An Open Letter To All Things Pizza Hut

To the general presence of Pizza Hut,

Since I am no longer a slave under your employ, I feel it completely necessary to release the vile feelings I’ve been forced to keep inside for the past two-odd years concerning you. I must warn you that while the composition of this letter will be remarkably therapeutic for me, it may be at times inelegantly written, and show no signs of the self-educated woman that I am. Let me begin with something that I’ve been waiting to say for some time:

FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ahem. Now that I have gotten that off of my sizeable chest, I will move on to everything that is wrong with your corporation.

Let me first say that the customer is NOT always right. Especially in the case of your customers. Yes, there may have been an occasion or two where extra cheese was not administered as requested,  or tomatoes were placed on a super-supreme pizza (which is completely inappropriate), but I stand by the fact that I did NOT jip you on your toppings, and every pizza made by my own two work-worn hands was properly spec-ed and lovely to behold. Because your company has the policy that you should give the customer “whatever they want”, you can surely expect that at some point you will run out of money after giving away free food to all  the trashy motha-fuckas who lie to get a comped meal. To this I say- it is your own goddamn fault.

Secondly, it is shameful that you pay your shift managers such low wages. Truly, when promoting your team members to such a status, you should include in fine print this:

We promise to work you until you bleed, if not outwardly, at least until you suffer from stomach ulcers because of stress. You will be forced to work all holidays and weekends without any thanks, and if you refuse to work any of the afore mentioned days, you will be shunned by our district managers and dramatically have your hours cut. You will NEVER receive any type of raise until you are so frustrated that you find a new job, at which time, we may consider gifting you with  our feigned appreciation and only a miniscule raise- enough to keep you in our chains. If at any time you tell your overseeing managers exactly what you think of them or their performance, even if it perfectly accurate and politically-correctly stated, you too will be shunned.

To the Pizza Hut customers,

I will admit that there are a few of you who are endearing and affable. To you, I show my utmost appreciating for having made my stay in Hell a little less horrifying.

To the rest of you, the entire uncivilized lot of you, I must once again show how uneloquent I can be.

FUCK YA’LL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To those of you who would seat yourselves, completely ignoring the sign that distinctly states, “PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED”, as well as overlooking the fact that I and my fellow coworkers are human beings, and will greet and seat you at your convenience, I must say that you are pitiful creatures, and it is my hope that at some point in your despicable little lives someone treats you as though you are not worthy of basic consideration.

To those of you who insist on no pork coming in contact with your food, and a clean blade being used to cut your halal food, I will say that if you asked once, and politely, and in no way treated me as an inferior person, I followed your requests religiously. (I even wore gloves.) To those of you who made such requests in an incredibly rude and obnoxious manner (i.e. repeating said request as though I were in some way deaf or not listening, using an outside voice though we were clearly indoors, acting as though my female anatomy deemed me unworthy of human decency) even though I had helped you in the past and could clearly tell you were Muslim by your burquas, I will tell you that my hand may have once or twice slipped into the nasty, dirty, unkosher pork before touching your chicken pizza. I just can’t remember for sure.

To a certain district manager,

To quote every employee that ever came in contact with you who were not of the naïve and unknowing variety:

“You’re a piece of shit.”

I will admit, in the beginning, I was one of these naïve people, and was momentarily distracted by your lovely masculine height and vibrant blue eyes. In fact, I recall turning down a job at an amazing craft store when you asked me to because I felt bad that your beautiful little boys would not grow up knowing their dad because you were so overworked and would be even more-so if I were to quit. I did not realize then that the lack of general managers in your district was only due to your own egotistical,  self-absorbed, castigating style of managing. Yes, I realize that you know not what castigating means, because at one time, you asked me to use common and ordinary words that were easy to understand. I refuse to demean myself because you are too busy being Big Boss Man to read a fucking dictionary. You very recently stated that it was in the best interest of the restaurant and all the employees that I be demoted; to that I say, “It really wasn’t, because now you will see what the store truly runs like without one competent shift manager.” You will never, NEVER have a completely-staffed district, because you refuse to focus on what it truly takes to run a successful restaurant, but instead nit-pick at stupid shit that doesn’t matter. Perhaps if you begin treating your employees like people, instead of like the smushed Italian sausage that is on the bottom of your over-sized shoe, you will truly find success. Because you certainly don’t have it now, and you know it. Also, your wife is ugly.

This all being said, I release now my demons and will never again think of Pizza Hut in any way, even though the remaining employees who worked with me will think of me at least a little bit every single day.

Fuck you very much,

Sparkle

To Days Gone By

I miss the days I spent surrounded by a plethora of beautiful used books waiting to be re-boughten.

I miss stashing yet another book I couldn’t afford underneath the counter, and re-adjusting the books that were already there when the entire pile threatened to tumble down around my feet. Instead, I now only stash endless amounts of pizza in my gut, which I’m sure will have a crippling effect on my digestive system at some point.

I miss the thrill of a customer bringing in the books their child is outgrown, and I miss the feeling of sheepishness that would come over me when I realized said books were titles I could never live without, despite the fact that I am a mature adult. (Most of the time.)

I miss the customers who would stop in just to visit with me- the older blonde woman who raved about my shoes to her sickly husband; Dino, who always called me Sweety; and even the son of the Alzheimer’s man, who had the gall to leave me to babysit his ailing father. Now, no one raves about my outfits, because who would have anything nice to say about a grease-stained manager shirt that refuses to stay buttoned at my breast, no matter how many times I safety pin it?

I miss being able to wear my collection of adorably awesome shoes every single day. Instead, I now must don my hideous black non-slip work shoes.

I miss going to work and being left to my own devices. Now, I have a health inspector looking over my shoulder at every turn.

I miss having a chance to read all the books I would never buy, (as if there really is such a thing). Instead, I get to read applications of people applying for delivery drivers and servers, and I remain unimpressed when they have no previous experience and use their parents as references.

I miss the occassional stop I would make to the Pretzel Maker, where I would purchase deliciously-fresh pretzel bites. Now, I generally get to eat the non-fresh pizza of customers who forgot to pick up their orders.

I miss smelling nice. Because no matter how much perfume I spray on myself, there is always the underlying smell of D’odour du Pepperoni.

I miss arranging books in such a way that will catch one’s eye. I now get to arrange the freezer in such a way that will keep the frozen pizza dough from tumbling out every time one opens the door.

Does anybody own a bookstore that they need a Sparklebumps in?

Reflections on a Former Life

So the other day, I walked by the Bookstore-Formerly-Known-As-My-Place-of-Employment. I have done this on several occassions, simply because I am curious as to who they’ve deemed worthy of replacing me with. I am sad to say that they have found no one of my calibur . No, I’m not being cocky here, (he, I said cock) I am just being honest. The manager whom customers complained about to me is still employed there- even though I AND my co-fired co-worker mentioned his sexually explicits remarks to the owner. My superiorly-designed window displays no longer decorate the windows, and all the beauteous books I tried so hard to organize are complete chaos.

It happened to be sidewalk-sale weekend, and I peeked in the window to find an unknown clerk working, so I sauntered in to check things out.

The chic working seemed to not know where anything was, there was a line of customers waiting to ask questions, and I found a book on the sidewalk sale tables that we ALWAYS had priced at least $10 marked down to $2. So fuck you, my old bookstore. I bought that book and lost you $8. That’s what you get for firing me!

Anyhoo, later on, I got to thinking about my former life as a Bookstore Bitch, and there were a few things I need to say:

I miss you, my middle-aged blonde lady who read Religious Fiction Mysteries. I appreciate the fact that you would come in every Tuesday to see what shoes I was wearing, and the fact that you were kind enough to comment on the adorableness of my carefully-chosen outfits. I adore you for laying down the law to your sick husband the last week I saw you, saying to him, “I HAVE to go to the bookstore and see what Sparkle is wearing today! You have no idea how cute she is!” Thank you, too, for agreeing with me that my manager was a douche, and for refusing to buy books when he was working.

I miss you, Dino, because you always called me Sweetie, and told me what kind of bird you were painting each week. You were nice enough to hang out for a bit when my scary stalker man wouldn’t leave, and made sure to interrupt him any time he tried to make conversation until he finally left. I am sad that I can no longer keep an eye out for bird books for you, and saddened that I shall no longer get to hear stories of how your Mama-san loves sparkly jewelry from JCPenneys.

I miss you, nice mother, and your 4 beautiful daughters, who would bring in loads of perfect books every month to sell. I believe you are the intelligent equivilant of the Kardashian family, and if you were famous, you and your daughters could run the world. Especially the daughter who read all the sociology books.

I miss you, cute old man suffering from Alzheimer’s. I am sorry that I can no longer be there to talk you out of buying The Politics of James Bond for the 14th time.

To the retired woman with the amazing life- thank you for sharing stories of meeting the king of whatever African country it was you used to live in, and thank you for sharing an excessive love of books with me.

To the mass of lard on a scooter- Fuck you, lady. I know it was you who got me fired, and yes, I will most certainly glare at you in an evil manner every time I see you at Barnes and Noble, because guess what? There ain’t a goddamn thing you can do about it because I don’t work there.

I despise you, my former manager, for your holier-than thou-attitude.. You did not fool me with your “Christian” views, because I saw your true pervertedness every time we got in a book mentioning sex or nakedness. Your paging through said books is not what offended me-no. It was the fact that you made a point to tell me how sinful and evil I was because I live unmarried with my Rockstar. To you I say, Na-na-na-na boo boo. I’m having sex with my Rockstar while your wife is out having a life and NOT having sex with you. So suck on them balls.

I miss you, Money Guy, because we always had great and intelligent conversations daily. I found you to be completely fascinating, since you were  retired, yet kept bees, and baked, and counted money, and collected cars. I am sorry you’re stuck with my douche of a former manager as a Son-in-Law, because I know you can never be rid of his annoying self. Thank you also for your recipe for caramel rolls. I still cannot get them to rise.

To the $600+ worth of books I had stashed away in the back room- I am sorry the payraise we were awaiting never came. I regret to inform you that you shall not get to be a part of the Sparklebump’s Library Experience. I hope you all go to good homes where your owners will love you and take care of you properly, without dog-earing your pages.

I guess that’s all I have to say. If any of you are new to my blog, and do not understand where my angsty attitude comes from, be sure to check out my Price of Fame post. XOXO

 

 

The Book- Buying Process

By now you know that I generally feel all warm and fuzzy toward my bookstore customers, (frickin’ Lip Lady) so today I shall enlighten you with our process of buying books and the ummm.. “splendid” customers I get to deal with.

The policy at our bookstore is that a person may bring in their gently-used books at any time and we will go through them, figure out what we can take, and give the customer a choice of either store credit or cash. Our store is somewhat small, so we are unable to take a copy of a book if we already have one in stock. When this happens, I politely tell the customer that they are welcome to try bringing those books back at another time, because it’s quite possible that we would be able to take them then.  The most we offer for any one book is $3, but most often it is around a $1 that we give. Our bookstore is here to make money, not to make other people money.

So probably the worst type of book-buy customer I get is the Cat Hair People- those individuals who bring in a box or two of books and as I’m pulling the books from the box, cat and other assorted pet hair is wafting up out of the box. Really?! Yes, I SO wish to purchase these books covered in fur; I bet we could even charge MORE for them! After all, people pay big dollars for fur coats right? Why not for furry books? The dead bugs and spiders in the bottom of the box are always a plus too. Let me just break out the Benjamins for your shitty condition books. And shame on you for treating lovely books that way!

The next kind of customer are the Crank-Ass Money People- those citizens looking to make as much money off of their books as we would. I had the distinct pleasure of dealing with one of these this morning. She brought in books, and I made her an offer. She looked at me in disgust and said, “That’s it? NO, I’m not going to take that because THIS (she picked up a title) is a brand new book, and I brought in THIS (she pointed to a copy of The Help) book last week, and you gave me $2 for it, and NOW you are selling it for $16.” I explained to her that THAT particular copy of The Help was a specially ordered new copy we had gotten, which was why it was marked so high, and that HER copy of The Help we would have sold for $7.98. Her reply was, “Well, MY copy was a NEW copy too.” At which point I wanted to ask her why she sold her copy to us for $2 if it made her so distressed. I also wanted to tell her to “Suck it, Bitch, and get the fuck outta here before I pound you.” But I just smiled and said, “Have a nice day.”

The final crapper customer I get is the one who steals a cart from SEARS and brings it filled with boxes of books, and then parks their stupid faces right in front of my counter, and observes me going through and scanning every book, even when I have told them it will take a bit for me to go through them. Some will try to up-sell their books by saying, “Oh that’s a great one, and I just bought it,” or “See? I take really good care of my books.” Others will be completely obnoxious and ask , “So how much are you going to give me for that one?” after EVERY SINGLE book I scan. But the most awkward are the ones who just stand there. Stand there silently and just watch me work. Grrr.

 

I realize I bitch alot about my job, but I do believe I would bitch alot about ANY job, and this one is really the best job I could have because the presence of books gives me a high me. I just have to take the good with the nasty punk-assed customers that come with it. XOXO

Customer of the Day: The Schizo

I have decided to begin a new portion of my blog dedicated to the customers that come into my store who A. Annoy the piss out of me; B. Make me smile; or C. in any other way stand out to me.  Please refer to a former post entitled

The Irritating, The Obnoxious, and the Grotesque

if you wish to read my first ranting of my lovely clientele.

Today’s rant shall be about The Schizo, since he was just here, and my shitty mood made him irritating to me today.

The Schizo is a man in his mid-to-late-30’s who walks my mall every day with a 100 lb headphone set on his skull. My first face-to-face experience with him occurred on a day when he hadn’t taken his meds, and came in to buy a book on Egyptian history, which ended with him ranting about how ” America is stupid and he can’t get a job here because he has a felony”; how “Russia has the right idea and everybody should get paid the same,” and how “he was trying to figure out a way to move TO Russia.” While The Schizo is quite an intelligent fellow,  when he gives his opinions, his voice raises about 9 decibals, so that he sounds like a raving lunatic. I got him to change the subject, and he calmed down enough to re-engage his headset and continue his walk.

The next time he didn’t take his meds, he came in and immediately began ranting about the fact that his son doesn’t listen to him, and that HE is the boss, and his son needs to heed him. I agree with this wholly, however, when your dad is an unstable nut who forgets to take his pills, I understand where at times this might not be the thing you would want to do.

FYI, I do not in any way condone forcing anyone with schizophrenia to take medication, but in some cases I believe it would be beneficial, to those taking it and those coming in contact with them.

There are plenty of times when The Schizo has come in and we have had highly intelligent conversations on a variety of subjects, but more often than not, I sit behind my counter and listen to him rave on.

Tuesday he came in and was talking about I don’t know what. His thoughts were so scattered, I don’t even think HE knew what he was talking about. And during these times, he stands in front of the cash register and raves on, many times when a line of people is waiting to pay. It takes much nodding and mm-hmm-ing to get him to leave.

My brother is diagnosed as a schizo, so I realize a person sometimes needs extreme patience to deal with someone with this disease, but seriously, Schizo, if I have to hear another rant about Napoleon, or the Celts, I may just end up ranting to mall security.

The Skin Man and Other Assorted Creepers

It is my belief that the most rejected and disconsolate men have made appearances at my bookstore. I will tell you now why I believe this. While, I admit I can be utterly adorable at times, I would never in any way describe myself as sexy or overly proficient in the the Bewitching of Men department. Nontheless, this seems to not matter one iota where the creepers of my store are concerned. Here is a short overview of just a few of them:

The Skin Man: I should point out- this one wasn’t a customer until AFTER he met me. In the times when I was employed with two jobs, my schedules were such that every day I worked I had 3 hours in between jobs. This wouldn’t have been much of an issue, except for the fact that I lived 45 minutes away from the town my jobs are in. So I got to figure out ingenious ways in which to spend my extra time. Luckily, there is a giant Caribou Coffee in the parking lot of my mall, so that is where I wasted time the majority of the winter months. I would bring a book and order a large Turtle Mocha, with milk chocolate, extra hot, with no Snickers. (I don’t like chunks in my beverages.) One afternoon, I was reading a book which was ,in hindsight, basically an adult version of How To Train Your Dragon, when an older man sat in the easy chair next to me. I realize that most people that venture into a coffee stable and stay are usually of the Yuppie variety, with their bluetooths, (blueteeth?) and laptops, but this man was just a man in his early 60’s with no digital devices to occupy him.

At first, I paid him no mind, as I was exerting myself trying to get into my dragon book, but then he asked what I was reading, so I began to converse with him. Now. my mother always taught me never to talk to strangers, but having worked in customer service since I’ve been old enough to have a job has kinda eroded  that thinking out of my brain.  The man introduced himself and started began telling me about climbing mountains or something equally interesting, so I deemed him as a man with stories to tell. As he rambled on, I was distracted by his tale when I noticed he kept looking at my arm, which made ME look at my arm, thinking a bug had alighted upon it or fuzzies had gotten stuck on it from my coat. The man then halted in the middle of his sentence and said, “You have really nice skin.”  Warning bells went off in my head immediately, as I recalled a much quoted line from a blockbuster movie, (“It rubs the lotion on it’s skin; It does this whenever It’s told”) and I judged myself to be having coffee face-to-face with a Buffalo Bill type. His observation,(while somewhat flattering in a skeezy way) was so odd I didn’t know how to respond so I just said, “Thank you, oh my, I must depart to work now.” I skedaddled outta there faster than a farmer with a case of the hershey squirts.

A few hours later, I was in the safety of my very public bookstore, when the Skin Man made an appearance. I thought back to our conversation and realized I had mentioned working in a used bookstore, and since we are the only one in town, I suppose he wouldn’t have had to be overly brilliant to figure out where I was. He smoothly looked around for a few minutes and asked me book-related questions, then said it again, “You really do have the most beautiful skin.” While I was imagining how I would escape from the deep well he was sure to put me in, he placed a $10 bill on my counter and said, “That’s for you, because you have entertained me.” And he left before I ever got a chance to say, “You can’t pay me for my skin! It holds my muscles in and I need it!” I never saw him again. Now tell me that wasn’t  weird.

Next, Married Guy:  a very attractive tall man with curly hair who would come into my bookstore quite frequently and actually ask about books. Being the friendly Book Lady that I am, when pretty men who read books come in, I feel it is my duty to help them find what they are looking for. Unfortuneately, after he realized I wear high heels, he was no longer looking for books. He would, after that, come in to see what shoes I was wearing under the guise of looking for Dragonlance books. Yes, of course I love it when people notice my shoes- I am, after all, an attention whore. It wasn’t creepy until I was walking back from the park one day, whena car zoomed up next to me and stopped. It was Married Guy. Without a shirt. Now, forgive for this observation, but when a man is driving a mini-van that has toys from his kids dangling from the rear-view mirror, and his cell phone is ringing with a call from his wife, no ab muscles are going to make me say, “Hey, come on over to my place.” When I mentioned the absence of a shirt, he said, “Well, I saw you walking so I took it off.” To which I replied, “Because you thought I could use it as a parasol?”  He then informed me that he was married with kids (which I already knew) and that he would never do anything to jeopardize that. I still don’t get why he felt the need to inform me so, as I never once gave the impression that I needed his half-nude body crushed against me. Anyhoo, I said, “Good, go home to them and put your shirt back on.” and bid him goodbye. I crossed the street and went into my apartment building.

A week later, Married Guy showed up at my store again, flirty as always. He informed me that he had been to my apartment building looking for me and spoken with some of my neighbors. WTF?! This is by far the most stalkerish behavior I have encountered. I told him he’d best not come to my building anymore, as he was married and I had my Rockstar. And furthermore, if he wanted to continue coming to my store, he was going to have to buy a book. He bought a book. For the next few months he would show up occassionally stating how hot I was and how he wanted to “rip my panties off and do me.” Perhaps I should have called the Policia, but he was never physically threatening, except for the few times he showed up buzzing my apartment, to which I responded by pretending I wasn’t home. He finally got the point.

Cabinet Maker Guy: This was the first man to approach me after I started working at the bookstore. I was working evenings, and he would come in and just LOOK at books for hours at a time.(which alot of people do.) On one of these occassions, I asked him if there was anything I could help him find, and he began conversing with me, much the same way as the Skin Man did. He told me he was a cabinet maker and bla bla bla. When it was getting close to closing time, I told him if he wanted to buy anything he better cuz I was closing up. He then asked if he could give me his number. This was when I was yet married, and I let him know that my hubby woudn’t be very happy if I had the phone number of a strange man. The man said, “But I thought we just had a very good conversation, and I just want to talk, so I’m going to just leave my number for you.” As I was protesting, he wrote his number down and left. I threw it away.

A few weeks later, I was closing on a Saturday night, bending down to shelve a book on the bottom shelf, when I turned around and had the shit startled outta me by this man standing mere inches away from me. He said, “Hi, I was at a bachelor party and decided to walk over here and see if you were here.” My response? “So you left a bachelor party where you were having a good time to walk over to see if the married girl at the bookstore was working?” Yeah, the creepiest part is that it was closing time and he wouldn’t leave. I had a nightmare about him that night.

This post has carried on much too long now, and I am only beginning to get started. I am aware that my friendly, flirtatious nature may be what gets me into these situations, but I have always been clear that I have (before) a husband or a boyfriend, which does NOT deter these men. The only thing good that has come out of any of this is that I got paid $10 for having “really nice skin.”

The Irritating, The Obnoxious, and the Grotesque

I am a very busy girl, but I must take a moment to rant. Yes, I am cranky today.

As you all know, I live the joyous life of one who gets to deal with the general public every day. I do believe you will never see such a motley group of people as those who come into a bookstore. Today, I shall enlighten you with stories of just a few who have irked me today.

Firstly, weird Asian lady. (So named by my co-worker who also has a blog, Thatgirlbehindthebook). A mysterious character smelling strongly of alcohol, she brings in bags of books to sell nearly every day, which I believe she has either dived in dumpsters for or stolen from Goodwill. She drops them off and then runs to the bathroom where it is assumed she takes a giant dump and then saturates herself with old-lady perfume before returning to get the $2 I can give her for her shitty books.

Cowboy Bob. This is the name I have allotted him because he arrives dressed in a camel- colored trench coat and a black cowboy hat. I have decided he has taken on the habit of a true cowboy of the Old West- that being never brushing his teeth, as he sports the most hideous set of yellowed chompers you ever did see. This is probably due to the fact that every time I see him, he is carrying a 64 oz. Sbarro’s cup filled with Mountain Dew.  He does not buy books. Ever.

Scarred-lip lady. A boil on the butt of my bookish humanity. This woman called once, asking me to check for some books for her. That is not what peeved me. What made me detest her for all eternity is that I spent a good 45 minutes searching out a long list of books she requested, and then had her voice that, “Oh no, I’m not going to buy any of them, I just wanted to see if you had them.” That was 6 months ago. To this day, she has not bought one of them, yet she had me put a book on hold for her, came in today to ASK if we put it on hold, and then said she had no intention of buying it. Fuck you, Lip Lady.

The Book Thief. A very intelligent individual who is not brilliant enough to figure out that we are watching him when he comes in to steal World History books.

The Change People. I do not technically have a personal vendetta against these people, per say. These are a by-product of the ill-conceived car carts my mall has placed outside my store. Yes, it makes sense to have strollers readily available for parental clientele, but wouldn’t it also make sense to have the money-taker ON the strollers able to make change? What makes people think that MY store is the only store in the mall that is affably willing to give change for a $5?  The fact that Mall Security is not helpful in helping said clientele disperse the strollers from their corral also makes me want to fly a plane into the building after-hours.

Oh, to all of you who have patron quanderies of your own, I salute you.