Bulging packages. Yeah, I said it.

Alright, so work was slow today. Really slow. So slow, that I spent 2 hours detailing the men's sweats. Happily.

Prior to that, however, I asked my boss what she wanted me to do. She told me to fill the men's underwear.

Can I just stop for a moment and dwell on how pervy I feel filling men's underwear? It's not that I feel weird touching the packages that hold the scraps of cloth that will eventually be spending quality time with some stranger's private areas (though now that I'm thinking about it like that, it doesn't make it any better, either), but mostly the problem is this: the packages are covered in men in underwear. And not their faces either, oh no, it's a whole big crotch-shot party in the men's underwear section. Nothing but bulging packages all around me (pun completely and shamelessly intended). I pick up a package of underwear, my hands are all over some dude's crotch.

I do have to say, though, that it make me laugh when I'm stocking underwear and teenage guys come in to the department. Some of them try to mess with me (and I mess with them right back), but most--especially the ones with their mothers--try to avoid whichever aisle I'm currently in, grab the first semi-acceptable thing they can while fastidiously avoiding eye contact, and leave as silently and quickly as possible.

I have to to giggle a little when that happens.

And then there's the guys, like the proceeding one, who think they'll have some fun with me and get the tables turned on them.

I'm stocking t's, which are right next to the underwear.

Dude: "Hey, can I ask you something?"
Me: "Sure. What can I help you with?"
Dude: "Well, I was just wondering, do you think I'd look good in these?"
[Holds up a package of men's thongs.]
[I look him up and down.]
Me: "Oh yeah, you could definitely pull it off."
[said with complete sincerity]

He blushed, stuck the thongs back on their hook, and walked away. Don't mess with me, boys. I have four brothers, and spent 3 of my 4 years of college practically living in my husband's fraternity house. You aren't going to make me blush.

Still, I feel like a perv fondling all the underwear packages of models who are obviously toting an extra sock or two around in their drawers.

Short and unsweet.

Apparently, I look tired. Like, ALL the time.

For the last 4 days, someone had made a comment about how tired I look at work.
Yeah, I'd say I'm tired. For 6 days in a row, I've had to work 7-9 hour shifts of running my disgruntled ass all over your damn store to pick up grumpy people's layaways, restock the entire infant section, go pick up my own shoe freight from receiving and cart it back to my stockroom so I can actually do my job.

"You look tired."

Headaches and carpal tunnel attack today. Incapacitatingly painful heart palpitations for the last 3 days.

Kiss my bum. And then give me a day off. KThxBye.

Reality doesn't accept returns.

Today, some man got pissed at me because I made a mistake ringing up his transaction, which caused him to be delayed (he was "kind of in a hurry") and have to go through a manager to get a correction.

This weekend my Grandpa told me he was ready to die.

Reality handed me a big, fat check. And I lost sympathy for this other guy's slight inconvenience on an idle Wednesday.

Lots of random, with a side of fur.

I honestly thought that working in retail during the holiday season would completely dampen my Christmas spirit and ruin it for me. But thankfully, it hasn't. Granted, I'm a little sick of flannel pj's and thermal underwear, but for the most part, I love all the Christmas-y stuff.

I put up my Christmas lights yesterday. The weather and I are fighting. Two days ago, when I had to work, it was a beautiful day. Warmer, sunny, light breeze. Yesterday, my day off and the designated "put up the damn lights already" day was cold, windy, and to top it off, it began snowing halfway through my endeavors. Grrr.

Also, I was a complete dunce and strung the lights up backwards. So I was left with two female ends when I wanted to plug them in. Dumbass, that's me.

I also got in a fight with the landscaping, and lost miserably. The neighbors probably think I'm special ed.

Oh man, today's little nugget of joy from the 'mart:
(Lame advertisement on the PA about the pharmacy carrying pet medications)
"At the KMart Pharmacy, we're here for every member of your family, even the furry ones."
My head: "EW. Furries."

And then I laughed out loud. The shoppers at Kmart probably think I'm special ed too.

I survived Black Friday! Too bad not everyone escaped unscathed.

Today's entry shall be expressed in limerick:

One day at my boring old store,
Some bitch stole a purse and walked out the door.
But they chased her down
And called the cops around.
And I laughed my ass off when they cuffed her took her away.

The end.

It's not the what, it's the why.

I'm tired.

Last week, as I'm happily (yes, that is sarcasm) sorting through hanging freight with my boss, she tries to nonchalantly ask if I'm looking for full-time work. Elsewhere. I told her it would be nice to have something full time. She asks me if I like retail. I lie and say that it's not so bad. Then she continues asking questions about if I'm "actively" looking for something full time. I lie again.

I hate lying, but I figured a white lie, or a not-quite-truth, would be better than going, "Are you kidding me? Of course. Anywhere but here sounds like a good idea to me."

I'm scared that she was asking because they want to offer me a full-time position. Why does that scare me? Because I'd say yes because we really, really need the money, and I don't want to work there full time. It makes it a lot harder to get away. And more difficult to schedule interviews for potential other jobs. (Not that I'm having that problem now. Actually, I would love to have that problem, it would mean I was getting an interview somewhere.)

Anyway, the week I'm about to embark on is begging to not happen. I want to call them tomorrow morning and quit. I want to not have to work until 8, 9, and 11 PM on all the days that my families are celebrating Thanksgiving. I want to be able to have a Thanksgiving before next Tuesday. I want to have my weekends off and not have to go in at 6 AM to sign a footwear add.

I want a big-girl job where I can wear business attire and not black pants and a white polo. I don't want to wear a name tag that reads, "I'm here to help you!" I want to do something that feels more worthwhile than pandering to consumers and making money for a corporation I dislike.

I once wrote a letter to myself while attending a greek leadership conference during the summer. At the end of the letter, I wrote to myself, "It doesn't matter what you do. It's why you do it."

I want to do something that matters. Something whose "why" is more than "because we need the money to survive."

Anything. Anything at all. To be perfectly blunt: I hate my job. Every time I go in, I'm miserable. Even on my days off, I'm miserable because I have to go back tomorrow. I hate it. I'm completely unhappy and most days, I want to cry. I keep praying for something, anything, to come along, but 3 months later, nothing. I've always believed that God has led me to where I'm supposed to be at that time, but right now, all I think is, WTF? KMart?

Liars, Time-wasters, and Retail. Oh My!

I hate when people lie to me. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Yesterday, a man came in to the jewelry department. Softlines takes jewelry calls. He asks me to change the battery in his watch. Now, in the past, the 'mart has done this for watches purchased at the store. They changed the policy. Since I've been employed there, they have not. We also cannot change watch bands.

I kindly explain to the man that because of liability issues, the store's new policy will not allow me to change his watch battery for him. Instead, I offered to help him find the appropriate battery and explain how the process should be done. This is the conversation we had after my explanation:

"But I bought it here. You always used to change the battery."
"I know. The policy has changed, though, and we cannot do it even for watches purchased here."
"That's crap! I brought my wife's watch in here just a couple weeks ago and had it changed."
(He looks at me expectantly as if to say, "Whatcha got to say about that, missy?")
I continue, "Well, sir, I'm not sure who did that, but it is against our policy."

The look he gave me before turning and walking away was plain as day. I caught him in a lie, and he walked away saying nothing else.

I hate being lied to.

I also hate women who come to the jewelry counter to browse for themselves and make me open 3 cabinets over and over again to try on jewelry that they cannot afford. One ring, one necklace, sure. But once I ring up one 14K gold ring with a real diamond and it's beyond your price range, don't make me waste another 20 minutes while you have to look at seven other rings that are exactly the same! One in cabinet A, then B, then D, then back to A, on to C, then A again, and B, and so on, because I have to relock the cabinets after closing them. While I'm wasting my time as you "Ooo" and "Aah" over rings you're not going to buy, two other customers, who might have purchased something, have left because they're tired of waiting. They might have bought something, something on which I might have earned a commission.

Liars and Time-wasters. Boo.