Intercultural? Me? June 29, 2008

I thought I was pretty much an American traditionalist.  was pretty sure that my “culture” and that of America were pretty similar. Ok, my culture and that of America 50 or 60 years ago, maybe.

I thought that, until the other day at work.

I’ve chosen purity and sexual abstinence until marriage for my life, not only out of obedience to God, but largely out of honour for my future husband, whoever he may be. As a symbol of that, I wear a ribbon wrapped around my left wrist and tied into a bow, symbolising that I am, as I delicately state it “an unopened gift” until marriage. (I also have a purity ring, which I wear on my left ring finger.)

Sometimes folks ask about these symbols, and I tell them what I have chosen. I try not to preach or talk their ear off about it, instead I just give them a brief explanation of why it’s there. Usually, since the subject is rather delicate, I use the phrase “unopened gift” or occasionally “saving myself”.

The other day at work, I was behind the service desk with a couple of coworkers. One of them, call her Ana (false names are used to protect the innocent), asked me about this ribbon. Ana is bilingual, with English being her second language. She understood my words, but had some trouble with my vague implications as to purity. She grabbed another girl (call her Krista), and asked for further explanation. Krista asked what exactly she was explaining. I told her, and she began.

This was Krista’s explanation of my position on purity: “Well, it means that she believes the Lord, and she follows the Lord. In her religion, the rules are that men and women don’t do anything, like they don’t kiss or have any kind of intercourse until after they are married. Once she’s married, she and her husband can do whatever they want to, but not till then.” She looked at me, as if to check her facts. “You also don’t date, correct?”

“In her religion“? Hold it! I hadn’t even actually tied this position to my religious beliefs; most people just thought that I was honouring my future husband, which is true. But what got me was her academic tone. It was as though she were introducing another friend who was Jewish by saying, “This is so-and-so, and they are Jewish, so they worship on Saturday and abstain from pork”!

That was the first time I’ve ever felt like an intercultural curiousity before. Ah, well. Perhaps I am. I knew I was from another decade, but I hadn’t quite grasped the idea of being viewed as from another culture entirely.

If you need me, I’ll be visiting Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Although I doubt the Amish there will look too kindly on my Internet use, Christian rock music, or jeans. Ah, well. I’ll just be my own little culture here.

Good afternoon, sister. Have you heard about the Lord?

Labels June 25, 2008

Labels are great. They help you find things.

Overlabeling is not great. What ARE we, idiots?

We’ve been cleaning and organising at the store where I work for the past couple of weeks. Apparently there’s some grandiose scheme to make every inch of the store shine, all the time (which won’t happen unless we follow our customers with mops and vacuums, but hey, what are you gonna do?) One job that I as a cashier had was to clean out the cabinets under the cash registers: take everything out, clean the floor and all the walls of the cabinet with surface cleaner, figure out what needed to go back in the cabinet, and figure out where the rest should go. Doing this, there were several things I learned.

1. The cabinets under the scanners where we put the hangers from apparel are quite large enough to climb inside. In fact, this is more or less necessary in order to reach the back corners and clean them. My coworker has photographic proof of this fact.
2. Quarter-inch thick dust+strong smelling cleaner+a small enclosed space=Headaches and aggravation of other factors, which may also lead to nausea and dizziness.
3. When one store changes to another store, stuff from the first store may still be found squirreled away under the cash registers. Two years later.
4. It is truly fascinating how many wires are needed to run a cash register. It is truly mind-boggling how they could all get in my way at the same time…and move with me!

This digression was brought to you by: Victor Hugo.

And now, to my main point: labeling.

The other day I found my manager at customer service with a labeller. Not unusual, since they’d been labeling drawers up at customer service to help them stay organised. This is the proper use of labelling: placing a little sticky label on a drawer that informs you that the drawer contains certain types of forms, a first-aid kit, or whatever you may need to find is good.

My manager was making labels that read “STAPLER”, “HANGERS”, and “REGISTER TAPE”. Her plan? Under directions from others, she planned to stick these labels inside the cabinets, in front of the very spot these objects were supposed to go.

Pardon me, but this isn’t Sesame Street.

If you are working as a cashier, here that means you are at least 16 years old. If you are 16 years old, and can read well enough to utilise said labels, chances are you could just as easily remember where to put the register tape. By the time you open the cabinet (the last one, naturally) and see the label pointing you to the register tape, you would see the register tape, probably more easily than the label, actually.

This whole situation put me in mind of the comedian Brad Stine.

Sad. Truly sad.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stick labels inside my drawers so that I’ll know where my left socks go, and where my right socks go.

“For the Ladies”-good stuff here! June 19, 2008

Great song I was listening to tonight. Really all I can say is: Bravo!

(My favorite parts are bolded!)

(The video is just a picture, but hey, that’s ok)

“For the Ladies” by KJ-52

This is for the ladies, all the ladies all around the world
This is for the ladies, this is dedicated now to every single girl
This is for the ladies

Alright, I don’t care I wanna say this on the mic
Right now right here in the place it’s ladies night
I know I might just sound crazy right
There’s some things thats goin down and its time to make it right
The world will tell you you gotta be a certain type, look a certain way,
And just be a certain size
Do what they say and it’ll just be “alright”
Girl the only thing you gotta be doin is servin Christ
6 years ago I was blessed with a wife
She was sweet and lovely and beautiful and nice
But the one thing that just made her my type
Was the fact that Christ was #1 up in her life
So take my advice
Forget them Hollywood stars, and them Hollywood hair
And them Hollywood cars
Next time you thinkin’ that you ain’t up to par
Remember God made you beautiful just the way you are

Sick of BET, sick of MTV,
I’m sick of the sex that they always used to selling me
I’m sick of the messed up images they showin me
Im sick and tired of the messes that they say to me
That women are nothing more than sexual property
It’s time we come back to treatin women properly
So what I gotta say, I’ll say it real loudly
We oughta be treatin’ all women like royalty
Only God should be speakin what you gotta be
Only God can give you the love you gonna need
Ladies, if a guy won’t treat you as you ought to be
Tell him goodbye, show him the door, and where to leave
Don’t be afraid just to tell a guy to wait for me
Don’t be ashamed just to live your life in purity
See what I say, I just say it now with certainty
That God has so much more if you’ll wait and see

On a final note I wanna dedicate this song
To all the godly women that just keep on seeking God
Just keep on movin and continue standin strong
Keep doin what you doin girl you got it goin on
And the single moms thats just barely holdin on
And you’re workin two jobs tryin to make it on your own
No one is home cause the kid’s dad is gone
God promises to never ever leave you alone
The final thing that I’ll say then I’m gone
To the female singers tryin to get their pose on
Now I ain’t tryin to be a hata but wrong is just wrong
Now Britney and J-Lo, please put some clothes on!
Whether yall are red-headed or just a blonde
Make sure that the Son is the one you focus on
And with that said, I’m gonna say “so long”
So get your hand up in the air, ladies, and sing along

My “Business” June 19, 2008

So I’m talking with a friend, and she up and says it. The phrase that drives me crazy.

“I mean, if (he/she/they/it) is (fill in the blank), it’s none of my business…”

Can I go on record as saying that the phrase “It’s none of my business” drives me crazy?

Now, some things really “aren’t my business”. But when our little fill in the blank up there is something harmful or destructive, and the person talking is using “it’s none of my business” as a gossip cover, that ticks me off.

But what’s even worse is when it’s a cover for inaction.

It feels like a holdover from Cain: “Wasn’t my day to watch him, God, not real sure where Abel went, after all, it’s none of my business!”

It feels like a form of irresponsibility to overuse that phrase. Maybe we could make a better world if a few more things were our business.

Like the lady with unexplained bruises. Or the girl crying off in a corner. Or the boy with a perpetual scowl and clenched fists. Or that person with a perpetual look of fear who jumps evey time someone comes into the room. Or the one who can’t look you in the eyes. Or the one who has the “flu” all the time, who’s depressed and a loner.

Maybe they are our “business”. This careless attitude we have may only perpetuate pain for these people.

Maybe we should all start looking out for each other. Is it my “business” to say so?

Oh, the Vanity… June 17, 2008

Picture this: a normal day working as a cashier. Where I work, that means I’m not doing much. I’m basically standing waiting for customers so I can ring them up. Here he comes.

Young guy, maybe early 20s. Not bad looking. Got a few items to check out. Here he comes walking through my line.

To me, just another customer. I’ll treat him the same way, with the same amount of respect I did for the 80+-year-old lady who came through a few minutes ago. But to him, he is very different.

In his own mind, this guy is next Mr. Universe, and I should see that. I mean, come on! Am I even a human girl that I’m not slipping on drool at this point? Obviously, to him, I will be falling all over myself to get his attention as soon as I fairly see him and realise that his good looks are enough to make the building explode. All that in his own mind.

He’s so vain. He probably thinks this post is about him.

So he comes up and places his purchases on my counter. He flashes a smile that, to him, is calculated to light up a football stadium. To me, he’s lucky to get a birthday candle to glow. If that.

“Hi,” he says, “how are you?“

“Pretty good,” I answer, “did you find everything ok?”

Another birthday candle smile. “Sure,” he says, leaning against my counter a bit. Oh, for heaven’s sake. He’s posing now.

“Would you like to apply for a store credit card?” I ask, smiling politely.

“No,” he says, smiling again. That smile is starting to get on my nerves, as is the fact that he keeps shifting positions so that I can more clearly see his (un)impressiveness.

Now comes the question: Why, if you are not interested in what I’m trying to sell you (store credit) would you go to all this trouble smiling and posing beforehand? And why, after you’ve declined the offer, would you attempt to continue to flirt with me? Do I not come off as unapproachable enough by the fact that I’m standing behind a counter wearing clothes that are not actually very flattering to me? Are you desperate enough to try flirting with the cashier ringing up your shaving cream, wrench, and Dr. Pepper?

If you’re really that good looking, go find someone who will fall all over herself at the first sight of you. There’s more between my ears than you think. I can help the next customer, please. Step right this way, Ma’am.

The Unpleaseables June 16, 2008

There’s just no pleasing some people. Seriously.

Case in point: the other day I was assisting a gentleman with his purchase of a toolbox from a well known brand name. Pretty normal transaction. Or so I thought.

“Yup, this is a sad day,” the man said. “I hate to see the *********(brand name censored to protect the innocent) name on this piece of junk. Look at that!” he pointed out. “Only one latch where there should be two. And this handle. You always gotta remember that it’s just stinkin’ plastic. If they’d just angle it a little bit further this way, it might actually be stronger. I’d be surprised if this piece of trash lasts a year.”

What I knew that this guy didn’t seem to get was…it was a little plastic toolbox. It was $10 on sale. It wasn’t meant to last forever. It wasn’t meant for ridiculous amounts of tools to be crammed into it and be carried for miles at a time every day. It was plastic, for heaven’s sake.

“Yeah,” the man continued, “I used to use a lot of *********’s tools, before they went to (bleep). They really went downhill!”

I politely asked the man whether he’d like to apply for a store credit card, explaining the promotion attached to it.

“No,” he replied, “I used to have one of your cards. They couldn’t get it right from day one. I went to the headquarters and cut it up in front of their eyes and told them to take a flying leap…” etc.

At this point I realised: this guy was not going to be pleased no matter what I did. He would find something wrong with perfection. And it probably wasn’t a good idea to call his attention too much to the customer service survey on his receipt.

What killed me? He paid the $10 for the toolbox he’d just finished whining about and left the store. I felt like suggesting he go work for that particular tool manufacturer and perhaps improve their tools and toolboxes, thus helping others like himself have better tools. But I don’t think he would’ve taken that well. And I seriously doubt my manager would be thrilled when he’d demand to speak with her about me.

Just another satisfied customer. I can help someone down on register 5!

Traffic lights June 15, 2008

Traffic lights are a very good invention. They help people cross streets without getting mowed down by cars doing 15 over the speed limit. They help regulate traffic so that cars on little streets occasionally get the chance to actually move. And they have handy little signs so you know when it is and isn’t legal to hit a pedestrian.

At least, that’s how it seems to me.

My workplace is located on a large, busy street, with several lanes going each way. Occasionally I have to cross said thoroughfare on foot. This is largely how I came to the following conclusion.

I don’t like it when traffic lights tell you how many seconds are left in your life.

“What? They don’t do that!” you say. “Oh, yes,” I reply, “they do!” Let me explain.

After I get off work and realise the need to cross this street, I stand at the corner and press the button to trigger the WALK signal-in this case, a little man walking. After a good five minutes of cars whizzing past me at a posted 45 MPH (read: about 55), I press the button again. And again. After a good fifteen minutes of this, I decide to lean on the button. At this point, I’ve already read the little “Rosetta stone” explaining how to interpret the signals on the traffic light…about twenty times. Eventually, out comes my good friend: the little WALK sign man.

With the little man now showing, I feel perfectly justified in crossing the street-the very thing I’ve been trying to do for the last 20 minutes. However, a problem invariably arises. As soon as I have made it across two lanes of eastbound traffic (still one more eastbound lane, a turn lane, and three westbound lanes to go), the little red hand always pops out, accompanied by a countdown: You have 22 seconds to live, 21 seconds to live, 20 seconds to live… Needless to say, I don’t like being told this. So I quicken my step. By the time I’m crossing the middle westbound lane, I’ve got to worry about a new problem: the yahoos who want to turn right. I’m about to walk right out in front of them, and the little red hand says there’s only 12 seconds until they can legally hit me (hopefully, that’s not actually legal. Hopefully.)

This journey has been interesting, I think as I hit the sidewalk on the other side. Looks like I beat the odds once again. I feel like I’ve cheated the grave. Just one more way we celebrate the little moments, I suppose. Oh well. Next time, since I’m out there waiting anyway, perhaps I’ll hold up a sign for something I believe in. Honk if you believe grass should continue to be green!