adventures in blunderland
right now
listening to: "Come To Your Senses," tick...tick...BOOM
reading: I haven't started it yet, but I just bought Necklace of Kisses for like $4.00 at Barnes and Noble.

awk. warddd.
2007-06-05, 3:45 a.m.


before I start this entry, I think I should preface it with a brief description of my working environment

Being a cashier at Workplace is less like having a job and more like kindergarten. We are scored on each transaction: the "faster" you get each customer's merchandise scanned, bagged, and paid for, the higher your score. I don't want to get into a whole big thing about how I think the entire process is completely stupid and serves to reward people for arbitrary tasks and make people feel bad for no reason. I just wanted to mention the fact that we are timed and therefore, my following rant has come about not because I am a terrible, mean person, but because I actually have to THINK about these things while I work.

I'd also like to say that yesterday was one of the slowest and dumbest and most frustrating days at work, like, EVER.

And so, without further ado.

The Workplace Rant.

Some Rules of the Express Checklane That Should Be Understood By One And All:

  1. Ten items or less means ten items or less. It means you are probably carrying 3 or 4 things in your hands or in a basket. It means that the purchase you are making does not exceed 10 items. It does not mean 20-25 very small items. It does not mean that you look into your cart and if it looks less full than usual, you probably maybe have 10-ish items, even though you have 26. Furthermore, just because you have eighteen of the same thing does not mean that you technically only have "one item." It doesn't work like that.
  2. When you have under 10 items and there are 4 "normal" checklanes open but the poor girl at Express has 3 customers already, it is OKAY to go to a "normal" checklane. Just because you have 10 items or less doesn't mean you are ethically obligated to come through my lane. GIVE ME A BREAK HERE.
  3. Contrary to popular belief, it is not socially acceptable to simply place your shopping basket on the conveyor belt and stare expectantly at me. It is never okay to do that. If you do that, I probably hate you.

While I'm at it, how about

I Probably Hate You If You

  1. Pay for a $0.52 purchase with a credit card
  2. Pay for a $0.52 purchase with a $100 bill
  3. Pay for a $683 purchase with $1, $5, and $10 bills.
  4. Pay with a check, writing the information in swooping, elaborate cursive, pausing to ask the date, and adding little hearts over your i's.
  5. request special handling for your $4.00 shirt, your child's $1.00 bucket hat, your fake ficus plant that's on clearance for $2.50, your precious clothing that you have purchased here, NOT at Bloomingdale's, etc.
  6. stab wildly at the card reader screen with the pen thing and then act surprised when I ask you to re-enter your PIN number

End of Workplace Rant. There is more to come. So much more.


Last night I went to CMSB's house for the first time. For real, people? It is the HUGEST house I have ever seen in my life, and it's all full of like, antique Victorian furniture, and there's a 3-car garage housing some kind of expensive motorcycle, a Thunderbird, and a Generic Fancy SUV, along with a bunch of cars outside. Taking the tour was like watching an episode of Cribs. They have an intercom system because the house is so big. His parents are super nice and sort of Laguna Beach-y, and it's so amusing to know that this is the environment that produced CMSB, who used to be a hippie and once, of his own volition, lived for 4 weeks on $6.84. I made fun of him all night.

I told my parents that I was going over his house, which, to my parents, is apparently uncouth for a girl my age, and the following conversation ensued:

Mom: I think that's a little inappropriate. Why do you have to do that?
Me: He always drives all the way up here. ((side note: he lives about 35 minutes away))
Mom: So?
Me: It's not fair for him to always spend all that money on gas.
Mom: Well, that's what a boy does.
Me: What do you want me to do, call him and tell him to come here instead?
Mom: I think that if he wants you to go to his house, he should come here, pick you up, drive you to his house, and then drive you back home.
Me: ::horrified silence::
Dad: ::snickering:: Yeah, and he should like, bring a corsage.

Why. Why. Why. Thank God for social networks:

Lindsay: (upon my retelling of the story) And maybe he can give you his letter jacket, too.
CMSB: (upon my retelling of the story) And maybe I can give you my school pin, too

Then we moved onto discussing my "reputation," as if I were a Jane Austen character or something. It was the most awkward and nauseating dinner conversation ever--even worse than the time my dad compared mozzarella cheese sauce to maggots in a food-processor.

I don't know why this had to be a huge debacle. My parents like to make a giant deal out of every little thing that occurs to me and my sister. And people wonder where I get my sense of drama from. Yeesh.


Today is my day off, and how young it is! I'm off, kiddies. Keep out of trouble.

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