While I normally write about celebrity divorces or cocaine-induced benders, my last two Off The Clock columns have been about actual issues. Sharing them here, because writing jokes has become a full-time job and I don’t get to write things without punchlines, nearly often enough.
Okay, so this is another The Checkout Girl favorite, but the Grilled Cheesus episode of Glee left me with a hankerin’ for some Tomato Jesus. Call it a bonus. Call it a miracle. Call it delicious with some basil and mozzarella. Enjoy.
Recently, The Bloggess posted this, which linked back to this, and then I missed my tomato.
He was an accidental discovery while I was helping out in produce one morning. Sadly, tomatoes don’t last forever and he got smooshy and smelly. I could really use him this week. See you on the other side, little guy.
For those of you who don’t know, I began my illustrious (illustrious means “googling exes while watching Ghost World”, right?) writing career by chronicling my adventures in retail at the blog, The Checkout Girl. The site is offline for now, but the thought of my stories sitting around, collecting dust, makes me sad, so I’ll be sharing my favorites here, on Mondays.
I was playing checkout girl today, due to two people having a case of the Mondays and calling out. I was generally annoyed, because while I was standing there, waiting for Granny Molasses to remember her PIN, there was nothing being accomplished over in floral and Monday is a busy day. That being said, I shouldn’t have done it. I know that. But, I couldn’t help it.
The customer after Granny had struck up a conversation with the woman standing in line behind her. It was apparent that they didn’t know each other, but were doing some superquick bonding. You know, the way girls do. Anyway, as I started to tally her groceries, one of my female coworkers walked up and was standing back, obviously waiting for me to finish the transaction before telling me whatever it was she came over for. I wrapped up scanning her purchases as she plopped her expensive handbag on the counter and continued the conversation she was having with the other woman, “Oh, god, I can’t even IMAGINE having to work. What kind of mom has a child and gives it to someone else to take care of?”
Yes, yes I did. I said, pointing first to myself and then my coworker, “Well, we’re both moms”. She was completely nonplussed. I mean, what was there to say? I interrupted the extremely uncomfortable (and seemingly neverending) silence to hand her the credit card receipt and chirped, a little too brightly, “Thanks for coming, I hope you have a GREAT afternoon”. She walked out without saying anything more and the next woman was silent as I completed her transaction and took myself off the floor for a few minutes and gave sassyme a good scolding.
I am not proud of what I did. This is not *that* post. I am embarrassed and disappointed by my behavior. It was unprofessional and generally unlike me.
Moving on.
Also, it’s Monday, which means it’s time for a new Off the Clock over at RVA News. This week, nipples and Speidi. But not Speidi’s frankennipples. Even I’ve got my limits.
For those of you who don’t know, I began my illustrious (illustrious means “lamenting the fact that Egg McMuffins aren’t available all day”, right?) writing career by chronicling my adventures in retail at the blog, The Checkout Girl. The site is offline for now, but the thought of my stories sitting around, collecting dust, makes me sad, so I’ll be sharing my favorites here, on Mondays.
About a month ago, within a week, both our Regional Manager and District Manager were suddenly transferred. The Regional Manager was put on desk duty at our corporate office, and the District Manager was assigned to another district. It was a bit unsettling, as they had been with us for years, but not fatal. They were replaced by other, generic managers. Both fine, but obviously not paid for their personalities, if you get me. In fact, I’m convinced that there is a Corporate Drone Factory somewhere that is turning these guys out. They even look alike (small, pasty, eyes that are decidedly too small for their heads) and have the same voice.
While I’m a grownup checkout girl (big panties and all) and have lost managers before, the personnel shuffle gave me pause. I knew something must be wrong to replace the boss’ boss and the boss’ boss’ boss so quickly and unceremoniously. Maybe it was that sales were down? No, that is a company-wide (and, frankly, country-wide) problem, I suspect. Perhaps, instead, corporate had gotten wind of the shenanigans that were a daily occurrence at our store? That was probably TOO much to hope for. Regardless, of the reason, I knew that the troops were advancing and it wouldn’t be long before they arrived at our front door. I got my ducks in a row, climbed in my foxhole, and started writing letters to my sweetheart back home while I waited. It wasn’t long before I heard bootsteps.
Last Tuesday, I was having a perfectly normal day. Tuesdays aren’t particularly busy, but I DO get a big shipment of flowers and plants and I am usually steadily busy. I worked hard all morning chopping stems and helping customers and, eventually, got a rumbly in my tumbly. I sought out the boss to tell him I was going to grab some lunch. “Fine. See you in a bit,” he said. It was the same thing he always said. I went to lunch for an hour and returned to chopping. One of my less-genteel coworkers ran up behind me at the flower guillotine (never, ever a good idea) and said, “Dude! Where were you?” “Uh, when?” I asked, then decided it didn’t matter, “Lunch, I guess.” “Well ‘manager’ (not his real name, doy) just got fired!” Wait, what? I just saw him! How could he be gone?
Turns out that as soon as I left, a duo from corporate had: stopped in, asked him to turn in his keys, assured he had left the premises, and then left, themselves. Apparently these things take less than an hour to accomplish. Anyway, I was disconcerted, but not shocked. Anyone who was caught by surprise just wasn’t paying attention. By “anyone”, of course, I mean the whole staff. The next day, a memo that had been sent to every store in the company was posted on the timeclock. It was an announcement, full of typical corpspeak, saying that our store was to get a new manager, as our manager had “left the company to pursue other interests”. For those of you who do not dwell in corporate culture, “pursuing other interests” is always, without exception, code for “got shitcanned”. Oh, and the announcement included the name of our new manager. And she is a, well, “she”.
Now, I’ve not yet formed an opinion. After all, I’ve not even met the woman and know very little about her. I DO know that I’ve never had a female manager. Not once. I’ve BEEN a female manager and know it’s not easy. I also know that she faces an uphill battle against the boys club that was cultivated by our previous manager. His bros hold the best jobs in the store and always got away with murder, including setting their own hours and walking out with inventory. I’ve also heard that she is only 30 and think that may make it more difficult for her to be taken seriously. Her assistant managers are 35 and 50 and were really bromantic with the former manager, as well.
All in all, I’m sure she’ll do fine. Someone, somewhere higher up on the ladder (and, really, who isn’t?), has confidence in her and that’s good enough for me. I will help as much as I can (even if it’s just by spreading the rumor that she’s supercool) but am not invested enough to throw myself into it. I will, however, be watching my back to ensure that I am not the next one caught off guard by corporate’s rolling destruction, thereby becoming one more casualty of the Grocery Wars.
Also, it’s Monday, which means it’s time for a new Off the Clock over at RVA News. This week, prune smoothies!
So, one of the lovely women I met in person at BlogHer, but was already a fan of, asked if I would take home a, ahem, marital aid that she was pimping, and then link to the, ahem, marital aid company on my site. Now, as much as I’d sell out like an American Idol contestant for so much as a sandwich, that sort of thing is usually not my cup of tea. Believe it or not, I’m awkwardly sex goddessy enough that I’ve been asked before and politely declined, by which I meant haven’t returned any of the emails I’ve received. However, I lovelovelove Sandy at ToyWithMe.com on a deeply personal level, PLUS she held a demo model against my arm and I felt the power of her buzzing beauty and I just couldn’t resist. Plus, she’s a redhead so, you know, me-ow.
Here’s the link (the only requirement): we-vibe.com
This here’s all Jen: Dudes, this vibrator is so amazing that you’ll think “Whatever, FYM, we know you’re easy so why should we trust you? I’m mean, WE’RE not easy” but you’d totally be missing out. It’s all buzzy on the inside AND the outside and I need A LOT of buzz because I maybe self love kind of frequently and it’s got power to spare. The site SAYS the we-vibe is for couples and I see how it could be and would be just fab but I’m not currently in a humping relationship so I didn’t try it out for a long time, just waiting for Prince Charming to ride up on his stallion and ask if I had a sex toy that I wanted some help testing then, finally, just decided to try it on my own. When recommending the we-vibe to a friend I said “You know, if someone else were sharing this experience with me, I’d just be irritated that they got in the way of the MOST AMAZING ORGASMS OF MY LIFE.”
So, to sum up my experience with the we-vibe, I refer you to a tweet I wrote earlier this evening:
I got a new vibrator and now have to have talks w/myself about why it’s important to leave the house sometimes.
Break your piggy bank, sell a kidney, take out a second mortgage, or just tell your husband or boyfriend that if he buys it for you, you both win. Do it.
And, if you aren’t already reading ToyWithMe.com, you are missing out on great writers waxing poetic (and hilarious) about my favorite subject. Do that, too.
Ooh, and courtesy of TheMouthyHousewives.com, whose party I attended at BlogHer, my hot UPS guy delivered an LG vacuum to my door the other day. Housework is like Abu Ghraib to me, but without the fun photo ops, so, to be honest, it’s still wrapped and in the box, but it looks sweet as crap and I kind of can’t wait to try it.
When it arrived, I texted a friend with the news. I also told him that I had all hardwood floors (which the box claims it still cleans efficiently) and that I hate housework.
“So you won $400 worth of ironic comedy?”
Yes.
HeatherVonsj@gmail.com