Lyrics That Infuriate Me
Disclaimer: I know that I’m not supposed to listen specifically to the lyrics a rap “artist” is saying. I’m supposed to appreciate the way he says the things he says, because the “delivery” of his words is the important thing, not the actual words or message. At least this is what I’ve been led to believe. I’m also supposed to appreciate the music playing in the background of the delivery of words I’m not supposed to focus on.
Sometimes when I listen to rap music, I want to be able to respond to what they’re saying. I want to say things like, “How can you say things like that and live with yourself?” or “Do you think your lyrics might be part of the reason the youth in our country score horribly, horribly low on standardized tests?” But there are a couple songs lately that infuriate me more than songs about violence and expensive cars and dealing drugs.
Enter Mario’s “Break Up.” The gist of the song is that the guy got dumped by his girlfriend because he cheated on her multiple times and did other bad-boyfriend type stuff. Even after admitting to all this stuff, he asks, “Why would you want to break up?”
What? Why wouldn’t she want to break up? I want to tell Rico Suave here that he answers his own question in his song, over and over. Every single line is the answer to his question.
“I know I be gone,” which I think means she can’t get ahold of him (check). “I know I be flirtin’ wit’ the girls, I know I be sayin’ I’ll be right back but take too long,” probably because he’s knows “I be sayin’ I’ll be faithful but I don’t” (check, check, check). But his gem-of-a-boyfriend behavior doesn’t stop there, ladies. Try not to swoon after reading this next line!
“Makin’ you them promises then go breakin’ your heart again. Tellin’ you she wasn’t who she was and we arguin’.” Then he tries to save the relationship with, “But baaaaby, I looooove you.”
Seriously? Do you think “I love you” is going to get you out of this huge hole you’ve dug? You just gave about 80 reasons for her to want to break up. His saving grace? Apparently it’s his love marking: “When I’m loving you, why would you want to break up?” Well, probably because you’ve been “loving” plenty of other girls and lying to your girlfriend about it, moron. She’s probably spent all day at the free clinic getting tested for every STD under the sun and since she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since you’re still not answering your phone, she probably assumed you were sleeping with another skanky stripper you met on tour. Geez, Mario. As soon as she can find you, I’m sure she’ll hold onto you real tight. No lady would want to let this opportunity at a healthy, stable relationship slip through her fingers!
“Girl I wouldn’t be the same if you was wit’ somebody else.” Yeah, because you’d be miserable and she’d actually be happy in a relationship with a guy who she can trust for more than 15 minutes. “Girl it wouldn’t be the same if I was wit’ somebody else.” What? You’ve already been with everyone else. We already know what it would be like. It would be just the same as the relationship now. Well, the relationship you were in until you got dumped. Loser.
My Eyes are Up Here
Have you ever had someone who is very obviously judging your look, whether it’s your clothes or jewelry or hair or whatever? I hate when people do that. It’s usually women who do this, I think. Guys are generally not judging you based on what sweater you’re wearing. But women are. And they are judging exactly how it fits and what you wore it with.
While I think it’s innocent to notice these things and have a judgment in your head, I don’t think it’s OK to be blatantly obvious about your method of obtaining this judgment.
I have at least one person in my office who does this. She looks you in the eyes at first, but then you can see her gaze move from your eyes to your hair to your pants to your shoes. Sometimes she’ll say, “Cute!” and other times she’ll say nothing. I have to assume that if she says nothing, she doesn’t love my outfit or at least one element of it.
I don’t care if she disapproves of my outfit or hair or shoes. But I do care that she so obviously looks at each piece — and sometimes goes back to another piece and focuses on it, switching from eye contact to outfit judging to eye contact. How can she not know how obvious it is? There was one day where I came in contact with her multiple times and she kept fixating on something. I eventually had to find a close office friend to ask if there was something about my right shoulder quadrant that was catching his attention. He said there was nothing even remotely catching, so I don’t know what the deal was. It drove me nuts every time I was near her. Even if there was something weird, after checking it out 30 times, I’d think a person would stop. If someone had a hole or stain or something, I’d immediately tell them, then not look again. Even if it was something I wasn’t going to point out, I still wouldn’t stare. Who does that?
What’s even more confusing is that I’ve had a conversation with her about people who obviously look at your outfit and how annoying it is. Maybe after bringing it up, she decided to see if she could get away with doing it all the time. Well, you aren’t. Please stop!
Sorry to any of my female readers who now wonder if they are the culprit. You’re not, so no worries.
She’s a Star Performer
Just to give everyone an idea of the type of people I work with at my retail job…
I heard a great story about one of the “star performers” from my department. Let’s call this person Vicki. To help you visualize Vicki, picture Avril Lavigne. I would say there’s a 99 percent chance she’s been mistaken for Avril multiple times. Anyway. I have met Vicki three times. Two of those three times, she was finishing her shift when I was arriving. She never introduced herself; never said hello. I could immediately tell she was one of those people who has probably worked for the company for two or three years and knew she could get away with anything so she took full advantage of that. She’s rude, crass and has a very poor attitude.
However, anytime I review the lists of “star performers,” she’s on it. How is this possible? I haven’t seen her lift as much as a finger any time I’ve worked with her and she responds to customer questions and management direction with disrespect. She must work there full-time, which would allow for more opportunity to make up for her crappiness on the weekends.
Now for the story. So yesterday a group of us were working on an incredibly tedious project and had been standing on our feet, doing this project, for several hours. One of the group members mentioned how tired he was, and another co-worker shared this story:
“Vicki came to work hungover one day” — which was actually impressive to me, because she’s called in sick for about three shifts in the last two weeks — “and was really tired. So she found one of those chairs, ya know, the ones you always see guys sitting in while their girlfriends are shopping. She sat down, slid off her shoes and fell asleep. Security eventually saw her on camera and contacted a manager. The manager went to the chair, found Vicki sleeping it with her shoes off, woke her up and informed her that that was not the impression we wanted our customers to have.”
What!? What in your head would make you think it’s OK to 1) take your shoes off while sitting in a chair in the middle of a department store and 2) go to sleep? If you need to go to sleep, go to your car, hop in the back seat and take a 20-minute nap. And how is this girl still working here? And how is she considered a top-notch employee? Seriously.
I’m Not Destitute
I’m a little concerned that everyone thinks I got my second job because I’m in some kind of money trouble. “Well, she has been writing a lot about all her shopping experiences…who knows how much she’s buying every time…it’s probably finally catching up to her…poor thing doesn’t know how to spend within her means!”
I can assure you that I am not in any kind of money troubles. I just realized that if I ever want to be able to purchase a home — and a home that I will be able to feel at home in — I’m going to need more money available for a down payment. And while I absolutely love my full-time job, it unfortunately doesn’t pay me the big bucks. That may come as a surprise to some people, since apparently no one knows what I actually do. Either way, I’m unfortunately not netting $10,000 in profits each month, so a second job it is.
I’m also in the process of going back to school, like I’ve mentioned, and it doesn’t seem like the powers of higher education want to just give it to me. Luckily my job does help out by paying for the classes that are relevant to my career there, but it’s always nice to have a safety net just in case.
So I’m not in trouble. I’m mostly just bored. And I thought the best thing to do with my extra time was to make money rather than going to the same place and spending it.
Take the Money and Run?
I have a very quick poll to conduct.
Let’s say you were in a car accident.
You were rear-ended, so you are not at-fault, and therefore will not have to pay for the repairs. The person who hit you seemed like a nice young man, mostly just scared shitless. You have two options. You can submit the accident as a claim on your insurance, which means you will have to pay the $500 deductible up front, but once your insurance company gets the money from his insurance company, you’ll get the$500 back. Or, you can tell the kid who hit you that he can pay you the exact amount of the repair estimate, which isn’t cheap, but will end up being cheaper for him in the long run because his insurance rates will go up (let’s assume this was confirmed by his insurance agent).
Would you file the claim through insurance, or set up a payment plan with the kid because it seems like a nice thing to do? Or any other reason, I guess.
Sausage Feet, I’ve Got Those Sausage Feet
No, my feet have not been transformed into what some consider a delectable breakfast food. My feet are swollen due to a poor choice of shoe on my first day of retail work and that poor choice has turned my once cute little toes into mini sausage links. My big toes are bruised and tender from eight and a half hours of non-stop friction with the fronts of my shoes. It’s not a pretty sight. Even worse, it’s not a pretty feeling.
I have been hobbling around for more than a week now. I’ve tried elevating my feet, soaking them in hot water and gently massaging them, which definitely didn’t help. Yesterday, I told myself I was bed- and couch-bound only, with the exception of one trip to Target to purchase Epsom salt for a more serious soaking. After three soakings, I’m seeing some minor improvements.
I’ve worked retail before, so I don’t know how I let this happen. I know how important it is to wear comfortable shoes when you’ll be standing, walking or running for your entire shift. And I made an effort to choose comfortable shoes. Because I have crazy-sensitive feet, I knew it was crucial to pick shoes that didn’t cause blisters. And that’s what I did. I picked these super cute silver ballet flats that have treated my feet well. Because they’re flat, I figured I should add some extra-cushiony inserts for good measure.
That was a huge mistake. The inserts took up too much space in my shoes, causing the back of my feet to hit the back of my shoes in exactly the wrong places, which resulted in multiple blisters on both feet within hour one of my shift. The space taken by my inserts also caused my toes to be smushed up against the fabric of my shoes, which led to the bruising and pain I’m feeling still today. How shoes as cute as my ballet flats can cause this much damage, I have no idea. I didn’t even know the bed underneath my toe nails could bruise.
While the blisters healed relatively quickly, the tender toes have not. Because I’m trying to avoid the pain in my toes, I’m walking more on the outsides of my feet, which has caused them to swell and hurt too. I have a new respect for anyone who has had foot problems. You are reminded of it constantly. All you want to do is cut your feet off. Seriously. When I was done with work Friday night, I considered how much pain I would be in if I cut my toes off. Sure, I’d have to go to the hospital and have them stitched up, but at least I’d get medication…right?
Not only are my feet in pain, but I had two moles cut out of me on Friday, so I’ve got bandages and stitches and swollen feet and blisters. Seriously, I’m just a mess at this point. I feel like some kind of science experiment. And since I’m a baby, I don’t want anything rubbing where my stitches are, so I’m holding my shoulders and legs at different angles. I wouldn’t have wanted to be any of the cars waiting for me to cross the pedestrian walkway at Target, that’s for sure.
Luckily, I had this weekend off. I’m hoping the Epsom salt soakings and rest will translate into back-to-normal feet on Monday. I can’t handle the hobbling much more.
Not the Brightest Bulb
So I was at work last night, enjoying an evening of selling tons of clothes to people I don’t necessarily think should be spending that much money on clothes. They never asked me my opinion, but if they would have, I would have told them, “Do I think you can afford these four pairs of $80 jeans? No, I definitely don’t. Your three bratty kids, who are tearing off the prices tags of the items you’ve decided not to buy, are wearing raggy, summer-weather clothes and could definitely use jackets. Please put your credit card away, step back from the register and go home.”
Anyway.
Because I’m new, I’m not 100 percent sure of what I’m doing at all times. I was doing a return for someone and because they didn’t have a receipt and their purchase wasn’t coming up in the system, it meant they were going to receive store credit rather than cash. When the prompt came up to scan the store credit card, I didn’t see any of them around. So I turned to the woman who was assisting in my department, Woman-who-knows-nothing, and asked her if she knew where we kept the store credit cards.
WWKN: “…”
Me: “Ya know, the cards we use when we need to give someone store credit when they don’t have a receipt for a return?”
WWKN: “Usually if they’re trying to use store credit, they should have a card with the store credit on it.”
Me: “No, I mean I need to give her store credit, because she returned something and now needs money back, so I just need to know where those cards are or what they look like.”
WWKN: “…”
Me: “They look kind of like gift cards, I think. They might be red.”
WWKN: “No, see, when the customer goes to pay for something, they can use store credit to purchase it, so then you can just swipe the card they give you.”
Me: “She’s not buying something; it’s a return. So I need to give store credit to her.”
WWKN: “…”
Me: “Nevermind.”
Every time I would look at her, it’s like I could tell her brain wanted to process whatever I was saying, but it just didn’t know how. So I just kept getting these blank stares of total confusion. Her eyes were wide and her mouth would open as if she was about to say something, but since her brain couldn’t process anything it didn’t know how to respond. I think it knew I was waiting for a response, but it wasn’t sure what that response should have been.
By this time, the customer decided that she didn’t want store credit after all and miraculously found her receipt. Why didn’t she present the receipt in the first place? I think she was just hoping that the pants would be more expensive now than what they were when she paid for them and she’d come out ahead on the deal. That’s just the way I’ve been trained to think now. Anyway. So since I was then doing the return and had completed it, Woman-who-knows-nothing came up to me and said, “Well look at you! See? You did it!”
I figured it wasn’t even worth the effort in explaining to her what had happened or what I had wanted.
When the store had finally closed, I was walking out with Woman-who-knows-nothing and another co-worker. The not-an-idiot-one and I were talking about how each of us had worked at a different clothing retail store in the past for a very short amount of time and were comparing experiences. The store we were talking about is pretty well-known and a staple in almost every mall I’ve ever been to. In fact, it is only two store-fronts down from the department store we work in. Woman-who-knows-nothing then said she had never heard of the store and even asked, “So it’s in malls?” This blew my mind. Maybe I’m expecting too much of this woman, who is well out of any demographic the other store would be targeting. Maybe she doesn’t have kids who would shop there or at least talk about shopping there. Maybe she sews all of her own clothes. Maybe the department store we work in is the only store she has ever visited in any mall ever. I don’t know. It was ridiculous either way.
Rate the Level of Grossness
I’ve already said I’m somewhat of a germaphobe, but I have varying degrees of grossed-out levels. And while some minor things bother me, there are probably larger things that don’t bother me. So I’m very inconsistent.
OK, here’s what happened:
I was in my econ class last night, enjoying the enlightening lecture about marginal costs and variable costs and fixed costs and whatever other costs you could imagine. I had just put a piece of gum in my mouth and had set the wrapper on my table so that I could use it later to throw away my gum. Anyway. Due to some rustling of my papers and materials, the wrapper fell on the floor. It maybe sat there for 10 minutes before I decided to pick it up. It had gone a little out of my reach, so I had to use my shoe to slide it closer to me. This means my sandal landed on top of the wrapper, then dragged it across the carpet. I then picked it up and brought it close enough to my mouth that I could “dispense” my gum into it. I don’t think my mouth or my face actually came in contact with the wrapper, but it was close.
How gross is that? When I don’t think about it, I just say, “No big deal…” But when I think about where my sandal has been – namely bathrooms – I start getting grossed out. And I think about where other people’s shoes have been before their shoes touched the floor that my wrapper fell on. So there are bad things all over the floor and all over my sandal, so the wrapper picked up who knows what from both sides. Then I used my fingers to pick up said wrapper and bring it close to my mouth and face. I was a little disturbed. Not enough to do anything about it, like run to the bathroom and wash my hands and face 10 or 15 times, but still.
The Fun Side of My Closet
Like I mentioned earlier, I recently got a second job. While I don’t 100 percent enjoy being on my feet for five to eight hours straight, running 25 pairs of jeans (that are all different brands and different styles, mind you) from one dressing room back to their designated areas on the sales floor and having a pretty good idea of the differences between purple-purple and pink-purple when it comes to party dresses, there are a few benefits.
When I’m trying to decide what to wear, I finally get to pick clothes from the fun side of my closet. Not that I hate the clothes I wear to my regular job, but they aren’t really me and I don’t usually feel completely comfortable in them. They just aren’t my style, and I would argue that lots of people who have to wear business casual or business attire to work don’t feel that those clothes truly reflect their personal style. Anyway. This is my chance to pick something I really love and I feel looks great on me. And I’m encouraged to do this, because it reflects my clothing style to our customers, who are mostly looking for similar items.
And some people might ask, “Who are you trying to impress?” or “Why would you care what your part-time co-workers and customers think of the way you dress?” Probably because my style is one way I express myself. This is finally my chance to wear what I really want to wear, and it’s almost like my choices are being put on display because I’m choosing to showcase them in front of other people who have that similar style. It’s like I’m being judged by every customer who walks into my department — and I am, because customers will look me up and down, judging each piece of my outfit. But I do it too. It’s just like someone looking at art: I appreciate a woman’s courage to wear certain trends and I am inspired by new twists on simple things like t-shirts and scarves. And it’s just like this blog: I’m putting my personal writing style and stories out there for everyone, and everyone is judging what they’re reading.
When it comes to motivation, my main goal is just to get through the hours. I don’t have to worry about how high my level of performance is, because I can usually exceed expectations by showing up and staying for the entire time I’m scheduled. That seems to be how easy it is. I also score points for smiling and not saying things to the customers like, “What do you want now?” or “What do you expect me to do about that?” It’s not like I am part of a project that will take weeks or months to complete and will be an on-going part of my job. My biggest projects are returning a rack of jeans to the sales floor, which I have to sort by brand first, then style, or standing at the dressing room entrance and strictly enforcing the “six item limit” policy for an hour. Pretty intense.
But it feels nice to not have that pressure of whatever happens today will carryover into tomorrow and the rest of the week, month or quarter. I show up, run some clothes around and help some customers, then punch out and head home. I don’t have to think about improving current processes or implementing more efficient processes. Although I guess I could if I thought of something. But it’s not expected or even necessarily encouraged. And while I do enjoy the challenge of making my full-time job better and more efficient, sometimes it’s nice to not have to think — to be brainless — and get paid for it. Especially while wearing cute clothes.
Another Rant
This is a long one, just to warn you. In case you don’t want to read the entire thing, the gist of the story is that people annoy me, and they do it repeatedly. There, I just saved you about 800 words of reading.
I’ve had a very annoying week. Let’s start with the part-time job I got to fill up some of my extra time and pull in a little extra cash.
I worked my behind off to get all the training completed as quickly as possible so that I’d have time to study for my first test in my economics class and so that I could start the job as soon as I could. When I finished my training last Monday, I was told I’d be receiving a call and would be starting soon. Fast-forward to Saturday, when I still hadn’t heard anything about starting the job. I did, however, check my schedule for two weeks from now and I’m not only 11 hours over the hours I’m supposed to be scheduled, I’m also set to work an entire day on Tuesday, which happens to be the one day every week that I can’t work at all (due to my regular full-time job and my night class).
So I called the “customer service” desk at the retail giant, hoping they could connect me with either someone from Human Resources or my new manager. However, the “customer service” person was possibly the rudest customer service rep I’ve ever talked to.
“Thanks for calling X-place Lindsey now works-X, this is the unbelievably bitchy woman who works in gift wrap, how can I help you?”
“Hi, is there anyone from human resources I could talk to?”
“Um,” and then she kind of scoffs or laughs a little, “no one from human resources works on the weekends” — which I know is untrue, for the record — “and they certainly wouldn’t be here at 7 p.m.”
“Great, thanks for being so helpful and doing so well at your job as a customer service rep. X-place Lindsey now works-X customers must consider themselves so blessed to come in any kind of contact with you.”
So I hung up and dwelled on how mad I was, then decided to call back and just ask for the department I will work in, then hope my manager is somewhere nearby to take my call.
Luckily, it was a different person to answer the phone and she gladly connected me to my department and I was eventually connected to my manager. I explained that 1) I shouldn’t be scheduled for 11 hours over what I’m supposed to work and 2) I shouldn’t be scheduled for eight hours on the one day a week I absolutely cannot work. He said he’d take care of my Tuesday shift and said that there will just be times when I’m scheduled more than I want.
This I completely understand. But when I signed up to work a certain number of hours a week and was told, specifically, that I wouldn’t be scheduled more than eight hours over that original number, but to then be scheduled an additional three, it frustrates me. So now I feel like I need to be watching the schedule like a hawk so that when it happens again — and it most likely will, but I’ll try to stay positive and think that maybe it won’t — I can call my manager and say, “Hey, WTF, I can’t work this many hours and I can’t work Tuesdays.”
OK. So the X-place Lindsey now works-X fun doesn’t end there. My manager called me again that weekend to see if I could pick up a shift. When I tried calling him back, I was super lucky to speak with the customer service people again.
“Hi, thanks for calling X-place Lindsey now works-X, this is another super bitch, how can I direct your call?”
“Can I be directed to the X-department?”
“Um, section 1 or 2 of that department?”
“I guess I don’t know…I’m just trying to connect to the manager for that department…”
“Well, that really won’t help me connect you — I don’t have the information to find that person. I guess I’ll just have to connect you to that department.”
“Great, I feel like that’s exactly what I asked you to begin with…but whatever. You guys are so awesome at your job. X-place Lindsey now works-X really nailed it when they hired and trained you and your co-workers.”
So eventually I’m connected to the department and the girl who picks up the phone has no idea what I’m talking about. We were pretty much speaking two entirely different languages. In the end, she supposedly took my phone number and was going to have my manager call me back.
Since then, I’ve tried calling X-place Lindsey now works-X twice and was disconnected once by the wonderful blessings in customer service. The other time it actually worked.
Well, since it took me this many words just to express my annoyances with X-place Lindsey now works-X, I won’t even start with the other stuff. Tomorrow’s another day, right?
