Well you guys, it’s been a little while again. But like old friends we can just pick up where we left off, right?
So, as you know I quite my job at the environmental group. Guy tried to break my hand, quotas, yadda yadda yadda.
I ended up getting the job at the pet store. Yay! I guess drug free IS the way to be.
Only, I’ve come to realize that any job that requires you to do a drug test is a job that probably sucks. Let me give you the highlights:
Week 1: I realize that this job requires loads of manual labor. Probably the reason for the drug test? Anyways, I spend most of my days lifting 50lb bags of dog food up and down a large ladder. The other portion of my time is spent helping crazy cat ladies find the right flavor of Friskies for their precious pussycats. “Mr. Nickles will only eat cat food if it’s got at least 78% moisture and NO salmon. Also his poop keeps coming out green but I’d like it to be more of a coconut brown. Thoughts?”
Week 2: With a few exceptions, most of my coworkers are incredibly boring. One night, while preparing for inventory, I actually manage to fall asleep standing up after listening to my coworkers talk about football plays for a full 90 minutes.
Also, one of the floor managers suffers from short man syndrome and insists on being a controlling dick to compensate for his lack of physical height. He barks out contradicting orders, and prohibits talking to one another even when no one else is in the store. “Kelsey, fill up those cat can racks.” “Kelsey, how on earth did those cat can racks get so full?” “McKinze, Kelsey– I heard you discussing Goateeyay and this is not appropriate work conversation!!!”
Week 2 and a half: One of my football loving co-workers somehow manages to catch my hand in the handle of a bucket of cat litter as we are rotating stock. This freak accident leaves my hand with a ghastly cut that is impressively deep and refuses to stop bleeding. Only, I don’t want to have to file a report about it and get my coworker and myself in trouble so I wrap it up in brown paper towels and pretend not to notice the fact that I probably need stitches.
Week 3: Dog people are a little less crazy then cat people, but still crazy in their own way. I get paged to the front of the store to help a customer and her golden retriever find some grain free, chicken/beef/salmon/bi-product free, high protein, low-cal dog food for shaggy-haired, arthritic senior dogs. Right as I get up to the front counter, her dog vomits all over the floor right at my feet. While I’m on the floor scrubbing up this dog’s vomit she’s still bugging me about this supposed product– which she expects me to find while keeping within a budget of $30. “Yes, I’ve got the perfect thing for you. It’s made from high-end unicorn shit, imported from the Swiss Alps and blessed by a rabbi.”
Needless to say, my time at the pet store was short-lived. I quit, giving my poor boss only a days notice. “You realize that this is entirely unprofessional. Industry standard is at least a week’s notice. You understand you will never be able to work here again right?”
R.I.P. Pet store job.