"Wrong form, sir. You'll have to move to the back of the line."

Amy worked until 12:30 today and I worked at 3. So, in the meantime, I thought it would be nice that we go to Verizon to get new cell phones. This is something we'd planned on doing since we moved in together. We wanted to get a family share plan so we only pay so much and we can call each other for free.

We went to the store on Brice Road, about 3 miles from our place. They didn't have any deals going on, and the phones they have for free weren't in stock and would be coming in later today. I said that maybe we should try and go to the one at Easton Center. I asked the guy if he could call and ask if the one at Easton would have the free phones in.

"No, not really. They don't ever answer the phones. It's a corporate office, and they never answer their phones."

Odd, I thought. I didn't think that the store in Easton was a corporate office and even if they were that would be more of a reason to answer their phones.
They probably wanted commission.

So we drive out to Easton and I remind Amy that I would like to be home by 2 so that I can get ready and leave no later than 2:30.

"We'll have enough time."

We park, etc.
We get into the store and the place is packed. There are 7 people in line ahead of us at the sales desk, and the customer service desk is even more packed. We step in line because we pretty much know what we want. The hostess shows up and asks if we knew what we were in the store for, and then she showed us a phone she was trying to sell. She didn't know much else because she couldn't answer our questions, which leads me to think that she's either new or retarded (cognitively disabled?).

Amy and I take turns in line while the other scopes out phones so we can cut down the time spent as much as possible. We wanted to be able to say, "We would like the 700 minute family share plan, with the Buy 1 Get 1 Free phones. She would like the LG 7X-BLAHBOOBIE and I would like the Samsung SCH-BLOWME."

The line crawled and crawled. I asked Amy if we'd suddenly been transported to a BMV because no matter how long into the line we travel, we just can't seem to reach the desk.

A woman finished a sale, which is normally ceremonially ended with the passing of the small clear plastic shopping bag from the sales representative to the sales victim. I think we're next. The woman leaves the desk area into the secluded, one-way-mirrored employee area. How mysterious and ethereal.
"I thought that would happen," says Amy.
The woman doesn't return.

Eventually, we get antsy because 2:00 is approaching.

"We'll give it 5 more minutes," Amy tells me. A man at the desk tells us he'll be with us soon.

There's an Asian woman at the desk with someone who is not carrying a phone, a purse, or anything else at all. Amy and I wonder what she could possibly want. What the hell could she want at the desk?

We leave the store.

"Thanks anyway," says Amy to the new/retarded woman being constantly fascinated with her shiny, blinky phone.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, are they all on fucking break? What the fuck?!" We're outside now and I'm very upset. "Fuckin' dicks!" I get a potty mouth when I'm angry.

On the way home, I keep talking about the waste of an hour that had just occurred. Apparently salespeople don't really care about you, unless they're directly selling you something.


We get home and I get ready for work. I go to work. And around 7 we get someone who calls in and orders 4 whole pizzas to be made for 8.

This isn't Dominoe's, it's a fucking grocery store.

The manager is a tool and doesn't respect anyone's time. We ran out of olive oil and we had to ask him to transfer some to us because the giant bulk jugs of it we use are out of stock and we have to use stuff from the grocery section. He's in the office talking to someone, something he normally does. "Yeah, I'll get it to you in about 20 minutes."

At this point, it's about 8:20, and we stop making pizzas at around 8:15 or 8:30. We are making par-baked shells, and we need olive oil so we can finish and then start cleaning everything. We eventually see him talking to some other people, giving a review of Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby for about 20 minutes. We never get our olive oil, and I'd since decided to do without it. If the morning people have a problem, they can talk to Manager.

We ask him later about the olive oil and he says that he didn't want to transfer $20 of olive oil to us for 9 pizzas. Thanks a fucking bunch, dick.




On a lighter note, I have the next two days off and tomorrow may very well be CD Exchange Day.




What the hell could that Asian woman have wanted?