Okay, so today at work they asked me to cover the people greeter's lunch break and I'm standing by the door smiling at people, offering little kids stickers and occasionally scanning and marking things people want to return. Derek in dairy comes up to me on his own lunch break. Derek is a short, frighteningly energetic teenager who has been working dairy and frozen for a month now and who has spent the last three weeks trying desperately to get someone to let him transfer pretty much *anywhere* that isn't dairy or frozen.
So he comes up while I'm greeting and says, "I want this job! I could do this. I'm great with people. Here! Let me show you how good I am!" So he's standing next to me with his arms folded and a big, huge, scary smile and a blonde walks in, moving fast, and Derek says "Hello!" real friendly. She spins around and gives him the most hateful look, like, "you dare speak to me? DIE VERMIN!" I mean, I think I probably imagined the fangs, but I'm pretty sure she snarled at him.
So I'm laughing hysterically and Derek is all "I don't like this job anymore" in a tiny little voice, and then he sees another blonde coming so he's like, "wait! Wait! I'll get this one! Just check out THESE people skills!" She walks past, he gives her a big smile and a friendly hello . . . and she breezes past like he's not even there.
After that there were two or three groups of people and a few of them noticed him in a "better edge away from the maniacally smiling little guy there" kind of way and that bolstered his confidence. And then this big, scary guy came in. He kind of reminded me of Bluto if Bluto'd been a hunchback with a peg leg and a squint. Also, I suspect he was drunk. He comes in and Derek says "hi!" all big and friendly. The scary guy wanders around in a circle in front of the greeter's station, rattles the hand baskets like he wants one but maybe can't figure out how to pick it up, staggers into the newspaper rack, then lurches right over next to Derek, squints up at him and croaks, "baskets?"
Derek's leaning back going, "uhghgn" so I point towards the carts and say "they're over there" and the guy gives me a fishy stare, wanders over towards the baskets, then lurches back up to Derek, squints up at him again for several seconds, then staggers out around him and disappears in the direction of deli.
I'm like, "Derek, you're really good at this!" and he's like, "oh, shut up! I'll get it. Watch me now!" So a group comes through and he smiles and says hi and they pass without anyone paying any attention to him. Then a second group comes in and the same thing happens and then a third. At that point, our would-be people greeter gave it up and went back to lunch.
I think he was discouraged, but I was highly amused. :D
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Cool New Blog
I came across this via Bookshelves of Doom. In response to Juan Williams' comments about Muslim garb (and the insane level of hatred against Muslims in general that has been spewed by the uninformed ever since 9/11), this blogger is posting Pictures of Muslims Wearing Things.
The first Muslims I ever knew, back in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid-eighties, tended to wear Taco Bell uniforms. Talk about scary clothing! Those were the days when the uniforms were made out of half-inch thick, plasticey polyster in a lovely dried-blood burgundy with orange and green stripes. Nice people though. I wonder where they are now and I hope they're okay. Ahlem and Zahra both had babies while I knew them. It's strange to think those kids are in their twenties now! Time sure does fly.
The first Muslims I ever knew, back in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid-eighties, tended to wear Taco Bell uniforms. Talk about scary clothing! Those were the days when the uniforms were made out of half-inch thick, plasticey polyster in a lovely dried-blood burgundy with orange and green stripes. Nice people though. I wonder where they are now and I hope they're okay. Ahlem and Zahra both had babies while I knew them. It's strange to think those kids are in their twenties now! Time sure does fly.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Public Humiliation
So. The Rejectionist is having one of her "uncontests" today, in honor of the beginning of banned book week. The idea is for readers to post embarrassing exerpts of their early writing on their own blog and then link to it in the commments section of her blog. Alas, I have no early writing samples. So, never being one to have the sense to avoid a chance for public humiliation, I thought I'd tell a story instead.
I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.
Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.
In grade school, I was in awe of her.
When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.
She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."
Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!
"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"
Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.
"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"
More nodding.
"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"
Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .
*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)
I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.
Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.
In grade school, I was in awe of her.
When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.
She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."
Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!
"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"
Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.
"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"
More nodding.
"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"
Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .
*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Once Upon a Time . . .
Once upon a time there was a rich and powerful king who had an uncommonly hideous daughter (but she had a wonderful personality!). The king was rather partial to his cups, which explains a lot about the queen, and didn't notice that his only offspring was less than lovely, being that he remained continually drunk until she was sixteen.
Terribly lonely and lacking suitors, the young princess hit upon a plan. First, she watered down her father's wine until he grew sober in spite of himself. He looked at his sole heiress and cried out "aaaaiiiiii!!"
When he had gotten hold of himself she sobbed to him, "Oh, Father! Help me! For I have been turned into a hideous ogre by an evil witch and only a kiss -- a really, really passionate kiss -- from a man of courage and true heart can turn me back to my own true form."
The king cried out, "oh! My poor child! We can't have this! Send out a proclamation that whomesoever can undo this curse visited upon my daughter shall have her hand in marriage and half my kingdom! Gods, I need a drink!"
So they sent out a proclamation and young men came from far and wide to try to save the princess and win her hand. None of them ever succeeded, of course, but the princess got a lot of action and eventually married a very nice, very nearsighted poet who believed that she had a beautiful soul.
The king remained cheerfully intoxicated for the rest of his life. The women of the kingdom discovered the fashion possibilities of warts and arm flaps and they all lived happily ever after.
The end!
Terribly lonely and lacking suitors, the young princess hit upon a plan. First, she watered down her father's wine until he grew sober in spite of himself. He looked at his sole heiress and cried out "aaaaiiiiii!!"
When he had gotten hold of himself she sobbed to him, "Oh, Father! Help me! For I have been turned into a hideous ogre by an evil witch and only a kiss -- a really, really passionate kiss -- from a man of courage and true heart can turn me back to my own true form."
The king cried out, "oh! My poor child! We can't have this! Send out a proclamation that whomesoever can undo this curse visited upon my daughter shall have her hand in marriage and half my kingdom! Gods, I need a drink!"
So they sent out a proclamation and young men came from far and wide to try to save the princess and win her hand. None of them ever succeeded, of course, but the princess got a lot of action and eventually married a very nice, very nearsighted poet who believed that she had a beautiful soul.
The king remained cheerfully intoxicated for the rest of his life. The women of the kingdom discovered the fashion possibilities of warts and arm flaps and they all lived happily ever after.
The end!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
On Second Thought, I Write Like Myself
Yesterday I posted a link to a silly little meme that's supposed to analyze your writing and tell you "who you write like". Today I came across this blog post, by a blogger who analyzed it, discovered that of the forty authors included in the program there are 37 white men, three white women and no persons of color whatsoever. She politely contacted the author of the meme to point this out and the snotty answer she got is beyond belief.
I'm sorry I ever mentioned the stupid thing! From now on, I'll write like myself, thank you.
I'm sorry I ever mentioned the stupid thing! From now on, I'll write like myself, thank you.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Apparently
I write like
David Foster Wallace
David Foster Wallace
I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!
And here I was hoping for Tolkien! Dang! Seriously, I wonder how they come up with this stuff? I stole the link from GhostFolk's blog, btw. ;)
Monday, June 7, 2010
Weird Weekend
It started on Friday when a couple came up to me, horrified, and said, "those people over there are biting the corn and putting it back!" I walked over to where I could watch about five or six rednecks going through the corn and when they walked away I went through the display. Sure enough, I found bitten corn.
Then, on Saturday morning, it took me half an hour to get through the construction on Mile-Long Bridge while, in front of me, a slow-motion running battle of illegal passing, cutting one another off and screaming threats and obscenities took place between two guys in white SUVs, a motorcycle gang that had cut in line, and a guy driving an "Esser's E-Z-GO" tanker truck. (Esser's provides porta-potties to construction sites.)
Later, at work, I walked around the end of an aisle in time to see a man casually pop open a container of grape tomatoes, dig out a handful, put the container back on the shelf and stroll away tossing tomatoes into his mouth. Normally I wouldn't say anything. We have security and if they choose not to act on petty shoplifting that's their call, but the guy was so brazen about it that I was shocked into speaking and I think I scared him. I hope I embarrassed him! Seriously! He could at least carry it around in his cart and pretend like he's going to buy it and then ditch the empty container in "lawn and garden" the way everyone else does!
Our night manager wasn't feeling well, so he lent me his key so I could take out the organics recyclables without him. (We keep our rotting fruits and vegetables and dairy products under strict lock and key!) When I tracked him down to return it he was in the midst of a crowd at the service desk watching four paramedics tend to a semi-conscious woman who was lying on the floor. There were two ambulances with their lights going parked outside the front door and a state trooper came in while I was there.
The story I eventually got was that two groups of about five young people each (late teens, early twenties) were following each other around the store trading insults and threats. A person from one group made a comment about a member of the other group's pants being baggy and they acted like they were going to fight. Being outside, I missed the panicked calls for help from the service desk. (I also missed seeing Mitch The Night Support Manager Who Looks Like Ben Franklin run. This is kind of like missing Haley's Comet.) Anyway, somebody called the police and the stress of their impending arrival apparently triggered one young woman's seizure.
While the paramedics were loading her on a gurney I looked over and noticed my friend Cecil The People Greeter (Cecil is a woman, btw) standing at the customer service desk, about three feet from the action, talking to one of the girls at the desk. Now, you have to understand that Cecil knows everyone and everything that goes on in Benton County. She frequently tells me about them as if she thinks I know who everyone is too. ("See that guy in the green? That's that brother of Myra Staple's husband, the one that was married to Claire that used to work in shoes until she found out he was having an affair with Carol Brooke's niece and she stripped their bank account and left him for that guy she met on the Internet who . . . .") I ran into Cecil a little later, after everyone was gone except for the state trooper, and I asked her what exactly had happened. She told me that a bunch of people were going to fight over baggy pants and I said that I knew that, but what about the girl who had the seizure?
Cecil didn't know what I was talking about. She hadn't seen any girl and hadn't noticed the paramedics who were working right by her feet. Not only hadn't she noticed them, I don't think she believed me that they even existed!
So, in the course of two days we had The Perfidious Corn Biters, Road Rage on the Mile-Long-Bridge, The Naughty Tomato Nosher, The Manager's Malaise, The Baggy Pants Fight Club, Running Rare, and The Case of the Oblivious People Greeter.
And they tell me it wasn't a full moon!
Then, on Saturday morning, it took me half an hour to get through the construction on Mile-Long Bridge while, in front of me, a slow-motion running battle of illegal passing, cutting one another off and screaming threats and obscenities took place between two guys in white SUVs, a motorcycle gang that had cut in line, and a guy driving an "Esser's E-Z-GO" tanker truck. (Esser's provides porta-potties to construction sites.)
Later, at work, I walked around the end of an aisle in time to see a man casually pop open a container of grape tomatoes, dig out a handful, put the container back on the shelf and stroll away tossing tomatoes into his mouth. Normally I wouldn't say anything. We have security and if they choose not to act on petty shoplifting that's their call, but the guy was so brazen about it that I was shocked into speaking and I think I scared him. I hope I embarrassed him! Seriously! He could at least carry it around in his cart and pretend like he's going to buy it and then ditch the empty container in "lawn and garden" the way everyone else does!
Our night manager wasn't feeling well, so he lent me his key so I could take out the organics recyclables without him. (We keep our rotting fruits and vegetables and dairy products under strict lock and key!) When I tracked him down to return it he was in the midst of a crowd at the service desk watching four paramedics tend to a semi-conscious woman who was lying on the floor. There were two ambulances with their lights going parked outside the front door and a state trooper came in while I was there.
The story I eventually got was that two groups of about five young people each (late teens, early twenties) were following each other around the store trading insults and threats. A person from one group made a comment about a member of the other group's pants being baggy and they acted like they were going to fight. Being outside, I missed the panicked calls for help from the service desk. (I also missed seeing Mitch The Night Support Manager Who Looks Like Ben Franklin run. This is kind of like missing Haley's Comet.) Anyway, somebody called the police and the stress of their impending arrival apparently triggered one young woman's seizure.
While the paramedics were loading her on a gurney I looked over and noticed my friend Cecil The People Greeter (Cecil is a woman, btw) standing at the customer service desk, about three feet from the action, talking to one of the girls at the desk. Now, you have to understand that Cecil knows everyone and everything that goes on in Benton County. She frequently tells me about them as if she thinks I know who everyone is too. ("See that guy in the green? That's that brother of Myra Staple's husband, the one that was married to Claire that used to work in shoes until she found out he was having an affair with Carol Brooke's niece and she stripped their bank account and left him for that guy she met on the Internet who . . . .") I ran into Cecil a little later, after everyone was gone except for the state trooper, and I asked her what exactly had happened. She told me that a bunch of people were going to fight over baggy pants and I said that I knew that, but what about the girl who had the seizure?
Cecil didn't know what I was talking about. She hadn't seen any girl and hadn't noticed the paramedics who were working right by her feet. Not only hadn't she noticed them, I don't think she believed me that they even existed!
So, in the course of two days we had The Perfidious Corn Biters, Road Rage on the Mile-Long-Bridge, The Naughty Tomato Nosher, The Manager's Malaise, The Baggy Pants Fight Club, Running Rare, and The Case of the Oblivious People Greeter.
And they tell me it wasn't a full moon!
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