Eileen Kelly
Now what I consider a crummy job and what someone else might consider a crummy job may be very different. I’ve been a nanny, an hors d’oeuvre maker, a video store clerk, a cashier, a waitress, a receptionist, a retail sales associate, an executive assistant, a television publicist, a film publicist, a writer and a stand-up comic.
My least favorite job - and by least favorite I mean it induced crying in the shower every Monday through Friday morning - was film publicist. Sure I met lots of celebrities and helped promote some of the greatest independent films ever made, but the place was a snake pit.
There were seven people working in the office, including me, and six of them were insane. They were so mean to a woman that used to take her film class to our screenings that the woman jumped out her 10th story apartment window. OK, she must’ve had some other problems too, but I’m telling you these people were MEAN.
One TGIF moment was getting an orange thrown at my head. Another time it was a coffee mug which, thanks to my Ninja reflexes, shattered against the wall behind me. In addition to mugs and produce, the C word was also thrown around.
Taking celebrities to interviews had its perks. Like the time another publicist I knew had to jump out of a moving limousine to avoid being raped by a well-known actor whose name I can’t mention but who was in the movie “Home Alone” and was not one of the children. Or the director who liked to answer his hotel room door with his robe open and nothing underneath.
I worked in an hors d’oeuvres factory. I was fourteen but lied and said I was sixteen and had my working papers, whatever they are. It was fun. Although I was required to don a hairnet and apron, my friends and I would listen to Casey Cassum’s weekly Top 40 and dance around making cheese puffs and cocktail franks.
Then the boss got a conveyer belt. (Insert “I Love Lucy” candy factory clip here). Nothing like five uncooked cocktail wieners stuffed in your mouth before 8am to start the day right.
One day the boss inspected the spinach puffs and said, “It looks like little birds have been hopping all over the dough!” He demanded I cut my long nails. It was bad enough I had to squeeze my fantastically asymmetrical shaved on one side permed hair into a hair net. Now “The Man” is after my nails? I quit on the spot.
Through high school and on college breaks I worked as a supermarket cashier. This was one of my favorite jobs because I got to deal with the public. Unlike a jewelry store or a clothing store that has their target market, a grocery store is truly every kind of people because everyone’s got to eat.
There was this guy that we stopped at the door, concerned because we noticed he was bleeding from his head. Turned out he was shoplifting steaks under his hat. And the woman who “was afraid of seltzer,” as she put it. She wouldn’t be ahead or behind anyone in line who was buying seltzer. And my favorite, Mr. and Mrs. Molasses.
This was before scanners, so I had to ring everything by hand. Now I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I was THE rock star of Grand Union. People would get on my line even if it was ten people deep, because they knew they’d still get out faster than any other cashier with three people.
So I’m ringing up this order and this cute little old couple is staring at me, beaming. Finally I stop and turn to them with an expression that says, “What?” Shaking their heads in wonder they said, “We remember you when you were at Pathmark and you were as slow as Molasses!” They couldn’t have been more proud.
The secret to my speed? Never did a price check. If there wasn’t a price sticker on something, I made it up. Taking a page from “The Price is Right,” I made sure to always underbid. If I thought something was 79 cents, I rang it at 59 cents. This way I’d never have a customer complaining to the manager about their receipt.
Part of cashier training was learning which groceries are taxable. The general rule is that anything the government feels is unnecessary or frivolous is taxable. So milk and bread aren’t taxable but candy and soda are. Makes sense.
Maxipads aren’t taxable, but tampons are. The government recognizes your need for basic feminine protection, but all that horseback riding and swimming is gonna cost ya.
In addition to being a writer and comic, I’m a mother. This job changes and evolves so much, it feels like six separate assignments.
For instance: Three year olds are crazy. You mix their chocolate milk the wrong way and they scream at you in a tone that says, “Now the world is now going to end and you’re too stupid to even REALIZE!!!!!”
It’s like that movie “Sleeping with the Enemy.” I spent my day trying not to piss them off. Because some days it’s the milk first and then the Ovaltine and other days they change it up and it’s the Ovaltine and then the milk and you better get it right is all I’m saying. Next thing you know you’ll be cutting off your hair and pretending you can’t swim waiting for that chance to get away.
The lesson, I guess, is that we all end up on this side of the counter. So if you’re thinking of leaving a chintzy tip or sending back your double half caf vanilla cappuccino because it’s three degrees too hot, imagine you’re the person of the other side of the counter, or standing at the door.
Then close your robe.
Eileen Kelly was a semi-finalist in Nick at Nite’s “Search for the Funniest Mom in America,” and made a name for herself with " My Pony's in the Garage," which premiered at the NY Fringe Festival. She is currently writing a memoir based on her solo show and has written several treatments and spec scripts for television. She likes Springsteen, cheap beer and good Italian bread. Did we mention she’s from Jersey?
Set as favorite
Bookmark
Email this
Comments (1)
Subscribe to this comment's feed
wendy
said:
 |
... Love it! These columns make my day. So funny. Eileen Kelly is so talented. Thanks for putting a smile on my face! |
Write comment
You must be logged in to post a comment. Please register if you do not have an account yet.
