Dear Sir,
While I understand that coming the the grocery store right after finishing up at the gym is less time consuming than stopping off to shower or apply deodorant, I do not think that it is fair to blame the tilapia fillets for the wafting stink causing everyone to cough and wrinkle their noses.
Also, I am glad you enjoyed the selections you cherry picked (ahem, stole) directly from the olive bar, sans toothpick or container. However, nothing in this world could make me accept the pits from your outstretched hand upon checkout. You walked past several garbage bins to get to the lane, and will pass 2 more while exiting the store. I cannot imagine why you think part of my job description requires my letting you drop the spitty pits you've been ruminating into my unprotected hand. And I'm sorry for your embarrassment when I said, loudly, "Sir, I am not going to touch anything that has been in your mouth. It's against the law. Put it in that trashcan right there yourself. And help yourself to a napkin before you pay, please."
You are not the rudest customer I've had, not even this hour. But your particular brand of oblivious disregard for polite social interaction makes me want to pull the ridiculous sweatband down from your ears and choke you with it. Or at the very least, not rubber-band your containers together, so that they leak, and stain your car seats.
Thank you so much, sir, you have a great night!
CC
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Inconsiderate D-Bag Yuppie
It was slightly less busy than usual last night, as the ominous skies probably kept people home. Things were just plugging along, hitch free. I was keeping the hippies at bay, smiling at the babies and ringing as fast as I could. I strive to get customers away from me as fast as possible, all the while being "secret-shop" appropriate. That is the goal.
A man waited in line with his loaded cart, and as soon as I greeted him, he spun on his heel and ran to get some more stuff. I wish people would fucking finish shopping before they decide to check out. It's unfair to the people behind you in line, not to mention the poor cashier, to make everyone wait around on your lame ass. So I walked around the counter, unpacked his entire cart, and started ringing. The CAs (cashier's assistants) were all upstairs clearing the lot (ie: smoking, texting, hiding in the stairwells), so I had to bag it all up as I went. This is time consuming. He meanders back, arms full of bottled water, and says "Oh, I thought you'd be close to done by now."
"Well sir, it takes a little bit longer when I have to empty your cart, and ring AND bag your whole order myself. Feel free to pitch in though." I smile at him and continue working on his groceries. I hope his credit card gets denied and that his prepared food has hair in it.
He didn't move. He literally watched every move I made ringing AND double bagging $246 bucks worth of convenience-packaged organic food. While I worked, he complained out loud, to no one in particular, about how "amazingly terrible that WF doesn't sell Tylenol ." I didn't explain why we don't. It wouldn't matter. I secured the terminal while I put his bags in his cart, effectively canceling his credit card slide. It's a small thing I do to annoy people who are unhelpful. It makes me feel better.
When he bitched about having to dig the card out of his wallet to re-slide it, I just said "Well, sir, I have to secure the terminal when you make me step away to put your bags in your cart. It's the law."
He grumbled and attacked the PPD with the pen. I reached over and handed him the large stylus attached to the machine. "It works so much better when you use this, sir." I am sickeningly polite at times. He asked for $50 cash back, which I gave him in 10s and 5s and singles. I shut the cash drawer before he could protest. As he wheeled his full cart away, I called "Thank you so much sir. I hope you feel better."
He didn't say anything. People like that never do. It is a vicious cycle. People like that are rude to cashiers and bartenders and waitresses, and they always get service that meets the bog standard, but never exceeds it. So they never feel compelled to be nice or say hello or thank you. And they never get great service.
Because they are inconsiderate yuppie douchebags.
A man waited in line with his loaded cart, and as soon as I greeted him, he spun on his heel and ran to get some more stuff. I wish people would fucking finish shopping before they decide to check out. It's unfair to the people behind you in line, not to mention the poor cashier, to make everyone wait around on your lame ass. So I walked around the counter, unpacked his entire cart, and started ringing. The CAs (cashier's assistants) were all upstairs clearing the lot (ie: smoking, texting, hiding in the stairwells), so I had to bag it all up as I went. This is time consuming. He meanders back, arms full of bottled water, and says "Oh, I thought you'd be close to done by now."
"Well sir, it takes a little bit longer when I have to empty your cart, and ring AND bag your whole order myself. Feel free to pitch in though." I smile at him and continue working on his groceries. I hope his credit card gets denied and that his prepared food has hair in it.
He didn't move. He literally watched every move I made ringing AND double bagging $246 bucks worth of convenience-packaged organic food. While I worked, he complained out loud, to no one in particular, about how "amazingly terrible that WF doesn't sell Tylenol ." I didn't explain why we don't. It wouldn't matter. I secured the terminal while I put his bags in his cart, effectively canceling his credit card slide. It's a small thing I do to annoy people who are unhelpful. It makes me feel better.
When he bitched about having to dig the card out of his wallet to re-slide it, I just said "Well, sir, I have to secure the terminal when you make me step away to put your bags in your cart. It's the law."
He grumbled and attacked the PPD with the pen. I reached over and handed him the large stylus attached to the machine. "It works so much better when you use this, sir." I am sickeningly polite at times. He asked for $50 cash back, which I gave him in 10s and 5s and singles. I shut the cash drawer before he could protest. As he wheeled his full cart away, I called "Thank you so much sir. I hope you feel better."
He didn't say anything. People like that never do. It is a vicious cycle. People like that are rude to cashiers and bartenders and waitresses, and they always get service that meets the bog standard, but never exceeds it. So they never feel compelled to be nice or say hello or thank you. And they never get great service.
Because they are inconsiderate yuppie douchebags.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
1 Bag
CC: Would you like this in 1 bag, sir?
Old Yuppie with crumbs in his beard: Well, sure, if you think it can all fit. If you can get it all in there, I'd prefer it in one....You think it'll all fit? In the one?
CC: (handing packed bag to stupid customer) Yup.
If the cashier or the person bagging your groceries asks if you want your items in one bag, they will fit. The subject would have never been raised for you to approve of if the trained professional had not already ascertained that it was in fact a physical possibility for the items to go in one bag. Trust me, it is in the best interests of the me, the employee, that your bag not explode the second you step away from my register. I'm not out to ruin your day, at least not in a way that could cause me any extra work.
And on the subject of doubling your bag: just ask for it. Don't play coy, hinting around that you have to walk 100 blocks in the driving rain or that you plan to tie your bags to the handles of your 10-speed. If your bag needs doubled, I will do it. If you just want it that way because it calms the OCD or will bring you one step closer to re-doing your living room in WF bag slipcovers, then just f-ing pipe up.
I will do anything within reason to make you pay and get the fuck out of my line as fast as possible. For serious.
Old Yuppie with crumbs in his beard: Well, sure, if you think it can all fit. If you can get it all in there, I'd prefer it in one....You think it'll all fit? In the one?
CC: (handing packed bag to stupid customer) Yup.
If the cashier or the person bagging your groceries asks if you want your items in one bag, they will fit. The subject would have never been raised for you to approve of if the trained professional had not already ascertained that it was in fact a physical possibility for the items to go in one bag. Trust me, it is in the best interests of the me, the employee, that your bag not explode the second you step away from my register. I'm not out to ruin your day, at least not in a way that could cause me any extra work.
And on the subject of doubling your bag: just ask for it. Don't play coy, hinting around that you have to walk 100 blocks in the driving rain or that you plan to tie your bags to the handles of your 10-speed. If your bag needs doubled, I will do it. If you just want it that way because it calms the OCD or will bring you one step closer to re-doing your living room in WF bag slipcovers, then just f-ing pipe up.
I will do anything within reason to make you pay and get the fuck out of my line as fast as possible. For serious.
Friday, March 7, 2008
How It Began
I didn't realize that they'd put us on register the first day. I had never been in retail or worked a scanning device. I was not prepared to deal with customers. This I will admit.
It was a Monday, about the time when those with non-retail, un-service industry jobs got off work, and the WF was bursting with people trying to get a pound of fish, a few lemons, some scallions, for dinner. Every lane was open and had a bagger. There were supervisors directing customers to shorter lines and people shuttling baskets around. Anything to make it easier on the Customer. I marveled at this, and was genuinely impressed by how smoothly the chaos was progressing.
I settled on the last register, the trainer, Yvonne, bagging for me. I flipped my sign and looked up to greet my first Customer, a sweaty older woman in coordinated workout clothes.
In the early training, being nice is stressed as the most important thing. People paid more to shop here, they explained, because the team members *gag* are nicer and more helpful than anywhere else.
I greeted my first customer happily as I scanned a few pricey hunks of cheese. I was going to follow the script exactly.
"Hey there, how are you today? Did you find everything you were looking for?"
No response.
I asked her "what type of bag she might prefer this evening" as I bundled together her olive containers, and she silenced me with one finger. She was pacing and tapping her ear and nodding. Oh, I realized. She's crazy.
I rang everything in dutifully, correctly, looking up the codes for vegetables I'd enjoyed in restaurants, but never cooked with myself: fennel, celeriac, arugula. I was happy that I knew what everything was, and that I was able to locate it on the long code list so quickly. I could do this, I thought. It's meditative work. Easy.
"I wanted plastic, miss." The woman drummed her fingertips as she addressed me.
"I'm sorry! You didn't say anything when I asked you, and I have to give you paper then. We can fix it though," I burbled with enthusiasm as Yvonne rolled her eyes and began re-bagging all of the groceries.
The woman resumed her pacing and ear-tapping. "Sorry, Margaret, I had to correct the check-out girl. I'm at WF."
I then realized she had been on the phone the entire time. Tiny Bluetooth headsets made it very difficult to tell who was crazy and who was simply on the phone. I kept scanning.
The woman finished up her phone call and looked at me. "You," she declared,"are new. And very slow. I don't know why I do this to myself. How have I never learned!"
I had no idea what to say. I couldn't commiserate with her, as I might indirectly disparage WF. And I couldn't really defend myself, as I could offend her.
I piped up, "Yes, I am new. My first day today." Another beaming smile.
She looked at her sport watch and slid her credit card. I looked at the sheet for the 4-digit code to weigh the last item. I was so happy this woman was almost away from me.
"I can't believe you don't even know the code for garlic." She punched the buttons on the debit machine violently. I looked at my cheat sheet and entered the numbers for a card transaction and fumbled for what I should say.
"Well, this isn't an express lane or anything. And the sign does say that it's my first day.....and I'm sorry you're so unhappy. Hope you're day gets better. Thanks!" I smiled broadly as she snatched the receipt from my outstretched hand and stormed off.
Yvonne looked at me, nodding her head. "Shit, you real nice. You gonna be fine."
And I really was. I've been there over a year. I am a trainer now myself. And I hate every second of it. It is made bearable by a few good co-workers, a remarkably vivid inner life, and the fact that I come home to a very loving, understanding boyfriend.
However, I cannot believe that my financial stability hinges on my ability to please and enable and smile, through the most hideous, rude, crazy-face behavior imaginable.
In the words of my mother: Kill'em with kindness.
It was a Monday, about the time when those with non-retail, un-service industry jobs got off work, and the WF was bursting with people trying to get a pound of fish, a few lemons, some scallions, for dinner. Every lane was open and had a bagger. There were supervisors directing customers to shorter lines and people shuttling baskets around. Anything to make it easier on the Customer. I marveled at this, and was genuinely impressed by how smoothly the chaos was progressing.
I settled on the last register, the trainer, Yvonne, bagging for me. I flipped my sign and looked up to greet my first Customer, a sweaty older woman in coordinated workout clothes.
In the early training, being nice is stressed as the most important thing. People paid more to shop here, they explained, because the team members *gag* are nicer and more helpful than anywhere else.
I greeted my first customer happily as I scanned a few pricey hunks of cheese. I was going to follow the script exactly.
"Hey there, how are you today? Did you find everything you were looking for?"
No response.
I asked her "what type of bag she might prefer this evening" as I bundled together her olive containers, and she silenced me with one finger. She was pacing and tapping her ear and nodding. Oh, I realized. She's crazy.
I rang everything in dutifully, correctly, looking up the codes for vegetables I'd enjoyed in restaurants, but never cooked with myself: fennel, celeriac, arugula. I was happy that I knew what everything was, and that I was able to locate it on the long code list so quickly. I could do this, I thought. It's meditative work. Easy.
"I wanted plastic, miss." The woman drummed her fingertips as she addressed me.
"I'm sorry! You didn't say anything when I asked you, and I have to give you paper then. We can fix it though," I burbled with enthusiasm as Yvonne rolled her eyes and began re-bagging all of the groceries.
The woman resumed her pacing and ear-tapping. "Sorry, Margaret, I had to correct the check-out girl. I'm at WF."
I then realized she had been on the phone the entire time. Tiny Bluetooth headsets made it very difficult to tell who was crazy and who was simply on the phone. I kept scanning.
The woman finished up her phone call and looked at me. "You," she declared,"are new. And very slow. I don't know why I do this to myself. How have I never learned!"
I had no idea what to say. I couldn't commiserate with her, as I might indirectly disparage WF. And I couldn't really defend myself, as I could offend her.
I piped up, "Yes, I am new. My first day today." Another beaming smile.
She looked at her sport watch and slid her credit card. I looked at the sheet for the 4-digit code to weigh the last item. I was so happy this woman was almost away from me.
"I can't believe you don't even know the code for garlic." She punched the buttons on the debit machine violently. I looked at my cheat sheet and entered the numbers for a card transaction and fumbled for what I should say.
"Well, this isn't an express lane or anything. And the sign does say that it's my first day.....and I'm sorry you're so unhappy. Hope you're day gets better. Thanks!" I smiled broadly as she snatched the receipt from my outstretched hand and stormed off.
Yvonne looked at me, nodding her head. "Shit, you real nice. You gonna be fine."
And I really was. I've been there over a year. I am a trainer now myself. And I hate every second of it. It is made bearable by a few good co-workers, a remarkably vivid inner life, and the fact that I come home to a very loving, understanding boyfriend.
However, I cannot believe that my financial stability hinges on my ability to please and enable and smile, through the most hideous, rude, crazy-face behavior imaginable.
In the words of my mother: Kill'em with kindness.
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