Tales from aisle 10 (II)

The behaviour of grocery shoppers never ceases to amaze me. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder whether I should switch careers, not out of any great hatred for my job (I enjoy it, even with its frustrations) but because Mental Sarcastic Bastard's getting harder and harder to keep in check. Bilious thoughts bubble up out of the muck on a daily basis:
My God, the things people will do for other people's tap water. I am STILL having trouble even comprehending the madness that descends upon an entire city whenever bottled water goes on sale. Even granting that our city's tap water is barely fit for human consumption (it's the only water I've ever tasted that makes me thirstier the more I drink!), there are so many more cost-effective options. Tap water plus any sort of filter plus reusable plastic jug: roughly one-hundredth the cost, per liter, of even the cheapest bottled water. For those, like me, who wish Brita containers came in reasonable sizes, there are those 19.5-litre bottles, infinitely reusable, that cost between 51 cents each (that's the plan I'm on) and $6.99 (if you buy them at the grocery store). Even adding in the cost of the cooler, considering it should last many years, you're saving a huge amount of money. Of course, if you live most anywhere else urban, you can simply turn on your tap: your rate should be something on the order of $1.82 per thousand litres, plus nominal service charges.
That's all most bottled water is, by the way: other people's tap water. But hey, it's your money.

I had a woman today looking for frozen spinach. Actually, I get quite a few people like her who, upon being led to the frozen spinach, look at me, shake their heads, and say "no, I mean boxes."
Further inquiry usually leads to the revelation (for the customer) that the bags we have now and the boxes we stopped carrying more than three years ago are exactly the same size: 250 grams. I say usually because several customers will swear up and down they bought much larger boxes of spinach here just last week. You're not supposed to contradict the customer, ever, so my standard response to but I just got it here last week! is "If you did, ma'am, it was a mispick: something shipped to us in error that we're not able to get again. Sorry about that."
Today's customer looked at me like I'd lost my mind when I told her, regretfully, that the box of spinach she sought was long gone. "But we have these bags," I started to say, getting the "buh" out before she snapped "in THIS store, you mean."
MSB almost made it past the censor-man. Of course in this store. This is the store you're in, this is the store I'm in, this would be the only store I'm qualified to speak about.
Did I ever mention just how much I adore being snapped at?
"These bags are tiny!" she said in an accusatory tone of voice, as if I had known she was coming 'round the corner, shrunk them just in time, and was even now gloating over my accomplishment.
"Actually, ma'am, I think you might find they're exactly the same weight as the boxes you normally buy elsewhere. They're 250 grams." Watch it, Ken, that came perilously close to a contradiction.
"What's that in ounces?" she asked, entirely unmollified, as if the whole metric system has tormented her for the thirty years it's been in effect. Probably has. God, three pet peeves in one customer, this had to be some kind of record.
"Eight ounces. One cup." For about the millionth time I found myself wishing I could say what I really was thinking: how the hell should I know? What century are you living in, anyway? Are you going to ask me the length of this aisle in cubits, next?

Last Friday night, someone asked me for the Aunt Jemima waffles on sale for $1.00. "Sorry, sir, they were on sale last week." Whereupon he plucked a flyer out of his pocket and whipped it in front of my face. "Right...THERE!" he almost yelled.
"May I see that flyer, sir?" I asked. He gave it to me. While pretending to study the waffles which were indeed pictured, I plucked a pen out of my pocket, turned the flyer over, circled the line that said--essentially--"These Low Prices Were in Effect LAST WEEK!" and, using the exact same motion he had so suddenly employed (okay, I didn't get quite so close to his face), said "no, right...THERE!"
I think he got the point. He did look a little sheepish.

I rarely let my inner demon out at all. Most customers have no idea the thoughts swirling just aft of my forehead--sometimes I'm amazed I can keep a smile on my face and in my voice while those thoughts swirl. Oh, look, another illiterate....ma'am, if that milk was any closer you'd be lactating...really, now, does every mom, Nic and Sherri have to let their kids run hogwild in here?....what did you mean by leaving that cart so far from the corral? Are you rude, or just lazy?...

Then there's the wee-wee matter of the bathroom. Our public loo's located just past the tills on the way out the front door. The staff bathroom, contrary to extremely popular customer opinion, is NOT in the back room, it's upstairs...about as far from the back room as you can get and still be in the same building. I can certainly understand the odd customer wandering into our back room looking for the lavatory, because (a) it's invisible until you're past a cashier and (b) quite a few stores do have public bathrooms off their back storage areas. But you get people marching back there as if they're reporting for work, eyes scanning everywhere for a bathroom that simply must exist (after all, there's no sign!), then actually arguing with us when we tell them it's at the front of the store.
"Aww, c'mon. Let me use yours, then."
" 'Ours' is actully even further away from here, and behind a locked door."
"No, it isn't. I know you've got one back here. It's THE LAW."
???????
You, sir, are full of shit. Not just literally, either.

Every day brings its share of cuckoos: the woman who insists her groceries are all keyed in manually, convinced the scanner emits radiation or something (look around, lady--notice all those other customers getting their groceries scanned? Look pretty healthy, don't they?). I put a sign up informing people that the goat's anus tartare they're looking for is on the endcap at the front of this aisle, right next to the squirrel testicles ( I'll even put in helpful arrows, in case 'front' isn't clear enough) and scores of people will move the sign, peer at the empty shelf behind it and demand to know where the goat's anus tartare is. The people, about ten out of every ten, who won't take the top copy of a pile of newspapers. The related people who insist on getting milk right from the back of the shelf, even when it's the same date. Sometimes I just shake my head.

Sometimes it doesn't stop shaking.