Things I learnt from…the maintenance man

Working in retail you spend a lot of time talking to people and in the myriad of conversations you have daily, you manage to learn a few things.

A few months ago, a maintenance man was working out the back near our computer. I learnt far more than I probably wanted to in our 20-minute exchange.

You see it was the day before he went on leave and I was asking what he was doing during his time away. It was not what I was expecting.

He was going overseas for a couple of weeks, which sounds normal enough…I can assure you it wasn’t that simple. The destination was Thailand and he was going, to put it delicately, to gain the company of women.

I was taught that you can walk in to any bar in the town he was visiting and the women were lined up on a stage in the middle of the bar and that you could pick a women to spend time with. What that entailed I’m not 100% sure as I wasn’t really interested in asking many questions.

What the hell could have I learnt from this exchange?

Call me naïve, but I didn’t realise that people still treated women like a commodity. I just don’t understand how or why you would involve yourself in that, but I learnt that people do. At the risk of sounding sanctimonious, I think that they don’t realise that the women they are “purchasing” for their holiday are so poor that they are willing to do that and that they would, most likely, rather be working in a different field.

I understand some people may choose this as a career, and by no way am I judging it. I am uncomfortable with, what I believe, a lack of choice for that career. If the ladies in those bars were working there of their own free will, I don’t have an issue.

I don’t think the maintenance man realised I had no interest in his holiday and was repulsed by his, I don’t believe intentional, attitude towards women. I learnt I could fake interest quite successfully…convenient for a journo.

What’s in a break? Sugar and Spice Cafe

What is what’s in a break?

It is the patch of cyberspace where I share with you my favourite places, my favourite foods and favourite things (who am I, Oprah?) from my 80 minutes of break-time (aka rest-pause) a day.

Let us begin with where I spend majority of my breaks (and all my pre-work city time)…

Like Boston had Cheers, Brisbane has Sugar and Spice. It is a place where everybody knows my name…and better still, my order.

I’ve frequented this delightful little coffee shop (situated on Adelaide Street, near Anzac Square) twice daily for about three years and it has become a warm, comforting place of refuge from the cold hell of retail.

The core staff, there currently are four, are all lovely, entertaining and always up for a chat. They also have possibly the best memories I have ever born witness to. During a morning rush there could be 40 people (that’s insane considering it’s size) loitering about at any one time; of these 40, 35 would be regulars and what each one drinks is emblazoned on every member of staff’s mind.

The food and coffee is also delicious which is quite possibly the biggest draw card. Nothing says good morning like a fresh slice of corn toast slathered generously with butter washed down with your favourite coffee. When feeling rich aka on payday, I also recommended a bacon and egg wrap. They make me happy. They change their specials daily so I encourage you to be adventurous and take the staff’s advice when they give it (which is how I discovered the wrap).

The soundtrack is also awesome, but I think that has more to do with the sweet musical tastes of the core-four baristas. One miserable pre-flood morning (we live in Queensland…too much rain makes us sad), they decided to crank some Bohemian Rhapsody…I was encouraged to sing along. I cannot describe the joy of a coffee shop sing-a-long adequately, nor can I advise you to try to start one enough.

The thing I enjoy the most about Sugar and Spice is that on a shit morning I can walk in, give them a wave, pay and keep walking to the end of the counter without uttering a word and know that my coffee will be perfect. They also will try their damndest to make you leave happy…and you do.

I also enjoy that the kind of coffee I drink is named after me (well not originally…but it is now). Some would say this is mildly narcissistic…I would agree.

Heard on the Selling Floor

A couple came into my store.

“Is there anything off the suits?” the woman asked a sales consultant.

They responded with insincere disappointment, “No, just 25% off the knits”.

The man then asked, “Are the suits full priced?”

With a tone that screamed pure rage, the consultant replied, “As I said, just 25% off the knits.”

Is it really that hard to understand?

Customer Service Complaints: The Destruction of a Pile

I am anal retentive and think I probably have a mild case of OCD.

I like order, routine and structure (how boring). Nothing in retail makes me feel as comfortable, or as happy as folding a shirt or a fine knit, into crisp perfection. The buttons and seams all align, corners so sharp it should be deemed a health and safety risk and the fold so tight you could bounce a coin off it.

I really do love my folding.

I really do hate, however, when a customer walks into my section and proceeds to open out all my hard work and in under ten seconds, lead to the complete destruction of the pile.

I liken this moment to witnessing the rape of the physicality of your hard work. This may seem hyperbolic, but I can assure you that is the pain and anguish you feel.

I mean what is the point of going through an entire pile of beautifully folded garments when in reality you only need to open out one or two sizes, shouldn’t you? I understand that opening the piece at the top of the pile is instinct. You want to know what it is. That, fearful shoppers, I can forgive you for.

I cannot forgive you opening out each of the following garments in the pile. They are all the same, the style isn’t changing; the idea is to make the shopping experience simple for you, why would we mess with that? What a customer should do is look down the pile for their size and then open out that one to see if it looks right. I mean, what the hell is the point of opening out a medium jumper to see what it looks like when you wear an extra large? Where is the logic?

Now at this point, you could argue that you don’t know your size. If this is the case, you really shouldn’t be trusted to care for yourself. It is not difficult to know what size fits you. I understand that each brand fits differently and that a medium in one, is an extra small in another, but god, you should at least have a rough idea.

Anyway, using my shop-keep logic, we should have three ruined folds rather than eight or so; this is a level of destruction that I can both deal with and forgive. The biggest sin, in my eyes, is far worse than even destroying a whole pile; it is when I approach customers when they are looking at folded garments, as is my job, I offer them assistance finding a size or grabbing something out (to limit destruction) and they tell me they are just looking before proceeding to completely annihilate my hard work. I understand that they are “just looking” but I’m only offering to make it easier for them, and less painful for me.

I would equate this to the difference between wilfully murdering and committing manslaughter.

So next time you walk through a shop and you see something beautifully folded, tempting you to take a peek. Please stop. Think of me and be gentle. It is someone’s hard work and it isn’t difficult to a) only look at the appropriate size or b) ask a sales assistant for help…it is there job…and if like me, they will love you for respecting their folding prowess.

Spotted on the Selling Floor: Bindi and Terri Irwin

Let me take you back.

It was around 4pm and a co-worker approach with a gleeful look in his eye.

“Guess who is shopping in here?”

I’m embarrassed to admit the first name to pop into my head, and then jump from my tongue, was Bieber (I’m calling in sick tomorrow…I have the fever right?).

“No…better, well funnier…and less famous.”

I was blank and my face showed that.

“Family…”

At the mention of that word I instantly knew…The Irwins. They frequent the store whenever they come to the big smoke (as I assume they call it).

“Yes!!! Trying on dresses in young designer. I wonder why?”

We discussed the possibilities of why they were there and what they were shopping for before deciding one of us had to go investigate. Sadly, it wasn’t me that was chosen to go…something to do with the person telling me the story actually being employed by the company the Irwins were shopping with.

Ten minutes later, my colleague returned with the information.

“Pink dress, frilly, Bindi, lost interest.”

Being an inquisitive journalist type, my immediate reaction was to want to know one thing, why (cheers for the advice Negus). Why is Bindi getting a crazily expensive dress when, a) the family are meant to be selling off land from the zoo (according to some gossip magazines), and b) she has hardly finished growing? That’s ridiculous. It was at this point the answer hit me…the Logies.

Around this time each year we seem to see the Irwins buying something a little bit fancy and I can never figure out why. The next Sunday night whilst either bored, drunk or both, I stumble upon some Logies coverage and see The Irwins looking swanky in the clothes they bought from our store.

This year however, I have realised before the coverage...whilst sober.

Shop Boy Explains…why a closed door is a no go in the fitting rooms

...why a closed door is a no go in the fitting rooms

My manager describes me as laidback and relaxed with customers, most of the time I would simply describe it as me being lazy. An example of said laziness is when I direct people to the fitting room; on walking them to the entry of the fitting room I tell them to take their pick of the rooms. At least once a day someone approaches a door that is closed (next to an open room), opens it and is shocked to find another customer in there. Am I missing something here, or is this as stupid as I think it is?

I mean, when we enter a public toilet we first look for an open cubicle, then we check if it’s empty. If we find this, we then inspect it to make sure it isn’t filthy; this should be the rule with fitting rooms too, but it is not. Why go for a closed door when there are five open ones for you to choose from? I just don’t get it.

I can almost understand people opening a door on a fellow customer if all fitting rooms are closed, they could think it is just how the store operates (and I’m sure many do). I however don’t understand why people wouldn’t knock before simply barrelling through. I mean it’s not like you live there and can just walk in and out as you please…knock, if no one says anything, then you open it. I’d put it in the basic etiquette around doors category.

I will end this rant with two hot tips…

1. If you see an open fitting room, it is empty, then jump in and take it, and

2. Lock the damn door so people don’t just walk in on you. There are locks on them for a reason people!

Bargain Bin Bonanza: Rumours by Fleetwood Mac

I spend a lot of time, and money, in JB Hi Fi on my breaks. Some people describe the place as my crack. I just can’t get enough, nor does it seem can I avoid the place. I have therefore decided it is appropriate to start a column that will hopefully force me to save money (how that works when it encourages me to spend money, I don’t understand).

Anyway, the premise is simple. Each Wednesday I buy a CD or DVD that costs under $10 that I have never listened to in it’s entirety or seen, respectively. The idea is to broaden my musical / film horizons and hopefully find a gem that I’ve been missing out on.

This week I decided to go with Fleetwood Mac’s 1977, Rumours which is currently at the bargain price of $9.99.

Now, I have most of the album on other CDs however I shamefully have to admit that I have never listened to this album, from beginning to end, as it was meant to be listened to.

Created in an environment of drug-fuelled infidelity, this album had balls (quite literally on the cover) and I believe this to be their greatest. This belief is partially due to the inclusion of two of my three favourite Fleetwood songs (“Gold Dust Woman” and “Go Your Own Way”), the other influence on my decision is the unadulterated joy I get from listening to it.

This album shows you the importance of the musical journey created by the structure of the track listing. We open with the early influences of Fleetwood Mac before Stevie and co. became involved, before working our way into the new Fleetwood style. The structure almost takes us on a journey of the bands evolution, interestingly whilst the members were going through their own personal evolutions.

Anyway, I love Fleetwood Mac and don’t have a bad word to say against them. This album is amazing and well worth the bargain price it is currently available for. If you don’t own it, do yourself a favour and go your own way to buy it…NOW.

Two thumbs up and five discount stickers out of five.

An open letter to...clearance customers

Dear clearance customers,

Let me open by simply saying, I hate you. My parents always taught me that that I should never use that word…it’s too strong, you don’t mean that, you just dislike. Well sorry to contradict your teaching my dear parents, but hate is the best possible word for use in this circumstance and the only one that will suffice. I suppose loathe or despise would also be appropriate but I have digressed. The point is, clearance shoppers, you all suck.

I hate the way you ignore me when I greet you. This annoys me to no end and sadly this isn’t just a sale time special, you seem to do it all throughout the year…however I believe you, clearance shoppers, are more likely to participate in this behaviour. Each day shop assistants are paid to greet the customer, generally people respond with a return greeting or another of my favourites, “I’m just looking”, which makes me want to scream at them “I was just asking how you were you idiot”. I am most annoyed by simply being ignored.

“Hi, how are you going today?”

Silence.

Hear is an idea, I am paid to be in the shop, you are not. So if you plan on ignoring me when I do my job and greet you, just get the hell out.

I hate the way you seem to think assuming something is on sale will make me feel obliged to give you a discount. If I had five cents for every time you have walked up and told me that I’ve missed something in the markdowns I would be rich enough to not work in retail. Turns out I have the list of reduced stock, not you dear customer, so when it doesn’t have a markdown sticker on it there is a good reason for that…it isn’t on sale you fool.

I hate the way you simply sale discount and expect more money off. Discount…discount…discount. Here is an idea, structure your question into a sentence and we can talk. I will then explain that it is already on sale and that that is the discount. I think people believe we come from a culture where bartering in a major department store is accepted and appropriate; I will give you this advice for free…it is not.

I hate the way you ask for “new ones”. Let me first begin by explaining to you that nothing we sell is second hand meaning everything in the store is new. I understand however, that you are asking for something that hasn’t been on the floor before. In general if something is on sale, it is because it hasn’t sold. It has been on the selling floor for months and not sold, meaning it has been unpacked, all put on the floor and not sold. There are no new ones out the back…we want to put all the reduced stock on the floor to get rid of it as quickly as possible. No NEW ONE.

I hate the way you ask if it is less for cash. I work in clothing retail, not at The Good Guys. Why would it be less for cash? If you ask me this, please don’t be offended when I respond by asking you who the hell, other than my grandfather, carries cash? Do you honestly think that buying a $10 t-shirt with cash really warrants getting $2 off? If yes, never step foot in my store again.

Yours sincerely,

Shop Boy

How to...get rid of charity workers by being Patsy Stone

Let me start by saying, I’m not a complete and utter heartless jerk. I’ve donated blood, I sign petitions, I give money to the homeless and in general support any charity that asks for my help. I do, however, have my limits.

On either side of the intersection of Adelaide and Edward Streets in Brisbane…every day, are two charity workers with collection tins. Good location for that sort of thing, it is probably the busiest intersection in the CBD. Each day it is the same people collecting money, however each day, the charity is different. I know it probably shouldn’t, but this sets of alarm bells in my head.

Can these two women really be working for all these charities? The answer is probably yes and that isn’t my real issue with them; the issue is that they never remember me giving money and then ask me to donate when I am walking back five minutes later.

You see, on one side of this intersection is the beginning of Queen Street wall (where I work) and the other side is home to my favourite coffee shop (or my very own non-alcoholic Cheers), Sugar and Spice. I cross this intersection a minimum of six times a day and each time they BOTH ask me for money resulting in 11 ways I have to explain that I already donated this morning and deal with a sceptical “sure you did “ expression from them. It makes me quite anxious.

One Sunday afternoon I was watching Ab Fab and drinking wine, when the episode where Patsy does makeovers on a morning show came on. Whilst being interviewed Patsy is absolutely useless and can only respond with “cheers”, “yeah, thanks, cheers” or “yeah, yeah right” leaving the interviewer with nowhere to take the discussion. It was at this point I realised that this technique could possibly work with my charity workers.

The next day waiting for the lights to change to green before crossing the road to start my week of retail hell, I was approached to give money for the charity of the day. I gave some coin, thinking it better for my karma if I give before potentially being a massive wank-face later in the day. About two hours later, I approached the intersection for my mid-morning coffee…

“Would you like to help…”

All I could hear was my heart beating between my ears, “yeah, yeah no cheers”.

“Oh, ok”, she responded, I think ready to collect my money.

“Cheers”.

“Would you like to…”

Shit, this is getting insanely awkward, “yeah, thanks, cheers”.

She stared.

“Yeah, yeah, right”. At that point the light turned green…thank god, as that was getting awkward.

Whilst standing waiting for my coffee I tried to think of a way I could go back without having to walk past her…guilt had gotten to me. Anyone who knows Brisbane would know it would be quite difficult and out of the way to avoid going back past the intersection (anyone who knows me would know I’m too lazy to bother going out of the way), so I had to bite the bullet.

As I approached the corner where the other lady stood to collect I was nervous, do I repeat the Patsy theory or just give a simple no? Fate shined upon me as the light turned green. I was now caught in the slipstream of people hurtling towards the charity worker I had just spoken too. She looked at me, smiled, and asked someone else. Success! The Patsy Stone way of dealing with life had worked. There was only one thing I could do to celebrate. I approached her, put my change in the collection tin and say, “yeah, no cheers”.

She was still confused.

Being 24: The theory of success because of turning 24

I’m of the belief that 24 will be the greatest age of my life. Why? I don’t know, it’s just something I’ve always believed and now that I’ve reached it, I am really hoping that my belief is more premonition than fantasy!

I put turning 24 down as the catalyst for me actually starting a continuous blog. I needed an outlet to continue my writing…and something to inspire me to start my career and not work another retail Christmas. Therefore I will use this column to update you on how, or how not, my life and career has improved as a result of Being 24.

Anyway, it’s not like this theory just popped into my head a few months back when I thought, “Hey, Ben…probably should get your life together. I mean 24…getting on”. I’ve always been a fan.

Let me take you back, circa ’97, we just witnessed Drew Barrymore get sliced and diced in Scream (yeah sorry Mum…I kind of sneakily watched it when I wasn’t allowed), and I was a big fan of maths. In retrospect I like to think I wasn’t a fan of maths, merely a child prodigy, however the love of 24 kind of dispels the charade that is my delusion. Anyway, around this time I realised that 24 is divisible by a large amount of numbers, nay, a HUGE amount. I’ll run you through. Obviously one, then two, and three, yep four is too, not five but hot dang, we have a winner in six, and then eight, twelve and 24…yep…8 numbers. Now as far as I can tell now, and I’ve really lost my interested in numerical joy, that is a high percentage of numbers below 24 that are divisible into it. Confused? I sure am, but at 10…I thought this was amazing and after the hollow feeling of realising I would never add another digit to my age unless I lasted 90 more years, I was pretty pumped for the time I reached 24!

My other theory as to why I believe 24 is when my life kick-starts is that, quite controversially, I believe it to be the beginning of your mid-20s. Debate raged long and hard at work during my birthday week as to when the mid-20s actually began. While most of my co-workers believed it was at 25, which yes, technically is the middle of your 20s, I’m of the belief that your early-20s constitute of 21-23, mid-20s range from 24-26 and the late-20s include 27-29. Each classification getting three years…oh, maybe I should just drop in here that I am pretty anal and like order so that could have something to do with what some may describe as my “aggressive defence of pointless discussions”, which I think simply screams of “you’re right…just shut up and don’t gloat”.

Getting back upon the topic, I believe that the mid-20s are the perfect point at which to start your career. You’re no longer in your teens, broody and angst ridden like a Ryan Attwood / Marissa Cooper hybrid, or working through uni in a drunken blur of cheap beer/passion pop/goon and chips and gravy. You’ve graduated, you’ve got a degree in hand and HOPEFULLY, although my parents and siblings may disagree, you’ve grown up, learnt from your experiences and are ready to break out of the little microcosm you’ve been living within and enter the real, real, REAL world…which is in no way related to the university OF the real world I chose not to attend (I like me some sandstone)!

Back to the number bringing you today’s post. On doing some research into my career crushes, you will notice that 24 is when awesome stuff seems to happen. For example, Mia Freedman became the youngest editor of Cosmopolitan in 1996, when you guessed it…she was 24 (god do I feel inferior now). Kerry O’Brien was married with three children…by 24. Jake Gyllenhaal (less career-crush, more man-crush) starred in blockbuster (I use that term dubiously), The Day After Tomorrow…at 24. Sylvia Jeffreys was made weekend weather presenter for Nine News Queensland…at 24. Ernest Hemingway described JD Salinger as having “one hell of a talent” when Salinger was only…well 25, but in my defence he had written the work that bore forth the description at 24 so I’m sticking with it.

You can say my belief of great things happening at 24 is crazed, however the day of my birthday also marked a Social Media milestone and I have decided to view it as an omen. I hit 100 followers on Twitter. Is there anything that screams career success more than cracking into the third digit of followers when you really have little of importance to say? I think not.

So while I’ve entered into the year of 24 with much hope, and a whole lot of idiotic theories, I actually believe this is my time to shine. So while my friend Amy-May believed 23 was her year…and then she met her hero Nigella Lawson whilst being 23, 24 is what its all about for me. And I mean I met Nigella in my birthday week so surely THAT is an omen of good things to come? Surely!

Heard on the Selling Floor

So an old man said this to another customer in my presence...

"Do you work here?"

"No", the customer replied.

Before I could respond, the old man continued, "Oh well, I'll have to bite the bullet and get served by a queer."

I was in a bad mood so retorted by saying, "Oh, I know what you mean. My boyfriend and I hate being served by their kind".

The old man left. I felt vindicated.

Shop Boy's Journey of Culinary Expansion: Chocolate Fondants

I like food and I like to cook.

I have an insanely large crush on Nigella Lawson…and upon meeting her, giggled. Yes, I am a grown man...and I giggled.

This however, is another story.

This little patch of cyberspace is where I will regale you with the Tales of my Culinary Expansion. Whilst I have a passion for food, my weekly menu always seems to be the same. Don’t get me wrong, I am a creature of habit and get anxious if my routine is changed up (yes…I also think I have OCD), so this gastronomical repetition really doesn’t phase me too much, however, I think the time has come for me to put my passion to work on a culinary expansion.

Each week I plan to cook something, be it a meal, dessert, cake, tart, something…anything, that I haven’t cooked before. This week is my Easter Sunday / my dad’s birthday Chocolate Fondants…with Caramel Bananas (recipes from Ben O’Donoghue’s At Home with Ben).

Being Easter, I felt the need to make something decadently chocolate to best celebrate the cocoa side of the religious holiday. Being my father’s birthday a few days back, I also felt something “cake-y” would be an appropriate dessert. How best do I combine these aspects? Gooey, oozing rich chocolate, spilling out of the centre of a cake…yes, Fondants, that’s how. Being greedy, I’ve also decided to whip up some caramel bananas. Lets see how we go.

Three hours later…

I decided it was best to not remind people that fondants are meant to ooze and hoped that my family would simply think fondant was a wanky term for pudding that my vocabulary was currently dabbling with. This turned out to be a good idea. I mean the centre of the fondants were soft and juicy, however the ooze factor sadly wasn’t there. I recommend following the advice of the chef to, a) do a test fondant to ensure the oven is the correct temperature and b) only cook for 9-10 minutes. I got distracted and I’m going to blame the extra two minutes in the oven for the loss of gooey chocolate.

Patience is a virtue required for melting sugar. I do not have said virtue. This is where my problem with the Caramel Bananas began. I then decided adding butter would help speed up the process; it did not; my first batch of caramel turning into fried crystals of sugar. Take two turned out better with patience resulting in a sweet pool of bubbling amber that when mixed with the pecans, bananas and cream created a deliciously rich accompaniment for the Fondants.

Despite a few set backs, it was a surprisingly easy task. I mean the super-mega-best value conjoined dessert of Fondants with Caramel Bananas I would have struggled to notch up 45 minutes of kitchen time.

My one piece of advice is to not attempt Fondants…or caramel bananas for the first time whilst drunk.

Yes, I’m blaming the beer. It is easier that way.

RDOs Amigos: Car Flippin' (or Shovin')

I wasn’t planning on publishing another RDOs Amigos entry today but with my family being my family, something interesting happened and it would be criminal for me to not share.

This morning we were planning on going out to see my grandfather for Easter. Nothing overtly noteworthy, however, when we reached my parents car in the car park, we discovered that someone had parked perpendicular to theirs. Needless to say, we were not happy. I mean, we had another vehicular option but on principle, we were cranky.

Talk of idiocy, a decay of human decency and calling a tow truck floated around the other car on the trip out to my pop’s house. Nothing, however, was as controversial as the “kind” nature of my father’s note. Mum deeming it too pleasant.

Upon arrival at my pop’s house, my mother waited the statutory three conversation topics (as to not appear rude) before launching into the tale of extreme betrayal played out in the car park. My grandfather, true to form, believed we should have emptied the tyres of air. My mother feeling vindicated, let the issue lie. Surely the car would be gone when we arrived home two hours later?

We were wrong.

At first glance, my Dad’s new note wasn’t as kind, but again, was not tough enough in my mother or my own eyes. However after reflection, the emotional blackmail hued note with lines such as “missing family Easter Functions” and “forced to catch a cab” would probably be more successful.

Let me take you four hours later by which time we had decided that if the car had not moved we would try lift it over so the car could shimmy it’s way out.

My brother arrived around 5:15pm and my Dad, now supportive of the idea, decided that if the car was still there…we try our luck at what is now known in my family as “car flippin’”.

My partner, Dad, brother and I placed ourselves either side of the car with my Mum and my sister-in-law making up the cheer squad. With knees bended, we heaved. Shit. Nothing.

“Too much suspension!”

“I’ll get a hernia!”

“I’m irritated, but not enough for back pain.”

My father, however, encouraged us.

Bounce is what we were lacking. Looking back I don’t know who’s idea it was, but almost by consensus, we decided to try bouncing and shoving the car across the ground on the third upward bounce. Success!! At this point, the thrill of the flip took over.

One, two, three…lift. Success!

Each trio of bounces went by and the car, slowly but surely, began to clear us a path. My Dad decided the perfect number of bounce / shoves for the emancipation of our car was ten.

By the sixth cycle, my partner was out, my mother in. Blisters appearing at the start of my fingers…I continued on for what I can only explain as family pride.

Cycles seven through ten were our most successful. I’m not sure if it was unknown family synchronicity, my mother’s brute strength or desperation on my brother and my part wanting out of this and back to the comfort of the lounge room for beer (in my case) and TV (in his case), but the car gave way enough for our freedom…and that of our car.

On the walk back to our townhouse we debated whether we did anything wrong. The moral decision of the group was no, it was only freeing up our own car and that no damage was done (we sound like psychopaths justifying a kill). I believe that my mother, although being less diplomatic, summed up the occasion the best…

“They should have thought about it, before they parked us in”.

Strong words from a surprisingly strong woman in a very small package.

And that was my RDO amigos!

Spotted on the Selling Floor: Britney Spears

As I explained yesterday, when working on the selling floor you see and hear some weird and wonderful things.

This my friends, is the place I will share with you who I've seen at my store...there is no other store.

It has been a quiet few weeks on the selling floor, unless you count Nine Brisbane's Tony Fabris who I THINK I saw shopping yesterday (but feel it would be creepy to dedicate a column to who I thought I saw). For this reason, let me take you back to late 2009. A time when I was taking a farewell tour of UQ, then-PM Kevin Rudd was touring Afghanistan and Britney Spears was touring Australia.

Britney also decided to tour my selling floor.

I'll set the scene a bit better. It was Monday, a warm day...being Queensland that isn't too shocking, anyway I had gotten back from lunch with my co-worker when we saw a crowd milling outside Peter Alexander in the shopping centre. What the hell, I said to my friend. Is Peter Alexander signing pajamas? Is there a pre-Christmas sale? Then...I saw it. Three huge men that with a single look in my direction could crush me. Yes, they were bodyguards, and amongst them a small girl walking frenetically in our direction. Hot dang! It was Britney Spears...ya'll.

It was a moment in my life that I will never forget. A giant car crash was being dangled in front of me. There was just one thing I had to know, do I stay or do I go?

I went. I mean I'm not a crowd fan on a good day and if a woman is walking in my direction followed by hundreds of squawking girls...and a few squawking boys, I flee.

I got up stairs, confused and afraid. Why bother following around this woman? What is the fuss? She sung a few songs, broke a few windows with her umbrellas and lip-synced a few concerts...but at the end of the day, she is just shopping. What is the point?

Anyway let's fast-forward an hour, because let's face it my memory isn't that great. Word had gotten up to my floor that Britney had left after spending up a storm at our Womenswear counter. Despite ripping on her flock, I decided to go investigate what she had bought (I mean, hey, I may as well get paid to snoop). To my disappointment there were no hair clippers or umbrellas on the list my colleague recounted to us, simply bags, shoes, shirts...and a dress from a brand that is next to the escalators. I decided to investigate...and judge, on my way back upstairs.

I found my co-worker to escort me back upstairs and to help me find the dress. Needless to say, we weren't impressed. I recall the phrase "that is the ugliest dress that that brand has ever made...and they've made some ugly shit" being tossed around before we hit the escalator. It was at that point I noticed a guy standing in front of me with biceps the size of my thigh. That looks like a bodyguard, I thought. I looked in front of him. Oh god, that woman is wearing the ugly dress...I hope she didn't hear us. SHIT...that is Britney Spears, we were just laughing about her.

And that my friends, is the time Britney Spears heard my bitch about her. Awkward.

Heard on the Selling Floor

Let me give you a little bit of background.

When working on the, as we in the industry (and I use that term loosely) call it, selling floor, you see and hear some weird and wonderful things.

This is the place I will share what I hear.

Strange, hilarious, idiotic...I will share it verbatim. Why bother with editing? I mean working in retail means I'm stupid, doesn't it?

Anyway, on to what I heard a few weeks ago...

"If it's too tight in the neck, sometimes you start to choke when you blow it".

I'm filthy, and I'm not touching that one.

How to...deal with one-worded questions

A single word does not a question make. So why do customers feel it is appropriate to say a word, team it with a quizzical look and expect to find what they want? It is the bane of my existence.

Yes, it may be petty for me to get annoyed by this, but it is my belief that as English is not an inflection language this behaviour is inexcusable. If I were working in a Spanish department store, I’d understand. It’s all about inflection. A word would suffice. Los trajes? Yeah, down the end of this aisle. I can deal with that. But if another person walks up to me and says “shoes” I may resort to violence (or more likely, go on a vitriolic rant on their complete lack of knowledge of the English language).

So as I’ve explained, it annoys me…a whole lot. But last Boxing Day I came up with the perfect solution! People of all service industries rejoice!

Word. Association.

Let me take you back. It was mid-afternoon on Boxing Day and as a retail worker I felt like I had been raped and pillaged. A man walked up to the counter, gave me an earnest look and said “shoes”. I looked at him; half pissed off, half humoured and thought this is it. My response? Feet. He stared at me. Socks? He continued to stare. Oh, sorry, we aren’t playing word association? I’m so sorry shoes are just down the end of the corridor. His response? No I’m sorry, I should have made it clear I was looking for shoes. Now at this point, I felt like a jerk…but it worked (and he seemed too nice to have noticed my jerk ways) and has numerous more times.

What is the moral of the story? If you are going shopping and ask the employees a question, at least put in the effort to string together a sentence, I don’t even care if the syntax is appalling.

How would / do you deal with one worded questions?

RDOs Amigos: For the love of Hot Cross Buns

Hola y bienvenidos a RDOs Amigos!

This little column will deal with everything that happens on a day away from the selling floor and what I get up to. Que divertido, I hear you say! I promise, it won’t be as boring as I just explained it.

So on to today...

Attention readers, the time is now 12pm, and this blog is open for reading...

Another Retail Christmas.

Three little words, so much anxiety.

It instils me with so much fear, whilst providing me with so much inspiration.

What the riddle is he talking about, I hear you ask?

Another Retail Christmas…I cannot do it, and that is the point of this blog…I need to get out of retail and gain employment that relates to my degrees (or as I currently call them, my wasted $25000 HECS debt), before having to work in retail through Christmas.

Anyway…let me take you back. Picture it, Brisbane, October 2010. A young man, me, and his friend, the extremely talented Liz, shared a counter at a major department store (it is my store, and there is no other store) and got to talking about her impending graduation and my desire to escape the torture we called retail.

I’d like to take this point to say, I love my job…amazing people, amazing company, but when you spent four years to get two degrees, working in retail can only be described as hell…but I’ve digressed.

So, we were talking about the idea of starting blogs to try and get ourselves some attention from professionals, and in turn, begin our careers. At that point Liz looked at me, and what some would say was straight out of Wicked, said, “Just think of what we could do…together…” and like Elphaba and Galinda before us, it was at that point that we realised we needed to start a blog...together.

As the weeks rolled by, and Liz graduated we discussed ideas and worked towards launching a blog, but work kept getting busier and busier, and the task harder and harder. We had reached Christmas in retail and we had no time for extra-curricular activities. Hell, less festive people than us would struggle to fit festive fun into a retail job at Christmas…if you knew either of us, you would realize that Christmas is the most important time of the year to us, however Christmas working in retail runs the risk of turning you into a mean one, (like) Mr. Grinch and at that point we decided emphatically, that we could never do another retail Christmas.

Fast forward to February and Liz, being supremely talented, had secured a job (at the best magazine in Australia, in my opinion…and well, it’s won the award repeatedly), and the fear of doing another retail Christmas was gone for her, so now, I’ve come to the point where I have to do this blog alone* and risk having to do another retail, you guessed it, Christmas.

So, I guess it has come to the point where I explain what the blog is about, otherwise, how am I meant to entice you to follow / spread word of my wit, charm, insecurities and dislike of retail? This blog will cover everything from life, love, food, the things I’ve learnt from serving the public, things I’ve heard, people I’ve seen, rants, raves and most importantly, my journey to get a job (I’ll explain more about this later) and avoid having to do another retail Christmas.

So without further adieu, welcome…

* By alone, I mean editorially. I would like to take this moment to thank my insanely awesome friend Kim Hamilton, who has come on board as the Graphic Designer of my blog…and future media empire^.

^ Media Empire is extreme use of hyperbole

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