The following situation that I was involved in today really frosts my gizzard. That’s a phrase I borrowed from my Aunt Leslie which I find to be absolutely hilarious! Take a minute to say that aloud and picture a lady very seriously proclaiming that something “frosts my gizzard” when she’s ticked off about something. It’s a phrase that will grow on you! I about wet my pants when I first heard her say it. Okay, back to my situation. Please note that all names of store employees have been changed to protect the stupid.
My trip to Home Depot
I usually don’t shop at Home Depot. I generally avoid the place…mostly because they sponsor Tony Stewart. I prefer to go to Jimmy Johnson’s Lowe’s. I was, however, sent to HD by my boss (aka Grandpa) to get ceiling tiles. He’s re-doing the ceilings at work and was in need of 10 very large boxes (12 in a box) of ceiling tiles. So he gave me the gas credit card and the company credit card and sent me on my way.
I arrive at HD and enter the store at the contractor’s entrance where a store employee, we’ll call him Herbert, eagerly asked if he could be of assistance. I told him that I was after 10 boxes of ceiling tiles, box #210. Herbert leads me to the very back wall of the gigantic store that is HD, right to the ceiling tiles. Once we arrived he said, “You need 10 boxes, right?” I said that I did indeed need 10 boxes. He then told me that I’d need a flat-bed cart thingy. Where do they keep those? A hundred thousand miles away from the back of the store…in front of the HD…outside…outside the very door I entered when good ol’ Herb offered to help me. So I trek over the tile and through the wood (get it…wood…I was at Home Depot….okay nevermind….) to get my flat-bed cart thingy. A different, and much more helpful associate, helped load the 10 boxes onto my flat-bed cart. He then drove the cart to the front of the store. This is where the real nightmare begins…
I was greeted by the Asshole Casserole of the Week, George the cashier. He rang up my 10 boxes of ceiling tiles without much fanfare. I swiped the company credit card. George asked if it was credit or debit. I said credit.
“I need to see your ID,” he said.
“It’s the company card, it’s not really in my name.”
“But it says ask for ID on the back,” he said.
“I know. It’s my grandfather’s company card.”
This back and forth continued for approximately 5 minutes.
“I’ll have to call my head cashier,” he said, “because of the amount.”
This is the point at which I am still calm. I don’t want to hurt him just yet. George calls Katie, the head cashier. She tells him to get my ID. It’s in the truck, so I am forced to trek back outside to get my ID. I bring my entire wallet because I’m afraid George the Asshole Casserole will think it’s a fake ID. I’m prepared to show him the entire contents of my wallet, including my preprinted checks with my name on them.
“She says it’s fine as long as your last name is the same,” George said.
Un-Bee-Lee-V-Able
“I’m married,” and not to my grandfather I thought, “our last names are different.”
“Oh, I’ll have to call Katie again,” he said.
Freaking wonderful. Katie’s not much help this time and George gives me a sorry-I-can’t-really-help-you look. I’m thinking to myself that even though I know he’s just doing his job, I wish George would use some common sense and remove his head from his rectum. I give him an are-you-freaking-kidding-me look. I’m also thinking that this guy’s a moron to think that I’d use a stolen credit card to buy $600 worth of ceiling tile. It’s ceiling tile, George. If I stole this credit card from someone, you can be damn sure I’d use it to buy $600 worth of shoes, not ceiling tile. I calmly suggest that he call my grandfather and ask him. He said he’d be happy to. I begin to give him the number.
“Oh…it’s long distance?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t call long distance.”
Un-Bee-Lee-V-Able. I’m now thinking “I just want to buy these freaking ceiling tiles and go back to work. I’m done with you. Just ring them up. Pretend that it’s my card for goshsakes.” So George decides to call Katie again (call number 3 for those keeping track), to see if he’s allowed to call long distance to make sure that my grandfather really gave me, his granddaughter with a different last name, permission to buy $600 worth of ceiling tiles with his company credit card. Katie, of course, says it’s fine.
I give him the number. Three times. Finally he gets it right. Which is good for him because I was one redial away from snatching the phone and calling him myself. Someone at work tracks down Grandpa and he gives George the go ahead. He rings me up, gives me my receipt, and sends me on my way. He didn’t (nor did anyone else) offer to help push the flat-bed cart full of 10 boxes of ceiling tile. This is the most unwieldy thing I’ve ever moved. I about run over George on the way out. FYI: Larry said I should have nicked his ankle just because he was such a dolt about the whole thing.
I’m now struggling to push this very unwieldy flat-bed cart half-way across the parking lot to the truck. There’s a giant asphalt bump that about caused me to dump the entire contents in the middle of the parking lot. Now THAT would’ve made me happy. I load all 10 boxes by myself. Note: A nice gentleman (a customer) offered to help, but I was almost finished and kind of sulking in my own irritation. I very kindly declined to save him from the possible outburst that was likely to ensue. I put the boxes in exactly as Grandpa instructed, and head towards work. Work is a half-hour from the HD, and it’s windy. I didn’t use the bungee straps and I’m approximately 5 minutes down the road when I see a shift in my truck contents. I pull over faster than an Amish buggy when there’s a Semi coming down the road. This is the point at which I sloshed through the mud on the side of the road to secure my load.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. I hope I have conveyed my irritation to you in a way that you can understand my frustration. The encounter with George took approximately 20 minutes from start to finish. It was lengthy and he wasn’t hearing a damn word I was saying. I mean really, doesn’t he have REAL criminals to stop? Some cashiers just think they’re the loss prevention guys.
Moral of the story: Shop at Jimmy Johnson’s Lowe’s when you need ceiling tiles…or when you want to use a stolen credit card…they never ID me there…
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