Wednesday, March 6, 2013

You Ain't From Russia...

So, what the fuck is the rush? Has this general area of Minnesota become inundated with the most exciting goings on happening in dark seedy underground joints and warehouses requiring secret knocks, and somehow me taking the time to put my change in its designated coin pocket in line at Cub Foods is hindering the progress of these aforementioned secret soirees? Why does it seem like I alone am constantly getting my space invaded at every cash register counter I do business with? And the person violating my bubble could be any of you. No, really- there's no rhyme or reason to the type of people willing to invade the space of a complete stranger when they feel it's their turn for the cashier's full, unbridled attention. Men, women, and children alike seem to clamor for the opportunity to make me feel like the slowest person on the fucking planet and I feel immediately defensive and guilty about it every time it happens.
And I'm not even catholic.
So as needless as this may be, I'm offering an explanation as to why it takes me a WHOLE 10 seconds to put my money away and grab my purse, and why you should calm your tits about it.

And slowly back up off me.

Whose Job is What?
When I say this phenomenon happens to me often, I mean that it happens about 95% of the time I go to any store in which I am not the only one in line waiting to check out. It doesn't matter if the line sticks straight out behind me, or if it juts off to the side. The over-all vibe I get from the next person in line- if we're counting "vibe" as a menacing physical presence- is that I should be packed up and on my way out the door as soon as my change and/or receipt has touched my fingertips. Well as much as I, too, would like to move with the efficiency of a Twilight vampire, it's simply not possible. So now that we've established my human limits, let's talk about what else the problem could be. Let's address the fact that this Talky McTalkerson cashier right in front of me hasn't stopped jibber-jabbering to his/her coworkers since I stepped foot in front of them with what is probably an arm-load/basket-full/cart-load of crap. Then this inattentive prick will shove my change in my hand and act like they're the ones with somewhere to go, while I stand there staring blankly, waiting for them to end the transaction properly by asking if I'd like a bag.

Oh. I got yer bag right here. 

Meanwhile, what does the person behind me do? They start boxing me out of my spot at the counter like I'm Shaq and they're Kobe Bryant on his fucking period. This is the point in time where I'd really like to hold my hands up and freeze everyone involved mid-idiocy and remind them what their job is.

"Okay so ummm....Gimme a couple Powerballs....yeah, and  10 bucks on pump 6."

Cashier- your job is fairly simple and was described to you on your first day here. I'll spare you the lecture on personal hygiene in favor of my own convenience in this matter and summarize your general duties as follows: pay attention to the person in front of you, scan their shit, take their money, and for godsakes, offer them a bag. Seriously, man. What the hell.  This isn't brain surgery, as I know that you can clearly see the multiple items laid out before you. It's not like you had to whittle them out of newborn baby tears. Come off the fucking bags, dude. 

Person next in line- your job is also fairly simple and shouldn't have to be described to you, as it falls under the heading of common courtesy. Your job is to: stand there and wait your turn. Yeah. That's it. Don't fucking perch yourself on my shoulder, ass, heels, or other areas of my physical presence that wouldn't be appropriate at any other time or venue, and are sure as shit not appropriate in line at Kwik-Stop. I had to wait in line just like every other Joe Shmo to get where I am now, and you'll just have to do the same. I don't care if you think you're in a hurry, because I thought the same thing until this jackwad cashier fucked those dreams out of existence. Now we all have to suffer. And yeah, my fucking change is going in the little zipper thing and you're gonna have to sit there and wait for that to happen, too.

Don't forget- the cashier is the one who's here for your convenience, not me.

Trust me, sweetie. We're all excited. 

My job- My job is simple, as I am the customer, and all I really have to do is show up. I'm a courteous person, or at least try to be, so I'll often have my wallet out and money ready by the time I come up to the counter, provided I have a free hand with which to do so.

I will also concede that my job is to wait patiently while the cashier does their job.

However, if the cashier cannot do their job correctly or at the very least with effort, then the contract becomes void, and I reserve the right to remind everyone of their job.

And for the love of all that is good and holy, get off my ass.

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