gas station attendant.
tears. (teerz) noun. -fluid appearing in or flowing from the eye as result of emotion; grief, sorrow.
They rarely fall from my eyes, but sometimes a girl just needs a good cry. This one was inflicted by a combination of the following: irritability, the price of chocolate, pen throwing, law-abiding-ness, other women's pms, the cost of gas, other woman's crappy day.
I go in waves at the store, there will be months that go by that I thoroughly enjoy work and am able to tolerate customers and treat them amicably but every once in awhile I just feel over-loaded and it seems that if I have to fake nice for one more customer that I will spontaneously combust (which is pretty much the worst possible thing at a gas station).
I get tapped out of nice. Out of being cordial. Out of being welcoming and homey. Out of being a little ray in sunshine in someone's day. Rude customers come and go...they bum me out for a few minutes but I'll get over it as the night moves on.
For the first time the other night, a rude woman left with her goods she complained and grumbled and threw pens (at me!?!) over and I felt myself welling up, so I walked in the back room, turned on the buzzer for the door, and started to cry. Those emotional-girl thoughts started racing though my head..."I don't deserve to be treated like that!" "I cannot believe how rude some people are!" "Jeez I'm like the nicest person ever and I'm freaking crying!" "Why am I crying...I'm such a nerd." "I AM SO LAME NOBODY LIKES ME!" "Oh my gosh nobody likes me I'm never going to get married!" ....and on and on and on. Luckily nobody came in during my dramatic tear escapade, but I quickly realized it was nearing 10pm. Shortly after ten bells walks in a great customer friend dude guy who offered to beat up the woman who hurt my feelings and made me cry. Life was alright after that.
Seriously. Don't forget we're not robots. We have feelings.
9.18.2009
9.13.2009
confessions of a...
gas station attendant.
hot dog buns v. brat buns: the great debate.
Last week I had 3 customers leave without buying anything because we don't sell brat buns even though we had a shelf full of fresh and cheap hot dog buns.
I do not understand this kind of dedication to a meal component. To be fair, brats are much better on actual brat buns, but if you've already taken the time to drive to a store and arrive at that one store and they offer a very similar product to what you're looking for, why wouldn't you just buy that stand-in product instead of driving to another (and maybe yet another) store to find your beloved brat buns?
I'm puzzled. I feel I cannot offer any more insight on this issue, so I'd like to leave it up to you, the reader, to give your insight/feelings/opinions on the great debate.
Thank you in advance.
hot dog buns v. brat buns: the great debate.
Last week I had 3 customers leave without buying anything because we don't sell brat buns even though we had a shelf full of fresh and cheap hot dog buns.
I do not understand this kind of dedication to a meal component. To be fair, brats are much better on actual brat buns, but if you've already taken the time to drive to a store and arrive at that one store and they offer a very similar product to what you're looking for, why wouldn't you just buy that stand-in product instead of driving to another (and maybe yet another) store to find your beloved brat buns?
I'm puzzled. I feel I cannot offer any more insight on this issue, so I'd like to leave it up to you, the reader, to give your insight/feelings/opinions on the great debate.
Thank you in advance.
9.10.2009
confessions of a...
gas station attendant.
I find myself becoming more and more blog-conscious, meaning when funny things happen at the store I'll jot them down on a note to remind myself to blog about them later. I just pulled a note out of my wallet that I left for myself to find and it's nothing short of a scribbled, mis-spelled, grammarless mess. I must've been busy because I tend to be a grammar nazi with neat & tidy writing.
Here's what it said:
I like living in a place where it's still socially acceptable to drive your tractor to the gas station to get fuel.
People pull up to the pump on all sorts of funky things like tractors, riding lawn mowers, Wisconsin State Trooper motorcycles, antique cars, snow mobiles, powered parachutes, and Can-Am Spyders.
My feelings towards these motor-powered units would definitely be less welcoming if it weren't for small town charm. The guy on the tractor is the owner of the Silver Spur Saloon (cheap drinks, crappy juke box). The State Trooper just finished some training and wants some chocolate and a soda. The guy on the mower has special needs and can't drive a car. A guy is teaching his son how to snow mobile. All the folks with antique cars like to show off their stuff. The guy in the powered parachute, well, who knows...that was just weird. And the guys on the Spyders always have other avid motorcyclists flock to them when they're fueling up. Folks walk in and tell me stories of their motor-powered movers and a emit of glow of pride and a few slices of ego. And this is alright.
I ask how the bar is doing, how long it took to rebuild, how training went, how that thing rides, how do you fly that thing, and if it's alright if I close up shop and come snow-mobiling with you. I laugh to myself when kids spend more on a soda than they do filling up their moped. I laugh to myself when folks pay more to put gas in their boat then I do on monthly rent. I laugh to myself when moms driving Hummers tell their kids to put something back because it costs too much.
None of these feelings would be the same if it weren't for the small town charm. I never thought, after loving life in Chicago for upwards for 4 years, that I would embrace a sort of know everyone atmosphere.
Eels put it best:
Life is funny
not ha-ha funny
peculiar I guess
------------
Thanks. Have a great day!
I find myself becoming more and more blog-conscious, meaning when funny things happen at the store I'll jot them down on a note to remind myself to blog about them later. I just pulled a note out of my wallet that I left for myself to find and it's nothing short of a scribbled, mis-spelled, grammarless mess. I must've been busy because I tend to be a grammar nazi with neat & tidy writing.
Here's what it said:
I like living in a place where it's still socially acceptable to drive your tractor to the gas station to get fuel.
People pull up to the pump on all sorts of funky things like tractors, riding lawn mowers, Wisconsin State Trooper motorcycles, antique cars, snow mobiles, powered parachutes, and Can-Am Spyders.
My feelings towards these motor-powered units would definitely be less welcoming if it weren't for small town charm. The guy on the tractor is the owner of the Silver Spur Saloon (cheap drinks, crappy juke box). The State Trooper just finished some training and wants some chocolate and a soda. The guy on the mower has special needs and can't drive a car. A guy is teaching his son how to snow mobile. All the folks with antique cars like to show off their stuff. The guy in the powered parachute, well, who knows...that was just weird. And the guys on the Spyders always have other avid motorcyclists flock to them when they're fueling up. Folks walk in and tell me stories of their motor-powered movers and a emit of glow of pride and a few slices of ego. And this is alright.
I ask how the bar is doing, how long it took to rebuild, how training went, how that thing rides, how do you fly that thing, and if it's alright if I close up shop and come snow-mobiling with you. I laugh to myself when kids spend more on a soda than they do filling up their moped. I laugh to myself when folks pay more to put gas in their boat then I do on monthly rent. I laugh to myself when moms driving Hummers tell their kids to put something back because it costs too much.
None of these feelings would be the same if it weren't for the small town charm. I never thought, after loving life in Chicago for upwards for 4 years, that I would embrace a sort of know everyone atmosphere.
Eels put it best:
Life is funny
not ha-ha funny
peculiar I guess
------------
Thanks. Have a great day!
9.04.2009
confessions of a...
gas station attendant.
Sometimes you have those nights that just make sense to end with a dance party/sing-a-long. This one happened to be brought to you by the Beatles' Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club album and a few tricky customers.
A new Sonic opened just down the road from the store last week. Apparently this is a huge deal for NE Wisconsin because there has never been a Sonic in or around the area. (In fact, the closest was Indianapolis, Indiana...some friends of mine road tripped there in high school for some Sonic food on a whim. Crazies.) This new Wisconsin Sonic has required the local police to direct traffic, parking lots full of traffic cones asking cars to weave this way and that way to finally reach their destination of pull-up-and-order fun. Waiters/tresses skate around and bring you food and fun whilst you sit in your car and drop a fry under your seat. Of course in order to get here you had to wait in the biggest traffic pile-up you'll ever see in a 100 mile radius of Sonic. It's bizarre.
Late Wednesday evening an elderly gentleman came into the store to pay for some gasoline. He slowly made his way inside and up to the counter as I greeted him and asked how his night was going. (Surely I should've learned by now that to ask how someone's day is is not the safest question.) He grumpily paid for his gas and then began going on an on about how pissed he was about the whole Sonic fiasco.
"They skate to your car!", he grumbled as I questioned (to myself) why this is such a terrible thing.
"You can't even eat inside! You have to eat in your damn car!", he proclaimed.
I responded, "well sir, I think that's just how Sonic's are. It's all part of the experience."
"Well it's a damn lousy experience. What the hell are you supposed to do in winter! It's lousy!", he grumbled again.
Seeing that my conversation with this man was going to be a losing battle, I simply told him, "I'm sure that's part of the reason that they never had Sonic's in Wisconsin before. The whole idea simply doesn't make sense for a good deal of the year."
He got more upset. Realizing he wasn't upset at me I wished him a good night. He wasn't quite finished venting, "And they have those terrible commercials...two HOMOS sitting in a car talking about stupid shit. HOMOS. I don't want to see that. That's terrible. If you're gonna sell food, tell me about the food. Don't show me two homos in a car and expect me to eat at your place."
I think all I could muster up at this point was "uhhhh, ok."
(this is just one commercial with the two guys he was talking about.)
I spent the few minutes after he (finally) left thinking about how generations other than my own react to marketing. Apparently to this man, two men sitting in a car being witty or dumb means two gay men are being terrible role models for the rest of the world. Some people may not understand the type of marketing that they are using. Some may just not like it. I understand these things...but to assume so passionately that you're seeing two gay men interact and have that bother you so much should really make you question yourself and your own morality, not of those actors you're seeing. Social norms and trends are such interesting things to consider, debate, and watch unfold.
(end sociological rant.)
All that to say, I went to my car, got a Beatles CD and turned it up. I started dancing around between customers, replaying my favorite songs, humming along. My bliss multiplied as Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds came on and a man shopping started singing along, which made a guy in line start singing, which got passed on to someone who walked in the door. It was lovely.
The album ends with a reprise of Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club and a lot of silliness. As the last song played, someone opening up a door to the beer cooler yelled "SARGENT PEPPER'S LONELY HEARTS CLUUUUUUUUB BAAAAAAAND!"
It made my day a million times better. I'm thinking about making CDs of the Beatles anthology and having Beatles nights at the store. ...because really, who doesn't like the Beatles.
Sometimes you have those nights that just make sense to end with a dance party/sing-a-long. This one happened to be brought to you by the Beatles' Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club album and a few tricky customers.
A new Sonic opened just down the road from the store last week. Apparently this is a huge deal for NE Wisconsin because there has never been a Sonic in or around the area. (In fact, the closest was Indianapolis, Indiana...some friends of mine road tripped there in high school for some Sonic food on a whim. Crazies.) This new Wisconsin Sonic has required the local police to direct traffic, parking lots full of traffic cones asking cars to weave this way and that way to finally reach their destination of pull-up-and-order fun. Waiters/tresses skate around and bring you food and fun whilst you sit in your car and drop a fry under your seat. Of course in order to get here you had to wait in the biggest traffic pile-up you'll ever see in a 100 mile radius of Sonic. It's bizarre.
Late Wednesday evening an elderly gentleman came into the store to pay for some gasoline. He slowly made his way inside and up to the counter as I greeted him and asked how his night was going. (Surely I should've learned by now that to ask how someone's day is is not the safest question.) He grumpily paid for his gas and then began going on an on about how pissed he was about the whole Sonic fiasco.
"They skate to your car!", he grumbled as I questioned (to myself) why this is such a terrible thing.
"You can't even eat inside! You have to eat in your damn car!", he proclaimed.
I responded, "well sir, I think that's just how Sonic's are. It's all part of the experience."
"Well it's a damn lousy experience. What the hell are you supposed to do in winter! It's lousy!", he grumbled again.
Seeing that my conversation with this man was going to be a losing battle, I simply told him, "I'm sure that's part of the reason that they never had Sonic's in Wisconsin before. The whole idea simply doesn't make sense for a good deal of the year."
He got more upset. Realizing he wasn't upset at me I wished him a good night. He wasn't quite finished venting, "And they have those terrible commercials...two HOMOS sitting in a car talking about stupid shit. HOMOS. I don't want to see that. That's terrible. If you're gonna sell food, tell me about the food. Don't show me two homos in a car and expect me to eat at your place."
I think all I could muster up at this point was "uhhhh, ok."
(this is just one commercial with the two guys he was talking about.)
I spent the few minutes after he (finally) left thinking about how generations other than my own react to marketing. Apparently to this man, two men sitting in a car being witty or dumb means two gay men are being terrible role models for the rest of the world. Some people may not understand the type of marketing that they are using. Some may just not like it. I understand these things...but to assume so passionately that you're seeing two gay men interact and have that bother you so much should really make you question yourself and your own morality, not of those actors you're seeing. Social norms and trends are such interesting things to consider, debate, and watch unfold.
(end sociological rant.)
All that to say, I went to my car, got a Beatles CD and turned it up. I started dancing around between customers, replaying my favorite songs, humming along. My bliss multiplied as Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds came on and a man shopping started singing along, which made a guy in line start singing, which got passed on to someone who walked in the door. It was lovely.
The album ends with a reprise of Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club and a lot of silliness. As the last song played, someone opening up a door to the beer cooler yelled "SARGENT PEPPER'S LONELY HEARTS CLUUUUUUUUB BAAAAAAAND!"
It made my day a million times better. I'm thinking about making CDs of the Beatles anthology and having Beatles nights at the store. ...because really, who doesn't like the Beatles.
8.26.2009
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.
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.
8.25.2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
