I think this conversation between my wife and I sums it up:

“You already have a pair almost exactly like those, don’t you?”

“But these shoes are completely different! I’ve been looking for a pair like this for a long time.”

“How are they different?”

“The heel is 1/2″ shorter, for one.”

“Um, okay. But you never wear that other pair anymore, why don’t you at least give them away to make room in the closet for this new pair?”

“I can’t give away that pair, they were a present.”

“A present from who?”

“Myself.”

Okay, I need some of these.
[iparklikeanidiot.com via del.icio.us]

Energy Spatula posted about her worst job experience, and in the spirit of sharing, I thought I would pass along mine…

The first “real job” I ever had was at Wendy’s, which all in all, could have been a lot worse. There were times when it was actually fun, since nearly everyone else was a goofy teenager and most of the managers were desperately trying to reclaim their goofy teenage years. But after a while, leaving work every night smelling like grease does get to you, even when you’re 16, and so I decided to leave for greener pastures.

I’d secured a job at K-Mart, in the shoe department of all places. Now, this was before the days of financial ruin for K-Mart, pre-Wal-Mart, but K-Mart was still a second-tier retailer in the seedier part of town. Our store was near the mall, but it wasn’t part of it. And this was also in the day of the infamous “Blue Light Special”.

I cannot possibly impart to you the horrors that are the shoe department of a grungy K-Mart. You have no idea. The best thing that one could say about it was that at least, unlike a regular shoe store, we didn’t have to wait on customers.

Still, on occasion, someone would ask us to measure their shoe size. We had those metal feet measuring devices, I have no idea what they were called, but you know the ones. Usually it was to measure some squirming kid’s foot, because their mother didn’t know the size, kids growing as fast as they do.

Sometimes it was an octogenarian who simply couldn’t remember. But on an unsettling number of occasions, it was a perv who obviously either enjoyed having someone have to touch their feet, or inflicting life altering embarrassment for a teenage wage slave. It never really bothered me, but there were a couple of females in the department I felt really sorry for.

Most of the time, the job consisted of stocking and straightening. You would walk up and down the isles of knock-off Nikes, and counterfeit Converse and see what you were running low on. None of the shoes were brand-names, but they were all designed to look slightly similar to brand names. This lead to questions from customers all the time, such as, “You got dem nicky shoes?”

“Um, no.”

“What about dem?” (Pointing to a generic pair of blue running shoes.)

“Well, those aren’t Nikes, but they are sneakers.”

I have no idea who actually made the shoes, but they all came in boxes from Comdisco, with a whole lot of Chinese writing. Except the work boots. Those had big American flags on the side and said, “Made in America,” right above all the Chinese writing.

You’d unpack the shoes, stack the shoe boxes-at least the boxes of those shoes that came in boxes. Most of them came in plastic baggies, which you would throw into a bin. When you’d walk the rows of footwear out on the floor and encountered a hole, you’d go back to the stock room, grab a pair or three of the appropriate model, and fill the whole. Ad nauseum. You’d be amazed at what a mess people can make of a shoe department. Straightening out the department was the majority of a nights work.

You’d also be surprised at how often people used the shelves as a garbage bin. We’d find all kinds of crap on the shelves where shoes were supposed to be. Other products people decided they didn’t want, but didn’t feel like returning to the department where they belonged, empty packages of toys that likely found their way into a pocket or purse, food containers from the cafeteria.

And once, the most disgusting thing: a used baby diaper.

The most common thing we’d find among the shoes, however, was shoes. Used shoes. Nappy, smelly, disgusting shoes. Shoes that should have been replaced several months before, now snug in a new shoe box, or nestled among the new imitation Chinese sneakers. It seems, since the department was unmanned, that people felt they could just slip off the old gross shoes, into a shiny new pair and walk out. They were, in general, right. We hardly ever caught shoplifters. Mostly because we were overworked an understaffed. And because they employed high school kids like me who just didn’t give a shit.

We had a two-way mirror on the second floor of the stock room where security would sometimes sit and watch for “shrinkage”. But most of the time it was empty. I used to sit at the mirror sometimes on my break, eating my lunch. I’d see people steal all kinds of stuff, and I never reported any of it. I had a boss who was a real, well, bitch. She never cut a single employee any slack, so in my addled teenage mind, I figured I was on my break. If I wasn’t punched in on the clock, I wasn’t reporting shit.

Running the “Blue Light Special” was actually the best part of the job. The “Blue Light” would rotate from department to department, so everyone got a taste of the action. Being the shoe department, our specials usually consisted of bright pink flip-flops, or tubs full of jellies. But man, you would get on the loud-speaker and announce, “Attention K-Mart Shoppers!” and you felt like a god.

All over the store old ladies would stop, perk their ears and then submit to your siren call. Standing there by that flashing blue light, handset in hand, you could have commanded them to follow you into battle, if they had a chance of saving 35% on not-quite-brand-name footwear.

In the end, it was my “manager” that pushed me over the edge. All in all, I was quite a responsible employee, but I’d gone through a round of illness. She must have thought I’d just been calling in to go party or something, because she’d written me up for “missed shifts” twice, and the “third time is a charm”.

Anyway, I actually was sick, and so I called in again. She didn’t believe me. She told me I could either come in and work my scheduled shift, or find a different job. So I came in. And I was ill. Man, I felt bad. I was sweating and dizzy, and just about anyone could see I wasn’t well. What did she say? “See, I knew you were feeling well enough to work.”

About halfway through my shift, I puked. I was in the back room, and I had been unpacking shoes, so I grabbed a shoe box, and puked all over a pair of new steel toed boots. I closed the lid, walked downstairs and set the box in front of her on the desk. She said, “What’s this?”

“I quit.”