Got a man? Go ahead and take advantage of him!

It’s no wonder men have been feeling emasculated and underappreciated. Their value in our culture has been steadily depreciating ever since Rosie picked up her riveter. We women have come to judge our mates’ usefulness in terms of dishes washed or feet massaged, rather than recognizing, and celebrating, their uniquely masculine qualities. Go ahead, take advantage of a husband! We forget how useful they can be when we’re faced with a stubborn pickle jar, or a set of chilly sheets. Sometimes, a gal just needs something solid to lean on whilst she ties her shoes.

***

It was 6am on a Saturday morning when I threw four generations of feminism to the wind and finally called for help. “Geeeorge, can you come to the bathroom for a sec?”

I heard him groan, then sigh, then drag himself out of the cozy bed in the next room - where he’d generously been donating his time to the warming of sheets. The man knew better than to ask me, Why? I’m a writer; the occasional crisis, existential or otherwise, is part of my job description. He came around the corner, my knight in shining… um… um… Anyways, he was as prepared as any less-than-dressed, half asleep man can be when trudging to the rescue.

George is a fellow who takes things in stride. Finding his half-naked wife squatting over the bathroom sink with a broom braced against the far wall didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was mortified. How, I ask, can one ever regain one’s position as an object of desire after having been caught in such a ridiculously undesirable position? We were suddenly the prehistoric human display at the museum, me with my blue plastic (microfiber tipped) spear and him with his cro-magnon brow furrowing deeper by the second. He kept the disgruntled, glazed look as I explained that there was a GIANT spider under the head of the broom and that I was too scared to check if it was dead.

My brave husband humored me. He took over at the broom handle and waited till I’d scurried down the hall before lifting the head off the wall.

“Is it dead?” I called, from the distant safety of the living room.

“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. ”There’s nothing there.”

He was right. There was no trace of the spider, no stray limbs, no tell tale smear. After a thorough examination, I turned to George and said those magical words: ”Let us never speak of this again.” He nodded, and we both went back to bed, into those lovely pre-warmed sheets. 

Later in the day, I thought I saw the same spider creeping behind the toilet, but I left it alone. Sure, it’s great to take advantage of your man, even healthy for his masculine pride, but it’s my own pride I’m worried about. Ever try sucking in your gut while squatting on a counter wearing ratty granny panties? No? Can’t think why not? My kingdom for a loincloth! Now, let us never speak of this again.

Just be thankful your invite got lost in the mail!

If you see this sign... You'd better watch out!

Starts out all innocent...

Then someone invites a friend...

Then the friends start adding up...

And pretty soon you've got a real party!

I came across this charming ‘cow tree’ in New Brunswick last month. There was magic in that warm August air, and I couldn’t resist bringing some back to Calgary to share with all my readers. Of course, the ‘real’ lesson here is that the inherent romance of some settings can even, on the rare occasion, transend species. Oh Newton, how different your future (and all of ours!) might have been if you’d planted yourself under a cow tree on that sunny afternoon in Lincolnshire.

I know I shouldn’t blog about people at work, but…

It has come to my attention that four out of this company’s sixteen employees – a full 25% – are wearing glasses held together by quintessentially nerdist means. I know we are a geophysical data processing firm, but seriously! I mean really, could we get any more cliché:

Culprit 1: Scotch tape (keeping it simple with what’s at hand)

Culprit 2: Plastic shrink-wrap sleeve reinforced with Scotch tape (because I’m – yes, of course I’m on this list too – an all or nothing kind of gal, in my loves, in my dreams, and apparently in my DIY eyewear repairs)

Culprit 3: Electrical tape (for a more discreet look, because one can never sacrifice style)

Culprit 4: An ungainly silver ball of soldering (because one must have style before one can sacrifice it)

I don’t dare rank us in terms of nerdiness, but you’re welcome give it a try. Oh, and sorry #4, but look on the bright side; I’m sure your repair will outlast all of ours. And anyways, there’s something to be said for a touch of asymmetrical nerd bling – Jay-Z would be proud~wink.

Why I don’t ride the bus to work…

I woke up to a grey morning today. The sky was grey, my sweater was grey, and my threadbare brown ‘cozy’ hoodie (because when the weather won’t make the effort, why should I?) has been verging on grey for years. I stepped out the door, already late, into a grey drizzle. It was a bus morning.

The rush hour bus is a grim way to start any day, stopping and starting and stopping and starting, all through downtown gridlock. But today, there was no way around it. I rolled up my torn cuffs as discreetly as I could in a bus full of business suits and shiny shoes, and stood by the back doors to wait for my stop.

I was well on my way to daydreaming myself out of my funk when the bus slowed and settled by the curb. I pushed the doors, but they didn’t budge. I pushed again, and jiggled the long handles… nothing. The bus hissed and I felt the jolt of the flyweel kicking in. Great, just great.

“Back doors,” I called out. The bus jerked forward. “Back doors, please!” I shouted over the crowd, who had all turned their heads to watch.

The bus driver glared at me in his mirror. I shook the doors again and glared back.

His answer came back biting: “Could you at least let me get to the bus stop first.”

This is why I walk to work ~ sigh.

Soap operas and sweet potatoes in the produce aisle

I was in the grocery store the other day, when I happened to overhear an age old human drama play out over the sweet potatoes. One of the two men stocking the vegetables flagged down a passing produce manager to ask her advice on a logistical problem – I’m assuming she was higher up the food chain since she was wearing a classy full-length Safeway smock instead of lowly green apron.

Logistics resolved, the three got to chatting about the ol’ days:

“…Now, Harry,” said the older of the two men, “there was one heck of a produce man.” He spoke wistfully, with respect and an obvious, long kindled awe, the way other men speak of Winston Churchill, or Elvis.

“Oh,” cut in the younger man, turning to the woman, whose androgyny was cut only by a tight blond ponytail, “isn’t that your husband?”

Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear her whole body went tense under that smock. She suddenly had somewhere else to be and took off for the swinging doors behind the prepackaged salads.

“My EX husband,” she called back to the men, before disappearing into the bowels of the building.

I felt for her. How hard it must be to live in the shadow of a legend. Any man who can inspire such awe, such reverence, must pay a terrible cost. In choosing greatness, as Harry, and a hundred before him have done, our heroes must leave so many behind. A pickle any way you slice it.

A ‘Sign’ of our times…

A 'Sign' of our times - as seen on a Monday morning in Calgary

Our Albertan economy is finally feeling the pinch after decades of unchecked growth. Everyone knows someone who has lost a job, or worse. About a month ago on a rush hour city bus, I overheard a conversation between two well dressed business men. One was lamenting over how his high risk investments had virtually vanished.

“Why did you buy into them in the first place?” the other asked.

The man’s answer was spoken matter of fact, with an honesty not often heard on public transit, especially during rush hour…

“Greed.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and quickly changed the subject.

**********

The best way to stay motivated during this time of economic flux, is to push forward with our career plans using creativity to set ourselves apart. Make a list of all your soft skills (ie: social, organizational), to add to your more easily resuméd hard skills (ie: Microsoft Office, masonry). Try to make connections between both sets to expand your general skill set. You’ll be surprised to discover what services you can offer as a uniquely experienced human being, rather than simply a _______ graduate with x number of years working in _______ . Now is the time to market yourself creatively, as a whole person, as… You!

Speaking of marketing…

To my dear SavingCymbria readers, and to those of you just breezing by, I am now available for all your Creative Problem Solving needs. Freelance writing and design (fashion commissions, graphic design, & web applications) are my specialties, along with photography and general creativity consulting for both individuals and businesses. I’d love to hear your thoughts, and thank you all for dropping by!

It's time to get creative with our personal marketing!

If NASA launched Voyager III today, this would HAVE to be on The Golden Record!

When NASA’s Voyager mission launched its two spacecrafts in 1977, there existed no single image/sound/document that could perfectly encapsulate the human experience. Instead, over one hundred images and dozens of recordings, greetings, and printed messages were gathered together and sent along as the ultimate interplanetary press release. The Golden Record, as a (Grammy worthy) compilation album, was the only way to communicate the complexity of our existence… until now.

This ten second clip (Click Here) changes everything. Finally, we have single, stand alone, snapshot of what it is… “to be”.

The birthday card you can only get away with when you live across the country…

Click on image above to open the card...

I’m still a little shocked I sent this card to my grandmother, but she is one of the zestiest women I know, with a true felsian sense of humor, and (if I dare say) the unfailing ability to look absolutely fabulous in a swimsuit. She has been my style inspiration from day one, and I can only hope my card inspired some giggles from that lovely gal and her darling husband. Yes, the very same man who ‘endures’ younger-trophy-man status for eleven months out of every twelve. 

More creative card ideas from SavingCymbria:

When the stork arrives…

When it’s Mothers Day…

When you need a general idea…

When you need a ’smart’ birthday card…

The best advice for weight loss is right out in the open…

Sometimes in life, the writing's on the wall...

I couldn’t resist snapping a pic of this delightful dieting advice on my walk to work this morning. Finally, weight loss advice from someone practicing what he/she preaches! How many calories do you suppose one burns while practicing the yoga-esque art of graffiti? Good work out for the upper body, with lots of extended stretching. Hmmm, have we just found a new alternative to spin class?

TOP FIVE – What NOT to do when golfing with a woman!

She will lose her mind (and not in that good way) if you pull any of these shady/condescending moves on the course. How do I know? Find out what happened when this experienced golfer was hit with ALL FIVE (in chronological order) during last Saturday’s round!

1# Don't try to stop my ball with your foot!

Don’t… try and stop my ball with your foot. This is, without a doubt, the most humiliating cruelty one golfer can inflict on another. Never mind sexist, this is downright inhuman! Go ahead and help your two year old fit her straw in her juicebox, be my guest. But pleeeease give my hand/eye coordination a little more credit. After all, I did manage, miraculously, to tie these laces all by myself. Even if my ball is supersonically blasting its way across the green, straight for a bunker, DO NOT PUT YOUR TOE IN ITS WAY. I will bite it off (you think I’m kidding, don’t you).

2# Don't coach me (in any way shape or form)!

Don’t say… “Don’t forget your club,” as I’m walking towards the wedge I left on the green while putting out. Trust me, even your two year old would get pissed at you for that one. If you do happen to have some useful advice for me, even swing tips, just ask permission first. You know, like when you’re on that first…(oops I mean third) date~wink.

3# Don't ask me, "are you having fun yet?"

Don’t ask… “Are you having fun yet?” after I’ve just made a mess of a hole. You know what? Don’t even say it after I’ve had a magical, afterlife-illuminating, hole. Just keep your mouth shut. I’m golfing. What business is it of anyone’s whether I’m having any fun at it! I’m here, aren’t I? What more can the bloody game want from me!

4# Don't try to make the game easier for/on me!

Don’t say… “You can move it out of there…” when I have a challenging lie. If I wanted to be mini-putting on Astroturf, then (and this will blow your mind) I would be mini-putting on Astroturf. Last time I checked, golf wasn’t supposed to be a walk in the park (oh wait, technically…). But really, maybe this is my mistake? Maybe it’s supposed to be easy? Just like getting rich is such a cinch, and having great hair every day is…sigh…

5# Don't laugh (out loud) if I flub a shot! Seriously.

Don’t… laugh (long and loud and luxuriously) when I flub my shot.

And there’s where it all went so wrong…
I played it cool all the way through till #5 (aside from a snarky “are you having fun yet” retort on hole 14), but I’m ashamed to say I lost my mind when he started laughing…and laughing…and kept on laughing at my blown bunker shot on hole 15. He went right on laughing even as I was charging at him up the lip of the trap!

I dropped my club and made straight for the brute. I didn’t care that he was a full ½ foot taller and about 100 pounds heavier; I had thousands of years of sexist injustices backing me up! Oh, and one rather shocked husband. Yes, the poor man who had gallantly kept me calm through all the condescension by explaining “he doesn’t know any better,” turned to find his tiny blond wife going all Hulk Hogan on his playing partner. I was up in the middle aged man’s “grill” shouting, “do you have some kind of problem,” when dear hubby dragged me away.

I’d like to say I’m exaggerating here (and so would dear hubby), but, and you girls can relate to me on this, it’s hard for any woman to be taken seriously on the course, no matter her skill level. We have so much more to prove, and so much less raw muscle to prove it with. It’s no wonder we can get a little sensitive when there’s blatant condescension in your voice. Just be warned, chivalry is a noble, but dangerous, game to play on a golf course.

~Visuals by brilliant illustrator Christina Nichols~

The official (embarrassing) first sign of golf season

Witness the glorious rebirth of sock-tan!

How to bring a sense of awe into your office (with this DIY meditation retreat)

Bring the wonder of Stonehenge to your job with ‘Officehenge’!

Stack your empty Xerox boxes to match the Stonehenge diagram.

Perfect for when you're having a busy day at work...

...and you need to re-center yourself.

But if you really want a Stonehenge that’ll
make all your worries disappear… CLICK HERE

**************

(Source of Stonehenge diagram)

The Dorian Gray Snowman

I saw a perfect snowman on my walk home last Thursday. He had black button eyes, a carrot nose, and a jolly hollowed out smile. The snowman stood, proudly postured, with his well proportioned stick arms throwing a happy hug to the world.

This Monday morning on my way to work, I passed by the snowman again. He still stood on his frosty lawn, in front of the same ludicrously expensive, beautiful, home. But… Oh what horrors of debauchery that family must have gotten up to over the weekend!

Not only had the snowman had been stripped of his arms, but he had had his eyes plucked out and his nose torn away. His proud stance had melted into the awful droop of a being who has given up on the world, with his head lolling back on sloping shoulders and the rest of him sinking slowly into the earth. And his mouth, that was the most gruesome transformation. His jaw gaped and his bulging lower lip was sagging low, off to one side, halfway down to his chest. I could almost hear the wretched thing howling at me from its slushy maw as I trudged by on the sidewalk.

I must admit the scene cheered me, in a way.

So often we walk by large lovely houses and imagine large lovely families living large, and lovely, lives inside. What a relief it is then, to see how they might not be so perfect after all – that a single one of their weekends could leave a portrait, albeit in snow, so ruined. Of course, the weather did warm up a bit on Saturday, but that wouldn’t have anything to do with it ~wink.

Best Political Cartoons: The Canadian Coalition Chimera

 

What reels and groans deep in the black murk of the Ottawa River? What strikes terror into the hearts of Stephen Harper and Michaelle Jean? Can it be? The Coalition Chimera lives! Brilliant illustrator Christina Nichols, who also happens to be my coworker, shows us the ugly, but beautifully brilliant, one true hope for Canada’s future.

Update: The central head – ‘The Dion’ – has been lopped off! But – Oh the horror – a new and ever so much more depraved above-the-neck entity has grown back in its place – ‘The Ignatieff’. Noooooooooo! Has anyone been utterly horrified at the lack of clarity, focus, and coherence in the man’s writing?

I’m so ashamed…

It’s finally happened. I thought growing up with a 13inch black and white, constantly snow screened, cableless TV would immunize me. No such luck. I thought only those poor souls black’buried’ under cellphones and laptops would be afflicted. Nope. I never felt the change – that’s the scariest part – of my brain and body slowly rewiring under constant sensory assault. I never felt it happening, only the horror of realizing it was too late. The damage is done. Our pace of life has been jacked up to max and our attention spans have petered out to mere milliseconds. Case in point?

It’s 8:02AM. Already late, I jump in the first elevator that opens (out of the bank of eight) in my office tower. I press ‘29′, and my eyes immediately search out the in-ride plasma TV. But it’s blank! And I, truly, no joke, the kid who used to be able to play with a bag of buttons for hours, make a dash for the closing doors. Somehow, in that instant, thrusting my body between two giant slabs of squeezing metal (not to mention being that much more late for work) was preferable to the agony of being without sensory input for 30 seconds. Luckily, I clued in to my idiocy just in time and pulled back.

Was the ride boring? Not at all. I had a good solid 30 seconds to contemplate my insanity. Which, as you can imagine, was about all the time my attention span could afford lol. What’s usually on the elevator plasma? Prices for stocks I don’t own, news I don’t follow, reviews for movies I’ll never see, and a small logo in the lower left hand corner of the screen – Captive Entertainment…wooops, my mistake, Captivate Entertainment. Guess it’s time for some new contacts, cause I sure ain’t seeing what’s right in front of me. Or maybe I am… ; )

Do you mean to imply I’m not in “Vogue”?

“Thompson is preparing an organic lunch of thinly sliced fillet of beef with salsa verde, shiitake mushrooms, caramelized onions, and crisped mashed potatoes at her renovated, environmentally friendly 1862 brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, decorated with Russian Empire furniture, contemporary Russian art, hundreds of books and prints, and children’s toys and playthings – nothing plastic, naturally.” – William Norwich in September 2008 Vogue Magazine

Just when you thought you had your life together, along comes a “Russian-born and Stanford University-educated” New York photographer’s wife to put us all to shame. Sigh. Gotta love Vogue. They’re always a little tongue-and-cheek about it though. I mean really, a paragraph like the one above couldn’t have been written in earnest. Or could it? Oh William, did you really mean to set the bar so high? Are we humble folk, whose potatoes are merely mashed without the crisping, doomed to wallow in our overly plasticised existences forever? Shiitake…is all I have to say about that.

How to make a man’s jaw drop (and it’s not what you think)

So… I was walking home from work yesterday, minding my own business, when these two fellows came up and asked “can we get your opinion”? This is never a good thing, especially when one of them is wearing a suit and holding a clipboard, and the other one’s smile is just a little too wide. Keep in mind I was wearing a dirty baseball cap, rolled up hideous grey pants, a purple pyjama shirt, and a fluorescent orange makeshift backpack that I got as swag from a Geophysics convention (my job has some serious perks!). Glamazon, not so much. So I knew they had to be selling something and, be it a different faith or front row football tickets, I was just not interested.

“A new girl’s spa is opening up!” exclaimed the suited guy, waving a book of coupons at me (and ya, he really did say “girl’s”). Then the one behind him spoke up. All I heard was something about “free golf”. Oh, those two magic words were enough to stop me in my tracks. I could have been in the middle of an intersection or running with the Bulls in Spain, and I still would have stopped dead and put on my most charming smile.

“Free golf?” I asked excitedly, with raised eyebrows.

They both looked confused. “Nope, SPA,” said the suit.

“No thanks,” I said, “but now, if you were talking about free golf then that would be a totally different thing!”

The suit couldn’t quite get his tiny overly gelled head around the idea. The other fellow, a red haired scrawny twenty something, was just staring. His eyes went wide. His jaw slowly fell. It was shock; it was awe. It was fabulous! He kept repeating the word “golf” as if it was the first time he’d heard it come out of a girl (even if it was a girl with the ugliest pants ever brought into existence) – a fantastical fantasy come true. Could it be that “girl” and “golf” could be combined into one perfect-purple-pajama-shirted” package? I could see his brain trying to put it all together.

I tell you, it’s moments like that, that make those three puts on 18 and all those agonizing push slices worth it. I turned away feeling like I’d expanded the poor boy’s view of women, of maybe the whole world! But should the feminist agenda ever be put before a facial? I didn’t even check the deals! And if anyone needs to save on a massage, it would be us golfers! lol

Why must riding the elevator always be so socially awkward?

Just asking.

I mean, am I missing something? Like the elevator etiquette handbook? Please let me know if anyone has figured out how to order a copy. Until then, I’m taking the stairs. Ok, maybe not on the way up. I am on the 29th floor. Hmmm, come to think about it, it’s almost time for me to go home and I’ve feeling pretty blah…so maybe I’ll start on my enclosed-space-social-ineptitude-motivated-exercise-plan tomorrow. Yep, wore myself right out just by trying to say that out loud.

Watch out Calgary, because tonight, just to make it interesting, I may leave one of my trademark unanswered-unappreciated-on-elevator-witticisms hanging in the stale air over our heads all the way down to G.

Think Chapters might have one of those books? Are they open late tonight?

“Pulling a Maggert” – Golf’s most dangerous shot

If you look close enough...you can actually see the pain

Who says golf is a boring game? I barely survived the second hole of my “leisurely” Sunday afternoon round yesterday. My ball was buried in deep rough off the right side of the fairway. I had about 60 yards to the green, but there was a large elm halfway between me and the pin. I knew I’d have to power the ball out of the grass with enough oomf to punch it through the leaves. No problem. I set up with my seven and let ‘er rip with maxed out swing speed and a full body turn. It hit the trunk dead square. There was a tremendous “Thwack” and suddenly the ball was heading straight for me – missile style – target locked. I chucked my club with a yell and did a ever-so-graceful backwards dive onto the grass – out of the line of fire. Time slowed, and one word, one name, flashed before my eyes as I arched through the air…MAGGERT.

What is “pulling a Maggert”?

Who pulled the first Maggert? Jeff Maggert, of course, on that infamous Sunday afternoon at the Masters five years ago. It remember watching it (on TV, tragically) as a fledgling golfer and thinking – “No, this can’t be happening, this game can’t be that cruel!” An oh, oh yes it can, as I have learned many times over since then. And as I picked my grass stained self up off the ground, I learned it all over again. My bullet ball had come to rest a good 25 yards behind where I’d first hit it… touché golf, touché.

(photo source: sportsillustrated.cnn.com)

Embarrassed? No. Mortified? Yes.

Groan. Walking while “story-ing” is always dangerous. Only by the Grace of God and the providence of young writers have I survived a lifetime of walking busy city streets while oblivious to all but the plight of my characters. I thought I was being so careful this morning. I made sure to look both ways (at least I think I did), but there are always other dangers. 

I rounded a corner while deep in the mind, and lilting voice, of one of my more odd male characters. “And then I comfort her”  came blurting out - just as I walked right into the crowd of startled business people waiting at the bus stop.

What can you do? I hid under the brim of my baseball cap and sped through. Writing always finds a way to get my heart pumping faster. lol

How to make sure no one steals your office supplies

Post this delightful family portrait where your office keeps its supplies, and your coworkers will be far less likely to make off with the staplers. Plus, you’ll have a visual lineup to back you up when you catch them hording the tape dispensers.

“Google image” search (top left in blue on google main page) your supplies. You’ll be surprised at how quickly you can find near-exact representations. Copy/paste these into Word, or use this template of the sign above.

“Awww cute,” they’ll say, till the sign helps you nab your boss for kidnapping one of the twins *wink.

Top 10 rules for the checkout line (+bonus!)

Dear customer,

This is a letter straight from the trenches, from a poor cashier who spent years chained to a register. Despite the fundamental flaw in our relationship – I want your money and you don’t want to give it to me – I propose a truce. You and I have an amazing opportunity to improve each other’s day! To guarantee smiles on both sides of the counter, just remember to take these ten rules with you the next time you go shopping.

1-Please be PATIENT. The scanner will only read one barcode at a time and the computer will only take one keystroke at a time. Remember this: the cashier hates that you have to wait even more than you do. We know what waiting does to people, and those are the nightmares that wake us up in the middle of the night!

If you do find yourself in a line:
-get your money ready
-group your items and expose their bar-codes
-do not under any circumstances make any kind of repetitive noise (tapping, clicking, gnashing of teeth, etc.)

Note: The speed of the line should in no way be taken a function of the cashier’s competence or intelligence. Even geniuses have to pay rent! Grab a magazine, grab a breath, grab a pack of gum, and deal with it.

2-When you bring me a product with no barcode and no identifying marks whatsoever, there will be an inevitable delay. No, I do not know the code for 26″ by 45″ alabaster mini blinds off the top of my head. If I did, both you and I should be very worried.

Note:Telling me the price is not a substitute for the inventory sku code, and throwing a drawer pull in my general direction while grunting something about two dollars just isn’t going to cut it. And then when you accuse me, indignantly, of not trusting you, well, now you’ve gone and made it personal!

3-If the item has no barcode it is not free. If it has a barcode, but doesn’t scan on my first try… it is not free. Second try… nope, still not free. Third… not free. Fourth….let me check…NOT FREE!

Note: I know you thought you were being clever and funny with your “must be free then”, but so did the other 10 000 people who tried to get it for free before you. And no, despite what you may have heard, I didn’t let them get away with it either.

4-I know this news will come as a shock to many of you, but in this great country we have something called tax (pronounced taks). Deep breath, let this new information sink in. Now, when you get to my cash, and before you open your mouth to ask what you’re going to ask, stop, and remember the new word you’ve just learned.

5- Yes, that is the terrifying total. I know it’s an awful shock to get up to the cash with 3 items that are $2 each and hear a total of $6 (plus that crazy tax thing). Accusing me of any number of devious ways I must have manipulated my scanning to rob you will not change the total. It will only make me want to use my apparent criminal genius to plot your untimely demise.

6- “I exist.” For the 30 seconds we are part of each other’s lives, you are my whole world. Every move I make, I do it for you. When you ignore me or, worse, spend the whole time on your cell phone, you (sniffle) break my heart.

7- Only you can decide if you want the green one or the blue one. Go on, revel in your freedom and independence. Just please make up your mind before you get to my cash.

8- When it comes to change, two heads are never better than one. When I’m half way through counting out $13.86 in change, the quarter you just found in your back pocket does not help in the slightest.

9- There is no __________ (insert random word from dictionary) special discount. No, not even on Wednesdays.

10- Being in a hurry does not make you any more important than the person you’re trying to butt ahead of. Being late does not make you special. It only makes you late. This is not communism, just plain good ol’ customer service!

Most of all, please recognize the awesome power you have as a customer to change my day for the better. It certainly doesn’t take much, a smile, a joke, a “someday you’ll get out of here” bit of encouragement. I guarantee not only I, but my next customer will thank you!

Bonus- If you insist on telling me step by step how to do my job, that’s wonderful. Come on back behind the counter and I’ll give you my apron, while I get the heck out of here!

(condensed from my “Ten (+4) Rules” article in New Writing)