I’ve Said It Before

This weekend P.Pie wanted to finally start registering for baby stuff.

Initially we started to register online, but that proved… difficult.

It’s difficult to know what’s what and where’s where when you’re a first time parent. I’m actually stunned that there’s 200 different brands of bottles with 400 types of nipples to choose from.

So we decided to actually go to the store to register. At the store you can pick things up, shake them, hold them next to other things, and generally get a feel for stuff.

Plus you get a cool scanner to run around the store with and play Logan’s Run.

If you’re into that kinda thing.

Of course, you can’t do that until you run the gauntlet of store employees.

First, you have to wait in line at the customer service counter, where the nine people in front of you are trying to return either: clothes they’ve worn, and washed, at least a dozen times, a big screen tv with no receipt with another company’s barcode on it, an open can of soda, or half-eaten bag of Jelly Bellies that the person swears tasted suspiciously like Preparation H (?!?).

Once it’s your turn at the counter, the 16 year old high school drop out tries to tell you how a computer system works.

After she causes the power grid to fail – twice – she calls her manager. It turns out the manager is not only her second cousin that she’s dated – only twice – but he’s also computer illiterate.

Let me say here that I INSISTED we had already set up an account on their website. To which I was told, “Oh, you have to do one at the store, too.”

I argued that was not correct. If it was, then everyone attending the baby shower would need to shop AT THAT PARTICULAR STORE.

I might have raised my voice a tad.

But, wanting to keep my blood pressure in-check and not choke the living shit out of a moron who was just trying to do a substandard job, I acquiesced and filled out the digital form.

Again.

SO. Now I’ve got the scanner and I’m standing in front of P.Pie saying, “I know you're innocent, Dr. Kimble. It was Provasic that killed your wife.”

If she hadn’t needed me to scan items, I’m sure she would have pretended not to know me.

The number of new baby items is staggering. We had a ‘shopping list’ and we were still overwhelmed. [ed. note: you can be overwhelmed and you can be underwhelmed, but when was the last time you were whelmed?]

Once we’d scanned everything we could think of – P.Pie vetoed the big screen – we took the raygun scanner back to the customer disservice area.

The agent of disservice grabbed the scanner and pushed a few buttons while feigning interest in our shopping pleasure. She then says, “Oh look, there are two P.Pie Barron’s in the state of Colorado in the system!”

Seriously, I felt the vein on my forehead throb.

After another bout of wanting to choke the living shit out of someone who desperately needed it, I explained why it said that. This tool , with the vacant stare and black fingernail polish said, “Oh. Maybe you should have just registered, like, online.”

No shit.

Tell me again why I gave up cigarettes.

So after another 15 minutes at the counter, we finally got our print out, but no one got the choking they so richly deserved.

One store down and only two more to go.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; the world is full of idiots.