Rant, Rant, and Relentless Comedy
Listening: Concrete Sky - Beth Orton
Oh my God. Possibly one of the worst days I've ever had at Wal-Mart, topped off with the most hilarious story I've ever heard. Yes it's 4:30 a.m., but I wanted to get this all down while it was still fresh in my mind. Things will be broken up into three categories: something that struck me while I was working today, a rant about how much of an asshole my manager is, and the hilarity that happened to my little sister tonight. Let the anger and the comedy flow forth, like pure elixir!
Obesity Does Not Equal Handicap
At work today, something interesting happened before life took a turn for the worst. As I was in the middle of a rather important discussion with Brad (one of my managers), a woman came up to us and, without even saying 'excuse me' or anything else even remotely polite, charges in head-on by barking, "Do you got anymore wheelchairs?"
Brad and I turned as one and regarded her blankly for several seconds. Sometimes it takes us a little while to remember that some of the customers we get at our store are actually sub-human. When we remembered that we were supposed to be professionals, we looked back at each other briefly, then looked at the corral where our wheelchairs (electric and otherwise) are usually stationed. At the time, it was half under a gigantic blow-up carousel depicting elves riding reindeer, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that said corral was, in fact, empty. "I don't think so," Brad said in his most placating tone.
The woman looked openly scandalized, as though she had been thoroughly expecting us to have a stack of mysterious invisible wheelchairs and was horrified that they remained hidden. "How am I supposed to get around to get my shopping done?" she demanded, outraged. "I have a weight problem. I can't walk."
She abruptly burst into some litany about customer service and our supposed lack thereof, and while she rampaged on and Brad's eyes glazed over with polite disinterest, I could not tear my eyes away from her, knowing in that deep, visceral part of me that she was going to be part of my next blog rant.
The first thing I noticed about the woman was that she was considerably overweight. The second thing that I noticed was that while she was considerably overweight, she was not overweight to the point where it should have hindered her ability to walk around a goddamn store. Which brings me to the point of my first rant: obesity does not equal handicap. For Christ's sake, people.
I have seen people come into Wal-Mart from all walks of life, and the one thing that continues to astound me is how self-centered some people can be in comparison to others. Take last weekend, for example. A little old lady, obviously just around the corner from severely crippled, came into Wal-Mart with a walker and set out on her own little trek. When I stopped to ask her if I could find her a wheelchair or something to make the going a little easier, she smiled and patted my hand and told me that while I was a very sweet girl, "I can still walk, sweetie. Somebody else needs it more than I do."
Which is what I felt like saying to the blue whale today. If you honestly believe that your own inability to resist Twinkies and shortcake automatically puts you on par with the people who actually need wheelchairs, then you're a blister on the backside of humanity. If you cannot walk, you are handicapped. If you cannot walk without breaking a sweat, then you are not handicapped.
"How am I supposed to get around to get my shopping done?" Um. Walk there like everybody else, you crazy bitch?
"I have a weight problem. I can't walk." Okay. No. You walked in here under your own steam, and while you may be a little out of breath from the effort, you do not warrant special attention. People much larger than you come through those doors every day and never bat an eyelash at having to, God forbid, walk around a department store. If you can't stand to lug your own weight, then stop coming to our store.
And God help you if I catch you in one of those wheelchairs and you aren't wearing a cast or clearly in need of medical attention. I will take your obese ass down. Grow up, people.
My Manager is the World's Biggest Asshole
Moving on to the point where things took a turn for the worst this evening.
As some (or most) of you know, I'm right in the middle of exams. Wal-Mart prints its schedules several weeks in advance, which can prove disadvantageous in situations such as these. By the time I figured out my exam schedule, I was already scheduled for two nine-hour shifts this weekend. This is really bad news. I have my Linguistics exam on Monday morning, which has the most material to cover of any of my other courses. However, the majority of the MUN-oriented cashiers are pulling a stunt that annoys the managers to within an inch of their lives: calling in "homework". In essence, just phoning in and saying, "I'm not coming in tonight." This kills my superiors. Trust me.
So rather than be a bitch, I decided to compromise. I worked out a nifty little plan with wonderful Brad, which was essentially to come in, work half of my shift, and leave a few hours early to get some studying done. Brad is cool with this. He appreciates that I'm not completely walking out on them. Things are looking up. Except for one detail.
He's not the manager on this particular night. Tim is.
Allow me to illuminate. Picture every movie villian you've ever loved to hate, then paint them over with a bad dye job and that would be Tim. My entire store despises him. When I say that, I mean it. Not a single person gets along with Tim. If you break open the suggestion box in the Staff Lounge (which we employees are only too fond of doing on slow nights), all you will find are suggestions to get the hell rid of Tim. He is about as loved among us as a pay cut.
So my shift is 2:00-11:00. I am hoping to get off at around 7 to do some work. Who am I forced to ask about this? Tim. Tim is the physical embodiment of Sam Walton's wet dream. He is everything a manager should be (except for likeable). He eats, sleeps, and breathes Wal-Mart. And he's such a hard-ass for the store's sake that he forgets who's actually doing the work. So, he burns bridges.
"Well," he said when I paged him over to discuss my leaving. "I can't let you go right now. It might get busy. Tell you what. Let's wait and see as it gets closer to eleven, and I'll consider it."
You might as well have just said, Let's wait until your shift's up and I'll consider it, Tim. I know you well enough by now to know that you're not looking out for my best interests.
Tim struts off. Then, as I'm standing there trying to blink back tears of fury and frustration, he saunters back over and says, "You understand."
Oh sure, Tim, I understand. I understand that you're a soulless bastard.
Things did not get busier. Ten minutes after shutting me down, Tim sends me to zone carts, which only happens when he has expendable cashiers. Then, fifteen minutes later, he--you guessed it--sends me on my lunch. I was so filled with frustration that I had to leave the store. I went to my grandparents' house, washed my face with cold water like six times, had a cup of tea, and lay down by the fire to calm myself down, and by the time I went back to work, I didn't feel as bad. I was still angry, but I figured I'd live with it for now.
Sometime around nine-thirty or ten, it occurred to me that I should call Tim again. After all, he said he'd decide whether or not to send me home as it got later. And since it hadn't gotten any busier, I figured I had a good chance. I picked up the phone and paged him. About two minutes later I get a call back: "Are you looking for Tim?"
"Yes. Why?"
"He's gone home."
...
Excuse me?
That son of a bitch. He said what he needed to keep me quiet, and then he bailed out and went the hell home himself at 9:00, while I stayed at the store and busted my ass until 11:30--not only four and a half hours later than I'd hoped to be, but also half an hour later than I was actually scheduled to be. Obviously, I didn't get any semblance of studying done. And the bastard expects me to be back in tomorrow morning at 11 a.m. to do the same thing over again.
I have the last laugh, though. I'm not coming in for my shift tomorrow. I'm doing the very thing I sought to avoid and calling in homework. The way I see it, Tim didn't bother trying to accomodate me. Why should I bother trying to accomodate him? Let him sweat for a while. See how it feels.
Besides, if I didn't take tomorrow off, I would be working until 6, after which I would be going immediately to my grandmother's house for my father's birthday celebration (which I am not missing), giving me a grand total of about 3-4 hours to study. At least this way I can delude myself into thinking that--hey--maybe I might have a chance on this exam.
God, I hate Wal-Mart.
Cookies and Scream
As they say: every cloud has a silver lining. Mine in this otherwise dark-hearted, angry post is the story of my sister's babysitting job with a cat named Cookies.
Ever since I got drafted into the Department Store from Hell, my sister Lor has been working double time to pick up all the babysitting jobs that I was forced to abandon. Normally she has things pretty easy. Tonight, though, a certain black-and-white cat gave her a run for her money. The only thing I can say is that I would sell my soul to have been there to see this evening unfold.
A friend of a friend of my mother's called Lor in a panic this morning, desperate for a babysitter. It took some roundabout coaxing (my sister has an active social life that she hates to relinquish for the sake of actual work), but eventually she agreed to go meet this family for the first time. At first things went fairly well, according to her. She met the parents, and was introduced to the two little girls. One of them brought up mention of their cat, whom they called 'Cookies', but Lor didn't see said cat before the children were put to bed.
She was watching TV some hours later when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Assuming it was the cat, she paid it no mind. When she noticed that said movement was getting progressively closer, however, she spun her head around. Apparently, this freaked the hell out of Cookies, who took a flying leap at my sister, all claws and spitting fury. Lor, reacting out of pure instinct, lashed out--and smashed the cat against the wall.
Unharmed but obviously pissed as all hell, Cookies begins to stalk my sister. Lor, feeling unnerved, begins trekking around the circle the first floor the house makes. What she hears in pursuit is the clik-clik of Cookies' claws against the hardwood.
At this point I interrupted her. "Lor," I said. "Cats' claws are retractable. If he had his claws out, he was planning on eviscerating you."
"Let me finish my story," she groused.
Around and around they go, with myriad adventures happening en route. Among other things, this cat succeeded in not only locking my sister in a room, but richocheting off of nine or ten pieces of furniture to land on her head and nearly breaking down a door trying to go through it to get at her. By the time she was finished telling me everything, I was in fits of laughter on my bed. I couldn't get over the irony. Cookies, psycho cat of the East End.
As my sister put it, "It was like having a murderer in the house. A tiny murderer. A little, furry murderer asshole."
Epilogue
It's 5:30 in the morning, and I'm still up doing this blog entry. The last thing I expect is for the phone to ring. But it does, so I go to grab it. Late in the night like this, our callers are primarily all drunkards who can't tell the difference between my home number and Casino taxi service. Assholes.
But this is not a drunkard! I am fully expecting having to shred some ear when I pick up the phone and say, "Hello?" What I am greeted with is,
"Hello. Is Noel there?"
Noel is my father. This surprising accuracy staggers me for a second. Floundering, I repeat, "Noel?" Then, after this is reaffirmed-- "Yes, just a moment." Halfway up the stairs it hits me--Dumbass, it's 5:30 a.m. My father, along with the rest of the sane population, is asleep. I am not sane, being up all hours, and am therefore an expert in such matters. Returning to the phone, I say as politely as possible, "I'm sorry, he's still asleep. Is there anything I can help you with?"
There is. I can go wake my father.
I cannot believe the gall of this guy, but I go. My father is the Director of Safety for the local power company, which I have identified as the caller, so I figure that if someone is calling this early, it means somebody is dead. My dad is always getting called out to the rest of Canada and the States, even as far as Belize in South America, to investigate accidents. I decide this is worth my time. I go wake my father.
"Daddy? Newfoundland Power's on the phone and they're not taking no for an answer."
My dad comes down to take the call. I boil the kettle and sit there stirring hot chocolate for ten minutes, during which my father says absolutely nothing, merely taking note of whatever the dude is saying on the other end. When he finally speaks, it is to say the words, "He's okay, then." My head comes up as though I have been struck by lightning. Are you serious? All that for nothing?
My father stays on the phone for another ten minutes, then finally hangs up, growling obscenities, some of which I have never heard before in my life. He glances at me and says, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
My sister is in my bed, where she fell asleep after completing her horrific cat story. I explain this to him briefly, then add, "Could that call have waited til daylight?"
"Not where he's concerned," my father growls, and ruffling my hair, storms upstairs to bed.
Sometimes life is just a bitch.
Icarus acknowledges that this hot chocolate is really goddamned good.
Oh my God. Possibly one of the worst days I've ever had at Wal-Mart, topped off with the most hilarious story I've ever heard. Yes it's 4:30 a.m., but I wanted to get this all down while it was still fresh in my mind. Things will be broken up into three categories: something that struck me while I was working today, a rant about how much of an asshole my manager is, and the hilarity that happened to my little sister tonight. Let the anger and the comedy flow forth, like pure elixir!
Obesity Does Not Equal Handicap
At work today, something interesting happened before life took a turn for the worst. As I was in the middle of a rather important discussion with Brad (one of my managers), a woman came up to us and, without even saying 'excuse me' or anything else even remotely polite, charges in head-on by barking, "Do you got anymore wheelchairs?"
Brad and I turned as one and regarded her blankly for several seconds. Sometimes it takes us a little while to remember that some of the customers we get at our store are actually sub-human. When we remembered that we were supposed to be professionals, we looked back at each other briefly, then looked at the corral where our wheelchairs (electric and otherwise) are usually stationed. At the time, it was half under a gigantic blow-up carousel depicting elves riding reindeer, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that said corral was, in fact, empty. "I don't think so," Brad said in his most placating tone.
The woman looked openly scandalized, as though she had been thoroughly expecting us to have a stack of mysterious invisible wheelchairs and was horrified that they remained hidden. "How am I supposed to get around to get my shopping done?" she demanded, outraged. "I have a weight problem. I can't walk."
She abruptly burst into some litany about customer service and our supposed lack thereof, and while she rampaged on and Brad's eyes glazed over with polite disinterest, I could not tear my eyes away from her, knowing in that deep, visceral part of me that she was going to be part of my next blog rant.
The first thing I noticed about the woman was that she was considerably overweight. The second thing that I noticed was that while she was considerably overweight, she was not overweight to the point where it should have hindered her ability to walk around a goddamn store. Which brings me to the point of my first rant: obesity does not equal handicap. For Christ's sake, people.
I have seen people come into Wal-Mart from all walks of life, and the one thing that continues to astound me is how self-centered some people can be in comparison to others. Take last weekend, for example. A little old lady, obviously just around the corner from severely crippled, came into Wal-Mart with a walker and set out on her own little trek. When I stopped to ask her if I could find her a wheelchair or something to make the going a little easier, she smiled and patted my hand and told me that while I was a very sweet girl, "I can still walk, sweetie. Somebody else needs it more than I do."
Which is what I felt like saying to the blue whale today. If you honestly believe that your own inability to resist Twinkies and shortcake automatically puts you on par with the people who actually need wheelchairs, then you're a blister on the backside of humanity. If you cannot walk, you are handicapped. If you cannot walk without breaking a sweat, then you are not handicapped.
"How am I supposed to get around to get my shopping done?" Um. Walk there like everybody else, you crazy bitch?
"I have a weight problem. I can't walk." Okay. No. You walked in here under your own steam, and while you may be a little out of breath from the effort, you do not warrant special attention. People much larger than you come through those doors every day and never bat an eyelash at having to, God forbid, walk around a department store. If you can't stand to lug your own weight, then stop coming to our store.
And God help you if I catch you in one of those wheelchairs and you aren't wearing a cast or clearly in need of medical attention. I will take your obese ass down. Grow up, people.
My Manager is the World's Biggest Asshole
Moving on to the point where things took a turn for the worst this evening.
As some (or most) of you know, I'm right in the middle of exams. Wal-Mart prints its schedules several weeks in advance, which can prove disadvantageous in situations such as these. By the time I figured out my exam schedule, I was already scheduled for two nine-hour shifts this weekend. This is really bad news. I have my Linguistics exam on Monday morning, which has the most material to cover of any of my other courses. However, the majority of the MUN-oriented cashiers are pulling a stunt that annoys the managers to within an inch of their lives: calling in "homework". In essence, just phoning in and saying, "I'm not coming in tonight." This kills my superiors. Trust me.
So rather than be a bitch, I decided to compromise. I worked out a nifty little plan with wonderful Brad, which was essentially to come in, work half of my shift, and leave a few hours early to get some studying done. Brad is cool with this. He appreciates that I'm not completely walking out on them. Things are looking up. Except for one detail.
He's not the manager on this particular night. Tim is.
Allow me to illuminate. Picture every movie villian you've ever loved to hate, then paint them over with a bad dye job and that would be Tim. My entire store despises him. When I say that, I mean it. Not a single person gets along with Tim. If you break open the suggestion box in the Staff Lounge (which we employees are only too fond of doing on slow nights), all you will find are suggestions to get the hell rid of Tim. He is about as loved among us as a pay cut.
So my shift is 2:00-11:00. I am hoping to get off at around 7 to do some work. Who am I forced to ask about this? Tim. Tim is the physical embodiment of Sam Walton's wet dream. He is everything a manager should be (except for likeable). He eats, sleeps, and breathes Wal-Mart. And he's such a hard-ass for the store's sake that he forgets who's actually doing the work. So, he burns bridges.
"Well," he said when I paged him over to discuss my leaving. "I can't let you go right now. It might get busy. Tell you what. Let's wait and see as it gets closer to eleven, and I'll consider it."
You might as well have just said, Let's wait until your shift's up and I'll consider it, Tim. I know you well enough by now to know that you're not looking out for my best interests.
Tim struts off. Then, as I'm standing there trying to blink back tears of fury and frustration, he saunters back over and says, "You understand."
Oh sure, Tim, I understand. I understand that you're a soulless bastard.
Things did not get busier. Ten minutes after shutting me down, Tim sends me to zone carts, which only happens when he has expendable cashiers. Then, fifteen minutes later, he--you guessed it--sends me on my lunch. I was so filled with frustration that I had to leave the store. I went to my grandparents' house, washed my face with cold water like six times, had a cup of tea, and lay down by the fire to calm myself down, and by the time I went back to work, I didn't feel as bad. I was still angry, but I figured I'd live with it for now.
Sometime around nine-thirty or ten, it occurred to me that I should call Tim again. After all, he said he'd decide whether or not to send me home as it got later. And since it hadn't gotten any busier, I figured I had a good chance. I picked up the phone and paged him. About two minutes later I get a call back: "Are you looking for Tim?"
"Yes. Why?"
"He's gone home."
...
Excuse me?
That son of a bitch. He said what he needed to keep me quiet, and then he bailed out and went the hell home himself at 9:00, while I stayed at the store and busted my ass until 11:30--not only four and a half hours later than I'd hoped to be, but also half an hour later than I was actually scheduled to be. Obviously, I didn't get any semblance of studying done. And the bastard expects me to be back in tomorrow morning at 11 a.m. to do the same thing over again.
I have the last laugh, though. I'm not coming in for my shift tomorrow. I'm doing the very thing I sought to avoid and calling in homework. The way I see it, Tim didn't bother trying to accomodate me. Why should I bother trying to accomodate him? Let him sweat for a while. See how it feels.
Besides, if I didn't take tomorrow off, I would be working until 6, after which I would be going immediately to my grandmother's house for my father's birthday celebration (which I am not missing), giving me a grand total of about 3-4 hours to study. At least this way I can delude myself into thinking that--hey--maybe I might have a chance on this exam.
God, I hate Wal-Mart.
Cookies and Scream
As they say: every cloud has a silver lining. Mine in this otherwise dark-hearted, angry post is the story of my sister's babysitting job with a cat named Cookies.
Ever since I got drafted into the Department Store from Hell, my sister Lor has been working double time to pick up all the babysitting jobs that I was forced to abandon. Normally she has things pretty easy. Tonight, though, a certain black-and-white cat gave her a run for her money. The only thing I can say is that I would sell my soul to have been there to see this evening unfold.
A friend of a friend of my mother's called Lor in a panic this morning, desperate for a babysitter. It took some roundabout coaxing (my sister has an active social life that she hates to relinquish for the sake of actual work), but eventually she agreed to go meet this family for the first time. At first things went fairly well, according to her. She met the parents, and was introduced to the two little girls. One of them brought up mention of their cat, whom they called 'Cookies', but Lor didn't see said cat before the children were put to bed.
She was watching TV some hours later when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. Assuming it was the cat, she paid it no mind. When she noticed that said movement was getting progressively closer, however, she spun her head around. Apparently, this freaked the hell out of Cookies, who took a flying leap at my sister, all claws and spitting fury. Lor, reacting out of pure instinct, lashed out--and smashed the cat against the wall.
Unharmed but obviously pissed as all hell, Cookies begins to stalk my sister. Lor, feeling unnerved, begins trekking around the circle the first floor the house makes. What she hears in pursuit is the clik-clik of Cookies' claws against the hardwood.
At this point I interrupted her. "Lor," I said. "Cats' claws are retractable. If he had his claws out, he was planning on eviscerating you."
"Let me finish my story," she groused.
Around and around they go, with myriad adventures happening en route. Among other things, this cat succeeded in not only locking my sister in a room, but richocheting off of nine or ten pieces of furniture to land on her head and nearly breaking down a door trying to go through it to get at her. By the time she was finished telling me everything, I was in fits of laughter on my bed. I couldn't get over the irony. Cookies, psycho cat of the East End.
As my sister put it, "It was like having a murderer in the house. A tiny murderer. A little, furry murderer asshole."
Epilogue
It's 5:30 in the morning, and I'm still up doing this blog entry. The last thing I expect is for the phone to ring. But it does, so I go to grab it. Late in the night like this, our callers are primarily all drunkards who can't tell the difference between my home number and Casino taxi service. Assholes.
But this is not a drunkard! I am fully expecting having to shred some ear when I pick up the phone and say, "Hello?" What I am greeted with is,
"Hello. Is Noel there?"
Noel is my father. This surprising accuracy staggers me for a second. Floundering, I repeat, "Noel?" Then, after this is reaffirmed-- "Yes, just a moment." Halfway up the stairs it hits me--Dumbass, it's 5:30 a.m. My father, along with the rest of the sane population, is asleep. I am not sane, being up all hours, and am therefore an expert in such matters. Returning to the phone, I say as politely as possible, "I'm sorry, he's still asleep. Is there anything I can help you with?"
There is. I can go wake my father.
I cannot believe the gall of this guy, but I go. My father is the Director of Safety for the local power company, which I have identified as the caller, so I figure that if someone is calling this early, it means somebody is dead. My dad is always getting called out to the rest of Canada and the States, even as far as Belize in South America, to investigate accidents. I decide this is worth my time. I go wake my father.
"Daddy? Newfoundland Power's on the phone and they're not taking no for an answer."
My dad comes down to take the call. I boil the kettle and sit there stirring hot chocolate for ten minutes, during which my father says absolutely nothing, merely taking note of whatever the dude is saying on the other end. When he finally speaks, it is to say the words, "He's okay, then." My head comes up as though I have been struck by lightning. Are you serious? All that for nothing?
My father stays on the phone for another ten minutes, then finally hangs up, growling obscenities, some of which I have never heard before in my life. He glances at me and says, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
My sister is in my bed, where she fell asleep after completing her horrific cat story. I explain this to him briefly, then add, "Could that call have waited til daylight?"
"Not where he's concerned," my father growls, and ruffling my hair, storms upstairs to bed.
Sometimes life is just a bitch.
Icarus acknowledges that this hot chocolate is really goddamned good.
posted by Icarus at 11:54 PM
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