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Humor March 2017

Add One More Day...

Curmudgeon … Grouch … Party Pooper ... What …. ever!

By Anne Ashley

Anyway, after standing in line with what seems like ten thousand other shoppers, chatting about the pros and cons of air fresheners with Doris the cashier, I'm finally awarded custody of my items and collecting said items back into my cart, only to be confronted at the exit by another staff member who performs what I can only assume is magic when they count all 137 items in my bags and boxes, compare the bundle to the receipt they demanded, and all in less time than it took Doris to comment on my toilet paper and then bid me a good day. 

Forgive me while I get my curmudgeon on in this article – well, more than I usually do, anyway.  My better half has given me an ultimatum that I either stop complaining about the issue below or he’s never stepping foot in a store with me again. Seriously!

Now, I know what you’re thinking; how unfair of him. How unsympathetic of him? How … it’s about time of him!

Anyway, in honor of his protest, I’m making my feelings known to all and sundry and forever banishing the offending topic to the dark recesses of my mind, thereafter. Or … somewhere thereabouts.

I have no doubt that if I were ever to work as a waitress or cashier, I’d fail miserably, in one shift, possibly even sooner than in one shift. Because, not only do I not have the charisma to endure hours of balancing plates of food or trays of drinks on my arm while I sashay my way to and from the tables without dropping said trays and plates, or completely ruining a customer’s dining experience with my ineptitude, I know it’s even less likely that I can carry off the current fashion of a tête-à-tête while I ring up purchases as a cashier.

Just a little aside here – obviously, cashiers are now being trained to comment on the customer’s choices as they ring them up because it can’t just be my luck that all clerks suddenly find my choices interesting enough to comment on them. I'm never intentionally rude or thoughtless but if they only knew what I was thinking as they compliment me on my choice of towels or my preferred brand of coffee!  It’s something akin to, I just stood in line for 25 minutes while you fawned over the last four customer’s candles, bar-b-q tongs and bug spray. I get it. Your stuff is amazing. You rock. Now, can I please pay and go home so I can fill out the performance questionnaire you so thoughtfully handed me at the same time as my change and let the next poor bastard customer enjoy your unsolicited opinions of their 2-for-1 packs of panties!

But I keep all this to myself preferring instead to bend my long-suffering husband’s ear all the way home on the insidiousness of talking about whether I prefer scented or unscented deodorant with a stranger.          

Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a simple case of a lack of appreciation or gratitude that there are far better people on this planet than I who are very able to perform such tasks. Thank God there for small miracles, I say. No, it’s more a case of being aware that the laudable profession of service to the public is not my forte and has become a different beast all together. And herein lies the problem.

In almost all grocery stores, restaurants or even the modest pizza delivery person, before I can escape with my purchases, I'm challenged to fill out a performance survey or a “quick review” of my interaction with the person serving me. In some cases, I'm further informed that the establishment is eager to know what I think about the way I was treated – or that they're having a contest to see who snags the most compliments in one shift.

Trust me, I'm not even remotely the person they want involved in their morale-building exercises! I'm always tempted to hand them my questionnaire in return, requesting that they fill it in as to how they found my demeanor or what they thought of my choice of pizza toppings before I give them the money I owe.  

But what’s even worse than all that? After spending a grueling hour collecting all the items on my list, negotiating around abandoned carts and obstructive sample wagons (I don’t know about you but I'm incapable of driving a shopping cart and eating a paper cup filled with lemon chicken on a stick at the same time without causing a near disaster. Last week’s offer of a cracker topped with seasoned meat and cheese nearly caused mayhem when the shopper/diner ahead of me lost the gunk on his cracker, stopped to collect it from the floor and instantly became intimate with my cart because I hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped to clean up his mess).

Anyway, after standing in line with what seems like ten thousand other shoppers, chatting about the pros and cons of air fresheners with Doris the cashier, I'm finally awarded custody of my items and collecting said items back into my cart, only to be confronted at the exit by another member of staff who performs what I can only assume is magic when they count all 137 items in my bags and boxes, compare the bundle to the receipt they demanded, and all in less time than it took Doris to comment on my toilet paper and then bid me a good day.

Once cleared for departure, I'm tempted to produce the pack of bacon I ‘d stuffed into my purse and spoil the savant’s day by showing that they missed something.! HA! Check that, bitches! But by this time my other half is threatening divorce if I don’t get into the car without offending one more person!     

Anyway, instead of serving free samples of inconvenient foods, I suggest supermarkets open a bar at the entrance for the likes of us who need to be a little sozzled so we can endure the assault course. If you want me to purchase your goods and praise your staff, how about a gin and tonic sample wagon next to the pretzels?  Or, a six-pack with every pizza … and then I’ll be happy to fill out your performance ratings!  

 

Be sure to follow me on twitter@anneashley57.

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