. She threw him out. My mother has been a teacher for 37 years at an alternative high school in a city that has consistently been ranked one of the five most dangerous cities in the country. When this woman gets mad, she is absolutely fucking terrifying. I mentioned she's had four shoulder surgeries? Each one of those injuries was from her literally physically subduing and/or restraining raging teenagers who were beating the Hell out of each other. So when a big-boned, 30 years younger, 10 inches taller than her man stepped towards her, my mother stepped towards him, looked him in the eyes, and dead serious and perfectly calm, said "Bring it, Little Boy." He turned and didn't quite run out the door, but exited pretty quickly.
Two take aways from this. First: My mom's fucking awesome. Second: WTF, dude? What the fuck? Nothing about this behavior was necessary. He was literally less than an inch from assault. If he had actually bumped into this 84 year old, physically unstable woman, she would have fallen. If she had fallen, she almost certainly would have been injured. And then try to physically intimidate them when it was pointed out her was being an asshat? All because he's too rude and lazy to walk two steps further? Literally, two steps. I can't even justify taking the time and energy to explain why none of this is okay. If you need it explained, just go live in a cave. Never have human contact again. Seriously.
You know, what? One more take away. My mom is *really* fucking awesome. Every day. Not just because of this. Because of everything.
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