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Sometimes I Hate My Job
By Lisa M. Rivera
Sometimes I hate my job. I have never worked where I dreaded going to a job so much. I have been up since 4 in the morning worrying about this meeting the district manager has called. During our yearly audit he picked out items that had been my responsibility that day—and, of course, they were not done as per all instructions. Even though I had let the job of closing the registers to our sales leader (who is perfectly capable of doing the job, and has been for the past month or so), she seems to have had a brain fog that night (of course) and did not sign all the paperwork. I, on the other hand, had been busy organizing the receiving area, making sure papers were filed in the correct place and such, so it was my fault for not checking up on her work. So, of course, he picks that particular day of all the days in the week to check. And yes, I had to hear it. Again. I just don’t belong there. It has gotten to the point where I can hear the cases of merchandise in the stock room whispering to me: "Get out!"
I have already accidentally set one false silent alarm (well, what do you know, there is a silent alarm under that register—not even the general manager knew that) and one fire alarm. (I was just trying to pull the boxes away from the panel so that we would not get a ticket from the fire marshal. The corner of a case caught on it, and lo and behold, the glass bar was not there to prevent it from sliding down and we got a ticket anyway.)
My perception of where I should take initiative is totally out of sync with the store policies. (Why did you move that item? You can’t copy that! You could have posted that sign up there.) I am sitting here writing this and shaking my head. For crying out loud (which I did in the basement stock room a few days ago—okay, yelled out loud), I have made one of the biggest mistakes in my life. I am a trained office person in a retail world. What was I thinking? "I need a change in my life. I like people, I have many years in customer service over the phone, and it would be nice to actually put faces to the voices that I help." I needed a change? Why didn't I just start my own Internet site? Buy some sneakers? Ya know what I found out about myself? I don’t like people as much as I thought. At all.
Remember the sitcom "Married with Children"? (Yes, I admit I love that show.) The husband, Al the shoe salesman, would come home and always start his hello by saying: "A fat lady came into the store today …" I come into the house saying, "There was this whiny, poop-smelling, parent-disrespecting kid in the store today …"
Oh, did I mention? I work in a toy store. Not just any toy store. An "educational products" toy store. Translation: Every parent who walks in that store feels that their child is gifted beyond any child who has ever been born—before or after their child. "My child is four but extremely intelligent; I need something to keep him challenged. What about this game? It says ages 8 and up, but I am sure he can handle it." Meanwhile their kid is pulling on their coat, asking mommy for a puppy-sticker book. Two days later the parent returns the game: "It wasn't interesting enough to hold his attention." Uh-huh.
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