A woman walked up while I was stocking cheese at the LG today.
"You have a lot of cheese here," she said.
"Yes we do," I replied, smiling since assuming that she was having trouble choosing.
"Lotsa Cancer," she said in an admonishing tone. She disappeared down the dairy aisle before I could even process the remark.
I've decided I need to start writing down the wisdom that our customers share with me.
Also, I need to start quoting the hippie parents I encounter on a daily basis here in The Green Mountain State.
"Sage, hold Willow's hand. Sage, I need you to stop ramming that wine stack with the cart. Sage, I need you to listen. Sage... Sage..."
Today's was "Cypress, come to papa."
Glad I have a day off tomorrow.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sven was going through a very long explanation of various local cheeses with a customer. The thing is, Sven is really not into customer service at all, because he isn't into customers at all, and will only interact with them when he is forced to. So today there he was, out from behind the counter for a sp,lit second, when this woman came out iof nowhere and asked him a question. He stood for a moment like a deer in proverbial headlights, trying to decide whether or not to flee, and then silently acquiesced. I could see the bitter resignation in his eyes. Fortunately, the customer could not. So there he stood, all six and a half feet of him, going through at least twenty different cheeses. He even went so far as to cut a piece for the woman to taste. She loved it, and Sven was looking quite relieved as he headed back toward West Coast Karen and me. But oh no, too soon.
"I can't buy New Hampshire cheese," she said loudly to Sven's back. His shoulders fell even faster than his face.
"Okay- is there something in particular about New Hampshire?"
"I'm going to a L0cavore's Dinner and I need cheese from Vermont."
He explained to her, much more patiently than I would have been able to, that in fact parts of New Hampshire were more local than parts of Vermont, and that the cheese in question was, according to LV definition, local.
I waited until she was out of earshot before mumbling
"If you're going to be a sanctimonious twat you could at least try to grasp basic geography."
West Coast Karen gasped audibly and Sven looked confused. I really do need a social filter here. Either that or Verm0nt needs to lighten up. Jokes, people! Jokes!!
*Sigh*
Nobody gets me here.
"I can't buy New Hampshire cheese," she said loudly to Sven's back. His shoulders fell even faster than his face.
"Okay- is there something in particular about New Hampshire?"
"I'm going to a L0cavore's Dinner and I need cheese from Vermont."
He explained to her, much more patiently than I would have been able to, that in fact parts of New Hampshire were more local than parts of Vermont, and that the cheese in question was, according to LV definition, local.
I waited until she was out of earshot before mumbling
"If you're going to be a sanctimonious twat you could at least try to grasp basic geography."
West Coast Karen gasped audibly and Sven looked confused. I really do need a social filter here. Either that or Verm0nt needs to lighten up. Jokes, people! Jokes!!
*Sigh*
Nobody gets me here.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Harried Manager came flying to the bar the other night, a rack of fancy wine glasses in hand. He sent Too Loud Trixie, the Inappropriate Bartender, to get the expensive wine that had been ordered from the wine closet.
He chose to send TLT because he knew that she had been getting on my nerves for a couple of hours and he was tying to give me a moment's peace. Unfortunately, being the diplomat that he is, what Harried Manager actually said was
"I want Trixie to go. She needs practice finding the wines back there. You- (he pointed at me) stay and help me polish these. We have to be really careful with these so they don't break."
He was right, of course. Trixie has worked mostly day shifts and doesn't know the wine closet as well as I do because she doesn't use it as often, and she would have agreed with him had he found a better way to say it and had she not already been working for nine hours. But he didn't, and she had, so she threw a fit and cursed a blue streak right there behind the bar, in full view of all of the bar patrons and likely within earshot of almost everybody in the dining room upstairs.
Welcome to my Saturday night, everybody. These days it seems like I work with Trixie more often than not, and despite the fact that she clearly cannot handle a double shift without losing it and shooting her mouth off, she seems to volunteer for them on a regular basis.
So, Too Loud Trixie goes off in a huff, and then HM polishes exactly one and a half of the ten glasses before shattering one into a million pieces. This throws him completely off of his game, and as he scrambles to pick up the broken shards, he nearly knocks the entire rack (containing the rest of the unpolished glasses) to the floor. A trainee approaches, and is thrust into the middle of the task as Harried Manager finds havoc to wreak elsewhere. Trixie returns, smiling and cheerful as if nothing has happened, and sees the broken glass in the trash.
"What happened?" she asks, as if it isn't obvious.
"Harried Manager broke a glass," I respond with total ambivalence.
"You see? What an asshole. Good. I'm glad he broke one." (You can assume exclamation points after anything uttered by Trixie. Were I to type them, this post would be twice as long.)
"Well, you should be glad that it was him and not you," I say calmly and quietly. "He's just freaking out, and now he isn't freaking out at you."
I find it frustrating that this woman is ten years older than me and still such a child. She also has a habit of accusing everyone else of lacking professionalism, the irony of which will surely not escape the more astute among you. (Minutes later she dropped an entire rack full of glasses in the back hall, and then she came back behind the bar and cussed out loud about that, too.)
Through all of this, an off duty cook named Ed has been observing, drink in hand, from the other side of the bar. He occasionally looks at me as if to say, "Dude- I am so sorry." I occasionally respond by noting out loud the number of minutes there are before I am able to have a beer. About twenty minutes after the glasses are finished and the wine is whisked away, Harried Manager returns, stepping back to pour himself a caffeinated beverage behind the bar just opposite Ed.
"Well, the shit show's almost over," he sighs, looking at his watch.
Ed immediately shoots back "Why- are you out of here?"
I think ed and I are going to get along just fine. I knew my people had to be up here somewhere.
He chose to send TLT because he knew that she had been getting on my nerves for a couple of hours and he was tying to give me a moment's peace. Unfortunately, being the diplomat that he is, what Harried Manager actually said was
"I want Trixie to go. She needs practice finding the wines back there. You- (he pointed at me) stay and help me polish these. We have to be really careful with these so they don't break."
He was right, of course. Trixie has worked mostly day shifts and doesn't know the wine closet as well as I do because she doesn't use it as often, and she would have agreed with him had he found a better way to say it and had she not already been working for nine hours. But he didn't, and she had, so she threw a fit and cursed a blue streak right there behind the bar, in full view of all of the bar patrons and likely within earshot of almost everybody in the dining room upstairs.
Welcome to my Saturday night, everybody. These days it seems like I work with Trixie more often than not, and despite the fact that she clearly cannot handle a double shift without losing it and shooting her mouth off, she seems to volunteer for them on a regular basis.
So, Too Loud Trixie goes off in a huff, and then HM polishes exactly one and a half of the ten glasses before shattering one into a million pieces. This throws him completely off of his game, and as he scrambles to pick up the broken shards, he nearly knocks the entire rack (containing the rest of the unpolished glasses) to the floor. A trainee approaches, and is thrust into the middle of the task as Harried Manager finds havoc to wreak elsewhere. Trixie returns, smiling and cheerful as if nothing has happened, and sees the broken glass in the trash.
"What happened?" she asks, as if it isn't obvious.
"Harried Manager broke a glass," I respond with total ambivalence.
"You see? What an asshole. Good. I'm glad he broke one." (You can assume exclamation points after anything uttered by Trixie. Were I to type them, this post would be twice as long.)
"Well, you should be glad that it was him and not you," I say calmly and quietly. "He's just freaking out, and now he isn't freaking out at you."
I find it frustrating that this woman is ten years older than me and still such a child. She also has a habit of accusing everyone else of lacking professionalism, the irony of which will surely not escape the more astute among you. (Minutes later she dropped an entire rack full of glasses in the back hall, and then she came back behind the bar and cussed out loud about that, too.)
Through all of this, an off duty cook named Ed has been observing, drink in hand, from the other side of the bar. He occasionally looks at me as if to say, "Dude- I am so sorry." I occasionally respond by noting out loud the number of minutes there are before I am able to have a beer. About twenty minutes after the glasses are finished and the wine is whisked away, Harried Manager returns, stepping back to pour himself a caffeinated beverage behind the bar just opposite Ed.
"Well, the shit show's almost over," he sighs, looking at his watch.
Ed immediately shoots back "Why- are you out of here?"
I think ed and I are going to get along just fine. I knew my people had to be up here somewhere.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
West Coast Karen, my over-concerned co-worker, was working in the deli the other day at the Local Grocery, when I overheard her explaining The Turkeys to a customer.
The Turkeys are currently flapping about doing turkey things and enjoying hormone-free, organic turkey diets in preparation for the end-of-month holiday, when they will go from Mr. or Mrs. Turkey to "turkey, $3.99 a pound". Of course, some turkeys are only $2.99 a pound at the Local Grocery. It depends on which farm they come from. $3.99 Knoll Farms turkeys are pasture raised, with access to a barn. They are able to wander in and out of said barn as they please. The $2.99 Hill Farm turkeys are raised in pens, which are moved about from place to place in a pasture, so that they get new grass and new bugs every so often. They have roofs over their heads and therefore, logically, less chance of getting eaten by a predator. This means fewer animals lost, which means a better profit margin, and the ability of the farmer to charge less per pound and still afford to be a farmer.
All of this nuance is of course completely lost on West Coast Karen, because although she seems to have no problem selling their meat by the pound (or consuming it, for that matter) she is very concerned about the well-being of The Turkeys.
"How are the $2.99 turkeys different from the $3.99 turkeys?" asked a customer.
"They don't have free will."
"Or claw marks!" I piped up helpfully from behind the cheese counter.
The Turkeys are currently flapping about doing turkey things and enjoying hormone-free, organic turkey diets in preparation for the end-of-month holiday, when they will go from Mr. or Mrs. Turkey to "turkey, $3.99 a pound". Of course, some turkeys are only $2.99 a pound at the Local Grocery. It depends on which farm they come from. $3.99 Knoll Farms turkeys are pasture raised, with access to a barn. They are able to wander in and out of said barn as they please. The $2.99 Hill Farm turkeys are raised in pens, which are moved about from place to place in a pasture, so that they get new grass and new bugs every so often. They have roofs over their heads and therefore, logically, less chance of getting eaten by a predator. This means fewer animals lost, which means a better profit margin, and the ability of the farmer to charge less per pound and still afford to be a farmer.
All of this nuance is of course completely lost on West Coast Karen, because although she seems to have no problem selling their meat by the pound (or consuming it, for that matter) she is very concerned about the well-being of The Turkeys.
"How are the $2.99 turkeys different from the $3.99 turkeys?" asked a customer.
"They don't have free will."
"Or claw marks!" I piped up helpfully from behind the cheese counter.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Yesterday when I got to work at the Local Restaurant, My Harried Manager came up and handed me an envelope.
"What's this?"
"It's your bonus," he said, smiling uncomfortably and rushing off once it was in my hands.
I ripped it open and read the letter. It was from the Head of the Culinary School. You will remember that the Local Restaurant is run by the Culinary School, which the b.h. attends as a student. (Of course you will remember, because the minutiae of my life is ever so enthralling.) Anyway, the letter is about the school and how it relates to the community and my job, and it encourages me to think about donating some money to the scholarship fund. "It's easy," reads the letter, which I am reading with the voice of Idiot School Head in my mind, though I have never met Idiot School Head) to donate. Money can be taken directly from your paycheck, by filling out this simple form."
This is all well and good, but my whole bloody paycheck is already going to the school, you asshole. Also, this is a particularly bad time of year, what with business having just dropped off abruptly and probably until the end of the year, to be asking already strapped, no-insurance-having service industry professionals for their hard-earned money. This is beyond bad taste. I felt awful for Harried Manager, because I realized that he was embarrassed to have to hand this to me. We joked about it later. If I weren't so desperately in need of the money I make from my two weekly shifts at Local Restaurant, I would write a letter to Idiot School Head telling him where he can stick his donation request. Honestly.
On a lighter note, I socialized with co-workers for the second time last night. It was only nicking over to the tap room for a quick beer after my shift, but it did involve adult conversation with people, as opposed to my Digital Friends (not that there's anything wrong with them), so it was pleasant. I text-messaged Nick Bielli in the middle of a story because I couldn't remember the name of a band. I would tell you who it was, but I don't even want to type their name in the ether one more time because I think they suck (er, sucked, may be more appropo, since I doubt they have played in a decade) and I don't want to give them any more mentions. Anyway, Nick bailed me out and I felt like I was still in Athens, behind the bar at Local Rock Club, and I was briefly comforted.
Tomorrow we will be paid a visit my the boys from Modern Skirts. Our schedules won't allow us to see them play, but we'll put them up for a night and feed them a nice home-cooked meal in mid-tour. I'm looking forward to it.
Off to work at the Local Grocery. Then home to clean for company. TTFN.
"What's this?"
"It's your bonus," he said, smiling uncomfortably and rushing off once it was in my hands.
I ripped it open and read the letter. It was from the Head of the Culinary School. You will remember that the Local Restaurant is run by the Culinary School, which the b.h. attends as a student. (Of course you will remember, because the minutiae of my life is ever so enthralling.) Anyway, the letter is about the school and how it relates to the community and my job, and it encourages me to think about donating some money to the scholarship fund. "It's easy," reads the letter, which I am reading with the voice of Idiot School Head in my mind, though I have never met Idiot School Head) to donate. Money can be taken directly from your paycheck, by filling out this simple form."
This is all well and good, but my whole bloody paycheck is already going to the school, you asshole. Also, this is a particularly bad time of year, what with business having just dropped off abruptly and probably until the end of the year, to be asking already strapped, no-insurance-having service industry professionals for their hard-earned money. This is beyond bad taste. I felt awful for Harried Manager, because I realized that he was embarrassed to have to hand this to me. We joked about it later. If I weren't so desperately in need of the money I make from my two weekly shifts at Local Restaurant, I would write a letter to Idiot School Head telling him where he can stick his donation request. Honestly.
On a lighter note, I socialized with co-workers for the second time last night. It was only nicking over to the tap room for a quick beer after my shift, but it did involve adult conversation with people, as opposed to my Digital Friends (not that there's anything wrong with them), so it was pleasant. I text-messaged Nick Bielli in the middle of a story because I couldn't remember the name of a band. I would tell you who it was, but I don't even want to type their name in the ether one more time because I think they suck (er, sucked, may be more appropo, since I doubt they have played in a decade) and I don't want to give them any more mentions. Anyway, Nick bailed me out and I felt like I was still in Athens, behind the bar at Local Rock Club, and I was briefly comforted.
Tomorrow we will be paid a visit my the boys from Modern Skirts. Our schedules won't allow us to see them play, but we'll put them up for a night and feed them a nice home-cooked meal in mid-tour. I'm looking forward to it.
Off to work at the Local Grocery. Then home to clean for company. TTFN.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Just reading Vonnegut's Man Without a Country. In it he quotes Karl Marx: "Religion is the opium of the people", and points out that at the time (1844), opium and opium derivatives were the only available painkillers. Therefore, he argues, this is "a casual truism, not a dictum."
Fascinating. We've been ever-so-slightly misquoting Marx forever, the result being that we have completely missed the point.
I have been known to say that television is the opiate of the masses. The problem is that religion isn't an opiate anymore- it's more like meth.
Vonnegut's birthaversary (can you call it a birthday after somebody has died?) is Wednesday. I think we need him now more than ever.
Fascinating. We've been ever-so-slightly misquoting Marx forever, the result being that we have completely missed the point.
I have been known to say that television is the opiate of the masses. The problem is that religion isn't an opiate anymore- it's more like meth.
Vonnegut's birthaversary (can you call it a birthday after somebody has died?) is Wednesday. I think we need him now more than ever.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Oh Jeebus- Stephen Fry in America. I am smitten. Now, how do I get myself a gig like this in the U.K.? Professional American for hire?
It has often been said that Athens is the Island of Misfit Toys. Well, the Local Grocery is a similar island, but instead of cool stuff like one-armed Star Wars figurines and melted G.I. Joes, this one is all lame, generic, Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Pony wanabees. Honestly, people. Can you find a way to be crazy and still functional?
My co-worker Karen is a self-proclaimed "West Coast Person", whatever that means, and she had a fit the other day because I was trying to kill a fly (yes- a fly) that wouldn't get away from the blue cheese we were cutting.
"Run away!" she yelled, waving her arms maniacally and jumping around behind the already claustrophobic counter. When it flew off unharmed, she looked at me accusingly and asked "What did that fly ever do to you?!"
Before I could answer that flies are disease spreading vermin who have no place in a grocery store, Sven (another cheese guy) goes
"Well, he threw up on my arm, for starters."
She looked bewildered, and I just busted out laughing. Confrontation averted. I knew I liked that guy.
My co-worker Karen is a self-proclaimed "West Coast Person", whatever that means, and she had a fit the other day because I was trying to kill a fly (yes- a fly) that wouldn't get away from the blue cheese we were cutting.
"Run away!" she yelled, waving her arms maniacally and jumping around behind the already claustrophobic counter. When it flew off unharmed, she looked at me accusingly and asked "What did that fly ever do to you?!"
Before I could answer that flies are disease spreading vermin who have no place in a grocery store, Sven (another cheese guy) goes
"Well, he threw up on my arm, for starters."
She looked bewildered, and I just busted out laughing. Confrontation averted. I knew I liked that guy.
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