Gripe

It's been a long time since I've whined about customers. Apparently someone noticed the lack because they decided to be especially obnoxious just to inspire me. Well, I can't really say that sort of thing anymore. I thought it was all about me, but it may actually be all about them.
So I get called for a carry-out and this gray-haired woman tells me she needs a couple of bags of fertilizer and three bags of bird seed.
On it.
While she goes on ahead to her car, I grab a cart and then wheel it to the pile of fertilizer. One, two. Then I go to the bird seed. Three 20 pound bags later, I turn around and hunt for her. Is that her? Nope, driving away. Ah, that must be her by the black car. So I wheel the cart to the black car.
She looks at the cart, somehow dissatisfied. "I forgot my garbage bags at home. Can you put the bird seed bags down first? They don't look too bad."
Ah, dirty bags. NP. I load in the bird seed, put the fertilizer carefully on top of them, and go back. But wait! There are a couple of extra carts, and there's some dirt that needs to be upstacked. So I do that, and then head back to the store.
Who do I run into on my way in? The lady.
"I wanted you to know that I complained."
????
"I went back and checked and those bags of fertilizer were the dirtiest of all of them."
"I'm sorry. I just grabbed the ones on top."
"I could see putting them in the back of a pickup truck," she said, apparently not realizing that I had no idea what kind of vehicle she drove in, and if she cared so much, why the hell was she picking up fertilizer in it? "But not in my nice car."
"I'm sorry," I say again, feeling slightly less sorry.
"I just wanted you to know I complained."
"I'm sorry," I say, when I really wanted to say well I guess you'll just have to have your slave vacuum out the trunk of your car for you. Oh, but wait, you won't ask them to do that. They have to magically know that it's not up to your standards.
"You should have someone come out here and wipe down all those bags," she added.
What. The. F ... never mind. "Okay," I said. Neither myself, nor anyone else in the store is going to come out here and wipe down every bag of fertilizer and every bag of dirt so that no one else will have this horrible experience that you've had. Oh, wait, you're the only one who cares who brought their 'nice' car to pick up fertilizer. Btw, if she'd asked if I could bring her a plastic bag, I would have. I could have also swept the dirt off with my gloves. But no. She let me load them up and then complained.
Also btw, I went back and checked. I should have given her the two bags with fertilizer caked on the outside of them in addition to the dirt, rather than the ones that had dust and bits of leaves. Those two were not in fact the dirtiest.
Missed opportunity. Next time I'll have to pay attention to which bags I snag.

The Fan Robber

Sometimes it saves my sanity to look at it all as good blogging material when customers do things that might make me crazy if I thought about it too much.

So this guy comes in wielding a fan. Not carrying, not holding. He looks like he's ready to use this fan as a weapon. He wants to get a new fan, because apparently the fan he's wielding doesn't work. (I feel safer already.) Do we have any fans?

I have a few fans, but not the kind that redistribute air. I say, no, we have no fans. I resist mentioning that we've had no fans for a month because it appears that he bought this fan when we actually had them, and therefore, he hasn't actually done this to himself. He has no receipt, no box, just the fan. We look it up. We can give him $6.99 for it, since he has no receipt. He claims he paid $12.99. I'm not unsympathetic, but he has no proof of that, so .... $6.99, is all we can offer. Sorry.

But that's not acceptable for him. He wants a fan. Again, not unsympathetic here, but we have no fans. At all. There may not be any fans in our quadrant of the universe. I don't suggest this, but it occurs to me that he should take the $6.99 and see what he can get on Amazon. Which won't help him today, but hey, at least he'll have a fan. Besides, big box arriving in the mail – who doesn't like that?

He sees a fan sitting on top of the counter. What about that fan? he asks. Sorry, we can't trade for that fan. That fan is for store use. 

Well, you owe me a fan. Technically, yes, but that fan belongs to someone. We can't just give you someone else's fan. I'm afraid all we can offer you is a refund.

This is where he crosses into jerk territory. I don't care. I want that fan. We can't give that fan to you, my boss explains again. Someone else paid for it. It isn't our fan to give you. 

He sees another fan. What about that fan?

I can imagine S.'s expression if we gave this guy her fan. Sorry, but we can't give you that fan either. That belongs to someone. It's bought and paid for.

What about that fan?

Now everyone is losing their patience. Sir, that fan is also owned by an employee, who bought and paid for it with their own money, just like all the other fans you see at the registers. We can't give you that fan. There are no fans available in this store at all. All we can offer you, without a receipt, is $6.99. 

He stormed out with his fan. I felt badly for him, and yet ... was he really suggesting that we just take K.'s or S.'s or A.'s fan? I suppose we could reimburse them, but then they'd have no fan, and as I mentioned earlier, there are no fans to be had anywhere nearby. I know he wants a fan very badly, and the store does owe him a fan, but that doesn't justify stealing someone else's fan, though he probably didn't see it that way. After all, we owe him a fan.

If I was a mean person, I might have taken a sheet of paper and folded him a fan (for free!) but I let him go with his weapon fan and sincerely hoped he found a better solution than demanding other people's property. Maybe he didn't truly understand. Or maybe he didn't distinguish between the store and the employees, who work together but are in fact separate things with separate budgets and separate forms of existence.*

Or maybe, he just didn't care.

* I've even heard that employees have families and get to go home and stuff, and that they can take their personal possessions, like purses and shoes and even fans, home with them if they want. Crazy, I know!

Thinking Ahead More Than Two Seconds

Okay, people. You've made me cranky again. Not you, my devoted readers, but those other people who drive me crazy sometimes, despite my best efforts to be kind, understanding, compassionate, etc.

I was at the Warehouse Store Which Shall Not Be Invoked (okay, maybe I will. It's Costco) putting my stuff into the trunk of my car, minding my own business. The folks in the neighboring car seemed unable to mind theirs, however. I put stuff from the cart into reusable bags, since they didn't give me a box. Didn't even offer, but that's okay. The last thing I need is one more box to burn. He noticed that I loaded slippers, and said, "Slippers. It's ninety degree weather."

Oh.
My.
GAWD!!!!!

Can some people not think ahead for more than two seconds? Seriously. It's September. Guess what? In two months it's going to get cold, if it even takes that long. Three months and we're starting to get uncomfortably chilly. Four months and it's going to be sixty-mile-an-hour gusts, snow and ice, wind chill down below zero F and guess what? You will not find a single slipper at Costco then.

I see this at my store all the time. The intelligent people see fans in March and go oh, hmm. Is my fan still working? And they go home and dig it out and test it and lo and behold! It doesn't work. And they deal with it the following week by picking up a new fan. Meanwhile, the grasshopper people go, hey, look at the idiots buying fans in March. It's cold out there! And the first hot day in July they run to the store, looking for a fan, and complain about the lack of selection. Or worse, they show up on the first 100+F degree day, looking for a fan, and there are none to be found. What about swimming pools? Sold out. Swimming pool toys? Got some divers and squirt guns, nothing else. Goggles? Gone. Flip flops? Do you wear size 4?

They are so used to getting exactly what they want exactly when they want, they have no idea what to do with places like Costco and my store where there isn't room to store the entire universe, and even if there was, the warehouses and distributors don't have the room to have it either. Yes, they keep pushing the seasons earlier and earlier. It's supply and demand. Manufacturers produce only so much stuff. Buyers buy them as soon as manufacturers offer them for sale, before they're sold out. They don't want to hold them in their warehouses because that costs money, so they ship it out and buy the next thing available. This will never change.

This will never change.

Those who wait, be it the customer, the store, or the distributor, will not get what they need. They might get the dregs if they're lucky.

Our ancestors grew up with this concept thoroughly ingrained. InGRAINed. If they didn't store grain over the winter, they starved. They couldn't go pick it up at the store. If they needed a coat for winter, they made it during the summer because they couldn't buy it in winter. They had to make it.

Even the super-huge massive stores like Walmart often don't carry everything year-round. Sometimes, due to the manufacturing and distribution schedules, it simply isn't available. And even if it is available, who is to say that you could battle your way through the ice and snow to get to it? I wonder how many awful wrecks would be avoided if people didn't rush to the stores after the snow has already started to fall to buy necessities that they could have stocked up on in, you know, October.

Or September.

So, ignoramuses of the universe, take heed. If you have slippers, fine, don't buy them in September (which to me doesn't seem unreasonably early anyway.) But don't come crying to me if you can't get nice ones for a decent price in January. At the very least, don't make fun of me for buying mine early, when I see really nice ones for a very, very nice price.

Thanks for reading.

Dread Full

Why stores sometimes dread selling stuff to young people:

A. Their wives and/or husbands and/or parents come back to the store with the 'we don't really need this' face, and some of them try to say the item is defective, when it's not. It's okay, folks, the customer service people understand. Trust them. They don't judge. They just want to know if it's okay to put the item back on the shelf or not. Your domestic financial issues are of no concern to them (although if you out yourself, the customer service rep sometimes can't help but find your story hilarious and/or pitiful, so if you don't want that in their heads, just don't say anything beyond 'I don't want it.' That's good enough for them.)
B. They take it back an hour later because their friends are going to play (fill in the blank) and they want to play too, but can't unless they have the cash to buy (something else, fill in the blank.) And, of course, they have no receipt and no packaging and no instructions even if they bought it only an hour before because they're young and that stuff is all useless (until they need it, and they're not willing to dig in the trash for it. Which, in some cases, depending on what's in the trash, may be merciful.)
C. They break it within five seconds of toying with it and try to take it back with the claim that it broke because it's defective. (sigh)

There are lots of responsible young people out there, and most don't cause problems. But, generally speaking, if they're throwing footballs down the aisles, trying on makeup and perfume, chasing each other around the store, and are too busy on the phone to talk to the cashier to check out (especially if they give attitude when the cashier tells them the balance and they have to stop texting/talking/whatever to ask 'what?') then the dread tends to set in. And all too often, it's justified.

Not Right in the Head

It seems like lately we've been having more customers with, um, issues.

Here's one that didn't take the cake, but the other one was so awful I can't even write in detail about it:

Young man came in with a shoe box.  The box has old shoes in them.  "These aren't the shoes I'm returning," he said.
"Okay," I said.  "What seems to be the problem?"
"The shoes I got are about a half size too big."  He lifted a foot to show me a somewhat worse-for-the-wear New Balance runners.
"Um, okay.  Do you have a receipt?"
He does.  "I just want to know if I can trade them out for the right size."
I gaze at the receipt with some astonishment.  "You got them yesterday?"
"Yeah.  And I got good use out of them already, because I was in an accident in them."
"Oh my god.  Was everyone involved okay?"
"No," he said with a grin.  "I'm dead."
I started the return process, trying to be friendly instead of grim.  "I'll have to call my supervisor."
So she shows up, and runs through pretty much the same deal.  Neither of us want to take them back, but it's policy, so ....
"I'll need those back in the box," I told him.
"Boy, you sure don't want to touch my shoes!" he said with a laugh.  All I can do is try not to look at him so that I don't make too much of a point of revealing in my expression how much of an ass I think he is.  "Good thing that the customer's always right, huh?" he said with a laugh as he left.

The other thing, all I can say is that I really, really wish that retailers had discretionary power as far as who they will sell firearms and ammunition to.  Because the four comments the kid made were so tone-deaf, so awful, and so clearly crossing social and emotional lines that everyone present wondered if he might need to be evaluated.  The father made excuses for his son three times, and the fourth he gave his son a long look like even he might be wondering if he really should be buying firearm accessories for his kid.  Please, dad, if you're reading this, lock the weapons up and don't turn your back on him if you take him hunting.

The police, teachers, etc. can't prevent tragedies.  They can only react.  The ones closest to the perpetrators are the only ones who have a chance to predict or head off a problem.  Also also, we need a much, much better mental health system.  Not just who can and can't be admitted under what circumstances, but treatment options, research, etc.  We have a huge population out there.  Some are 'natural' and some have drugged themselves into mental illness.  What are we going to do?

Return Man

Sometimes customers bug me for no other reason than they're just being their same old selves, but on a hot day.  I try not to let it get to me.  I hope it doesn't show.  Everyone should get the same excellent customer service they always do, regardless of my mood.  But the world isn't an ideal place, y'know?  Still, I do my best.

Ordinary stuff that happens all the time that bugs me number 309:  The customer that returns everything.

I mean, what's the point?

There are people who frequently return things, and people who never return anything including things that they should return.  Most people fall somewhere in between.  But it's a rare duck that returns everything.  I should say, everything possible.  They can't return firearms or ammunition, though some try.

I had one today.  He had four items on his return slip this time.  One item had already been returned--crossed off, signed, dated, and initialed by a coworker.  He came in today (why not do it all at once for crying out loud!) to return the rest.  By the time I was done, he had one item left on his receipt.  It was for a candy bar.

Why buy that stuff in the first place?  Why does he do this to me?  Why tease us with a purchase of a whole bunch of camping gear, only to bring it back?

Sometimes it's a scam, or a theft operation, or what we call free rental.  The stuff he brings back isn't.  It's too big, it's usually unopened and always unused, and it's on a credit card (which we return back on the card ... he doesn't get cash back) so it's not like he gains anything.  If anything, he loses because he may have to pay interest on his credit card purchase.  He wouldn't have to ordinarily, but sometimes he waits over a month to bring stuff back.  

It's crazy, and it's crazy-making.  Most of the time I can shrug it off.  It's just his thing.  But on a hot day after four hours of sleep, I wanted to strangle him.  I don't always have a ton to do, but I always have something far, far more useful to do than process a return onto a credit card for stuff someone buys who has no intention of keeping said stuff.

I suppose he could be doing it for points.  But do they still give you the points if you return everything?

Anyway.  If you're going to be weird and return everything you buy, do it in the middle of the week, first thing in the morning, on a nice, cool day.  Otherwise, it's possible you'll get the hairy eyeball.

Customers that make me cringe

Had a return today from a gentleman who didn't like the flip flops he'd bought.

"These have two problems," he told me very seriously.  I put on my best grave attention face.  "First of all, I want you to see this."  He took a flip flop and pushed it across my counter as if it were a Hot Wheels special edition car.  It went about six inches.  I had a really, really hard time not laughing, especially since he looked even more serious.  "Did you see that?" he exclaimed.  "I wore those on a vinyl floor and almost had a very serious fall.  You should pull these all off the shelves immediately."
I imagined demonstrating the Hot Wheels flip flop to my boss and almost laughed out loud again.  I think my serious face cracked a bit around the edges.  "I don't think they'll let us do that."
"Then you'll just be part of the pay out for the lawsuit against the manufacturer when someone is seriously injured in these."
I thought about people suing because they wore high heels in sand and broke their ankle.  Mmm, not so much.
"The second thing is that they have this cloth on the bottom that's peeling off," he said.
"Yeah, that's really bad."  I finished processing the return, thinking about kids skating gleefully around hardwood floors in these things, and why more people don't sue manufacturers for making those hard plastic bottomed slippers that are far, far worse than the Hot Wheels flip flop.  But I left it alone.  "Sorry those didn't work out for you."
He gave me that 'you'll be hearing from my lawyer' look and stalked off.

I also had a lady dash in.  "I just bought this," she said breathlessly, setting hair color on the counter.  "I just want to trade it for a lighter color.  It's way too dark.  I didn't notice until I got outside."
The color was 'Clove,' a very dark, reddish, almost black brown.  "Sorry, I have to run this as a return unless we're trading it for the identical color."
"Can I go grab the one I want?"
"I need your information--"
She left her ID on the table.  I filled out the stuff while she was away.  When she came back, she had a very, very dark brown, but without the reddish tones.  "This is the one I want," she gasped.  "How much longer will this take?  We're buying a pickup truck and I have to meet someone."
And you're buying hair color ...? Now?  Oh, never mind, it's not worth it.  "Just take this to the cashier and you're all set."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."  Enjoy your almost indistinguishably dark brown hair color.  It'll cover your light brown hair ... a lot.
I expect to see her back tomorrow.

Every Possible Combination

I haven't done a mean post about customers lately. See? I can be good! Except I had one the other day that I just can't resist being mean about.

She came in and let me know she was from out of state, which apparently in her language is code for don't hassle me with my return. (Now now, don't have too much fun guessing what her home state is. Be nice!) Whatevs, it's not like returns bother me unless they're clearly user-damaged and/or a form of free rental. Anyway, she puts a headlamp, like the kind you'd wear in a cave, and a very sticky hummingbird feeder--the easy fill kind--on the counter. "This doesn't work and this leaks," she told me. "I just want another headlamp, but the hummingbird feeder is my mom's and she decided she just wants her money back."

"What's wrong with the headlamp?" I ask, truly and purely innocent.

"It doesn't work."

"Maybe the batteries are dead. Here, let me test them." I start to open it up.

"Actually, I think they put in the wrong ones. Both of them are positive, and it needs one positive and one negative battery."

Luckily she didn't notice my eyes popping out of my head. I put them back in discretely. "Maybe we can try flipping one of them over," I suggest very, very gently, trying not to fall over and roll around on the ground laughing. And I feel bad for wanting to laugh, because seriously, lots and lots and lots of perfectly fine and smart people do just fine without knowing the first thing about batteries and how they work. But ... still. I would have laughed if I wasn't trying to figure out a way to help her without embarrassing her.

"Oh no," she said. "I tried that. I tried every possible combination and it still doesn't work."

"Okay," I said. "I'll tell you what. I'll test the batteries to see if one or both of them are dead, and you can go get another headlamp. Okay?"

"Okay. I'll want to test it first to see if it works."

"I don't blame you. We can do that."

So she leaves and true to my word, I test the batteries. And they are whack the top green, fully charged. I put one of them + side up, and the other I flip over. They're the flat kind with the rough bellies, so the stamp showing what pole is what is only stamped on one side. I close her up, click, and voila! There is light.

It's like magic. Seriously.

I knew then that the hummingbird feeder was perfectly and utterly fine. I bet that when they put it together after they filled it, one of three things happened. They put the gasket and the washer/bar thingie (see? I don't know what it's called but I'm not stupid!) in the wrong order, they misthreaded it when they put it together, or they either forgot to set the bar to 'feed' or put it together in such a way that the feed/fill bar were in the wrong place and couldn't be adjusted.

Was I going to say crap to her? Heck no! That would be truly stupid.

"Hey," I said when she came back. "I fixed it!"

"How'd you do that?" she asked, amazed.

"I flipped one of the batteries over. Do you want to see?"

"No, thanks."

"Did you want the new one instead?"

"No," she said, hopefully pleased that I was giving her power of choice and treating her like the good customer she was, "if it works I want it." She took the headlamp and clicked it on and off several times to satisfy herself.

We did the return on the hummingbird feeder, and she went on her merry way. And that's when I realized that she had said something kinda dumb.

She'd tried every possible combination, she'd said.

Sorry, dear. You should know better.

But again, to her credit, I have this terrible fear of electronic things blowing up if I put them together wrong. She may have been afraid of shorting it out or something if she put one of the batteries in upside-down. I don't blame her.

Still.

Hee.

Would You Like Some Help Out?

Sorting through paperwork.  Zzzzzzz ...

Today I had a customer buy a bunch of stuff ...

"I'm going to need help to carry this out," she said.

"Yes ma'am.  There's C right now."  C ambled over.  "C will help you carry this stuff out."

"I want those things from outside.  I'll need help to carry that."

"Yes ma'am.  C will take care of that as soon as she takes this out for you." 

"Where is that help you called for?  I need help carrying this."

"She's right here, ma'am."

She looks right at C.  "Can you get someone to help me with the things outside?" she asked C.

"I can take care of that," C said.

"Thank you.  Can you carry this?"

C accepted the thingy.  "Where is your car?"

"First I need help with those things outside."

Realizing I'm spinning my wheels ...  "C can take care of that once you're out there."

"Where is she?"

"She's right there."  C already had the one thing that needed to be carried and had started to make for the door.  "She has your things, and she can carry the rest to your car."

"Yes, but I need help with those things outside."

"Yes, ma'am, C can do that.  She's on her way now."  C, meanwhile, edged closer toward the exit door.

"But I need help carrying those things outside."

headdesk

I noticed C had given up edging and had bolted outside.  "She'll meet you outside."

"Shouldn't she go out this way?  It's closer."  She headed for the entry door.

"If you'd like to, you can go out that way."  Even though it's narrow, awkward, and the door opens the wrong way because it's the entry door.

The customer proceeded to wrestle her way out the 'closer' way, hauling the cart along with her.  She expended so much effort it's a wonder she didn't hurt herself.  

Closer is not always easier.

And I thought that was the end of it.

But guess what?  She came back.

I saw her park in the fire lane.  She got out of the car and started to wrestle about half the things she'd just bought less than an hour before.  I went over and held the door, as she had things well in hand.  You know, the things she needed help carrying out before.

"I need to return these."

Mmm hmm.  "Was there anything wrong with them?"  I carefully accepted them.

"They're not what I wanted."

headdesk

I started filling out the forms.

"Can you just put this back on my card?" she asked, setting her credit card on the counter.

"Certainly.  I just need your help to fill out this form and the cashier can take care of you."

"I'm illegally parked."

Yes, we know.

"Will it take long?" she added.

"Not long.  Hopefully it'll be fine.  We're not responsible for the parking per se.  As long as a fire marshal or policeman doesn't see, I think you'll be okay.  If you're worried about it, you're welcome to move your car.  I can work on this return in the meantime."  You define entitlement, madam.  What makes you so special that you can park in the fire lane rather than a handicapped spot?  Oh, and fyi, I have a customer who really ought to be in a wheelchair who parks in a normal parking spot and painfully, slowly, makes himself walk to the store and shops all by himself.  Granted, you don't have to do the same thing he does to prove anything to anyone, but would you mind not parking in the fire lane?  Please?  Do you think you can achieve that?  Is it within your ability, considering that you walk without the cane that you tote around and that you carried all that stuff you made C carry out for you all by yourself?

Meanwhile, I scribbled on the form with a customer-service-smile on my face.

"My daughter-in-law is insufferable," she told me.  "She's such a snob.  Do you know what she said to me?"

I had to admit to myself that I was interested in an awful, uncivilized way.  "What did she say?"  I was also a little worried that she had taken exception to the manner in which I suggested that it's okay to park in the fire lane (sort of) and will now tell me how I, er, I mean how her daughter-in-law is terribly snobby about people who do that.

She went into detail about how she was invited to a party, not by the snobby DIL but by her brother, who likes her, no, adores her, and how it was on a house boat.  And then she told me about how the handicapped parking was too far away from the dock and she would have never made it, so she parked illegally.

Meanwhile, I handed her the form and had her fill out the proper lines. She stopped the narration briefly to ask me what her address is.

I'm not making this up.

So she arrived at the party and mentioned that she hoped the police wouldn't ticket her.  And her (apparently) snobby DIL told her not to worry, that they own all the surrounding land.

Either she has just equated me to being snobby because I'd figured the chances were low that she'd get a (well-deserved) ticket just like her DIL did, or I've missed the point.  Entirely.

"I can't stand her," the woman added.

I'm sure she's not terribly fond of you either.

"I'm sorry," I told her.  I couldn't think of anything else to say.  "You're all set.  Thank you for coming in."

I'm done ranting now.  Vent over.

I really like most people, and I enjoy my job, even when I have challenging customers.  Sometimes I enjoy my work especially when there's a challenge, because often I can fix things and make everything better.  Sometimes, though, things bug me, not because they're not fixable but because they're easily fixable only if the person could just see themselves clearly.  The problem wasn't so much the carry out or the DIL.  This customer got in her own way and it obviously made everyone around her crazy.  I only had to work with her for about twenty minutes.  What would it be like to be related to her, to associate with her all the time?

At least I get paid to help her.  Maybe she just had an off day.  We all have those.  But damn ....

Animals, Customers and Other Stuff

@ Papa's Ice Cream, drinking peppermint/spearmint tea with my DH. Love.

Guess who's back? Chase/Decker.

I've been reluctant to mention this because it's a sticky situation. We've been calling the owner and have had no response for over two weeks, maybe three, even four--I haven't been keeping track, honestly. We've left our phone number on an answering machine. Nothing. Nada.

I've been reading statutes for our state and the closest thing I can find about this is that if an animal is deliberately left with you, 15 days after the first notice to the owner to claim the animal, the animal is considered abandoned. There's nothing about found animals that you know who the owner is (vaguely) and can't get hold of them.

So we're stuck in this awful limbo. Can we adopt her? What's the deal? I'll be calling the humane society about this. Maybe they'll be able to shed some light on it.

Meanwhile--

We've got our first blue egg! Yay!

The hen (I'm not sure which one did the deed yet but I suspect Beatrice, our blonde) actually produced a beautiful hybrid between a light brown egg and a blue one. It's also big--almost as large as a store bought extra-large egg. I have pix but they're not on my machine yet.

I'm soooo happeeeeeeey!

I haven't done a retail story in a while. There's a reason for this--I'm putting together a financial guide book from the retail employee's pov, and so most of my material is going into that lately. But I'll start posting those again soon just because a lot of them are repeats as far as the book is concerned and some of them aren't really related to financial sanity anyway, or are just common sense. I will, right now, post a free sample in the way of a super-short chapter (assuming that it doesn't get cut in an edit.) It goes something like this:

Under the Influence

Don't shop drunk. Or high. Think about all the stupid things that inebriated people do--and by people I mean you. I know that you pretend that you aren't like everyone else and you're special and totally cool when you're drunk, etc. but let's be real. Add the expenditure of money to the stupidity of public inebriation. And the beauty part? It's all on camera. Just think. You could be on YouTube buying that stuff (and paying for stuff you broke and the part where you flirted with me) and then tada! you get to be on YouTube the next day returning it. I would never post such a humiliating moment in someone's life, but I have coworkers.

They have a darker sense of humor than I do.

On the other hand, if you're shopping high you're probably driving high, and if death and/or jail doesn't stop you, embarrassment probably won't either. Disregard. I don't mind.

Just think, you could be like the guy who staggered in the other day. He took one of our plastic-encased signs and hung it from the counter by its feet. "Wow, look at that!" he said.

"That's impressive," I assured him.

"You're always so nice," he said, swaying.

In your case, because I have to be, dude. "I'm glad," I told him. "I like our customers to be happy."

"Well I'm very happy," he slurred. I thought he looked like he would puke any second.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked.

He stared blankly at me for a moment. "Do you sell ... stuff here?"

Why yes, yes we do. We're a store. We sell stuff. "What are you looking for?"

He stared at me for a moment longer, then walked through the swing door. On the second try.

Sad case. I wonder what he bought. I'm sure he wonders too. But that's cool. It probably didn't hurt his beer budget.

Next time it'll be you, and you're gonna be awesome. The Numa Numa Dance guy and whoever posts that video are gonna be like this. Maybe, if you have the means, you can sue like the Star Wars kid's family ... but that video will never go away, and neither will your fame.

Wishing for On the Rocks Laundry

Three and a half hours.  That's how long it took me to do the laundry I brought to the laundromat.  I think I did somewhere between 12-15 home-sized loads (I have a really big washer dryer set too) in that time, which is lightning fast.  I had six of the largest washers going at one point.  Thankfully the dryers were really huge and I was able to dry things fast enough that I didn't have time to sit down and read (which translates to wasted time which translates to even more time spent at the laundromat.)  I had about ten minutes of free time and then one after another the dryers would run out of time, I'd pull out anything that was dry, restart them, and start folding.  I usually didn't get done with folding what I had before I had to fish out the dry stuff and restart another dryer.  Intense, but worth it.  The laundromat's owner was a peach of a man and kept my sense of humor going through it all, even when my back was whining about how heavy laundry is.  (Boo hoo, do you want to sleep in clean sheets and blankets or not?!)

I may go in next week and do what's left over plus anything that accumulates in the meantime so that I stay ahead of the game instead of falling behind while my dryer is non-functional.

The only disappointing part is that I was sure I'd have time to sit and write on something.  Next time I'll know just to put my driver's license in my pocket, about $25 cash in the other pocket, and forget all the writing stuff and reading material that was supposed to keep me distracted.  Oh, and an iPod shuffle, of course.  

It did make me a bit nostalgic over my old college days and the Suds N' Suds.  Beer and laundry.  I think it's a perfect combination.  Margaritas and laundry, even better.  Salt and Suds?  Blend N' Tumble?  Or, heh, On the Rocks Laundry, for those of you who remember that much laundry was done (and still is done) by beating it on rocks.

BTW, ma'am, in case you read this:  Put your entire effing load in one dryer next time, please!  You can dry more than one towel in one dryer, one pair of jeans in another, and three t-shirts in yet another.  I can't believe you had the nerve to hold the last one in the bank for your husband's soccer uniform (one tank, one pair of shorts.)  I can tell you're used to people not arguing with you.  Well, I was no different.  I used a dryer on the other bank.  Why was I smiling?  Because I know you're a poopy poopy poopyhead and having to live with yourself is its own worst punishment, not to mention you plugged in a whole lot of quarters for no reason.  You were there for two hours, too, with less than a tenth of my laundry, because you couldn't tell when the clothes felt dry.  Poopyhead.  Poopy poopyhead.  I'm way more mature than you.  So ha!

Applying for a Job

Just like volunteering as writer's workshop coordinator opened my eyes to how it looks, tastes, smells and feels to receive manuscripts, working at the front desk when there's a hiring sign outside has opened my eyes to the first part of the hiring process.

Hints for success drawn from real life experiences today:

Don't send mommy in to pick up your applications.  If you're mommy, send the kid in to pick it up.  We don't hire people under 18 and since mom said both qualify, that's a big hmmm.  Either the people don't want the job enough to bother picking up the app (in which case we don't want 'em) or they're being forced to apply by mom (subcategory of prior) or they're not mature enough to get around to picking up their own or they can't get their own transportation.  Ahem.  If you don't fall into any of these undesirable categories then why the heck are you going to allow the employer to jump to these conclusions?

When applying or asking about whether applications are being accepted, don't return items you bought from the store without tags, stained, without receipt, and with an attitude.  Also, don't spout off about the hiring process, especially if you're wrong.  The pseudo-customer in question brought in stained shorts without tags claiming they didn't fit, and then told me how her application was going to Eugene.  

"Oh, you're moving to Eugene?" I ask hopefully.

"No."

"Then why ..."

"Because that's how they hire," she said, rolling her eyes.

Mmm hmm.  Sure they do.  I was (not) hired in exactly that fashion.  I'm sure local store management has nothing to do with, say, looking over your app or interviewing or anything.  It's not like they have to work with you.  

Turns out this gem has applied every time we put a sign out.  Maybe her application did go to corporate to begin legal proceedings for a restraint order.  She only got more obnoxious from there, with a smile.  So, another tip.  Don't annoy your potential coworkers.

One of my bosses confided that he knows whether he's going to hire someone usually within the first minute of an interview, and sometimes in less time than that in the few moments before the interview officially begins.  This parallels the hurdle a short story and novel submission has to overcome with an editor.  And it's not really required to impress/blow away an employer in that first minute.  Just don't be a jackass.  Dress neatly.  Be polite.  Look interested in the job and eager to work.   

I wonder, then, if a story opening really has to be spectacular.  I think maybe not.  I think it has to be competent and interesting.  Overall the story really needs to sparkle to sell.  Overall the applicant needs to outshine the competition for the same job.  But in that first minute the applicant doesn't have to do backflips or display a talent for marksmanship.  They just have to, well, be themselves.  The opening of a story probably (I'm guessing, you understand) just has to be itself too.  

Something to think about.  If the applicant (story) isn't a natural fit for the job (publisher) then no amount of trickery or flash bang or emotional contortionism is going to make them more appealing or more likely to get the job (get published.)  Be yourself. (Write the story.)  Put your best foot forward but don't try to force it. (Write the opening that fits the story. )  And good luck out there.  It's a competitive world, but there are opportunities.  Keep looking, and trying, and hopefully someday you'll get the job (published!) 

Blame the humans

Katherine's ad in the Columbian:

Found B&W cat, Washougal, call to ID, pay vet bill to claim.

At the store the day before yesterday I had a real ~gem~ of a customer.  She was all right to work with, but ... well, it went like this.

"I'd like to return this."  She sets an air soft gun and ammo on the counter.  

"Was it defective?" I ask.

"It didn't work for what I wanted it for," she says.  "The dogs didn't leave."

I pause in my scribblings.  

"I shot them in the butts and they just stood there.  They're over at our house all the time, pooping everywhere."

"Did you call animal control?"  I try to sound sympathetic.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," she protests.  As if anything worse would happen to the dogs.  As far as I know the owner would just get a stern talking to, or maybe a fine.  But maybe she's right, they might get hauled off.  But she's shooting at them.  As long as she gets them in the body I'm sure they'll be fine but what if she gets an ear, or an eye?  And I can't get over the fact that she's shooting at her neighbor's dogs.

"There's always mediation if your neighbor won't talk to you about it," I tell her.  "There's an excellent service offered through the shelter, and I think it's free--"

"Oh, I suppose I could talk to my neighbor," she says.

My mind proceeds to boggle.  She's shooting at her neighbors dogs and she hasn't talked to them, informing them that there's a problem yet.

"I could try firecrackers," she muses.  "That worked on the goats."

I'm so done with her, but I provide excellent customer service, as always.  So she comes back and asks for my opinion on some clothes.  She compliments my hair, and I say nice things about her hair, and she decides I'm her friend.  We exchange names.

I'm so ready to not go back to work just to avoid this woman.  Argh.  And yet, she's very pleasant.  The character that springs to my mind is Umbridge from the Harry Potter series, but she doesn't wear pink sweaters.  Her favorite color is blue.  

Maybe she'll figure out that talking to her neighbors about their dogs coming over might be more helpful than using air soft or firecrackers.  She seems intelligent.  You'd think she'd figure out that the dogs (and goats) are just doing what animals do naturally and the responsibility for where they're doing it falls on the shoulders of their humans who should have some modicum of control over them via a fence, leash, etc.

Argh, I say, argh.  What is it with animals getting the worst of people these days?  I know, it's constant, but right now it's very much in my face.

March of the Acronym People

Collectively at the store we had an interesting day yesterday.

The Barbie lady came in.  No, she didn't buy barbies.  She bought three 25 pound bags of cat food (among other sundries.)  Is this an uh oh moment?

I haven't mentioned the OCD (Obessive Compulsive Disorder) lady before (that I remember) because she's very nice and compared to a lot of our other customers, she simply doesn't stand out as much as, say, Mr. Boston with his lovely accent, gambling habit and the wonderful way he learns and uses all our names, or Pretty Lady man who comes to BiMart because of all the "pretty ladies" and goes around the store telling us all how we're the prettiest.  

Yesterday, OCD lady really stood out.  She got one of our best checkers, thank goodness, a young lady with the patience of a saint.  I've never seen OCD expressed through another person before, so I thought I'd mention it.  After the checker rang through the entire order, the debit card didn't work due to insufficient funds.  The OCD lady was convinced there were sufficient funds, there had to be.  So she instructed the checker to void one of the items, put it back on, and then the OCD lady would try the card again.  For half an hour.  The checker's break came and went.  This caused a service snafu (effectively leaving us with only one checker) but we handled that from the sidelines.  The trouble was how to finish the transaction with a minimum of trauma.  Finally I flagged down our RVP superhero guy (Red Vest Power) and sent him over to help.  No dice the first round.  RVP guy retreated, watched for a few minutes longer, then decided to take a chance.  He broke the cycle by convincing her to go home and call the bank.  She didn't want to until he assured her that we would keep all her selections in their current bags, in her chosen shopping cart, until she returned.  So that'll be waiting for me when I go in to work today.  I'll guard it with my, well, not my life, but every customer service bone in my body.

I feel badly for her.  At least she came to our store.  I doubt other places have the patience with her.  I'm worried that she's standing out now because she's either off meds or she never was under medical care and is getting worse.  Sigh.

Finally, at the end of the day, our RVP guy came up to the front with a customer and he seemed enthusiastically agitated.  ??  We'd locked the front doors and had turned out most of the lights trying to get all the customers up front and taken care of (no paint lady, thank goodness, just regular orders so it was going quick) so I seemed puzzled by how RVP guy was apparently trying to keep this customer up front.  RVP guy wasn't taking his time so much as going way above and beyond our normal spectacular customer service.  ??  And then I caught a critical part of the conversation.

"I don't know how this could be happening.  You guys see me come in here all the time," the customer said.  "And I write checks all the time.  I haven't heard anything about bounced checks from my bank."

Bing!  It's thousand dollars of check debt guy!!  TDoCD guy was standing right there within throttling distance of my super, but my super wasn't working that day.  Lucky for him.  I could imagine her launching herself, grabbing him by the throat while her weight powers him down, and shouting "Call the police!!"  RVP guy decided that he couldn't do that, it turned out, because all the bounced checks, (did I mention there was a thousand dollars worth of them?) had already been shipped off to loss prevention only three days ago.  He was certain that if we did call the police, we'd have no proof of wrongdoing.  Denied!  TDoCD guy was trying to make it sound like he was a victim of identity theft or something--I even suggested it and he got all coy with me.  Unfortunately for him, RVP guy and every other manager at the store had seen this guy's signature quite a few times by now on checks.  It was burned into their brains.  They'd also had to initial quite a few because some of them were for over $100, and they check ID on checks over $100, so most of them had looked him in the eye, looked at his ID ...  Yep, this was him.  The checker didn't recognize him, but TDoCD guy was trying to, guess what, write another check for over $100 and RVP guy went over to initial it--and then said he wasn't going to accept the check.  That's when the games began.

But we had no proof on site for fraud, so TDoCD guy walked out a free man.  For now.  Little does he know that the phone number RVP guy gave him was for loss prevention, not customer service.  Hopefully they'll convince him to come in to 'straighten things out' where he can land solidly into waiting handcuffs.

So I was late getting home, and sore, and drained.  It was kinda fun, but sad, and exciting, but annoying, and worrisome, and I guess just one of those days.

The Barbie Lady Strikes Back

I was in the lobby minding my own business when I heard a dismayed cry.  "My goodness that added up fast!"  I turned around to investigate the familiar voice and hubbub to see, yes, the Barbie Lady.  An additional checker bagged a cartoonish number of Barbies while the Barbie Lady herself handed over her credit card to the main checker.  Our assistant manager also stood by, a dismayed look on his face.

We all knew it was only a matter of time.

The Barbie Lady would be back, and she will come again, returning most of her purchases.

Why does she do this to herself?  Why does she do this to us?

At least she doesn't collect cats or dogs or something else that can suffer in her care.  C.S. imagined that her house must be tiny alleyways between four foot tall stacks of Barbies.  Right now, I can see that all too clearly.

I'm explaining here because my beloved husband told me about an alternate interpretation after I wondered about the comments on this post.  I wrote:

Does anyone know a ward for Barbie Ladies?  Maybe we can hang GI Joe dolls over the door or something.

I meant the above as a pagan and didn't think about the other way 'ward,' as in a place where mental patients are held, is known.  It's actually the more common usage rather than mine, which is an object that repels something (like garlic to a vampire.)  It was supposed to be funny but on sober reconsideration it wasn't really that humorous even in its original intent.  Now, all is clear and I feel like a jerk for defending myself, even if I was defending something I hadn't meant.  Sorry!

Return(s) of the Barbie Lady

I was going to blog about this yesterday but I was tired, and then all day today I've been fighting a cold.  I think the cold is winning.  Grr.

Anyway, I was minding business at the front counter when in comes Barbie Lady.  She introduces herself, and I have to refrain from telling her that we all know her on sight at this point.  "I remember you," I tell her instead.

She starts loading barbies and barbie clothes onto the counter.  "I've been to Target and Walmart and Big Lots and a bunch of other stores and no one will take these.  I know some of them are yours because they have the stickers on them."

Indeed, some of them do have BiMart stickers on them.  I explain to her how the UPC codes (in theory, anyway) are unique to the stores and that's how we can tell if they're ours or not.  

"But these are BiMart's because they have the stickers on them," she says, getting immediately defensive."

"Yes, I understand.  We'll scan all these and see what's what."  So I get an RF and start in.  Fortunately some of the boxes, even though they have different styles of clothes in them, have the same UPC so I can stack them and scan just one.  It quickly becomes an exercise in frustration because the system keeps going down and I have to reboot the RF for every other scan.  

To pass the time the Barbie Lady repeats how she's been to all the stores.  She was at Walmart until 2am the day before and she's frustrated and exhausted.  Maybe I just start to have a day, but all I can think about are the poor Walmart employees dealing with a gizillion returns in the post-holiday buyer remorse days as their credit card bills come in, not to mention a healthy percentage of theft items coming back among them with no receipt or fake ones, and then this woman shows up and starts telling them her woes and piling up stuff on their counter and half or more of it isn't even theirs.  

"Big Lots would only take it back for half price," she told me, as if this was outrageous.  "They said they don't carry it and they offered to take it for half price.  And Target said that their stuff only stays in the system for six months.  Are you sure that this isn't yours?  Maybe it's out of the system."

"No, it would still be in our system," I assure her.  We had a fondue machine come back.  We didn't carry them this year.  We had them last year.  Another of our stores across the river apparently did carry it this season, but the point is that she got all these things in the fall and they'd still be on our computers.

I employ the help of a cohort and we start organizing better so that I can start writing things down, marking them off the receipt, and dumping them in the go-back bin.  She starts leaning over the counter.  "I know I paid more than that for those."  

"It's what the RF is telling me, and it matches the tag," I tell her.  "See?"

"Okay, maybe that one, but that one I definitely paid $10 for."

"It's on sale for $6.99, regular price $8.99.  It's right here on the receipt."  I circle the item on the receipt, trying not to get annoyed.  I know she needs the money desperately, but this is starting to verge into two things I don't care for--people who are not my coworkers and supervisors trying to tell me how to do my job, and people who are trying to get more than what they're due.

"I have more of those out in the car," Barbie Lady tells me.  "Should I go get them?"

No, don't get them because you can always bring them in later and we can do this all over again and maybe the RF won't be working at all that day.  "Please," I tell her.  "That would be great." So she goes out and comes back with a fresh cart of things.  A customer comes up and needs a card replaced.  "Would you like to shop around first and come back?" I suggest.  "I'm sorry but I have my hands full.  Or if you'd like I can do it now."

"No, I don't mind," he said.  "I'll come back."  

This apparently set a dangerous precedent.

So we're working and I have one return slip filled and I'm starting another.  I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel when the Barbie Lady looks over my shoulder and says, "She can't help you right now.  She's really busy."  Then she looks at me.  "Can we get this going?  I'm just really tired.  I've been trying to get these things returned for hours."

Whoa there!  Turning a customer away on my behalf?  My cohort and I exchange glances.  "Excuse me."  I turn my back on Barbie Lady and tell her, "I'm sorry, I'd be happy to help you.  What can I help you with today?"

It turned out she was there to pick up some furniture.  She'd come from Vancouver, where they were sold out.  All it took was a few seconds for me to page someone.  All my fond feelings for the Barbie Lady flee.  I turn back.  "I'm sorry, that was probably rude," Barbie Lady says.  "I'm just so stressed out by all this."  Mmm hmm, I'm thinking.  And this excuses you being rude to a customer on my behalf?  "It's just that I had no Christmas.  I was by myself, couldn't even get myself a present, and the bank has called me four times and I've had to go over there for hours each time, and I'm trying to straighten out my credit cards.  Starting a business is so much harder than I thought it would be.  And my doctor told me that I have a degenerative nerve disease, so I can't work, but I'm not considered disabled so I can't get unemployment."  She starts to get all teary-eyed, sniffling.  

This starts to burn me.  I know people with degenerative nerve diseases.  It's a struggle, but they work and those who can't work are formally disabled and get social security.  I know, people slip through the cracks and I don't know her life story, but there are people out there in much worse shape who are getting by.  It's the timing more than anything, like she's trying to gain my sympathy so I take pity on her and, what, feel better about what she's doing?  Work faster?  "I suppose I could work here," she adds, laughing through her almost-tears, sarcasm full on.  "At least I could make grocery money.  I don't know how I'd live."  I'm standing next to someone who's only income comes from her job here, and although this isn't technically a slam her tone is definitely of the 'I'd be crazy to try and of course it would be a snap to get a job here and keep it' kind of thing.  I'm thinking, not with your interpersonal skills, ma'am.  

She didn't hear the theme music that follows me around everywhere suddenly go dark and eerie, didn't notice the darkness that filled my eyes and turned on a little red light behind the pupil, or the fangs when I smiled.  Yes, Kami went bad, I have to admit.  "Yeah, I understand," I told her.  "The holidays are tough for me too.  My father died of brain cancer on Christmas Day."  K-slap!

She looked like a deer in the headlights.  I felt a little guilty.  That's not something I do.  Well, okay, apparently it is something I do.  But she got herself into this mess, buying dolls and doll clothes from retail outlets at prices that everyone else has to pay.  Everyone who is into these dolls knows where to get them and their prices.  Reselling them, she's going to make money how exactly?  And now she's trying to make me feel sorry for her so that I excuse her rudeness?

And I'm trying to excuse myself, I know.  I lost it.

"Well, don't you have the story to tell!" she said.

I do, but it's not for her and I shouldn't have mentioned it.  But she did stop with the poor me stuff, which was a happy relief.  I finished her return and sent her on her way.  She'd been in at least once since I did her first return, so there are only a scant handful of items left on the large receipt she has.  She didn't bring the copy of the receipt my boss printed off the computer when she couldn't find it.  It wouldn't help her anyway.  If she didn't buy it here, we'll know.  She won't be able to double up on returns.

I'm sure I'll see Barbie Lady again.  Until then, to all my fellow retail employees out there:  Never give up, never surrender.

Maybe He Needed Coffee First

People come up with the dumbest excuses to return things.  Either that, or they are just too stupid to own certain things.  Or both.

So yesterday I got a return for a coffee press, aka French press.  I always ask if there's anything wrong with the return.

"I brought this back before," he tells me.  "The inner part was defective, so they opened another one and gave the inside of that one to me.  It didn't work either.  It's dangerous."

"Dangerous?"  Now I'm intrigued.

"When I plunge it, it squirts hot coffee out."

I stare at the return slip as I write it, trying not to change my expression.  I have to fight not to continue the conversation, because I desperately want to ask.  Did you plunge it very, very slowly?  Because there is no coffee press in the world where you can get good filtration and also have the capability to plunge with any amount of speed.  A coffee press requires patience.  So don't bother getting another one if you don't understand how this works.  While you're at it, try not to purchase any other multi-part tools that require some forethought, say, for example, a pitcher with a locking lid.

Okay, that was particularly snarky, but dang!  Can't he just admit that he brought it back because he doesn't want it anymore?  Or did he really not know how to use it?

Maybe he filled it up too high, but I'm not even going to get into this, because even an especially simple person should be able to figure out if they've filled something too much to operate it.

Or, hey, most likely scenario--in order to figure out how to properly use a coffee press, he needed a cup of coffee first.  Darn those catch-22s.