A trustworthy source in the softlines department informed me that there's a certain team leader who's been telling the softlines people they don't have to answer cashier back-up calls to the front lanes. This confirms what I've suspected all along.
There's a team leader who believes that the hardlines staff just has all the people in the world and all the time in the world to do nothing but answer her walkie calls within a split second and a hop, skip, and a jump. The reality is quite the opposite. Most of the time we are short handed, and each of us is usually trying to deal with two or four things at once when she hollers at us for not answering her calls the very split second she releases the mic button on her walkie.
Needless to say, I'm pissed. From now on, I'm going to take my time answering her calls, and I'm going to wait until a softlines person answers first before I answer for hardlines.
If I end up as a store manager and if I ever hear a softlines woman whine and moan about how her work is too hard, I swear on a stack of circulars that I will instantly transfer her to the overnight stocking crew and make her haul pallet loads of bottled water and bulk pet food around.
Any woman in my store who wishes to be a managerial candidate must first spend time working frozen food, dairy, lawn & garden, meat market, and pet food, and she must have worked them for a decent amount of time (as in a couple of years). I refuse to promote any powder puffs. I am deadly serious -- I'll do it, and then do it again. I am so sick of all this garbage about equal opportunity, without equal responsibility.
Where does this come from, within me? I'll tell you.
My mother grew up in war-time Europe. Her father dodged Gestapo agents while traficking food on the black market. Her uncle took pictures of German troop movements from behind bushes and developed them for the Allies in his basement. My mother stayed up late at night peeking through the curtains watching Partisans battling the Gestapo in the corners and shadows of the streets of Aalborg. My mother had no choice but to quit school in the eighth grade and go to work in a munitions factory. She worked until her hands bled.
My mother saved her microscopic wages and came to America after the war, all by herself, at age eighteen. She found a sponsor, an apartment, a job, and learned fluent English all within a year of arriving. She continued to work in factories, until she married my father.
That's why I have no patience for whining powder puffs in the retail business. I have my mother to look up to. There is no woman on this earth who looms as tall as my mother -- a giant among workers.
There's a team leader who believes that the hardlines staff just has all the people in the world and all the time in the world to do nothing but answer her walkie calls within a split second and a hop, skip, and a jump. The reality is quite the opposite. Most of the time we are short handed, and each of us is usually trying to deal with two or four things at once when she hollers at us for not answering her calls the very split second she releases the mic button on her walkie.
Needless to say, I'm pissed. From now on, I'm going to take my time answering her calls, and I'm going to wait until a softlines person answers first before I answer for hardlines.
If I end up as a store manager and if I ever hear a softlines woman whine and moan about how her work is too hard, I swear on a stack of circulars that I will instantly transfer her to the overnight stocking crew and make her haul pallet loads of bottled water and bulk pet food around.
Any woman in my store who wishes to be a managerial candidate must first spend time working frozen food, dairy, lawn & garden, meat market, and pet food, and she must have worked them for a decent amount of time (as in a couple of years). I refuse to promote any powder puffs. I am deadly serious -- I'll do it, and then do it again. I am so sick of all this garbage about equal opportunity, without equal responsibility.
Where does this come from, within me? I'll tell you.
My mother grew up in war-time Europe. Her father dodged Gestapo agents while traficking food on the black market. Her uncle took pictures of German troop movements from behind bushes and developed them for the Allies in his basement. My mother stayed up late at night peeking through the curtains watching Partisans battling the Gestapo in the corners and shadows of the streets of Aalborg. My mother had no choice but to quit school in the eighth grade and go to work in a munitions factory. She worked until her hands bled.
My mother saved her microscopic wages and came to America after the war, all by herself, at age eighteen. She found a sponsor, an apartment, a job, and learned fluent English all within a year of arriving. She continued to work in factories, until she married my father.
That's why I have no patience for whining powder puffs in the retail business. I have my mother to look up to. There is no woman on this earth who looms as tall as my mother -- a giant among workers.
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