Saturday, October 29, 2005

Tomatos, laundry, and Victoria's Secret.

First of all, if you're not already reading the writings of Sarah D. Bunting at Tomato Nation, you must be a very boring person indeed. Should you ever find yourself with nothing to do (or should you find yourself with so much to do that the only option you have is to procrastinate), you can lose yourself in the Ketchup Archives of Sars' witty observations of society and pop culture.

A few years ago, she wrote a zany little piece on laundry, which you should really go read: here. Go on, I'll wait. Really.

Funny, huh?

What's funnier is that I know exactly how she feels, Jimmy Hoffa notwithstanding. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you clearly did not go read that essay when I told you to. Go!)

College prepares you for a lot of things in life, but regular laundering is not one of them. When you're in college, laundry rooms are dark, dirty, cold, and far away. The laundry machines cost money, and I don't care how broke you are, nobody asks for a laundry card for Christmas. So when you suddenly find your underwear drawer empty, it is often easier to just buy new underwear, rather than undertake the tedious task of laundry. This is why I have 43 pairs of underwear.

This undergraduate logic makes for some bad habits later in life, because once you graduate from college and move into your own apartment, your new place will probably still have a dark, dirty, far-away laundry room with machines that cost money. And you still will not want to do laundry any more than is absolutely necessary to keep from being arrested for indecent exposure. Or indecent odor. Or both. This point may be moot if, after college, you moved back in with your parents and your mother still does you laundry, in which case you have bigger problems than this.

Perhaps if college dormitories and independent apartment complexes would not insist on charging us $20.00 everytime we need clean clothes, we might not be so eager to go out and buy $10.00 worth of new underwear just to avoid the whole headache. I practically own stock in Victoria's Secret.

On the upside, laundry gives me an excellent excuse to visit my parents.

And hey, while you're getting Ketchup all over yourself at the Tomato Nation archives, make sure you read Sars' heartbreaking account of her experience in New York on Sept. 11, 2001: For Thou Art With Us. Nobody can be a comedian all the time.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Adventures in Retail

While I was at work today, I answered a phone call from a rather bubbly customer who wanted to know how late we were open. During our 15 second conversation, she called me “babe,” “honey,” “sweetie,” “kiddo,” “dear,” and “darling,” practically all in a row. She was very sweet, if a bit peculiar, and I hung up the phone laughing.

I would much rather deal with a person who oddly ends every sentence with a term of endearment than a person who can never seem to shake off the giant chip they found on their shoulder that morning.

If there is one thing that I would like to hammer home to the American Retail Consumer, should I have the opportunity to do so someday, it would be this: STOP BLAMING THE EMPLOYEE. Nothing makes the average retail employee shut down faster than unmitigated and undeserved wrath for a problem with a store policy, manufacturing issues, or consumer error. In other words, if you want me to fix your problem, bring me a problem I can fix.

I make a personal commitment to be kind, understanding, friendly, sympathetic, and available to every single customer that walks through my door. More often than not, I can help you find what you’re looking for, I can answer questions you haven’t even thought of yet, and I can do it happily. I go out of my way for people every day, because that is what makes people want to come back. But if you come into my store looking for a fight, you’re just going to piss me off. I’ll still do my best to help you, but I will remember you. I remember everyone anyway, but wouldn’t you rather I remember you and ask how your kids are than remember you and want to spray you with mace?

The key to being a good employee is not in knowing all the store procedures; it is not in knowing all the products on the market or being able to answer customer questions; it is not even in being nice to customers or fellow employees. The key is in knowing how to deal with the bastards.

A while ago, at the locally owned mom-and-pop store where I work, we had new-ish employee. She was average; she could do her job and was a reasonably nice person. One day a customer came in who wanted to return something that was clearly against our return policy, and which was obviously a result of customer error. When our employee (let’s call her Alice) refused to return the merchandise, the customer began to morph into Bitchy Customer Who Likes to Make a Scene. BCWLMS argued with Alice about the justification of her return, and Alice argued back. BCWLMS started to make nasty personal comments, and the discussion became heated. Alice was working by herself, with no management around. She tried to call a couple of people in management, but got no answer. Alice eventually told BCWLMS that if she continued to make a scene in the store, she would have to call the police. BCWLMS eventually left the store, contacted management on her own, and Alice was fired.

One could argue that Alice got completely fucked in this deal, as she was absolutely right about the store return policy and did all she could to keep the situation under control. This is where I start to sound cold-hearted, but I was in general support of Alice being fired. She handled the situation completely wrong. BCWLMS should never have gotten upset enough to warrant a scene. I suspect that if the conversation had been handled properly, the customer would not have grown so angry in the first place, and Alice could have recommended alternate courses of action to her, other than returning the merchandise to us. Even if that had not been possible, a good employee sees the red flags before they have been raised. If the situation is escalating beyond resolution, you refer responsibility: ask the customer to come back during a time when management will be present so they can talk directly to the boss. Find a way to keep them happy until somebody smarter than you can fix this. If all else fails, take back the freaking merchandise. This isn’t Soviet Russia, you don’t have a chain-smoking mob boss breathing down your neck, ready to chop off your little finger if you make a mistake at work. Any sensible store owner would prefer that you give the woman her $24.99 refund than cause a scene where you alienate not only BCWLMS, but also every customer in ear shot. And unless your BCWLMS is drunk or wielding a knife in your direction, you never threaten to call the police on them. That old adage, “The customer is always right”? Not true. More accurately: “The customer is not often right, but you sure as hell better act like they are or they won’t come back, and they’ll tell seven of their friends to stay away, too.” A really good employee will not only resolve the situation, but will make the customer feel as if it were somehow his/her own idea. And sell them something else at the same time. Don’t laugh, I’ve done it.

I will be the first person to say that BCWLMS was wrong and unkind. But unfortunately, in retail, that’s life. If you want to be a good employee, you shelve your feelings and do what’s best for the store, because that’s what we call a work ethic. So while BCWLMS was wrong, Alice was worse.

Much of this drama could be avoided if the American Retail Customer would hold up their end of things. Common courtesy goes a long way, people, and it’s surprisingly easy to make a retail employee happy:

  • First, don’t assume the employee is at fault for store policy. We don’t make the rules, and it’s not our goal to make life difficult for you, promise.

  • Second, we’re having a long day, too. The least you could do is smile or say hello when we say hello to you.

  • Third, if you can’t control your children, either leave them at home, or have them put to sleep. Yes, that sleep. I am not paid to babysit your kids, or listen to them scream, cry, yelp, or whine. Running is dangerous and annoying. Look, I get that sometimes children are unruly and hard to placate, but the appropriate response to your son sending a toy car flying into my glass door is not “Good one, Timmy!” so don’t make me call Nanny 911 on your asses.

  • Fourth, don’t talk up our competition stores in my presence. It’s rude. Especially in a small, locally owned, non-chain store.

  • Fifth, don’t expect preferential treatment, even if you are a “regular.” I do my very best to go out of my way for all my customers, and if I can, I will accommodate your bizarre requests. But they should be requests, not demands, because that sense of arrogant entitlement is an ugly trait. This is retail; we don’t have high-rollers. If I want to give you preferential treatment, it should be my idea, not yours.

  • Finally, please at least make an effort to find out what time we close. If you are in my store at closing time (and you said hello to me when you walked in) I will not kick you out. I will let you wander until you are finished shopping, because that it is the kind thing to do, and you might spend more money. But inwardly, I am screaming at you to GET OUT OF MY FREAKING STORE I WANT TO CLOSE UP AND GET HOME BEFORE LOST AND I HAVEN’T HAD ANYTHING TO EAT TODAY EXCEPT COFFEE AND TWIZZLERS SO IT WOULD BE NICE IF YOU COULD HURRY IT ALONG THANK YOU VERY MUCH. And if you keep me a half-hour past closing time, and you show up to my counter with $3.85 worth of merchandise, I reserve the right to sneeze on your change.
Thank you, have a nice day, and come again.

Monday, October 24, 2005

My birthday is coming up.

My mother asked me the other day to tell her what I want for my birthday (and for Christmas), and I drew a blank. I hate telling someone what to buy me for a given occasion, because I think that gifts should come from the heart; they should be inspired and clever and perfect and surprising. Material possessions are nothing compared to the sentiment.

But I totally want an iPod. Or Tivo.

I don’t like to assume that I am going to be showered with gifts on the anniversary of my birth, because it is pretentious and egomaniacal to consider oneself worthy of a holiday without earning it. People are born everyday who are going to have a much greater impact on the world than myself. Today, somewhere in the world, a child was born who will grow up to cure cancer, or teach deaf kids, or become a saint, or start a religion, or invent an electric toothbrush that doesn’t get toothpaste all over your mirror. Give your $17.99 to that guy instead of buying me a CD that I’m going to grow sick of in 6 weeks and never listen to again.

That said, if any of my close friends were to forget my birthday altogether, they’d be on my shit list until Christmas.

However snarky I may sound, I’m actually very thankful for any gifts I do receive, and I feel genuinely touched when people remember what day I was born. I just don’t like to presume that they will. So for those of you keeping track at home, my birthday is November 12, and I would like an iPod. Or Tivo. Thank you.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

That's my Craiggles.

Work makes me homicidal. Responsibility gives me cramps. Being an adult drives me to drink. But 5 times out of 7, I know that at the end of the day I have someone waiting for me at home to welcome me with open arms and a knowing glance: my boyfriend, TV’s Craig Ferguson.

All throughout college (and much of high school), I was devoutly faithful to my then-boyfriend, Conan O’Brien. I mentioned my ex briefly during my rant on the Emmys, and I will only expand on that to say that I harbor no hard feelings toward him. I think we simply grew apart. His somewhat juvenile humor was enough to sustain me during that period of my life, and we had some very special moments that I will always hold dear to my heart. I will never look at a porcupine, for example, the same way again. But in the end, I needed someone who was speaking my language, someone who understood where I was in my life, who really knew me. Someone with an accent.

Every night at 11:35, Craig sings to me:

“It’s hard to stay up
it’s been a long, long day
and you got the sandman at the door
But hang on, leave the TV on
and let’s do it anyway
It’s okay
You can always sleep through work tomorrow, okay?
Hey, hey
Tomorrow’s just your future yesterday!”

After he sings to me, Craig greets me with a pet name (sometimes I’m a “cheeky wee monkey,” sometimes I’m a “frisky little pony”). We talk about current events; he snarks on politics, America, Hollywood. Sometimes he tells me amusing anecdotes from his career or his childhood, and often he goes off on irretrievable tangents. Then we have company over, often talking to actors, authors, musicians, or politicians until the wee hours of the morning.

He’s always reliable, always punctual, and always Scottish. He knows this is important to me.

Most importantly, though, I know that when I come home, exhausted, from whatever trials life has thrown my way, I can relax and put my feet up without being required to answer to anyone for at least an hour. I don’t have to worry about tight deadlines, crazy customers, psychotic family members, or pseudo-friendships. I don’t need to muster up a single fake smile for anyone, because all my smiles are genuine between 11:35 pm and 12:35 am.

I can also relax knowing that if I fall asleep while he’s still talking, he will not take it personally, and he will be back tomorrow night to sing to me again.

Some memorable Craig nuggets:
“Has anyone noticed that drug dealers are the only people in America who have completely embraced the metric system?”

“If you’re in show business and you’re not bitter, then you’re not participating.”

“I was sitting in first class and the stewardess asked, ‘Warm nuts?’ and I said ‘No, I’m just happy to be in first class.’”

Saturday, October 15, 2005

America by car: Part Two

After the wedding in New York, my mother and I set off again to take America’s highways by storm. We hit the road, with nothing but the clothes on our back and an itch for adventure.

Actually, we had like 15 bags of luggage and we were in a Lexus with a navigational system and dual climate controls. But the adventure part is true.

We took a little detour north to hit the Poconos, and Triple W Ranch, where we took a two hour trail ride through the mountains of Pennsylvania. Since we are both expert riders, we were able to do a bit more than just follow-the-leader. There is nothing quite like galloping across an open field with a backdrop of multicolored fall leaves, with the mountain breeze flying through your hair.

Driving back through the rest of PA, we wound along the scenic Rt. 6, where we were witness to the beautiful beginning stages of fall foliage. When you’ve lived in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska for the past 5 years, you grow accustomed to wide, flat expanses of mountain-less scenery, with sparse lakes and sparser trees. Being amid the greens, reds, and golds of PA in October made me sorely miss the days of living on the East Coast.

I was, of course, sick. The congestion in my head made the pressure changes unbearable as we drove up and down the multi-elevation highways of PA, and my sinuses screamed. I had a few coughing fits, sneezed a lot, and was in a perpetual state of yawning as I tried to correct the pressure imbalance in my brain. I did my best not to complain, though, because there is no faster way to ruin a “vacation,” and I still had 3 days ahead of me in the car with my mother.

We stopped at the “Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania,” a monstrous gorge lined with thick trees and killer hiking trails. Mom and I hiked one (very short) half-mile trail; picking our way through the jutting roots of the stairwell-like forest trail was enough to make both of us hot and sweaty on a 50-degree, overcast day. Probably not good for my cold. The saving grace was the awesome stand at the top of the Canyon that sold hand-made maple syrup, maple butter, peanut butter, and ice cream. I had the most delicious bowl of peanut butter swirl ice cream I have ever had.

Once out of Pennsylvania, there was not so much to stop and see. Ohio has more cops on their highways than the rest of the country combined. I noticed this on our initial trip out to New York a week before, and made a mental note to count the cops on the way back. In the 436 miles we drove through Pennsylvania, we saw exactly one police cruiser. In the 279 miles we drove through Ohio, we counted 11 cops (which was not as many as we saw on the way out there). That works out to a ratio of one cop every 436 mi in PA, and one cop about every 25 mi in OH. Interestingly, Ohio also contained a lot of unfinished road construction. I’d like to know what Ohio’s taxpayers think about this use of their money.

In Broadview Heights, OH, we stopped for dinner at a ribs restaurant and "beer farm" called The Boneyard. The theme was skeletons, and walking into it was like stepping into the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyworld. The outside of the restaurant (which was in an otherwise normal-looking strip mall) had a big turret, upon which three skeletons were climbing toward the sky. As our waitress walked us to our booth, I counted 35 skeletons, and that wasn’t even counting the ones on the menu. I thought it was hilarious.

Given that the last time my mother and I took a driving trip through the Amish country, we got into a car accident directly related to a horse-and-buggy, I was a little apprehensive about returning. But my mother loves her some Amish people, so in Indiana we stopped at Amish Acres. I spent some time perusing a very interesting Amish store, which contained every statue of a farm animal ever made, divided up into sections according to species. The store also had a very interesting used books section (hardcovers - $1.00, paperbacks - $0.50). I picked up a book and read the blurb: “How much trouble can two kids get into? Enough to send them to jail…or OUTER SPACE!” I guess this is how Amish parents teach their kids to obey the law.

I bought a small jar of homemade peach butter at the store, and we were off. We stopped briefly on the way out of La Paz, Indiana at a McDonald’s for a couple of Cokes. I wondered if there was a local McDonald’s special for Amish country (as McDonald's sometimes have), and then I said, “I suppose the Amish probably don’t come to McDonald’s a lot.” To which my mother immediately responded, “Is there any horse manure in the drive-thru lane?” I love her.

Once we had hit all the requisite stops (a road trip isn’t a vacation in my family until you’ve hit a dirt road and a couple of Christmas stores), it was safe to go home. We returned to Nebraska late Thursday night, exhausted and relieved that the wedding was over. It was nice to see my kitty, and sleep in my own bed, and get a decent dose of Sudafed, but I kind of wish I didn’t have to get back to responsibility so soon. Each time this week that I have paid a bill, or had an idiot customer at work, I find myself daydreaming back to that trail ride in the Poconos, and I can still kind of feel the breeze on my face.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Mawwage!

My sister got married this weekend. It was beautiful and chaotic and ridiculous and perfect. Jennifer – the only person in the world who has lived my life with me – has a new life now. I want desperately to be jealous of her and her new husband, Michael, but she is happier than I have ever seen her in my life, and that makes it hard. She was the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my life.

Long Island is nice, but the wedding industry there is its own kind of monster. The entire industry is run by the same “family.” Someone always “knows a guy who knows a guy” who can set you up with whatever you need, whether it’s legal or not. Our florist, I swear to God, was giving us tips on how to dispose of a body once you’ve had somebody “whacked.” (That's a direct quote, honest.) The trick, he says, is to befriend a gravedigger. Have him dig a grave a few feet too deep, and hide the body under the coffin, where no one will ever look, even if they exhume the body. Yeah, this was just our florist. I didn’t even talk to the deejay.

We had a rehearsal dinner on Saturday, even though there was no rehearsal. Apparently, the plan was to rehearse the ceremony a mere 20 minutes before the ACTUAL WEDDING the next day. I found this absurd, but whatever. The rehearsal dinner was lovely; there was a delicate balance between elegant dining and embarrassing, yet endearing, extended family. Every family has that boisterous uncle who constantly refers to people as “What’s-His-Ass” and completely embraces the concept of an open bar. My family has two. We also have several crazy cousins who are intent upon getting everyone over the age of 21 to do simultaneous shots of whatever liquor is available.

When we finally unwound ourselves from the Crazy Cousins and made it back to our hotel room, my sister and I crashed into bed and tried to sleep. We tried, despite the fact that some Random Drunk Guy (RDG) knocked on our door at 2:30 in the morning and woke us up. When Jennifer got up and answered the door, he tried to force his way in, apparently thinking it was his room. After trying unsuccessfully to reason with the RDG, my sister threw her weight against the door and said, “Look. I don’t know you. This is not your room. I am getting married tomorrow, and it’s NOT TO YOU. You just woke me up, and I’m starting to get angry. GO AWAY.” At that point, a security guy in the hallway stepped in. He was dressed in a suit and sunglasses (at 2:30 in the morning, indoors) and had a walkie-talkie. I’m pretty sure he wanted to be in the Secret Service when he grew up. He carted the RDG away, threatening to call the police, and we went back to bed. Unfortunately, it took them another two hours to figure out where the drunk man belonged, as they prowled the thin-walled hallways with their very loud walkie-talkies. At 4:30 I finally fell back to sleep, and our wake-up call came at 5:30. Sunday began.

At 5:35, a very tall woman with a giant bag strode into our room. I was still blinking myself awake as she whipped out hair dryers, curling irons, various gel products, and about 4,000 bobby pins. She was followed by a fast-talking woman carrying three make-up cases. Together, the two of them attacked us, Tasmanian Devil-style, with beauty products. In a couple of hours, the room was filled with chattering people, including, but not limited to: me, Jennifer, my mother, my father, Michael’s mother, the flower girl, the flower girl’s mother, the make-up lady, the hair guru, the photographer and her two assistants, and the bridal attendant. Chaos ensued.

Cindy was the bridal attendant sent to us by the wedding hall. Talk about a godsend. That woman was EVERYwhere. She had a pocket for every lip gloss, handkerchief, cell phone, and safety pin. She had eyes on every family member, guest, and staff member. She knew where everybody was, where they actually belonged, and how to get them there. I looked over at her once and noticed that she was holding Jennifer’s dress out of the dirt, had my purse strapped over her shoulder, was clutching a squirming flower girl by the wrist, and was sorting out which corsage went to which man, all at the same time. She should get a raise.

The weather was perfect and sunny, and so the ceremony was held outside the hall, in a beautiful garden with a fountain and trellis. It was a noon wedding, and after a few minutes of standing in direct sunlight in a floor-length, deep purple gown, I was beginning to wish it was an evening wedding. It was hot. Fortunately, it was not a long ceremony, and everything went flawlessly. Soon we were all herded into the mercifully air-conditioned reception hall for a cocktail hour, and then the reception. There was endless food and an open bar, and everyone was happy.

I had invited an old college friend to the wedding as my date, whom I hadn’t seen in about 4 years. He lives in Connecticut, and not only did he drive down to Long Island with no complaint, he showed up to a wedding in which he knew NO ONE except me, not even the bride or groom! He was beyond understanding when I had to go off and do Maid of Honor things, and was always there for a dance when I needed one. Bryan, if you’re reading this: You completely rock, dude. That’s an awesome friend, right there.

At the end of the day, Jennifer and Michael changed clothes and piled into a car that took them straight to the airport. They went on a mini-moon to Montreal for a few days; they will go on their actual honeymoon next year with a cruise to Alaska. With Jen and Mike gone, the guests filed out. My parents went off to spend some quality time with out-of-town friends and a bottle of wine, and I immediately collapsed into the hotel room bed. It had been a long damn weekend, and I was spent. I should have known that I would wake up with a searing soar throat and wicked cough.

All in all, it was a great experience. And now, for the photos!


Jennifer, the beautiful bride.

Jen and Michael, entering the reception.

Jen, still beautiful.

Me (the Maid of Honor) and Michael's brother, Jim (the Best Man).

Saturday, October 01, 2005

America by car: Part One

My mother and I have arrived in New York City after a two and a half day drive from Nebraska. Why we drove, I’m not entirely sure, especially since my father flew in by himself a couple of days later. I assume it was an effort to save money, although we ended up having to pay for gas and hotels along the way, so that theory may not be waterproof. Whatever the reason, we drove the 1300 or so miles without many complications, and arrived safely for my sister’s wedding, which is on Sunday.

We left on Tuesday, arrived on Thursday, and in between we saw America. Or at least the bit of America that is directly adjacent to the interstate. We laughed a lot, enjoyed playing with the dual climate controls in my mother’s new Lexus, and stopped to pee about every 30 miles.

Some things of note from Tuesday:

  • We passed our first rest area about 25 miles into our journey. My mother asked me if we needed to stop, or if we could hold out until the next one, 36 miles down the road. I was feeling optimistic, and told her to wait until the next one. 10 miles later, I turned to her and said, “I misjudged the whole rest area thing, just so you know.”

  • As we drove through the wide, flat expanses that were the fields of Iowa, the morning mist clung thickly to the ground and reflected the slanting rays of the rising sun. It was beautiful. We set the radio blaring to Garth Brooks and sang at the top of our lungs. When I think of Iowa in the future, this is what I will think of.

  • A bizarre phenomenon occurred in Iowa. As the morning sunlight slanted through the tall grass on the side of the road, it illuminated morning dew that had clung to millions and millions of spiderwebs strung up between the tallest blades of grass. For miles and miles, all we could see was a dense forest of delicate webs. As soon as we passed them, the critical angle of the sunlight would change, and the webs would disappear, as if they had never been there. It was amazing. Remind me never to walk barefoot in Iowa grasses.

  • I had brought a duffel bag full of stuff to keep us amused during the trip, which I named the Bag of Fun. Unfortunately, my mother kept referring to it as the “Fun Bag.” Invariably, this made me giggle like a third grader because the last time I had heard the phrase “Fun Bags” used was in reference to a woman’s breasts.

  • At 10:35 on Tuesday morning, we passed a sign for the Fun Valley Ski Area in Iowa. My mother promptly looked over at me and said, “Fun Valley. That’s the place between the Fun Bags, right?”

  • My mother tried to explain to me the reason she was having trouble reading the dash display: “I can’t see because of the glare from my Polaroid glasses.” From now on, her polarized lens glasses will be referred to as her Polaroids, without a bit of irony.

  • At lunchtime, we drove through a very small town called Geneseo, Illinois. We passed an inexplicable sign outside the American Legion which simply stated “NO MORE BREAKFAST.”

America is a funny place when you view it from the highway.