Cooler King, age 2 September 24, 2008

I work at a preschool in the afternoons, and this has led me a conclusion:

 

The “time-out” system is flawed.

 

Shocker! Let me explain.

 

I work with the two-year-olds, which, in the afternoons, combine with the one-year-olds. So typically there are four or five kids in my room at the end of the day, ranging from just turned one to nearly three. They are all at different levels as far as speech, listening, sharing, etc., though not a one of them is fully potty-trained (they’d move on to the next room if they were).

 

Yesterday I was working with a little boy, we’ll call him K. But that’s not what I call him in my mind. In my mind, I call him the Cooler King, after Steve McQueen’s character in The Great Escape. You’ll soon see why.

 

K is probably our most verbal child, and I’m pretty sure the oldest. He’s a sweetheart, but there’s one catch: he’s the LOUDEST CHILD ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH! This kid has the lung capacity to be the next Luciano Pavarotti…or to blow up hot water bottles til they burst.

 

Yesterday, he and V, another little boy who’s just barely two, both wanted to play with the same truck. It’s a cool truck, too, so I can understand why. K took the truck from V, resulting in V’s indignation.

 

“K,” I said, “V was playing with the truck. Give it back to him and play with another toy; you can have a turn when he’s done.”

 

K: “NOOOOO!”

 

Me: “K, you need to listen to the teacher. You have five seconds, or you’ll have to sit in time-out. 1…”

 

K:”NOOOOOO!”

 

Me: “2…”

 

K: “I DON’T WANT TIME-OUT!”

 

Me: “3…”

 

K: “SHUT UP!”

 

My mind: “Cooler, twenty days.”

 

My voice: “K, we don’t say ’shut up’ to our teacher. Come sit in time-out!”

 

K: “NOOOOOO! I DON’T WANT TIME-OUT! I DON’T WANT IT! I DON’T WANT IT!”

 

This went on for about 7 minutes: about every fifteen seconds, K would shout either “NOOOOO!” or “I DON’T WANT IT!”. At the seven-minute mark (he would’ve been out much sooner, but he was still shouting), after many admonitions to stop shouting and sit quietly in the time-out chair, K suddenly grew quiet. “Super,” I thought, “He’s calming down!” I turned away for a moment to tie another kiddo’s shoes and felt movement behind me. I turned around again and looked.

 

It was K. Sneaky child that he is, he decided that time-out would be more tolerable if he had a toy with him. So he snuck over and chose…a playground-sized ball. Way to go, K. I can’t even see that in your hand, nooooo.

 

(A side note here: These kids stick together. I’ve seen two year olds start “prison ministries”, where they aid and abet timed-out ones to obtain toys, snacks, and two-year-old gibberish counseling. Serious!)

 

Me: “K, we don’t play with toys in time-out. Give it here. Now sit quietly and you can play in a minute.”

 

K: “NOOOOOOOO! I DON’T LIKE TIME-OUT! I DON’T WANT IT!….” etc.

 

Me: “We’ve been over that, kiddo, now sit!”

 

That was the first of four times over the next 10-12 minutes that I confiscated toys from K, still in time-out (given the fact that he was still shouting at the top of his lungs every fifteen seconds. This kid would’ve been great at the Ephesian riot in the book of Acts!) I was starting to feel a little like Inspector Javert from Les Miserables: “For heaven’s sake, the guy’s in for petty theft…for 19 years, cause he keeps busting out! Gimme a break!”

 

Finally the shouting stopped, and as I confiscated the fourth toy, K said in a very repentant little voice, “I’m sorry!”

 

He sat still for about a minute, then I let him out and he came over, hugged me, and started apologising. Awww…

 

Although this story does bring up one solution to kids voluntarily getting out of time-out: at the program my sister works at, the time-out chair in the two-year-olds’ room is a restaurant-style highchair, complete with safety belt. Genius.

Please to Viewing the Following Informations… July 6, 2008

I am not the only one who has noticed the need that today’s manufacturers feel to place warning labels on everything. This is common (annoying) knowledge, and probably aimed at avoiding lawsuits.

But may I say that they might not need so many warning labels if they’d get some native English speakers to write their instruction manuals?

Please understand. I know some very nice people whose first language is not English. I’m not getting onto them at all. But these instruction manuals make NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.

The sentence structure is enough to make me cringe. Apparently Yoda got a job writing microwave oven manuals, ’cause see Star Wars you must before understand them you can.

And to top that, the actual words they use half the time have nothing to do with the actual product or its use.

Given this information, I have narrowed down the culprits: clearly the proprietors of icanhascheezburger.com are writing our small appliance manuals. This must be stopped.

To anyone who wants to argue this point, I have just one thing to say…

Thank you.

Fire Alarms and Soda July 3, 2008

So today I was at work, and a man came in, asking to see the manager. I called a manager up, and he explained to us that he was here to repair the fire sprinkler system, which had broken by accident during inspection this morning. He went to the back and fixed it. But here’s the kicker:

No one warned us that the fire alarm would go off while the system repressurised.

Therefore, we were totally unprepared when it did go off, continuously, for what felt like an hour, but was probably 10-15 minutes.

Several customers asked me whether the alarm was for real, to which we replied that it was being tested, which it was, to make sure the system was back up. After a few minutes, one manager announced that it was only a test over the PA system.

All this led me to a conclusion:

I don’t like it when fire alarms go off continuously. It hurts one’s head and threatens one’s hearing.

All this happened after a customer managed to explode a soda can by accident…right in front of the service desk.

My theory is: put that guy on the ceiling. If he smells smoke, let him explode more soda.

Problem solved.

I can help the next customer right here.

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.

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.

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!