confessions of a...

gas station attendant.

I don't mind if you come in in your pajamas ladies, but please wear a bra.
And on other days you may wear skanky clothes in my store, but please keep your ladies in their place.

I want to retort stupid questions with stupid answers.
Like such as:
"Do you have milk?" ......and I'd say, "We are those Wisconsinites who don't believe in milk. No."

"Is this green button enter?" .......and I'd say, "NO! That's the time travel button. It'll bring us back to '85."

"Is your gas leaded? It just says regular." ......and I'd say, "Yes, we were magically able to skirt around strict laws since the '70s."

"What's this thing?" (pointing at the ATM) .....and I'd say, "It's a magical Mario mushroom dispenser. If you're lucky, you'll get a One Up and get an extra life."

"Do you hate your job?" .....and I'd say, "Yes, but only when people like you come around....otherwise I kind of love it."
All real questions.

Also, why is it so hard for a boy to ask a girl out? Is it the awkward counter between us? Huh. This sucks.

confessions of a...

gas station attendant.


I really love to high five people.
Sometimes it's my job to decide what to put on the marquee.
Recently, I grabbed letters from the back room, dragged the tall ladder out of the shed and carried it to the marquee all while giggling like a little girl.
One by one, I took the letters down from the last marquee message, made a neat stack of them, and then began assembling my new message.
Letter by letter, I began to get more excited for the nights to come where I could display awesomeness and have fun at work and get to see a new side of my regular customers. After putting up all of the letters, I compulsively centered the words on the board before I climbed down the ladder and skipped back into the store.

I took one last look:
STOP IN FOR
FREE SMILES &
HIGH FIVES!

confessions of a...

gas station attendant.

I haven't babbled about ridiculous work stories here for a while, so I thought I'd make a trip back to blog land...

...mostly because it's been 3 hours since I left work and I STILL have Miley Cyrus' new song stuck in my head. I usually switch between the top 40 station and the oldies station at work, but tonight I guess I had it on top 40s the whole 8 1/2 hours. Bad choice Batman. Life is hard. My soul is sad.

I'll make it through. I know this because there have been stretches of long, hard days, which I think any person working in retail can attest to. A few weeks ago I had such a terribly long week that I made a list of all the crap that happened. It went like this:
Ostracizing father customer: 1
Curdled/Coagulated milk explosion: 1
Can of Sparks, exploding & sticky: 1
Crazy drunk crack-head zombie, returning twice for beer: 1
Can of Coors Lt, exploding and foaming: 1
Stoned old woman, whining, pouting, in a swimming suit, with Dr-from-Back-to-the-Future-esque hair, begging to use a lighter to light her joint in the store, almost crying as I kick her out and threaten to call the cops: 1
Tail pipe falling off on my way home from work: 1
PMS: 1
Snooty woman incapable of pumping gas: 1
(I'm sure there's more that I'm forgetting.)
Sarah: 0. zilch. nada. none. empty. done. ugh.

It started with "I'll scan these for you so you don't have to over-exert yourself. I don't want you to have to work."
And ended with out-dated curdled coagulated stinky ass milk exploding on the out-dated shelf in the cooler.

Sometimes I just feel like I need a vacation.
Instead, I bought a new vehicle, thinking that would give me lasting comfort of not having to fix my (old) car atleast twice a month and the expense digging its nasty head into my grocery funds.
My (old) car is for sale in front of the store. Tonight an older gentleman, who is set on winning the lottery, lectured me on how I need to get it detailed (despite the fact I spent 2 hours cleaning it this weekend) and washed and waxed. I politely reminded him of the forecast for the new few days, calling for thunderstorms, of the severe variety. Also, I just don't care.

In any case, there are some days that I'd just like to pin a button on my uniform that says "I'm pretty sure I'm smarter than you. Don't make me prove it."

This is a kind reminder to not treat your gas station attendant like poop. Get off your phone. Don't pay in all pennies, nickels, and dimes. Don't poop on the seat. Don't wash your car with the squeegies. Don't put dead animals/animal parts in the garbages. Don't complain about our prices (we can do anything about it anyway). Don't throw stuff at us. Don't belittle us.
We're humans, too.
And sometimes we have dance parties.