3 to 50 -- 2008
I am usually a very mild-mannered person, but don't get in my face, because there's no guarantee I'll stay that way. Witness the LeSnobbi affair.
My job was telephone sales and support for a variety of online merchants, one of which was a (primarily) upscale handbag company which I designated as "LeSnobbi". (I read enough articles about people getting fired for blogging about their employers by name that it seemed a sensible precaution.) LeSnobbi was bought from its founder by Tasteful Lady, who we also sold for, and who gave us a 40% discount. Which I never took "advantage" of, because they didn't go up to my size, but hey, handbags, one size fits all, right?
The LeSnobbi partners came in to show us their forthcoming spring line, and I innocently raised my hand and asked if they were going to extend the same discount as their parent company. Good Lord, you'd've thought I hawked a loogie into one of their bags. The supervisors announced a break, and I got dog-piled on by three of them out in the hall telling me that we NEVER ask our partners for anything, ever, was that clear?
So when the training resumed. I sat there. Didn't say a thing, even when I knew the answer and no one else did, namely, details about a feature on the website that introduced company employees and designers and inspiration for the merchandise. Yes, I'd studied it, and could have commented, but I had a good sulk going, so why botther?
None of my coworkers had anything to contribute, and the partners were concerned. They put their heads together and announced that there was going to be a contest. A writing contest. We'd have to write essays about the feature, and the reward would be a LeSnobbi bag.
Oh, bitches, I thought. You do not know. What you have done. I am going to win that contest, and you can all go fuck yourselves.
This was not so much egotism on my part---well, maybe a little. But I write A LOT, and I have been writing for 20 years longer than most of them have been alive. Of the forty-something people in our department, I hadn't seen anything to indicate that any of them were geniuses in disguise, so I wasn't really worried about competition.
Mind you, I am a world-class procrastinator. I realized at the last minute that while the entries had to be in by a certain date, I was going to be off until that date, so I had to get it in TONIGHT. Fortunately, I knew what I wanted to say, and it was a slow night. I dashed my essay off in a couple hours between calls, turned it in and waited.
Yes, I won. It was a great, big orange bag, weighed about 8 pounds empty---I sold it to one of my favorite co-workers who was in love with it. I didn't get anywhere near the retail value, but that wasn't the point. The point was, don't fuck with the Fluffy.
I was in the Apparel division of the call center, and we regularly got training on new merchandise by various partners. It had an effect on me. The billing service had had what I consider to be a fairly lax dress code: Jeans were a Friday-only thing, and you couldn't wear shorts, capris or scrubs, but otherwise, you could practically come in in your pajamas. My wardrobe reflected nearly five years of that, but once I was hired on in Melbourne, I started to make more of an effort.
It helped that Goodwill was right there. If I got to work early, I could drop in for a bit, or if the phones weren't too busy, I could get "undertime" for a long lunch and go browse and try things on. At first, I was just happy to get stuff that fit and was in better shape than the stuff I had, but I began to be more discriminating as far as fit and condition went. That, and it was around this time that I found What Not to Wear, which was/is on at noon here during the week. I won't go so far as to say I'm fashionable, but I do think I've developed a certain style.
I got into a routine that would last for most of my time there: Get up, check my email, have brunch while watching WNTW, get dressed and depart for work. Because it was a 20+ mile drive, I had to allow ample travel time; my rule of thumb was, as long as I was ON US1 by 2 PM, I knew I'd be there on time, even allowing for catastrophes.
The drive home became somewhat easier---it was late (I got off at 11:30), there wasn't usually much traffic, and the only crisis was having a flat on the 4th of July in the rain. (I was rescued by a white knight in a street-sweeping truck, who put on my donut and sent me on my way.)
As with most jobs, the first year was the hardest. The n00bs get the crappy schedules, have to work holidays and the like. After year one, things get easier.
.
My job was telephone sales and support for a variety of online merchants, one of which was a (primarily) upscale handbag company which I designated as "LeSnobbi". (I read enough articles about people getting fired for blogging about their employers by name that it seemed a sensible precaution.) LeSnobbi was bought from its founder by Tasteful Lady, who we also sold for, and who gave us a 40% discount. Which I never took "advantage" of, because they didn't go up to my size, but hey, handbags, one size fits all, right?
The LeSnobbi partners came in to show us their forthcoming spring line, and I innocently raised my hand and asked if they were going to extend the same discount as their parent company. Good Lord, you'd've thought I hawked a loogie into one of their bags. The supervisors announced a break, and I got dog-piled on by three of them out in the hall telling me that we NEVER ask our partners for anything, ever, was that clear?
So when the training resumed. I sat there. Didn't say a thing, even when I knew the answer and no one else did, namely, details about a feature on the website that introduced company employees and designers and inspiration for the merchandise. Yes, I'd studied it, and could have commented, but I had a good sulk going, so why botther?
None of my coworkers had anything to contribute, and the partners were concerned. They put their heads together and announced that there was going to be a contest. A writing contest. We'd have to write essays about the feature, and the reward would be a LeSnobbi bag.
Oh, bitches, I thought. You do not know. What you have done. I am going to win that contest, and you can all go fuck yourselves.
This was not so much egotism on my part---well, maybe a little. But I write A LOT, and I have been writing for 20 years longer than most of them have been alive. Of the forty-something people in our department, I hadn't seen anything to indicate that any of them were geniuses in disguise, so I wasn't really worried about competition.
Mind you, I am a world-class procrastinator. I realized at the last minute that while the entries had to be in by a certain date, I was going to be off until that date, so I had to get it in TONIGHT. Fortunately, I knew what I wanted to say, and it was a slow night. I dashed my essay off in a couple hours between calls, turned it in and waited.
Yes, I won. It was a great, big orange bag, weighed about 8 pounds empty---I sold it to one of my favorite co-workers who was in love with it. I didn't get anywhere near the retail value, but that wasn't the point. The point was, don't fuck with the Fluffy.
I was in the Apparel division of the call center, and we regularly got training on new merchandise by various partners. It had an effect on me. The billing service had had what I consider to be a fairly lax dress code: Jeans were a Friday-only thing, and you couldn't wear shorts, capris or scrubs, but otherwise, you could practically come in in your pajamas. My wardrobe reflected nearly five years of that, but once I was hired on in Melbourne, I started to make more of an effort.
It helped that Goodwill was right there. If I got to work early, I could drop in for a bit, or if the phones weren't too busy, I could get "undertime" for a long lunch and go browse and try things on. At first, I was just happy to get stuff that fit and was in better shape than the stuff I had, but I began to be more discriminating as far as fit and condition went. That, and it was around this time that I found What Not to Wear, which was/is on at noon here during the week. I won't go so far as to say I'm fashionable, but I do think I've developed a certain style.
I got into a routine that would last for most of my time there: Get up, check my email, have brunch while watching WNTW, get dressed and depart for work. Because it was a 20+ mile drive, I had to allow ample travel time; my rule of thumb was, as long as I was ON US1 by 2 PM, I knew I'd be there on time, even allowing for catastrophes.
The drive home became somewhat easier---it was late (I got off at 11:30), there wasn't usually much traffic, and the only crisis was having a flat on the 4th of July in the rain. (I was rescued by a white knight in a street-sweeping truck, who put on my donut and sent me on my way.)
As with most jobs, the first year was the hardest. The n00bs get the crappy schedules, have to work holidays and the like. After year one, things get easier.
.