Twitchy Left Eye.

I try not to talk about work too much on this thing. When I get home from a trying day--which is most all of them--the last thing I want to talk about is work. But there are some real characters out there that I just have to bring to everyone's attention.

Let's recap on what exactly it is that I do. I sell coats to dipshits. The end.

Sure, I've got to put up with a boatload of totally unnecessary micro-managing and bullshitting just to keep the corporate jackweeds off my back--but apparently that's not too uncommon.

Let's get back to the dipshits.

Now, if you've ever worked a job in the service industry--a job where they really emphasize the term "customer service", then you may get my drift on this bit. If not, please take note so you don't fall into this category of dipshitness.

I'll start with a fairly minor one. This happened today.

Loud, annoying phone-talking guy decides to walk into the store while still on his incredibly important and loud phone call. I make it a point to greet everyone who enters the store while on their phones just so they have to acknowledge me for one second during their cellular conversation. Sometimes it takes more than one greeting to get a reaction, but it's worth the effort because I get satisfaction from interrupting them. Loud, annoying phone-talking guy walks right up to me, puts his index finger out, as to say "Just a sec, chief.". I am in a not-so great mood to begin with--mainly because I hate my job--so I give him a "go to hell" scowl that was more genuine than he, or anyone could have known. He finishes his conversation with an "I'll have to pass this time, big guy, but maybe we can---blah blah blah (he started talking in frat-boy golf lingo that I don't understand).

This champion finally ends his cell phone conversation that he obviously wanted everyone within earshot--and then some--to hear, walks up uncomfortably close to me, and states, "Let's do some shoppin'!" My scowl increases to where no man in his right mind would think that I am even minutely happy at this point. While he stands there smiling, I stand with a look that all but screams, "Are you fucking kidding me? I don't get paid near enough to deal with fucktards like you." That's exactly what my look said...and then my left eye started twitching.

After I stand there, in dipshit-shock, he says, "What's your name?" Then he looks at my nametag ( I hate...once again, I hate...wearing a nametag) "Matt? Craig. I need to buy a casual, but cool jacket that I can wear if I want to learn to ski, but that also looks good with a suit, like if I get off work and meet some clients over at Elway's. Also something that I can run or ride my bike at night while it's snowing. I just moved here from Cali, lost 40lbs since February, and I'm out shopping like a chick!"

No shit. Nice job, Craig. Way to suck at living.

This brings to mind the man-shoppers that I have come in the store. Now, this is not intended to poke fun at gay dudes--that would not be as big of a deal. But I have a substantial amount of seemingly heterosexual men that enjoy spending a Saturday afternoon not playing basketball together...not drinking beer together...not watching baseball together...but shopping for clothes together. Yes, they carry around their little bags from the mall that have Aeropostle--or what the fuck ever that place is called, The Gap, The Navy, The Puma, and all the other mall stores that cater to man-shoppers.

"Hey Vinnie, you got Saturday off? Sweet! Me too! I realize that there's a game on TV, or we could head up to the mountains for a little fishing, or hell, we could even just spend the day in a bar tying one on.......but I'm wondering if you would just like to go to the mall, do some shopping? You know, for clothes and stuff? The two of us. That sound cool?"

Then some crazy lady comes in to the store, wondering if we sell body warmers? I don't know what a body warmer is. There is no such thing, so she's probably confusing it with something else. "Are you talking about hand or foot warmers? You know, those packets that you put in your gloves or socks in cold weather?" I ask.

"No, god no! It's a body warmer! You know, a piece of clothing!" Like I'm the idiot.

"O--kay. Like arm warmers for runners? Sleeves?" I'm at a loss.

"No! It's armless! It's an armless body warmer! C'mon!! I see them everywhere! Don't tell me you don't have them!" She's almost yelling at this point.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. I have no idea what a sleeveless body warmer is." I say while keeping my cool and appearing completely genuine.

"Here! This! This is what I'm talking about!!" As she grabs a hold of a garment on a rack.

"A vest??" I say in utter amazement.

"Yea, whatever! Vest, bodywarmer...whatever! That's what I need!" still talking like I am a complete moron. My eye: twitching.

One more. Stay with me on this winner.

Guy is looking at luggage. I ask if I can help. He says, "I bought this piece of luggage yesterday, and I'm wondering if it's going to be big enough."

"Okay, I gotcha. What are you planning on packing in it" I reply.

"I've got six reels that I'm traveling with, and that's all I'm taking in this piece of luggage." he states.

"Alright, have you tried packing them in there yet?" giving this yutz the benefit of the doubt thus far.

"Yea, I brought 'em. They're in there." opening the carry-on to show me that all reels fit perfectly.

"Okay, so you bought this yesterday, and decided to bring your reels in to see if they'd fit in this exact same piece that you just bought?" Trying to make sense of it.

"Yea, I'm just not sure that they're gonna fit." he says, revealing that he is still uncertain that his cargo will fit into this piece of luggage that they are, in fact, fitting into right in front of both our eyes.

"Well.......it looks as though they fit in this piece....that you have already bought, pretty well....." I say with a hint of caution, in case I'm dealing with a mentally disabled person, or there is possibly something obvious that I'm overlooking during this conversation.

"Yea, I don't know if they're gonna fit, man."

At this point, I am completely speechless. I throw my hands up, as to say, "Sorry bud, I don't know what to tell you. You bought this same piece of luggage yesterday, but decided to bring your six fishing reels in here to see if they would fit in the display model--which they obviously do, without a hint of doubt, instead of....................." My left eye starts twitching. I walk away.




Please, please, please....stop being so goddamn stupid. Thank you.






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half-drunk ramblings after a bad day at work.

A Type A personality is described as a business-like, aggressive, controlling workaholic. Basically an asshole.

A Type B personality is the polar opposite. Easy going, relaxed, "whatever" types.

I am neither. Or quite possibly, lots of both.

I am not a workaholic, in the dramatized sense of staying late at the office, burning the midnight oil. I suppose you could classify me as a workaholic, though, seeing as how I am constantly trying to find a way to enjoy my profession...which hasn't happened yet. Controlling? Aggressive? Nah, not really. Asshole? Probably.

One main characteristic that I do share with these Type A jerks, is that I stress entirely too much over my job. It's really not that I care about it that much, or I strive to be the best so much that my ulcer starts bulging. It's that I dislike it (and every other job) so much that my left eye starts twitching, I grow a pain in my side right under my rib cage, and my chest becomes extremely tight.

That's my Type A bit.

In order to correct--or counter-balance my Type A tendencies, I immediately go Type B, to the point to where it probably hinders me.

There is no happy medium. If I become too stressed out over work, or the frustrations that lie within, I can't just "not let them get to me" in a grown-up, adult, professional manner. No, I have to say "fuck it, man"--sometimes aloud at work--and let any ounce of maturity that I've ever gained go straight down the shitter. It's either, or.

That's been my struggle. I get to the point of unhappiness with my career that I allow it to effect me physically--then I throw in the towel and don't give a fuck to cure it. It's kind of the two extremes of both Types of personalities.

I dwell, and I dwell, and I dwell. I am constantly unsatisfied, and want something different, something more, something now. There is no sense of patience--a trait of Type A-ers. But then I get to my boiling point...

That's when immaturity rears its ugly head. It's kind of cool, though. It's a little embarrassing at times--saying 'fuck it' to most everything and acting like I did in high school. But it's also liberating. It's nice to have that release. More times than not, I wish it lasted longer.

If I could choose one of my extreme personality traits, it would probably be the B. Mainly for health reasons. Of course, I would basically be a couch-draped hippie. But I suppose that beats a near heart attack on a weekly basis caused by stupid shit that revolves around selling coats and the jack-offs that surround that world.

The answer is simple, but acting on that answer is not. Do what makes you happy. Sounds great on paper, but it's not an easy feat to perfect. If I did what makes me happy, I'd probably be a bum, 'cause I don't want to work. At least not a "job".

I want to travel, experience, explore, taste, teach, and learn. Nine-to-fives do not interest me. That's where my stress comes in to play. Trying dearly to figure that puzzle out.

The older I get, the more stressed this makes me. Frankly, because my time is quickly getting measured. My time with friends, family, and hopefully kiddos one day. I don't want to be an angry, disgruntled coat salesman. I want to be utterly pleased and content with my career and the direction it's going. I want it to be meaningful, and gratifying. Selling coats to dickheads is not.

Hopefully I'll be able to figure this $47,000 question out for myself sooner rather than later. It's probably something that doesn't affect too many of you out there--I seem to be in the minority when it comes to making it one's life-long mission to find the perfect profession. I hope it's possible. I hope I'm not fucked.

But that's my personality, I guess. Type F.




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