An Open Letter

Dear People Who Pack The Products Shipped To My Store:

I understand that your job is probably one of the dullest on the planet, and appreciate the effort you put into making sure my product arrives at the store in good condition. I really do. I don't mind that you often pack ten boxes worth of product into twenty boxes I will pay shipping for. I don't mind the mountains of bubble wrap and cardboard I now find myself surrounded with. I don't even question your insistence on wrapping boxes - boxes filled with sturdy items wrapped individually in bubble wrap - in even more bubble wrap and then placing those bubbled boxes into even larger boxes. I merely chuckled when I found you had opened fifty two pre-packaged boxes of wine markers and individually wrapped each tiny wine charm in it's own individual layer of bubble wrap. Once I have removed all three hundred and twelve charms from their tiny plastic sarcophogus' I might not be as good humoured, but even so, I will try.

So after all of that careful packing, and wrapping, and taping (Oh, the tape! Packing tape has never met such dedication as yours!) I am left with a couple of questions.

Why, oh why, dear friend, after all of that - did you see fit to throw ceramic planters, with nary a trace of bubble wrap, three to a box? At least, I think they were three to a box, right now I am faced with six thousand shards of what I imagine were once ceramic planters.

Also, if you could explain how after using a hundred miles of bubble wrap to protect wrought iron and plastic and paper(!) napkins, the decision was made to toss thirty six unwrapped, unboxed, glass bottles filled with scented oil into a large box with one haphazard sheet of bubble wrap tossed into the top? So many bottles smashed that it soaked the bottom of the box and my floor. You can smell my store down the hall and around the corner. Or maybe just me, since although I have washed my hands three times, I still smell like a department store perfume counter. Was there any reason for this box full of smashy, smelly goodness? Was my box standing in the way of your coffee break? Did you run out of bubble wrap after such heroic efforts to swaddle the rest of my order? Or maybe you had merely had enough, and gently laid down your tape gun and walked out the door. An explanation of the logic would be wonderful, if you please.

Sincerely,

Your Devoted Retailer

PS: Any idea where the packing slip is?

Life Tip #329

When dropping off a resume at a potential place of employment there are certain things you should never, ever do. Ever.

1) Make a spelling error in the sentence describing yourself as detail oriented.

1) Criticize the decor.

2) Criticize the customers. Particularily their taste in regards to things they plan on exchanging money for in order gain the priviledge of taking said item home. Since that money would - in theory at least, if anyone were crazy enough to hire you - be paying your salary.

3) Use the word Satan. In any context.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Navigation by Cake and Other Adventures

So we managed to make it back from the Gift Show safe and relatively sound, although my right shoulder might never be the same again. Oh well, I am certain I don't really need to be able to lift my arm above shoulder level that often, right?

Now, I am sure there are people who arrive at the show with an itinerary and a neatly mapped out plan - which booths they will visit when, how long they will spend in each hall and so on and so forth. We like to start out that way, with our neatly highlighted guide and a clear plan of where to go and what to see. This, of course, is totally blown to hell in the first minute after walking into the show. Because in the first minute, we revert to our real navigation system - Navigation By Cake. Because, the first thing you see when you walk in the door of Hall 1 is the Scantrade booth. Scantrade knows it's stuff - they have free coffee, and warm chocolate chip cookies. Thus, it begins - the rest of the show is navigated based purely on who is giving out what free food when. Samaco and Seagull give out candy, good to stock up in the morning, for a mid-afternoon sugar rush to get you to 7pm. Anyone giving out cookies and pastries and coffee is the morning tour, Abbott's sandwiches and ice cream are lunch, Amscan's assorted snacks and juice is a good mid afternoon snack, since it usually involves something with protein. The day you spend at the Congress Center is based around the free samples all the gourmet food companies are giving out. Cheese fondue for lunch, cake for dessert. Truffles, well, anytime you can find them, really. This year Upper Canada upped the ante - they installed a chocolate fountain. Do you have any idea how many marshmallows covered in warm chocolate you can eat before getting sick?

I do.

If I Don't Make it Back...

Please go on Oprah and tell the world I loved kittens.

Mixing socializing and the full scale project of a four day buying trip might just kill me, but I'll have had a good time on the way to the grave.

Ever have one of those moments...

...when something is totally off-kilter, but it takes a minute to figure out exactly what it is? I had one of those moments today. I was standing alone in the store - a customer walks in, and I immediately feel as though something was off. I couldn't figure out what it was at first - they didn't seem like one of those stealie stealie types you have to watch like a hawk, nor one of the crazy conspiracy theorists we sometimes are besieged with.


Then it hits me.


This woman is wearing a fur lined parka, toque and winter boots.


In July.


*shakes head*

First Day of the Show....

So far I have spent lots of money, eaten lots of free food (plus overpriced, underfresh cafeteria rot that shouldn't even be called food), and walked 8,134,945 miles without rest. Time to find a stiff drink, dinner and the pool.

In Toronto...

I managed to make it to Toronto, with only minimal stupidity. Like, say, forgetting my hotel confirmation at home and being convinced I was booked into the wrong hotel. Erm, no, it was the other hotel down the street.

Ah well, at least it made my boss feel better about forgetting things at work, and then at home, causing much driving around the city before we made it out on the road, so to speak. I managed to read both Knocked Out by my Nunga-Nunga's and Dancing in my Nuddy Pants on the drive here. I meant to bring along Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging and On The Bright Side, I'm Now The Girlfriend of a Sex God along as well, but I read them yesterday. Good thing I brought more books just in case. Of course, now I keep wandering around thinking about nippy noodles and nuddy pants and adding "oid" to the end of every second word (how fabbity-fab-fab) but, what's a girl to do?

Find the nearest computer, of course. As soon as I booked into the right hotel (second time's the charm),
I dumped my bags and went out in search of the free internet service.

Well, duh.

So, I have been taking suggestions...

On ways to discourage the belly touching I bitched about earlier this week. I am thinking anything involving barbed wire/electric fencing is a little inconvenient.

So far I have:

Wearing a sign that says: You realize that you're not actually touching the baby, don't you?

Ripping open a moist disinfectant towellette and wiping down my belly each time a stranger touches it. Although that could result in dry skin.

Touching their belly back - although it might get the point across, it does have the downside of involving more contact with strangers, instead of less.

Yelling: "Oh yeah, rub the buddha baby."

Hitting.

Touch the Belly and Die

The problem with working retail while pregnant is that your belly is in the public domain. It never ceases to amaze me how every rule of social etiquette falls completely to the wayside when people are faced with a pregnant woman, particularly when part of their job description involves being pleasant and most specifically not hitting people. So, I have resigned myself to spending at least eight hours a day, every day answering the same damn questions and nimbly trying to avoid those who would touch the belly.

I was thinking - in the interest of simplifying my life - that I could make a couple of signs that I could prop up on the counter at work. I thought I could make two; one for the generally polite yet insanely curious crowd, and one for the rest of the world.

Sign #1
Yes, I am indeed pregnant, and you successfully avoided a serious social gaffe. Yes, this is is my first baby, and I am due in early July. No, I don't know if it is a boy or a girl. No, I don't plan on finding out. Yes, my husband and I are excited (and how clever you were to slip that question in while pointedly looking for the wedding rings that no longer fit on my fingers.) Thank you for your well wishes and please, please, please don't start telling me about your friend's, cousin's, neighbour's housekeeper who had a horrible, awful labour that resulted in the death of everyone involved, including innocent bystanders.

Sign #2
No, I really am not huge/small for 4/5/6 months along and yes, I am sure it is really just one baby, ha ha ha. Yes, I am stunned and impressed with your ability to tell that I am carrying a boy/girl based merely on the sight of my Old Navy Maternity clad belly. No, I really don't need to sit down right this instant and in fact, if I spent the next 5/4/3 months sitting down my ass would expand to the size of a small city. No, that isn't a cup of coffee it is herbal tea, and my lunch is my bag if you would like to inspect that for soft cheeses and other contraband. Yes, I know it's shocking but pregnancy hasn't turned me into a total invalid, and I can still perform the duties of my job (which isn't exactly rocket science to begin with) and even lift that six ounce knick knack and place it in a box without assistance. No, I will not give you - you total and complete stranger - fertility advice, and does your wife know you are running around town telling people all about her fertility woes? Yes, I am a goddess, thanks for noticing, now go away you are creeping me out. NO, YOU MAY NOT TOUCH THE BELLY!

So who is in need of an anal stickectomy?

Well, other than various people both in real life and not-so-real life (and if you think this is directed at you in some way - you know what they say: "If the shoe fits...") the prize goes to the couple we had to deal with at work on Friday. After more than a decade in the wonderful world of customer service, some people still manage to surprise me with the amazing depths of their anal retentiveness. Not only did this woman come in and manage to be a total pain in the ass, but thirty minutes later her husband phoned in order to complain about how upset his wife is by our lousy customer service, sloth, and piss poor product line. All in all, these two managed to make three peoples lives miserable for over an hour - all because of an item that cost seventeen dollars and ninety nine cents.

Job Interview Tip #207

Picking an argument with the person who will ultimately decide wether or not to hire you is a bad idea.

So this actually happened yesterday. A woman dropped her resume off at work, and during a few normal questions with the soon to be manager, managed to be both belligerent and argumentative. Needless to say, she will not be getting hired.

Wheeeee! It's Christmas in June!

Anyone who works in retail knows that Christmas starts, oh, just about now. Actually, it starts in January, when the majority of the Christmas orders are placed at the January shows. Then, in June, the orders start to arrive. They pretty much keep arriving for the next six months or so. So, here I am, in the sweltering heat of summer, pricing Christmas ornaments. This makes me an interesting combination of giddy and disgruntled, as I stare at my eight millionth cherub of the day. My hand is starting to form a twisted claw from gripping the pricing gun, and I have sparkles in my hair.

Attack of the Lawn Bunnies

My friend was asking if there were any more horrifying Easter decorations gracing the shop I work at. I told her all about the crazy two foot tall white plaster bunnies with bendy ears and little pink jackets. What I forgot to mention (because we hid them down at the bottom of a display) were the incredible grass poohka's. These little gems are bunnies, about a foot tall, standing upright and carrying gardening "accessories". The kicker is that they appear to be made entirely of lawn clippings. In actuality, I think they are constructed of straw dyed a virulent green, but every time I look at them, they make me think someone's lawn has risen up and is about to go on a rampage.

Now, I should point out that most of the stuff we carry *is* really nice. I would say a good 90% of what we sell is quite attractive. The problem is, when we carry something awful, it is reaaaallly awful.

Work, Work, Work

Sadly, I haven't had much time to update this darn thing, but I have been working six days a week at my supposedly part time job. Certainly better than being unemployed, but it doesn't leave much time for blogging. Or laundry. Or dishes. Luckily, it doesn't leave much time for socializing either, so no one has had to suffer the disastrous state of my kitchen!

The Sound of Silence is Highly Underrated

I like my job, I really do. But, if I have to hear that "Can't Fight The Moonlight" song one more time, I am going to go stark, raving mad.

I am Pretty Sure I Didn't Learn About That In Biology Class

I was awfully productive at work today. I redid a multitude of displays - 22 shelves to be exact. This involved taking all 3 billion items off the shelves, washing them down, and then rearranging everything.

The hardest part was trying to make our newest shipment look attractive. Imagine, if you will, sculptures of chickens, ducks and roosters made from steel wool. These masterpieces vary in height from 6 inches to 2 feet tall. They look remarkable like the frames used for making paper mache, except with little glass eyes attached. The scariest part of these things are that the larges birds have 2 plastic eggs inside of them - even the roosters! Making a display of these things look like anything less than a scene out of Trilogy of Terror was a feat, let me tell you. I am sure that my dreams tonight will involve being chased down by rabid transgendered roosters.