It’s Simply a Matter of Skill

I keep sleeping through my alarms. If I didn’t have anything important to do, it wouldn’t be a big deal. However, if I sleep through ny alarms and don’t open my store, I might get fired.

And that’s bad.

So I found this app where you have to do math to turn off the alarm or make it snooze. I thought it would be a great idea. Unfortunately I appear to have an amazing ability to add and subtract regardless of how awake I am. In fact, I seem to be better when I’m not fully awake than when I’m fully awake.

And that’s a scary thought.

Though it’s not nearly aa frightening as how many people it took to change the soap in the bathroom today.

I got this call from my store asking how to do it. They said they’d both tried, and nothing was working. So I asked if they had the key.

Which makes me sad, because what kind if world do we live in where soap dispensers have to be designed to keep people from stealing the specially designed soap container that only dispenses soap from an approved dispenser?

So, anyway, they found the key in another dispenser, however, they were unable to dislodge it. These aren’t little weakling nerdy boys. These are down to earth guys, one of which is delightfully blue collar and the other is active and athletic. Yet neither of them could pull one little piece of plastic out of the other. Right.

Uriah to the rescue.

So I get out of my oh-so-comfy bed and drive over to my store. Sure enough, the key won’t budge. I was emasculated three inches of plastic.

Somewhere along the way, while explaining how to do it over the phone, they got a thing stuck in the empty dispenser. This thing looks like the appropriate tool, however, it is not.


I have to drop to my knees in this tiny bathroom and wedge myself between the toilet and the wall just to look at this thing.  (There’s a nice gay joke in there somewhere, I’m sure.)

Long story short, I was saved by my pen.  And I’m sure tomorrow I’ll get a call or text message from someone telling me I’m an idiot for not knowing how to unjam it.

The highlight of my day was The Grocery Store calling me in regards to my survey.  I wonder if they got my email yet? The woman on the phone sounded so cheerful.  Hopefully I’ll have some cool story about our conversation tomorrow.

Today’s Post Brought to You by the Letters B and S

Someone stank up the bathroom before I got in here. And now someone’s waiting outside.

They’re gonna think it was me. But, I swear, my poo doesn’t smell like that. My poo smells like ice cream and flowers.


But, hey, at least they managed to poo INSIDE the toilet. Always a plus.

Happy Friday!

So, today’s my Friday. I’m excited for that. It means I can sleep in. And, boy, do I want to sleep in. Which means I’ll probably wake up around six. It’s sad when 6am is sleeping in. I’m generally getting up when everyone else is leaving the club.

So I wonder: what should I do tonight? Anything?

I’m open to suggestions…

And, as a side note: food always tastes better when the boss buys it.


She was so tired she just sort of fell over. That’s about how I feel.


And Then Someone Potties in the Trash Can

Yesterday started off rather decent. I decided not to workout at all, something I haven’t done in weeks. I thought my body could use the rest.

Then I had a conversation with my boss and everything went to Hell. No matter, I’m getting what I need and I’ll be able to eat in June, and that’s what matters most, right?

Of course, that’s about the time my back started to hurt. No big deal. Can’t ride out the pain, I have meds for that. They didn’t kick in, but no matter, I can take it.

Then I go outside to do the trash. It’s late, about 9:30pm. It was a warm day, getting up into the lower 90s. I get all but one. The last one. And that’s when it hits me.

The smell.

There’s a certain smell dead things have when they start to decay. It’s unlike anything else. I’ve smelled it enough in my life to recognize it, or so I thought.

Things die all the time. Maybe some customer found a dead bird or had a pet they needed to dispose of and thought my trashcan would be the best place for it. I don’t ask questions. It’s better not to know some things.

I took the cover off and grabbed hold of the bag. This is one of the few times I’ve decided not to wear gloves while changing trash. There wasn’t much of it, and what trash there was consisted of mostly paper and cardboard. Nothing too messy.

I unrolled the bag from under the rim of the trash can, and the smell started to get worse. I turned my head to the side to get a bit of fresh air, then I lifted. The trash in the bag shifted. It was heavier than I thought, about 50 pounds. I took a breath to steady myself for the long pull. And it hit me.

It was like getting smacked in the face with a Louisville Slugger by Jose Canseco.  I stumbled a bit. It wasn’t that death smell. This was something completely different. I couldn’t place it. Rather, I didn’t want to place it. My brain knew what it was, it just didn’t want to share that knowledge. I poked it, prodded it, annoyed it like a little brother. And it told me halfway through my third try.


Someone, many hours before, had pooped in the trashcan.

And it sat there.

In the sun.

In 90+ degrees.




I staggered.  Put my hands on my knees for balance. And retched.  Repeatedly.  My eyes watered. My stomach heaved, roiled, tried to boil over.

I couldn’t get away from it because my body was trying to purge itself of some horrid thing it thought was inside.  It didn’t know what was attacking it was outside. I almost had to crawl away from the vile…creation, left for me by some kind and generous soul.

Somehow, the stench has managed to permeate every fiber of my clothing, and for the last three hours of my shift, I smelled of poo that sat in the sun, through the heat of the day. My evening was not pleasant after that.

God bless you, Trash Can Pooper.

On the bright side, this is my ride:


This is my view from the driver’s seat:


Gotta take the good with the bad, right?

I didn’t think Hell existed until those two hours…

I had a rather frustrating day, and this was the very last thing I did.  This is what happens when you just throw someone into a place they know nothing about.

So a deaf and half blind lady walks into the store at about 11:45.  She has a $5 Bingo card.  You know, the new yellow ones with the extra bingo lines on top? That one.  She lets me know she’s deaf, hands me the ticket, and I validate it (scanned it into the machine and typed in the special numbers).  I tell her it’s $5 and ask if she wants another ticket.  She makes some strange-non-sign-language gestures and I think, “oh, she just wants cash,” and proceed to do the $5 lottery win on the register. As I try to hand her the $5 and ask her if she needs anything else she slams her hand on the counter, makes some noises, snatches the ticket from me, points rather vehemently at it, and throws it back at me. I make the confused face and hand her some paper and a pen. She picks them up and slams them back down and somehow managed to non verbally tell me it should be more than that.  So I try to validate it again and, low-and-behold, “previously paid by you”. So I show her the validation slips and the one that said it was the right thing, and she, again, starts gesticulating wildly and making noses. So I try to explain to her that the computer
is right and she is wrong.  She won’t have it.  So I try to get her to use the self-check-thingy, and she refuses.  So I actually go over the call numbers with her to show her why it’s only $5, and she refuses to believe me.  So now I have a line of 10 people and a rather upset deaf and half blind woman and everyone is extremely frustrated when she grabs the ticket out of my hand and tries to leave.  I start gesticulating wildly and yelling that she can’t do that and to let me call and see what I can do.

So I get out my cell phone (because god forbid we actually have a phone in this piece of shit store that’s actually hearing impaired friendly) and call the G-TECH hotline and start running the only other register we have to knock down the line. So now I’m trying to explain to a half deaf blind woman that her ticket is only worth $5, wait on ten to fifteen people, and explain the situation to the lottery Helpdesk people, all at the same time.  I finally get the line down and the lady transfers me to the local claim center, and I’m trying to explain the situation to the lady on the phone and she’s just not understanding.  She keeps saying, “I don’t understand what the problem is.  The computer says it’s a $5 winner, it’s a $5 winner.”

“Well, ma’am, the customer is saying it should be more than that.”

“How much does the player think it should be?”

“Ma’am, how much do you think it should be?”

So she starts making weird noises and using her not-sign-language-signing to tell me twelve.  No, wait, not twelve, $120. No, wait, not $120 but $130.

“Sir, what game is this?”

“$5 bingo”

“There isn’t a $130 on the $5 bingo.  Flip the card over and show her the winning increments and explain those are the only denominations this game plays out.”

Somehow in the midst of this conversation and being transferred, etc., I went from having no one else in the store to having  a store filled with people! And I’m not talking a line of 20, I’m talking boulder to shoulder, tits to back, all three aisles and the back wall,
people waiting to get in, more than 50 people, above my fire Marshall regulated capacity filled with people. THERE WAS A TEN MINUTE

So the player says to go ahead and wait on the customers and the lady on the phone lets me take up her time while I try to knock out this insane line BY MYSELF.  So I’m explaining, while waiting on customers, exactly what’s transpired so this woman knows exactly what’s been going on and why I had to call the claim center in order to have someone explain to me to explain to this player why she only won $5.

So now the line is gone, it’s just us again, and I flip the card over and show her that there is no $130 or $120 winning increments in this game and she starts making noises again and gesticulating and pointing and is almost on the verge of tears and the lady on the phone, in her thick Jersey accent, goes, “oh, you’ve got a real problem there, sir, a real problem.  I can see that now.  Let me call lotto and see if we can’t find a rep in your area to come and help you.  Just give me a couple of minutes.  I need your retailer number and your phone number.”

So I give her all this information while I’m writing down what she told me so this half blind deaf lady understands what’s going on.  It’s now 12:30 and the lunch crowd is there and I, once again, have three lines of about 10-15 people each and can only use the one register. Yay.

So the player is happy and content to wait, and starts going over the ticket again to see if she’s wrong and I start running THE ONLY REGISTER LEFT BECAUSE SHE WON’T LEAVE THE COUNTER AY THE OTHER REGISTER to try to get the lines down. Alone.

So my phone rings with an Austin area code and they tell me they didn’t get my retailer number and that they’re trying to find ANYONE in the area who can come help me.  FINALLY a lady calls me (some district manager) and we go over everything that’s happened and she tells me the woman HAS to take the money because no one else can pay it.  I explain that the woman will not take the money.  She wants what she thinks she won or the ticket.  So she tells me to take her to the self-check-thingy and show her that it’s only $5.  So I do this (walking between my line of thankfully only 10 people) and she is again vehement that it’s more than $5 and the machine is wrong.

So the woman tells me the player can go to the claim center and contest it, to give her the player copy of the validation and keep mine, separate, because she will eventually have to come back and get her money from us because NO ONE ELSE CAN PAY HER.  She goes, “I can explain it to her, of you’d like.”

“Well, ma’am, you see, the problem comes on with the fact she’s deaf.”

“Oh. No wonder this has been so difficult.  Ok, I’ll wait while you explain.”  (Note: I don’t think she meant that deaf people are stupid, just that there was a severe lack of communication.  I’m half deaf and wholly intelligent.)

So I write down all of this information and she starts using another pen and paper to already start arguing with me (I almost laughed about arguing on brown paper bags) and I tell her to hang on and let me finish writing it out.

“You can take the $5 and contest it at the claim center (this is where she started slamming and arguing again and I told her to wait and let me finish). You can also take the ticket to the claim center, however, NO ONE ELSE will be able to pay you. You would have to come back here to get your money.”

So that’s what she wants to do. So I get the address for her, give the retailer number, game number, pack number, and
ticket number to the lady on the phone, and then have to give my name, the store manager’s name, the corporate customer service number (because god forbid we actually have the store’s phone number posted by the registers where it belongs), explain that I’m not from that store, the store manager is on vacation, give her MY store number and my stores phone number.

And then it was almost 1:30.

Idiots and Assholes

We had someone come in today that wanted to try and put $85 worth of fuel into a ’94 Honda Civic. That’s not gonna work, at least not at $3.49/gal. But, hey, what do I know? I’m just a stupid, illiterate cashier at a gas station.

So he gives me $60 cash, and wants to put $25 on his gift card. He gets, SOMEHOW, $70 worth of fuel into that car. He then comes inside for the rest. The register AUTOMATICALLY puts it back onto his gift card. He then proceeds to scream at me (no, not yell, not raise his voice, blood curdling, “OHMYGODHELPMEHELPHELPIMBEINGRAPEDOMGOMGOMGIMGONNADIE” screaming) that *I* should have asked him how he wanted his change back.

So I let him finish (I AM Mr. Customer-Service) and then calmly attempted to explain that I have no control over it and the computer did it AUTOMATICALLY. He apparently didn’t like that response, so he threw his gift card at me and DEMANDED that I give him his money back. At this point, with a polite customer, I will empathize, explain there’s nothing I’m aware of that I can do, however, if you have a few minutes I can call Helpdesk/my boss and see if there’s a work-around for it.

Not Mr. Throw-shit-in-my-face-and-cuss-me-out-and-accuse-me-of-robbing-him-blind. No, I slammed the card down on the counter, gave him his receipt, and said, “well, SIR, since I’m NOT a computer and you’re too stupid to understand, why don’t you take this bag that has the customer service number on it and call to see what they say.”


“I don’t owe you anything. The money is still in your possession on that gift card.”

“You should have asked me-”

“What part of ‘the computer did it automatically’ did you NOT understand?”

“Well, you need to give me a printout that shows my fifteenfuckingdollars is on this card!” (Don’t get me started on the singular v. plural thing, please.)

So I give it to him, and he starts screaming again, so I talk over him and say, “well, sir, YOU’RE the one who paid for the fuel, and here’s THAT receipt. YOU’RE the one that couldn’t get all the fuel into your car, and here’s THAT receipt. And since you INSIST I’m trying to rip you off, here’s the receipt that shows the balance remaining on your card-”

“Then I want to cash this in!”

“It says on the back it’s NOT returnable for cash! The card HAS NO CASH VALUE! Now take your money and GET OUT OF MY STORE!”

I should have known it was going to be a fun day when the first thing I had to do was clean up 33 gallons of fuel because the BRAND NEW nozzle disintegrated in a customers hand.

But, hey, at least I can’t complain that I was bored today.

Abandoned Hooker

She walked in with a cigarette in her mouth, wobbling around in her drunken state on too-high stripper heals. Sitting down at the bar, she began rummaging through her purse while talking on her phone to a mysterious person while every guy who entered the store looked upon her bare legs and almost bare breasts (aside: my phone just tried to autocorrect breast to bareback…I think it’s gay, too) with lustful longing in their eyes. She rose, stumbling forward in an entertaining wobbledyweave towards the bathroom. 45 minutes later she escaped her prison-like confines of the Women’s Restroom, approached the counter, flashed her minimalistic bosom, and demanded a cigarette as retribution. I claimed I didn’t smoke, she swore I “had got to be fucking kidding” her, and spent the next hour stumbling around the parking lot, screaming into her phone at Jason, her abandoner, before finally finding a new John to take her in for the night.