Technically, My Meta-Car Can Drive Upside Down

There's something in the air. No, it's not the last breath of the summer phoenix, the last breath of warmth before winter's chill sets in for a solid 9 or 10 fucking months, the last breath of hope until June brings the real thaw (not those pathetic thaws that April and May think will do the job in Northern Utah). Although now that I think about it, it is getting pretty damn cold here. And maybe the coming frostbite and blackened extremities are linked to what I feel compelled to type here this very day. That 'something' in the air is emotion. People be freakin' out at all times, and in all things, and in all places. So scoot up near the fireplace--if you have a laptop; if you have a desktop maybe you should invest in some leeches or witch repellent--and sit back whilst I ruminate.

I feel compelled to relate a couple of anecdotes, anecdotes that, at the time, really sucked to experience. Now that I've thought about both of them, they're actually pretty funny. Isn't it strange how that always seems to be the case? (Note to reader: the strange I meant was the fact that anecdotes seem to always happen in twos, so if you were thinking some bullshit about how time heals wounds. . . psych, bitch). Where was I? Ah, emotions.

I was working at the Customer Information Desk, or CID to the retail world's higher-ups who think that acronyms improve customer service, and a woman walked up to me. I promise this gets better; I'm just putting on my Rumination Cap, or RC. This woman was old and quite possible senile--it's so hard to tell sometimes, especially since the two tend to be synonymous. This woman, I'll call her Wrinkletits for the sake of convenience, really wanted a particular item. Wrinkletits had already been back to the appropriate department to ask for the item. However, it is not an article our store carries. Wrinkletits was notified by the employees in the department. Then they sent her up to me. They had told her that perhaps I could order it from another store. . . yeah, totally can't. In fact, it's the item's department's job to do that. So I called back to them, and they looked at me like I was crazy. Well, I assume they looked; we use regular phones. I related this tidbit to Wrinkletits. Here was her response, "Well, I really hate to tell you this, but you are engaging in false advertising. You shouldn't advertise items you don't carry. In fact, it's illegal and immoral. . . blah blah blah (continue anti-Kroger tirade for a few more minutes)." I proceeded to do absolutely nothing and say absolutely nothing, and I probably owe my job to that fact.

Technically, all of our ads include a disclaimer that says something like "all items may not be available in all stores." Technically, we don't decide which items to carry; some dude with a mahogany desk and more paid vacation than I could shake a baby at decides what we carry. Technically, although I am a very talented technical writer--I lie sometimes--and probably could produce the ad for our chain of stores--did I mention that I lie sometimes?--I had absolutely nothing to do with the printing of said advertisement. Technically, my so-called lack of morality and disdain for my civic duty to uphold the laws of fair trade were actually delusions of a disgruntled spendthrift bitch. Technically, I have shitloads of morality--I never lie--and I love my country more than I love certain other countries which shall remain nameless due to the fact that I have no desire to have a Rushdie-style fatwa issued against me or the non-burka-wearing females of my extended family.

Technically, Wrinkletits had absolutely no reason to comment to me about any of this. Technically, there's absolutely nothing I could have done to appease her ridiculous request. Technically, I had no reason to start a new paragraph two sentences prior to this one. Technically, I cared less than half an iota about Wrinkletits' situation. Technically, I have no more to say than this: sometimes, people need to calm the fuck down.

Pressing onward, now that my RC is quite comfortably grinding into my cranium, I shall now proceed with yet another tale of overemotional people. It just so happens that this event occurred merely a few hours after the encounter which I have just disclosed. It also just so happens that this little saga also involves me interacting with yet another senile old bag. Perhaps Wrinkletits is roommates with the as-yet-unnamed slag who so interrupted my playing of one of my favorite workplace games: placing the phrase 'in my pants' after the titles of any Enya songs that come to mind (Orinoco Flow, anyone?). I only make this potential-roommates suggestion because sometimes females who live together eventually find their cycles in sync . . . these ladies were both oddly emotional, and on the same day. I'm just sayin'.

Unnamed Slag walked up to the CID (do you still remember what that means?) right as I was thinking, "hmmmm. . . Wild Child? Ha ha ha! Gross!" She didn't grab my attention in the usual customer way, e.g., thumping around until I notice the presence of someone intent on ruining my day. She actually sniffed. Yes, she was in tears. Why? She had been charged 50 cents extra on each of her four Diet Cokes. The nasty cashier had perpetrated this evil upon her without her even noticing the sinister deed. Unnamed Slag had paid for her incorrectly-priced items despite the fact that each register is equipped with a screen that shows detailed information, in large print, about each and every item scanned. No doubt this payment under duress was due to the reprobate influence of the aforementioned nasty cashier. Unnamed Slag bought five items; four were charged incorrectly, yet somehow she failed to notice.

She told me her situation. I told her the situation based in this plane of reality. She had actually been charged correctly. The 50 cents she was 'overcharged' is normally removed from the total when 10 participating items are purchased. The signage is completely accurate; her eyesight was not. Now, I know I should have just handed over the 50 cents per item she felt she was entitled to, but I didn't. Not that I don't usually enjoy being talked down to, it just rubbed me the wrong way that day. I told her I would gladly adjust the price if she were to purchase the correct number of items. She told me that it was a ridiculous sale and that other stores would have done it for her. Plus, it was not her fault we don't carry 2-liter Caffeine Free Diet Coke in mass quantities. (Side note: it actually is her fault; a simple call to Coca-Cola would have ensured her any quantity she desired.)

Next, she removed her frequent shoppers card from her key ring and threw it at me, all the while saying, "My husband and I won't be shopping here." I didn't respond. Evidently, she felt compelled to say more. "We spend money here," she extolled. Yeah, no shit. There aren't many people who don't spend money in stores; they tend to get arrested and prosecuted for shoplifting. "A not insignificant amount of money," she noted. Double negative aside, fuck you, bitch; I don't work for tips. I probably don't need to say this, but she called a few hours later to complain about the cashier who helped her, myself, and the customer behind her who was apparently quite rude. My boss apologized profusely and proceeded to kiss this woman's puckered dirtstar for a good 10 minutes. Our customer-behavior-control spray is still in testing, so we were unable to control this rude customer's behavior. Some of our cashiers haven't been with us long enough to take note of all mishandled sale prices. Oh, and that asshole at the service desk is beyond all help and possibly psychotic. Our bad. Come back in for a price adjustment.

I really needed to get all that out. Humans have really been grating my cheese lately. Good thing I just bought bread--high-fiber, incidentally--because I am in need of a sandwich. Cheers.