Take Your Shorty to Work Day

It's not that Shorty's not a nice guy. He clearly is; he has invited most of the homeless population of the city to the house to do their laundry and have baths. I am not quite so nice and am getting very fed up with this stream of strangers using the facilities and stealing my stuff. This morning I just wanted to get out of the house so I actually went to work early. But, by some magical Shorty time warp, he was already at Wal-mart when I arrived. He must have been there for some time too, because the police had already arrived. Ever since Shorty moved into my house, I have fantasized about setting him up, casually mentioning how easy it was to steal from Wal-mart (he doesn't know I work there), then tipping off security if he ever showed up. But I ended up not having to get involved at all. Shorty got caught all on his own. I wasn't really all that surprised. I was kind of expecting it.

Later, when I asked our security guy about Shorty's fate, he said the police were taking him to booking on an unrelated matter. Unrelated matter? Why does that not surprise me? Neither the shoplifting nor the unrelated matter were enough to hold him, unfortunately. He arrived home at 2am in a mood I would describe as jubilant, cracking shoplifting jokes as he parted ways with his pals.

Last Saturday he stole my shampoo, conditioner, shave gel, razor, and toothpaste. What if I'd had a job interview or something the next day? It was bad enough that I was going to see "Mamma Mia" with Janet but if she noticed that I was especially unkempt, she was too polite to mention it. And on the topic of grooming, Shorty has a new summer haircut. I guess he finally decided to accept that he's bald. He must have read my blog. I was surprised to find how much of my distrust was based on his ridiculous hairstyle. It was probably 50% theft my personal belongings, 50% skullet.

Shocking!

When I'm not at my unpaid job, I'm at my barely paid job. I'm glad I didn't quit Wal-mart yet. It keeps me grounded in what I've come to know as reality. A woman came up to me the other day and told me there was something wrong with her cart. She said she got a bad shock every time she touched it. I explained to her how passing through all the racks of clothing built up a lot of friction. Seriously, if I had a dollar for every time I got shocked during my shift, I could buy Wal-Mart. But she was looking at me like she expected me to do something. This gave me a pretty good idea about what kind of person she was, so I went into my supply room and came back with a spare bar from a clothing rack and said it was our de-shocker. I touched her cart with it and told her that now she might still get some shocks, but they would be less powerful and that she could come back if she needed me to de-shock it again. It must have worked pretty well because she only had to come back once. Helping people - it's what I do. She may have been crazy but I understand her pain. I once touched a cart and got shocked so badly I almost peed myself.

Wardrobe Malfunction

Why do the skanks always ruin things for everyone else? Very soon all employees at our Wal-mart will be required to wear new store-issued t-shirts in addition to our blue vests. Apparently there were too many cleavage related complaints from customers. I don't really blame the skanks. They don't know any better; most of them grew up in Spryfield. I do blame the people who complained. You have to expect a certain level of trashiness when you walk into a Wal-mart. If you're all fancy and super high-class, you should shop at Sears.

Because my job isn't intellectually challenging, I try to make it physically challenging. If there's an opportunity to run, I do. Instead of picking things up like a normal person, I do squats. Unfortunately my cheap dress pants were not meant to withstand the punishment I put them through at work and one hour into an eight hour shift today, I squatted to pick something up and heard a comically loud ripping sound. I wasn't too surprised; it wasn't the first time something I thought only happened in cartoons happened at Wal-mart. I checked out the damage in a mirror. There was a huge split in my pants, but it wasn't too noticeable if I stood up completely straight, which I attempted to do for the remainder of my shift. I still had to keep the sales floor tidy which I managed by doing a graceful sideways dip and swiping at fallen merchandise with a clothes hanger. I survive another day. It was a bit drafty walking home.

Spring has Sprung

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.

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.

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.

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.