Going to college as an adult, one who is independent and has been for many years always surprises me. It seems like the university system is set up to deal with 18 year-olds, and I feel like I am often being patronized. Most of the people that work at the counters in different departments at the university are students on work study, and while some of them don't seem totally incompetent, the majority of them do.
In February, I was asked for the second time in my college career to fill out what is called an "Independent Verification" form. Essentially, the college, after looking at your taxes, notices an error that brings your "independence" into question. Meaning, they think you live with your parents. How this error indicates you live with your parents I am not sure. When this happened to me the first time, I wrote the Financial Aid department about the process before subsequently writing a column in the school newspaper in which I invited the Financial Aid department to my house for a tour to see the disarray that was my independent life. If I lived with my mother, I said, my laundry would be folded and clean, my hair brushed regularly. I was assured in an email that I received from the Financial Aid department that the selection for Independent Verification was a "highly-scientific process based on a very complicated algorithm and that most importantly, students were always randomly selected."
So, when I was randomly chosen a second time in as many years by the Financial Aid office, I printed out my paperwork, took it down to the Financial Aid office, only to have them tear half of it out of the neatly stapled pack I made, and give it back. "We only need these parts of your taxes" the work-study girl said to me twirling her hair and chomping her gum while giving me the *blink blink* of her doe eyes, with her mind elsewhere--probably imagining riding a ferris wheel at a carnival--but I assure you, there was nothing smart going on behind those eyes.
"What is this about?" I asked her. As if she would have a coherent answer. "They probably found an error in your taxes." *blink blink* "Right, but this is supposed to be random, and it is the second time it has happened to me." "It happens to me all the time" she said. *blink blink* It was probably the first smart thing she said.
While I make errors a lot in everyday life, like putting liquid dishwashing soap in the dishwasher only to discover that it makes a bubbly mess instead of cleaning the dishes and that only dishwasher soap should go in the dishwasher, I have a hard time believing I consistently fuck up my taxes since I have been doing them on my own since I was 15. There have been two exceptions to this: 1. I fucked up my aunt's taxes, but why would a grown woman trust an 18-year-old who was drunk to do her taxes?
2. After my dad died, my mom never gave me an interest statement from a company for some life insurance money I was supposed to get. When I was 18, I got a lovely certified letter from both the state and federal governments informing me of my tax evasion.
Most importantly, however, is when I screw up my taxes, why do they think I live with my parents? Wouldn't your parents make sure you don't screw up your taxes? So, shouldn't they change the form to something like "Hey dumbass, we think you screwed up your taxes, so we need a copy to review them for you. If you could get copies to us quickly, we'll only take about five months to process them."
And that is why I write today. The girl at the counter, remember, *blink blink* girl, told me that they take about two weeks to process the tax information. I turned in my taxes at the beginning of February and got an email today telling me they have adjusted my financial aid and that I need to go into the system and reaccept my aid. So glad I hurried on that cold day in February.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Grocery
Last night, I needed cat litter, and since I was lazy, I went to Albertson's, the rich-man's grocery store. Everything there is more expensive than at Winco--and presumably, the theory is, Winco can keep the cost down by making you bag your own groceries. I am okay with bagging my own if I go to Winco--except for when people block the aisle near the end of the lanes and act as if it your fault for needing to walk by.
However, the whole appeal of the rich-man's grocery store is having everything done for you. The clerk greets you, and sends the groceries down the really short distance to the bagger, usually a young person for whom bagging is their first job, but more than likely, it's the "special person" on release from the group home. Then, the bagger asks if you need assistance to your car, and while I would never let a bagger follow me to my car, just the fact that they ask makes me feel like the trip to rich-man land was worth it. It's like the spa of grocery stores.
Now, at the store I visit, they have about 10 self-checkouts, and they usually have about one human checker working. I don't want to ring up my own groceries at the store. When I was 19 and drunk, the notion was appealing, listening to the beep as I swiped each item across. At nearly 30, the appeal is gone. If I am paying for something, I want there to be a clear clerk/customer relationship, and I want to stand and watch as you sell me my stuff. I want to watch commerce in action. I don't want to interact with machines in rich-man land, but at the rate of 700 customers to one clerk, the machine was the only way to go.
On my way to the store, I remembered I needed cream for my coffee. At the entrance to the store, they had a big cardboard bin full of mini-seedless watermelons. They were huge and $2.99, so I bought one. I also bought some cat treats. To conclude, the total items in my shopping trip were these: 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream.
I am sure you all are familiar with using a self-checkout. Run item across scanner, item must immediately be placed in the "bagging area" or else the light above the scanner turns red, and the machine freezes. I scan as fast as I can; I want out of the store. I am dressed in my pajamas, I am sweaty, and I am covered in cat fur. It's a Sunday night--this is what most cat ladies look like on a Sunday evening.
I scan everything, and finally, the mini-seedless watermelon. Usually, fruit is placed on the scanner, and you punch in a code, and the scanner weighs the fruit and charges you. The mini-seedless watermelons had tags, since they were $2.99 each, and I scanned the tag and placed the mini-seedless watermelon in the "bagging area." Then, the machine froze. Presumably, since the watermelon was about 10 pounds, the machine didn't think it was mini enough. Thief, the red light screams!
The clerk, who looked to be about 17, walked over and said in a very serious tone, "Ma'am, do you remember what item you put in the "bagging area" last?" Um, hello. I have four items. "Yes, it was the watermelon's fault." And as he typed in his code to unlock the machine, he hovered for about 30 extra seconds and scanned my items on the screen and checked them against what I had in the "bagging area," gave me a sneer, and walked back to his post with a watchful glance. What about 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream screams criminal?
He's obviously too young to remember this video, but maybe, just maybe:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrwjiO1MCVs
However, the whole appeal of the rich-man's grocery store is having everything done for you. The clerk greets you, and sends the groceries down the really short distance to the bagger, usually a young person for whom bagging is their first job, but more than likely, it's the "special person" on release from the group home. Then, the bagger asks if you need assistance to your car, and while I would never let a bagger follow me to my car, just the fact that they ask makes me feel like the trip to rich-man land was worth it. It's like the spa of grocery stores.
Now, at the store I visit, they have about 10 self-checkouts, and they usually have about one human checker working. I don't want to ring up my own groceries at the store. When I was 19 and drunk, the notion was appealing, listening to the beep as I swiped each item across. At nearly 30, the appeal is gone. If I am paying for something, I want there to be a clear clerk/customer relationship, and I want to stand and watch as you sell me my stuff. I want to watch commerce in action. I don't want to interact with machines in rich-man land, but at the rate of 700 customers to one clerk, the machine was the only way to go.
On my way to the store, I remembered I needed cream for my coffee. At the entrance to the store, they had a big cardboard bin full of mini-seedless watermelons. They were huge and $2.99, so I bought one. I also bought some cat treats. To conclude, the total items in my shopping trip were these: 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream.
I am sure you all are familiar with using a self-checkout. Run item across scanner, item must immediately be placed in the "bagging area" or else the light above the scanner turns red, and the machine freezes. I scan as fast as I can; I want out of the store. I am dressed in my pajamas, I am sweaty, and I am covered in cat fur. It's a Sunday night--this is what most cat ladies look like on a Sunday evening.
I scan everything, and finally, the mini-seedless watermelon. Usually, fruit is placed on the scanner, and you punch in a code, and the scanner weighs the fruit and charges you. The mini-seedless watermelons had tags, since they were $2.99 each, and I scanned the tag and placed the mini-seedless watermelon in the "bagging area." Then, the machine froze. Presumably, since the watermelon was about 10 pounds, the machine didn't think it was mini enough. Thief, the red light screams!
The clerk, who looked to be about 17, walked over and said in a very serious tone, "Ma'am, do you remember what item you put in the "bagging area" last?" Um, hello. I have four items. "Yes, it was the watermelon's fault." And as he typed in his code to unlock the machine, he hovered for about 30 extra seconds and scanned my items on the screen and checked them against what I had in the "bagging area," gave me a sneer, and walked back to his post with a watchful glance. What about 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream screams criminal?
He's obviously too young to remember this video, but maybe, just maybe:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrwjiO1MCVs
Monday, July 5, 2010
Fireworks: Day 4 and Day 5, my final days.
Day 4:
I had to touch boob money. A woman, with her boyfriend/baby daddy/husband? in tow came to the register and was short some bills. After giving her enormous right tit a squeeze, she said, "Ah. Found some." She stuck her hand in her cleavage, lifted her right breast with her right hand and grabbed the money from beneath her breast with her left hand. For anyone with breasts, you know that the underside (unless you have petite, skinny-lady, no-kid, nonboobs) of the breast is the most damp part during the summer. S-W-E-A-T-Y! Touching boob money is the equivalent of touching nutsack money. Now, I will admit, I have carried a debit card, cash, and lipstick in my cleavage before, but never, never, did I let such items travel to the depths of the underside. The items always stayed saddled right between the girls. Touching the boob money.
The boob money and mean customers is a reminder of why I will never work in retail again, if I can help it. By the end of the day, I was cranky and sick of customers. I was more irritated with the smart remarks of the "fireworks savant," however:
Within minutes of getting to "work" for the day, my sister's boyfriend (actually fiance) was on my case about my sales techniques, my attitude, blah, blah, blah, teamplayer, blah, blah, harrassing him for using a Starbucks cup to pee in the shipping crate today instead of a soda cup, blah, blah. While he's funny on most days, I was short on nerves to begin with and was hoping since I would be annoyed with "the away team" i.e. the customers, that I wouldn't have to get annoyed with "the home team" i.e. my family.
All turned funny again once he decided he was the "fireworks psychic," that is, look at everyone pulling up in their cars and predict what it was that they were going to buy. His first and last prediction (at least to me) was for an older couple. His products were almost on, but his numbers were way off--fail! By the end of the evening, when he was exercising his "assistant manager pants," I cinched a black trash bag over his head and considered leaving it, but I thought better and took it off.
The highlight was Janey Chao showing up with a box of muffins from Marie Callendar's. They were a hit with everyone:
Alana showed later with her little man and husband in tow, and it was awesome to see her and even cooler to sell fireworks to a bonafide Canadian!
I saw an old customer from the Record Exchange--one I used to make fun of a lot, especially for the time when he tried to return the album he special ordered because it sucked--Mr. Pooky, a tough rap-guy album. I felt bad for all of the years of backstabbing when he bought about $120.00 worth of fireworks. Well, not that bad.
Day 5:
I showed at closing time to help count the left-over inventory. We went back to my sister's house for a late-night BBQ and to set off all of our fireworks. Everyone in the neighborhood had illegals, and well, every 4th of July reminds me of when I was a child--a time when my dad fashioned his own fireworks out of tons of gun powder and dynamite. On one particular fourth, I remember getting burned with falling debris.
As an adult, not a lot has changed:
Glad it's over for the year.
I had to touch boob money. A woman, with her boyfriend/baby daddy/husband? in tow came to the register and was short some bills. After giving her enormous right tit a squeeze, she said, "Ah. Found some." She stuck her hand in her cleavage, lifted her right breast with her right hand and grabbed the money from beneath her breast with her left hand. For anyone with breasts, you know that the underside (unless you have petite, skinny-lady, no-kid, nonboobs) of the breast is the most damp part during the summer. S-W-E-A-T-Y! Touching boob money is the equivalent of touching nutsack money. Now, I will admit, I have carried a debit card, cash, and lipstick in my cleavage before, but never, never, did I let such items travel to the depths of the underside. The items always stayed saddled right between the girls. Touching the boob money.
The boob money and mean customers is a reminder of why I will never work in retail again, if I can help it. By the end of the day, I was cranky and sick of customers. I was more irritated with the smart remarks of the "fireworks savant," however:
Within minutes of getting to "work" for the day, my sister's boyfriend (actually fiance) was on my case about my sales techniques, my attitude, blah, blah, blah, teamplayer, blah, blah, harrassing him for using a Starbucks cup to pee in the shipping crate today instead of a soda cup, blah, blah. While he's funny on most days, I was short on nerves to begin with and was hoping since I would be annoyed with "the away team" i.e. the customers, that I wouldn't have to get annoyed with "the home team" i.e. my family.
All turned funny again once he decided he was the "fireworks psychic," that is, look at everyone pulling up in their cars and predict what it was that they were going to buy. His first and last prediction (at least to me) was for an older couple. His products were almost on, but his numbers were way off--fail! By the end of the evening, when he was exercising his "assistant manager pants," I cinched a black trash bag over his head and considered leaving it, but I thought better and took it off.
The highlight was Janey Chao showing up with a box of muffins from Marie Callendar's. They were a hit with everyone:
Alana showed later with her little man and husband in tow, and it was awesome to see her and even cooler to sell fireworks to a bonafide Canadian!
I saw an old customer from the Record Exchange--one I used to make fun of a lot, especially for the time when he tried to return the album he special ordered because it sucked--Mr. Pooky, a tough rap-guy album. I felt bad for all of the years of backstabbing when he bought about $120.00 worth of fireworks. Well, not that bad.
Day 5:
I showed at closing time to help count the left-over inventory. We went back to my sister's house for a late-night BBQ and to set off all of our fireworks. Everyone in the neighborhood had illegals, and well, every 4th of July reminds me of when I was a child--a time when my dad fashioned his own fireworks out of tons of gun powder and dynamite. On one particular fourth, I remember getting burned with falling debris.
As an adult, not a lot has changed:
Glad it's over for the year.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Fireworks Day 2 and Day 3
Fireworks Day 2: It went off pretty easily. I actually enjoyed myself. Stephanie and Jeff May came down with there little one in tow, and it was good to be supported by friends.
I heard a riveting story about how my 16 year-old nephew clogged the bathtub drain with a condom. He decided in his infinite wisdom that the shower was a good place to "try a condom on," and it slid down the drain. After using bottles and bottles of Drano with no results, my sister's boyfriend took the drain apart and found said condom--I don't think he held it in his hands for long--once he figured out what it was, he shouted for my nephew to (I am guessing) "Get his ass upstairs." Moral of the story: showers/bathtubs are not good dressing rooms for trying on prophylactics, and Drano is no match for good old jimmies.
Day 3:
Mic (solo) and Stephanie and David (together) came and bought the same exact things. Thanks, friends for your support.
I studied some GRE vocab words--that was good. I found out that my mom knows about the previous post which features her because my AUNT ROBYN told. Nice going, Dooby.
My sister's boyfriend has been peeing in a cup in the shipping crate because he is too lazy to go pee at the Winco or at the Carl's Jr. I didn't actually catch him peeing in the crate (thank god). But, he went to the Carl's Jr. for a drink today, so maybe he only goes pee in the crate sometimes. I discovered that I wish I could pee in the cup in the shipping crate. I was frightened when I found out he had been peeing in a cup in the crate because earlier in the day there was a Pepsi cup in the crate with a lid, pre-pee talk, and I opened the cup and sniffed it (I thought it was somebody's moonshine they were hiding), but it turns out it was a different cup (phew!).
And I helped this guy:
He made me remember why I don't do retail anymore.
Me: Hi!
Him: Grnnn.
Me: Let us know if you have any questions.
Him: gpshnsoinsngrn.
Me: That'll be $42.39
Him: grnnnrspaonponqtt.
Me: Here's your card back. Can I have you sign this please?
Him: grnrrnrnrlqwtr.
Before I left for the day, my sister arrived and said, "Don't you wish we were skinny? We could dress up in bikinis out here." "Why?" I asked. "We could sell more." Me: "I am not dressing up like a slut to sell fireworks."
One more day, then I am done.
I heard a riveting story about how my 16 year-old nephew clogged the bathtub drain with a condom. He decided in his infinite wisdom that the shower was a good place to "try a condom on," and it slid down the drain. After using bottles and bottles of Drano with no results, my sister's boyfriend took the drain apart and found said condom--I don't think he held it in his hands for long--once he figured out what it was, he shouted for my nephew to (I am guessing) "Get his ass upstairs." Moral of the story: showers/bathtubs are not good dressing rooms for trying on prophylactics, and Drano is no match for good old jimmies.
Day 3:
Mic (solo) and Stephanie and David (together) came and bought the same exact things. Thanks, friends for your support.
I studied some GRE vocab words--that was good. I found out that my mom knows about the previous post which features her because my AUNT ROBYN told. Nice going, Dooby.
My sister's boyfriend has been peeing in a cup in the shipping crate because he is too lazy to go pee at the Winco or at the Carl's Jr. I didn't actually catch him peeing in the crate (thank god). But, he went to the Carl's Jr. for a drink today, so maybe he only goes pee in the crate sometimes. I discovered that I wish I could pee in the cup in the shipping crate. I was frightened when I found out he had been peeing in a cup in the crate because earlier in the day there was a Pepsi cup in the crate with a lid, pre-pee talk, and I opened the cup and sniffed it (I thought it was somebody's moonshine they were hiding), but it turns out it was a different cup (phew!).
And I helped this guy:
He made me remember why I don't do retail anymore.
Me: Hi!
Him: Grnnn.
Me: Let us know if you have any questions.
Him: gpshnsoinsngrn.
Me: That'll be $42.39
Him: grnnnrspaonponqtt.
Me: Here's your card back. Can I have you sign this please?
Him: grnrrnrnrlqwtr.
Before I left for the day, my sister arrived and said, "Don't you wish we were skinny? We could dress up in bikinis out here." "Why?" I asked. "We could sell more." Me: "I am not dressing up like a slut to sell fireworks."
One more day, then I am done.
Lesson Learned
Yesterday, I stole flowers from the neighbor's yard. Her name is Linda, and she doesn't actually live there anymore, but lives in Alaska (where she moved to live with her something like 7th husband) and still owns the house. She was always really mean to me--maybe it's because she confused me with the woman who lived here before that wandered naked out the door on numerous occasions, yelling at her boyfriend every step of the way. Maybe Linda confused me with the Iranian man who assaulted the prostitute and who she had to call the cops on. At any rate, I feel no guilt at attempting to commandeer some of her roses for my desk.
I tried to steal some a few weeks ago, but my neighbor Vinnie, the skinny man who resembles Ichabod Crane, and who fancies himself the neighborhood-watch, strolled over for a chat. I hid the clippers in my back pocket and made as if I was only leaning over the fence to sniff the roses.
I clipped four roses, all varying colors of fuschia. I saw some aphids on them, so I took them over to the hose to wash them off before I took them inside. After drowning the aphids out, I almost took them inside, until lots of earwigs started to emerge. The clipped roses went straight into the compost. Lesson learned.
I tried to steal some a few weeks ago, but my neighbor Vinnie, the skinny man who resembles Ichabod Crane, and who fancies himself the neighborhood-watch, strolled over for a chat. I hid the clippers in my back pocket and made as if I was only leaning over the fence to sniff the roses.
I clipped four roses, all varying colors of fuschia. I saw some aphids on them, so I took them over to the hose to wash them off before I took them inside. After drowning the aphids out, I almost took them inside, until lots of earwigs started to emerge. The clipped roses went straight into the compost. Lesson learned.
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