The Army

At first she thought it was a mistake. Stupid Cliff messed with the scale again.

“Very funny,” she called to her husband in the next room. “Now please fix the scale.”

Cliff walked into the bathroom. “We have a scale?” he asked.

She looked down at her feet. “Yes. I happen to be standing on it.”

He frowned. “I always thought that was an extremely dusty magazine that you never bothered to throw away.”

Cliff was right. The scale was extremely dusty. She bent down to wipe some of the debris off, just in case that was what was tampering with her weight.

She stepped on it again. The number was the same. 225. Am I pregnant? No, that can’t be. Cliff hasn’t touched me in ages.

“Rhonda, give the scale a break,” Cliff said, interrupting her mental blame-game.

“Is that a fat joke?” she demanded.

Cliff raised his eyebrows. “Honey, what joke?”

It was time to hit the gym.

***

She detested these wretched mirrors. All they did was make her realize how bad she looked. She glanced over her shoulder to see if the toothsome, toned man had left the rowing machines. She had embarrassed herself by being unable to make the stupid thing work. Then Mr. Long, Tan and Handsome had come along and adjusted the weight from 50 lbs. to 5 lbs. What a nightmare.

She eyed her reflection with conviction. I look like Jabba the Hutt. No, worse! I’m starting to look like Mother!

Mom!

Of course it wasn’t her fault that she had gotten this corpulent! It was the work of her mother, the magical cook! Oh, she could make anything taste good! She would cook up everything in the house and shove it down Rhonda’s throat until Rhonda had adopted these eating habits for life.

Curse those second helpings of pork roast, lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and pudding.

Mmmmm… Pudding…

She decided to weigh herself once more before she left the gym. It was stupid to think that she had lost some weight since that morning, but Rhonda was confident that the whole twenty minutes she spent on the treadmill (mostly thinking about food) had not gone to waste.

She timidly crept onto the scale and peeked at the number. 223! She raced home to tell Cliff.

This was a feast-worthy feat!

***

“Cliff I can’t bear to look. You look for me!” Rhonda stood planted atop the scale, fingers covering her eyes.

          Last night had not been pretty. Cliff was still angry that Rhonda had completely devoured the earthquake, hurricane, and tornado surfiets.

          She readied herself as her husband leaned over the scale to read the numbers.

          “You know those two pounds you lost yesterday?” he asked.

          She nodded slowly.

          “They’re back with reinforcements.”

Closing Time

"Attention Macy's shoppers! The time is 9:00, and Macy's is now closed..."
Don't pretend like you can't hear the announcement. It's broadcasted over the bloody PA system. The only thing that pretending not to hear is going to do is make me come over there and personally kick you out of the store. And I'll do it. I'd be most happy to do it.
(NOTE:I have only ever had one deaf customer. If that is you, this does not apply.)
Do not go into the dressing room and try on three more tops. Because I will take the clipboard, unlock the door, and pull your half-naked ass down the escalator and throw you into the dark parking lot. I'll keep your shirt too. Do not approach me with a stack of items you have been hoarding since 8:15. If you were ready to purchase at 8:15, you should have done so and left. You would have taken up less space in my area, and I could have focused on folding cardigans instead of vaulting the jeans display every time you meandered past the counter, looking like you were about to purchase something. Once the clock strikes nine, I will not ring you up. I will jump for joy, do cartwheels up and down the fitting rooms, and dance around the clearance racks, but I refuse to ring you up.
Of course there are exceptions. There are always exceptions. If I haven't made my goal in a week and I'm currently at 97-99% and you have five or less items and you beg me to ring you up, I might consider it. If you are deaf, I will allow it. If you are an incredibly handsome man, I will probably go out of my way. "Probably" being the elastic clause. I will not help you if you are a douchebag. If you're a coworker WHOM I LIKE, I will help you. If you open a Macy's card, I will help you. If I am feeling especially merciful, I will deign to help you. But I'm not one for feeling merciful these days.
Do not approach me with a return. I will rip your head off.
Do not complain to me that the doors are locked. What do you want me to do about it? I obviously didn't do it. I was up here, watching your saggy ass totter around my department for the last hour and a half. I don't have the key. I don't have industrial strength capable of bending steel doors. I don't have heat vision. Your only option (and I mean only) is to exit the employee entrance. If that's not near where you parked, get over it. Park next to the employee exit if you're one of those assholes who shops until closing and then panics because the lights turn off. But fair warning: if you are that asshole, I will find you. And destroy you.
Do not ask me to call another Macy's and have them put something on hold. If that item is clearance, just walk away. (That rule applies for any time of day.) Believe it or not, dear customer, all Macy's locations close at 9. We don't do this because we're cruel, morning people who wish to avenge our earlybird ways. We do this because studies show that most normal people prefer to get their shopping done when the sun is up. Don't ask me why. Maybe they prefer the night for things like sleeping, eating dinner, spending time with their families, etc. Maybe they like to have enough light so they can see where they parked.
As a general rule of thumb, don't approach me at closing time at all. Just don't. I will give you my best bitchface to deter you as much as possible. And if that doesn't scare you, you must have a high fear tolerance. I may be speaking to you in my friendly-customer-I'm-the-happiest-associate-ever voice, but on the inside, I'm throwing mental darts at your head. Just look at the eyes. The sharp, pointy, Asian eyes.

Happy (daytime) Shopping!

ToriannaLamba

If I Was an Art Teacher

Well, I'm not going to be, but here is a sample of what I might be like. Inspired by this Garfield comic strip I read all the way back in middle school. It still makes me laugh, but I'm not entirely sure why. http://garfield.nfshost.com/2006/01/07/

"Don't touch me," he says.

I poke him again, albeit against his will.

"I said stop!"

"Why are you lying face down on that blank piece of paper?" I ask.

"It's not blank."

"Wanna look up so I can see it?"

"No."

My goodness, teenagers are difficult. "Okay, so how about you describe to me what's on it?"

"My face."

"You did a self-portrait?"

He is silent for effect, and then says, "No, that's what's on the piece of paper."

I roll my eyes and throw my hands up, although he cannot see either gesture. "Well, don't talk to me like I'm stupid. You're in art class. God forbid you do any art."

His shoulders rise and fall with his passing of breath.

"Sorry," I say. "That was a little harsh." Although, really it wasn't.

"No, you're right. You should be talking to me like I'm stupid."

I nod in agreement, since he can't see me. "Why?" I say to him, instead, using my sympathetic, pretend-to-care, teacher's voice.

"Because I am."

"You are stupid or you did something stupid? There's a difference, you know."

He lifts his head off the table, but not off the piece of paper. It comes up with him.

"I accidentally glued a piece of paper to my face."

Against all my professional training, I laugh. "How do you do that accidentally?"

"I was using glue--"

"Why? We were doing pencil sketches today."

"--Then I fell asleep in the middle of what I was doing."

In the midst of my snorts of laughter, I feel a prickling sensation that I should probably be concerned. "Can you even breathe?" I ask, swallowing my giggles.

"Don't worry about it."

I comb through my brain, attempting to think of any other important, teacher-like questions I should ask. "Do you have narcolepsy?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. Then I don't feel so bad for laughing."

He turns his blank (literally) face at me.

"Hold still," I say, suddenly inspired.

He instinctively scoots away from the sound of my voice. "What are you doing?"

"Your classwork," I reply. I grab a pencil and begin to sketch a face. First, two wide, bright eyes. Then, an ear-to-ear grin.

"Why am I not happy?" he sighs.

"Oh, but you are."

The Pros and Cons of Driving With the Windows Rolled Down

I know this is weird, but I only like rain in the winter. Clouds are socially acceptable any time between October and March. Otherwise, it should be sunny and warm. My demands are reasonable enough, don't you think? Luckily for Helios, the weather is so nice this week. I don't care if you're a fucking god, I will have my sun. In the words of Beyonce, "You ain't never seen a fire like the one I'm gonna cause." She was referring to her man cheating on her, though. I am referring to the sun. But the feelings are the same.

So, since the sun is, in fact, in the sky, and you don't see the heavens alight with my pasty-skinned fury, obviously Helios is doing his job. Which means several good things... 1. Tanning. 2. Sunglasses, shorts, spaghetti straps, army pants and flip flops, etc. 3. Driving with the windows rolled down. We are talking about the last item because I don't want to be chastised on consumerism and skin cancer, and because I did something really dumb today.

So, let's begin with some Pros:

1. Fresh Air

Obviously. But for a more personal case, say you own a '92 Ford Mustang convertible named El Guapo and all the shade spots always get swooped at the college you happen to attend, so poor El Guap is forced to bake in the sun during those summer months. It gets fucking hot, okay? Like, hotter than any other car, I'm pretty positive. If you beg to differ, then I refer you back to that Beyonce quote previously mentioned. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure his air conditioning is shot, and I'm not about to risk the well-being of my only mode of transportation to find out. I'm perfectly fine playing up the role of cute teenager in a red convertible bombing down the freeway with the windows rolled down. The top would be down too, but I'm not sure if that works either. Anyway, rolling down the windows after your car has been silently cooking in a parking lot for a couple of hours, kicking the air-freshener-saturated air out and inviting the moving, not-so-stale air in, is one of the best parts about owning a car that's older than you.

2. Gross Smells

Sometimes, as Old El Paso says, "You Gotta Have Mexican." Sometimes, like Old El Paso doesn't say, you shouldn't have Mexican. Right, so that came out totally disgusting and you are all probably thinking I get terrible gas and never want to eat burritos with me again, but I honestly was thinking about leftovers... But I'm NOT going to edit that because gas works too. Whether you stink yourself out or you have that friend who has a fatal attraction to chilaquiles, working windows are there to rescue you. On a less nose-wrinkling note, nothing stays in your car more than leftover food smells. One time, my boss asked me to pick her up some Greek food. El Guap smelled like gyros for days, despite the Caribbean Sunset pink penguin air freshener I got from Bath and Body Works. And it was fucking raining, so I had to tough it out.

3. Showing Off Your Vocal Talent

I've been told that my voice closely resembles that of an angel, but who am I to brag about it? HAHA JUST KIDDING. I belt it out, even when I have a sore throat and sound like a strangled toad, which is what I encourage everyone to do. Unless you are a terrible driver. Focus on the road, in that case. If I could, though, I'd audition to American Idol that way because, quite frankly, I feel most comfortable singing in the car. Maybe I'll get discovered through a police scanner...who knows? Until then, I share my pipes and bomb ass flow with the fellow drivers on the road. I'm white. I can rap. Get used to it. Also, if you are a terrible singer and you share that with other drivers, I will admit, this is one of the few times I won't judge you. You should know that I don't do this very often and I want to invite you to have lunch with me everyday of the week--oops, I get carried away. But seriously, take advantage of the situation. This is not to say other drivers will be so nice.

4. Scaring Pedestrians

I don't think this bears further explanation.

Alrighty, now let's get into the nitty-gritty. Con time.

1. The 5-0.

As previously stated, I have mad flow. You know who doesn't care? The cops. Just a word of warning, if you are passing a cop and you are blasting Wiz Khalifa, stop rapping. Just stop. I'm pretty sure they know all of the euphemisms for weed, and you are not fooling anybody. Even if you are the most unsuspecting person in the world, like an adorable half Asian driving an old red Mustang fraught with Hello Kitty stickers. If you are rapping Snoop Dogg, turn that shit off as fast as you can. The term "pig" feels just as unflattering as it sounds. If someone (other than myself) calls me a pig, I shall again refer them to the Beyonce quote at the beginning of this post.

2. Insects

If you think bugs are gross when you're stationary, then you will think they are ten times worse whilst moving. The other day, a ladybug flew into my sunglasses. I felt terrible. Also, I couldn't see, but surprisingly, that thought came after the initial, "I JUST KILLED A LADYBUG!" emotional trauma. Um, bees. They make bigger splats than the average insect. Plus, when you kill bees, you pretty much feel like you killed a flower and Pooh Bear, both of which give you that emotional trauma previously stated. Don't even get me started on the distress I get when I murder a butterfly. Oddly enough, these feelings only arise when the windows are down, because I'm the cause of impact, rather than the windshield--and, for the record, I only get pissed when insects die there because who has to clean it? This girl right here.

3. Aggressive Drivers

Referring to myself, admittedly. When the windows are rolled up, and you're nestled in your little safe haven of a car, you forget that other people can actually hurt you. You get used to saying whatever you want. Needless to say, I am an incredibly aggressive driver. I imagine I sound somewhat similar to my Macy's rants. Now imagine if you were on the receiving end of that. I just annihilated your self-esteem, or I just really pissed you off. Luckily, big, buff, scary people tend to be good drivers (at least while driving next to me), and I've never had to use that mace my daddy gave me. BUT today, while ranting about the asshole who had just cut me off, I was overheard by everyone around me, including asshole-man and the cop to my right. After assuring him through my glorious open window that I was just an angry person on the inside and I swear that doesn't come through in my driving, the light turned green and I drove away as quickly as the speed limit and asshole-man would permit. Obviously he didn't believe me, though, because he pulled behind me and kept a close watch, which meant Snoop Dogg had to wait.

The pros outweigh the cons, though, so I'm going to continue to roll my windows down and sing at the top of my lungs, and I encourage you all to do the same. Just not if you live in Oakland. Also, upload some Enya or Amy Grant for when the cops cruise by, and try to control your temper? Yeah, I said it. You have permission to laugh at the hypocrisy. Just know that I sure as hell won't be following my own advice. Whatever, I mean, do what you want.

Hope you all have many more days worthy of rolled-down windows!

ToriannaLamba

The truth about salvaged items

The name even sounds gross. Do you really want to buy a salvaged item? You shouldn't. Because I don't want to sell it to you. So go away and don't come back until you find something full-priced and expensive...or if you want to open a Macy's card.
This lady came up to me the other day with a neon orange Michael Kors top, wanting to know the price. First, who likes neon orange? Besides Michael Kors. Second, go to the price scanner, bitch. The sign above my head specifically says, "Make a purchase." Unfortunately, when I scan it, it comes up as .01. Which means it's salvaged. So I tell her the item was a return and now the merchandise is so old, it's no longer in our system.
She gives me a blank look.
What part of that is difficult to understand? Return. Old. Not for sale.
Oh, but she really wants it.
Fine, I tell her. Then it will be 65% off the ticket price, final sale. She looks at me expectantly. So I take out my ancient artifact of a calculator that all associates come equipped with and tell her it will be 24.50. She frowns and tells me that's not a salvage price. Oh, forgive me. Can you do math better than an Asian person with a calculator? Didn't think so. I show her the operating window in the calculator, assuming she knows simple math.
She shakes her head and tells me that she doesn't think that's how the sale of a salvaged item works. Excuse me? Five fucking minutes ago, you didn't even know what a salvaged item was. Don't you tell me how to sell salvaged items. I went to MAGIC training, bitch. I know how to sell, and last time I checked, your name tag was not red. Oh wait, you don't have a name tag. That means you do not work for Macy's and should not be telling me how to do my job.
In nicer terms, I explain that this is a Michael Kors top, not reduced in any way, and this is the fucking cheapest it is ever going to get. So, you can either buy the top for the ungodly price of $24.50, or give up, hang your head in shame, and reluctantly accept the fact that Nicki Minaj was indeed right--you could NOT get Michael Kors if you was fucking Michael Kors.
So she takes her top and stomps off to a different register where they will undoubtedly tell her the same thing. Even if it was a Michael Kors top, though, why would you want to wear something that's been returned? You can wash it all you want. I don't care. Just the fact that it once belonged to someone else, even for a second, makes it gross. I'm a very possessive person, I think. Even so, you don't know what the first person did in that shirt.
They could have gone out dancing, which means all of their nasty sweat, along with whomever's sweat they danced with, is all mixed together on that top. Dude, I don't even like my own sweat. Someone else's is out of the question.
They could be a really messy eater. What if they ate a meal in that top? When people eat and food falls out of their mouth, it is basically like they're throwing it up. That means you've got someone else's barf all over you now. Enjoy that.
It could've just been sitting in their closet this whole time. Not an entirely bad thought. Until you think about what else might have been in that closet. Maybe they were extremely cruel and locked their pets in the closet. Ever wonder what that funny smell that never comes out of your salvaged Michael Kors top is? Bam. Cat pee. Maybe they were a psychotic murderer who kept their victims in the closet. Do you really want that on your conscience?
Maybe a whole bunch of people have returned that top. Think of all the disgusting things each of those people could have done in that top. Even just while trying it on. What if one of them was a nose-picker?
Maybe they stole the top from your friendly neighborhood Macy's. Maybe they raised a big stink with a manager when they tried to return it, so the manager let them get away with it and now you bought a stolen top. Way to go, a-hole.
Anyway, now you all know how salvaged items work. 65% off ticket price. It ain't getting any cheaper, so don't ask. If you don't like it, find something cheaper that you can return and that won't make your sales associates mad at you. If that doesn't make you happy, you can always try Sears.

Think about that.

ToriannaLamba

Everything you need to know about presales

I should not work with people. I mean it. Sometimes, I think my head is going to explode with all of the mean thoughts I am thinking about customers. I don't want that to happen. So I started this blog to get those thoughts out.

Unfortunately for me (and maybe all of the stupid customers I encounter) I am a sales associate at Macy's. And we're so damn good to our customers. If you don't think we are, you're probably that one person who keeps writing complaints about our service. We read those complaints in our morning rallies. We. Read. Them. And then we are forced to change. As you may glean in time from my posts, I do not like change. If you are said person, I urge you to remain anonymous. Don't tempt me to find you.

Does anyone know what a presale is? If you don't, have no fear. Neither do half of our associates. Allow me to explain in five simple steps. 1. You select your merchandise of choice. 2. You walk up to the register where I ring you up. 3. I scan a 25% coupon, and you thank me graciously. 4. I put your merchandise in a bag. This step is very important. YOU DO NOT TAKE IT HOME, BITCH. That shit stays with me until the event ends. 5. You go home and do not come back and bother me until it is time to pick up your shit. Got it? I'm sure you do, brainiac. Maybe you should be working at Macy's instead of the associate I was working with today. Why would you tell somebody to presale stuff if you didn't know what a fucking presale is? I don't understand the theory of relativity; therefore, I don't talk about it. Shouldn't that be the rule of thumb for work stuff too? I didn't open a Macy's credit card for like three weeks because I didn't know shit about it. It's common sense. It's a basic fucking syllogism. 

Today this lady wanted to buy swimwear for her granddaughter and her granddaughter's friend. The associate whom I was working with told me she was helping them and that they wanted to presale. I proceeded through steps 1-3 without a problem. Then she grabbed the bag from me and attempted to flee the premises. That's step number four, bitch. Quickly attempting to amend my "WTF?!" face, I nicely told her that her shit is mine until the 25th. She asked me why she couldn't take it home. Okay, let's think about it. Presale. PREsale. I'm no etymology major, but the prefix "pre" means "before," doesn't it? Um, yes. It does. That is why you pay for it now. Otherwise we'd just call it "sale." We have those too, you know.

Speaking of prefixes, there's a nifty one by the name of "post." Like "postsale," meaning the worst possible time to tell me you didn't want to presale.While you were watching me stick CRLs and detach sensors from your shit, I was informing you that you could pick up your stuff on the 25th of April, which, if we know the days of the week, is not today. Shouldn't that strike you as odd if you don't know what a presale is? Shouldn't that compel you to ask a question, like, "Why would I be picking this up on the 25th? Can't I take it home now?" That would let me know that you do not know what the fuck a presale is and I could look innocently at the associate who was helping you and say, "Why, didn't she inform you about all of the steps of the presale when she was helping you?" To which they would answer, "No." And then I would cancel the sale and do that shit under my number and make my sales goal and cackle madly in the employee break room. Obviously if you didn't hear me say that detail about the 25th, you get distracted too easily.

But no judgment there. I do too. Especially in sports bars where they have like five different TVs with different sports and everyone's moving so fast and the jerseys are so colorful and--anyway...

At least I know when to tune back in. For example, when people ask me to sign something, I pay attention. That was her last chance to stop me from completing the sale. If picking shit up on the 25th sounds fishy, do not sign the signature pad and pay 128.84 for merchandise you cannot pick up. On a side note, if this Macy's is not a convenient location for you, why are you shopping here and wasting my time? Go to your own fucking local Macy's. I'm sure they'll be much nicer because they have to see your face more. I had to void that lady's transaction and she was all butthurt because she had to use a 20% off coupon rather than a 25%.

And then she tried to make off with my coupons.

I'm sorry, that says "Friends and Family," You are neither, bitch.

Now, I encourage you to go forth to your friendly neighborhood Macy's and tell any associate you may find what you've learned here today. I bet you this is the first time most of them have ever been informed. It makes you a better person, and they'll thank you for it. Or they'll scoff and call you a pretentious bitch after you leave. Most of them won't, though, because most of them are nicer than me. To customers, anyway.

Until the next time I work,

ToriannaLamba