A Tequila A Day Keeps the Paycheck Away July 9, 2009

(ADVANCE APOLOGIES to anyone that has me on their RSS feed. For some reason, my post isn’t being saved in it’s entirety so I am posting and publishing as I go so I don’t loose to much data. Sorry! Apparently I slept with his brother and he’s getting back at me).

When I said I wanted you to pick the post for Thursday you didn’t think I meant Thursday of that week did you? Silly readers…truth and punctuality are for those bitches that get paid to blog. And I love that you prefer to hear stories about me effing up at work, evidence that you, too, believe that I have no business interacting with real people.

Ah, the tequila story.

My time at Money Grubbing Whore, Inc. was defined by a constant exposure to stuff I never knew existed. Like two girls and a cup. MGW, Inc. was a relatively new company, so everything that happened was a result of the organization’s core value: It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. MGW Inc. was like a grubby toddler that puts dirty fingerprints on your ecru walls, pulls Westminster finalists tails, feeds caviar to her dollies; then wonders why she’s been banned from your treehouse. At the head of this hot mess was The CEO. The under 35, driving a pre-midlife crisis Porsche 911S Carrera, trophy-wife having CEO. He was THAT guy. The one that has labels on everything from his watch (Rolex, natch) to his testicles (lengthened by the designer surgeon who did Nameofsomeonefamous). He sauntered around the building flashing too-white veneers with his best Buddy Christ wink-and-thumbs-up pose as he made it rain Starbuck’s gift cards. Of course, I was more than happy to wade my way through his particular brand of Velveeta because he was known for buying a round (or 12) at happy hour. Plus, he bought us all iPods when the company reached 10,000 clients and booked a trip to Vegas for a “convention”. I jumped on the cheese train with my box of crackers and a smile.

That is, until it was decided that I was not talented enough (read: unable to appropriately display boundless cleavage or distribute ‘extra’ prescription medication) to be on the Sales Team. My skills were much more valuable in the Where Ethics Go To Die Department. Bitterness Alley. Where everyone is lactose intolerant and ready to tell me that, not only was the emperor NOT wearing clothes, he was having threesomes with the wizard of oz behind that big curtain. Bitterness Alley is where I discovered everyone in HR was a chick but all the CE-whatevers were dudes. I learned the source of MGW Inc.’s relentless attention to professional development was rooted in The CEO’s ignorance. I imagine his conversations with HR were like “Well, no one TOLD me we couldn’t do that! What was that? The law? The bible?? Fine! Send out a memo then!!” And we’d get an email:

MEMORANDUM

TO: All Employees

FROM: Human Resources

RE: The 90th Training Meeting This Week

TOPIC: Why It’s A Bad Idea To Send Your Panties To Clients (but only if it doesn’t result in a sale)

NOTE: Anyone that has reached their sales goals are permitted to miss the meeting and join your manager in the parking garage for a celebratory round of coke and hookers. And we don’t mean soda. Unless we will get sued then we do, in fact, mean soda.

One such memo was the reminder that, pursuant to company policy, all employees were limited to 2 alcoholic beverages at lunch. TWO? It never occurred to me to have one! Mainly because I had no idea that spending 8 straight sober hours at work was optional. When I was invited to lunch by The Ex-Stripper With A Heart of Gold, I learned that breaking a rule didn’t feel nearly as fulfilling as shattering one to pieces. And then blasting the shards with a machine gun.
I’m not sure Heart of Gold understood just how gorgeous she is. And how that gorgeousness created a world that different from he one we mere Earthlings inhabited. We went to the dining area at a nearby golf course because she was learning to play. She explained how much she loved it because “everyone is so nice! Guys are so open to offering me tips on improving my stroke! They even bring me beer when it’s hot outside! Golf is a wonderful sport!” I think she was genuinely oblivious to the correlation between her hotness and the amount of drinks that were sent to our table. Because shit like that happens on her planet.

Now, we did adhere to the 2 drink lunch minimum. That is if you don’t count the drinks we brought back to the office in plastic children’s cups. (What? They had lids). I had to consult my liver before I accepted any future lunch invitations. The answer was “Oh, hell yes!” unless I had taken her up on a Happy Hour-Turned Home at 2am the night before. Heart of Gold could hold her own. She dissipated every dirty old man’s notion that a hot girl couldn’t hold her liquor. And her liquor of choice was tequila. She’d order a Long Island Iced Tea with a shot. And then pour the shot in the drink. I probably should have felt guilty, but I swear my afternoon angry client calls were a lot more…pleasant after lunch. I had to start mixing my drinks with cranberry juice so I could explain away my cups as serum for my “lady problems”. No one stared at my cups when they thought it held an ‘out’ from THAT conversation.

Fridays were the best. Fridays were the day the Sales Team got in a tizzy if they hadn’t met their goals for the week, so they’d be all over me to make sure I secured their clients. My boss knew this and generally steered clear of me on Fridays. Until one Friday when we wanted to ask my advice about his daughter. Who was in the hospital. With a painful, chronic disease. After I had spilled the contents of my plastic cup all over my desk because the tequila had settled to the bottom.

Awesome.

Did I Shave My Legs for This? June 12, 2009

Hey faculty dude. When I suggest we schedule a meeting to discuss the agenda for the program THAT YOU ARE THE DIRECTOR OF, “Why don’t you ask the previous adviser?” is not an appropriate response. It’s called taking initiative, fool, and you are seriously harshing my mellow.

See, I came in all ready to be a good employee, but you’ve driven me to blog.

I really don’t understand the world of work. I mean, I get that I have to spin around on the wheel to get my cheese, but I don’t get why I have to go all Indiana Jones to get shit done.  Why can’t we all put our big people pants on and work? What’s with the politics and power struggles and nonsense of titles, entitlement, and Titleist?  (What? I was on a roll)

Before we moved to Texas, I worked in…well, let’s just call it sales for Money Grubbing Whore, Inc.  I should have realized when Banana Republic stuck my black ass in the back of the store, that I have no aptitude for selling stuff.  If I ask you if you want it and you say no, we’re done as far as I’m concerned.  Your rejection is not a springboard into the negotiation pool nor is it my ’in’ to enlist rape tactics to get you to spend $70 on socks.  I think Money Grubbing Whore, Inc.  saw degrees in Psychology and Counseling and thought I would just Jedi-mind-trick people into buying shit from me. Like all my phone calls with clients would be:

Me: You want to buy this.

Client: No, I don’t.

Me: Yes, yes you do.

Client: You’re right, I do!

OR

Me: You need to buy this.

Client: No, I don’t

Me: How is your relationship with your mother?

Client:  I DO need that!

But Money Grubbing Whore, Inc. caught me at my lowest. I had a severe emotion breakdown at work, cut off my own hair with dull scissors, and was dodging calls from creditors when I they offered me an interview. My delicate emotional state started skipping and chanting “They want me, they really want me!” instead of asking “How the fuck did you get my number?”  I interviewed on a Wednesday, was hired on Friday, and started on Monday.

I didn’t even give my old job notice.

My first day at Money Grubbing Whore, Inc. was full of promise. The building was in the hoity-toity part of town and, despite what Google said, had a real-life brick building with brass letters and computers and carpeting and those Janet Jackson headsets.  In training, they told us how our clients sought our servicses, cold calling was for under bridge trolls our competitors.  Our products were going to change lives at a fraction of our competitor’s costs.  Money Grubbing Whore, Inc. wanted us to be diverse because our clients are diverse.  I applauded them for hiring my team-a former football star from Down The Way U. ; former phone sex operator; failed meathead frat boy personal trainer; failed entrepreur; never worked in her life, Botox using, rich housewife with something to prove to her asshole husband; old broad with oddly browning teeth who jingled like change when walked; and traitor to competitor playboy.  It was like that horror movie where all the people stranded at the hotel realize they all have the same birthday. Only not, because none of us connected the common thread of failure that stitched our disfunctional quilt.  All we heard was free gourmet coffee and free catered food and beer every month.  Failure give you an appetite.  And the topper? If we reached our sales goals in 6 months, we’d get $20K raise. 

$20K? For selling people crap they asked for?? Where do I sign???

Now, all of my professional experience to this point was at a university. If you’ve ever worked in a university, you know it’s pretty freaking tough to get fired. You’d have to wipe your bum with the president’s tie, take his Ferrari for a joy ride through the wet cement of the new science wing, sodomize the football coach, and put anthrax on the gym equipment just to be put on probation. Once you’re in, you’re pretty much in.  There’s not a ton of cut-throat competition among the staff because that 3% merit raise will only get you the supersize fries and a quarter tank of gas. So, this aggressive approach to work was new to me. Not completely unmanageable, but new.

OK, completely manageable.

The first time I got cursed out, I chalked it up to my East Coast clients.  The second time, it could have been my stammer on the intro.  The third time, I thought the guy just hated women.  The forth, maybe she knew I was black.  Anyone who’s familiar with the Christian Bookstore affair knows that I am a bit of slow learner, but it wasn’t long before I realized that while our calls may not have been cold, but they were certainly tepid. And I made no sales. For 2 weeks. 

You know embarrassing it is to be sitting on 2 degrees and being outsold by the Botox Housewife you had to show how to use email?  It’s pretty effing embarrassing.

Luckily, my manager was perky, positive, and suggested I listen in with the top seller and get some tips on how he manages his clients.  So I sat in Top Seller’s cube, listening to his calls. When I say ‘listening’ I mean trying to avoid eye contact as he wolfed down copius amounts of powered muscle drinks, meal replacement protein bars, and squeezed hand weights and did squats. While on the phone.  I asked if I could listen with Pleasant-looking Black Girl in the cube across from his.  She was fun and pleasant and was fired the next day for not meeting her sales goals.  Then they put me with one of my former students. 

Um, can you imagine how awkward it is to get performance advice from someone you’ve seen with their head stuck in a toilet?  It’s pretty effing awkward.

But there were signs that something was amiss.  An ear should have perked when our manager suddenly quit. Our manager who told us we’d better get a net for all the cash we’d be raking in. The manager who said if we stuck to the script we couldn’t go wrong. The manager who stayed late, on weekends, and brought homemade Happy Birthday cupcakes (low-cal, natch).  But I was trying to get my numbers, so I didn’t care.  Then I noticed that our diversity changed from different types of people to different sizes of implants.  The tops were getting shorter, the thongs rising higher, and hotness factor was being raised significantly.  They were hiring hotter and hotter people in sales. Not people, exactly, but girls.  Lots and lots of hot girls. Sure, most of the manager and everyone’s who’s title started with a “C” were dudes, but did they forget our sales were done over the phone?  Unless you’re directing clients to your Myspace page, there is no reason for Money Grubbing Whore, Inc.’s staff to look like a Hooters calendar (unless that was our next marketing plan).

Then I started to notice that any girl who didn’t refer to herself as a girl or who dared have double-digits on her clothing tags were moved out out sales.  If you didn’t fake tan and wear every $125 piece of jewelry Tiffany & Co. makes, you were moved out of sales.  Which is fine with me. There are days when I couldn’t muster making 300 calls a day. Sometimes I’d call disconnected numbers just to reach my goal. That is, until we found out they tape recorded all our calls.

New Department opened my eyes to the world of sales. It could be because New Department was full of older (I think our average age was 28), bitter, women who either refused or were not invited to creatively climb the corporate ladder.  But these bitches had info’mation that they were eager to share.  Sales was the world where sex was often traded for an increased client load. Where people paid for your “extra” Vicodin and went to that floor in the parking garage to smoke out. With their managers.  Since the Sales team earned their bonuses by selling the product, they would give the clients insider tips on how to purchase our products on credit and then return it for cash.  And who’s client load did the deficit not impact?  I’ll give you one hint- it rhymes with “sales”. 

What was the point of this post again? It was supposed to be why I can’t work in sales ever again and then a segue into my the story about how I had lunch with the ex-stripper and ended up spilling tequila all over my desk right before my boss came into my cube, but that’ll be a post for another day.

(or did I just tell that story?)