Tonight, on the way home from work, I saw a homeless man Subway Surfing with a bunch of high school kids.
The kids were definitely part of a choir (as I gathered from light eavesdropping) and were visiting the city. I'm not sure what happened that initiated the game of Subway Surfing, or even why or how the homeless man joined in. I just know that I looked down to that end of the car and saw a scruffy old guy and a young high school kid standing next to each other in full surf pose, riding the waves of the 1 train.
1.29.2009
1.28.2009
wintry mix, wintry mix, go away and please don't come back
A few weeks ago, I responded to a Craigslist ad soliciting pitches for an online culture and entertainment magazine called Culture 11. I pitched a few stories, attached a resume, and sent it off to the features editor. Today, I received this e-mail:
So, for those of you keeping track at home, there are three kinds of days we can have here lately: days when there are no job postings at all of relevance, days when there are relevant listings and I send in my resume and clips, and now, the brand new category, days when magazines that were looking for writers two days ago have already folded.
The e-mail arrived this morning just before I called in sick to work, a few hours before I trudged through slush and snow (forcing one to wonder why the words 'wintry mix' sound so lovely and in reality are SO vile) on one of the most miserable days we've had here in a good while. All the while, back home in Memphis, most of the city took a snow day, making it extremely dangerous to leave your home and go anywhere near a major grocery store.
That excitement over the possibility of snow is something completely lost on northerners, without doubt. It snows, they plow, we all collectively get over it. Even when it's absolutely beautiful outside, we're all still annoyed by it. And snow days? Pssh. Forget it. Just put on your big girl snow boots and get your ass to school.
I remember once we got a snow day in high school for rain. And by 11 a.m. the sun was out. We could pretty much always count on a back road out toward some of the farther flung county high schools to freeze over, or look like it might freeze over, or make idle threats that it could if it wanted to. And just like that, we'd be making grilled cheese sandwiches and watching daytime TV.
Well, I did make a grilled cheese sandwich today, but it was for dinner. After work. After walking home through the still steadily falling wintry mix. Here, snow is nothing to be excited about. And on days like today, for me, it's just mother nature's way of teaming up with economy to find new ways to piss me off.
I miss the magic. Indeed, I do.
cheers,
e. cawein
It's not you, it's us -- Culture11 has folded.
Best luck placing the pieces elsewhere.
Cheers,
Conor
So, for those of you keeping track at home, there are three kinds of days we can have here lately: days when there are no job postings at all of relevance, days when there are relevant listings and I send in my resume and clips, and now, the brand new category, days when magazines that were looking for writers two days ago have already folded.
The e-mail arrived this morning just before I called in sick to work, a few hours before I trudged through slush and snow (forcing one to wonder why the words 'wintry mix' sound so lovely and in reality are SO vile) on one of the most miserable days we've had here in a good while. All the while, back home in Memphis, most of the city took a snow day, making it extremely dangerous to leave your home and go anywhere near a major grocery store.
That excitement over the possibility of snow is something completely lost on northerners, without doubt. It snows, they plow, we all collectively get over it. Even when it's absolutely beautiful outside, we're all still annoyed by it. And snow days? Pssh. Forget it. Just put on your big girl snow boots and get your ass to school.
I remember once we got a snow day in high school for rain. And by 11 a.m. the sun was out. We could pretty much always count on a back road out toward some of the farther flung county high schools to freeze over, or look like it might freeze over, or make idle threats that it could if it wanted to. And just like that, we'd be making grilled cheese sandwiches and watching daytime TV.
Well, I did make a grilled cheese sandwich today, but it was for dinner. After work. After walking home through the still steadily falling wintry mix. Here, snow is nothing to be excited about. And on days like today, for me, it's just mother nature's way of teaming up with economy to find new ways to piss me off.
I miss the magic. Indeed, I do.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.26.2009
getting down to biscuits
As most readers of this blog know, for a good long 13 years my family has had a yellow Labrador Retriever of whom we are quite fond. She answers to Biscuit.
I don't recall specifically any actual drops of blood or tears shed over the great puppy naming debate in the Cawein household back in December of 1995, but I can tell you that there were several meetings of the minds held on the topic, and that the three most concerned parties (ages 10, 13 and 15), hemmed and hawed excessively before coming to an agreement on the name Biscuit.
In reality, choosing a name for a new pet falls somewhere on the scale of Life Or Death Importance between getting a tattoo and choosing a breakfast cereal -- it is a fairly permanent situation, but the pet is probably going to love you just as much even if you do name it something thoughtlessly heinous, like Spot or Fluffy. But that is reality, and I was 10. This was a serious situation, but ultimately I remember being quite satisfied with the name Biscuit; it seemed to encapsulate just the right amount of utility and cuteness necessary for a good, strong puppy name. Utility, because any good pet name needs to be two syllables (or two southern syllables, as in words like "bad," "hell," "down," "sit," etc.) such that it can be called loudly across the yard or yelled across the living room, mid-piddle. And cuteness, because she was named for the golden color of her coat, which made her look like a perfectly browned, right-from-the-oven, biscuit.
You see, when I was growing up -- even years before the arrival of Biscuit, herself -- my family had long been strong supporters and consumers of biscuits. We ate biscuits with breakfast, we ate biscuits with dinner, we made biscuit sandwiches, we had them for dessert with jam or honey. And normally, this would be the place where I'd insert some comment about how I told you we were southern. But here's the thing, y'all.
I had no idea biscuits were a southern thing.
There are any number of things that I have always known, even before really leaving the south, were strictly below the Mason-Dixon, and many things strictly even lower. Grits would be a prime example. For whatever reason, I was never under any sort of illusions about grits being an international delicacy. Even in Kentucky I met people who couldn't tell grits from cream of wheat. (Which, I should point out, simply works toward proving my point that everywhere north of Tennessee is yankee-land.)
But biscuits? Really? On Saturday, I hung up the phone at the Philharmonic after finishing a call and said aloud, "This woman's name is Honey. Seriously." To which one of my co-workers replied, "I had an aunt named Bunny." I turned in my chair and said, "No, no. Not Bunny. Honey. Like you put on a biscuit."
She looked at me funny, and I automatically assumed her expression had something to do with her distaste over the honey/biscuit combo. Some people prefer jam, some gravy, some just plain butter. It takes all kinds, or something like that. So I said, "Well, that's what I like on my biscuits." To which she corrected me: "No, I wasn't saying that. We don't have biscuits here."
My face must have registered without an ounce of hesitation the complete shock I felt inside. No biscuits? They told me they eat french bread. I said, for breakfast!? Then another guy I work with started saying something about when you can, on rare occasion apparently, get a biscuit. And he said something about herbs and spices and flavors and I said, hold on just a tick here. A biscuit, is a biscuit, is a biscuit. I mean maybe they're Grands or maybe they're Kroger brand. But it's a biscuit. And it was in that moment that I knew he'd never eaten a real biscuit in his life. (I almost tried to explain what biscuits are made from, before I realized that the word about to escape my mouth was Bisquick, and dear GOD, do they even HAVE THAT HERE!?)
When I lived in London I accepted from the get-go that my biscuits and their biscuits were two very different things, and I loved them both the same for very different reasons. But I'm just not so sure I'm living in America if I'm living somewhere that doesn't celebrate the biscuit. Just to be sure I didn't need to pack up my things and move immediately back to the south, I asked one critical question.
"Y'all do eat cornbread, right?"
Thankfully, they all said yes.
cheers,
e. cawein
I don't recall specifically any actual drops of blood or tears shed over the great puppy naming debate in the Cawein household back in December of 1995, but I can tell you that there were several meetings of the minds held on the topic, and that the three most concerned parties (ages 10, 13 and 15), hemmed and hawed excessively before coming to an agreement on the name Biscuit.
In reality, choosing a name for a new pet falls somewhere on the scale of Life Or Death Importance between getting a tattoo and choosing a breakfast cereal -- it is a fairly permanent situation, but the pet is probably going to love you just as much even if you do name it something thoughtlessly heinous, like Spot or Fluffy. But that is reality, and I was 10. This was a serious situation, but ultimately I remember being quite satisfied with the name Biscuit; it seemed to encapsulate just the right amount of utility and cuteness necessary for a good, strong puppy name. Utility, because any good pet name needs to be two syllables (or two southern syllables, as in words like "bad," "hell," "down," "sit," etc.) such that it can be called loudly across the yard or yelled across the living room, mid-piddle. And cuteness, because she was named for the golden color of her coat, which made her look like a perfectly browned, right-from-the-oven, biscuit.
You see, when I was growing up -- even years before the arrival of Biscuit, herself -- my family had long been strong supporters and consumers of biscuits. We ate biscuits with breakfast, we ate biscuits with dinner, we made biscuit sandwiches, we had them for dessert with jam or honey. And normally, this would be the place where I'd insert some comment about how I told you we were southern. But here's the thing, y'all.
I had no idea biscuits were a southern thing.
There are any number of things that I have always known, even before really leaving the south, were strictly below the Mason-Dixon, and many things strictly even lower. Grits would be a prime example. For whatever reason, I was never under any sort of illusions about grits being an international delicacy. Even in Kentucky I met people who couldn't tell grits from cream of wheat. (Which, I should point out, simply works toward proving my point that everywhere north of Tennessee is yankee-land.)
But biscuits? Really? On Saturday, I hung up the phone at the Philharmonic after finishing a call and said aloud, "This woman's name is Honey. Seriously." To which one of my co-workers replied, "I had an aunt named Bunny." I turned in my chair and said, "No, no. Not Bunny. Honey. Like you put on a biscuit."
She looked at me funny, and I automatically assumed her expression had something to do with her distaste over the honey/biscuit combo. Some people prefer jam, some gravy, some just plain butter. It takes all kinds, or something like that. So I said, "Well, that's what I like on my biscuits." To which she corrected me: "No, I wasn't saying that. We don't have biscuits here."
My face must have registered without an ounce of hesitation the complete shock I felt inside. No biscuits? They told me they eat french bread. I said, for breakfast!? Then another guy I work with started saying something about when you can, on rare occasion apparently, get a biscuit. And he said something about herbs and spices and flavors and I said, hold on just a tick here. A biscuit, is a biscuit, is a biscuit. I mean maybe they're Grands or maybe they're Kroger brand. But it's a biscuit. And it was in that moment that I knew he'd never eaten a real biscuit in his life. (I almost tried to explain what biscuits are made from, before I realized that the word about to escape my mouth was Bisquick, and dear GOD, do they even HAVE THAT HERE!?)
When I lived in London I accepted from the get-go that my biscuits and their biscuits were two very different things, and I loved them both the same for very different reasons. But I'm just not so sure I'm living in America if I'm living somewhere that doesn't celebrate the biscuit. Just to be sure I didn't need to pack up my things and move immediately back to the south, I asked one critical question.
"Y'all do eat cornbread, right?"
Thankfully, they all said yes.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.24.2009
The Final Installment: An Associate's Guide to Bra & Panty Land
So you've just been hired to work at a Victoria's Secret near you, and the excitement is building. What will it be like helping women clothe their unmentionables? How will you cope with the thrill of being around that much underwear eight hours a day? What adventures will each new shift hold?
We understand your excitement, we really do. And so to prepare you for your lucrative (?) career as a Victoria's Secret sales associate, we've put together a short list of top tips. As you head through the pearly doors for your first day on the job, keep this guide in mind to ensure you maximize success and minimize the number of times you want to violently maim someone you work with.
1. We know you spent lots of time on that resume, but no one bothered to read it. Don't be surprised when information your supervisors should know about you from reading your resume is complete news to them. Even your direct supervisor, who actually used your resume in her decision making during the hiring process, and subsequently hired you, will likely know nothing to very, very little about you. This allows you to feel doubly pathetic for having a master's degree and working at Victoria's Secret when you have to announce to your boss in front of other employees that you have said master's degree and, well, they all know where you work.
2. We may be in a recession, but much like JELL-O there is always room for another employee!
Times are tough, y'all. And as a result of those tough times, we may need to cut back on your hours. We know we promised you a set number when you were hired, but we're actually just going to slice that in half. We've got our fingers crossed for your rent check. Oh, and would you mind handing out 35 job applications every day to people coming in off the street, and please let them know that we are definitely HIRING!
3. All Victoria's Secret associates must be more excited about bras and panties than basically anything else on God's green earth.
We know it seems a little strange to be so excited by under garments. But you know how dogs get really excited by things like, say, running in the yard or eating their own poop? It's because their brains are the size of walnuts. God love 'em, but they're simple. So they are excited by simple things. We're not suggesting that you are simple, but most people who work here tend to be. Please see item 4 for further clarification on this.
4. It would be great if you could just take your IQ down a few clicks before you come in to work in the morning.
Not only do we find that it is easier to be excited about a piece of fabric that goes over your piche if you ain't got too much going on upstairs, we also find it makes associates easier to train. Again, sort of like puppies. 'Cept some of you aren't as cute.
5. You know that person who sees you without a big, idiotic grin on your face and insists on calling out to you in a stupid, high-pitched, sing-song voice, "Smile!"? You know that person? Every one you work with IS THAT PERSON.
This doesn't really need clarification, right? Just brace yourself.
With that, The Panty Land Diaries come to an end. Of course, stay tuned for more tales from the city. Today I found out they don't eat biscuits here. Excuse me? That's a blog in and of itself.
cheers,
e. cawein
We understand your excitement, we really do. And so to prepare you for your lucrative (?) career as a Victoria's Secret sales associate, we've put together a short list of top tips. As you head through the pearly doors for your first day on the job, keep this guide in mind to ensure you maximize success and minimize the number of times you want to violently maim someone you work with.
1. We know you spent lots of time on that resume, but no one bothered to read it. Don't be surprised when information your supervisors should know about you from reading your resume is complete news to them. Even your direct supervisor, who actually used your resume in her decision making during the hiring process, and subsequently hired you, will likely know nothing to very, very little about you. This allows you to feel doubly pathetic for having a master's degree and working at Victoria's Secret when you have to announce to your boss in front of other employees that you have said master's degree and, well, they all know where you work.
2. We may be in a recession, but much like JELL-O there is always room for another employee!
Times are tough, y'all. And as a result of those tough times, we may need to cut back on your hours. We know we promised you a set number when you were hired, but we're actually just going to slice that in half. We've got our fingers crossed for your rent check. Oh, and would you mind handing out 35 job applications every day to people coming in off the street, and please let them know that we are definitely HIRING!
3. All Victoria's Secret associates must be more excited about bras and panties than basically anything else on God's green earth.
We know it seems a little strange to be so excited by under garments. But you know how dogs get really excited by things like, say, running in the yard or eating their own poop? It's because their brains are the size of walnuts. God love 'em, but they're simple. So they are excited by simple things. We're not suggesting that you are simple, but most people who work here tend to be. Please see item 4 for further clarification on this.
4. It would be great if you could just take your IQ down a few clicks before you come in to work in the morning.
Not only do we find that it is easier to be excited about a piece of fabric that goes over your piche if you ain't got too much going on upstairs, we also find it makes associates easier to train. Again, sort of like puppies. 'Cept some of you aren't as cute.
5. You know that person who sees you without a big, idiotic grin on your face and insists on calling out to you in a stupid, high-pitched, sing-song voice, "Smile!"? You know that person? Every one you work with IS THAT PERSON.
This doesn't really need clarification, right? Just brace yourself.
With that, The Panty Land Diaries come to an end. Of course, stay tuned for more tales from the city. Today I found out they don't eat biscuits here. Excuse me? That's a blog in and of itself.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.19.2009
an inauguration eve tale
Tonight I take a momentary respite from The Panty Land Diaries to bring you a tale from my new place of employment.
Tonight before we got on the phones, we were discussing the inauguration. Someone asked what time the coverage started, someone else joked that the coverage started a month ago. And then one bright individual asked the following question:
"Yeah, but what time is the acceptance speech?"
Acceptance speech? Baby, this is not the Grammys. Although if politicians and musicians do have one thing in common, it would be their propensity for thanking Jesus for near about everything.
Happy Inauguration Eve, everyone. I think I speak for you and me both when I say, we're ready.
cheers,
e. cawein
Tonight before we got on the phones, we were discussing the inauguration. Someone asked what time the coverage started, someone else joked that the coverage started a month ago. And then one bright individual asked the following question:
"Yeah, but what time is the acceptance speech?"
Acceptance speech? Baby, this is not the Grammys. Although if politicians and musicians do have one thing in common, it would be their propensity for thanking Jesus for near about everything.
Happy Inauguration Eve, everyone. I think I speak for you and me both when I say, we're ready.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.17.2009
'cause we was raised to have manners, you hear?
Almost every Sunday morning while I was employed at Victoria's Secret, I opened the concierge desk and worked for about an hour and a half or so on my own before another associate came in to work with me. Sundays were always quiet, and I rarely had more than a handful of customers. And on one of these mornings, a mom and daughter came up to the concierge desk to ring up their purchases.
I asked the daughter a question, I can't recall what it was. Probably one of those on the list we rattle off as each new customer walks up. "Did you find everything you were looking for? How was your shopping experience? Can we put this on your Angels Card?" And to whatever question it was, in response the girl, probably 18 or 19, said "Yes, m'am."
We chatted on for a minute or two, and as I was wrapping and bagging their things, I said, "So are y'all from the south?" The mom laughed, and said "How could you tell?" No doubt she was referring to their (I later learned) North Carolina accents, which were certainly thick and absolutely impossible to miss.
"Well," I said. "I'm from the south, too. And where I'm from, we always say 'yes m'am' and 'no m'am'. You don't get a whole lotta that around here."
We then shared a knowing look that seemed to communicate telepathically that the principal difference between us and them was that some of us were raised in a barn and some of us were not.
It is rare in this city that I come in contact with southerners, and it must be noted that the one thing I do miss about working at Victoria's Secret (besides the killer discount) is the bevy of different people from all different places I had the chance to interact with, southerners foremost among them. (You know you're bound to find a southern girl in an underwear store pretty much at any given time, because we all remember what our mamas told us about always wearing clean, hole-free underwear just in case you get into a car accident. Just imagine if they had to cut your Levis off with the jaws of life or whatever they're called and all of a sudden your holey old granny panties are on display for the entire county fire department and EMS team.)
Anywho. A quick dose of southern women shopping -- not to mention southern women in a big city -- is an excellent temporary cure for homesickness. Like these women.
Woman 1: Hey, we're tryin' to find y'all's Pank collechshun. (Pink collection.)
Me: Oh, I'm sorry m'am. We don't carry the Pink collection here. But you can find it at the 34th St. store, at Herald Square. It's really easy to get to.
Woman 1: Oh, do we have to take the subway? Ohhh, I don't know. Charlene, git over here.
Charlene: What is it?
Woman 1: We gotta take the subway to this other store to get those Pank sweat paints.
Charlene: Oh no, y'all. We are gonna get lost.
Me: No, it's really easy! All you have to do is turn left out of the front doors of the store, go to the corner of 59th and Lexington.
Woman 1: Hold own, Hold own. Charlene, we need to write this down.
Charlene: We do.
Me: Let me write it down for you, it's really easy, I promise. You just go into the subway station at 59th and Lexington, and get onto the N, R or W trains. They're the ones in the gold circles. You want to walk past the 4,5,6, which is the first thing you'll see when you get in the station.
Woman 1: Oh my gawd, Charlene, that is what we di-yud! That is what we did before that got us lost, I betchooo.
Charlene: Prolly so.
Me: Okay, so once you get to the N, R or W trains, you take the one going toward downtown, and you get off at 34th Street, which is Herald Square. Then you exit the station toward 34th Street and 6th Ave. and the store will be right there!
Woman 1: Okay, alright. So we take a left out of the store?
Me: A left out of the store, then to 59th Street.
Woman 1: Right, and then to the N, R, W trains, goin' downtown. Okay, alright. We can do this. Listen, honey, if we get lost we are gonna come right back here lookin' fer you!
Me: No problem, you're going to be fine! (The women start to walk away.)
Woman 1: Whispering to Charlene. Oooh, I don't know. Maybe we should just take a cab.
cheers y'all,
e. cawein
I asked the daughter a question, I can't recall what it was. Probably one of those on the list we rattle off as each new customer walks up. "Did you find everything you were looking for? How was your shopping experience? Can we put this on your Angels Card?" And to whatever question it was, in response the girl, probably 18 or 19, said "Yes, m'am."
We chatted on for a minute or two, and as I was wrapping and bagging their things, I said, "So are y'all from the south?" The mom laughed, and said "How could you tell?" No doubt she was referring to their (I later learned) North Carolina accents, which were certainly thick and absolutely impossible to miss.
"Well," I said. "I'm from the south, too. And where I'm from, we always say 'yes m'am' and 'no m'am'. You don't get a whole lotta that around here."
We then shared a knowing look that seemed to communicate telepathically that the principal difference between us and them was that some of us were raised in a barn and some of us were not.
It is rare in this city that I come in contact with southerners, and it must be noted that the one thing I do miss about working at Victoria's Secret (besides the killer discount) is the bevy of different people from all different places I had the chance to interact with, southerners foremost among them. (You know you're bound to find a southern girl in an underwear store pretty much at any given time, because we all remember what our mamas told us about always wearing clean, hole-free underwear just in case you get into a car accident. Just imagine if they had to cut your Levis off with the jaws of life or whatever they're called and all of a sudden your holey old granny panties are on display for the entire county fire department and EMS team.)
Anywho. A quick dose of southern women shopping -- not to mention southern women in a big city -- is an excellent temporary cure for homesickness. Like these women.
Woman 1: Hey, we're tryin' to find y'all's Pank collechshun. (Pink collection.)
Me: Oh, I'm sorry m'am. We don't carry the Pink collection here. But you can find it at the 34th St. store, at Herald Square. It's really easy to get to.
Woman 1: Oh, do we have to take the subway? Ohhh, I don't know. Charlene, git over here.
Charlene: What is it?
Woman 1: We gotta take the subway to this other store to get those Pank sweat paints.
Charlene: Oh no, y'all. We are gonna get lost.
Me: No, it's really easy! All you have to do is turn left out of the front doors of the store, go to the corner of 59th and Lexington.
Woman 1: Hold own, Hold own. Charlene, we need to write this down.
Charlene: We do.
Me: Let me write it down for you, it's really easy, I promise. You just go into the subway station at 59th and Lexington, and get onto the N, R or W trains. They're the ones in the gold circles. You want to walk past the 4,5,6, which is the first thing you'll see when you get in the station.
Woman 1: Oh my gawd, Charlene, that is what we di-yud! That is what we did before that got us lost, I betchooo.
Charlene: Prolly so.
Me: Okay, so once you get to the N, R or W trains, you take the one going toward downtown, and you get off at 34th Street, which is Herald Square. Then you exit the station toward 34th Street and 6th Ave. and the store will be right there!
Woman 1: Okay, alright. So we take a left out of the store?
Me: A left out of the store, then to 59th Street.
Woman 1: Right, and then to the N, R, W trains, goin' downtown. Okay, alright. We can do this. Listen, honey, if we get lost we are gonna come right back here lookin' fer you!
Me: No problem, you're going to be fine! (The women start to walk away.)
Woman 1: Whispering to Charlene. Oooh, I don't know. Maybe we should just take a cab.
cheers y'all,
e. cawein
1.16.2009
Lost In Translation: Brits come to Victoria's Secret, employees can't speak the language
On several occasions while working the concierge desk at Victoria's Secret, I talked with or helped customers who were visiting New York from my favorite island (sorry, Manhattan, you must always be the second favorite), the greatest of greats, Britain.
The first time this happened, I was excitedly yammering away to this middle-aged couple who I swiftly realized were those people and probably would be wiping their hands down with anti-bacterial santizer after they left the store because they'd been touching the same things as the common folk. I asked them where abouts they were from in London, and the woman dismissed me immediately. "Ah, the central bit." She spat out, almost waving her hand a little bit like, you wouldn't know. Why are you asking you worthless little American girl?
So of course, a glutton for punishment, I said, "Well, actually, I lived there for quite a while. Just moved here recently." She softened just the tiniest bit. "Oh? Where did you live?" No sooner had I said something about Kingsbury than she cut me off, spitting out with disgust, "Oh, well that's not London!" That's when I turned back to the kiosk where we were sitting and said, "Okay, so what else can we help you with here?" It should also be noted that these two people's accents were so thick and ridiculous as to make them sound like cartoon characters. The husband had called their daughter to clarify what it was she wanted them to buy her, and said something like this: "Clarrrrrissa, it's your Daddyyy. We're just CAWWWLING to ..." You fill in the rest.
After that I shied away from getting into too much conversation with Brits, save for the one time I met a huge group of women all on holiday together from Ed's hometown, Southend-on-Sea. (You might remember my account of visiting there as blogged here last May.) They were all gathering right next to the concierge desk, resting and waiting on the last members of their group to finish shopping, and I just couldn't help myself. So I asked where they were from. When they said Essex, I knew I didn't have anything to worry about. In fact, these people told me they were from London before they admitted they were actually from Essex. Thank god that snobby couple wasn't around to spit on all of us at the same time.
We had a lovely chat, and when one of the girls came to ring up her purchases at the concierge desk, one of the other associates rang her up as I stood by, still chatting. She was looking for a pair of underwear to match something -- a bra or a camisole, I can't recall -- that she already had. This is the exchange that took place between the woman and my co-worker.
British customer: There were matching pants for this too, I think. Do you know?
Concierge associate: Ah, I think there were matching panties. They're just this way, in lounge.
Really? Pants? Panties? There aren't any connective synapses firing on that one? Since synapses fire so infrequently around that place, I shouldn't be surprised. Good thing she didn't say knickers, we'd have been there all day.
cheers,
e. cawein
The first time this happened, I was excitedly yammering away to this middle-aged couple who I swiftly realized were those people and probably would be wiping their hands down with anti-bacterial santizer after they left the store because they'd been touching the same things as the common folk. I asked them where abouts they were from in London, and the woman dismissed me immediately. "Ah, the central bit." She spat out, almost waving her hand a little bit like, you wouldn't know. Why are you asking you worthless little American girl?
So of course, a glutton for punishment, I said, "Well, actually, I lived there for quite a while. Just moved here recently." She softened just the tiniest bit. "Oh? Where did you live?" No sooner had I said something about Kingsbury than she cut me off, spitting out with disgust, "Oh, well that's not London!" That's when I turned back to the kiosk where we were sitting and said, "Okay, so what else can we help you with here?" It should also be noted that these two people's accents were so thick and ridiculous as to make them sound like cartoon characters. The husband had called their daughter to clarify what it was she wanted them to buy her, and said something like this: "Clarrrrrissa, it's your Daddyyy. We're just CAWWWLING to ..." You fill in the rest.
After that I shied away from getting into too much conversation with Brits, save for the one time I met a huge group of women all on holiday together from Ed's hometown, Southend-on-Sea. (You might remember my account of visiting there as blogged here last May.) They were all gathering right next to the concierge desk, resting and waiting on the last members of their group to finish shopping, and I just couldn't help myself. So I asked where they were from. When they said Essex, I knew I didn't have anything to worry about. In fact, these people told me they were from London before they admitted they were actually from Essex. Thank god that snobby couple wasn't around to spit on all of us at the same time.
We had a lovely chat, and when one of the girls came to ring up her purchases at the concierge desk, one of the other associates rang her up as I stood by, still chatting. She was looking for a pair of underwear to match something -- a bra or a camisole, I can't recall -- that she already had. This is the exchange that took place between the woman and my co-worker.
British customer: There were matching pants for this too, I think. Do you know?
Concierge associate: Ah, I think there were matching panties. They're just this way, in lounge.
Really? Pants? Panties? There aren't any connective synapses firing on that one? Since synapses fire so infrequently around that place, I shouldn't be surprised. Good thing she didn't say knickers, we'd have been there all day.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.15.2009
The Panty Land Diaries Presents: Gift Wrapping 101
If you bought a gift for someone and you were preparing to wrap it, what would be the first thing you'd do?
Well, since it's a gift, it stands to reason that you might take off the price tag. Most of us who were not raised in barns were taught at a young age that it's uncouth to discuss how much was spent on a present.
But some people who were raised in barns (or at least whose stunning lack of logic skills lead me to believe they were) come into Victoria's Secret from time to time, and those people feel the need to ask the person at the concierge desk if they would be so kind as to remove the price tags from the items before wrapping them. Once upon a time, a woman with four or five different gifts actually requested, loudly, as she saw us begin working on each new gift, "Can we take the prices off that one, TOO?"
My inner monologue went as follows: Oh, thank goodness. I'm so glad you mentioned that, because even though I actually spend eight hours straight wrapping presents, this was going to be the one I decided to leave the tag on. So thank goodness you reminded me. Thank. Goodness.
I couldn't just go on forever not saying anything, and since most of these people were not snappy enough to pick up on sarcasm, I decided to go with this.
Customer: Can you take the price tags off that?
Me: Oh, of course, m'am. We aaaaaalways doooooo. Very first thing! (Insert cruel smile only Southern women can effectively pull off that translates to something like, "So fuck you kindly, bless your little heart.")
Hey, it was my job to sit there and wrap boxes all. day. long. If I hadn't figured out how to take a price tag off yet, well -- I'd still probably be qualified to work for Victoria's Secret. But I don't come to your job and...
...Actually, Kathy says it better than I can.
cheers,
e. cawein
Well, since it's a gift, it stands to reason that you might take off the price tag. Most of us who were not raised in barns were taught at a young age that it's uncouth to discuss how much was spent on a present.
But some people who were raised in barns (or at least whose stunning lack of logic skills lead me to believe they were) come into Victoria's Secret from time to time, and those people feel the need to ask the person at the concierge desk if they would be so kind as to remove the price tags from the items before wrapping them. Once upon a time, a woman with four or five different gifts actually requested, loudly, as she saw us begin working on each new gift, "Can we take the prices off that one, TOO?"
My inner monologue went as follows: Oh, thank goodness. I'm so glad you mentioned that, because even though I actually spend eight hours straight wrapping presents, this was going to be the one I decided to leave the tag on. So thank goodness you reminded me. Thank. Goodness.
I couldn't just go on forever not saying anything, and since most of these people were not snappy enough to pick up on sarcasm, I decided to go with this.
Customer: Can you take the price tags off that?
Me: Oh, of course, m'am. We aaaaaalways doooooo. Very first thing! (Insert cruel smile only Southern women can effectively pull off that translates to something like, "So fuck you kindly, bless your little heart.")
Hey, it was my job to sit there and wrap boxes all. day. long. If I hadn't figured out how to take a price tag off yet, well -- I'd still probably be qualified to work for Victoria's Secret. But I don't come to your job and...
...Actually, Kathy says it better than I can.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.14.2009
Corporate greed inside your panties: the last place you want anything corporate
It was about the third day that I'd been working at Victoria's Secret when I first came face to face with our daily performance report.
(It's a handy little spreadsheet that every associate can access through the register, and it gives the run-down of every sales goal for the day, divided by segment, and shows results for all the completed segments. For example, if you read a line of the spreadsheet you might gather that for the segment from 10 a.m. to noon, the goal in total sales was $X, the amount we actually did was $X, our percent above or below the goal was X% and the breakdown of the sales into beauty and bras were X and Y.)
On this day, I remember going downstairs to the bathroom about halfway through my shift and staring at my blank, washed out face (god damn you, fluorescent lighting) in the mirror for a good few minutes, a little bewildered. Though physically, I felt fine, mentally I felt as though I should be vomiting up my lunch. You see, the sales plan for one day -- one eleven-hour period from open til close -- was $100,000.
$100 grand? Now, I'm no mathmetist, but there aren't all that many people walking through the doors of Victoria's Secret in a given day. It gets crowded, sure. But $100,000? Of course, the matter of how in the world we'd ever get to $100,000 isn't the point. The point is that our nation is in a recession. People are losing their homes. People are losing their jobs. There are kids who are going hungry and people are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on god damned bras and panties.
And let me make one thing clear -- this is nothing at all like the completely illogical "there-are-starving-kids-in-China-so-let's-all-gorge-ourselves" mentality. This is not about some people having and others having not. This is about the fact that I know, without a shred of doubt, that many of the people who pass through those pearly doors on Lexington Avenue every day and spend hundreds of hard-earned dollars on frilly underwear and push-up bras ARE the people who have not. If you have a trillion dollars and you want to spend half of it on underwear, that's your right. Will I judge you? Of course, but I have judged people for a hell of a lot less in the past. But if you, just like the rest of us, are struggling to make ends meet and concerned about your job security? You should not be walking out with a shopping bag full of lace thong bikinis that cost $14 each.
But on top of this big old sundae of economic responsibility comes a tempting and dangerous cherry -- the Angels Credit Card. The Angel Card, we're told in training, is designed to promote brand loyalty. If she opens an Angel Credit Card, she'll surely come back and shop with us again because she can earn points! and rewards! and lots and lots more PANTIES! This is not entirely untrue. A credit card with a given company will build brand loyalty. But the disturbing thing to me is that even Victoria's Secret associates are not apprised of the real situation, and many of them (please see previous Panty Land Diaries post) are not intelligent enough to deduce it themselves.
This card comes with a whopping 22% interest rate.
So while Rita Recessionista is so excited about getting those panties on sale for 20 percent off and putting them on her Angel Card (so she doesn't even have to spend a dime today! who thought this shit up!?), she will eventually pay three or four times the initial cost of those panties because, guess what? Shocking -- she doesn't actually have the money to buy those panties right now. She actually has to pay rent and her grocery bill and for gas and water. So now Victoria's Secret gets to circumvent its own sale price by raking in three times the ticket price for Rita's underoos because she isn't fiscally responsible enough to say "no, thank you" to a credit card offer.
And Rita Recessionista is everywhere. She is every woman. Every American woman who has been taught that she should be able to have whatever she wants right this instant, and that credit is easy. (Hello, that's why it's called easy credit, right?) And every associate in a Victoria's Secret store is expected to open one or two or thirty seven Angel Credit Cards every single day. Every day in a given store, that's 30 or 40 more women carrying a fresh piece of plastic, 75% of whom will inevitably go into minor debt because of it. The pressure that is placed on Victoria's Secret associates to open these cards is undoubtedly more disturbing to me than the $100,000 daily sales plan. Mostly because I refuse to be partially responsible for someone else's lapse in financial judgment. I refuse to try to persuade a woman who does NOT need another credit card building up her debt that in fact she really does neeeeeed an Angel Card and it only takes 30 seconds so come on, let's sign you up today. I simply refuse.
Because behind that 'brand loyalty' and those offers and discounts and 'great deals' lurks the ill of our society that has left us in the place where we currently lie, breathless and in need of economic resuscitation. Quick and easy credit.
And here's the thing -- I'm all about honesty, so let me assure you that I have not always been the world's most responsible user of credit. I have spent carelessly, I have spent needlessly and when I had no money, because I wanted something and the credit card was there. But now, I find myself living on a very modest income (and my credit card bill run high with things like groceries, metrocards, rent payments and a $40 bedframe from IKEA so I didn't have to sleep on the floor), and I know that I have to be responsible because frankly, there is only so much money before it's all gone. Credit makes people forget that.
You can now clearly imagine that my new place of employment, which phones up people who have more money than they know what to do with and asks them to throw some of it at people who are poor and play instruments, makes me feel like much less of a disgusting, despicable human being.
cheers,
e. cawein
(It's a handy little spreadsheet that every associate can access through the register, and it gives the run-down of every sales goal for the day, divided by segment, and shows results for all the completed segments. For example, if you read a line of the spreadsheet you might gather that for the segment from 10 a.m. to noon, the goal in total sales was $X, the amount we actually did was $X, our percent above or below the goal was X% and the breakdown of the sales into beauty and bras were X and Y.)
On this day, I remember going downstairs to the bathroom about halfway through my shift and staring at my blank, washed out face (god damn you, fluorescent lighting) in the mirror for a good few minutes, a little bewildered. Though physically, I felt fine, mentally I felt as though I should be vomiting up my lunch. You see, the sales plan for one day -- one eleven-hour period from open til close -- was $100,000.
$100 grand? Now, I'm no mathmetist, but there aren't all that many people walking through the doors of Victoria's Secret in a given day. It gets crowded, sure. But $100,000? Of course, the matter of how in the world we'd ever get to $100,000 isn't the point. The point is that our nation is in a recession. People are losing their homes. People are losing their jobs. There are kids who are going hungry and people are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on god damned bras and panties.
And let me make one thing clear -- this is nothing at all like the completely illogical "there-are-starving-kids-in-China-so-let's-all-gorge-ourselves" mentality. This is not about some people having and others having not. This is about the fact that I know, without a shred of doubt, that many of the people who pass through those pearly doors on Lexington Avenue every day and spend hundreds of hard-earned dollars on frilly underwear and push-up bras ARE the people who have not. If you have a trillion dollars and you want to spend half of it on underwear, that's your right. Will I judge you? Of course, but I have judged people for a hell of a lot less in the past. But if you, just like the rest of us, are struggling to make ends meet and concerned about your job security? You should not be walking out with a shopping bag full of lace thong bikinis that cost $14 each.
But on top of this big old sundae of economic responsibility comes a tempting and dangerous cherry -- the Angels Credit Card. The Angel Card, we're told in training, is designed to promote brand loyalty. If she opens an Angel Credit Card, she'll surely come back and shop with us again because she can earn points! and rewards! and lots and lots more PANTIES! This is not entirely untrue. A credit card with a given company will build brand loyalty. But the disturbing thing to me is that even Victoria's Secret associates are not apprised of the real situation, and many of them (please see previous Panty Land Diaries post) are not intelligent enough to deduce it themselves.
This card comes with a whopping 22% interest rate.
So while Rita Recessionista is so excited about getting those panties on sale for 20 percent off and putting them on her Angel Card (so she doesn't even have to spend a dime today! who thought this shit up!?), she will eventually pay three or four times the initial cost of those panties because, guess what? Shocking -- she doesn't actually have the money to buy those panties right now. She actually has to pay rent and her grocery bill and for gas and water. So now Victoria's Secret gets to circumvent its own sale price by raking in three times the ticket price for Rita's underoos because she isn't fiscally responsible enough to say "no, thank you" to a credit card offer.
And Rita Recessionista is everywhere. She is every woman. Every American woman who has been taught that she should be able to have whatever she wants right this instant, and that credit is easy. (Hello, that's why it's called easy credit, right?) And every associate in a Victoria's Secret store is expected to open one or two or thirty seven Angel Credit Cards every single day. Every day in a given store, that's 30 or 40 more women carrying a fresh piece of plastic, 75% of whom will inevitably go into minor debt because of it. The pressure that is placed on Victoria's Secret associates to open these cards is undoubtedly more disturbing to me than the $100,000 daily sales plan. Mostly because I refuse to be partially responsible for someone else's lapse in financial judgment. I refuse to try to persuade a woman who does NOT need another credit card building up her debt that in fact she really does neeeeeed an Angel Card and it only takes 30 seconds so come on, let's sign you up today. I simply refuse.
Because behind that 'brand loyalty' and those offers and discounts and 'great deals' lurks the ill of our society that has left us in the place where we currently lie, breathless and in need of economic resuscitation. Quick and easy credit.
And here's the thing -- I'm all about honesty, so let me assure you that I have not always been the world's most responsible user of credit. I have spent carelessly, I have spent needlessly and when I had no money, because I wanted something and the credit card was there. But now, I find myself living on a very modest income (and my credit card bill run high with things like groceries, metrocards, rent payments and a $40 bedframe from IKEA so I didn't have to sleep on the floor), and I know that I have to be responsible because frankly, there is only so much money before it's all gone. Credit makes people forget that.
You can now clearly imagine that my new place of employment, which phones up people who have more money than they know what to do with and asks them to throw some of it at people who are poor and play instruments, makes me feel like much less of a disgusting, despicable human being.
cheers,
e. cawein
1.07.2009
Misuses Of The English Language And Other Assorted and General Idiocy
The following events all took place in or around the concierge desk at Victoria's Secret on Lexington Avenue in New York, allegedly "our must luxurious store ever." As you will surely detect from the following incidents, it could never be described as "our most intelligent store ever, or even as compared to a fake Victoria's Secret store run by a second grade class in Kansas."
i.
Associate: I have a customer downstairs who is looking for a bra, it's a push-up and the color is merlot (mer - LOTT).
Me: Merlot?
Associate: Oh, is that how you say that? Anyway.
ii.
Manager on store walkie talkie: Associate Jane Doe, meet me in the foyer.
Associate (walks up to concierge window): What's a foyer?
Me: It's like a hall or entryway at the front of a building or house.
Assorted conversation that leads to the following statement from the other concierge associate:
Concierge: Nobody knows what that means.
Me: Everyone knows what that word means! It's a totally common word.
Concierge: No it's not.
Me: I bet you if you bring five people over here and we ask them what a foyer is, they will know the answer.
Moments later.
Me: What is a foyer?
Associate 1: Ummm...
Associate 2: Ahhh...
Associate 3: Erm...
Concierge: See? No one knows what that word means. I told you!
Associate: That's a French word, I speak English.
iii.
Song playing over the store radio.
Me: Did you hear that?
Concierge supervisor: Hear what?
Me: The song that's playing. In another song they play in here they bleep out "bum," but in this song they just played GD without bleeping it. How weird is that?
Concierge supervisor: What's GD?
iv.
Associate: Hey, you know how we were doing the mamogramming?
Me: Um, monogramming?
Associate: Yeah, whatever. Are we still doing that?
That last incident requires a little more back story. First, it has to be said that the mamogramming comment was not made for the first time to me. In fact, one of my co-workers was quizzing the other associates on our monogramming service, and one associate answered: "Oh yeah, monogramming. That's when we check the women's breasts to see if they have lumps." Disturbing on several levels, the biggest one being that this girl seemed to earnestly believe that WE DID THAT IN THE STORE.
The above described incident actually happened on my very last day at Victoria's Secret, and I felt like someone upstairs was really looking out for me. I considered it my going away present.
More to come soon.
cheers,
e. cawein
i.
Associate: I have a customer downstairs who is looking for a bra, it's a push-up and the color is merlot (mer - LOTT).
Me: Merlot?
Associate: Oh, is that how you say that? Anyway.
ii.
Manager on store walkie talkie: Associate Jane Doe, meet me in the foyer.
Associate (walks up to concierge window): What's a foyer?
Me: It's like a hall or entryway at the front of a building or house.
Assorted conversation that leads to the following statement from the other concierge associate:
Concierge: Nobody knows what that means.
Me: Everyone knows what that word means! It's a totally common word.
Concierge: No it's not.
Me: I bet you if you bring five people over here and we ask them what a foyer is, they will know the answer.
Moments later.
Me: What is a foyer?
Associate 1: Ummm...
Associate 2: Ahhh...
Associate 3: Erm...
Concierge: See? No one knows what that word means. I told you!
Associate: That's a French word, I speak English.
iii.
Song playing over the store radio.
Me: Did you hear that?
Concierge supervisor: Hear what?
Me: The song that's playing. In another song they play in here they bleep out "bum," but in this song they just played GD without bleeping it. How weird is that?
Concierge supervisor: What's GD?
iv.
Associate: Hey, you know how we were doing the mamogramming?
Me: Um, monogramming?
Associate: Yeah, whatever. Are we still doing that?
That last incident requires a little more back story. First, it has to be said that the mamogramming comment was not made for the first time to me. In fact, one of my co-workers was quizzing the other associates on our monogramming service, and one associate answered: "Oh yeah, monogramming. That's when we check the women's breasts to see if they have lumps." Disturbing on several levels, the biggest one being that this girl seemed to earnestly believe that WE DID THAT IN THE STORE.
The above described incident actually happened on my very last day at Victoria's Secret, and I felt like someone upstairs was really looking out for me. I considered it my going away present.
More to come soon.
cheers,
e. cawein
a hint at what's to come
If you've been following me on Twitter, which seems to be just about the only thing I'm good at these days, then you will have surmised that I'm no longer an employee of the illustrious capitol of covering both one's T and one's A, Victoria's Secret.
As of Monday I am an employee of the New York Philharmonic, doing telephone fundraising. Does this sound familiar? Apparently missing just the nation of England was not enough, I needed to do something which would cause me to actually miss the institution of all things charitable, Pell and Bales. So far, so good, and on my first day of actual calling (this morning) I managed to pull in a $100 gift from, ironically, a British man.
The tales of the land of bras and panties are still forthcoming -- in fact, now that I'm no longer worried about losing my job I am less concerned for masking any bits of the truth and will be delivering you tales with full candor. So brace yourself. The first installment, which I hope to bring to you tomorrow evening, will be titled: Misuses Of The English Language And Other Assorted and General Idiocy.
cheers,
e. cawein
As of Monday I am an employee of the New York Philharmonic, doing telephone fundraising. Does this sound familiar? Apparently missing just the nation of England was not enough, I needed to do something which would cause me to actually miss the institution of all things charitable, Pell and Bales. So far, so good, and on my first day of actual calling (this morning) I managed to pull in a $100 gift from, ironically, a British man.
The tales of the land of bras and panties are still forthcoming -- in fact, now that I'm no longer worried about losing my job I am less concerned for masking any bits of the truth and will be delivering you tales with full candor. So brace yourself. The first installment, which I hope to bring to you tomorrow evening, will be titled: Misuses Of The English Language And Other Assorted and General Idiocy.
cheers,
e. cawein
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