42 posts tagged “work”

I had a young chap approach me the other evening whilst I was standing at the customer service desk.  A sheet of paper in hand, he explained that he had to take a test for school that covered some information on this paper, and could I help him find a test prep book?

"Well, sir, let me take a look at the paper."

Five seconds later, following a quick glance over the page...

"Ah, so this is a test where you check for grammar, spelling and punctuation errors?  We have several excellent prep books--"

"No, no, it's a reading comprehension test."

I stare at him for a moment, and look back down at the sheet.  Sure enough, it does say Accuplacer: Reading Comprehension across the top.

Well, it actually says "Accuplacer: Reading Comprehensin".  Thus my mistake.  In fact, I saw three spelling errors and two grammar errors in that first glance, and so merely assumed that it was a fairly standard GSP-ish placement test.

Nope.

This sheet was given to him by the testing facility at the college in question.  It had been prepared, according to the top right corner, by a female who indicated that she was an "Adjunct Instructor of English" at the same school.

Leaving aside the fact that I firmly believe an instructor of English (or any other academic subject) should be able to spell "comprehension" without assistance, where is SpellCheck when you need it?

Looking over this blog, I realize that there is one reason to be grateful for the stupid/nasty/rude/moronic customers upon whom I wait.  Two words: blog fodder.

In short, if I were to have naught but sweet, intelligent, well-read, responsible customers...I wouldn't really have anything to write about.

But couldn't I at least have a higher percentage of these sorts of customers?

There is a family who comes into The Bookstore on a near-weekly basis.  Sometimes it's just the mom and the son, sometimes the dad and the son, sometimes all of them.  The son is perhaps in his late teens (bit hard to tell, but I'd say past puberty) and has Down's Syndrome or something similar.  Down's Syndrome, just in case anyone isn't familiar with it, is fairly distinctive: the eyes tend to be lower, the face sort of round-square, shorter height, mental retardation varying from slight to relatively severe.

The son, who I'll call Jack, is probably in the moderately retarded range.  He uses quite simple language, and seems interested in movies/books marketed to the 5-7 year old age range.  He also has a somewhat thick speech impediment and a stutter.  To be frank, I can only understand about half of what he says, and guess at the rest based on context.  Jack is quite sweet but also understands (to a degree) certain social boundaries: he loves to talk to people, but doesn't just walk up and talk to strangers or stare at them.

Anyhoo, I had a fairly nice evening tonight, and was straightening up the customer service desk when Jack's mother came over to it.  I'd noticed that she and her husband had been sitting in the cafe area and had let Jack walk around the store on his own.  This is new (he might be in the DVD/music department for 5 minutes or so on his own, but never the store, which has exits and whatnot), so I kept a half an eye on him when he hove into view and assumed (correctly) than his parents were trying to increase his independence a little.

I asked Jack's mother if I could help her find something, and she explained that she hadn't seen him in a little while and was wondering where he was. 

"I believe he's in the music department; he was headed that way when last I saw him."

"Oh, thanks.  I hope he hasn't been any trouble?  We're trying to let him be alone once in a while to learn how to interact when we're not there, but I was worried he might pull books off of shelves or something."

Heh.

Jack will occasionally pick up a book or DVD and ask about it/show it to his folks, but if he doesn't buy it then he puts it away correctly.  He always asks permission before picking up a DVD if it's on a display, as he doesn't want to "mess it up."  He's polite, tidy, and very respectful of personal space.

I told her as much, and followed up with, "Quite frankly, ma'am, he's better behaved than the majority of my customers!"

She laughed, and thanked me for saying so.

Shortly thereafter, Jack and his family were heading home.  While I'd seen Jack several times that evening, he hadn't seen me.  He immediately got this big grin on his face and grabbed his mom's arm.  "L-l-l-l-look, mom!  It-t-t-t-t's m-m-m-m f-friend!"  He pulled her over to me, gave me a hug, and introduced me to his mom.  "Mom, this is UbiC-c-caritas.  UbiCaritas, th-th-this is my mom!"  We talked for a few more minutes before they left.

Yeah.  I could do with more customers like that. 

(We once had a customer complain about Jack because she was offended that she had to look at him.  I kid. you. not.  She actually was stupid and nasty enough to speak to the store manager and demand that he not be allowed in the store based upon nothing more than the fact that the kid isn't "normal."  Elaine, the store manager, said that the kid wasn't doing anything wrong and was a "valued customer."  Customer whinged some more about--again, I kid you not--how she was going to call corporate because she couldn't stand being in the same store as such a person.  The store manager laughed in the woman's face and pointed out that the second-in-command in the company has a kid with Down's and would be rather unlikely to agree with such a point of view.  Customer stormed off in a huff, and good riddance to the brainless twit.)

This week I opened the store for 5 days straight.  The customers were cranky, the tasks to be done too many for the short staffing and monotonous to boot.  Yet I'd periodically find myself scanning out product/dealing with an idjit customer/listening to the latest in moronic store policy with a goofy grin on my face.  Why?

In no order whatsoever:

-I'm going to a "real" university in the fall.  Yes, me.  Yes, me, UbiCaritas.  Registered for classes and everything, I am.  Yeah.

-Oooooh, but my paycheck was nice this week.  It will be nice next week, too.  The credit card balance is sliding lower and lower...

-A dear friend is expecting her first kid on August 4th.  Me, I'm kinda hoping he shows up two days later, the 6th being this diva's birthday and all.  I'm going to be Auntie UbiCaritas...and let me tell you that that makes me grin obnoxiously!  Must find a name for the kid for the blog.  Hmm.

-Voice workshops with voice lessons two days in a row and masterclasses and what-have-you.  What's not to like?

Over the last six months or so, some of you have probably (not) noticed that I've been using the privacy restriction features on Vox for this blog.  In short, if you aren't in my "neighborhood", the chances are that you've noticed a significant decrease in work-related posts.

I did a lot of thinking some time ago.  While all names are changed to protect the ignorant/stupid/malicious, my name (and those of friends) appears nowhere on this blog, I've never mentioned the name of the bookstore chain for which I work (though it's probably a bit obvious), no one in real life would link me to the screen name "ubi caritas"...this is still the internet.  My job has a firm no-blog policy, and however much I might fuss about my job, I still like it and like the "employment" thing, too. 

I have toyed with the idea of setting up a more anonymous and non-vox blog: one that doesn't have the "social network" aspect, one on which my picture does not appear, and one from which no one could possibly find me on Facebook and trace back to the blog or vice versa.    If I were to do that, I could tell a lot more stories: no one would have to know in what area of the country I live (I mean, how many bookstores are there in Fort Worth?  Frankly, I've given anyone out there enough information to find me--and that concerns me a little), I could describe more situations as they happen rather than write them up and spend a good bit of time changing them to make them less obviously my store...there is definite appeal.

On the other hand, I like and value the comments that many of you make here.  I don't want to slip off into the blogosphere without telling some of you where I go.  I suspect that if I decided to do that (and it's far from decided, I assure you--I still can't decide) I'd send those of you I "know" fairly well (comments to one anothers' blogs and/or exchanged PMs) the link to the new place.

Just thinking aloud here.  Feel free to toss out any suggestions!

We still have a week yet to go before the moon is full.  This concerns me.  Just how weird is this week going to get?

We had several obscene phone calls at The Bookstore this evening.  I got the last one.  I will not describe the scenario.  Suffice to say it had a sufficient touch of reality that while I was extremely uncomfortable, I could not hang up because he might have been a customer.  He finally said enough that I was justified in ending the call--after five minutes.  Ugh.  Ew.  Etc.

I hope, as themaureencorps once so eloquently put it, that he takes a header into a bucket of lime.

The male members of the staff were annoyed that after several such calls the women would not answer the phone for the remainder of the evening.  We indicated that we'd be happy to answer the phone if we could use whistles into the phone when and if the call became obscene.  The manager did not go for that idea.  I don't understand why not; I thought it was excellent!

when you manage to insult at least half the staff, demand seven impossible and unreasonable things in as many minutes, scream until your Botoxed face actually starts to wrinkle a bit because we cannot be so clairvoyant as to know what book your book club president recommended when you yourself can tell us nothing, drop your latte on the floor and complain because you stepped in it, and finally stomp  out the door, get in your uber-pricy SUV,

and, since you're too busy yacking on your cellphone, you don't see the large landscape boulder on your right as you turn

and you go off the drive a little bit

(not veering really far, but just enough)

to drive your front wheel over the rock, thus a) wrecking your undercarriage, b) necessitating a tow truck, c) getting you screamed at by various drivers for blocking the driveway, and d) making the staff come to the front window periodically to watch the unfolding drama and laugh.

(this one happened months ago, but it was so lovely that it periodically springs to mind)

I had a Bookseller First yesterday.

A bit over a week ago, I had a customer approach me and request that I find or order a certain book for her.  We didn't have it in stock (I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember the title now), but she wasn't in a hurry to read it, so I placed an order.  Having done so, she asked for a recommendation.

Recs are tough.  A lot of people want to read a new book or new genre, but when it's actually placed in their hand they get cold feet.  Fear of the unknown, perhaps?  Who knows?

Anyway, glancing at her basket of books, I made a strong plug for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.  One of the benefits of this book is that it has a thoroughly memorable title; people do not forget it!  She said that it sounded interesting, but that she wasn't inclined to get it because it had been promoted by the corporate office of The Bookstore in their "Suggestions" newsletter, and that she'd never liked any of the titles they featured.

"Bluntly speaking, ma'am," said I, "I never have either.  Frankly, I can only chalk up their recommendation of this book to a clerical error or one of their reviewers getting drunk some night and sending off an email about it.  Their selections are usually cover-to-cover angst-ridden drivel.  That being said, when this book came out I did two things that I haven't done before or since: I purchased one of their recommended copies, and I did so when it went bestseller.  I haven't regretted it for a moment, and I've reread it at least once since I purchased it."

She agreed that she'd consider getting it, and then changed the subject.  I thought nothing more of this until yesterday evening, as I suggest titles to customers all the time.

She came back yesterday evening, and came up to my register.  I opened my mouth to give my usual hi-how-are-you-did-you-find-everything-you-needed-do-you-have-a-savings-card spiel.  Instead, she started the conversation.

"Oh, you're that bookseller who recommended that potato peel pie book to me!  I came back earlier this week but you weren't here.  I just wanted to let you know that I LOVED that book!  Thanks so much for suggesting it!  Do you have any other recommendations?"

I have given hundreds of books recommendations to people in the last year and a half at The Bookstore.  Of those hundred, I expect that a few dozen actually picked up the book.  Until yesterday, not one has ever come back and told me if they liked it, much less asked for another recommendation.

I am happy.

Three guesses as to what the next rec was, and the first two don't count.

Yep.

You guessed it.

84 Charing Cross Road.

Really.

I mantain that no one--NO ONE--particularly an innocent and unsuspecting salesgirl--needs/wants/had any desire to know

a) the excruciating details of your, erm, extremely private piercings that you recently acquired (including descriptions of discharges, colors, size of holes, etc)

b) that you spent all of last weekend "in bed with your girlfriend."

Ew.  Just...ew.  No.  Did not need to know.  Need brain bleach.  Thank you.

And the mullet?  Bad idea in the 80s, worse in the 90s, a retro bad idea now.  Bonus negative points if you haven't washed it in a few weeks or so.

Overheard at the bookstore last night:

Supervisor, who specializes in the truly gosh-awful pun: "Now, you might be aware that I'm rather fond of wordplay."

UbiCaritas, nodding in agreement: "Punfully so."

Ouch.  That was just...ouch.

Clearly, I've worked with him too often; he's beginning to rub off on me.

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And again: it is not the full moon.  Yet I spent last evening with as rich an assortment of morons as ever graced an unfortunate bookstore. 

When a person calls The Bookstore, they hear a recording that says something along the lines of "Thank you for calling The Bookstore.  We are located on Smith Street, just north of the Village Shopping Center.  We are open daily from 9 AM until 11 PM.  Please hold, and a bookseller will be with you shortly."

When I answer the phone, I always say the same thing: "The Bookstore, Smith Street, UbiCaritas speaking.  How may I help you?"

Yet three people--not one, not two, but three--asked of me after I answered the phone, "Is this The Bookstore on Smith Street?"

I thought that I did remarkably well not to say something along the lines of, "No, this is the Victoria's Secret in Beijing.  I just wanted to make you THINK that you had reached The Bookstore on Smith Street!"

Then I had Mayan Calendar Dude.  People who want books about the Mayan Calendar are almost always strange, and he was a fine example of that species.

He didn't know the title of the book, didn't know the author of the book, did know that the author had been featured on a radio broadcast (station and/or show unknown) almost three years ago, and also knew that the book had black lettering on the cover.

At some point or other while I was trying to find this title in the computer, the above-mentioned supervisor also asked Mayan Calendar Dude if he needed assistance.  Mayan Calendar Dude--bear in mind that both of these men are old enough to be my father--replied, "Oh, no, this little lady is helping me.  She's full of fluff."

Me: slight doubletake

MCD: "That's a complement."

(eyes never get above my chest)

The Supervisor says nothing, but very kindly follows the both of us around until Mayan Calendar Dude finally gets tired of staring at my chest/touching my arm/staying within four inches at all times.

Finally I had the utterly clueless teacher.  She called, explained that she was a sixth-grade teacher and wanted to check an item on a student's Works Cited page that was attached to a research paper.  She gave me a title and an author; I could not find either in the system. 

I finally said, "Ma'am, I know that it generally isn't put on a Works Cited page, but the student didn't happen to list an ISBN for this title, did he?"

Teacher: "No, all he gave me was an author's name, a date, a title, and a link."

Me, after short pause: "Is it possible that he was listing an online article?  That sounds a bit (read: exactly) like a citation for a website."

Her: "No, it can't be.  You don't list websites on a Works Cited page!"

No wonder we're (academically speaking, at the least) so far behind other countries.

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Various and assorted tests are finished.  I am leaving work in twenty minutes, and from thence I will go to the store, get some salmon, some marinade, and some fresh fruits and veggies.  I also have a bottle of wine atop my refrigerator that has yet to be opened.  Feet will be propped up, good food will be consumed, and bed will be early.

You, sir.  Yes, you.

You brought your two exceedingly well-behaved daughters, ages circa four and eight, into my store today.  While in line at the Customer Service desk, you waited patiently and chatted with your daughters to pass the time and keep them occupied.  When it came to be your turn, you turned to me, smiled politely, and asked how I was doing that day.

As I blinked, smiled, and replied in the positive, you handed me a slip of paper on which several book title and authors were written.  You had written the titles correctly and the authors' names were properly spelled.  I found the Nancy Drew book for your eight-year-old and the picture book for the younger girl.  You thanked me.  I then regretted to tell you that we were sold out of the title you wanted to pick up for your wife; you assured me that it was, "no big deal" and I ordered it for you.  I also could not find the one book of whose title and author you were unsure.  Rather than berate me, whine, complain, or insist that either I must have it in stock or that The Bookstore must be the only store in a five-county radius that doesn't have that (unknown) title in stock, you admitted that you really didn't have much information about it and that you'd return when you did.  At one point, your daughter started to tell you something while I was talking about the order; you gently told her that, "a grown-up is talking with me; tell me when she's finished."  After I completed the order, you thanked me and wished me a pleasant afternoon.  Your eight-year-old then excitedly inquired of me whether or not I knew that the Nancy Drew series had been ghostwritten.

(How cool is it that you talk about literary techniques to your kids?)

I tell all of my customers this, but I'll actually mean it this time: please come back and see us again.  Really.  We love having you here.