“It’s a party...YAYYYYYYY....YOU Pooh-PEED ‘in’ the POTTY!”
If you had a Mom like my beloved Pammy - then you know this line well. (For those of you who didn’t, I’m sorry). Every milestone of my life has been accompanied with a celebration - the usual greeting of larger than life smiles, syncronized hand clapping and chanting “JAY-UH-RET, JAY-UH-RET” - sort of Momma Klump style “HER-KUH-LEES, HER-KUH-LEES!” - you get the picture. And, my potty training was no exception. There she stood - patiently waiting - and.....”YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” (cue the party!)
So, with this childhood memory ‘proper bathroom etiquette’ has become a conditioned behavior. I feel accomplished after using the facility because Mom celebrated my accomplishment and rewarded me. She rewarded me for not only using the potty, but making sure that the pearly bowel was left in the same spotless condition that is was found, that my hands were thoroughly washed and sanitized and that I looked just as sharp and put together as I exited the door as when I urgently came running in!
Now then....
It is quite clear to me that ‘Pammy Potty Parties’ weren’t bestowed upon everyone during their training, or lack there of. But, my public bathroom experience today made it quite evident...and here are my most recent “Top 5 Public Bathroom Do’s and Don’ts!” (As inspired by ‘real life’ experiences)
5) Mops should either be cleaning a floor - or in a bucket!
I’m pretty confident that the mop you are cleaning the tile floor with should not also be dipped into the toilet bowel. Honey boo boo was churning the mop in the toilet like she had previously been in charge of butter production for Paula Dean. DISGUST!
4) Just because you gotta SMART PHONE don’t mean ‘you is smart’, hunty!
The world can do without you for 10 minutes - promise! Screaming profanites on the telephone in the stall next door isn’t necessary or becoming. If you ain’t giving birth to a child in stall #3 - keep your cursing and snide remarks to yourself.
3) JACK’POT’!
Flush! Exciting in a poker game, and equally as exciting in the restroom.
2) The urinal and I have something in common!
Neither one of us are comfortable with #2. #1 is what I strive for and the urinal likes to be #1 only as well. Figure it OUT!
1) What are THESE?
That’s a soap dispenser, and those are paper towels. Just because employees of this establishment are the only ones that are ‘required’ to use the two - I strongly encourage those not employed here to "give ‘em a try - ya might like ‘em."
So, moral to this story that will continue to be added to - I will no longer have road rage towards the drivers weaving in and out of rush hour traffic. As I now know they are squeezing and speeding for all it's worth to make it home as fast as they can to avoid the absolute outrageousness of the public restroom.
Yours truly,
Public Restroom Ranter
AKA Jarret
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
No Personal Photos On The Motorcycle
“He PUKED!” exclaimed the white hair in the front row who at this point was on the verge of gagging herself. That instant I added vomit to my phobia list.
I’ll refer to this gentleman sitting front row stage left as “Pookie”. Pookie had decided that the “Big Daddy Cheese Coney” that Shelley was serving up in concessions didn’t agree with his stomach. So as Pookie and “white hair” were making their way up the aisle - “aisle cleanup” were shuffling to row A with buckets and magic erasers in hand. And, my friends - this was just scene one from intermission.
“We’ve MOVED!” read the sign on the double glass front doors on the vacant building that our lonely gray suburban set in front of. This was not just any building though. This was a massive Theatre in one of the South’s most popular tourist destinations, Gatlinburg, TN. You could make out the faded remains of a sign that once read “MEMORIES”, but now it was just that - a faded memory. At that point all I could think of was...”How ironic!”
This past year my family decided instead of huddling up together at the farm house for our annual Thanksgiving pie eating contest, we’d put our feast-uh-val on the road and have a day of thanks tucked in the tender Tennessee hills of Gatlinburg, TN. I thought this was a grand idea, given the fact that it would be “Black Friday” and I could practice my mad pepper spraying skills on the women who wanted to mow me over to get the last of the taupe and terracotta indian feather dream catchers! I drove over 300 miles for that sister....AIN’T HAPPENIN’!
The back story begins a little farther east though, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Myrtle Beach is one of my family’s favorite vacation destinations. Mainly because it is the home of Vanna White and you know they are doing something up right - she can turn a square letter like none other. Not to mention she’s a role model for young girls. Lesson: spend your whole life taking orders from a man, keep your mouth shut, smile and put every last ounce of your effort into your image - beauty is everything.
The miles and miles of white sandy beaches stretch along the sunny coast. But if you think delicious ice cream and senior buffet discounts are why we go to the Palmetto State you are wrong. My parents love Myrtle Beach because of the “shows”, as they refer to them. They spend weeks researching the internet and buying tickets in advance for the many variety shows that this area has to offer its patronage.
One show in particular that they (well we - I hate to admit it but I like it to) fancy is a show entitled “LEGENDS”. It features the likes of Tina Turner, Dolly Parton, Cher, Blues Brothers, Celine Dion and of course...the King himself...ELVIS! All impersonators of course, for those of you who still believe that Elvis is still alive. I mean he is dead on Elvis but it is not him. (no pun intended) But, world renowned impersonators who actually do this for a living.
While scanning “Pigeon Forge TODAY!” my Aunt Patti found an advertisement for “MEMORIES”. The ad had us all excited because it resembled the likes of the adored show that we see every year in Myrtle Beach. At this point I was more tickled than Elmo circa 2006. I never knew what “cabin fever” was until I was actually stranded in a cabin starring at the horizon of pines for three days straight. And, I now know why people hug trees - not because they love them, they do it out of shear boredom.
“There it is - TURN RIGHT!” I screamed from the backseat - knowing if we missed our turn it would take us at least an hour to cut across the 8 lanes of traffic. And, here we were - a house of worship? Never in a million years did I think I would be walking into a church to see an Elvis impersonator giving his testimony. There’s a first time for everything, and this church had been transformed into the new “MEMORIES” location.
Felt painted Elvis portraits, autographed pictures and “I LOVE REBA” t-shirts littered the lobby. Blue 80‘s carpet from wall to wall and mini brown rose wallpaper soared from floor to ceiling. To really give you an idea, it was like walking into a Denny’s at 2 am on I-75 route to Georgia. Dated, but homey. I immediately spotted the slushy machine...but that’s not important.
I beelined for the sanctuary to find my seat. Second row and close enough to the oversized gold stage curtain, I knew for certain I was in for a real treat!
“It’s Just a Tender Tennessee Christmas” was being sang by Michelle - who was still eyeing me with that painted red smile - drawing me in with those hungry eyes and selling it with a wink. I had locked eyes with Michele early on, not because I was in any way, shape or form interested in her - but because I couldn’t figure out why her hair looked like it had been deep fried earlier in the day at KFC. Michelle was "Memories" star attraction. Waitress by day, entertainer/impersonator by night. And, at this point I had already been subjected to “Jeff Foxworthy” redneck jokes, and “Conway Twitty” straining out his rendition of “It’s Only Make Believe”. And, applause....
As the curtains came down a distinct foul odor rose. And, “He PUKED!”...
Uncontrollable laughter filled our row, mainly because this puking incident was just icing on the already well frosted cake. An hour before my brother had helped Grandaddy McCoy up off of the floor after falling up the steps to get to his seat. Not to mention gotten up three times to allow Mamaw Meijers out to visit the restroom. From the very first song up to this point my sister and I thought we were being punk’d. We knew that at any moment Ashton was going to jump out from behind a column and scream in our faces.
The coveted front row section was filled with the likes of ELVIS groupies. And, between all of them they had one great set of teeth. I distinctly remember a couple of women getting overwhelmed with joy when the announcer said “ELVIS after INTERMISSION”. You would have thought Ed had just showed up at the door with rainbow balloons and a large piece of cardboard. And, after seeing their reaction to the brown polyester suited ELVIS - I am convinced they truly believed this was ELVIS!
The last time I was sitting in a church pew I was singing “How Great Thou Art”. This time I was clapping my hands to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” and “Jail House Rock!”
I scanned the audience only to find half were asleep, some gone to the restroom, many trying to figure out where they were, and the rest grinning from ear to ear as if they had just heard “It’s a GIRL!”
“LEGENDS” it was not - however, “MEMORIES” is definitely a fitting name.
You could have your photo taken sitting on a Harley surrounded by the performers for a very low price of $19.95. However the sign overhead read “NO PERSONAL PHOTOS ON THE MOTORCYCLE!” All I wanted was a personal photo on the motorcycle. I mean - I could have made it impersonal and not shown my face.
For those of you who think I make this ridiculousness up...please see videos below.
So, next time I see advertisements claiming to create a "memory" - I will undoubtedly believe them!
Jarret
Mama likes ELVIS!
Please see Michelle at 1:00! She is the backup singer working the tambourine on the right!
I’ll refer to this gentleman sitting front row stage left as “Pookie”. Pookie had decided that the “Big Daddy Cheese Coney” that Shelley was serving up in concessions didn’t agree with his stomach. So as Pookie and “white hair” were making their way up the aisle - “aisle cleanup” were shuffling to row A with buckets and magic erasers in hand. And, my friends - this was just scene one from intermission.
“We’ve MOVED!” read the sign on the double glass front doors on the vacant building that our lonely gray suburban set in front of. This was not just any building though. This was a massive Theatre in one of the South’s most popular tourist destinations, Gatlinburg, TN. You could make out the faded remains of a sign that once read “MEMORIES”, but now it was just that - a faded memory. At that point all I could think of was...”How ironic!”
This past year my family decided instead of huddling up together at the farm house for our annual Thanksgiving pie eating contest, we’d put our feast-uh-val on the road and have a day of thanks tucked in the tender Tennessee hills of Gatlinburg, TN. I thought this was a grand idea, given the fact that it would be “Black Friday” and I could practice my mad pepper spraying skills on the women who wanted to mow me over to get the last of the taupe and terracotta indian feather dream catchers! I drove over 300 miles for that sister....AIN’T HAPPENIN’!
The back story begins a little farther east though, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Myrtle Beach is one of my family’s favorite vacation destinations. Mainly because it is the home of Vanna White and you know they are doing something up right - she can turn a square letter like none other. Not to mention she’s a role model for young girls. Lesson: spend your whole life taking orders from a man, keep your mouth shut, smile and put every last ounce of your effort into your image - beauty is everything.
The miles and miles of white sandy beaches stretch along the sunny coast. But if you think delicious ice cream and senior buffet discounts are why we go to the Palmetto State you are wrong. My parents love Myrtle Beach because of the “shows”, as they refer to them. They spend weeks researching the internet and buying tickets in advance for the many variety shows that this area has to offer its patronage.
One show in particular that they (well we - I hate to admit it but I like it to) fancy is a show entitled “LEGENDS”. It features the likes of Tina Turner, Dolly Parton, Cher, Blues Brothers, Celine Dion and of course...the King himself...ELVIS! All impersonators of course, for those of you who still believe that Elvis is still alive. I mean he is dead on Elvis but it is not him. (no pun intended) But, world renowned impersonators who actually do this for a living.
While scanning “Pigeon Forge TODAY!” my Aunt Patti found an advertisement for “MEMORIES”. The ad had us all excited because it resembled the likes of the adored show that we see every year in Myrtle Beach. At this point I was more tickled than Elmo circa 2006. I never knew what “cabin fever” was until I was actually stranded in a cabin starring at the horizon of pines for three days straight. And, I now know why people hug trees - not because they love them, they do it out of shear boredom.
“There it is - TURN RIGHT!” I screamed from the backseat - knowing if we missed our turn it would take us at least an hour to cut across the 8 lanes of traffic. And, here we were - a house of worship? Never in a million years did I think I would be walking into a church to see an Elvis impersonator giving his testimony. There’s a first time for everything, and this church had been transformed into the new “MEMORIES” location.
Felt painted Elvis portraits, autographed pictures and “I LOVE REBA” t-shirts littered the lobby. Blue 80‘s carpet from wall to wall and mini brown rose wallpaper soared from floor to ceiling. To really give you an idea, it was like walking into a Denny’s at 2 am on I-75 route to Georgia. Dated, but homey. I immediately spotted the slushy machine...but that’s not important.
I beelined for the sanctuary to find my seat. Second row and close enough to the oversized gold stage curtain, I knew for certain I was in for a real treat!
“It’s Just a Tender Tennessee Christmas” was being sang by Michelle - who was still eyeing me with that painted red smile - drawing me in with those hungry eyes and selling it with a wink. I had locked eyes with Michele early on, not because I was in any way, shape or form interested in her - but because I couldn’t figure out why her hair looked like it had been deep fried earlier in the day at KFC. Michelle was "Memories" star attraction. Waitress by day, entertainer/impersonator by night. And, at this point I had already been subjected to “Jeff Foxworthy” redneck jokes, and “Conway Twitty” straining out his rendition of “It’s Only Make Believe”. And, applause....
As the curtains came down a distinct foul odor rose. And, “He PUKED!”...
Uncontrollable laughter filled our row, mainly because this puking incident was just icing on the already well frosted cake. An hour before my brother had helped Grandaddy McCoy up off of the floor after falling up the steps to get to his seat. Not to mention gotten up three times to allow Mamaw Meijers out to visit the restroom. From the very first song up to this point my sister and I thought we were being punk’d. We knew that at any moment Ashton was going to jump out from behind a column and scream in our faces.
The coveted front row section was filled with the likes of ELVIS groupies. And, between all of them they had one great set of teeth. I distinctly remember a couple of women getting overwhelmed with joy when the announcer said “ELVIS after INTERMISSION”. You would have thought Ed had just showed up at the door with rainbow balloons and a large piece of cardboard. And, after seeing their reaction to the brown polyester suited ELVIS - I am convinced they truly believed this was ELVIS!
The last time I was sitting in a church pew I was singing “How Great Thou Art”. This time I was clapping my hands to “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” and “Jail House Rock!”
I scanned the audience only to find half were asleep, some gone to the restroom, many trying to figure out where they were, and the rest grinning from ear to ear as if they had just heard “It’s a GIRL!”
“LEGENDS” it was not - however, “MEMORIES” is definitely a fitting name.
You could have your photo taken sitting on a Harley surrounded by the performers for a very low price of $19.95. However the sign overhead read “NO PERSONAL PHOTOS ON THE MOTORCYCLE!” All I wanted was a personal photo on the motorcycle. I mean - I could have made it impersonal and not shown my face.
For those of you who think I make this ridiculousness up...please see videos below.
So, next time I see advertisements claiming to create a "memory" - I will undoubtedly believe them!
Jarret
Mama likes ELVIS!
Please see Michelle at 1:00! She is the backup singer working the tambourine on the right!
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Better Invest in Knee Pads!
I changed my mind.
It happens often and I’m quite sure that John McCain would have given his bleached blonde bride to have had this option after nominating “Serruh” as his running mate. But, unfortunately he didn’t. John went back to the sand dunes, Sarah went rogue, Bristol went to dancin’, Piper started pipin’, Trig uh started crawlin’.... and in that process Jarret became a “Maverick” too - a BLOG Maverick that is! (Stage notes: Jarret to place fake guns back in holster after blowing them out and winking at the camera.)
(I know I left a couple Palin’s out - they were out uh huntin’...moving on)
I, on the first day of an era I call “BLOG” (clever, eh?) decided to limit these writings to a specific purpose because that is what google insisted that I do. I stomped my Fred Flintstone flat foot at least three times, shed a fake tear or two, crossed my arms, sang a few Celine ballads, then of course called my Mom for her two bronze shinnies - but the words on that webpage weren’t budging an inch.
Google explained that the blog needed an intended purpose, a common thread, a sustained symbolism throughout leading readers down a straight and narrow path to the holy land. I don’t know when I was deemed Moses? I mean, other than carrying a large stone tablet with the ten commandments chiseled on its surface how could they possibly mistake me as him? I don’t look a thing like Mo! Maybe it’s the facial hair? But guess what google - ain’t happenin’! I have never liked reading the line “LIMIT ONE PER CUSTOMER!” Makes me furious. Everything is better in multiples and that’s just how my blog topics will be as well. As many topics as I like - and as often as I want to write is my new philosophy. Now, here goes...”Give me a tah pick!”
Here’s the thing my friends, I see groceries from a different perspective, from the ground...UP. I really do remember it as if it was yesterday. Sitting Indian style on the bottom of the half rusted IGA cart - which I am quite positive today would have at least three recalls for child safety, I’d watch the roaches and dust bunnies do the paso doble under the produce tables. I think one of them may have resembled Maksim Chmerkovskiy, just sayin’. As my Mamaw carefully selected a sack of onions I would be shoveling bite after bite of the largest glazed doughnut down my husky face - chased with the sweet satisfaction of an iced cold Coca Cola. Looking back on this memory I think I might know why I have an addiction to food and living on the edge of danger.
Anyhow...
Each of these rusted grocery carts were adorned with a cart number and a matching white ticket that you pulled from its slot situated on the very front of the cart right in the center. These matching numbers were there so you could identify which cart was yours later - and i’ll explain the later, a little later. It was kind of like a car emblem - a well polished Jaguar leaping from the hood of your car. It’s there for the wow factor. Like “Yeah, that ones mine!” when the valet pulls up. And, this particular day we were cart 119 and I couldn’t wait to say “Yeah, that one’s ours!”
After paying for your groceries you would drive your car to the front of the building like you were in a stretch Hummer limo dropping Angelina off for her “red carpet” appearance with another new child from Zimbabwe. However, you actually didn’t drop anything off. The small opening in the front of the store covered with plastic slats was a custom fit for these innovative carts to be pushed through by Brad (or the teenage grocery bagger). As the carts came through I made it my sole purpose to clutch the white octagon cart number ticket in my hand and wait for that coveted number “119” to shoot out of the midget door.
“Yakety Sax” would be blaring in the cassette tape player of the old brown conversion van that my Mamaw drove and the clouds of fresh air from her freshly lit Virginia slim would be floating in the air above. That smoke could linger longer than a Jehovah’s witness at my front door on Saturday morning. “Yeah, that’s ours!” I’d scream and help Brad put our cart full of “diabetic nightmare” in the middle section of our transport. I couldn’t wait to get home to open the bag and have my second glazed doughnut.
At this point you are probably thinking “Where is this story going?” Well, as I said before I see groceries from the ground up and I needed to explain why. From the ripe old age of 3 to probably around 9 my perception of the grocery store was from ground zero to about 3 feet high. I was an expert at knowing where everything could be located on the shelves that others had to be a master of yoga to reach. I actually think this might be a reason why my Mamaw took me shopping with her. She not only knew she could bribe me with sugar, she could also use my “perfectionist” nature to her advantage. Study everything low and pick it up if we need it. I never missed a box of saltines in 6 years! (Yes, it appears on my resume!)
Fast forward to 2012. My cart is overflowing with fruit because it is my new years resolution to have more fresh fruit in my kitchen. Which I’m sure some people were eyeing my cart thinking that these were just props for my "Chiquita Banana Lady" routine. Hmmmm Halloween idea...
“Hurney, dew yearn oh owl murch tease ore?” Asks a random woman standing next to me holding a bag of red potatoes.
“$3.99, Ma’am!” I answered.
“Owl juno?” asks the puzzled customer.
“Ma’am, the price is right down there...” and I pointed to the price that is located approximately three inches from the floor and tucked up underneath like a dogs tail when they see a newspaper.
This all happened subconsciously but then it hit me on why I knew the price of those potatoes. It was the years of experience that I had seeing groceries from the ground...UP. This is not experience that the general public would have. Unless the entire general public decides to invest in knee pads and stop drop and roll as soon as they enter the nearest Piggly Wiggly!
Only experienced tumbling members of the lollipop guild would have the ability to place themselves in the backbend formation needed to see the prices of some of these items. I immediately asked myself, how many buyers have an idea the price of the item that is going in their cart? Only those with Mamaw’s who needed lower shelf assistance.
If you didn’t...better invest in knee pads!
So if you see me crawling around the produce section of KROGER do not be alarmed. I have not been sniffing bleach again and am not doing research on a new grout color for my master bathroom tile – I am only trying to educate myself on the prices of the new inventory. The next time I hear “Hurney” in Kroger - I’ll either know the price of what they’re holding, or know that I’ve met the love of my life.
Jarret
It happens often and I’m quite sure that John McCain would have given his bleached blonde bride to have had this option after nominating “Serruh” as his running mate. But, unfortunately he didn’t. John went back to the sand dunes, Sarah went rogue, Bristol went to dancin’, Piper started pipin’, Trig uh started crawlin’.... and in that process Jarret became a “Maverick” too - a BLOG Maverick that is! (Stage notes: Jarret to place fake guns back in holster after blowing them out and winking at the camera.)
(I know I left a couple Palin’s out - they were out uh huntin’...moving on)
I, on the first day of an era I call “BLOG” (clever, eh?) decided to limit these writings to a specific purpose because that is what google insisted that I do. I stomped my Fred Flintstone flat foot at least three times, shed a fake tear or two, crossed my arms, sang a few Celine ballads, then of course called my Mom for her two bronze shinnies - but the words on that webpage weren’t budging an inch.
Google explained that the blog needed an intended purpose, a common thread, a sustained symbolism throughout leading readers down a straight and narrow path to the holy land. I don’t know when I was deemed Moses? I mean, other than carrying a large stone tablet with the ten commandments chiseled on its surface how could they possibly mistake me as him? I don’t look a thing like Mo! Maybe it’s the facial hair? But guess what google - ain’t happenin’! I have never liked reading the line “LIMIT ONE PER CUSTOMER!” Makes me furious. Everything is better in multiples and that’s just how my blog topics will be as well. As many topics as I like - and as often as I want to write is my new philosophy. Now, here goes...”Give me a tah pick!”
Here’s the thing my friends, I see groceries from a different perspective, from the ground...UP. I really do remember it as if it was yesterday. Sitting Indian style on the bottom of the half rusted IGA cart - which I am quite positive today would have at least three recalls for child safety, I’d watch the roaches and dust bunnies do the paso doble under the produce tables. I think one of them may have resembled Maksim Chmerkovskiy, just sayin’. As my Mamaw carefully selected a sack of onions I would be shoveling bite after bite of the largest glazed doughnut down my husky face - chased with the sweet satisfaction of an iced cold Coca Cola. Looking back on this memory I think I might know why I have an addiction to food and living on the edge of danger.
Anyhow...
Each of these rusted grocery carts were adorned with a cart number and a matching white ticket that you pulled from its slot situated on the very front of the cart right in the center. These matching numbers were there so you could identify which cart was yours later - and i’ll explain the later, a little later. It was kind of like a car emblem - a well polished Jaguar leaping from the hood of your car. It’s there for the wow factor. Like “Yeah, that ones mine!” when the valet pulls up. And, this particular day we were cart 119 and I couldn’t wait to say “Yeah, that one’s ours!”
After paying for your groceries you would drive your car to the front of the building like you were in a stretch Hummer limo dropping Angelina off for her “red carpet” appearance with another new child from Zimbabwe. However, you actually didn’t drop anything off. The small opening in the front of the store covered with plastic slats was a custom fit for these innovative carts to be pushed through by Brad (or the teenage grocery bagger). As the carts came through I made it my sole purpose to clutch the white octagon cart number ticket in my hand and wait for that coveted number “119” to shoot out of the midget door.
“Yakety Sax” would be blaring in the cassette tape player of the old brown conversion van that my Mamaw drove and the clouds of fresh air from her freshly lit Virginia slim would be floating in the air above. That smoke could linger longer than a Jehovah’s witness at my front door on Saturday morning. “Yeah, that’s ours!” I’d scream and help Brad put our cart full of “diabetic nightmare” in the middle section of our transport. I couldn’t wait to get home to open the bag and have my second glazed doughnut.
At this point you are probably thinking “Where is this story going?” Well, as I said before I see groceries from the ground up and I needed to explain why. From the ripe old age of 3 to probably around 9 my perception of the grocery store was from ground zero to about 3 feet high. I was an expert at knowing where everything could be located on the shelves that others had to be a master of yoga to reach. I actually think this might be a reason why my Mamaw took me shopping with her. She not only knew she could bribe me with sugar, she could also use my “perfectionist” nature to her advantage. Study everything low and pick it up if we need it. I never missed a box of saltines in 6 years! (Yes, it appears on my resume!)
Fast forward to 2012. My cart is overflowing with fruit because it is my new years resolution to have more fresh fruit in my kitchen. Which I’m sure some people were eyeing my cart thinking that these were just props for my "Chiquita Banana Lady" routine. Hmmmm Halloween idea...
“Hurney, dew yearn oh owl murch tease ore?” Asks a random woman standing next to me holding a bag of red potatoes.
“$3.99, Ma’am!” I answered.
“Owl juno?” asks the puzzled customer.
“Ma’am, the price is right down there...” and I pointed to the price that is located approximately three inches from the floor and tucked up underneath like a dogs tail when they see a newspaper.
This all happened subconsciously but then it hit me on why I knew the price of those potatoes. It was the years of experience that I had seeing groceries from the ground...UP. This is not experience that the general public would have. Unless the entire general public decides to invest in knee pads and stop drop and roll as soon as they enter the nearest Piggly Wiggly!
Only experienced tumbling members of the lollipop guild would have the ability to place themselves in the backbend formation needed to see the prices of some of these items. I immediately asked myself, how many buyers have an idea the price of the item that is going in their cart? Only those with Mamaw’s who needed lower shelf assistance.
If you didn’t...better invest in knee pads!
So if you see me crawling around the produce section of KROGER do not be alarmed. I have not been sniffing bleach again and am not doing research on a new grout color for my master bathroom tile – I am only trying to educate myself on the prices of the new inventory. The next time I hear “Hurney” in Kroger - I’ll either know the price of what they’re holding, or know that I’ve met the love of my life.
Jarret
Monday, January 2, 2012
Service Without a Smile...
While sitting and waiting for my $130 headlight bulbs to be replaced in my “Free Service for 5 Years” BMW, I couldn’t help but notice the luxury that was being bestowed upon me in the comfort of the service waiting pin. I call it a pin because it usually consists of my elders chomping on trail mix reading last years matted together PEOPLE magazine or 3 obnoxious, filthy children pulling at their mums stretched out halter top screaming “Are we DONE YET?!”
I remember having several arguments with my mother as a young adult about the benefits in buying quality. She said “Potato”, I said “Prada”. And yet, I sit here staring at a white strand of lights making their way to a Christmas tree approximately five feet away from the outlet. This allowing at least 75 shimmering lights to lead you to the main attraction. It was as if Hansel and Gretel had strung them themselves so that we could find the tree - in case we lost GPS signal along the way.
This tree was grand. To paint a picture in your mind...this tree would best be described as one tossed into the garbage by someone who cleaned out their storage unit last March and decided that they wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas after this, their third relocation. After being mashed in the dumpster under their Aunt’s pressed wood chest of drawers that they no longer wanted to cart around - it found it’s new home with Dave. Dave, master dumpster diver, and service technician at BMW - who probably donated it to the store after Marsha (his high maintenance girlfriend) lost her shit because she couldn’t pull her 1993 Corolla into the garage because a “BOX WAS IN THE WAY!”. And, voila - Oh Christmas Tree! The once forgotten artificial monument would now be leaving its soggy cardboard casket and making its way into this - the luxury pin.
Let’s focus on the tree that I am now staring at, shall we? It’s branches are as flat as an American Idol hopeful during Hollywood week. And, the garland looked like Judy herself had come back to put it on. It was worse than the Charlie Brown tree. The Charlie Brown tree was cute, like the runt of the litter who was born with a stub leg. This tree, however, was meant to age gracefully. Being fluffed every year after the heated up turkey sandwich was eaten and Macy’s started running their “ONE DAY SALE” adds - that seem to happen “EVERYDAY!” Instead it was more like Joan Rivers...alot less grace, and more flat than fluffed. This is BMW - shouldn’t their Christmas tree be impressive?
I remembered that my service technician had offered me coffee and a doughnut which I had thanked him for but declined initially. Now after an hour of sitting on a Saturday morning at 9 am (insert I am not a morning person here) - I was obliged to have a cup of Joe. I was glad to find Starbucks cups on the counter, that green girl starring back at me made me feel warm inside. Like I was home, smelling cow manure and hearing “Jarrrrrettttt - JARRRRRETTTTTTTTTT!” However the “putt putt sputter” of the cappuccino machine being out of cappuccino quickly brought me back to a state I visit often - the lost state beginning with the letter “A” - Annoyed(AD). The branded Venti cup was immediately tossed in the can and back to my pleather seat I went.
I couldn’t help at that instant to be drawn into the conversation being had by the two “young” women at the “take all my money” counter. I’ll call them Paris and Nicole so you get the picture. Both in lab coats, ‘cause that’s how they do it at BMW. Makes you feel like your car is getting “treated”. Paris says to Nikki “I told Roger to move his car - I don’t care if it IS his day off - employees CAN NOT park UP FRONT! - I don’t care if it is cold and if he is off today!” Nicole just shaking her head in total agreement while knawing her gum like WIlly Wonka had just just given her a 3 course meal. Of course this bellows into the very back of the pin where I am elbows to knees texting it up with my friend Elizabeth on my iPhone 4 (not to be mistaken with “4S”). And, at that instant - my mind did the time warp again. The millions of things I had picked up on from the time I had entered that service bay all aligned at once. Was this SERIOUS?
Service and experience have been a passion of mine since I can remember. I purchased a luxury car so that I have a great product, receive good service - and have an experience that I can’t describe in words, but know that I want to tell others about. A bed head Christmas tree - an empty coffee machine and “Diva Cashiers LIVE” did not fit the bill on what I feel like I paid for. And, the experience I want to have as a consumer. So...Welcome to my blog. Having been a residential REALTOR for 6 years - an International Teacher/Traveler - and now in the banking industry, my career path in sales/education has trained my eyes and ears in the field of service and experience. I will write about just that. My everyday great, funny, horrible, over the top service stories to truly expose it is not about how “we” think it happened - it is how “they” know it happened.
They walk in everyday thinking “Wow - I work at BMW!” - And I think everyday...”I’ll never buy another!”
I look forward to GREAT in 2012!
Jarret
I remember having several arguments with my mother as a young adult about the benefits in buying quality. She said “Potato”, I said “Prada”. And yet, I sit here staring at a white strand of lights making their way to a Christmas tree approximately five feet away from the outlet. This allowing at least 75 shimmering lights to lead you to the main attraction. It was as if Hansel and Gretel had strung them themselves so that we could find the tree - in case we lost GPS signal along the way.
This tree was grand. To paint a picture in your mind...this tree would best be described as one tossed into the garbage by someone who cleaned out their storage unit last March and decided that they wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas after this, their third relocation. After being mashed in the dumpster under their Aunt’s pressed wood chest of drawers that they no longer wanted to cart around - it found it’s new home with Dave. Dave, master dumpster diver, and service technician at BMW - who probably donated it to the store after Marsha (his high maintenance girlfriend) lost her shit because she couldn’t pull her 1993 Corolla into the garage because a “BOX WAS IN THE WAY!”. And, voila - Oh Christmas Tree! The once forgotten artificial monument would now be leaving its soggy cardboard casket and making its way into this - the luxury pin.
Let’s focus on the tree that I am now staring at, shall we? It’s branches are as flat as an American Idol hopeful during Hollywood week. And, the garland looked like Judy herself had come back to put it on. It was worse than the Charlie Brown tree. The Charlie Brown tree was cute, like the runt of the litter who was born with a stub leg. This tree, however, was meant to age gracefully. Being fluffed every year after the heated up turkey sandwich was eaten and Macy’s started running their “ONE DAY SALE” adds - that seem to happen “EVERYDAY!” Instead it was more like Joan Rivers...alot less grace, and more flat than fluffed. This is BMW - shouldn’t their Christmas tree be impressive?
I remembered that my service technician had offered me coffee and a doughnut which I had thanked him for but declined initially. Now after an hour of sitting on a Saturday morning at 9 am (insert I am not a morning person here) - I was obliged to have a cup of Joe. I was glad to find Starbucks cups on the counter, that green girl starring back at me made me feel warm inside. Like I was home, smelling cow manure and hearing “Jarrrrrettttt - JARRRRRETTTTTTTTTT!” However the “putt putt sputter” of the cappuccino machine being out of cappuccino quickly brought me back to a state I visit often - the lost state beginning with the letter “A” - Annoyed(AD). The branded Venti cup was immediately tossed in the can and back to my pleather seat I went.
I couldn’t help at that instant to be drawn into the conversation being had by the two “young” women at the “take all my money” counter. I’ll call them Paris and Nicole so you get the picture. Both in lab coats, ‘cause that’s how they do it at BMW. Makes you feel like your car is getting “treated”. Paris says to Nikki “I told Roger to move his car - I don’t care if it IS his day off - employees CAN NOT park UP FRONT! - I don’t care if it is cold and if he is off today!” Nicole just shaking her head in total agreement while knawing her gum like WIlly Wonka had just just given her a 3 course meal. Of course this bellows into the very back of the pin where I am elbows to knees texting it up with my friend Elizabeth on my iPhone 4 (not to be mistaken with “4S”). And, at that instant - my mind did the time warp again. The millions of things I had picked up on from the time I had entered that service bay all aligned at once. Was this SERIOUS?
Service and experience have been a passion of mine since I can remember. I purchased a luxury car so that I have a great product, receive good service - and have an experience that I can’t describe in words, but know that I want to tell others about. A bed head Christmas tree - an empty coffee machine and “Diva Cashiers LIVE” did not fit the bill on what I feel like I paid for. And, the experience I want to have as a consumer. So...Welcome to my blog. Having been a residential REALTOR for 6 years - an International Teacher/Traveler - and now in the banking industry, my career path in sales/education has trained my eyes and ears in the field of service and experience. I will write about just that. My everyday great, funny, horrible, over the top service stories to truly expose it is not about how “we” think it happened - it is how “they” know it happened.
They walk in everyday thinking “Wow - I work at BMW!” - And I think everyday...”I’ll never buy another!”
I look forward to GREAT in 2012!
Jarret
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