I have discovered an evil side to customer service- one has to be nice all the time. Sigh. When I am sick I think my tolerance level for stupidity, meanness and fools in general goes down about a hundred points.
The other day I some lady was just plain rude to me. She was impatient, unsmiling, and talked to me like I was stupid. One side of me quietly served her, smiled, spoke cheerfully while the other was irritated almost to the point of anger. "She has NO RIGHT to talk like that to anybody! Didn't her mother ever teach her the law of basic kindness? Doesn't she know that she isn't the only person on this globe? Good night, she needs a spanking! I sure would have gotten wupped for that!" Me and my highly developed sense of justice. Someday I'm afraid its going to get the better of me, and I'm going to get fired.
Anyway, putting the rude ones aside, there is another frustrating class of people whom I find facing me across the counter- the outspoken liberal. Some comment or other sets them off, and there they are expounding anti-Bush principles to the smiling cashier. Of course she agrees, of course she loves to hear me say ignorant things about Israeli peace, of course she can have no objection to liberal principles. Who in their right mind does?
Today a customer told me how they had known another employee for years- and had had many a cheerful political discussion with her. He was always trying to convince her how bad those horrible Republicans were. He never did convinced her. Duh.
The only thing close to as irritating is when Yankee fans come in and expect me to serve them with a smile.
14.2.06
Happy Valentine's Day!
I'm all cozy on the living room couch, drinking Yoplait banana yogurt and eating sesame bread. I just spilled my yougurt on the floor and down my quilt, but it has been One of Those Days and I feel philosophical about the mess. At work today I spilled one iced green tea all over the place and dropped four loaves of bread on the floor. I admit to occasionally spilling drinks, but I almost never drop bread. Some of those loaves are so expensive! On days like this I sometimes think it would be adventageous for them to just send me home; I must be losing them more in dropped breads than I am making in sales.
I have so many interesting things to tell you! But I won't write about them all tonight, and don't get excited because none of them are that exciting- just amusing anecdotes of work.
Interesting name watch:
1. Hammer
This guy had a foreign accent which I couldn't place, and which was very difficult to understand. Our conversation went like this:
"What name do you want on the order?"
"Hamma"
"What was that?"
"Hamma, like the tool."
Katie looks confused. "Could you spell that please?"
"H-a-m-m-e-r"
"Oh!" Katie looks embarrassed.
2. Clover
3. Odelia (actually one of the employees)
4. Athena
5. Tiberius
That last one was middle-aged gentleman with a well-developed sense of humor. I asked for his name, he gave it, and I was instantly curious. I asked him if he was named after Tiberius, the place. He said yes. There was a momentary pause, then he said, "For today," in an explanatory tone. I looked properly astonished. Apparently he randomly chooses a different name whenever he comes in, and today just happened to be Tiberius! Some people have all the fun.
Random observations on names and height:
How is one supposed to respond to really weird names anyway? One wants to be frank and say, "Whatever possessed your parents to name you Hammer?" Or, "For Pete's sake! Why Pepper, of all things? Was your mother fond of sneezing?" But I suppose they get inane comments all the time and are always spelling their names or explaining their origin. I think I am going to name my kids John, Chris, Jared, Lisa, Michelle, and Nichole. Nothing unfamiliar about those.
Here is another group of people who excite my desire to say stupid things: really tall men. Every once in awhile some gentleman of NBA proportions will come order a sandwhich from me. I am in awe of them. I feel stunned by the sheer overwhelming height of them. I suddenly feel small and insignificant. I want to take a step back, crane me neck, and say, "Wow! You are really tall!" Now isn't that brilliant?
It isn't as if I don't know any tall men. But I guess I'm not as aware of the height difference if I know them well, and I really don't know any 7-footers. Once in Israel I stood in line behind a family of Dutch Afrikaaners. The father, the mother, and the two teenage boys were all well over six feet tall. Behind them I felt dwarfed in a way I rarely experience. I loved it! I had gotten used to feeling large in a sea of Middle Eastern smallness. I think I'll move to South Africa.
Have you every heard of singing valentines? Early afternoon, when things were fairly quiet in the restaurant, I suddenly heard a humming, and somebody said, "They are going to sing!" I looked up to see six men in a semi-circle by one of the other registers. Somebody found the pitch, and suddenly they were singing "My Wild Irish Rose" barbershop quartet style. What a delightful surprise! Everybody gathered round to listen and clap. They sounded so good! One of them explained to me what they were. Apparently you can hire them to come sing to your true love ( for a fee) as a valentine. They had around 176 appointments today!
Okay, goodnight to you all. Must needs get up sooner than I want.
(feel free to tell me if there are any gross grammatical or spelling errors in this. I am too tired to go back over it.)
I'm all cozy on the living room couch, drinking Yoplait banana yogurt and eating sesame bread. I just spilled my yougurt on the floor and down my quilt, but it has been One of Those Days and I feel philosophical about the mess. At work today I spilled one iced green tea all over the place and dropped four loaves of bread on the floor. I admit to occasionally spilling drinks, but I almost never drop bread. Some of those loaves are so expensive! On days like this I sometimes think it would be adventageous for them to just send me home; I must be losing them more in dropped breads than I am making in sales.
I have so many interesting things to tell you! But I won't write about them all tonight, and don't get excited because none of them are that exciting- just amusing anecdotes of work.
Interesting name watch:
1. Hammer
This guy had a foreign accent which I couldn't place, and which was very difficult to understand. Our conversation went like this:
"What name do you want on the order?"
"Hamma"
"What was that?"
"Hamma, like the tool."
Katie looks confused. "Could you spell that please?"
"H-a-m-m-e-r"
"Oh!" Katie looks embarrassed.
2. Clover
3. Odelia (actually one of the employees)
4. Athena
5. Tiberius
That last one was middle-aged gentleman with a well-developed sense of humor. I asked for his name, he gave it, and I was instantly curious. I asked him if he was named after Tiberius, the place. He said yes. There was a momentary pause, then he said, "For today," in an explanatory tone. I looked properly astonished. Apparently he randomly chooses a different name whenever he comes in, and today just happened to be Tiberius! Some people have all the fun.
Random observations on names and height:
How is one supposed to respond to really weird names anyway? One wants to be frank and say, "Whatever possessed your parents to name you Hammer?" Or, "For Pete's sake! Why Pepper, of all things? Was your mother fond of sneezing?" But I suppose they get inane comments all the time and are always spelling their names or explaining their origin. I think I am going to name my kids John, Chris, Jared, Lisa, Michelle, and Nichole. Nothing unfamiliar about those.
Here is another group of people who excite my desire to say stupid things: really tall men. Every once in awhile some gentleman of NBA proportions will come order a sandwhich from me. I am in awe of them. I feel stunned by the sheer overwhelming height of them. I suddenly feel small and insignificant. I want to take a step back, crane me neck, and say, "Wow! You are really tall!" Now isn't that brilliant?
It isn't as if I don't know any tall men. But I guess I'm not as aware of the height difference if I know them well, and I really don't know any 7-footers. Once in Israel I stood in line behind a family of Dutch Afrikaaners. The father, the mother, and the two teenage boys were all well over six feet tall. Behind them I felt dwarfed in a way I rarely experience. I loved it! I had gotten used to feeling large in a sea of Middle Eastern smallness. I think I'll move to South Africa.
Have you every heard of singing valentines? Early afternoon, when things were fairly quiet in the restaurant, I suddenly heard a humming, and somebody said, "They are going to sing!" I looked up to see six men in a semi-circle by one of the other registers. Somebody found the pitch, and suddenly they were singing "My Wild Irish Rose" barbershop quartet style. What a delightful surprise! Everybody gathered round to listen and clap. They sounded so good! One of them explained to me what they were. Apparently you can hire them to come sing to your true love ( for a fee) as a valentine. They had around 176 appointments today!
Okay, goodnight to you all. Must needs get up sooner than I want.
(feel free to tell me if there are any gross grammatical or spelling errors in this. I am too tired to go back over it.)
12.2.06
More paint
Last night I dreamed that I was married to a middle-aged polygamist who looked exactly like Agatha Christie's Poirot. In the dream I also had just had thirteen boys- at once. And you though septuplets was bad.
Maybe I should have realized this morning that after a dream like that my day could hardly be normal.
After church was all set to charge right into my latest amusement- getting my room ready to paint. At the rate I am going I'll be prepping til doomsday with nary a drop of paint to show for it!
Megan came up to help me and we merrily banged in nail pops, filled dings and holes, sanded bumps, and washed walls. The number of things I have to do before I actually get to the walls keeps growing: I need to finish prep, sand and paint the ceiling, sand the woodwork (of which there is a considerable amount), prime woodwork, and tape things up. One whole wall of the room is actually wood doors to my closet. I took down all of them and was working on sanding down the varnish on the framework when the real excitement began.
Sanding the frame had the funniest side affect- things on the upper shelves would vibrate to the edge and fall off. A small can of paint hit me on the shoulder, and a little while later a aerosol can of static stopper hit me right on the head. That was mildly amusing (and painful), but I was blissfully unaware of darker evil lurking above, just waiting to be vibrated off....
I had just sent Megan down to the Main House for more dropcloths and was on a stepstool continuing to sand the framework, my head safely above the danger of falling objects, when I heard a thump. I looked down at the floor to see what else had fallen and roared in complete horror. A quart can of brick-red paint lay on its side on the carpet with the lid off!
Now most of you probably don't keep random quarts of paint in your clothes closet, but I do. I had bought it on sale at Home Depot, and was hoarding it until the right surface came along. THIS WAS NOT IT!!!!
There, in the middle of my tan carpet was a spreading, oozing pool of very red paint. Disaster of the first magnitude! Pain! Agony! Frustration! This kind of thing is not supposed to happen! I leaped down, grabbed the nearest receptacle- a purple mop bucket- grabbed the paint can and dumped it in. Then I found a putty knife and started scooping, using the knife and my hand. Ridiculous! Nothing comes out of carpets. I ran to the intercom to call the kitchen of the Main House, told Sarah to tell Megan to grab rags and GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!!!! I was feverishly scooping paint when she arrived.
She called Dad on the cellphone for advice, while I continued to roar (and pray) in the background. Suddenly from the other side of the closed door Grandma asked, "Are there people dying in there?" Silence. "No Grandma," I answered, "Not many people, just a couple." That satisfied her for the moment. Megan got me a bowl of soapy water and ran down to the garage for the shop vac.
The place looked like a particularly dramatic scene from ER, with instruments scattered about, and blood everywhere.
I kept playing with the paint- pouring on soapy water to keep it all wet and trying unsuccessfully to transfer it to the bucket with my hands. At one point while I was waiting for Megan to return I had one of those brilliant moments of inspiration which come to me under stress. The end of an extension cord had gotten into the paint. I grabbed it with my painty, soapy wet hands and used them to clean out the holes. Of course it was plugged in, and of course I got zapped. I put it down.
Megan returned with the shop vac. While she continued to dump water on the spot, I sucked it up with the hose, and the shop vac spat it out onto the wall. We abandoned the shop vac in favor of wailing to Gerry for help. At this point I could no longer hide the situation from Grandma. Thankfully she didn't hit the roof (she rarely does). In fact she had the brilliant idea of using her rug shampoo machine.
Megan left for dinner, Gerry went to look up advice for the situation on the internet, and I started vacuuming. Dump water on rug, scrape rug with putty knife, suck up water with vacuum, pull out water container and dump in toilet, fill bowl with water, dump on carpet, scrape, vacuum, dump, fill, dump, scrape, vacuum, dump.... two hours later the water was still coming up painty and the carpet stubbornly blushed a pale pink.
Fine, I like pink carpet.
Points on removing paint from carpet
1. DO NOT let it dry!
2. Get as much of it up as you can before you start dumping on water. Try blotting it with rags.
3. When you do start dumping on water, pour it around the edge of the spill, then use something to scrape it in toward the center. I didn't do this to start with, and the result was a six-inch spill spreading over three feet of carpet.
4. Rug shampoo machines work great! We have one, so let us know if you ever plan to dump paint on your carpet. We would be more than happy to lend it to you.
5. Putty knives are a great tool for scrapping water around and encouraging the paint up.
6. 1/2 quart of paint can discolor a large section of carpet, and tint endless gallons of water.
7. No carpet is worth bursting a blood vessel over.
Interestingly enough, I think the bigger the physical catastrophe, the more relaxed I become. It is so clearly beyond me to fix, that I find it easy to turn it over to God. There are few more permanent combinations than dark paint and a light carpet, and I felt so helpless as I started to scrape it up. BUT there is something almost refreshing about a mistake of this magnitude- I really cannot go back in time to change this, nor can I be sure that the end results are going to be perfect. I will now do my best to fix the problem, but the results are ultimately up to God. It was funny how cheerful I felt during those two hours. When Grandma came in to sympathize my response was,
"You know what? God is good!" What is one old carpet and two hours extra work compared with his goodness and love and care of me?
Now I am going to sleep, and pray I do not have any more weird dreams.
Maybe I should have realized this morning that after a dream like that my day could hardly be normal.
After church was all set to charge right into my latest amusement- getting my room ready to paint. At the rate I am going I'll be prepping til doomsday with nary a drop of paint to show for it!
Megan came up to help me and we merrily banged in nail pops, filled dings and holes, sanded bumps, and washed walls. The number of things I have to do before I actually get to the walls keeps growing: I need to finish prep, sand and paint the ceiling, sand the woodwork (of which there is a considerable amount), prime woodwork, and tape things up. One whole wall of the room is actually wood doors to my closet. I took down all of them and was working on sanding down the varnish on the framework when the real excitement began.
Sanding the frame had the funniest side affect- things on the upper shelves would vibrate to the edge and fall off. A small can of paint hit me on the shoulder, and a little while later a aerosol can of static stopper hit me right on the head. That was mildly amusing (and painful), but I was blissfully unaware of darker evil lurking above, just waiting to be vibrated off....
I had just sent Megan down to the Main House for more dropcloths and was on a stepstool continuing to sand the framework, my head safely above the danger of falling objects, when I heard a thump. I looked down at the floor to see what else had fallen and roared in complete horror. A quart can of brick-red paint lay on its side on the carpet with the lid off!
Now most of you probably don't keep random quarts of paint in your clothes closet, but I do. I had bought it on sale at Home Depot, and was hoarding it until the right surface came along. THIS WAS NOT IT!!!!
There, in the middle of my tan carpet was a spreading, oozing pool of very red paint. Disaster of the first magnitude! Pain! Agony! Frustration! This kind of thing is not supposed to happen! I leaped down, grabbed the nearest receptacle- a purple mop bucket- grabbed the paint can and dumped it in. Then I found a putty knife and started scooping, using the knife and my hand. Ridiculous! Nothing comes out of carpets. I ran to the intercom to call the kitchen of the Main House, told Sarah to tell Megan to grab rags and GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!!!! I was feverishly scooping paint when she arrived.
She called Dad on the cellphone for advice, while I continued to roar (and pray) in the background. Suddenly from the other side of the closed door Grandma asked, "Are there people dying in there?" Silence. "No Grandma," I answered, "Not many people, just a couple." That satisfied her for the moment. Megan got me a bowl of soapy water and ran down to the garage for the shop vac.
The place looked like a particularly dramatic scene from ER, with instruments scattered about, and blood everywhere.
I kept playing with the paint- pouring on soapy water to keep it all wet and trying unsuccessfully to transfer it to the bucket with my hands. At one point while I was waiting for Megan to return I had one of those brilliant moments of inspiration which come to me under stress. The end of an extension cord had gotten into the paint. I grabbed it with my painty, soapy wet hands and used them to clean out the holes. Of course it was plugged in, and of course I got zapped. I put it down.
Megan returned with the shop vac. While she continued to dump water on the spot, I sucked it up with the hose, and the shop vac spat it out onto the wall. We abandoned the shop vac in favor of wailing to Gerry for help. At this point I could no longer hide the situation from Grandma. Thankfully she didn't hit the roof (she rarely does). In fact she had the brilliant idea of using her rug shampoo machine.
Megan left for dinner, Gerry went to look up advice for the situation on the internet, and I started vacuuming. Dump water on rug, scrape rug with putty knife, suck up water with vacuum, pull out water container and dump in toilet, fill bowl with water, dump on carpet, scrape, vacuum, dump, fill, dump, scrape, vacuum, dump.... two hours later the water was still coming up painty and the carpet stubbornly blushed a pale pink.
Fine, I like pink carpet.
Points on removing paint from carpet
1. DO NOT let it dry!
2. Get as much of it up as you can before you start dumping on water. Try blotting it with rags.
3. When you do start dumping on water, pour it around the edge of the spill, then use something to scrape it in toward the center. I didn't do this to start with, and the result was a six-inch spill spreading over three feet of carpet.
4. Rug shampoo machines work great! We have one, so let us know if you ever plan to dump paint on your carpet. We would be more than happy to lend it to you.
5. Putty knives are a great tool for scrapping water around and encouraging the paint up.
6. 1/2 quart of paint can discolor a large section of carpet, and tint endless gallons of water.
7. No carpet is worth bursting a blood vessel over.
Interestingly enough, I think the bigger the physical catastrophe, the more relaxed I become. It is so clearly beyond me to fix, that I find it easy to turn it over to God. There are few more permanent combinations than dark paint and a light carpet, and I felt so helpless as I started to scrape it up. BUT there is something almost refreshing about a mistake of this magnitude- I really cannot go back in time to change this, nor can I be sure that the end results are going to be perfect. I will now do my best to fix the problem, but the results are ultimately up to God. It was funny how cheerful I felt during those two hours. When Grandma came in to sympathize my response was,
"You know what? God is good!" What is one old carpet and two hours extra work compared with his goodness and love and care of me?
Now I am going to sleep, and pray I do not have any more weird dreams.
8.2.06
Russia
Last night I watched the movie K-19 The Widowmaker. I enjoyed the movie as entertainment, but was more detached than I usually am when watching intense movies. Which was a good thing because when people are drowning, burning, or sloshing around in the malfunctioned nuclear reactor plants of submarines it is better not to be too involved emotionally. But that isn't really the point of this post. What I really want to say is that
I really have a hard time understanding why God created Russia.
I know, I know; that is pretty harsh. But I'm not saying that there isn't a good reason, I'm just saying that I am having a hard time identifying it. I guess watching that movie helped me suddenly focus on how negative I was about Russia.
Here's why:
In my mind Russia has gotten the short end of the stick in a number of ways. Russia has pretty much the worst weather of any country in the world. Russia has one the stinkiest governments ever. Russia seems to be spiritually depressed all the time. Russia is one of the ugliest places ever.
All of my mental images of Russia involve snow, grey skies, barren wastelands, and subzero temperatures. How's this for an incongruous sentence: "Sunny Russia, favored holiday destination for millions, is basking in yet another glorious summer day- bright sunshine, blue skies, and balmy temperatures will continue all through this week and well into the next." I bet they don't even have a word for summer in Russian.
Of course, I don't equate good weather solely with warmth; I do appreciate crisp, clear winter days, and even English foggy days have their appeal. But Russia seems to have this perpetual grey, dingy look, as if all the buildings had been built poorly 20 years ago, with only economy in mind, all the natives dressed in shades of brown and grey, and the sky had that sort of heavy feel and color to it which comes from smog.
Russia means gulag, Crime and Punishment, communism, fruitless, endless, mindless suffering, vast emptiness, slavery, faceless masses of people with no personal identity, dishonest politics, mass deception, tortured history, uncertain future, mind and body-numbing temperatures and basically everything bad I can think of.
In conclusion I'll add that Russia is absolutely the last place on earth I would ever voluntarily visit or live in. Bar none (except possibly Amsterdam).
Having said all that, I would sure love some balancing opinions. Do any of you have anything good to say about Russia? I would LOVE to hear anything good! I don't really want to think so negatively about the place, but I can't help it. I think I have watched too many movies. :-)
I think I might do some research on my own. Surely lots of good things have happened there. Maybe there are some spiritual giants who originated in Russia. Of course there is Russian literature (even there, I can't really think of any happy books written by Russians), and Russian music...
I really have a hard time understanding why God created Russia.
I know, I know; that is pretty harsh. But I'm not saying that there isn't a good reason, I'm just saying that I am having a hard time identifying it. I guess watching that movie helped me suddenly focus on how negative I was about Russia.
Here's why:
In my mind Russia has gotten the short end of the stick in a number of ways. Russia has pretty much the worst weather of any country in the world. Russia has one the stinkiest governments ever. Russia seems to be spiritually depressed all the time. Russia is one of the ugliest places ever.
All of my mental images of Russia involve snow, grey skies, barren wastelands, and subzero temperatures. How's this for an incongruous sentence: "Sunny Russia, favored holiday destination for millions, is basking in yet another glorious summer day- bright sunshine, blue skies, and balmy temperatures will continue all through this week and well into the next." I bet they don't even have a word for summer in Russian.
Of course, I don't equate good weather solely with warmth; I do appreciate crisp, clear winter days, and even English foggy days have their appeal. But Russia seems to have this perpetual grey, dingy look, as if all the buildings had been built poorly 20 years ago, with only economy in mind, all the natives dressed in shades of brown and grey, and the sky had that sort of heavy feel and color to it which comes from smog.
Russia means gulag, Crime and Punishment, communism, fruitless, endless, mindless suffering, vast emptiness, slavery, faceless masses of people with no personal identity, dishonest politics, mass deception, tortured history, uncertain future, mind and body-numbing temperatures and basically everything bad I can think of.
In conclusion I'll add that Russia is absolutely the last place on earth I would ever voluntarily visit or live in. Bar none (except possibly Amsterdam).
Having said all that, I would sure love some balancing opinions. Do any of you have anything good to say about Russia? I would LOVE to hear anything good! I don't really want to think so negatively about the place, but I can't help it. I think I have watched too many movies. :-)
I think I might do some research on my own. Surely lots of good things have happened there. Maybe there are some spiritual giants who originated in Russia. Of course there is Russian literature (even there, I can't really think of any happy books written by Russians), and Russian music...
paint
My room has been taken over by wallpaper. It hangs about the room in damp, curling strips, occupies the recliner, armrests and all, it wanders across my bed, clings to my clothes, sticks to the bottoms of my feet, lies in drifts againsts the walls, and follows me out the door. I hate gunky wallpaper stuck to my socks.
But, once I have it all banished from the walls I shall be so much happier! The wallpaper really wasn't particularly garish or offensive, but I never liked it. I put up with it all through my stay in the same room (under Mrs. Sweet's occupation) and survived. This time I decided that it was me or the wallpaper. Right now the wallpaper is winning, and I am sleeping on the couch. :-)
Monday I visitied most of the paint shops in town, comparing prices and collecting lovely little paint samples to bring home. I had so much fun wandering around Fairwood subjecting other people to viewings and soliciting opinions. I must have come home with over thirty different color choices. Most of them are shades of green, pumpkin, gold, or maroon, with a couple gray and true orange thrown in. Not a blue among them! I may even decide to paint the room two different colors, if I can't narrow it down to just one. Oh the joy of endless possibilities and nobody to say me nay! What fun to be able to paint it anything I want, even if I hate it afterwards! :-)
You shall all have to view the results when I am done. I may even borrow a camera and post a picture. I bet you are all thrilled and can hardly wait.
But, once I have it all banished from the walls I shall be so much happier! The wallpaper really wasn't particularly garish or offensive, but I never liked it. I put up with it all through my stay in the same room (under Mrs. Sweet's occupation) and survived. This time I decided that it was me or the wallpaper. Right now the wallpaper is winning, and I am sleeping on the couch. :-)
Monday I visitied most of the paint shops in town, comparing prices and collecting lovely little paint samples to bring home. I had so much fun wandering around Fairwood subjecting other people to viewings and soliciting opinions. I must have come home with over thirty different color choices. Most of them are shades of green, pumpkin, gold, or maroon, with a couple gray and true orange thrown in. Not a blue among them! I may even decide to paint the room two different colors, if I can't narrow it down to just one. Oh the joy of endless possibilities and nobody to say me nay! What fun to be able to paint it anything I want, even if I hate it afterwards! :-)
You shall all have to view the results when I am done. I may even borrow a camera and post a picture. I bet you are all thrilled and can hardly wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)