Talking makes you die

[inyri]

In travelogue-related news, I should have the second batch of photos back from the developers by tomorrow, so I will post those and the day-by-day of my trip when I get those back. (Not, I'm sure, that most of you care, but I know Karina wanted pictures so I'll post them for her, at the very least.)

In work-related news, working retail is making me more cynical. I wasn't sure that was possible. I have a few pet peeves about work so far, but these are pet peeves of the "don't make me find a box-cutter and kill you with it" variety.

First... yes, I have to wear a badge with my name on it. Yes, my name is actually Sam, and yes, it's short for Samantha. Being able to read my name badge does not impress me, nor does it make me your friend. And if you touch me, I swear to god I'll fuckin' kill you. You may think it's cute, customer, but trust me. After the 50th sketchy old Scottsdale man tries to make touchy conversation, I'd like nothing more than to go home and shower.

Second, our registers are from 1989. No, we're probably not getting new ones any time soon (corporate sucks). Yes, it prints your credit card number on the slip you sign. No, I can't change that. No, I'm not going to steal your card number. And no, customer from today, you self-righteous jackass, my register is not internet-capable. If you want to look on our website, go home and look on our website. Jerk. Telling me to "get in the 21st century" will not endear you to me, it just makes you die.

Third, I am not your babysitter. I am not your wedding planner, your chiropractor, your garbage collector or your maid. I bet you pay your child care professional a lot more than I get paid- at least, I hope you do, if you value your children. I do NOT have time to watch precious Junior while you lollygag in the massage chairs. Yes, those are steak knives, and yes, they're sharp. If Junior breaks it, you just bought it. That goes double for yappy little dogs. I'm not cleaning up dog pee off the floor, so keep Fido outside. Nor do I care to hear about your various health problems. Save that for after medical school, when I'm getting paid to listen to you bitch.

Handled fourth black Amex card today. This is a new record for me (and it's still July).

Whew. I feel better.

Comments

[oberndorf.livejournal.com]

While I can sympathize with you retail woes, I usually find that it works the other way around. The clerk asks for the odd personal details (usually: "Where are you from?" or: "I can't quite place that accent.") or tells me how they're doing. I guess it's supposed to put me at ease.

Also, I've never seen an internet-capable register that the customer dealt with. (I've seen the odd register that goes online to verify credit cards or checks, and I think Borders can do a check of their other stores, but. . .) Did this joker really think you'd let him check his e-mail on the register even if it did connect?

[sabrielrose.livejournal.com]

He didn't want to check his e-mail, I don't think... just wanted to browse our catalog site, or have me tell him whether we stock a specific item on the website. (Since we have 10,000+ things easily, I can't remember them all offhand). Mostly I think he was just being a jackass.

I agree that it's usually the clerk that's doing the small talk, but I work in the prime area for dirty old men scoping out trophy wives and girlfriends. It makes me wish I had a taser.

[oberndorf.livejournal.com]

Ah. Yeah. In that light, go for the taser. Possibly a cattle prod.