Pizza Fiasco

And now, the amazing, the talented, the sometimes badly employed Comedian Abbi Crutchfield provides a story from the third circle of hell: pizza ovens. (Circles, pies, reminds me of a math joke: Pi R squared? No, pie are round. Ha! Ha! Math humor.)

Few work experiences are as memorable as the time I was 15 and slung hash at Donato’s Pizza in Indianapolis, Indiana.  It wasn’t really hash—it was dough, and we couldn’t really sling it, as it came in rigid, frozen discs.  We systematically counted and distributed toppings to achieve that “edge-to-edge” taste that the training video kept bragging about. Instead of a sense of accomplishment, however, all I got was fingers that smelled like onions.

This was my first non-babysitting gig, and I was proud to wear a uniform and work along side my older sister.  She was Employee of the Month for several consecutive months, and I longed to relieve her of her title. 

But I was not wall of employee fame material. For example, I once knocked a giant tower of pans to the floor, terrifying nearby diners.  Or the time I was exhausted and fainted in front of the oven, “a high-traffic zone,” my 27-year old boss and AA devotee, Carl, reminded me.  Or when I raced assistant manager Chris to answer a call and instead of picking up the phone, I poked him in the eye. The caller never got to order because I couldn’t stop laughing.

My true failing, however, turned out to be an unplanned physical shortcoming.  In answering whether I was as hard of a worker as my sister, Carl pondered thoughtfully, “Well…everything about you two is the same…except her boobs are bigger.”  The same man never hesitated to recount the time he was caught on the couch with his underage girlfriend. All this fun led me to decide to leave restaurant hell, but as I made my plans to escape by flinging pizza dough like death stars, Carl informed me that I was fired. I had no problem dropping my apron in the trash, and I instantly erased the memory of how to make a Hawaiian in 30 seconds.  But it took weeks for my fingers to stop smelling like onions. 

There's Leather and Then There's Adult Leather

The post below comes to us from a young Phaea Crede. She has faced the difficulty of learning to spell her own name, and many other lessons, like the one below.

When I was 16 years old I got my first job: Working at the Gap in Harvard Sq.

I was wide eyed and naive at 16 when it came to the world of "normal people". I was a bit of an off beat kid, sort of like now, only with worse hair. Consequently, many of the odd things that went on at the Gap were just chalked up to "normal people" choices. For example: intense love for pleated khakis, customers that needed help finding a shirt they were looking directly at, or V-neck sweaters.

During my training, as I was walked through the basics of manning the register and using the stockroom, my manager showed me a set of keys.

"These are for the (whispered) leather."

Unable to decipher her whispered adjective on the word "leather", I, for some reason, assumed that she was referring to a stock of leather sex toys and apparatus that the Gap sold on the sly, but only some people knew about. And I completely accepted it because this was a strange adult world.

And even though I saw the key being used over and over again to unlock expensive leather jackets off the floor displays, it was many many years until I finally realized that the Gap did not have a secret menu of leather dildos in the back room.

I was a bit disappointed.

Ted Turner's Turpitude

Saara Dutton has had a run in with Ted Turner. She still works in the car-chase-and-lost-girl-obsessed, morally-outraged-anchor-filled world of cable news, but no longer has the responsibility of handling the chip chart. 

My first job out of college was as an entry-level Video Journalist at CNN headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia.  For this honor I received a paltry salary of $20,000 a year.

My mother was convinced that Ted Turner took great satisfaction in my slave wages. In her eyes he was a ruthless, penny-pinching fiend who micro-managed his network to an extreme. Whenever I'd complain about anything at CNN, she'd blame it all on Ted Turner personally.

I'd say, “The bathrooms on the third floor stink.”

She'd reply, "That Ted Turner. Not cleaning the toilets," as though he were a shiftless janitor.

I'd say, “The Brunswick stew in the cafeteria gave me gas."

She'd reply, "That Ted Turner. Makes his employees fart all night with his food," as though he were in the kitchen stirring the stew himself. 

I'd say, "I hate working the 7pm to 4am shift."

She'd reply, "That Ted Turner. Exploiting you kids for his own pleasure," as though he were perched in his penthouse apartment at the Omni hotel, watching me enter the CNN Center as he cackled, “Boy I love seein’ that Dutton girl on this miserable shift!"

While I didn't necessarily blame Ted Turner for my lot in life, working at CNN was the root cause of my empty wallet. Still, I became indignant one night when a weather reporter bestowed some left-over holiday party peanuts on the VJ crew. Naturally, none of us peons had received an invite to her party. Eyeing those pathetic Ziplock bags of Planters mix, I was livid. Was this any way to treat your professional colleagues? Scattering picked over peanuts in our script-ripping area? 

But one by one my co-workers’ eyes lit up as they exclaimed “Peanuts!” and happily wolfed them down.

It was a lost cause.

We were literally working for peanuts.

Bad Day Payback - The Expense Statement Chronicles

Leigh Buchanan is an editor at large at Inc. magazine. For reasons she finds unfathomable someone actually pays her to write about office life, which she does here. However, she does assure me that if I write him an email, Bill Gates will give me gold I can use to buy blogs. And now, on with the tale of woe:

 

Thirteen 13 years ago I worked for a technology magazine, writing lush, deeply moving articles about client-server computing. I was largely unversed in office politics, so when the publisher introduced our new editorial director I didn’t understand why the staff seemed uncomfortable-verging-on-hostile. Apparently the publisher was trying to force out the editor-in-chief by hiring someone in over her. The editor herself discovered what was happening just hours before the rest of us.

 

Not surprisingly, the editor resigned. The publisher—displaying unexpected sensitivity—suggested that instead of a farewell bash she invite her favored colleagues out for dinner. He would treat; more importantly he would not appear. So a dozen of us met at a restaurant on the top floor of Boston’s Prudential Tower: one of those view-is-better-than-the-food places where the side dishes cost $10. Attendees ranged from underlings the editor found amusing (me) to her closest allies.

 

The table ordered wine and more wine and then more wine. The conversation got louder and nastier. The publisher and editorial director were verbally drawn and quartered. The editor and her posse (can 50-year-old women in wool suits and costume jewelry be a posse?) started ordering bottles of expensive liquor. Those of us drinking less tried gently to discourage them. We went unheeded.

 

The next morning the CFO, highly agitated, came to each of our offices. The bill for alcohol alone was $2,000, and he feared presenting it to the publisher. Could we each chip in $100 to $200 to help defray the cost? I, a junior staffer, was less protective of the publisher’s pockets; besides, I hadn’t drunk that much. Still, I felt queasily obligated.

 

In the end the publisher got wind of what was happening and told the CFO to stop fund-raising. The editor left and the editorial director didn’t last much longer. (He was a poor fit for a technology magazine—shortly after arriving he asked me, “If I have an email address does that mean I also have a Web site?”) The managing editor—an editorial genius—became editor-in-chief. So all’s well etc.

 

Since then, I do most of my drinking off the expense account.

Alliterative Supermodel Disses Dis Dude

Peter Olson who is the Director of Web Development for Marvel Entertainment and an occasional freelance writer has a bad day and has a bad suit to show for it. He no longer has an entourage.

It was launch day for the Official Web Site of Very Famous Supermodel With An Alliterative Name. And for a late 90’s internet company, launch day meant one thing: a party. All the day-to-day frustrations and long hours we’d endured to bring Alliterative Supermodel into the 21st century would culminate in a well-deserved bout of drinking, socializing, and a live web-chat with Alliterative Supermodel herself.  And more importantly, all our hard work would finally be recognized by the high muckety-mucks at the company.

Around noon, the CEO came by.

“Where’s your suit?” he asked me. I looked at him blankly.

“You know you have to man the door, right?” He stared down at me. “I need you to make sure no one gets in that isn’t on the list. Oh, and Alliterative Supermodel hasn’t vetted you, so you can’t be in the building while she’s here. And get a suit.”

That cold November night, I shivered in my ill-fitting, un-reimbursed suit as a parade of celebrity flotsam streamed by — the Alliterative Supermodel, her entourage, her pushy talent agency people, a couple of Broadway actors, and a thoroughly un-vetted adult film star friend of the CEO — none of whom had helped build the thing they were celebrating. Only after the Alliterative Supermodel had exited the building, almost knocking over a 9-year-old boy trying for her autograph, were we allowed back in.

Our office looked like a high school gym after the prom: dirty, abandoned, and tackily decorated. There were, however, two Serbian bartenders still pouring a shot called Vodka Nikolai, in which of a jigger of vodka is chased by a lemon wedge, sugar, coffee grounds and copious regret. I drank four, got a cab back to Brooklyn, and started polishing my resume.

Hillary Water-Gate

In my writing class, I have students write about a bad day on the job. The post below came from Jared Coleman who had a run in with a Mrs. Hillary Clinton. It's my favorite bad day this year. (And by the way, after you're done reading it, you might be amused to know that the Hillary water bottle is available from her website. What would you put in it?)

I once interned for the Campaign for America’s Future (CAF) in Washington DC. Each year CAF host a large event called “Take Back America” attended by prominent American politicians including presidential candidates. 

Each politician’s staff pre-requests stuff for their boss—like a rock band requesting green M&Ms—including specific lighting, entrance music, food, and water. I got the job of supplying the water. 

The vast majority of candidates just asked for bottled water without specifying a brand. However, Hillary Clinton requested Fiji water. At the local CVS, 2 bottles of Fiji cost the same as a 24-pack of Deer Park. Apparently, is actually comes from Fiji. Deer Park, according to Wikipedia, comes from places like Florida and Michigan. Since I needed to supply nearly 75 politicians with water I bought a few cases of Deer Park—thinking that a bottle of water is a bottle of water, no matter what name is on the outside. 

During the event, I handed bottles to the speakers a few minutes before they went on. Most thanked me and then engaged in short, friendly conversations—the kind of welcoming behavior you would expect from the leaders of our country. 

Mrs. Clinton, however, acted differently when she was handed her cold bottle of Deer Park. “Every year, every year, there is something different that is wrong with this event!” she told me and my boss. I personally felt disrespected and thought that as a potential President she would have handled herself better. 

She waited for a moment backstage, clearly displeased, and then proceeded to the main stage. During her speech she was booed for a comment about the War in Iraq. I guess karma truly does exist. I cracked a little smirk. Maybe it was something in the water? 

Cheese Market of Shame

Today we bring you a tale of humiliation, low wages, and moldy dairy. David Serchuk is now an editor at Forbes.com, has a blog of his own about being a dad and being in Brooklyn (http://www.brooklynbabydaddy.blogspot.com), and still has an issue with Emmental. 

 

It didn’t start off as such a bad day. 

True, I worked at the Ninth Avenue Cheese Market, in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen. True, I was paid $6 an hour. True, I was 30 years old.  

But if I just concentrated on the work, it was okay. The Turkish owner of the market, Pondo, seemed to like me. I ate all the cheese I could sneak, and there were several friendly shop cats to keep me company.

But if it wasn’t so bad, it wasn’t so good, either. Pondo could be kind of a jerk. Once, for example, I tried to hoist the heavy wrought-iron gate onto the back of the store as he watched. 

“You are weak, like little girl,” he said.

But mostly the market signified failure. I had been a journalist one year before, covering the financial world. Though it was kind of boring it paid the bills. I chucked that to intern at National Public Radio, which didn’t pan out. And then my old job was no longer available. 

Now I was broke, and basically paid in dairy products. 

Then one day Alicia, one of my former co-workers from the journalism job walked in. 

I knew it was her because her hair was so blond it was almost white. She had always been nice to me, but I couldn’t let her see me like this, in an apron. I hid behind a counter as she bobbed around the market, praying Pondo wouldn’t call on me. I was ashamed. It had all gone wrong, and I didn’t know how it would get better. There wasn’t much future in cheese. I prayed she wouldn’t recognize me.

She didn’t. 

After she left I got out from my hiding. A customer needed coffee, now. I was summoned.