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!