3 Things You Shouldn't Say to a Co-worker Who Stabbed a Guy Four Times

It was indeed fortunate that I was on good terms with Alice, my co-worker. I only needed to look as far as the local paper to find out what happened to those with whom she was on bad terms. She stabs them.

According to the newspaper article, she had stabbed a man who was thought to be dating her niece. Maybe it was self defense. The article went on to say she stabbed him four times and after he managed to run away, she chased him down the street. Maybe it wasn't self defense. As to whether it was premeditated, it was reported that she traveled, at 4am, from Crazytown to Stabbyville (Dartmouth to Spryfield) carrying with her a large knife and bear spray.

At work the next day, we read that she was charged with attempted murder. The next day we read that the charges were downgraded to aggravated assault. Two days after that we no longer had to read about her in the paper because she came back to work while awaiting trial. So what do you say to a suspected stabber (stabbist?). I went with the simple and casual "How're you doing?" She answered, "stressed". And we left it at that. She seemed calm and composed but I certainly didn't make it easy. It turns out it's very hard to avoid all stab related words and sayings. Within the first week of her being back, I made the following three faux pas. I saw her struggling with the price check machine so I helpfully offered, "Here, I'll take a stab at it". Later, I saw her using the little gun we use to attach tags to clothes (and using it rather recklessly I thought) and I said, "Careful, that's sharp" before remembering that she of all people understood the danger of sharp objects. And later in the week a group of us were talking about vacationing in Mexico and someone mentioned that it wasn't very safe and I countered with "Halifax isn't that safe either. Just walking down the street you might get sta...shot." I have a talent for making awkward situations a bit more awkward. Each time I make one of these slips I freeze and then glance over at her to make sure I haven't aroused any stabby urgings. So far, so good.

After she'd been back a little over a week, she started telling me about a dream she had. Normally I don't want to hear about people's dreams because they're stupid and boring, but I figured any dream she'd have would surely reveal some fascinating insight into a violent mind. I couldn't possibly pass up this opportunity. But I listened to her whole dream and she never got to the good stuff. It was mostly about her being back home in Africa and telling people there that if they were going to Canada they would need warm jackets. I chose to interpret this as representing her immigrant experience and being met in Canada with a figurative coldness (and likely jail time). I didn't say that though. I just said, "Yeah, it's freezing here."

I seem to be the main person she talks to at work. If anyone needs to tell her anything, they ask me to do it (including one time when they got me to tell her she wasn't entitled to another break because she was only working a short shift. I waited until she was finished using the scissors.) One day as she was leaving she stopped and touched my hair. I'm pretty used to this. For some reason people love touching my hair. But how should I interpret it in this situation? Was it a subtle warning? Was it a gesture of friendship? Do I have to visit her in prison? I wish I knew more about criminal etiquette.

June 1, 2047

I received some fantastic news today. It seems Walmart has some type of pension plan in place for its loyal longtime workers. Our personnel manager gave me a whole package explaining what I was entitled to and though I only briefly skimmed it, a date jumped out at me. June 1, 2047 is the day when I, at age 65, can retire. I believe I had what Oprah refers to as an "Aha Moment". Or in this case, it was more of a "Holy Shit! Moment". It dawned on me that if I don't leave, I'll still be here. Ellen, the personnel manager, also congratulated me on my five years with the company. She told me that she had already ordered me a new 5 year name badge and promised that there would be some type of presentation at the morning meeting. I said, "No thanks" and that I'd rather mourn privately.

The advantages of this new badge are that it's silver and sparkly. The disadvantage is that it says "5 Years" which roughly translated means "things sure didn't turn out the way I planned". Also disadvantageous, it's sparkly visage attracts customers who think they've struck gold to have found such a seasoned professional to answer their questions. This renders useless my standard go-to response for all customer inquiries: "I don't know. I just started yesterday.

In related news, five years is the length of time I've been threatening people with facial mutilation apparently. When customers exit the fitting rooms, I always offer to take the items they don't want to buy. I have been saying "I'll take your nos" which, it was only recently pointed out to me, sounds exactly like "I'll take your nose". Looking back now, there has been a trend of people stepping back and protecting their faces when confronted with this offer. On those occasions, I usually thought they hadn't heard me so I would advance towards them and repeat it louder, "I'LL TAKE YOUR NOS!"

Make a Colour Impact!

Remember when I wrote about The Colour Story, a deeply complicated system for arranging clothing so that it is both pleasing to the eye and reminiscent of a favourite childhood tale? Well, forget about that! That is sooo last week! Now it's all about Colour Impact. While with The Colour Story, you alternate between two complementary colours, with Colour Impact you use many colours to create a colour explosion. It's less about using the colours to tell a story and more about surprising the eye with a unexpected colour twist. At least that's how it was explained to me by my boss recently.

Looking at the sample wall she had just arranged using these new principles, I thought I understood.

"So it's just completely random."
"No."

I waited for further details. When it became clear none were forthcoming, I searched her face for signs she would eventually tire of trying to teach me new things. And for a second I saw a glimmer of someone who wasn't all "I love my job" and "What we do here is important". I believe I saw a glimpse of an actual rational human being. I saw someone who, like me, feels deep rage knowing that someone at corporate headquarters is actually drawing a salary to come up with this colour garbage.

Now, I can't have her turning into a sympathetic, relatable person. That would ruin my day. Doesn't she know she's a recurring character in my blog and now that Shorty's gone she's the sole antagonist?

Not to worry. She didn't disappoint me. Before she went home for the day she left me with final instructions to "keep the colours flowing". WTF? If we hadn't just spent half the day on this colour bullshit, I'd probably have assumed she was inviting me to meet her out behind the store for a hit of acid. (I suspect my drug slang is out of date, but I'm not sure what the kids are calling it these days.)

In other colour news, guess who won't be making a Colour Impact? Employees at your local Walmart come February 2010, that's who. For over a year now, there have been rumblings that there will be a new dress code requiring that everyone wear black pants and a white shirt. You know, so Walmart can maintain its classy image.

Many of my colleagues don't seem to be nearly as outraged as I am, so I have been taking every opportunity to plant seeds of discontent citing impracticality and cost as suitable reasons for an uprising.

I'd really like to stand my ground on this dress code issue. If I only had to contend with my boss, I'm sure I could hold out; I delight in defying her. But the matter would eventually rise to the attention of our new store manager who is impossibly adorable. If he smiled and said please, I'd probably agree to wear a grass skirt and a bra made from a coconut shell.

You're a Shining Star

It's awards season at Walmart. Nominations are now being collected for the coveted Shining Star Award which rewards excellence in customer service and not getting fired. Rumours have been circulating that this year's winner will have their photo taken and then the photo will be taped to a star cut out of yellow construction paper. If the budget allows, the star will have glitter on it. God, I want it so bad I can taste it! The walls of the staff lounge are plastered with dozens of glowing recommendations and believe it or not, there's not a single one for me! Obviously my boss has been going through the nominations and throwing out all of mine. She simply refuses to let me shine. Until my nominations start rolling in, I have been reading obsessively what makes my chosen co-workers sooooo special. A common phrase in many of the nominator's testimonials is "goes above and beyond". No one can tell me I don't go above and beyond! How many times have I been working in the lingerie department when an old lady comes up to me and says, "I need you to help me find a certain bra." I am very polite, "And which bra is that?"
"This one" and they hoist their shirt up. If, by some miracle, I am able to stare long enough to identify the bra they're wearing and then find it in the store, I still have to deal with the inevitable "be a dear and check what size I'm wearing". I am not equipped with tongs or a long stick or anything to retrieve these measurements. Feeling up seniors = "above and beyond". If someone asks me to check the size on their underwear, I stand behind them, poke them with a hanger and just guess.

"Team player" also apparently describes many of the nominees. I'm sure I must have, at some point, described myself as a team player to get this job. I may have even believed it was true. But in reality, I once refused to cover for the door greeter because it's cold by the door, even though she's 73 and needed to take her pills.

It's okay. I don't want their stupid Shining Star Award anyway. No, I'm serious. I really don't.


According to Walmart, there are Five Principles of Apparel. As a fashion sales associate, I should know what they are and apply them to my work. I even have a badge that lists all the principles and snaps conveniently behind my name tag. I've actually only used the badge once- to pick broccoli out of my teeth, but I guess I must have skimmed over the words because something my boss said the other day sounded familiar. She said, "Kathleen, has anyone ever taught you about The Color Story?". Showing a Color Story - it was Principle #4 on my almost totally useless badge. If she was surprised to hear that I hadn't managed to pick up this very basic information over the course of two and a half years she hid it well. As a ten year Walmart management veteran she's naturally very practiced in dealing with incompetence and apathy.

She started out in the women's junior section showing me how the shirts along the wall alternate between purple and green and then how each rack showcases these colors on the ends, purple, green, purple, green.
"Ok, purple, green, purple, green. Got it."
"Good"
"So what's The Story?"
"That's it. That's The Color Story."
Now maybe I should have known better than to expect anything more. But when I hear "story" I'm expecting a little drama, a plotline at the very least. I'm no English major, oh wait, yes I am, and so I think I know a story when I hear one. And purple, green, purple, green is not a story.
"So...it's really more of a color scheme than a color story."
"Yes. A color scheme or a color story."
This didn't sit well with me at all. So...

Quiet and reflective, Purple tended to go unnoticed. That is, until the day Green came along. Purple and Green had much in common and complemented each other beautifully. They fell easily in love.

Purple's mother, Red was horrified when she found out about Purple's relationship with Green. She demanded Purple stop seeing him immediately. This only made Purple want him more.

Purple and Green had been seeing each other for some time when she visited his home for the first time and was introduced to his parents, Blue and Yellow. When Red heard about this meeting, she sat Purple down and told her they needed to have a talk.

"Purple, before you were born I lead a very colorful life. I left home very young because I clashed with my folks. I wanted to escape. I think I tried every drug in the spectrum...it's not important now. But I got mixed up with a lot of different characters, including Green's father. Purple, there's no easy way to tell you this. Blue is your father."
"But that means..."
"Yes. Green is your brother."

That's a color story.

Christmas is a comin'!

Should I be worried that I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet? It's only 17 days til Christmas! Yikes! At work today, I was sweeping out the fitting rooms and I found someone's Christmas shopping list. She had a list of names, some with a few gift suggestions penciled in but most names just had question marks next to them. At the bottom she had written "Me" and underneath was a very impressive list: jeans, gloves (black, brown), sexy boots, belt...and it went on and on. I laughed because that's pretty much what my Christmas list looks like.

I'm so glad I put in my request for days off work at Christmas way back in October. I thought they would just say no, so I was surprised to see that I'm free from the 23rd to the 28th. So I'll get to spend a bit of time with the family. My parents are still trying to recover from all my conflicting announcements, "I'm quitting my job", "No I'm not", "I'm moving to New Zealand", "Never mind, I'm staying here". So I'll try my best not to confuse anyone over the holidays.

Future: Undecided

The results of the "Where should Kathleen go?" poll are in and it looks like the winner is Australia and New Zealand with 60% of the vote. That's the same thing I chose! So after hardly any thought, I handed in the SWAP (Student Work Abroad Program) application for the South Pacific combo, paid the hefty non-refundable fee, and less than two days later, completely changed my mind. I should have known better when, on my way to apply for the program, the little voice in my head said Don't do it! But the little voice offered no alternative life plan, so I did it anyway. It's not that I don't want to go; I definitely do and still plan to (especially if I can't get my money back). I just think it's the wrong time. The decision came as a result of one bad day, deciding I needed a change, and going a little overboard. I included "stay at Wal-mart" in my poll as a joke answer, but ha ha, the joke's on me because that's what I'm doing. I've already survived three Wal-mart Christmases. One more won't kill me. And now that the stress of moving is gone, I'm actually excited about Christmas. I'm relieved. Maybe I'm too old for adventure. Maybe Wal-mart is secretly drugging me. Either way, it felt too rushed. I need more time to plan and get excited about it. I'm going to leave major decision making for after Christmas.

Moving On

I hate when people interfere with my schedule so I was pretty pissed at work today when my lunch break had to be postponed because the guy who got caught stealing hundreds of dollars worth of DVDs (mostly Indiana Jones) decided to go insane and try to stab people with a dirty needle. Similar events happen often enough that I question the wisdom of having the security office/interrogation room/beating area so close to where we're expected to eat lunch. There's always some lunatic standing between me and my food. One time a crackhead ran through our lunch room trying to escape and often our friendly lunchtime conversations are punctuated with screaming and cursing from the hall. Today, Indiana Crackhead was finally subdued enough to allow for my safe passage to the fridge. I shot him dirty looks as I went by but I covered my name badge in case he was lucid enough to add me to his list of enemies. If only all the shoplifters behaved like last week's Hemorrhoid Guy, whose only crime was stealing a tube of Preparation H. When asked if it would have been less embarrassing just to buy it, he answered "Yes. Yes it would" and shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench reserved for the guilty.

Not that I don't cherish my days with these weirdos but I've decided to end my two and half year relationship with Wal-mart. My tentative last day is December 20. Since a million things could happen between now and then, I have only told a few people at work I'm leaving because nothing would be more embarrassing than having to stay after I hand in my resignation, tell off my boss, and punch a customer in the face, which is how I intend to go out.

My plan to have Shorty help me with my finances is going well so far. I think I'll probably move out of the house around December 21 and I have no intention of paying any rent for this month or the next. To be honest, I've pretty much gotten used to Shorty. He's not really a huge problem anymore, but that's not the story I'll be telling the landlord. Because he promised me Shorty would be gone the first of November, I sort of have a case. Most likely though, he won't give me a second thought, and I won't have to tell any story at all. For once I will take advantage of his negligence. I've been living free for ten days, only 40 days to go. Now all Shorty has to do is continue to refuse to leave and stay crazy. If the last four months are anything to go by, this shouldn't be a problem.

7th Heaven

My craptacular house is now at capacity. Seven people live here. That's way too many. A Dal TA from France just moved into the last free room. He's optimistic and full of big ideas. "Wouldn't it be great if we could walk around in sock feet or barefoot? Wouldn't it be nice if we didn't have too many dirty dishes in the sink?" You know what else would be nice? If Wal-mart paid me per stupid customer and I could use my knife to cut other things besides boxes. It's not gonna happen, Frenchie. It's almost as if he hasn't met Shorty. The good news is that all of the new roommates seem like responsible, respectful people. I actually like all of them. I have been systematically turning each person against Shorty, although he's doing most of the work. He's already asked everyone for money and cigarettes.

My Wal-mart shifts these days are mostly weekdays during the day. I don't know if I can handle these daytime workers. They take their jobs so seriously. I've always thought the daytime staffers were really rude to customers. Now I understand why. You just get so involved in your little tasks. Put hook in wall, put socks on hook, put hook in wall, put socks on hook. You develop a pleasing rhythm. Then a customer comes and asks you about a bra and you want to say "Can't you see I'm doing socks?! I can't think about bras right now! Geez!" The daytime staff would have conniption fits if they knew how little work the evening/weekend workers do. The last night I worked I spent two hours talking to a co-worker, not even talking while we worked, just talking. Then I needed garlic fingers and we spent an hour ordering, waiting for, and eating the garlic fingers. I don't normally need garlic fingers but I did that night because I was still drunk from spending the afternoon on a Class of 2008 library technician pub crawl.

My "new" job generates a lot of waste. After I empty 30 boxes of pantyhose and mittens, I'm left with a huge stack of cardboard and a big bag of plastic bags. Disposing of this garbage is the most traumatic part of my day. The cardboard goes in the baler, a big terrifying squashing machine. It's okay if I can just throw the cardboard in and run away, but if it's full, I have to turn the machine on. I'm always scared there might be someone in there. However unlikely, it is technically possible. I don't understand why if it's just cardboard, it makes a sound like crushing bones. The plastic is to be thrown into a giant recycling bin, the opening of which is at the height of a two storey building. Do you know how much a bag of plastic bags weighs? Like 5 ounces. The first day I tried throwing a nearly weightless bag that high, I knew it was impossible. The warehouse guys, who were there unloading a truck, stopped working long enough to offer tips and laugh like I was the funniest thing that happened all week. After it stopped being funny (approximately seven tries) someone finally did it for me. The next day I worked on my technique when no one was there and today I did it one try! I victory punched the air. Then I decided I should maybe work on setting higher goals for myself and possibly even start applying for other jobs.

Back Online

I'm finally back online after two weeks without the internet. I've been going crazy not knowing what's going on in the world. I made one trip to the library on Spring Garden. I had a computer booked but I still had to kick off a wild looking man who I'm pretty sure was looking at porn. Things are not looking good for my own computer so I have stolen my brother's. We don't expect him back from Australia for at least a year so surely that will be enough time for him to forget he ever owned a computer. He'll probably buy a fancy new one over there anyway. In the last communication I received from him, he said he was learning to play the didgeridoo and that wallabies roam his campus. It sounds like he's living my dream. Jerk.

My house is filling up with students. Our current population is five, which includes a Japanese physics major, a young German man who doesn't understand the washing machine, a NSCAD student who's going through a bad break up, me, and Shorty. I smell a sitcom! Shorty has triumphed over many obstacles and somehow remains living in the house. Last week an insane fight broke out between him and the landlord over an unpaid phone bill. It very nearly came to blows. I dislike them both equally so I had no favorite to win. I was hoping for some kind of resolution but Shorty is still here and things are still volatile. But the situation is not without advantages. I've really been playing up the trauma I've endured living with Shorty. The result: I haven't paid rent in three months and no one's asking any questions.

I've also lost five lbs on the Shorty Diet. All you need for this diet is a Shorty. He will eat all your food so you cannot. When you wise up and start locking up all your food, the diet continues to work because every time you want a snack you think about all the hassle it will take to find the right keys to all the cabinets and end up saying "Screw that, I'll just have some gum".

Shorty's shopping spree at Wal-mart has also opened up some interesting new challenges at work now that I know the security guards a little better. They are constantly in need of volunteers. Whenever a woman is caught shoplifting, a female staff member has to go sit with them in the security office until the police arrive. It's basically a half hour break. The first couple of times were a breeze, the culprits scared 14-year-olds. The older she-thieves are a bit more challenging. One woman offered me a twenty dollar bribe to distract the security guards. Another time, a crackhead demanded to know if I was going to testify against her. And most recently, a drunk woman, who assaulted both the security guys, kept getting up from her bench and casually wandering around casing the exit like she was going to make a run for it. I was a nervous wreck by the time she finally got dealt with. I keep doing it though. I like their crazy stories.

I got a fake promotion. I use the term promotion loosely because there is no increase in pay, just an increase in responsibility and hassle. I'm now in charge of the accessories (purses, luggage, socks, belts etc.) department. Today I was given my own knife for cutting open boxes. This is a big deal. Not just anyone gets a knife. The knife distributor woman is very stingy. She also told me I had to watch an instructional video before I could use the knife. It's a good thing I didn't laugh because she was serious. I didn't have time to watch the video today so she made me promise twice that I would watch it tomorrow.

Take Your Shorty to Work Day

It's not that Shorty's not a nice guy. He clearly is; he has invited most of the homeless population of Halifax to the house to do their laundry and have baths. I am not quite so nice and am getting very fed up with this stream of strangers using the facilities and stealing my stuff. This morning I just wanted to get out of the house so I actually went to work early. But, by some magical Shorty time warp, he was already at Wal-mart when I arrived. He must have been there for some time too, because the police had already arrived. Ever since Shorty moved into my house, I have fantasized about setting him up, casually mentioning how easy it was to steal from Wal-mart (he doesn't know I work there), then tipping off security if he ever showed up. But I ended up not having to get involved at all. Shorty got caught all on his own. I wasn't really all that surprised. I was kind of expecting it.

Later, when I asked our security guy about Shorty's fate, he said the police were taking him to booking on an unrelated matter. Unrelated matter? Why does that not surprise me? Neither the shoplifting nor the unrelated matter were enough to hold him, unfortunately. He arrived home at 2am in a mood I would describe as jubilant, cracking shoplifting jokes as he parted ways with his pals.

Last Saturday he stole my shampoo, conditioner, shave gel, razor, and toothpaste. What if I'd had a job interview or something the next day? It was bad enough that I was going to see "Mamma Mia" with Janet but if she noticed that I was especially unkempt, she was too polite to mention it. And on the topic of grooming, Shorty has a new summer haircut. I guess he finally decided to accept that he's bald. He must have read my blog. I was surprised to find how much of my distrust was based on his ridiculous hairstyle. It was probably 50% theft my personal belongings, 50% skullet.

2 bike locks for my kitchen cabinets: $15.00
Bracket, screwdriver and padlock to lock bathroom from the outside: $20.00
Knowing my stuff won't be stolen or covered in hippie dirt: Priceless

I really hope this is my last post about Shorty, but I can't promise anything.

Mmmmm TB muffins

Only one week left of my work term at the medical library. The end cannot come soon enough. It's going to be especially hard getting up in the morning now that I've already graduated. Theoretically, I could just not show up but then I would earn myself a bad reputation in "libraryland" which, apparently, exists.

The stress of working all the time is getting to me. I've been having long complicated dreams and I wake up thinking, "I have been running around solving puzzles ALL night. I can't POSSIBLY go to work now." I had a dream today that I was trying to explain rap music to someone. Clearly, the dream represented how out of my league I am when someone comes into the library wanting to know if we have any information on mesenteric cysts, or acute myocardial infarctions, or whatever else is on the go that day. Luckily, my photocopier skills are really more important than my medical knowledge. These doctors may be able to remove a cancerous growth from dangerously close to vital organs but that doesn't mean they can remove a misfed piece of paper from Tray 1.

Last Friday I went to a workshop with my colleagues on the Cochrane Library, an online source for reviews of medical treatments. All the other librarians brought notebooks and pens. That was the first sign I didn't belong; I only brought a doughnut. The second sign that I didn't belong was when I was late returning from the break and found myself locked out of the classroom. I had to wait in the hall for it to be over. I learned a lot that day.

Turns out the yummy free muffins I snack on throughout the day are leftovers from the department next to us - Infectious Diseases. Ewww. I'm sure their muffins are probably perfectly fine but still...ewwww.

When I used to work in a drug store I had lots of time to thumb through fashion magazines and it's really easy to start thinking that you're fat and unattractive. Now that I spend much of my day scanning medical journals, I feel much better about myself. I find myself thinking, "My hair sure does look like crap today, but at least I don't have that wrong with me."

When I'm not at my unpaid job, I'm at my barely paid job. I'm glad I didn't quit Wal-mart yet. It keeps me grounded in what I've come to know as reality. A woman came up to me the other day and told me there was something wrong with her cart. She said she got a bad shock every time she touched it. I explained to her how passing through all the racks of clothing built up a lot of friction. Seriously, if I had a dollar for every time I got shocked during my shift, I could buy Wal-Mart. But she was looking at me like she expected me to do something. This gave me a pretty good idea about what kind of person she was, so I went into my supply room and came back with a spare bar from a clothing rack and said it was our de-shocker. I touched her cart with it and told her that now she might still get some shocks, but they would be less powerful and that she could come back if she needed me to de-shock it again. It must have worked pretty well because she only had to come back once. Helping people - it's what I do. She may have been crazy but I understand her pain. I once touched a cart and got shocked so badly I almost peed myself.

Murphy in the house!

I was at work today, minding my own business, when I heard a very familiar voice speaking loudly. It was local celebrity and lovable host of CTV News, Steve Murphy. He was walking around smiling and greeting people unprovoked. As he walked by my area, the young girl I work with, always friendly and eager to please, said "Hi! You're Bruce Frisko, aren't you?" It was definitely the best thing that happened all day. Mr. Murphy snapped, "Not the last time I checked." And thus ended his parade of terror. It was a completely innocent mistake on my poor co-workers part so I had to explain to her the gravity of her faux pas.

My latest issue with my house is that nobody lives in it. Two of my roomies have moved out and the other is gone to Newfoundland for a two month work term. I now live all by myself in a seven bedroom house. A girl at work asked me if I was scared living in a big house all by myself. I guess she must have been thinking of violent intruders or crazed murderers because she looked at me like I was a moron when I said that I was pretty sure I'd be okay because the house wasn't haunted. In my mind, the only viable threat to my safety would be ghosts.

Wardrobe Malfunction

Why do the skanks always ruin things for everyone else? Very soon all employees at our Wal-mart will be required to wear new store-issued t-shirts in addition to our blue vests. Apparently there were too many cleavage related complaints from customers. I don't really blame the skanks. They don't know any better; most of them grew up in Spryfield. I do blame the people who complained. You have to expect a certain level of trashiness when you walk into a Wal-mart. If you're all fancy and super high-class, you should shop at Sears.

Because my job isn't intellectually challenging, I try to make it physically challenging. If there's an opportunity to run, I do. Instead of picking things up like a normal person, I do squats. Unfortunately my cheap dress pants were not meant to withstand the punishment I put them through at work and one hour into an eight hour shift today, I squatted to pick something up and heard a comically loud ripping sound. I wasn't too surprised; it wasn't the first time something I thought only happened in cartoons happened at Wal-mart. I checked out the damage in a mirror. There was a huge split in my pants, but it wasn't too noticeable if I stood up completely straight, which I attempted to do for the remainder of my shift. I still had to keep the sales floor tidy which I managed by doing a graceful sideways dip and swiping at fallen merchandise with a clothes hanger. I survive another day. It was a bit drafty walking home.

Spring has Sprung

It's actually kind of warm in Halifax today. Hopefully we've seen the last of what has been the longest winter in history.

Only two weeks left of school. These will be especially bad weeks because I haven't done much work all year. Will I fail community college? It's still a possibility at this point. Graduation is June 18. I will post pictures if I actually manage to pull this off. I'm not sure yet where I'll be doing my May work term but it better be somewhere awesome. I'll keep my day job though. Speaking of Wal-Mart, guess which one of the following things happened to me last Saturday:

a) got yelled at by a woman with a beard because we didn't have any plain black t-shirts that she liked

b) found out there is a hidden security camera in the locker room where I have often changed my clothes

c) had to do the work of two people because the only woman working with me took some ecstasy, claimed not to be able to tell colors apart, and took off somewhere with her cousin who had just been released from prison earlier that day.

Don't bother guessing. Of course, they all happened.

On a brighter note, I'm going on the family vacation this year! We're leaving the day after I finish classes. I wanted to go last year when they went to Florida, and the year before when they went to South Carolina but it just never worked out. This year when I finally get to go, we're going to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. There are no palm trees in North Carolina. I checked.

No matter; I'm just happy to be going anywhere. North Carolina at least promises to be a few degrees warmer than here and to provide some new scenery. I haven't been out of Nova Scotia since I got back from England two and half years ago.

One of the best parts of vacation is looking forward to going and the planning and the packing, but I'm not going to have time to enjoy any of that. I'll be lucky if I can get a load of laundry done so I actually have something to pack. And knowing me, I'll probably still be trying to hand in late assignments on the way to the airport.

My blog will likely continue to be neglected for some time.

The Perfect Fit

I know there are people who decide they need a little extra cash so they look around their house for something to return to Wal-Mart. It doesn't matter if they have a receipt. It doesn't matter if it's new. It doesn't matter if it's from Wal-Mart. They bring it all...

Just so everyone knows, there is nothing you can say that would make it ok to return a thong. Thongs are a gamble. "It rides up in the back" or "It snapped" are not reasons to return a thong. Whenever we do come across a thong among our returns, we're supposed to fill out a damage form saying why it was returned and then take it out back to the claims department. Instead, we take the longest coat hanger we can find and use it to flick the thong into the garbage. That's as much contact as I'm willing to have with used underwear. I wish I could do that with all the clothes that get returned. I know what torture they go through just in our fitting rooms: frenzied arms and legs stretching and ripping the poor quality fabric, garish make-up rubbing off on the unattractive prints and finally being tossed inside-out on the filthy floor. I can't imagine what they go through in people's homes. I've never worked on a farm, but I think working at the fitting room is probably a lot like herding cattle to and from their stalls. My chances of training the customers to pick up their clothes are about the same as teaching the cows to shovel their own manure. I'm not really supposed to say things like, "Unless you're going to lose 30lbs between here and the fitting room door, let me save us both some time" or "The old lady section is over there" so I just have to watch helplessly as bargain-hungry behemoths try to squeeze into whatever is on sale and sassy seniors shake their ancient moneymakers in the latest booty shorts and tube tops. Mercifully, we have finally sold the last of our summer clothes. The old girls can only show me so much in sweaters and cords.


Despite the signs in the bathrooms claiming that Wal-Mart prosecutes shoplifters, it very rarely happens. Usually the security guys rough you up a bit and then a policeman comes and tells you you've been very, very bad; not an entirely unpleasant experience overall. And so people continue to steal with enthusiasm and creativity. Our store has the honour of having the highest incidence of internal theft in the province. I recently ran into an old work chum at the mall. I wasn’t sure what to say ("So... stolen any good stuff lately?"). The last time I saw her she was being escorted from the store after she stole $2,500 worth of merchandise in the course of two months. She had been studying the security system for months, she had a decoy locker in the staff room and an entourage of family and friends to smuggle things out. We remain Facebook friends only.

Her story was quite the scandal at the time. I remember working at the fitting rooms shortly after it happened. I was standing there relating all the details to my fellow gossipy co-workers when one of the security guys ran up and asked me which fitting room the blonde girl with the pink shirt was in. As usual I hadn't been paying any attention and had no idea what was going on or who he was talking about. I tried to appear helpful by going with him into the fitting rooms to investigate. Because much of the store's theft takes place in the fitting rooms, all the doors are supposed to be locked at all times. All 7 doors were wide open. The floor of one room was littered with empty make-up packages. I helped by saying "I think she was in here". He took off running toward the front door. My incompetence allows yet another teenager to have the lipstick and eye shadow she so desperately needed. My cooperation with theft prevention improves when the cute security guy (who is also a firefighter) is working, but only marginally.

Costumes by Kathleen

Halloween cannot be over soon enough. Working at Wal-Mart tends to suck the fun out of most holidays and Halloween is no exception. I'm not even the one trying on costumes so why, by the end of the day, am I the one covered in strands of synthetic blue hair, feathers, and glitter? And then there's all the people who are too creative for a store-bought costume and must design their own but they still all come to Wal-Mart for supplies. A person could make a small fortune selling only green tights in the weeks leading up to Halloween. This past weekend alone I helped outfit a pirate hooker, a boxer, the Honey Nut Cheerios bee, a zombie, Dick Cheney, that guy Dick Cheney shot, a pimp and three Amy Winehouses. I have used up every modicum of creativity in my body. I have nothing left for myself. Should I need a costume, I will have to go as a Wal-Mart employee or a librarian.

Meanwhile at home, the battle rages on with my rodent roommates. I was watching tv the other night when one scampered out from behind the coach. I hurled a shoe at it and said "Where do you think you're going, bitch?"...at exactly the same time my poor human roommate was passing quietly by my open door with her laundry. She was startled but thankfully she gave me a chance to explain. We got to talking about how none of us in the house really knew each other very well. We decided we should plan some activities we could all do together and to convert the spare bedroom upstairs into a common room. The first activity was going to the market Saturday morning which of course I couldn't do because my presence was desperately required at Wal-Mart.

We also had a mouse killin' party. It wasn't so much a party as a brief meeting in my room to set mouse traps and chat and sample the cheese/bait. Only one death occurred but it has ignited our bloodlust. Now I know how my cat feels after a kill. It was a great bonding experience but not as much fun as mouse hunting on Robie Street. I have fond memories of our adventures with those unkillable mice, one person banging on the radiator to scare the little vermin out, another person poised and ready with a broom or other murder weapon and someone else standing by with a bucket to be used as needed. Good times.

Here, our newest roommate (the cook) checks the traps in my room every morning, removes the bodies, and resets the traps while I sleep soundly in my makeshift emergency bedroom across the hall. She spent today out in the backyard planting crocuses and arranging rocks in the garden. How did we survive our first month in the house without this woman?

The fun continues

Oh what a happy day for the ladies of Walmart's fashion department! Our 8.3% increase in swimsuit sales this season has earned us a group reward of $350 (one dollar for every white lie we had to tell pasty, bulging bikini-clad customers) to be spent on a night out of dining and camaraderie. If I know my boss Donna (and I do), she will use the money to take her friends out to dinner and then post photos on Facebook. About a month later, she will bring it up and try to convince us we were all there and act surprised when we say we weren't. Then she will tag strangers in the background of her photos with our names. In between her daily bursts of crazy, I've noticed she's been acting friendly towards me, telling me things about her life. I try to discourage these one-sided sharing sessions. Knowing these personal tidbits interferes with my hating her. Without my rage, I may die of boredom.

We have yet another new herd of associates in ladies wear. Our turn-over rate is understandably high. This latest bunch is even dumber and more apathetic than the last. Normally we take bets on how long it will take before their spirit is broken, but these girls started out with dead, empty eyes. The only one with any sense was crying by her second day. She broke down when someone got mad at her when she accidentally opened their dressing room door while they were changing. If I had a dollar for every startled, half-dressed woman I've walked in on, I could retire. One of the other new girls asked me what a blouse was. You see what I have to work with?

The poor quality of the workers doesn't surprise me. Everyone who applies for a job here has to fill in a questionnaire designed to weed out anyone capable of independent thought. I passed with flying colors, although if I remember correctly, they did identify some "red flags" in my answers that I was asked to explain. I just told them the questions confused me and I had trouble understanding them. This pleased them very much and I was asked when I could start.

To deal with the stress of babysitting these junior achievers, I have been taking lots of extra breaks. They're too dumb to notice I'm gone. I take these breaks outside with the smokers who are consistently more fun than the non-smokers. I also prefer the outside now because the staff break room has been compromised. About a month ago, in an effort to improve employee morale, it was announced that our employee lounge would undergo a makeover. We were to vote on the colors we would like to see it painted. The poll failed to generate much enthusiasm and only a couple of people voted. To teach us a lesson about workplace spirit, the higher-ups ignored the vote and painted the room with cans of mistint from the hardware department. There were lots on hand because a new guy was being taught to mix paint and he was not a quick learner. Amid much complaining, no one is claiming responsibility for the room which is now painted four different shades of diarrhea.

Sam from the Trailer Park Boys was in the store last week shopping for some fashionable new threads. As usual, I was left alone covering multiple departments and was in possession of the keys to the men's fitting room when he went over and rang the service bell. When I went over to let him in, there was a pissy woman there complaining that she had been ringing the bell for ten minutes and no one came. I could have been honest and said I wasn't paying attention and didn't really care, but instead I told her that celebrities got better service than everyone else. So in addition to being pissed, she was also now confused. How can you even call yourself a Nova Scotian if you don't know a Trailer Park Boy when you see one? Sam made no comment at the time, but I think he may have taken me seriously because he has been in the store every day since then.

Wal-mart's latest breed of pervert strikes without warning and is especially dangerous because they appear so harmless. I was folding shirts when I came across some misplaced merchandise from the health and beauty department including a handheld massager that lights up and is designed to look like a ladybug. I was going to return it when a man came and asked me where to find cell phone chargers. Since they can be found in both the electronics and the automotive department, my instructions involved a lot of pointing and gesturing during which I inadvertently pushed the On button on the massager. The massager, which had somehow come into contact with the customer's arm during our brief conversation, leapt to life vibrating and glowing at its highest speed. He pulled his arm back quickly. You had to be there to really understand how hilariously awkward it was. I backed away and then laughed to myself like the stranger-massaging pervert that I am.

A Fine Fortnight

I'm into my second week of graveyard shifts and I have no complaints. I'm definitely tired but I expect that's because I'm not used to working 40+ hours a week, not because I'm working in the middle of the night.

The remodeling of the fashion department is now basically done, thankfully. There weren't enough volunteers from our store to get the job done so reinforcements were called in. We got four women from the Bayers Lake store and one guy from the Dartmouth store. Initially there was some rivalry between the factions about which Walmart was the best but after an hour or so we remembered that we all hated all Walmarts equally. Our supervisor is a manager from the Kentville store. He doesn't know much about fashion or about what we're supposed to be doing but he did buy us doughnuts and filled us in on the differences between Dartmouth cops and Halifax cops, both with which he had plenty of personal experience. For those interested, Dartmouth cops are cool, Halifax cops are bastards.

With limited leadership and little ambition, we had quite a bit of down time the first couple of days, during which time incriminating photos of me literally sleeping on the job were taken. Hopefully they won't end up on the internet. Today was spent undoing everything we did in the first two nights and redoing it the right way. My eyes still hurt from looking at tiny numbers and matching up 10-digit codes. In the spirit of the night, I have summed up my evening in a series of numbers.

• Minutes spent in the walk-in freezer just for the sweet relief from the nagging heat: 11
• Minutes spent deciding what toppings to get on our pizza (which we charged to the store): 30.
• Number of hammers I took from the hardware department and subsequently broke trying to beat metal clothing racks into submission: 2.
• Number of times the crazy old lady who works nights in the fashion department told me I was doing things wrong: at least 50.
• Number of times I had to listen to Enrique Iglesias's Ping Pong Song: about 35.

Tomorrow is my last shift on overnights and I will miss it dearly. The noise and chaos of the days may overwhelm me after the peace and freedom of the nights. The absence of customers alone made these two weeks worthwhile. It was nice to be able to do a job and not have my work immediately destroyed. Trying to keep ladies wear organized in a store full of customers is like trying to do a banana flavoured jigsaw puzzle in a cage full of monkeys. I return to the zoo on Saturday.

It's great to stay up late

With the weather being so nice lately, my trips downtown to the gym have been including side trips down to the waterfront. Going down there always makes me feel like I'm on vacation and I'm inevitably drawn to some savoury scented snack stall. Yesterday I couldn't make it past the hot dog stand; today I was seduced by the sweet smell of freshly made waffle cones at the Cows ice cream store. At this rate, I'd be better off avoiding the downtown altogether, gym or no gym.

There were some extra shifts available at work because the menswear department is being completely revamped. I volunteered for these shifts without asking any questions because I'm an idiot. Turns out they're in the middle of the night, 11pm to 7am. The more I think about it though, the better it sounds. I'm always up at that time anyway, I get an extra dollar an hour, I get the weekends off, two of my friends also volunteered, and I won't have to deal with any customers. In fact, it's perfect. I can't wait to meet the night crew. Those guys look like they have crazy stories to tell. I'm still not sure what I'll do during my 3am lunch break. Buy drugs in the parking lot, I guess.

The police are watching me. Last night a police car and van sat outside my house from 2am to 4am. I think they were on a stakeout. I thought maybe they were investigating the disappearance of my landlord who I hadn't seen in two weeks, but he turned up safe and sound today with no fanfare. Just in case anything went down, I made sure I wore cute pajamas to bed that night so as not to have a repeat of the embarrassing 2004 incident on Robie Street when I answered the door to police at 4 in the morning, high on Vicks 44 and wearing my frosh t-shirt, huge bright yellow pajama pants with sheep on them and moccasin slippers I'd had since the early 90's.

For the children!

It is performance review time at Wal-Mart, for me at least, since I am one year into a sentence of indeterminate length. I was given the opportunity to fill out an evaluation for myself, but I just didn't care enough to put any heart into it. I handed it into my boss at the last minute. I gave myself the highest score in every category, under Achievements and Goals I wrote "not applicable" and that was that. I didn't think she'd actually look at it. She values her own opinion far too much. Once you've lost respect for your superiors and don't care if you get fired, you can pretty much do whatever you want so when she surprised me and asked about my lack of goals I said, "There's not really anything I want to improve on. I think I pretty much reached a plateau after my second week." She stared at me a while, either because she was shocked by my insolence or because she didn't know what plateau meant. It's hard to say; her emotions are not like our human emotions. She finished off the evaluation and approved my raise (now I can buy that beach house). Her assessment of my job performance was not nearly as generous as mine. She suggested I work on my punctuality. It's true I'm often 5, 10, 30 minutes late. But she didn't mention how I always sneak out early so I intend to continue doing that. She also reminded me of Wal-Mart's 3 meter rule: Smile and greet every customer who comes within 3 meters. This, unfortunately, is in direct conflict with my number 1 rule: Never engage the enemy. And I enjoy the challenge of always trying to stay at least 3 meters away from everyone. So I just moved my head noncommittally in response.

I volunteered for the Wal-Mart Walk for Miracles in support of children's charities this past Sunday. I was designated part of the tear-down crew, which sounds like fun but is, of course, just Wal-Mart speak for picking up garbage and stacking folding chairs. Sort of like how "party" is Wal-Mart speak for someone bringing in a box of Timbits but by the time you get there all the good ones are gone and there's just those plain ones left. Those plain Timbits are worse than no Timbits at all especially when you see someone else with their mouth so full of the delicious chocolate Timbits they can't talk. Anyway, I volunteered for the same reason everyone volunteers for these things: to meet attractive singles with kind hearts and good morals. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man at a charity event, must be in want of a date. I guess I didn't really think about the fact that all the other volunteers would be people from work, all with whom I was already more than sufficiently acquainted. When I left home it was sunny, as I traveled downtown the sky was darkening, and by the time I arrived at the Walk it was raining. With all that ominous meteorological foreshadowing, I was not surprised at all when I signed in at the volunteer tent and met up with the rest of my crew. One of the organizers introduced me, "Kathleen, your team leader will be your mortal enemy, Her Majesty, the Queen of Wal-Mart, your boss Donna!" AHHHHH! She actually said "Kathleen, you know Donna." I try to do something nice for the sick kids, or abandoned puppies or whatever the hell charity this was and this is what I get in return? Why could I not have been partnered with that pervert from Automotive who yells "Nice ass!" every time I walk by or that weird new girl from the pet department who spent her entire lunch break one day sketching me in her notebook? What these people lack in tact and sanity, they make up for in their dedication to me. And so we have at least that in common. The only thing Donna and I have in common is that we both like it when I'm not at work. She did behave herself for the most part though and the Walk was a success. My sneakers are still drying out from the water damage they sustained and my arms ache from loading five million gallons of beverages into a van. I hope those kids are happy.