Proof of life

24dc9ee…I’m here, I promise.  It’s been a hell of a long week, honestly– Sunday was spent doing mostly nothing at work and trying to recover from the case of 24-hour Con Crud that I came home with, Monday and Tuesday were the Longest Days Ever at work, and then Wednesday and yesterday I pretty much sat around the house playing Nioh.  I managed to get out tonight; the three of us went to dinner and then selected pumpkins at a local patch; there will likely be some sort of carving thing happening on Sunday night, so there’s a post right there.

Actually, Monday’s shenanigans deserve at least a brief mention, if only in a holy shit I survived that sort of way.  We sell beds, right?  We also sell what we, perhaps too grandly, are supposed to call top-of-bed products and most of us just call bedding, because saying top-of-bed products is Goddamned stupid.

Anyway, we’re clearancing out all of our bedding.  All of it.  Every last piece.  We’re doing it because we’re bringing in an entirely new line of stuff, and the old stuff has to go before the new stuff comes in.  As you do.  Selling bedding has always been fun, because in addition to the usual commission we make a substantial number of points on it too.  We get paid 20% of our points (which we can get for a variety of reasons) at the end of every week, meaning it’s not only basically immediate money but it’s good money– you can make $20 on a $100 bed set, and our bed sets went up to $300.

As of Sunday, we were still paying out full points for bedding.  Which meant when I sold a set of bedding for– get this– $24.99, that money basically went straight into my pocket.  So I was actually pretty damn excited about the idea of steering every single person who walked in the door toward buying bedding, and making up for several weeks of low pay.

And then they turned points off on Monday, meaning that where I was expecting to make about $20 a sale I made $1.25 instead, and instead of the usual three or four sales for a Monday I had twenty-nine, well over half of which involved stripping a bed and bagging everything up.  By myself, since I was the only person on my side of the store.

And then Tuesday I did it again, only with eighteen sales instead of 29, because most of the good shit got sold on Monday.

So yeah.  I’ve been tired.  Real tired.  I’ll try and post more next week.

Action vs. Reaction

IF you take up an hour and a half of my time on a busy-as-fuck Sunday to purchase twenty-five different vases, all of which are heavy, some of which lack price tags (and therefore I need to figure out what they are) and all of which are on clearance and may or may not be ringing up correctly;

and IF I manage to keep a smile on my face and the murder in my heart at bay during this process, while you spend a hundred and twenty-five dollars to purchase items originally valued at nearly six hundred and fifty dollars, earning myself the grand total of six dollars and twenty-five cents in the process;

and IF I have to keep a running total of what the computer is charging you and what it ought to be charging you, and tell my manager “just fucking trust me” under my breath when I call him over to authorize the additional $77 in discounts that the computer should have given you but didn’t;

and IF another employee and I carry each and every one of those, again, twenty-five vases to your vehicle and wrap them carefully in paper so that they do not damage each other;

and IF my reaction to you calling me two days later and accusing me of getting your discounts wrong is not to laugh and hang up the phone or call you names but to carefully annotate a printout of your invoice documenting each of the extra discounts I applied and how, in fact, the computer appears to have applied an extra dollar and fifty-seven cents that I did not personally approve to your account, meaning you saved even more money;

and IF after going to that extra work, you still don’t believe me, I offer to take a picture of said calculations, now annotated even further so that my chicken-scratch is comprehensible to an outsider, and send it to you on your cell phone so that you can see where every dime of your money went;

and IF you then call me at eight fucking forty-five at night, on my personal goddamned cell phone, while I am enjoying the fifteen minutes that I get to spend with my six-year-old son in between me getting home from work on a Tuesday and him going to bed, in order to berate me further about said discounts and how you don’t understand my calculations;

well, THEN, you should probably expect a somewhat less-than-entirely-polite response.

The End.

middle-finger-poster-flag-6185-p

A brief work anecdote I forgot to tell yesterday

seriously-how-many-paint-chips-did-you-eat-as-a-childThis one’s new.

We all have emails at our jobs, like I’m sure a lot of you do, and also like I suspect a lot of work email accounts, they’re really locked down in terms of what we can send and/or receive.  Chief among these things: images, which is a serious pain in the ass because “send me a picture” is one of the first things you want to tell people when they call you and tell you something is damaged, and that means we have all had to create alternate work email addresses that can receive images.

Not the point.  Point is I have a work email.  It’s on my business cards.  I hand out lots of business cards, as you can probably imagine.

I checked said work email late yesterday evening for the first time in a couple of days (Saturday is my Monday, for the record) and had two emails from PayPal.  One of them was letting me know that I had money in my account, and the other was reminding me that I had money in my account.

My work email doesn’t have a PayPal account.  Why the fuck would I have a PayPal account under my work email?

It turns out that a customer who had come in and gotten a quote on some side chairs had decided to pay for them by sending me the money via PayPal.  Me, personally, at my work account.  There’s a note attached to the payment: “4 blahblah side chairs.”

How the fuck is anyone stupid enough to think this is how anything works?

How the fuck do I get through a conversation with this idiot without using the word “idiot”?  Because this person is an idiot and deserves to be called one.

Christ.

Free advice

If, like me, you don’t drink at all, and if, like me, despite not drinking at all you find yourself in a position where you’ve had a long fucking day and fuck it you want a glass of wine anyway, and the only wine in the house turns out to be mango wine, and your wife says to you “shake it up before you open it, so the mango doesn’t settle”…

don’t fucking listen to your wife.

That is all.