The "Do Do" List

Sometimes you just have to wait for a sure sign to know when it's time to quit. For some of us -- those of us who can be rather dense -- the "sure" sign is preceded by a veritable ticker of "pretty sure" signs that, for whatever reason, get ignored.

Like manna from heaven, I received the surest of signs today that it was indeed time to move on, that my fledgling career in retail had run its course. The sign was actually item number one on a "to do" list my newly appointed barely out of diapers assistant manager was kind enough to put together for me -- the latest masterpiece from her on the job management training program. A "to do" list? Really? I couldn't imagine what I had been missing. I am a masterful saleswoman (with the numbers to back me up); I show up on time and never leave early; I open the tills in the morning and close them at night without losing a dime, and I do the endless and largely repetitive calculations with efficiency and accuracy. I speak the language of retail, of margins and plans and UPT and ADS and SPH and DNS. Impressed?

Anyway, back to the list compiled by the kindergartner turned assistant manager, a list that looked jam packed except I was so mortified by item number one I have no idea what else was on it. Clean the bathroom, it said. I had to read it again just to be sure. Now, aside from the fact that I spend every moment I am in the store either conning people into buying things that look awful on them or performing various forms of slave labor and am usually too busy to even pee, I have no intention of ever cleaning my own bathroom, much less anyone else's. That's why God created cleaning ladies. Come to think of it, my cleaning lady gets a lot more money to clean my toilets than I get to apply my well-educated brain to the intricacies of sales spread sheets. Maybe I shouldn't be so hasty.

Nope, I know myself too well. I can't even look at a toilet with the seat up without feeling nauseated. And I can't even venture into the stock room after certain folks who will remain nameless have availed themselves of the facilities (a luxury apparently reserved only for high level management). So I have carefully considered my options, and have decided it is time for a career change, one that will not require me to go anywhere near a toilet brush or a can of Lysol. I did, for a moment, consider the possibility of snatching the assistant manager's toothbrush and taking it for a quick swish around the rim, but, as appealing as it seemed, it would take me dangerously close to the pee and poop stained porcelain. The nightmares couldn't possibly be worth it.

I will have to be extra frugal now if I am to continue to save for the best double wide out there. No more astronomical hourly wage, no more deeply discounted stretch pants. And, if I happen to meet the man of my dreams, forget about my Say Yes to the Dress fantasy shopping extravaganza at the venerable Kleinfeld's. I hear they sell wedding dresses at Costco now -- I hope my entourage won't be too disappointed.

Onward and upward. Not sure what I'll include in the new and improved resume, but I have a few ideas: BA, JD, and Don't Do Toilets.