Common Sense....What's That?

I'm in a bit of a rant/rage mood at the moment, and I'd like to share a few things.  Just a few ground rules.  I don't know why they aren't common sense, but these have proven necessary to establish.

1. DO NOT TOUCH ME.

2. Don't ask for my number.  You aren't getting it.

3. Do not ask me to get into a fight.  I don't know you, and I don't want to randomly fight you.  Besides, if we did, I bite, scratch, spit, pull hair, and kick for the groin.

4. If your kid says they have to go, take them NOW.

5. If you want to get mad at me to the point of leaving because I don't have your poptarts, oh well.  One less person I have to deal with next time around.

6. Do not ask me to keep your stuff safe for you for more than five minutes without purchasing, or it will be put back, and you will be responsible for getting it all again.

7. Don't hand me a wet discount card and tell me it's "butt sweat."  It's your food I'm touching, so it's really a lose/lose situation.

8. WE HATE THOSE ELECTRONIC CHICKEN THINGS THAT DANCE AND SING.  LEAVE THEM ALONE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Screw you.

9. I'm not the only one responsible for remembering your discount card, despite what they may say.  If you forget it and act angry at me, "there's nothing I can do."  If you're nice about it and share responsibility, I'll take that hit on my job and tell you how to fix it.

10. I don't mind people with disabilities.  I'm happy to help however I can, even if it's carrying groceries to your car.  But I do NOT appreciate people treating me like I did badly for not taking care of them before helping the sweet old lady.  Get over it, I have priorities.

11. If you see me running more than one machine at the same time (self checkouts), they're randomly breaking and shutting down, and you tell me that you need me to ring up your stuff FOR you when you CHOSE to come to a self-checkout, you go to the bottom of my to-do list.

I'm sorry I'm a little grumpy about these, but most of them seem like common sense.  Just be a little nicer to me, cause I have to be nice to you.  Most of the time.

My Hair is Not a Toy.

One of my favorite horror stories actually involves my hair...

Usually at work, I wear a ponytail.  My hair is fairly long, and I actually move around so much that it gets too hot to leave it down for work. 

Leave it alone, asshole.

Doing some cleaning, a, ahem, gentleman comes into the store and starts talking to my manager near where I'm working.

He begins to pet my hair.

Right.

Wrong.

I freeze out of the weirdness of being touched by a stranger and the sheer awkwardness of the situation, hoping he'll stop fairly soon.

Of course he doesn't!  He keeps chatting with my boss, continuing to pet my hair as I try to move away from him.  My oh-so-wonderful manager found the situation to be endearing and slightly amusing, commenting on how nice my hair is while he keeps trying to touch me as I move out of reach.

His reach was almost as if he had Pixar-grade superpowers.

 

 

Snapping at the customer would have cost me my job, cause that's the kind of manager I had.  I just gave up on the task at hand and bailed after a minute and a half of avoiding this guy's reach.

MORAL OF THE STORY:  Don't pet my hair.  As a matter of fact, don't touch your cashiers at all.  Thank you.