I had only worked at the high-end kitchen store for about a month when The Boss said three words that struck lightning bolts of fear in my brain: “Paychecks were lost.” No, not really. She said, “Front and face.”
I had no idea what front and face meant, except that maybe I was supposed to face toward the front of the store (but then wouldn’t that be “face the front”?). I stood as close to the front entry door as possible, practically breathing on the glass. I made sure I was facing out toward the mall.
“What are you doing, MOV?” inquired The Boss impatiently. “I thought I told you to front and face.”
“I thought I was?” I replied.
“What are you talking about? You’re just standing there. I need you to pull all the food perimeter products to the front of the shelves and make sure all their labels are facing forward.”
Oh—front and face!
Queen Virgo was happy for the task, which was seemingly designed just for her. Front and face became my new favorite past-time. If the store was not busy and other salespeople were offering to re-stock the shopping bags or Windex the glass display cabinets, there I was jumping up and down: “And I can front and face! Let me front and face!”
The Husband was not so pleased with my new little habit at home. “Sweetie,” I’d say encouragingly, “I really appreciate you doing all the grocery shopping this week, and, well, every week come to think of it. But you know what I would appreciate even more? If you could front and face the product out on the shelves, label side toward the viewer.”
“Product?” he mocked. “Did you just say ‘product’? And ‘viewer’? Because last I checked, this is not a store. This is where we live.”
My newfound hyper-vigilance transcended kitchen borders and needed to be applied to the bathroom cabinets as well. “Honey,” I’d begin helpfully, “remember we had that little chat about front and face? We need to put the shaving cream and deodorant facing out on the shelf. It’s more consumer-friendly that way.” I’d give a smile, cementing the validity of my essential critique.
“Have you been drinking? I already own the deodorant. I’m not worried about it being consumer-friendly on the shelf. What is your deal?”
It went on like this throughout every shelf in the bathrooms, kitchen and refrigerator, as well as almost every room in the house (including the basement storage closets and the garage) for the next several months. The Husband even seemed annoyed when I kindly mentioned his sunglasses and pens in the glove compartment of his truck could stand to be arranged so the brand names faced out.
“Sweetie,” I’d purr, “front and face is designed for maximum visibility and organization. It really is the only way to go. I don’t get why you are so resistant to it.”
“MOV, enough! Geesh. If that is how your boss wants you to do stuff at work, fine. Last I checked, we don’t live in the high-end kitchen store.” He glared at me, his face a cocktail of pity and contempt. “If you wanna live at the high-end kitchen store, I’ll help you pack a suitcase.”
Ah, but he’d pack it wrong. All the labels would be facing down.
MOV
(“Mania Of Virgo”)
Showing posts with label high-end kitchen store. Show all posts
Showing posts with label high-end kitchen store. Show all posts
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
505. The Kitchen Store Doctor Is IN
People love me. They love me sober, they love me drunk, they love me at work, they love me at parties, they love me at the super-market … the point is: They just love me. So it should come as no surprise that random customers at the high-end kitchen store love to confess to me their entire life history, complete with embarrassing moments and crazy, unbelievable stories. This happens a lot. Daily.
Yesterday, I was at work and the phone rang. “Thank you for calling the fabulous high-end kitchen store, this is MOVee, how may I help you?” I sang into the receiver.
The woman on the phone wanted information on the French porcelain dinnerware we carry, specifically if it was microwave safe (it was) or dishwasher safe (it was). She continued to barrage me with questions, and I continued to answer helpfully. The next thing you know, she proceeds to tell me how her sister just died, and the sister happened to give her all these fancy dishes mere weeks before her impending death (from Leukemia). Yikes! We are new BFF because she has confided this important secret to me.
Whoops—we accidentally get disconnected. Bye-bye random person whose name I do not even know!
Same day. A customer comes in and is looking at some expensive pans from Italy. She goes on and on about how beautiful they are, but the cost is prohibitive. Next thing you know, she confuses my nod-nod-nodding as a sign to tell me things that she should probably tell a therapist. Here goes: She was diagnosed with a rare brain disease and given six months to live. This was four years ago. She wants to celebrate her alive-ness by buying all the special pans.
This happens to me every day. EVERY DAY.
People are compelled to tell me things, private things, because I must have that demeanor that says, “I can keep a secret! I don’t write a blog or anything, ha ha, why do you ask?”
When I was a flight attendant, passengers would corner me in the galley and tell me how they just quit their job/ were planning to get divorced/ hate their mother-in-law/ can’t get pregnant (choose one). Additionally, other flight attendants confessed their fondest hopes and their darkest secrets to me on the jumpseat (this particular phenomenon, in airline parlance, is known as “jumpseat therapy”). I must have one of those faces with a giant “T.M.” printed on my forehead (“Tell Me”).
The other day, I was going through some junk mail, when I spotted an ad for grad school. Masters in Psychology. Hmmm. Maybe I should get paid for what I do.
MOV
Yesterday, I was at work and the phone rang. “Thank you for calling the fabulous high-end kitchen store, this is MOVee, how may I help you?” I sang into the receiver.
The woman on the phone wanted information on the French porcelain dinnerware we carry, specifically if it was microwave safe (it was) or dishwasher safe (it was). She continued to barrage me with questions, and I continued to answer helpfully. The next thing you know, she proceeds to tell me how her sister just died, and the sister happened to give her all these fancy dishes mere weeks before her impending death (from Leukemia). Yikes! We are new BFF because she has confided this important secret to me.
Whoops—we accidentally get disconnected. Bye-bye random person whose name I do not even know!
Same day. A customer comes in and is looking at some expensive pans from Italy. She goes on and on about how beautiful they are, but the cost is prohibitive. Next thing you know, she confuses my nod-nod-nodding as a sign to tell me things that she should probably tell a therapist. Here goes: She was diagnosed with a rare brain disease and given six months to live. This was four years ago. She wants to celebrate her alive-ness by buying all the special pans.
This happens to me every day. EVERY DAY.
People are compelled to tell me things, private things, because I must have that demeanor that says, “I can keep a secret! I don’t write a blog or anything, ha ha, why do you ask?”
When I was a flight attendant, passengers would corner me in the galley and tell me how they just quit their job/ were planning to get divorced/ hate their mother-in-law/ can’t get pregnant (choose one). Additionally, other flight attendants confessed their fondest hopes and their darkest secrets to me on the jumpseat (this particular phenomenon, in airline parlance, is known as “jumpseat therapy”). I must have one of those faces with a giant “T.M.” printed on my forehead (“Tell Me”).
The other day, I was going through some junk mail, when I spotted an ad for grad school. Masters in Psychology. Hmmm. Maybe I should get paid for what I do.
MOV
Thursday, September 1, 2011
499. Two Weeks Notice
So last night I told The Boss that I got another job. Predictably, she was not happy. “That’s so great! I am really, really happy for you!” she said quite cheerfully, without a trace of sarcasm in her voice. “When do you start?”
I told her that I start next week, but I do not want to leave the high-end kitchen store going into the busiest time of the year: holiday.
“Boss, my new job is during the day shift, so it doesn’t impact me still working here for the time being. I plan to keep working my normal one night per week plus Sundays through Christmas. So I am giving you four months notice.”
“Oh, wow. You don’t have to do that. Two weeks is standard!”
“I know, but I don’t want to leave you high and dry …”
She smiled that kind of smile when you offer someone the last cookie, not to be polite but because the cookies are gingersnap and you are allergic.
“MOV, honestly, it’s really hard to work two jobs. I totally get it if you need to quit now. You can go tonight if you need to!”
I truly had not expected this type of positive support, encouragement, and understanding from my current boss about leaving and going to work somewhere else. I was touched.
“Boss, thank you! But I am the type of person to honor my commitments. I will stay through December 24th.” I grinned back at her.
“You don’t have to!” She clutched a stack of blue and white oven mitts and aprons she had been arranging in a basket.
“I insist!” I insisted.
“Really!”
“Really!”
Her smile turned to a frown. “We don’t want anyone working here who doesn’t want to be here!”
“I want to be here!”
“Uh, okay …” she said, pausing to choose her next words very, very carefully. “Uh, great.”
I never meant to upset her by giving my four months notice. Maybe I should have made it six months instead?
MOV
I told her that I start next week, but I do not want to leave the high-end kitchen store going into the busiest time of the year: holiday.
“Boss, my new job is during the day shift, so it doesn’t impact me still working here for the time being. I plan to keep working my normal one night per week plus Sundays through Christmas. So I am giving you four months notice.”
“Oh, wow. You don’t have to do that. Two weeks is standard!”
“I know, but I don’t want to leave you high and dry …”
She smiled that kind of smile when you offer someone the last cookie, not to be polite but because the cookies are gingersnap and you are allergic.
“MOV, honestly, it’s really hard to work two jobs. I totally get it if you need to quit now. You can go tonight if you need to!”
I truly had not expected this type of positive support, encouragement, and understanding from my current boss about leaving and going to work somewhere else. I was touched.
“Boss, thank you! But I am the type of person to honor my commitments. I will stay through December 24th.” I grinned back at her.
“You don’t have to!” She clutched a stack of blue and white oven mitts and aprons she had been arranging in a basket.
“I insist!” I insisted.
“Really!”
“Really!”
Her smile turned to a frown. “We don’t want anyone working here who doesn’t want to be here!”
“I want to be here!”
“Uh, okay …” she said, pausing to choose her next words very, very carefully. “Uh, great.”
I never meant to upset her by giving my four months notice. Maybe I should have made it six months instead?
MOV
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
451. I Love My Job
I love my job. Not sort of like, it’s okay, I guess I’ll go if I have to, but LOVE. I bounce out of bed in the morning, and if it happens to be a day that I am scheduled at the high-end kitchen store (I only work there part-time), then I am already super-excited. Work! Yay! Sincerely! Yay!
Other people (The Husband for one, my sister Oakley for another) seem flabbergasted by this revelation:
Me: I love my job!
Oakley: That’s nice, why—because you get a discount?
Me: Well, the discount is good, but I just love going there.
Oakley: You love going to the kitchen store? But you don’t even cook.
Me: I know! But it’s a really fun place to work! The products are great, the customers are great, the people I work with are great …
Oakley: My job is going okay right now, but I’m still applying for 16 other jobs that I might like better.
Me: I’m not! I love this one!
I have always loved every job I’ve ever had. Even what other people would consider the bad ones. There is just something very gratifying about getting ready for work, clocking in, and doing a good job at something you enjoy.
In high school, I adored my job as a restaurant hostess. Pacifica Moon was a very elegant restaurant right on the ocean, and it was the kind of place where you make your reservation two months in advance and tip the guy who parks your car $20. I loved working there. Every time I would walk the happy customers to their table (“Watch out, there’s a step down right here,”) I would get to stare at the waves lapping up on the windows. Another great perk was I got to eat a gourmet meal every night. For free. This is quite compelling when you are 16 and flat broke and get home too late to enjoy a meal your mom made for your siblings.
In college, I worked as a bank teller for Bank of America. I was passionate about my job. I became obsessed with lining up all the bills in my till facing the exact same direction, and pretending the money was really all mine. I also became obsessed with the “mutilated” bills.
We were required to pull out any dollars that were torn, taped, had holes in them, excessive writing on them, had gone through someone’s laundry five times, or were otherwise old and worn out. It didn’t matter if it was George Washington’s face on the front or Benjamin Franklin’s, if it was mutilated, it had to go. (The bank would send them back to the Mint and be reimbursed.) You would give the manager, Tammy, all your mutilated bills secured together by a metal paperclip, and she would give you an official-looking green slip of paper with the words “Exchange for damaged bills” at the top. She would scribble the amount ($687) on the pre-printed green paper and you put the paper in the till in lieu of the cash so you would balance at the end of your shift.
I am a card-carrying uber-Virgo, which means I like things neat and pristine. I gave Tammy any bills that were not only torn, taped, or written on with marker … I also attempted to exchange any bills that I considered “too wrinkled or bent.”
“No, MOV,” Tammy would say in that exasperated tammy-tone of hers for the 800th time that week, “these bills are not mutilated enough to turn in. They’re fine.” She would hand the stack back to me, and I would attempt to trade them later with Don, who was the next teller over.
“Hey, Don,” I’d say sweetly, “Can I get a couple rolls of quarters from you? And, oh, yeah, do you mind trading $687?”
I only lasted one summer there (“It’s not you, MOV, I swear, it’s just we have waaaaay too many tellers right now,”) which was kind of like having the guy you’re dating break up with you, even though you already knew he was never really crazy about you to begin with. It still hurt.
My rebound job was at a department store. Another job in my long list of jobs I loved. I worked for the now-defunct I.Magnin, which was similar to Saks or Neiman’s. Everything was very beautiful and very expensive: it was the perfect job for a Virgo.
I liked to walk past the dress department and pet the silk dresses while pretending I was just smoothing them or arranging them by size to be helpful. I liked to pick up the Lalique crystal vases and guess the price before I flipped one over to read the tag ($2049—right, again!). But mostly I loved the shoe department.
I would go into the shoe stockroom on my break, and try on shoes. The average shoe price was $600 (per shoe). I would put on the magenta suede lace-ups from France and pretend I was a super-model, just like I used to play dress-up in my mother’s closet, until Sheila, the shoe manager, would come back and tell me to put everything away and stop trying all those shoes on if I was never going to buy any.
I worked there off and on for three years, and even though I could never afford to buy the shoes, I nonetheless loved every second of it.
When I got out of college, I still did not find what my parents, or any of their friends, or any of my friends for that matter, would consider to be a “real” job: I worked at a gym. I was the front desk girl, and I (surprise!) loved my job. I loved getting there at 5 AM when it was still dark out, I loved getting the just-delivered clean white towels out of the clear bags and setting them in neat stacks by the entrance, I loved turning on the music and being the one who decided what we were all going to listen to and at what volume.
I also loved that I had a free membership at the best, most expensive gym in town, and that I could work out any time I wanted. Which was all the time.
I lasted at that job one year. Other gym rats constantly asked me “What event are you training for?” while I caught sight of my perfectly chiseled size 4 body in the mirror and said, “Discus.”
Next job on the list was the fancy jewelry store, Shine. I loved working at Shine. I had upgraded from pretending Bank of America’s money was all mine to pretending the Patek Philippe watches and 11 carat cushion-cut ruby rings with baguette diamonds were mine. I never tired of trying on all the jewelry, sometimes all at once. If we were having a slow day, I would rearrange the window displays a thousand times, always clicking the window shut with the old-fashioned brass key and a satisfying loud “click.”
I loved the fact that I was only 23, and yet I had the keys to a million dollar inventory right on the very same key chain as my Toyota Camry and my $500/ month rental apartment. Richard (the owner) trusted me.
At the same time I worked for Shine, I was applying for a job as a flight attendant. I thought it would be fun to travel and get paid for it. After interviewing with four different airlines, Continental ultimately called me back.
“MOV? We’d like to offer you the job. Training starts next Tuesday in Houston, and you will most likely be based in Newark or Denver. Welcome!” Her voice said authority, perky, and well-traveled all at once. I wanted a voice like that.
Is it any surprise that I loved being a flight attendant? I loved working first class, I loved ordering room service in the nice hotels, I loved going to musicals or museums or one-of-a-kind shops on my layovers. I even enjoyed setting up the back galley on an MD-80 on a short flight and serving scalding cold soup at 35,000 feet.
After I was furloughed due to the economy, I applied to work at the front desk of a boutique hotel.
I was crazy about that job. The hotel was a historical property in Seattle, and a lot of famous people stayed there. I was surrounded by elegance, opulence, rain, and celebrity all day long.
I missed the friendly (sunny) skies, however, so I applied to United. They hired me and (wait for it!) I loved this job, too. It was to be my decade-long perfect dream job, and I eventually transferred to the Los Angeles base (after serving brief stints in D.C. and San Francisco). Even if my flight was delayed five hours, re-routed, or canceled, none of that seemed to matter when I'd be sitting on the beach a week later on my Maui trip.
When I finally became a mom, I quit flying to stay home with my first son. I never regretted my decision, although I did miss my flight passes and my interaction with adults. So, when my younger son was just over a year old, I decide to get a part-time job at the high-end kitchen store. Which I love.
I am always mildly shocked if someone confesses to me that they hate their job. Really? Then why do you work there? Life is too short to be unhappy.
I woke up last night in a cold sweat. I was dreaming that I was one of the dolphin trainers at Sea World and I couldn’t remember the commands for the dolphins. They were swimming away from me and I started to cry, ruining my waterproof make-up. I tried everything I could think of to get them to cooperate, including promising them crisp $100 bills and free first class tickets to Sydney. The dolphins suddenly disappeared altogether, and the next thing I knew, I was in the police station, still in my scuba gear. I overheard the police in the next room talking about how I might have to go to jail for making the dolphins disappear. Then, one of the officers mentioned something about contacting a special Dolphin Detective.
Huh, I thought to myself in my very coherent dream state, Dolphin Detective. I’ll bet I would love that job.
MOV
(“Multiple Optimistic Vocations”)
Other people (The Husband for one, my sister Oakley for another) seem flabbergasted by this revelation:
Me: I love my job!
Oakley: That’s nice, why—because you get a discount?
Me: Well, the discount is good, but I just love going there.
Oakley: You love going to the kitchen store? But you don’t even cook.
Me: I know! But it’s a really fun place to work! The products are great, the customers are great, the people I work with are great …
Oakley: My job is going okay right now, but I’m still applying for 16 other jobs that I might like better.
Me: I’m not! I love this one!
I have always loved every job I’ve ever had. Even what other people would consider the bad ones. There is just something very gratifying about getting ready for work, clocking in, and doing a good job at something you enjoy.
In high school, I adored my job as a restaurant hostess. Pacifica Moon was a very elegant restaurant right on the ocean, and it was the kind of place where you make your reservation two months in advance and tip the guy who parks your car $20. I loved working there. Every time I would walk the happy customers to their table (“Watch out, there’s a step down right here,”) I would get to stare at the waves lapping up on the windows. Another great perk was I got to eat a gourmet meal every night. For free. This is quite compelling when you are 16 and flat broke and get home too late to enjoy a meal your mom made for your siblings.
In college, I worked as a bank teller for Bank of America. I was passionate about my job. I became obsessed with lining up all the bills in my till facing the exact same direction, and pretending the money was really all mine. I also became obsessed with the “mutilated” bills.
We were required to pull out any dollars that were torn, taped, had holes in them, excessive writing on them, had gone through someone’s laundry five times, or were otherwise old and worn out. It didn’t matter if it was George Washington’s face on the front or Benjamin Franklin’s, if it was mutilated, it had to go. (The bank would send them back to the Mint and be reimbursed.) You would give the manager, Tammy, all your mutilated bills secured together by a metal paperclip, and she would give you an official-looking green slip of paper with the words “Exchange for damaged bills” at the top. She would scribble the amount ($687) on the pre-printed green paper and you put the paper in the till in lieu of the cash so you would balance at the end of your shift.
I am a card-carrying uber-Virgo, which means I like things neat and pristine. I gave Tammy any bills that were not only torn, taped, or written on with marker … I also attempted to exchange any bills that I considered “too wrinkled or bent.”
“No, MOV,” Tammy would say in that exasperated tammy-tone of hers for the 800th time that week, “these bills are not mutilated enough to turn in. They’re fine.” She would hand the stack back to me, and I would attempt to trade them later with Don, who was the next teller over.
“Hey, Don,” I’d say sweetly, “Can I get a couple rolls of quarters from you? And, oh, yeah, do you mind trading $687?”
I only lasted one summer there (“It’s not you, MOV, I swear, it’s just we have waaaaay too many tellers right now,”) which was kind of like having the guy you’re dating break up with you, even though you already knew he was never really crazy about you to begin with. It still hurt.
My rebound job was at a department store. Another job in my long list of jobs I loved. I worked for the now-defunct I.Magnin, which was similar to Saks or Neiman’s. Everything was very beautiful and very expensive: it was the perfect job for a Virgo.
I liked to walk past the dress department and pet the silk dresses while pretending I was just smoothing them or arranging them by size to be helpful. I liked to pick up the Lalique crystal vases and guess the price before I flipped one over to read the tag ($2049—right, again!). But mostly I loved the shoe department.
I would go into the shoe stockroom on my break, and try on shoes. The average shoe price was $600 (per shoe). I would put on the magenta suede lace-ups from France and pretend I was a super-model, just like I used to play dress-up in my mother’s closet, until Sheila, the shoe manager, would come back and tell me to put everything away and stop trying all those shoes on if I was never going to buy any.
I worked there off and on for three years, and even though I could never afford to buy the shoes, I nonetheless loved every second of it.
When I got out of college, I still did not find what my parents, or any of their friends, or any of my friends for that matter, would consider to be a “real” job: I worked at a gym. I was the front desk girl, and I (surprise!) loved my job. I loved getting there at 5 AM when it was still dark out, I loved getting the just-delivered clean white towels out of the clear bags and setting them in neat stacks by the entrance, I loved turning on the music and being the one who decided what we were all going to listen to and at what volume.
I also loved that I had a free membership at the best, most expensive gym in town, and that I could work out any time I wanted. Which was all the time.
I lasted at that job one year. Other gym rats constantly asked me “What event are you training for?” while I caught sight of my perfectly chiseled size 4 body in the mirror and said, “Discus.”
Next job on the list was the fancy jewelry store, Shine. I loved working at Shine. I had upgraded from pretending Bank of America’s money was all mine to pretending the Patek Philippe watches and 11 carat cushion-cut ruby rings with baguette diamonds were mine. I never tired of trying on all the jewelry, sometimes all at once. If we were having a slow day, I would rearrange the window displays a thousand times, always clicking the window shut with the old-fashioned brass key and a satisfying loud “click.”
I loved the fact that I was only 23, and yet I had the keys to a million dollar inventory right on the very same key chain as my Toyota Camry and my $500/ month rental apartment. Richard (the owner) trusted me.
At the same time I worked for Shine, I was applying for a job as a flight attendant. I thought it would be fun to travel and get paid for it. After interviewing with four different airlines, Continental ultimately called me back.
“MOV? We’d like to offer you the job. Training starts next Tuesday in Houston, and you will most likely be based in Newark or Denver. Welcome!” Her voice said authority, perky, and well-traveled all at once. I wanted a voice like that.
Is it any surprise that I loved being a flight attendant? I loved working first class, I loved ordering room service in the nice hotels, I loved going to musicals or museums or one-of-a-kind shops on my layovers. I even enjoyed setting up the back galley on an MD-80 on a short flight and serving scalding cold soup at 35,000 feet.
After I was furloughed due to the economy, I applied to work at the front desk of a boutique hotel.
I was crazy about that job. The hotel was a historical property in Seattle, and a lot of famous people stayed there. I was surrounded by elegance, opulence, rain, and celebrity all day long.
I missed the friendly (sunny) skies, however, so I applied to United. They hired me and (wait for it!) I loved this job, too. It was to be my decade-long perfect dream job, and I eventually transferred to the Los Angeles base (after serving brief stints in D.C. and San Francisco). Even if my flight was delayed five hours, re-routed, or canceled, none of that seemed to matter when I'd be sitting on the beach a week later on my Maui trip.
When I finally became a mom, I quit flying to stay home with my first son. I never regretted my decision, although I did miss my flight passes and my interaction with adults. So, when my younger son was just over a year old, I decide to get a part-time job at the high-end kitchen store. Which I love.
I am always mildly shocked if someone confesses to me that they hate their job. Really? Then why do you work there? Life is too short to be unhappy.
I woke up last night in a cold sweat. I was dreaming that I was one of the dolphin trainers at Sea World and I couldn’t remember the commands for the dolphins. They were swimming away from me and I started to cry, ruining my waterproof make-up. I tried everything I could think of to get them to cooperate, including promising them crisp $100 bills and free first class tickets to Sydney. The dolphins suddenly disappeared altogether, and the next thing I knew, I was in the police station, still in my scuba gear. I overheard the police in the next room talking about how I might have to go to jail for making the dolphins disappear. Then, one of the officers mentioned something about contacting a special Dolphin Detective.
Huh, I thought to myself in my very coherent dream state, Dolphin Detective. I’ll bet I would love that job.
MOV
(“Multiple Optimistic Vocations”)
Sunday, June 12, 2011
437. Why They Hired Me
I work part-time at a high-end kitchen store. I originally applied for the job because I thought being around all those cooking gadgets would magically transform me into a chef, like osmosis. Instead, it transformed my checkbook into a single digit wasteland, and my kitchen into a repository of useless kitchen gadgets. People come into our store for cooking advice, and I have none. The best I can do is say, “You should buy this—it’s pretty!” and then they inevitably ask, “But is it chip-resistant?”
I never have the right answer to those complicated questions.
Today, I was helping a customer with knives. After he’d looked at a few, he politely said, “I’ll think about it,” which is the retail equivalent of “I’ll call you.”
He walked away from me, and I turned to walk the other way to approach another customer. Now, this is the part where I tell you I’m not klutzy. Not klutzy, not ever. Very graceful, in fact. I took ballet lessons for many years during my childhood. Most people—friends, neighbors, UPS guy, Starbucks barista, whoever—would say, if you asked, that the animal I am most like is a gazelle.
So it came as somewhat of a shock when I knocked over an entire display tower of cast iron Le Creuset pans. That’s right, an Eiffel Tower of very expensive Le Creuset came crashing to the ground in an angry clatter due to your truly.
It was not one of my prouder moments. But the funny thing is: as soon as I bumped into it and I knew that the entire thing was about to collapse, I did nothing to stop it. It teetered for about two seconds, and I realized I could either try super-hard to save all the pans and end up with 10 Le Creuset pots pummeling me from all directions (have you picked one of these up? they’re very heavy), or I could jump out of the way and hope for the best.
Guess which option I chose?
You know how sometimes something bad is happening to you and it’s almost like it’s not even happening to you, but actually to someone else?
That’s what that moment was.
![]()
I was watching myself, like watching an actor in a play, and wondering what would happen next:
People five states away heard the pans fall. Immediately afterwards, CNN reported a minor earthquake in our area, but we knew the truth.
If this sort of thing had happened to me at home, I could do what I do best: blame my young sons. The thought crossed my mind, but I realized they weren’t at work with me. I couldn’t blame the customer, I couldn’t blame the earthquake (we don’t even live in California); I had to think fast.
The Boss saw the disarray of pans, and she was approaching quickly. I could see a genuine look of concern on her face. I'm sure my face registered adequate concern for the (broken) merchandise as well.
What would I say? What would Reese say?
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked out.
She asked if I was okay, and then she helped me scoop up the pans. One by one, we inspected them all: they were fine. Only the tea kettle that had been at the very top of the tower was chipped and had to be thrown away, but everything else was pristine.
The Boss held up the last pan to put back in the tower. “MOV,” she said, “Amazingly, this one’s fine, too! You know, I think this might be a very attractive selling feature: chip resistant.”
Yep, that’s why they hired me: product testing.
MOV
I never have the right answer to those complicated questions.
Today, I was helping a customer with knives. After he’d looked at a few, he politely said, “I’ll think about it,” which is the retail equivalent of “I’ll call you.”
He walked away from me, and I turned to walk the other way to approach another customer. Now, this is the part where I tell you I’m not klutzy. Not klutzy, not ever. Very graceful, in fact. I took ballet lessons for many years during my childhood. Most people—friends, neighbors, UPS guy, Starbucks barista, whoever—would say, if you asked, that the animal I am most like is a gazelle.
So it came as somewhat of a shock when I knocked over an entire display tower of cast iron Le Creuset pans. That’s right, an Eiffel Tower of very expensive Le Creuset came crashing to the ground in an angry clatter due to your truly.
It was not one of my prouder moments. But the funny thing is: as soon as I bumped into it and I knew that the entire thing was about to collapse, I did nothing to stop it. It teetered for about two seconds, and I realized I could either try super-hard to save all the pans and end up with 10 Le Creuset pots pummeling me from all directions (have you picked one of these up? they’re very heavy), or I could jump out of the way and hope for the best.
Guess which option I chose?
You know how sometimes something bad is happening to you and it’s almost like it’s not even happening to you, but actually to someone else?
That’s what that moment was.
I was watching myself, like watching an actor in a play, and wondering what would happen next:
- Would the girl/ star/ me be severely injured (perhaps brain-damaged, killed, or permanently humiliated) by the rogue Le Creuset pans?
- Would some heroic customer/ angel/ alien jump in to save her/ Reese Witherspoon/ MOV?
- Would the Hollywood sound stage be able to accurately reproduce the type of sound that 10 Le Creuset pans make when dropped simultaneously?
People five states away heard the pans fall. Immediately afterwards, CNN reported a minor earthquake in our area, but we knew the truth.
If this sort of thing had happened to me at home, I could do what I do best: blame my young sons. The thought crossed my mind, but I realized they weren’t at work with me. I couldn’t blame the customer, I couldn’t blame the earthquake (we don’t even live in California); I had to think fast.
The Boss saw the disarray of pans, and she was approaching quickly. I could see a genuine look of concern on her face. I'm sure my face registered adequate concern for the (broken) merchandise as well.
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked out.
She asked if I was okay, and then she helped me scoop up the pans. One by one, we inspected them all: they were fine. Only the tea kettle that had been at the very top of the tower was chipped and had to be thrown away, but everything else was pristine.
The Boss held up the last pan to put back in the tower. “MOV,” she said, “Amazingly, this one’s fine, too! You know, I think this might be a very attractive selling feature: chip resistant.”
Yep, that’s why they hired me: product testing.
MOV
Thursday, May 5, 2011
400. It's A Wrap!
So the Boss approached me at work last night and said, “MOV, I need to hire an extra person for a couple days to do gift-wrapping for Mother’s Day. They would get a 40% discount during that time frame. Do you know anyone who might be interested?” I immediately thought of four or five moms that I know that might like to do it. But then I asked the Boss which days exactly she needed filled and it turned out that I, myself, was available.
“Oh, Boss, you don’t have to hire a new person, because I could do it!” I offered excitedly.
She looked me in the eye with a serious expression, and then a smile crept slowly across her face. Finally, she burst out laughing like that was the funniest joke she’d ever heard.
“Wrap!” (ha ha ha ha) “I said gift-wrap!” (ha ha ha ha) “You know, with wrapping paper!” she managed to blurt out between bouts of more laughter.
I was laughing too, just in case I might be about to be fired. “I know! I know what wrapping is!”
She stopped laughing. “Oh, MOV, you are a very good salesperson, you could sell an espresso machine to someone who doesn’t even like coffee … but wrap? That is, uh, that is one of your areas of, uh, potential opportunity for improvement.” This last part sounded suspiciously like that course all the regional managers were just required to take last month: “Encouraging The Best From Your Worst Employees.”
“What are you talking about?” I queried, “I am a fabulous gift-wrapper! You said yourself that you used some of my wrapped boxes as samples for the Christmas seasonal new hires!”
“Samples of what NOT to do!” The gloves were off.
I had to admit that maybe she was right. Oh, sure, I could use the heat-gun to shrink wrap a gift basket full of soap or scones, and I could certainly put some tissue paper on the top of a small shopping bag to make it look like a “gift” bag, and I even knew how to tie a pretty decent bow; but wrap?
“This new person,” said the Boss, maneuvering the subject back where she wanted it, “they can’t do crushed corners.”
“Crushed corners?” I asked, confused.
“Crushed. Corners. Like yours.” She was not backing down. She was the Boss, and she was right.
I didn’t honestly know that she had ever inspected my corners to see if they were crushed or not. What was she, a military sergeant? The Gift Wrap Nazi, like the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld?
“Boss, about my corners …” my college degree was drifting away before my eyes. Bye, bye, Art History! Seeya, Advanced Calculus! Won’t be needing you, French 301! All I needed to be successful in my chosen career at the high-end kitchen store were flat corners.
“So you finally acknowledge that your corners, uh, leave something to be desired?” The Boss nodded at me, as if her nodding would make me subliminally agree to her somewhat accurate assessment of my sad wrapping skills.
“Well, how do you get yours so perfect?” I challenged. “Every time I try, the wrapping paper rips. And I know it is good quality wrapping paper, not flimsy. But then I have to start over. I swear, I pull the paper very tight, then smooth it, but I just can’t seem to win.”
“Is that the issue?” she asked, “Oh, it is all making sense to me now! All those times you offered customers the plain green box with the plain green ribbon and no actual wrapping paper, I thought you were being environmentally aware, but really, you were just avoiding crushed corners!”
“Ripped corners, in my case,” I corrected, digging my own grave.
“So, like I was saying, if you send one of your friends in here, she’s going to have to audition.” The Boss’s eyes glazed over, and I could tell she was envisioning one of my friends wrapping a gift while she held a stop-watch and yelled, “GO!”
“Audition?!? Are you crazy?” (it was dawning on me that calling the Boss crazy might not have been a smart thing) “No one is going to audition to be a 3-day gift wrapper!”
Right then, a young woman wearing a beautifully wrapped scarf around her neck walked up to the counter with a cookbook she wanted to buy.
“Excuse me, do you gift wrap?” she asked sweetly.
“No!” The Boss and I said in unison. “But we can give you free wrapping paper.”
MOV
“Oh, Boss, you don’t have to hire a new person, because I could do it!” I offered excitedly.
She looked me in the eye with a serious expression, and then a smile crept slowly across her face. Finally, she burst out laughing like that was the funniest joke she’d ever heard.
“Wrap!” (ha ha ha ha) “I said gift-wrap!” (ha ha ha ha) “You know, with wrapping paper!” she managed to blurt out between bouts of more laughter.
I was laughing too, just in case I might be about to be fired. “I know! I know what wrapping is!”
She stopped laughing. “Oh, MOV, you are a very good salesperson, you could sell an espresso machine to someone who doesn’t even like coffee … but wrap? That is, uh, that is one of your areas of, uh, potential opportunity for improvement.” This last part sounded suspiciously like that course all the regional managers were just required to take last month: “Encouraging The Best From Your Worst Employees.”
“What are you talking about?” I queried, “I am a fabulous gift-wrapper! You said yourself that you used some of my wrapped boxes as samples for the Christmas seasonal new hires!”
“Samples of what NOT to do!” The gloves were off.
I had to admit that maybe she was right. Oh, sure, I could use the heat-gun to shrink wrap a gift basket full of soap or scones, and I could certainly put some tissue paper on the top of a small shopping bag to make it look like a “gift” bag, and I even knew how to tie a pretty decent bow; but wrap?
“This new person,” said the Boss, maneuvering the subject back where she wanted it, “they can’t do crushed corners.”
“Crushed corners?” I asked, confused.
“Crushed. Corners. Like yours.” She was not backing down. She was the Boss, and she was right.
I didn’t honestly know that she had ever inspected my corners to see if they were crushed or not. What was she, a military sergeant? The Gift Wrap Nazi, like the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld?
“Boss, about my corners …” my college degree was drifting away before my eyes. Bye, bye, Art History! Seeya, Advanced Calculus! Won’t be needing you, French 301! All I needed to be successful in my chosen career at the high-end kitchen store were flat corners.
“So you finally acknowledge that your corners, uh, leave something to be desired?” The Boss nodded at me, as if her nodding would make me subliminally agree to her somewhat accurate assessment of my sad wrapping skills.
“Well, how do you get yours so perfect?” I challenged. “Every time I try, the wrapping paper rips. And I know it is good quality wrapping paper, not flimsy. But then I have to start over. I swear, I pull the paper very tight, then smooth it, but I just can’t seem to win.”
“Is that the issue?” she asked, “Oh, it is all making sense to me now! All those times you offered customers the plain green box with the plain green ribbon and no actual wrapping paper, I thought you were being environmentally aware, but really, you were just avoiding crushed corners!”
“Ripped corners, in my case,” I corrected, digging my own grave.
“So, like I was saying, if you send one of your friends in here, she’s going to have to audition.” The Boss’s eyes glazed over, and I could tell she was envisioning one of my friends wrapping a gift while she held a stop-watch and yelled, “GO!”
“Audition?!? Are you crazy?” (it was dawning on me that calling the Boss crazy might not have been a smart thing) “No one is going to audition to be a 3-day gift wrapper!”
Right then, a young woman wearing a beautifully wrapped scarf around her neck walked up to the counter with a cookbook she wanted to buy.
“Excuse me, do you gift wrap?” she asked sweetly.
“No!” The Boss and I said in unison. “But we can give you free wrapping paper.”
MOV
Monday, January 24, 2011
309. Is She REALLY Employed?!
So I just realized that I never told you about how I got the job at the high-end kitchen store. Well, I had been whining to The Husband about how I needed to get out of the house a bit (the kids were 3 and 1), and I thought it might be “fun” (yes, my word choice) if I got a little retail job over the Christmas holiday. I filled out the job application and waited for my phone to ring.
And waited …
And waited …
Still waiting …
So they finally called me and I went in for the interview. Normally, I don’t stress about these kinds of things (who am I kidding, I practiced my faux-interview for hours in front of the mirror). I asked The Husband if he could do a Mock Interview (minterview? mockerview? intermock?) to help put me at ease. After I promised to do the dishes for an entire week in a row (and ultimately reneging after only two days this time), he said okay. Our minterview went something like this:
The Husband (pretending to be the interviewer): (taking his role very seriously) Hello, nice to meet you, how do you pronounce your name?
MOV: Sweetie, don’t do that. Just ask me real questions. Project Runway is on in 10 minutes.
TH: (whispering, so as not to break character—in case TV crews are recording us in the living room) I was trying to be realistic.
MOV: Read off the sheet I typed up. (pointing)
TH: What experience do you have?
MOV: Well, I was a flight attendant for a decade so that gives me lots of customer service background and …
TH: Don’t say decade, that sound stupid. It sounds rehearsed. No one says decade; say “10 years.”
MOV: (ignoring him) What does the sheet say?
TH: You know this is a kitchen store, do you like to cook?
MOV: Yes, I love to cook. I am an excellent cook. My family also …
TH: Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!
MOV: (impatient) What now? What’s so funny?
TH: You don’t cook! You don’t know the difference between a whisk and a spatula! You don’t even know how to turn on the stove!
MOV: I do too. Plus, the kitchen store people will probably expect me to at least be familiar with their merchandise.
TH: What are you going to do—call me at home? “Sweetie, this customer wants to buy a grill pan, is that the one with the raised ridges on it?” Or “What is a santoku hollow-ground knife?” Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!
MOV: (teeth clenched) Stop it. My show is almost on. Focus on the sheet.
TH: If there was a “problem” customer, what would you do?
MOV: I would be very polite and try my best to empathize with them and solve their problem, all the while following company guidelines and procedures.
TH: Oh, that was pretty good. Sounded kinda convincing. All right. Uh, why do you want to work here?
MOV: My availability would be evenings after six or pretty much any shift on the weekend.
TH: No. I didn’t say what hours can you work, I said why do you want to work here? Is it because of the discount?
MOV: I’m trying to be serious here. Quit doing that. (starting to crack up a little)
TH: I’m sorry. What I meant to say is: are you just begging me for a job so you can have a discount?
MOV: (going along with it) Yes, that’s right.
TH: Okay, then, do you have any questions for me, MOV?
MOV: When will I hear back? When can I start? And what is the discount?
You know what happens next. There I am, in the real interview, and my (future) boss is asking me all the same things I rehearsed with The Husband. I feel relaxed and confident because I already know all the answers to her questions. And then she gets to that final one: “Do you have any questions for me?”
My mind immediately races to my practice answer “What is the discount?” and I start laughing. I imagine the Husband sitting here with me in this back office with the rows of pristine white aprons hanging on hooks lining the wall and him saying “Is that why you want to work here?” and me saying “You betcha!” I cannot get this soundtrack from our minterview out of my brain.
The interviewer is staring at me. She doesn’t understand why I’m giggling (and between you and me, would it be unprofessional to giggle at the “problem” customers? I’m guessing it would). Finally, I try to squeak out an answer (“I don’t have any more questions for you, sorry, I laugh when I’m nervous sometimes”), when she drops the bomb.
“We expect our employees to be very flexible about their scheduling blah-blah-blah social security something-or-other corporate secrets blah-blah-blah and by the way, our discount is 90% off.”
Yippee! 90% off!
Just when I think it can’t get any better (and I know you are thinking this whole blog is a dream sequence and I assure you it is not) she says,
“… and you also get the discount at our sister store, Flawless Forte. Same discount of 90% off.” She smiles broadly, revealing model-straight teeth that an orthodontist would kill to have featured in his ads for the “After” photos.
“Excuse me, did you just say the discount applies at Flawless Forte? Because that is one of my favorite stores! Almost my entire house is from Flawless Forte!” I am babbling.
“Good, good—me, too! When can you start?” She gets out her notepad, ready to write in my start date.
I am already standing and reaching for a white apron. “I can start right now,” I say enthusiastically. “Let me just call my husband and ask him a quick question about kansotu grill whisks.”
MOV
(“Mom’s Other Vocation”)
And waited …
And waited …
Still waiting …
So they finally called me and I went in for the interview. Normally, I don’t stress about these kinds of things (who am I kidding, I practiced my faux-interview for hours in front of the mirror). I asked The Husband if he could do a Mock Interview (minterview? mockerview? intermock?) to help put me at ease. After I promised to do the dishes for an entire week in a row (and ultimately reneging after only two days this time), he said okay. Our minterview went something like this:
The Husband (pretending to be the interviewer): (taking his role very seriously) Hello, nice to meet you, how do you pronounce your name?
MOV: Sweetie, don’t do that. Just ask me real questions. Project Runway is on in 10 minutes.
TH: (whispering, so as not to break character—in case TV crews are recording us in the living room) I was trying to be realistic.
MOV: Read off the sheet I typed up. (pointing)
TH: What experience do you have?
MOV: Well, I was a flight attendant for a decade so that gives me lots of customer service background and …
TH: Don’t say decade, that sound stupid. It sounds rehearsed. No one says decade; say “10 years.”
MOV: (ignoring him) What does the sheet say?
TH: You know this is a kitchen store, do you like to cook?
MOV: Yes, I love to cook. I am an excellent cook. My family also …
TH: Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!
MOV: (impatient) What now? What’s so funny?
TH: You don’t cook! You don’t know the difference between a whisk and a spatula! You don’t even know how to turn on the stove!
MOV: I do too. Plus, the kitchen store people will probably expect me to at least be familiar with their merchandise.
TH: What are you going to do—call me at home? “Sweetie, this customer wants to buy a grill pan, is that the one with the raised ridges on it?” Or “What is a santoku hollow-ground knife?” Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!
MOV: (teeth clenched) Stop it. My show is almost on. Focus on the sheet.
TH: If there was a “problem” customer, what would you do?
MOV: I would be very polite and try my best to empathize with them and solve their problem, all the while following company guidelines and procedures.
TH: Oh, that was pretty good. Sounded kinda convincing. All right. Uh, why do you want to work here?
MOV: My availability would be evenings after six or pretty much any shift on the weekend.
TH: No. I didn’t say what hours can you work, I said why do you want to work here? Is it because of the discount?
MOV: I’m trying to be serious here. Quit doing that. (starting to crack up a little)
TH: I’m sorry. What I meant to say is: are you just begging me for a job so you can have a discount?
MOV: (going along with it) Yes, that’s right.
TH: Okay, then, do you have any questions for me, MOV?
MOV: When will I hear back? When can I start? And what is the discount?
You know what happens next. There I am, in the real interview, and my (future) boss is asking me all the same things I rehearsed with The Husband. I feel relaxed and confident because I already know all the answers to her questions. And then she gets to that final one: “Do you have any questions for me?”
My mind immediately races to my practice answer “What is the discount?” and I start laughing. I imagine the Husband sitting here with me in this back office with the rows of pristine white aprons hanging on hooks lining the wall and him saying “Is that why you want to work here?” and me saying “You betcha!” I cannot get this soundtrack from our minterview out of my brain.
The interviewer is staring at me. She doesn’t understand why I’m giggling (and between you and me, would it be unprofessional to giggle at the “problem” customers? I’m guessing it would). Finally, I try to squeak out an answer (“I don’t have any more questions for you, sorry, I laugh when I’m nervous sometimes”), when she drops the bomb.
“We expect our employees to be very flexible about their scheduling blah-blah-blah social security something-or-other corporate secrets blah-blah-blah and by the way, our discount is 90% off.”
Yippee! 90% off!
Just when I think it can’t get any better (and I know you are thinking this whole blog is a dream sequence and I assure you it is not) she says,
“… and you also get the discount at our sister store, Flawless Forte. Same discount of 90% off.” She smiles broadly, revealing model-straight teeth that an orthodontist would kill to have featured in his ads for the “After” photos.
“Excuse me, did you just say the discount applies at Flawless Forte? Because that is one of my favorite stores! Almost my entire house is from Flawless Forte!” I am babbling.
“Good, good—me, too! When can you start?” She gets out her notepad, ready to write in my start date.
I am already standing and reaching for a white apron. “I can start right now,” I say enthusiastically. “Let me just call my husband and ask him a quick question about kansotu grill whisks.”
MOV
(“Mom’s Other Vocation”)
Saturday, January 15, 2011
299. An Inventory Of Sorts
My boss from the high-end kitchen store called me at home yesterday. “We need to talk,” she said, which we all know is shorthand for “I need to talk and you need to listen.”
What could she possibly be calling about, I wondered. Surely she had moved past the Unfortunate Incident of me eating an entire tray of chocolate covered almonds we were sampling at Christmas time (and in my defense, the tray had been on the counter in the back kitchen, how was I supposed to know it wasn’t intended for the employees?). And I hope she’d gotten over the time a few weeks ago when the actor Ben Affleck had sauntered into our store and I’d followed him around for half an hour like a puppy dog (come on, we’re talking Ben Affleck! I can’t be blamed for that).
“MOV,” she began in her firm, no-nonsense voice, “corporate sent me an email about you.”
My heart was racing. Was this good news? Would I be named Top Seller of the Year or maybe Most Helpful Associate in the Eastern Division?
“They said you have bought everything in the store. There is nothing left to buy, and furthermore, they believe that without the motivation of beautiful things you can buy at a huge discount, you just won’t be a very focused employee.”
“Wha— wha— what are you saying?!” I stuttered in disbelief. “I certainly have not bought everything, I think that might be a slight exaggeration, don’t you? I mean, I never bought the deep fryer or the panini press.“
“Our records indicate you have. Be honest, MOV, you bought the espresso machine, the blender, the toaster, the coffee maker, the All-clad pans, the Wusthof knives, the linens, the lead-crystal wine glasses, the French china, all that bakeware….”
“But, but..... so? That doesn’t mean anything! There are still plenty of things for me to buy!”
She paused. “Like what?”
“Uh,” I tried to rally, “uh, there are a couple cookbooks I haven’t bought yet? I could maybe, you know, buy a cake stand?”
“Ha! A cake stand! I have copies of all your receipts from the past three years right here in my hands and you bought a cake stand the very first week you worked here!”
She wasn’t making this easy.
“Boss, I don’t need to buy any more things. You’re right about that. But a paycheck, the money itself, could be a powerful motivator for me. I promise I will still do a good job, even though I have everything already. Please give me another chance.”
I heard her give a weary sigh. “MOV, when I spoke to corporate, they were pretty clear about their decision. Most of our employees don’t want to be paid in cash. They want pans.”
“Well, Boss, surely this has happened before? There must be some other employee that has gone through this same sort of thing, what did you do about this in the past?”
“MOV, I don’t know what to tell you. Your situation is rare. The last time this occurred, it was with an employee that had been with the company for fifteen years. You’ve only been here three and a half.”
Once again, I was the overachiever.
MOV
("Mom's Other Vocation")
What could she possibly be calling about, I wondered. Surely she had moved past the Unfortunate Incident of me eating an entire tray of chocolate covered almonds we were sampling at Christmas time (and in my defense, the tray had been on the counter in the back kitchen, how was I supposed to know it wasn’t intended for the employees?). And I hope she’d gotten over the time a few weeks ago when the actor Ben Affleck had sauntered into our store and I’d followed him around for half an hour like a puppy dog (come on, we’re talking Ben Affleck! I can’t be blamed for that).
“MOV,” she began in her firm, no-nonsense voice, “corporate sent me an email about you.”
My heart was racing. Was this good news? Would I be named Top Seller of the Year or maybe Most Helpful Associate in the Eastern Division?
“They said you have bought everything in the store. There is nothing left to buy, and furthermore, they believe that without the motivation of beautiful things you can buy at a huge discount, you just won’t be a very focused employee.”
“Wha— wha— what are you saying?!” I stuttered in disbelief. “I certainly have not bought everything, I think that might be a slight exaggeration, don’t you? I mean, I never bought the deep fryer or the panini press.“
“Our records indicate you have. Be honest, MOV, you bought the espresso machine, the blender, the toaster, the coffee maker, the All-clad pans, the Wusthof knives, the linens, the lead-crystal wine glasses, the French china, all that bakeware….”
“But, but..... so? That doesn’t mean anything! There are still plenty of things for me to buy!”
She paused. “Like what?”
“Uh,” I tried to rally, “uh, there are a couple cookbooks I haven’t bought yet? I could maybe, you know, buy a cake stand?”
“Ha! A cake stand! I have copies of all your receipts from the past three years right here in my hands and you bought a cake stand the very first week you worked here!”
She wasn’t making this easy.
“Boss, I don’t need to buy any more things. You’re right about that. But a paycheck, the money itself, could be a powerful motivator for me. I promise I will still do a good job, even though I have everything already. Please give me another chance.”
I heard her give a weary sigh. “MOV, when I spoke to corporate, they were pretty clear about their decision. Most of our employees don’t want to be paid in cash. They want pans.”
“Well, Boss, surely this has happened before? There must be some other employee that has gone through this same sort of thing, what did you do about this in the past?”
“MOV, I don’t know what to tell you. Your situation is rare. The last time this occurred, it was with an employee that had been with the company for fifteen years. You’ve only been here three and a half.”
Once again, I was the overachiever.
MOV
("Mom's Other Vocation")
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
232. All Those Parties
Every year, we throw lots and lots of parties (I'm being facetious here: think two). When the Husband and I are preparing for said party, words like “paper plates” and “plastic cups” and even “cooler of beer” are bandied about.
The high-end kitchen store where I work would have you think otherwise. High-end kitchen store believes in crystal for the children’s instant-powdered orange juice and $250 platters from France to lay out some stale Chips Ahoy cookies for an after-school snack. At the high-end kitchen store, no event (read: morning coffee) is considered too mundane to get out the real linen napkins.
So the Princessa in me (she’s in there, hi P!) lovingly walks around the high-end kitchen store pretending to “work”, saying hi-may-I-help-you to random shoppers, all the while stopping to pet the holiday table display with the 12 Days of Christmas plates and Nutcracker napkin rings. Princessa thinks this would work well for her next sit-down dinner party for 12. Yes, yes, there’s that formal dinner party on the calendar: the day after never.
Princessa ignores the calendar. She goes right back to ogling the beautiful merchandise that the high-end kitchen store buyers on the West Coast have deemed Desirable this year, or better yet, Must-Have. Princessa adores those West Coast buyers, and firmly believes that this entire crystal/china/linen section is necessary to her complete well-being and happiness.
Princessa’s itty-bitty Paycheck ($132.77) begs to differ. With the brutal honesty Paycheck has been known for in the past, Paycheck spells it out for Princessa by phone (although Princessa likes the idea of online-banking, it’s so easy to just dial the automated system and punch in a few numbers). Paycheck rudely leaves off a few crucial zeroes.
On behalf of inner-Princessa, I boldly and confidently confront The Boss when she doesn't look too busy (she is only calculating the store's profit margin for the past 3 months and making a grid chart with units-per-transaction sold ratio compared to number of employees scheduled to present to the Regional Director who will be here in 10 minutes), “Excuse me, Boss? Uh, when I called about my paycheck, it turns out...... I mean, ummm...... I think the amount is, uh, wrong?”
She nods at me; she understands this horrific situation. Then, she kindly looks up my hours in the computer, only hesitating to roll her eyes once or possibly twice this time.
“You are absolutely right. It’s wrong,” she confirms in her no-nonsense tone (the same tone she tells employees they will be working at 4 AM the day after Thanksgiving and until midnight on Christmas Eve).
I smile for myself and Princessa. I knew it!
“We overpaid you by about 1.5 hours. But you know, MOV, it’s not a big deal. You deserve it.” Now she is nodding at me, nod-nod-nod, the same nod she gives customers when she demonstrates the espresso machines, you-really-need-this-so-buy-it-today. I am nodding, too. I don’t need a new espresso machine, but I do very much need the extra hour-and-a-half of pay.
Princessa is pouting. “But, but, but what about the new silverware I need for all those parties?” she wonders to herself, her blue Princessa eyes filling with tears.
After work, Princessa and I stop somewhere and purchase the much-needed silverware: plastic, $4.99 for a set of 20, from the corner drugstore by my house.
MOV
The high-end kitchen store where I work would have you think otherwise. High-end kitchen store believes in crystal for the children’s instant-powdered orange juice and $250 platters from France to lay out some stale Chips Ahoy cookies for an after-school snack. At the high-end kitchen store, no event (read: morning coffee) is considered too mundane to get out the real linen napkins.
So the Princessa in me (she’s in there, hi P!) lovingly walks around the high-end kitchen store pretending to “work”, saying hi-may-I-help-you to random shoppers, all the while stopping to pet the holiday table display with the 12 Days of Christmas plates and Nutcracker napkin rings. Princessa thinks this would work well for her next sit-down dinner party for 12. Yes, yes, there’s that formal dinner party on the calendar: the day after never.
Princessa ignores the calendar. She goes right back to ogling the beautiful merchandise that the high-end kitchen store buyers on the West Coast have deemed Desirable this year, or better yet, Must-Have. Princessa adores those West Coast buyers, and firmly believes that this entire crystal/china/linen section is necessary to her complete well-being and happiness.
Princessa’s itty-bitty Paycheck ($132.77) begs to differ. With the brutal honesty Paycheck has been known for in the past, Paycheck spells it out for Princessa by phone (although Princessa likes the idea of online-banking, it’s so easy to just dial the automated system and punch in a few numbers). Paycheck rudely leaves off a few crucial zeroes.
On behalf of inner-Princessa, I boldly and confidently confront The Boss when she doesn't look too busy (she is only calculating the store's profit margin for the past 3 months and making a grid chart with units-per-transaction sold ratio compared to number of employees scheduled to present to the Regional Director who will be here in 10 minutes), “Excuse me, Boss? Uh, when I called about my paycheck, it turns out...... I mean, ummm...... I think the amount is, uh, wrong?”
She nods at me; she understands this horrific situation. Then, she kindly looks up my hours in the computer, only hesitating to roll her eyes once or possibly twice this time.
“You are absolutely right. It’s wrong,” she confirms in her no-nonsense tone (the same tone she tells employees they will be working at 4 AM the day after Thanksgiving and until midnight on Christmas Eve).
I smile for myself and Princessa. I knew it!
“We overpaid you by about 1.5 hours. But you know, MOV, it’s not a big deal. You deserve it.” Now she is nodding at me, nod-nod-nod, the same nod she gives customers when she demonstrates the espresso machines, you-really-need-this-so-buy-it-today. I am nodding, too. I don’t need a new espresso machine, but I do very much need the extra hour-and-a-half of pay.
Princessa is pouting. “But, but, but what about the new silverware I need for all those parties?” she wonders to herself, her blue Princessa eyes filling with tears.
After work, Princessa and I stop somewhere and purchase the much-needed silverware: plastic, $4.99 for a set of 20, from the corner drugstore by my house.
MOV
Sunday, November 14, 2010
208. Why I Hate Ads
Okay, I admit, I don’t really hate ads. Hate is a very strong word. In fact, just the other day as I was drinking my (Starbucks) latte and reading my latest (House Beautiful) magazine while I was lounging in my comfy leather chair (from Pottery Barn), I was thinking how much I actually enjoy those very clever commercials I see on TV (Sony, purchased at Best Buy) when they air during the Super Bowl. I am not even a huge hockey fan (baseball? lacrosse? remind me which sport they play for Super Bowl) but when The Husband is watching the Super Bowl, I admit that I watch it too, but primarily for the entertaining and funny advertisements (such as the highly effective commercial with the squirrels running in Pamplona, like the running of the bulls, but instead of bulls it was squirrels! get it? they were selling, uh, uh..... maybe they were selling squirrels?).
Ads do serve their purpose. They hopefully get you to go to the place (for a random example, perhaps a high-end kitchen store) and spend your hard-earned dollars buying something you may or may not need (like a salad spinner or a $2500 espresso machine). I totally get this.
What I don’t get is WHY when I want to be on the computer and read someone’s blog, then SHEBANG! this stupid ad pops up. Why can’t I just read the funny thing (or research what type of red-leafed tree is in my backyard or learn how to make origami paper airplanes—my 6-year-old’s latest obsession) without being visually assaulted by unwanted ads? The ad is never something helpful, like how to care for red-leafed trees that might be growing in your yard or where to buy cheap books that show origami step-by-step; no. The ad is inevitably do you want to know your Credit Score (not really; I prefer to run and hide from my Credit Score……… why? does my Credit Score want to know me? did it, you know, call and ask if I was available to get together or if I thought it was cute?). Or, the ad might be: buy this really expensive car right now! (Hey, Marketing Genius? If I had the money to buy that really expensive car, do you think I would be here looking at Craig’s List for a new coffee table?).
The bottom line is: advertisements don’t work on me. Like that time the other day when Shutterbug popped up and offered $10 off plus free shipping. Who cares? (Although, I truly did need to place an order for Christmas cards, but I, like, was totally planning to do that anyway.)
Okay, that one doesn’t count.
As I was saying, I am not just one of these nameless little sheep that just do whatever the advertisers tell him/her (it?) to do. I don’t need new business cards (Got Ink), thankyouverymuch. Uh, actually, their business cards do look super cute. And wow, 2 day shipping, that’s impressive. 33 cents per card, do they even break even on that? it would be kind of criminal not to order the cards, I mean, they are practically paying me.
So, my message to all you advertisers out there is: please leave me and my poor antique computer alone. I abhor your ads, especially the crazy ones that move around the page and follow me. Makes me a little nervous and uncomfortable. If I want someone to follow me, I’ll just tell my 4-year-old that I might share my M&M’s with him.
And now if you’ll excuse me, I have some really expensive cars I need to go look at.
MOV
PS--What I forgot to say, which I meant to is: I will never sell out. You will never see ads here in my blog, even if it happens to be a favorite product of mine. I Absolut -ly will not do ads! There is no Gap between my integrity/morals and the way I live my life. I think it's safe to say we are all United on that front. So, go enjoy some (Baskin-Robbins) ice cream and kick back and read my ad-free blog.
Ads do serve their purpose. They hopefully get you to go to the place (for a random example, perhaps a high-end kitchen store) and spend your hard-earned dollars buying something you may or may not need (like a salad spinner or a $2500 espresso machine). I totally get this.
What I don’t get is WHY when I want to be on the computer and read someone’s blog, then SHEBANG! this stupid ad pops up. Why can’t I just read the funny thing (or research what type of red-leafed tree is in my backyard or learn how to make origami paper airplanes—my 6-year-old’s latest obsession) without being visually assaulted by unwanted ads? The ad is never something helpful, like how to care for red-leafed trees that might be growing in your yard or where to buy cheap books that show origami step-by-step; no. The ad is inevitably do you want to know your Credit Score (not really; I prefer to run and hide from my Credit Score……… why? does my Credit Score want to know me? did it, you know, call and ask if I was available to get together or if I thought it was cute?). Or, the ad might be: buy this really expensive car right now! (Hey, Marketing Genius? If I had the money to buy that really expensive car, do you think I would be here looking at Craig’s List for a new coffee table?).
The bottom line is: advertisements don’t work on me. Like that time the other day when Shutterbug popped up and offered $10 off plus free shipping. Who cares? (Although, I truly did need to place an order for Christmas cards, but I, like, was totally planning to do that anyway.)
Okay, that one doesn’t count.
As I was saying, I am not just one of these nameless little sheep that just do whatever the advertisers tell him/her (it?) to do. I don’t need new business cards (Got Ink), thankyouverymuch. Uh, actually, their business cards do look super cute. And wow, 2 day shipping, that’s impressive. 33 cents per card, do they even break even on that? it would be kind of criminal not to order the cards, I mean, they are practically paying me.
So, my message to all you advertisers out there is: please leave me and my poor antique computer alone. I abhor your ads, especially the crazy ones that move around the page and follow me. Makes me a little nervous and uncomfortable. If I want someone to follow me, I’ll just tell my 4-year-old that I might share my M&M’s with him.
And now if you’ll excuse me, I have some really expensive cars I need to go look at.
MOV
PS--What I forgot to say, which I meant to is: I will never sell out. You will never see ads here in my blog, even if it happens to be a favorite product of mine. I Absolut -ly will not do ads! There is no Gap between my integrity/morals and the way I live my life. I think it's safe to say we are all United on that front. So, go enjoy some (Baskin-Robbins) ice cream and kick back and read my ad-free blog.
Monday, September 27, 2010
147. I'm Here To Complain About My Free Sample
So I work part-time in a high-end kitchen store (is it possibly the kitchen store you are imagining in your mind right now? yes). My days there are usually uneventful, but I must confess, it's a hell of a lot more interesting when the professional entertainers arrive:
"Excuse me, Miss? I'd like to complain about my free sample. What's the problem? well, the cake is dry and there's too little of it. I'd like another piece."
"Can I talk to a manager? I feel sick after eating that sample. I think it must have nuts in it and you didn't warn me about that and I have allergies. Oh, the large sign that says, 'Contains Nuts' right next to the samples? Well, how could I be expected to read that while I'm eating?"
"I need to return this $2000 espresso machine. Yeah, I've owned it, oh, I guess about seven years and one day it just stopped working! Here's my original receipt I saved. Can I have a brand new upgraded espresso machine now for free?"
"Is your gift-wrapping service free? yes? Great, will you please gift-wrap these items." Five minutes later: "Huh. That looks ugly. I don't care for that wrapping paper you used. What other choices are there?"
"Where are the free samples? You're not doing them today? WHY NOT? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"
"Huh, I saw that same pan at Target for, like, $40 less. It's a different material? So? Yours is still too pricey."
"I bought this at the Outlet for like 50% off. I don't like it anymore. Can I return it here even though the receipt says 'All Sales Final'?"
"Do you sell clocks?"
"So you sell bath towels?"
"Do you sell wicker baskets to store magazines in?"
"Do you sell ice-cream? I don't mean ice-cream mix. I mean already frozen ice-cream. Why not?"
"Is there alcohol in this margarita sample? why not?"
"Can I return this pepper grinder I stole?"
"I'd like to buy this delicious topping I bought here last year. Uh, I can't remember the exact name, but I think it had the word 'Sauce' in the title."
"I went to make a pumpkin cheesecake and I bought all the special ingredients and had them all mixed and then when I went to pour it in your special cheesecake pan, the pan had a tiny scratch on it and I had to throw EVERYTHING away! It's all your fault and I want my money back PLUS the money for the ingredients. No, I don't have my receipt."
"Do you carry your 'Santa-Blend Holiday Cocoa' all year or just in December?"
"Do you carry the latest book by that really famous cookbook author who is on the cooking channel? Uh, I can't remember her name. She's older, and usually wears a red apron. Oh, wait, maybe it's a guy."
"I am not happy with your free cooking class because you didn't serve enough to make me full. I still have to go buy lunch somewhere now."
"I just ate one of those pink cupcakes you have in your front window display, but they taste stale!"
"The girl put it on hold for me, I called about four weeks ago. You only have a three-day hold policy? What do you mean you put it back on the sales floor and sold it now?"
"My husband dropped this new porcelain platter we got for a wedding present and it broke. I don't have a gift receipt, but I need to exchange it for a new one that is not broken. For free."
"I'd like to look up my best friend's wedding registry." Five minutes later: "Ugh, she sure registered for a lot of stupid stuff! She'll never use these things. Wow, is she dumber than I thought. I guess I'll just buy her what I like."
"This knife broke when I was using it to pry our kitchen window open when it was stuck. I'd like to exchange it because it is obviously defective."
"I should be in your system." (They are paying in cash.)
"I shop here all the time." (You have never seen them in the three years you've worked here.)
"Have you seen my child?"
"Have you seen my purse?"
"Have you seen my cell phone?"
"Have you seen my keys?"
"Have you seen my shopping bags?"
"I can't find my car in the parking lot, can you help me?"
"Have you seen my husband?"
"Have you seen my Starbucks cup?"
"Are you open on Thanksgiving? why not?"
Corporate, if you're listening: Thank you for sending in the entertainers! They give us something to laugh about every day.
MOV
("Marvelling Over Variety")
"Excuse me, Miss? I'd like to complain about my free sample. What's the problem? well, the cake is dry and there's too little of it. I'd like another piece."
"Can I talk to a manager? I feel sick after eating that sample. I think it must have nuts in it and you didn't warn me about that and I have allergies. Oh, the large sign that says, 'Contains Nuts' right next to the samples? Well, how could I be expected to read that while I'm eating?"
"I need to return this $2000 espresso machine. Yeah, I've owned it, oh, I guess about seven years and one day it just stopped working! Here's my original receipt I saved. Can I have a brand new upgraded espresso machine now for free?"
"Is your gift-wrapping service free? yes? Great, will you please gift-wrap these items." Five minutes later: "Huh. That looks ugly. I don't care for that wrapping paper you used. What other choices are there?"
"Where are the free samples? You're not doing them today? WHY NOT? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"
"Huh, I saw that same pan at Target for, like, $40 less. It's a different material? So? Yours is still too pricey."
"I bought this at the Outlet for like 50% off. I don't like it anymore. Can I return it here even though the receipt says 'All Sales Final'?"
"Do you sell clocks?"
"So you sell bath towels?"
"Do you sell wicker baskets to store magazines in?"
"Do you sell ice-cream? I don't mean ice-cream mix. I mean already frozen ice-cream. Why not?"
"Is there alcohol in this margarita sample? why not?"
"Can I return this pepper grinder I stole?"
"I'd like to buy this delicious topping I bought here last year. Uh, I can't remember the exact name, but I think it had the word 'Sauce' in the title."
"I went to make a pumpkin cheesecake and I bought all the special ingredients and had them all mixed and then when I went to pour it in your special cheesecake pan, the pan had a tiny scratch on it and I had to throw EVERYTHING away! It's all your fault and I want my money back PLUS the money for the ingredients. No, I don't have my receipt."
"Do you carry your 'Santa-Blend Holiday Cocoa' all year or just in December?"
"Do you carry the latest book by that really famous cookbook author who is on the cooking channel? Uh, I can't remember her name. She's older, and usually wears a red apron. Oh, wait, maybe it's a guy."
"I am not happy with your free cooking class because you didn't serve enough to make me full. I still have to go buy lunch somewhere now."
"I just ate one of those pink cupcakes you have in your front window display, but they taste stale!"
"The girl put it on hold for me, I called about four weeks ago. You only have a three-day hold policy? What do you mean you put it back on the sales floor and sold it now?"
"My husband dropped this new porcelain platter we got for a wedding present and it broke. I don't have a gift receipt, but I need to exchange it for a new one that is not broken. For free."
"I'd like to look up my best friend's wedding registry." Five minutes later: "Ugh, she sure registered for a lot of stupid stuff! She'll never use these things. Wow, is she dumber than I thought. I guess I'll just buy her what I like."
"This knife broke when I was using it to pry our kitchen window open when it was stuck. I'd like to exchange it because it is obviously defective."
"I should be in your system." (They are paying in cash.)
"I shop here all the time." (You have never seen them in the three years you've worked here.)
"Have you seen my child?"
"Have you seen my purse?"
"Have you seen my cell phone?"
"Have you seen my keys?"
"Have you seen my shopping bags?"
"I can't find my car in the parking lot, can you help me?"
"Have you seen my husband?"
"Have you seen my Starbucks cup?"
"Are you open on Thanksgiving? why not?"
Corporate, if you're listening: Thank you for sending in the entertainers! They give us something to laugh about every day.
MOV
("Marvelling Over Variety")
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)