Is there any job a woman could do that would disqualify her from being a feminist?
I find few things as frustrating as dealing with customer service representatives. Generally, I consider myself a patient person. Slow waitstaff and inefficient baristas are only a mild irritant, like seasonal allergies or when my cat knocks over a full glass of water off my bedside table. I’m effusively polite with those in the service industry, because I remember what it was like to serve demanding customers who want both soy milk and half and half in their iced coffees. I tip well, I smile. But, when it comes to customer service representatives, generally, I’m a giant asshole.
Happy businesses can be creepy; one hates to think of employees who are tasked with not merely showing up on time and doing their job well but projecting good cheer at customers too like professional Care Bears.
A few nights ago, Ben arrived home from work carrying several bags, none of them the one containing his newly bought shirt from J. Crew ($66, on sale).
How can I do my job and not prevent housekeeping from doing their jobs, and how can we all be happy?
A former millionaire with a cocaine habit, now broke, gets tired of daily calls from Chase asking him for the $60,000 he owes them, which persist even as he tells the bank rep over and over that he doesn’t have the money. When logic doesn’t work, he tries something … different.
It never hurts to ask.
I am, perhaps to my own detriment, a person who doesn’t complain very often.
I’d found my Christmas calling: to make money.