I know there are people who decide they need a little extra cash so they look around their house for something to return to Wal-Mart. It doesn't matter if they have a receipt. It doesn't matter if it's new. It doesn't matter if it's from Wal-Mart. They bring it all...
Just so everyone knows, there is nothing you can say that would make it ok to return a thong. Thongs are a gamble. "It rides up in the back" or "It snapped" are not reasons to return a thong. Whenever we do come across a thong among our returns, we're supposed to fill out a damage form saying why it was returned and then take it out back to the claims department. Instead, we take the longest coat hanger we can find and use it to flick the thong into the garbage. That's as much contact as I'm willing to have with used underwear. I wish I could do that with all the clothes that get returned. I know what torture they go through just in our fitting rooms: frenzied arms and legs stretching and ripping the poor quality fabric, garish make-up rubbing off on the unattractive prints and finally being tossed inside-out on the filthy floor. I can't imagine what they go through in people's homes. I've never worked on a farm, but I think working at the fitting room is probably a lot like herding cattle to and from their stalls. My chances of training the customers to pick up their clothes are about the same as teaching the cows to shovel their own manure. I'm not really supposed to say things like, "Unless you're going to lose 30lbs between here and the fitting room door, let me save us both some time" or "The old lady section is over there" so I just have to watch helplessly as bargain-hungry behemoths try to squeeze into whatever is on sale and sassy seniors shake their ancient moneymakers in the latest booty shorts and tube tops. Mercifully, we have finally sold the last of our summer clothes. The old girls can only show me so much in sweaters and cords.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Costumes by Kathleen
Halloween cannot be over soon enough. Working at Wal-Mart tends to suck the fun out of most holidays and Halloween is no exception. I'm not even the one trying on costumes so why, by the end of the day, am I the one covered in strands of synthetic blue hair, feathers, and glitter? And then there's all the people who are too creative for a store-bought costume and must design their own but they still all come to Wal-Mart for supplies. A person could make a small fortune selling only green tights in the weeks leading up to Halloween. This past weekend alone I helped outfit a pirate hooker, a boxer, the Honey Nut Cheerios bee, a zombie, Dick Cheney, that guy Dick Cheney shot, a pimp and three Amy Winehouses. I have used up every modicum of creativity in my body. I have nothing left for myself. Should I need a costume, I will have to go as a Wal-Mart employee.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Touchy Feely
Wal-mart's latest breed of pervert strikes without warning and is especially dangerous because they appear so harmless. I was folding shirts when I came across some misplaced merchandise from the health and beauty department including a handheld massager that lights up and is designed to look like a ladybug. I was going to return it when a man came and asked me where to find cell phone chargers. Since they can be found in both the electronics and the automotive department, my instructions involved a lot of pointing and gesturing during which I inadvertently pushed the On button on the massager. The massager, which had somehow come into contact with the customer's arm during our brief conversation, leapt to life vibrating and glowing at its highest speed. He pulled his arm back quickly. You had to be there to really understand how hilariously awkward it was. I backed away and then laughed to myself like the stranger-massaging pervert that I am.
The Fun Continues
Oh what a happy day for the ladies of Walmart's fashion department! Our 8.3% increase in swimsuit sales this season has earned us a group reward of $350 (one dollar for every white lie we had to tell pasty, bulging bikini-clad customers) to be spent on a night out of dining and camaraderie. If I know my boss Donna (and I do), she will use the money to take her friends out to dinner and then post photos on Facebook. About a month later, she will bring it up and try to convince us we were all there and act surprised when we say we weren't. Then she will tag strangers in the background of her photos with our names. In between her daily bursts of crazy, I've noticed she's been acting friendly towards me, telling me things about her life. I try to discourage these one-sided sharing sessions. Knowing these personal tidbits interferes with my hating her. Without my rage, I may die of boredom.
We have yet another new herd of associates in ladies wear. Our turn-over rate is understandably high. This latest bunch is even dumber and more apathetic than the last. Normally we take bets on how long it will take before their spirit is broken, but these girls started out with dead, empty eyes. The only one with any sense was crying by her second day. She broke down when someone got mad at her when she accidentally opened their dressing room door while they were changing. If I had a dollar for every startled, half-dressed woman I've walked in on, I could retire. One of the other new girls asked me what a blouse was. You see what I have to work with?
The poor quality of the workers doesn't surprise me. Everyone who applies for a job here has to fill in a questionnaire designed to weed out anyone capable of independent thought. I passed with flying colors, although if I remember correctly, they did identify some "red flags" in my answers that I was asked to explain. I just told them the questions confused me and I had trouble understanding them. This pleased them very much and I was asked when I could start.
To deal with the stress of babysitting these junior achievers, I have been taking lots of extra breaks. They're too dumb to notice I'm gone. I take these breaks outside with the smokers who are consistently more fun than the non-smokers. I also prefer the outside now because the staff break room has been compromised. About a month ago, in an effort to improve employee morale, it was announced that our employee lounge would undergo a makeover. We were to vote on the colors we would like to see it painted. The poll failed to generate much enthusiasm and only a couple of people voted. To teach us a lesson about workplace spirit, the higher-ups ignored the vote and painted the room with cans of mis-tint from the hardware department. There were lots on hand because a new guy was being taught to mix paint and he was not a quick learner. Amid much complaining, no one is claiming responsibility for the room which is now painted four different shades of diarrhea.
We have yet another new herd of associates in ladies wear. Our turn-over rate is understandably high. This latest bunch is even dumber and more apathetic than the last. Normally we take bets on how long it will take before their spirit is broken, but these girls started out with dead, empty eyes. The only one with any sense was crying by her second day. She broke down when someone got mad at her when she accidentally opened their dressing room door while they were changing. If I had a dollar for every startled, half-dressed woman I've walked in on, I could retire. One of the other new girls asked me what a blouse was. You see what I have to work with?
The poor quality of the workers doesn't surprise me. Everyone who applies for a job here has to fill in a questionnaire designed to weed out anyone capable of independent thought. I passed with flying colors, although if I remember correctly, they did identify some "red flags" in my answers that I was asked to explain. I just told them the questions confused me and I had trouble understanding them. This pleased them very much and I was asked when I could start.
To deal with the stress of babysitting these junior achievers, I have been taking lots of extra breaks. They're too dumb to notice I'm gone. I take these breaks outside with the smokers who are consistently more fun than the non-smokers. I also prefer the outside now because the staff break room has been compromised. About a month ago, in an effort to improve employee morale, it was announced that our employee lounge would undergo a makeover. We were to vote on the colors we would like to see it painted. The poll failed to generate much enthusiasm and only a couple of people voted. To teach us a lesson about workplace spirit, the higher-ups ignored the vote and painted the room with cans of mis-tint from the hardware department. There were lots on hand because a new guy was being taught to mix paint and he was not a quick learner. Amid much complaining, no one is claiming responsibility for the room which is now painted four different shades of diarrhea.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
A Fine Fortnight
I'm into my second week of graveyard shifts and I have no complaints. I'm definitely tired but I expect that's because I'm not used to working 40+ hours a week, not because I'm working in the middle of the night.
The remodeling of the fashion department is now basically done, thankfully. There weren't enough volunteers from our store to get the job done so reinforcements were called in. We got five workers from two neighbouring Walmarts. Initially there was some rivalry between the factions about which Walmart was the best but after an hour or so we remembered that we all hated all Walmarts equally. Our supervisor is a manager from another store. He doesn't know much about fashion or about what we're supposed to be doing but he did buy us doughnuts.
With limited leadership and little ambition, we had quite a bit of down time the first couple of days, during which time incriminating photos of me literally sleeping on the job were taken. Hopefully they won't end up on the internet. Today was spent undoing everything we did in the first two nights and redoing it the right way. My eyes still hurt from looking at tiny numbers and matching up 10-digit codes. In the spirit of the night, I have summed up my evening in a series of numbers.
The remodeling of the fashion department is now basically done, thankfully. There weren't enough volunteers from our store to get the job done so reinforcements were called in. We got five workers from two neighbouring Walmarts. Initially there was some rivalry between the factions about which Walmart was the best but after an hour or so we remembered that we all hated all Walmarts equally. Our supervisor is a manager from another store. He doesn't know much about fashion or about what we're supposed to be doing but he did buy us doughnuts.
With limited leadership and little ambition, we had quite a bit of down time the first couple of days, during which time incriminating photos of me literally sleeping on the job were taken. Hopefully they won't end up on the internet. Today was spent undoing everything we did in the first two nights and redoing it the right way. My eyes still hurt from looking at tiny numbers and matching up 10-digit codes. In the spirit of the night, I have summed up my evening in a series of numbers.
- Minutes spent in the walk-in freezer just for the sweet relief from the nagging heat: 11
- Minutes spent deciding what toppings to get on our pizza (which we charged to the store): 30.
- Number of hammers I took from the hardware department and subsequently broke trying to beat metal clothing racks into submission: 2.
- Number of times the crazy old lady who works nights in the fashion department told me I was doing things wrong: at least 50.
- Number of times I had to listen to Enrique Iglesias's Ping Pong Song: about 35.
Tomorrow is my last shift on overnights and I will miss it dearly. The noise and chaos of the days may overwhelm me after the peace and freedom of the nights. The absence of customers alone made these two weeks worthwhile. It was nice to be able to do a job and not have my work immediately destroyed. Trying to keep ladies wear organized in a store full of customers is like trying to do a banana flavoured jigsaw puzzle in a cage full of monkeys. I return to the zoo on Saturday.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
It's Great to Stay Up Late
There were some extra shifts available at work because the menswear department is being completely revamped. I volunteered for these shifts without asking any questions because I'm an idiot. Turns out they're in the middle of the night, 11pm to 7am. The more I think about it though, the better it sounds. I'm always up at that time anyway, I get an extra dollar an hour, I get the weekends off, two of my friends also volunteered, and I won't have to deal with any customers. In fact, it's perfect. I can't wait to meet the night crew. Those guys look like they have crazy stories to tell. I'm still not sure what I'll do during my 3am lunch break. Buy drugs in the parking lot, I guess.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
For the Children!
It is performance review time at Wal-Mart, for me at least, since I am one year into a sentence of indeterminate length. I was given the opportunity to fill out an evaluation for myself, but I just didn't care enough to put any heart into it. I handed it into my boss at the last minute. I gave myself the highest score in every category, under Achievements and Goals I wrote "not applicable" and that was that. I didn't think she'd actually look at it. She values her own opinion far too much. Once you've lost respect for your superiors and don't care if you get fired, you can pretty much do whatever you want so when she surprised me and asked about my lack of goals I said, "There's not really anything I want to improve on. I think I pretty much reached a plateau after my second week." She stared at me a while, either because she was shocked by my insolence or because she didn't know what plateau meant. It's hard to say; her emotions are not like our human emotions. She finished off the evaluation and approved my raise (now I can buy that beach house). Her assessment of my job performance was not nearly as generous as mine. She suggested I work on my punctuality. It's true I'm often 5, 10, 30 minutes late. But she didn't mention how I always sneak out early so I intend to continue doing that. She also reminded me of Wal-Mart's 3 meter rule: Smile and greet every customer who comes within 3 meters. This, unfortunately, is in direct conflict with my number 1 rule: Never engage the enemy. And I enjoy the challenge of always trying to stay at least 3 meters away from everyone. So I just moved my head noncommittally in response.
I volunteered for the Wal-Mart Walk for Miracles in support of children's charities this past Sunday. I was designated part of the tear-down crew, which sounds like fun but is, of course, just Wal-Mart speak for picking up garbage and stacking folding chairs. Sort of like how "party" is Wal-Mart speak for someone bringing in a box of Timbits but by the time you get there all the good ones are gone and there's just those plain ones left. Those plain Timbits are worse than no Timbits at all especially when you see someone else with their mouth so full of the delicious chocolate Timbits they can't talk. Anyway, I volunteered for the same reason everyone volunteers for these things: to meet attractive singles with kind hearts and good morals. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man at a charity event, must be in want of a date. I guess I didn't really think about the fact that all the other volunteers would be people from work, all with whom I was already more than sufficiently acquainted. When I left home it was sunny, as I traveled downtown the sky was darkening, and by the time I arrived at the Walk it was raining. With all that ominous meteorological foreshadowing, I was not surprised at all when I signed in at the volunteer tent and met up with the rest of my crew. One of the organizers introduced me, "Kathleen, your team leader will be your mortal enemy, Her Majesty, the Queen of Wal-Mart, your boss Donna!" AHHHHH! She actually said "Kathleen, you know Donna." I try to do something nice for the sick kids, or abandoned puppies or whatever the hell charity this was and this is what I get in return? Why could I not have been partnered with that pervert from Automotive who yells "Nice ass!" every time I walk by or that weird new girl from the pet department who spent her entire lunch break one day sketching me in her notebook? What these people lack in tact and sanity, they make up for in their dedication to me. And so we have at least that in common. The only thing Donna and I have in common is that we both like it when I'm not at work. She did behave herself for the most part though and the Walk was a success. My sneakers are still drying out from the water damage they sustained and my arms ache from loading five million gallons of beverages into a van. I hope those kids are happy.
I volunteered for the Wal-Mart Walk for Miracles in support of children's charities this past Sunday. I was designated part of the tear-down crew, which sounds like fun but is, of course, just Wal-Mart speak for picking up garbage and stacking folding chairs. Sort of like how "party" is Wal-Mart speak for someone bringing in a box of Timbits but by the time you get there all the good ones are gone and there's just those plain ones left. Those plain Timbits are worse than no Timbits at all especially when you see someone else with their mouth so full of the delicious chocolate Timbits they can't talk. Anyway, I volunteered for the same reason everyone volunteers for these things: to meet attractive singles with kind hearts and good morals. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man at a charity event, must be in want of a date. I guess I didn't really think about the fact that all the other volunteers would be people from work, all with whom I was already more than sufficiently acquainted. When I left home it was sunny, as I traveled downtown the sky was darkening, and by the time I arrived at the Walk it was raining. With all that ominous meteorological foreshadowing, I was not surprised at all when I signed in at the volunteer tent and met up with the rest of my crew. One of the organizers introduced me, "Kathleen, your team leader will be your mortal enemy, Her Majesty, the Queen of Wal-Mart, your boss Donna!" AHHHHH! She actually said "Kathleen, you know Donna." I try to do something nice for the sick kids, or abandoned puppies or whatever the hell charity this was and this is what I get in return? Why could I not have been partnered with that pervert from Automotive who yells "Nice ass!" every time I walk by or that weird new girl from the pet department who spent her entire lunch break one day sketching me in her notebook? What these people lack in tact and sanity, they make up for in their dedication to me. And so we have at least that in common. The only thing Donna and I have in common is that we both like it when I'm not at work. She did behave herself for the most part though and the Walk was a success. My sneakers are still drying out from the water damage they sustained and my arms ache from loading five million gallons of beverages into a van. I hope those kids are happy.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Virtual Work
Facebook is ruined. My boss is on it. Under 'Activities' she has listed "being a bitch" and "ruining Kathleen's life". It actually says "Curling" and "going to the spa", but I can read between the lines. Of the top five fakest conversations I've ever had, at least three have been with her. I ask about her geriatric cat, she inquires about my college classes. We exchange nearly identical pleasantries each time we meet to mask our hostility towards one another. She's the closest thing I've ever had to an enemy. She has an eerie sixth sense when it comes to my job performance and magically shows up when I'm slacking off or negatively representing the store. Exchanges I've had with customers I wish she hadn't heard:
- "What kind of strapless bras do you carry?"
- "The ones here suck. You should go to Sears."
- "I can only take 4 items into the fitting room? But I have 15."
- "Whatever. Just go in."
- "You don't know how the gift registry works? You work here, don't you?"
- "Barely".
Whenever I turn around, there she is. Since I fancy myself an optimist, I like to think her being on Facebook could be an advantage. I hope that by studying her profile, I can determine her weaknesses. So far though it's just been an annoyance having to delete all the incriminating wall posts I've written.
The other day she informed me that I had neglected to do a portion of the required on-line training and that the particular lessons I had to do were supposed to have been done over a year ago when I first started working. I feigned ignorance and said I had no idea, which was a lie; I just didn't feel like doing it. The computer training modules are 20 minute animated pieces of crap designed to inform and entertain. You are subjected to some lecture on a topic like "Being nice to customers" and then you have to do an activity to prove you fully grasp the concept. Your guide through these lessons is a talking cartoon shopping cart who says "Good try!" after everything you do. The activity is usually a game so simple a child of three could master it. Sometimes it's a word search with words like basket and shelf. Or it could be paper doll style game where you dress an employee in the proper safety gear to clean up a chemical spill. If you're lucky, it might be a game similar to Pac-Man where you are a virtual janitor who has to clean up spills and move hazards out of the path of a virtual customer.
The sexual harassment game was by far the most hilarious. To "win" you have to participate in a virtual interaction with your imaginary co-worker Gene (picture Tom Selleck if he worked at Wal-mart and was a greasy cartoon character) who makes increasingly inappropriate sexual advances. After each move by Gene you have to click "Sexual Harassment" or "Not Sexual Harassment". I wanted to see just how far Gene would go and ended up having to repeat the lesson due to my poor score. I was apparently not the only one to have enjoyed getting to know Gene. Someone had written on the wall behind the computer "Gene is hot". Below that someone else had responded "I'd do him".
It's pretty much the most pointless thing I've ever done... which is why I don't know why I've been putting it off. I get to sit out back in the computer room with my snacks, put my feet up and "learn". I learned important lessons like NEVER climb inside the trash compactor and DON'T put heavy merchandise on top of eggs when you are packing shopping bags, neither of which I would even have opportunity to do in my capacity as a slave to "fashion". And I was disappointed to find out that according to company policy, employees are not allowed to date other employees, which is the tragedy of the century. This important learning comes too late for the two (possibly three) staff couples who are expecting babies. And I hope it doesn't negatively affect attendance at the upcoming nuptials of Ken from electronics and Christy from jewelry.
- "What kind of strapless bras do you carry?"
- "The ones here suck. You should go to Sears."
- "I can only take 4 items into the fitting room? But I have 15."
- "Whatever. Just go in."
- "You don't know how the gift registry works? You work here, don't you?"
- "Barely".
Whenever I turn around, there she is. Since I fancy myself an optimist, I like to think her being on Facebook could be an advantage. I hope that by studying her profile, I can determine her weaknesses. So far though it's just been an annoyance having to delete all the incriminating wall posts I've written.
The other day she informed me that I had neglected to do a portion of the required on-line training and that the particular lessons I had to do were supposed to have been done over a year ago when I first started working. I feigned ignorance and said I had no idea, which was a lie; I just didn't feel like doing it. The computer training modules are 20 minute animated pieces of crap designed to inform and entertain. You are subjected to some lecture on a topic like "Being nice to customers" and then you have to do an activity to prove you fully grasp the concept. Your guide through these lessons is a talking cartoon shopping cart who says "Good try!" after everything you do. The activity is usually a game so simple a child of three could master it. Sometimes it's a word search with words like basket and shelf. Or it could be paper doll style game where you dress an employee in the proper safety gear to clean up a chemical spill. If you're lucky, it might be a game similar to Pac-Man where you are a virtual janitor who has to clean up spills and move hazards out of the path of a virtual customer.
The sexual harassment game was by far the most hilarious. To "win" you have to participate in a virtual interaction with your imaginary co-worker Gene (picture Tom Selleck if he worked at Wal-mart and was a greasy cartoon character) who makes increasingly inappropriate sexual advances. After each move by Gene you have to click "Sexual Harassment" or "Not Sexual Harassment". I wanted to see just how far Gene would go and ended up having to repeat the lesson due to my poor score. I was apparently not the only one to have enjoyed getting to know Gene. Someone had written on the wall behind the computer "Gene is hot". Below that someone else had responded "I'd do him".
It's pretty much the most pointless thing I've ever done... which is why I don't know why I've been putting it off. I get to sit out back in the computer room with my snacks, put my feet up and "learn". I learned important lessons like NEVER climb inside the trash compactor and DON'T put heavy merchandise on top of eggs when you are packing shopping bags, neither of which I would even have opportunity to do in my capacity as a slave to "fashion". And I was disappointed to find out that according to company policy, employees are not allowed to date other employees, which is the tragedy of the century. This important learning comes too late for the two (possibly three) staff couples who are expecting babies. And I hope it doesn't negatively affect attendance at the upcoming nuptials of Ken from electronics and Christy from jewelry.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Checked Out
"To see or dream that you are a cashier, indicates that you are re-evaluating your life and what you have accomplished. Alternatively, it suggests that you have taken yourself out of some situation. You have "checked out".
-Dream Moods A-Z Dream Dictionary
Well that sounds about right. I had a dream recently which I originally assumed represented my squandered potential. In it, I was working as a cashier when I suddenly realized I had the ability to fly. I immediately informed my superiors and prepared myself for a promotion. I'm not sure what kind of a promotion I expected, (ceiling cleaner?) but my boss told me never to fly on company time and insisted I continue working cash. I was disappointed but went back to my cash register. I'm not sure what it all means but I dislike working cash so much that in real life, when one of the managers at work asked me if I wanted to be trained as a cashier, I told him I had a learning disability and was not supposed to handle money. Maybe the dream isn't about me though; around that same time I found out that the guy who works in the furniture department is a doctor, an actual medical doctor. And I though I was over-qualified!
We're horribly understaffed again in the fashion department after another mass exodus. Last week, the staff profit-sharing cheques got handed out, quite a nice chunk of change for anyone who worked full-time. I guess some people were just waiting for that day, because three of them quit immediately upon receiving their cheques. One woman went on lunch and never came back. Walmart instills such loyalty in its people. Due to the loss of staff, 5 new people have been hired for the fashion department. As is our custom, we took bets on how long each one would last. Anything less than 3 weeks is usually a pretty safe bet. I put my money on a perky blonde teenager as the first to go. The joyful ones never last long. Having worked at Walmart 15 months, I have been training others for 14 months and 3 1/2 weeks. I am still trying to perfect my technique so the new recruits are good workers, allowing me to slack off a bit, but not such good workers that people notice how little I do by comparison. It's a fine line, complicated by the fact that some of them are utterly hopeless and some, despite Walmart's rigorous screening process, are potheads or lunatics.
Although I usually have more in common with my younger co-workers, I also enjoy working with the older ladies in the fashion department because they're absolutely insane. It takes a certain kind of person to work at Wal-mart. I don't mean that as a bad thing, or as a good thing. I'm just saying a skewed sense of reality can really help get you through the day. One nutty woman, Sheril, who I work with occasionally, was disappointed when her co-worker Shauna left the ladieswear department and transferred to the shoe department. In an attempt to bond with me one day, Sheril asked if I wanted to play "Stool". To understand what went through my mind at that moment, you would have to know about a dark period in the store's history known as the Feces Fiasco of Summer '06. During the month of June that year, $10,000 worth of towels and linens were destroyed when a single perpetrator entered the store in the early morning hours and smeared feces on everything in sight in the domestics department, the volume of waste suggesting that the offender had been saving up. They were never caught. It was always supposed that the perp was a disgruntled customer or employee which narrowed the suspect pool down to...everyone. So when asked if I wanted to play Stool, it briefly crossed my mind that I may have discovered the elusive shit disturber. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed to learn that the stool was the regular four-legged variety meant for sitting on and the game of Stool was very simple: Each fitting room has one stool in it. You place the stool in the centre of the small room so the door still closes but the stool is very much in the way if you're trying to try on clothes. Nine times out of ten, people don't think to move the stool, they just work around it. As a game, Stool left much to be desired. If I could take a shot of vodka every time the stool remained unmoved, then we might have something. But Sheril was impressed with my efforts and said, "You're good at Stool. You can be my new Shauna." On a general creepiness scale, I would rate her comment about a 7. On a creepiness scale statistically adjusted for the crazy shit that goes down at Walmart, I would give it a 4. I hope desperately to avoid becoming the new Shauna.
I am currently applying for summer internships in libraries, hoping to avoid Wal-mart's special brand of madness. I have accepted this truth though: there are crazy people everywhere and they will always find me.
p.s. Never buy towels at Wal-mart.
p.p.s. Never buy anything at Wal-mart.
-Dream Moods A-Z Dream Dictionary
Well that sounds about right. I had a dream recently which I originally assumed represented my squandered potential. In it, I was working as a cashier when I suddenly realized I had the ability to fly. I immediately informed my superiors and prepared myself for a promotion. I'm not sure what kind of a promotion I expected, (ceiling cleaner?) but my boss told me never to fly on company time and insisted I continue working cash. I was disappointed but went back to my cash register. I'm not sure what it all means but I dislike working cash so much that in real life, when one of the managers at work asked me if I wanted to be trained as a cashier, I told him I had a learning disability and was not supposed to handle money. Maybe the dream isn't about me though; around that same time I found out that the guy who works in the furniture department is a doctor, an actual medical doctor. And I though I was over-qualified!
We're horribly understaffed again in the fashion department after another mass exodus. Last week, the staff profit-sharing cheques got handed out, quite a nice chunk of change for anyone who worked full-time. I guess some people were just waiting for that day, because three of them quit immediately upon receiving their cheques. One woman went on lunch and never came back. Walmart instills such loyalty in its people. Due to the loss of staff, 5 new people have been hired for the fashion department. As is our custom, we took bets on how long each one would last. Anything less than 3 weeks is usually a pretty safe bet. I put my money on a perky blonde teenager as the first to go. The joyful ones never last long. Having worked at Walmart 15 months, I have been training others for 14 months and 3 1/2 weeks. I am still trying to perfect my technique so the new recruits are good workers, allowing me to slack off a bit, but not such good workers that people notice how little I do by comparison. It's a fine line, complicated by the fact that some of them are utterly hopeless and some, despite Walmart's rigorous screening process, are potheads or lunatics.
Although I usually have more in common with my younger co-workers, I also enjoy working with the older ladies in the fashion department because they're absolutely insane. It takes a certain kind of person to work at Wal-mart. I don't mean that as a bad thing, or as a good thing. I'm just saying a skewed sense of reality can really help get you through the day. One nutty woman, Sheril, who I work with occasionally, was disappointed when her co-worker Shauna left the ladieswear department and transferred to the shoe department. In an attempt to bond with me one day, Sheril asked if I wanted to play "Stool". To understand what went through my mind at that moment, you would have to know about a dark period in the store's history known as the Feces Fiasco of Summer '06. During the month of June that year, $10,000 worth of towels and linens were destroyed when a single perpetrator entered the store in the early morning hours and smeared feces on everything in sight in the domestics department, the volume of waste suggesting that the offender had been saving up. They were never caught. It was always supposed that the perp was a disgruntled customer or employee which narrowed the suspect pool down to...everyone. So when asked if I wanted to play Stool, it briefly crossed my mind that I may have discovered the elusive shit disturber. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed to learn that the stool was the regular four-legged variety meant for sitting on and the game of Stool was very simple: Each fitting room has one stool in it. You place the stool in the centre of the small room so the door still closes but the stool is very much in the way if you're trying to try on clothes. Nine times out of ten, people don't think to move the stool, they just work around it. As a game, Stool left much to be desired. If I could take a shot of vodka every time the stool remained unmoved, then we might have something. But Sheril was impressed with my efforts and said, "You're good at Stool. You can be my new Shauna." On a general creepiness scale, I would rate her comment about a 7. On a creepiness scale statistically adjusted for the crazy shit that goes down at Walmart, I would give it a 4. I hope desperately to avoid becoming the new Shauna.
I am currently applying for summer internships in libraries, hoping to avoid Wal-mart's special brand of madness. I have accepted this truth though: there are crazy people everywhere and they will always find me.
p.s. Never buy towels at Wal-mart.
p.p.s. Never buy anything at Wal-mart.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Unmentionables
Stop reading right here if you don't want to learn more about women's underwear. As a professional in the fashion industry, it's my job to be in the know about such things and I thought everyone would want to know that Wal-mart now carries panties with heavily padded butt cheeks to make your butt look bigger. I didn't realize such a thing existed. I've never seen them in lingerie stores. Usually by the time fashions reach Wal-Mart, they're pretty mainstream but these bootylicious panties are causing quite a stir. Children giggle at them, old people are confused by them, college kids want their picture taken with them. I can't say for sure if anyone's been buying them. One girl who bought a pair told me she falls a lot when she's drinking and always wakes up with a bruised behind so these foam bums would be perfect. Another woman, a bartender, thought she might wear a pair to work and maybe men would stop pinching her butt if they found it was fake. I think they all feel the need to come up with some practical reason, when really they just want to look like J Lo. The woman I work with in the lingerie department is called Patricia and goes by 'Tish' for short. The day we got those panties in, I accidentally called her 'Tush' twice.
In other disturbing underwear news, I learned something new about a regular customer who often calls the store. The caller is a distinguished sounding elderly lady who wants to know what kind of thigh-highs we carry. I know the drill; this same lady has called several times before always with the same question. I suspected she was just lonely or maybe had some kind of age-related memory loss. I always go along with it because it's just a couple of minutes out of my day. Once I had the thigh-highs in hand, a typical conversation with her usually went something like this:
-LADY: Can you take them out of the package? Are they silky?
----ME: OK. Yeah, they're silky.
-LADY: Are you touching them now?
----ME: Yep. They're pretty silky.
-LADY: Is there lace?
----ME: Yes. There's lace around the top.
-LADY: What do you think, would you wear them?
----ME: Sure.
-LADY: What would you wear with them?
----ME: I think they'll stay up by themselves but you could wear a garter belt.
Now read it again, this time with the knowledge that instead of talking to an old lady with memory loss, I'm actually talking to a pervy man trying to sound like a woman. Here I thought I was providing excellent customer service when the whole time I was engaged in dirty talk with a stranger. It seems most of my co-workers had also talked to "her" several times but they had caught on to his game right away. No one bothered to tell me. This scenario was not covered in our sexual harassment training. I plan to use it when I bargain for a raise arguing that I could be getting paid a lot more for those services at other places. For now I guess I'll just suck it up, practice, and include these new talents in the Communication Skills portion of my resume.
In other disturbing underwear news, I learned something new about a regular customer who often calls the store. The caller is a distinguished sounding elderly lady who wants to know what kind of thigh-highs we carry. I know the drill; this same lady has called several times before always with the same question. I suspected she was just lonely or maybe had some kind of age-related memory loss. I always go along with it because it's just a couple of minutes out of my day. Once I had the thigh-highs in hand, a typical conversation with her usually went something like this:
-LADY: Can you take them out of the package? Are they silky?
----ME: OK. Yeah, they're silky.
-LADY: Are you touching them now?
----ME: Yep. They're pretty silky.
-LADY: Is there lace?
----ME: Yes. There's lace around the top.
-LADY: What do you think, would you wear them?
----ME: Sure.
-LADY: What would you wear with them?
----ME: I think they'll stay up by themselves but you could wear a garter belt.
Now read it again, this time with the knowledge that instead of talking to an old lady with memory loss, I'm actually talking to a pervy man trying to sound like a woman. Here I thought I was providing excellent customer service when the whole time I was engaged in dirty talk with a stranger. It seems most of my co-workers had also talked to "her" several times but they had caught on to his game right away. No one bothered to tell me. This scenario was not covered in our sexual harassment training. I plan to use it when I bargain for a raise arguing that I could be getting paid a lot more for those services at other places. For now I guess I'll just suck it up, practice, and include these new talents in the Communication Skills portion of my resume.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Why I Get Paid Minimum Wage
There was an episode of The Office this season where Pam (the receptionist) had to write down, hour by hour, everything her boss Michael did to see if he actually did anything at all. I thought about what I did in a typical 5 hour shift and began to understand why my boss hates me. Today was a particularly unproductive day.
5:35pm- arrive at work 5 minutes late
5:45pm- meeting with co-workers to discuss how many people called in sick today and what might be wrong with them/general bitching and complaining: 15 minutes
6:00pm- cheer up co-worker crying in the bathroom: 20 minutes
6:20pm- shop for digital cameras in electronics department: 15 minutes
6:45pm- try to exlain to size 14 woman why size 6 jeans do not fit her (unsuccessful): 8 minutes
7:00pm- stand at fitting room and chat with co-worker about our boss, movies, our hair, Facebook, and shoes : 60 minutes
8:00pm- mandatory 15 minute break: 28 minutes
8:30pm- fold shirts: 20 minutes
8:50pm- hide in fitting room from manager who may try to train me to use cash register. Clean mirrors while I'm in there: 10 minutes
9:00pm- push empty shopping carts to the front of the store: 10 minutes
9:10pm- unofficial break to take tylenol and apply eye drops: 10 minutes
9:20pm- rate male co-workers on scale of "hot" to "not" with fellow ladieswear staff: 25 minutes
9:50pm- run around like crazy trying to make it look like I did some work: 20 minutes
10:15pm- leave 15 minutes early to catch bus
5:35pm- arrive at work 5 minutes late
5:45pm- meeting with co-workers to discuss how many people called in sick today and what might be wrong with them/general bitching and complaining: 15 minutes
6:00pm- cheer up co-worker crying in the bathroom: 20 minutes
6:20pm- shop for digital cameras in electronics department: 15 minutes
6:45pm- try to exlain to size 14 woman why size 6 jeans do not fit her (unsuccessful): 8 minutes
7:00pm- stand at fitting room and chat with co-worker about our boss, movies, our hair, Facebook, and shoes : 60 minutes
8:00pm- mandatory 15 minute break: 28 minutes
8:30pm- fold shirts: 20 minutes
8:50pm- hide in fitting room from manager who may try to train me to use cash register. Clean mirrors while I'm in there: 10 minutes
9:00pm- push empty shopping carts to the front of the store: 10 minutes
9:10pm- unofficial break to take tylenol and apply eye drops: 10 minutes
9:20pm- rate male co-workers on scale of "hot" to "not" with fellow ladieswear staff: 25 minutes
9:50pm- run around like crazy trying to make it look like I did some work: 20 minutes
10:15pm- leave 15 minutes early to catch bus
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