572. The Blond Monkey Society

So I haven’t been completely honest with you about my Top-Secret Job (not my New Better-Paying Top Secret Job, but the one I did right before that for, like, a week … the one where I got to wear scrubs—try to keep up). I told the Top-Secret Job when I was quitting that the reason I was quitting was because I was offered a better job—which is true to an extent. I mean, who wouldn’t want to earn more money? But, the real reason I left is because the manager called me a blind monkey.

I have nothing against monkeys. Sure, they’re cute in a spontaneous-looking sort of way. They always seem to have an awful lot of friends, and who am I to begrudge them if they want to eat 28 bananas in one sitting? But when it comes right down to it, I would mostly prefer not to be compared to a monkey, blind or otherwise.

Flashback to my second day of training. The manager was training me about special invoicing codes on the computer. I was entering the numbers and he was literally looking over my shoulder to make sure I did everything correctly. Then he took a break to zip out for coffee.

I kept clicking away, code-code-code.

When he got back, he said, “I need to double-check everything you just did.”

Now, a normal person might be offended by this statement. Not me. Ever since I quit the one thing I was good at (flight attendant-ing), I have been more than grateful to have someone check my work.

He glanced through my folders and cross-referenced the accounts on the screen. “Wow! You did it right!” said the manager, the same person who had initially hired me. And then he had to go and add, “But this job is really so easy. A blind monkey could do it.”

At first I laughed. A blind monkey! What an image! But then I thought—wait, did he just call me a blind monkey? Should I be offended here? Should I have a human rights (or monkey rights) lawyer on speed-dial right about now?

I did what I usually do when somebody insults me: nothing. Because I have a sense of humor.

I thought it was funny. I don’t take myself or managers hurling around strange new terminology like “blind monkey” too seriously.

I went to work the following Sunday at the high-end kitchen store where I immediately over-shared and told my friend Nate about the blind monkey comparison.

Nate is a great guy, but he just became fixated on the phrase, which in turn made me become even more fixated on the term than I had previously been. We were like two junior high kids sitting next to each other in Algebra class making fun of the teacher and ignoring everything else. Every transaction became an opportunity to use our new phrase:


Me: Nate, can you get The Boss for me? I have a question on this special order.

Nate: You need her for that? Even a blind monkey could place a special order!


Me: Hey Nate? Are we out of lemon dish soap refills?

Nate: MOV, they’re tons of them left. They’re on that back feature next to dish towels. Even a blind monkey could’ve found them!


Me (in the back gift wrapping a package): Hey Nate, what time are you going to lunch?

Nate: (completely ignoring my question): You call THAT a gift wrap? Ugh—what a mess! Even a blind monkey could do a better job!


Me: I made pancakes on Saturday morning, but I totally tried something new! I grated some orange peel and cinnamon into the batter. It was fantastic.

Nate: Even a blind monkey would try that recipe!


Nate sent me an email the other night. He had designed a t-shirt online with (guess) a blind monkey on the front.  The monkey had on oversized dark glasses and he held a walking stick.  The back of the shirt had the words: “Even a blind monkey could do that …”

I ordered mine is size large. Should be here next week.

MOV
("Monkeys Of Veritas")