Only two weeks left of school. These will be especially bad weeks because I haven't done much work all year. Will I fail community college? It's still a possibility at this point. Graduation is June 18. I'm not sure yet where I'll be doing my May work term but it better be somewhere awesome. I'll keep my day job though. Speaking of Wal-Mart, guess which one of the following things happened to me last Saturday:
a) got yelled at by a woman with a beard because we didn't have any plain black t-shirts that she liked
b) found out there is a hidden security camera in the locker room where I have often changed my clothes
c) had to do the work of two people because the only woman working with me took some ecstasy, claimed not to be able to tell colors apart, and took off somewhere with her cousin who had just been released from prison earlier that day.
Don't bother guessing. Of course, they all happened.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Perfect Fit
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.
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.
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.
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