FYI: I used to wait tables. For a very long time. The only guys I knew who liked being touched by their waitresses were either 17, 70, or drunk. And even then, they were outta luck from me.

Things that bugged me today:

1. The person who called my line at work SIX times in a row without leaving a message, trying to get someone, anyone to pick up the phone. Newsflash: you’re not going to die because you can’t get ahold of someone right this second. Call 911 if it’s an emergency, cause kiddo, I’m on my lunch break, thankyouverymuch.

2. The woman who almost ran into me, not once, but TWICE in her circa 1993 Subaru wagon. Lady, I know you don’t particularly care if YOUR car gets another dent in it, but I do. And also, that kid in your backseat can’t be more than seven years old. There is no fire. Slow the heck down.

Thatisall

I am a firm believer that if any of those people could get a clue, they would have already and not pissed you off in the first place.

And another thing…Why is it OK for people to act like assholes, but it’s not OK for us to point it out?

Oh, don’t even get me started. (huff, puff!).

Did I wait on you and touch your shoulder? So sorry.

There is also a cranky sandwich maker at my local Subway. I swear she curses us all when we walk in the door. I’m half convinced she’s the reason I get behind slow drivers all the time, and never make green lights.

I have two things, kev, and both are work related. I work with my brother-in-law in an office of about 25 people. One particular lady is very nice and everyone likes her (even me, I’ll admit). But she has this annoying habit. If my bro-in-law wear clothes that are in ANY way similar (and let’s face it, business casual attire for men doesn’t vary that much), she says “ya’ll look like twins!” Did I mention she’s from southern Alabama? She doesn’t seem to do this to anyone else but us; I guess it’s b/c we’re brothers-in-law. We both hate it to no end.

Also, my bro-in-law’s cubicle is across the aisle from mine. He’s the trainer for our team and so he gets asked a lot of questions. And without fail, if someone comes to ask him a question and he’s away from his desk they invariably turn to me and say “where’s Stephen?” Am I my brother-in-law’s keeper?? I don’t know, people! I do not keep up with his every move even if he is my brother-in-law. At work he is my coworker and none of us keep up with everything our coworkers do, now do we? So why would I constantly keep up with Stephen? I simply want to do my work. Is that too much to ask?

Wow. I feel a lot better. Thanks for providing this outlet, kev.

Ya know, if this is the worst part of your day, you’re doin’ alright. Suck it up and get along with your day. And the guy at the Subway probably does wanna plunge his knife into your upper body because you want mayo, “but just a smidgen, no that’s too much. Can you start over?”.

Hoo boy, am I ever glad you asked what is bugging me these days. In a word (well, two words to be precise) … Sam’s Club. Now I won’t have to blog about this. **proceeds to blog about it**

Okay, so I go over to Sam’s, lamb-to-the-slaughter-like, to give them what ought to be my highly esteemed patronage (read: MONEY), as in, pay $15 for a bag of WALNUTS the size of a lilliputian pillow (the bag; not the walnuts) and on my way to the registers I see a sapphire-blue silk short-sleeved shirt that I think my dad might like to receive for Father’s Day.

So I find his size and put the shirt in my basket, where it looks like Goliath’s parachute next to the bag of walnuts, and proceed to checkout.

Only when the person of severe avoirdupois with a GINORMOUS and very strange-looking and scary tattoo emblazoned on the side of her sweaty neck begins to ring up my order with a unique brand of surliness only available via special order at Sam’s, everything goes quasi-fine until she gets to what would have been my dad’s Father’s Day present.

She attempts to scan it. Only, it hasn’t been entered into the “system” and it won’t scan. So she begins punching in the numbers to try and ring it up manually. No soap. But she does it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. AND AGAIN. Still soapless. I realize Father’s Day has come and gone. She (the “cashier”) grunts loudly and what should materialize at her side but another “cashier” who begins manually punching in the numbers while chattering a blue streak at the first “cashier” about how, isn’t it time for our breaks? Still no soap scan-wise. But she punches in the numbers manually again. And again. And again. And again. And again. AND AGAIN. Soap has left the planet. I realize another Father’s Day has come and gone and wonder if my dad is still in fact among the living.

Finally the second “cashier” walks away, muttering something about going to get a bar code. She executes a slow-mo sashay — with all that word implies, y’all — waaaaaaay down toward the point where she will have to turn and come waaaaaaay back to where the shirts are. Because this is how Sam’s stores are configured; we were actually only about 20 feet from the shirts but she couldn’t get to them without circumnavigating the globe … unless she could hurdle the office supplies and the first row of books … not likely.

The original “cashier” is at this point joined by a munchkin-sized one (who I realize may have only appeared as such in comparison to her colleague) whose sole function seems to be to keep the original “cashier” company. They natter on for several minutes about how much time is left on their shifts and the fact that one of them has a sore throat, causing the other one to make a moue of extreme distaste and feint backwards as though trying to distance herself from the cooties. All very dramatic and they are so relaxed! Almost as if they are at the beach or something, not at work.

“Excuse me,” I at last say calmly. “What are we doing?”

The original “cashier” appears startled, as if she had forgotten the reason for my existence, indeed the fact of my existence, which I’m convinced she had … if she was ever really aware of it in the first place. Things get weird fast at Sam’s.

“We’re waiting on another shirt,” she patiently explained.

“But see,” I said, “You have been totally ignoring me for at least seven minutes now, without the slightest courtesy of an explanation as to why I am being delayed interminably because you people can’t do your job and have the bar codes scanned in before the merchandise gets dumped onto the garage-sale-esqe tables so charmingly arrayed and heaped with said unscanned merchandise …”

There were a lot of long words in there, I know. Apologies. We’re naught but humble pirates.

Suddenly the orginal “cashier” melts into the background (unable to take the heat, apparently) and the fun-sized “cashier” squares her tiny shoulders and says to me: “Your bar code doesn’t work.”

Ahem. My bar code works fine.

And so I divested myself of my kid gloves, became appropriately animated and said, with empasis: “MY bar code does not work? MY BAR CODE does not work? MY BAR CODE DOES NOT WORK?”

She reconsidered and rephrased. “Okay … the barcode does not work.”

More accurate but too little, too late. The shirt stayed there. I left, but before I did I let a manager know that I won’t be shopping at Sam’s Club anymore because I have enough rudeness in my life free for nothing, thank you, just driving down the road, and have no need to pay for the privilege of receiving superfluous truckloads of it from them at premium prices.

I’ll bet those “cashiers” used to work at Subway … or maybe they’re saving it for their next job.

I feel so much better, I think I’ll go for a swim. Funny … I always feel better after visiting SKOS! You’re the best, Kev!

Wow, uhm … I really am sorry that was so long. Woman thy tongue is loosed … and I meant original (not “orginal) and emphasis (not “empasis”) … the stress of reliving that experience must have gotten to me. Going now …

Wow Jenny…all cashiers are not bad…some of us…errr…them, are unwavering samurai-like paragons of the cashier community.

As for things that bug me.

-Celebrity news blocking out actual important news.
-Zombies and Nazis
-Friends that offer advice on things they don’t understand.
-Paris Hilton
-Animal shelters that make it harder to adopt a dog than it is to adopt a child.
-Will Farell

That is all

Loud, public cell-phone use annoys me as well. Like people who have entire phone conversations in the movie theater during the movie. Yes, that actually happens!

Taco Bell employees are the ones who hate me.

I’ve never been a waitress exactly, but I served at a New Year’s Eve banquet this year and the guests bugged me, mostly when they asked if I had a New Year’s hug. No? Well didn’t I want one? Not from you, sir, and don’t take one step closer. Also, I’m cutting you off. Server/guest relationships have boundaries. Neither one should touch the other.

With a little homework people will see that the $2.99 for a gallon of gas is not such a good deal. Most vehicles from this company get below 17 – 18 miles per gallon. Their trucks are even worse. I know a friend whose truck gets 12 mpg and SUV only gets 14mpg.

[...] wood” after saying this, because on July 17th a user at Stumble Upon had this review for my Friday Four: Things That Bug Me post: “The website’s author is boorish and I fail to find any humor in his somewhat [...]