The cash register is sometimes my only ally in a field of strange customers.
I’d like to think of myself as a monetary exchange specialist. Allow me to provide an appropriate scenario.
It’s a sunny one o’clock. Joe (yes, let’s call him Joe) walks up to my freshly polished counter and asks for thirty cents worth of test supplies. I slide a brand new bluebook across the surface that stands between us. “That’ll be thirty cents,” I say with a debonair accent. He hands me a quarter. Gasp! Thankfully, I have a trusty cash register to calculate the difference (30 – 25). “5 cents is your change, have a super fantastic day.” I am the queen.
Detect the sarcasm?
My job is painfully simple. I use a scanner. I push no more than three keys on the computer per hour. I read – but only out of boredom and nothing that actually pertains to my job. I’ve flipped through the pages of every single magazine we carry (including a radical feminist motif magazine called Bitch, which I enjoyed more than I expected – mostly for its unintended humor), and now know more about the Kardashians and Sandra’s baby than I should. Yesterday, I read Justin Bieber’s life story. It’s just sad.
I make $7.28 an hour. Is that even minimum wage?
I would like to dedicate this blog to my pathetic existence from 7:15 am to noon every day of this dreadfully hot summer.
I check you out. 