11

Nov

No, I Can’t Help You, M’am, My Hands are Full of Broken Glass

I really thought that customers couldn’t reach a new low but they prove time and time again that, yes, they can lower the bar ever lower. There is no limit for debauched customers.

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For example, two days ago, someone pooped on the floor. Actually. Pooped. On. The. Floor. I’m extremely hard to gross out so I got some bleach poured it over the area in question and donned a hazmat-like suit (no, just gloves actually) and cleaned it. It wasn’t the way I wanted to start off my day but you know what, things can’t really get worse after that, can it?

OR SO I THOUGHT.

I’m going about my day, doing my assigned tasks and a coworker tells me that there’s a wine spill. Okay, no problem. Someone breaks a regularly bottle of wine probably once a week. I walk over to the wine department, expecting a small wine puddle but instead see a huge spill and broken glass eeeeverywhere. I saw a couple of customers by the spill but they skittered away once they saw me. Didn’t apologize or anything. That’s fine. Whatever. FOR SHAME, HUMANITY. FOR SHAME.

THEN, as I am very obviously cleaning up a spill (literally, I was in the middle of a sea of wine and glass) and handling broken glass, a customer asked if I could help her. I didn’t even try to veil my absolute disgust at this woman as I turned around and said, “Actually, I can’t help you right now because I’m cleaning up broken glass that I don’t want other people to step on.” She says, “That’s fine, I’ll just ask my question as you work.” She then proceeds to ask an extremely specific, detailed question that I do not have the answer to, so I put down the shattered glass and get a coworker. But really, REALLY? I understand that the customer is important but COME ON, BROKEN/SHATTERED GLASS IS IN MY HANDS, do I really look like I’m in any position to assist you? Unless you are planning on buying broken glass, then I can’t help you.

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Thank goodness for amazing coworkers! They’re all I have in this (retail) world.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Fail/Humor/Retail Fail

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29

Mar

When You Spend Your Friday Night Wiping Poop Off Kittens

Literally, every day, one of the kittens is covered in its own feces. HAVE YOU NO SHAME, KITTENS? It gets really old giving a wriggly kitten a bath. It’s not even a real bath and it’s still traumatic for everyone involved. I have to wet a washcloth and pin him down and then scrub off the dried cat poop. It’s very humiliating for him, I’m sure. Definitely not a pleasant experience for me.

And the only way I know if one of the kittens have been playing in his own poop is if he comes close enough to me where I will either smell or see poop, not exactly the way I want to wake up in the morning: with kitten poop and it’s fragrance wafting around the room.

Today was no different from every other day the kittens have somehow managed to be lint-rollers that attract poop instead of lint. I turned on Storage Wars, put on yoga pants, and got ready to relax. And then, I saw it. One of the kittens, who has light orange fur, was suddenly transformed into a brown, ugly mess. There was poop. All over his head. He must have been trying to imitate one of those dung beetles he saw on National Geographic. You really shouldn’t let children under two watch television because this is what happens: they will imitate the actions they see on t.v. and make poor life decisions. Like play with poop.

There are other things I could be doing on a Friday night – bar-hopping, going on a date, going to a movie. Instead, I am chasing around a kitten who is tracking poop all over the room with each step of his poop-covered paw. And the chase ends on my bed, where the poop transfers from his paws to my clean sheets. Ah, yes. Namaste. Happy Friday.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Humor

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11

Mar

I Bought Fancy Toys for the Kittens but They Only Play with Their Poop

"Are you hiding poop in there?"

“Are you hiding poop in there?”

I don’t really understand why the kittens find poop preferable to the six jingley play balls and the pricey carpeted scratching post with feathers. They have ignored all of my efforts to impress them with material things. Maybe because they have self-sustaining entertainment: their own poop. I wish I had known this before I dropped a pretty penny trying to create a fun environment for them. I would have gotten bigger litter boxes or just filled my entire room with litter – oh wait, that’s already happened – had I known that they would enjoy what happens in the litter box so very much.

Every time I go into the room, the kittens are doing their darnedest to turn my room into a raw sewage dumping ground. Their toys sit sadly in dark corners, untouched save for some half-hearted pawing all the while the kittens thinking to themselves: I wish this was poop. 

This is what happens: they paw around balls of poo in the litter box until they successfully get a piece of it out. Then, they proceed to play table hockey amongst themselves using the poop as the puck.  I’m lucky if the poop is covered in cat litter. God forbid if it’s not and they step in it… they sprint away from me and track their feces to places unreachable by humans thus forever leaving their excrement as eternal monuments. The only positive aspect of this poop-flinging is that it forces me to constantly vacuum and clean. My room alternates between being a toxic waste site and being spotless.

I have taken to sleeping on the couch because I found it hard to sleep with kittens running across my face at 3am. Aw, cute little kittens with their cute little paws running across you! No, you are mistaken. I know where those paws have been: in and around their own poop. Mostly IN.

As for the mama cat, Ginger Rogers, I had the misfortune of catching her out of her favorite hidey-hole under my bed. She looked at me with murder in her eyes and hissed her meanest hiss. She’s missing a few teeth so the effect is sort of a lisp-y hiss and is slightly less intimidating than a regular hiss. I think she might be hating me less because instead of hissing for thirty seconds while spitting, she only hissed for fifteen seconds while slowly retreating under the bed. I’ll take it!!!

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

College/Fail/Humor

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10

Dec

My Sister Drank Out of a Bird Bath and Bit Me

That last photo I posted of myself when I was younger and when my little sister was but a squirmy bean reminded me of a story I look back on with fondness.

To say my little sister was a weird little kid is a huge understatement. Her favorite food was anything inedible or unappetizing. Especially sand. She could do some serious damage at the beach, crunching handfuls of it at a time. If there was sand in the vicinity, she would – and did – eat it. We didn’t always catch her in the act but the evidence of the crime was always there: the telltale sand mustache and beard. She also loved to lick the sliding glass door and the walls, but who doesn’t?

This particular day, my little sister was outside at the bird bath with her back turned to the house. It looked very suspicious so I went out  to check on her to make sure she wasn’t up to her usual shenanigans. I wasn’t surprised to see that the goings-on were nefarious. She wasn’t just standing at the bird bath innocently, admiring her own reflection. She wasn’t lost in a moment of existential pondering as she watched the rings of water spreading out in response to her touch on the surface. She wasn’t examining how the weathered cracks on the bird bath created a map of sorts; one that detailed the time past and history of the various feathered animals that have come and gone hither and thither. She was not reciting a monologue from Hamlet or pontificating in the natural landscape. Nope. She was drinking the water from the bird bath like she was dying of thirst. I don’t know if you are familiar with bird bath water quality, but it is usually filled with bird poop and dead bugs. I wasn’t worried about the bugs so much but the feces concerned me.

I was horrified that my baby sister was drinking this murky, poopy water so I immediately yanked her away.

This was a mistake.

She started screaming like I had just murdered her beloved Teletubbies. The bird bath had been her Eden where she was free to partake in the forbidden fruit (poopy, bird bath water). I had shattered and corrupted this dreamlike place with my presence; I was the villain forcibly evicting her from this paradise of inedible delicacies.

And she would suffer the injustice of this sibling intervention no longer; she turned to me and yelled, “FOR SPARTAAA!!!”* And with that, she summoned all of her toddler strength and wrestled with me until she was in a position where she could inflict maximum damage with her fangs. She sank her tiny incisors into my hand until she drew blood. I immediately dropped her (sister: 1, me: 0) and she ran back to the bird bath to continue consuming E. Coli.

I knew what had to be done:

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SHE JUST BIT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

– Daughter

* Dramatization

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Childhood Trauma/Family/Humor

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03

Dec

Consumer Concerns: The Bathroom Habits of Bears and My Face Wash

I bought a face wash yesterday I’m really excited about because of the excellent reviews, organic ingredients, and value the design of the box is sleek, modern, and bold. It is the Chanel No. 5 of face wash. (Complete with a ridiculous price tag.) I used it last night for the first time and as I was rubbing it into my skin, I caught the actual name of the product. Yeah, I hadn’t even read what the name was before buying it because I was so taken with the box; I’m an advertiser’s dream. Oh this is pretty, look at the pretty colors. I wonder if I can be pretty if I use [insert name of product here]? I should buy it regardless because it’s pretty.

The face wash label – besides being beautiful – had the word ‘bearberry’ on it. What, pray tell, is that? My worst fear was that it was sort of like that really expensive coffee composed of coffee beans ingested and then pooped out by civet cats, ready to be harvested by intrepid coffee sellers. I’m not making this up.

Before I turned to Google to soothe my worried fears, I had a moment of panic.

If bearberries are berries that have been in the digestive tract of bears, I will be extremely upset. I deal with enough sh stuff in my life as it is, I don’t need it in my face wash on top of everything else like some sort of crap cherry on my crap ice cream life.

The bottom line (PUN INTENDED) is that I didn’t (and don’t) want to put anything on my face that has been in or around a bear’s butt.

Google told me bearberry is actually “a creeping dwarf shrub of the heath family (genus Arctostaphylos) with pinkish flowers and bright red berries”. ‘Creeping dwarf shrub’ isn’t necessarily something I want to slather onto my face either if I’m being honest, but I was relieved to see that the definition was devoid of the words ‘bear’ and ‘butt’. As I breathed a sigh of relief, I thought again about the words ‘creeping dwarf shrub’. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the dwarf, Gimli, from Lord of the Rings. I think Gimli would be an excellent spokesman for this face wash actually.

“You have my sword.”

“And my bow.”

“And my FACE WASH WITH BEARBERRY.”

Gimlifacewash

 

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 2 Comments

Humor

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