Tag Archives: Coles

Why I hate customers

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Ahhhh, Christmas. The time of year where everyone simultaneously sticks their heads up their arseholes and walks around being complete and utter idiots for a month. And for the remaining people who have to SERVE these people at checkouts and cash registers across the country? Why, we’re the one having nervous breakdowns in the corner.

I hate customers. Despise them. After two years in one hospitality job, three years as a check out chick, and now another few months into my second hospitality/customer service job (that’s right, folks. I decided to COMBINE the two. Smart move) I can honestly say that the vast majority of customers are self-absorbed, ignorant bastards who will fuck you over to get what they want. Am I bitter? Perhaps. But I’m also speaking from experience. Allow me to demonstrate.

To the man who decided that the best way to get a refund for his broken lighter would be to throw it at me: You’re a violent little prick, and you deserve to be locked up. Honestly.

I understand that your lighter was broken, but IT COST YOU $1.50. Here’s a suggestion: suck it up, Princess, and BUY A NEW ONE. Don’t launch the broken one at me from three metres away whilst screaming in Mandarin like a lunatic. Because I will laugh at you for approximately the next two years, and then have you escorted out by security.

To my stalker: No, you will never be able to see “what’s underneath my blouse”. Nor will I ever allow you to sneak a peek at “my fine breasts”. You are a sad, perverted, psychotic man and I’m waiting for a sketch of you to appear on those Crimestoppers ads.

To the woman who once called me a “bitch” because I wouldn’t give her the packet of cigarettes with the pretty picture of the Quit call line number on it, as opposed to the one with the ugly, blackened toes on it: you will still get cancer from these cigarettes. It doesn’t matter what’s on the packet, you’re still going to get lung cancer and die. And by calling me a bitch, you’ve guaranteed yourself a life time of shitty customer service from the Supermarket Karma Gods, you ungrateful whore.

Finally: to every other customer who feels the need to complain about how busy it is/how long you’ve waited in line/ how shit the parking is: IT’S CHRISTMAS. If you don’t like it, DO YOUR SHOPPING IN JULY. And try having an ounce of pity for those of us who have listen to your shit all day, every day. We’re not qualified psychologists, so stop whining about shit to someone who’s only paid to swipe your presents for your kids and your in laws and that stupid KK  present from work, and start whining to a qualified professional. Christ.

And on that note, I’m off to work. Sorry to all the customers I have to work with today.

My Coles girlfriend

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I have a girlfriend. Just don’t tell my boyfriend- he’s met her, and he wants to claim her as his own.

Maybe I should explain.

See, my girlfriend is really only my ‘Coles’ girlfriend. Meaning every time I visit my local Coles, there’s Brittany behind the counter. The funny thing is that she actually recognises me, so every time I’m there we have one of those quick, under-60-second conversations that gets awkward because she has to serve the next customer.

Don’t worry, I have other customer-service-related boyfriends and girlfriends too. There’s the on-again, off-again relationship with the quiet, angry girl at my local newsagents, who seems to be constantly annoyed with herself for working in a news agency. There’s my slutty coffee man, who seems to the boyfriend of everyone at my uni. He even has pet names for all of us (mine is Jessica Simpson. I was angling for Jessica Rabbit, or Jessica Alba- but I landed the busty, dumb one). There’s my mailman – correction, mailmen at work. There’s 3 of them that alternate delivering the mail, and every time they do we have a chat about how much it’s raining outside.

Finally, there’s Mario-man at the train station. Every time my (actual) boyfriend and I buy a ticket off him, he feels the need to say “There you goooo” in a high pitched, Mario sounding Italian voice. And he’s not even Italian.

I also have a few casual crushes on various other customer service people. The guy at my local Video Ezy store and I are becoming waaaay too familiar, due to me hiring Season 1 & 2 of True Blood over the last few weeks. I’m also planning on getting to know every member at the Cupcake Central store in Glenferrie, because, I mean, hello folks- I LOVE CUPCAKES.

I’ve had my fair share of weirdness. Heck, I used to work at Coles, and I HAD an actual stalker. As in a obese, unshaven mid 40′s man that would come in once a week and tell me I was looking “very sexy today”, or that my breasts “look good in that shirt”. And worse.

Not nice. And as an aside, I don’t actually stalk the people mentioned above. Or tell them they’re looking hot in their work uniform.

All I want to say is- in an alternate life, I totally think Coles girl and I would be friends. I mean, apart from the weird, creepy stalker factor.

The sweet sound of a fresh plastic bag

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In a former life, in the very distant past, I was a checkout chick. This doesn’t surprise you, does it? I mean, where else would I get all that bitterness from, other than standing behind a checkout being continuously abused by frustrated customers for hours on end?

So, in order to debunk a few myths and fantasies about life as a checkout chick/guy/”service attendant”, I’m pleased to bring you an enlightening series of posts regarding everything checkout related. I’d honestly call this a public service- I’m creating awareness that in all honesty, no one likes a customer. No one likes a whiny, rude, arrogant customer, sure….but no one likes a customer, full stop. Aside from the money issue, every business would run better without customers. Especially the business I was lucky enough to land a casual job in-a supermarket. A cramped, bustling, centrally located supermarket well within the public’s eye.

Apart from the obvious joys it brought me to pack peoples groceries for hours on end, the job of being a checkout ‘operator’ is satisfying in other ways. But, I’m not here to simply bore you with the highlights of my former job-that’s going to be revealed in its sweet time. No, quite simply, today is going to be focused on one thing: Plastic bags.

Quite simply, plastic bags are the devil. If Satan himself was to produce offspring, he would’ve plastic bags as part of the basic anatomy of said spawn. And recently the bags have been victimised in newspapers, on TV, and basically any other media outlet you come across. However, in saying all this, I’d like to add that if YOU, the customer, present US, the checkout operators, with 23 cruddy, disgusting, ill-shaped, rainbow coloured felt/hemp/cotton bags, we will NOT be more inclined to pack your bags with care. In fact, we’ll probably keep packing in plastic, ignoring your whining little cries of “Oh! But I have bags! They’re just at the bottom of the trolley/out in the car/at home on the bench/of totally no use to you because they’re NOT ACTUALLY HERE.”

Pay attention here. Just for a second, that’s all I ask.

We don’t care if you have bags. Really. Plastic bags are just as easy to pack, sometimes more so. Your dirty, smeared, stained bags don’t bring us any more pleasure. Personally, I hate handing out plastic bags left, right and centre for free-but by God, it’s nicer than having to forcibly touch and then pack your green bags. Mmmmk?

On a slightly happier note, though-cannot wait for the plastic bag charges. The day that we can charge customers per bag is the day sweet victory is delivered by the supermarket gods. Old ladies, Asian men and middle aged couples beware. You’ll no longer have the bags for bin liners/ man bags/ dog poo carriers. You may, instead, purchase them off us for a cost. Ten cents. And if I had my way, it’d be higher. Make it $1 per bag, and we may have an impact on the environment.

I may no longer be a checkout chick/operator/ emotional punching bag for all of society….but in my teeny little heart of hearts, I still hate customers. FYI, that’s YOU.