Rest Assured, I Won't Make That Mistake Again.

Yesterday I noticed that the bulk display of loose-leaf paper and notebooks in the back-to-school section was empty. Guests had started to tear into the cases of product that formed the base of the display, in order to get what they needed. I though I would provide "Great Guest Service" (as my company calls it), so I opened up several of the cases of product from the base of the display. I placed several packages of product out onto the display so our guests could easily reach them, purchase them, and be happy. A couple of guests thanked me for it.

Lo and beheld, one of the senior team leaders approaches me and asks me very curtly, "are you supposed to open those up?" (This is the team leader who is, at best, a political token. She honestly believes that she is a significant contributor to the vast scheme of things, and that she really is something important.)

I explained that the display was empty, guests were tearing the boxes open to get the product they need, so I opened some boxes up for the guests. I wondered to myself, what kind of chicken sh* business is this where I need to get permission to serve our guests? Last I recall, the whole purpose of retailing was to SELL PRODUCT, not to win awards for artistically perfect displays.

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Last night, people complained AGAIN about my joking over the walkie after closing time. It seems I forgot my place, again. My place isn't to be happy or have fun, even though the corporate mission statement includes the words "fast, fun, and friendly" describing our work experience. I'm just a peon. I'm not allowed to be happy at work, especially at closing time. I'm supposed to be cranky and pissy at closing time, just like the team executives are. I need to follow their example, and be just like them, if I want to succeed with the company.

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Great Guest Service and Great Work Attitude. Rest assured, I won't make those mistakes again.

This -N- That, number 4.

ABANDON HOPE, YE WHO ENTER

We call it the "Bermuda Triangle" of the toy section. When you are zoning in the toy block, and you go into this certain aisle, you never come out. You become prisoner there until the end of time. [Jaws movie soundtrack rumbles in background]......it's none other than......[eeeeeeeek!] the action figure aisle! (no! please! don't make me zone that! I'll do anything! Please don't send me there!]

On a typical summer evening, kids get bored and rowdy, so parents load them into the car and head on over to our store and let them loose in the toy section just to look around, kill some time, and wear off some energy. Unfortunately for us, the kids just destroy any resemblance of order we have tried to achieve there during the day, especially in the action figure aisle. The team leads always complain to us that it never looks good, but everytime we zone it, five minutes later it's all over the floor again.

DUMB AND "DUMBER-ER."

Retail executives bend over backwards to design their store to maximize opportunities for impulse purchasing by the customers. The only problem is that impulse purchases often include big, bulky furniture that we have to haul out and help the guest figure out a way to cram into their little bitty rice-burner cars from Asia. This evening was no exception. A guy and his girlfriend saw a futon we had and decided on the spot to buy it. I had to stand there in the parking lot and listen to them argue about how they were going to get it into their little sled.

Jeez, people.

Not only are they stupid and refuse to come back with a bigger vehicle before they buy it, but they are the same upper middle class environmentalist hypocrites who rant about SUV's, and then complain when their furniture purchase won't fit into a little chopstick wagon.

AH, HUBBA HUBBA.

Coworker "R" and I were discussing various issues in the grocery block one evening. A hot blonde wearing a bikini top with a bust the size of Toledo walked by. We stopped talking. 'Nuff said.

Mr. Roboto.

This evening, after closing time, I was joking around with someone over the walkie. Naturally, a humorless, uptight member of management took me to task over it. Last I recall, in its own mission statement the company says they want to foster a "fast, fun, and friendly" work environment. I see now that's all just mere hypocrisy, like the window dressing lip-service most companies give to environmentalism or fair labor practices in their third world suppliers.

This is the last time. From now on, no more joking from me. I'm tired of all the stick-up-their-back people who complain about my joking, then get away with worse stuff than me. From now on, I'm just going to go to work, get my stuff done, say nothing, smile to no one, and go home. I shall be as emotionless as a robot.

Groovy, Man.

One of the interesting things about the store I work at, it's in an upper middle class area. That means we have all sorts of people with money coming through whose guilt about their affluence stands out like a sore thumb.

I was cashiering for a twenty-something little sprite, when she cheerily asked me if we had any paper bags, instead of plastic. When I told her no, the wrath of Mother Nature thundered down upon me. The air headed hippie wannabe bimbo lectured me about how paper bags were better for the environment.

Right -- as if I ran the company, and made all the bag purchasing decisions. Get out of my face, moron.

I wanted to ask this chick how much gas she saved by walking instead of driving her Beamer or Caddie, or how much animal habitat was destroyed when they laid the foundation for her huge upper middle class Northside house. Of course, I had no choice but to remain silent.

If the character "Cartman" from the T.V. show "Southpark" were real and standing next to me, he'd most likely say " @#$% off, ya damn hippie!" (Cartman hates hippies, and so do I.)

Poor Wayfaring Souls of Grief

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.

These Boots Were Made For Walkin'

When I came to work yesterday everyone was all abuzz about the day's events. I just listened, drank it all in, and quietly chuckled with glee.

It seems that "Mz. Waffleboot" could not find a PDT or a walkie anywhere in the store when she needed them. Then, she blew her top.

Mz. Waffleboot called a huddle of all the store personel and then proceeded to harangue and harp about how no one was following the proper check out procedure for the equipment, and because of that she can't find any. (It never occured to her, of course, that there are few to begin with and there was a large number of people there using them that morning.) She really came unhinged and pretty much reduced herself to ranting. Needless to say, many people were not amused.

What's that sound, you say? I hear a sound, yes! It's the sound of many other pairs of boots walking right out of the store -- then going to work for the competition. After hearing about the day's events, I started to seriously consider whether or not my own boots should start doing some walking right out the door, too.

Coffee Cup Wars, Part 2

I figured out how to get my two cents worth across in the coffee cup war, as mentioned in a previous post. I got a new coffee cup, the fifth one, and put in with my creamer in another box which I keep under the counter. I never ever leave it out on top of the counter, even for one second.

Naturally, when people see me with the ridiculous setup every time I get some coffee, they ask about the box. Bingo. I tell them my story. I tell them that someone in the store keeps throwing out my coffee cups, and that this is the fifth one in a month. I tell them I have to hide it in order to have the simple human dignity of being able to keep it in the break room. Then I move on to other topics. This little gag has allowed me to make my complaint and garner sympathy without turning into a raving lunatic like I had in the initial phase of the game. People know what the deal is, now.

I've decided that it is all OK. I'll go ahead and let them treat me like a complete second-class human who doesn't even rate having the privilege of keeping his own coffee cup by the machine, even though all the execs have theirs on their desks. I'll allow people to treat me like I'm stupid. It's OK, and here's why: One of these days these managers are going to be replaced by myself or somone like me whom they've patronized. When that happens, I'll be propping my feet up on their desk, or an even bigger desk somewhere else, earning more than they do.

By all means, team leaders -- please underestimate me. Let yourselves be blinded by your own egos. Lull yourselves into that false sense of security you get from your low opinion of me. That way, you won't see me coming when I make my move, and trust me, I will.