Porthault line of French linens as well as the silken luxury of Cocoon. In our children’s collection, we have whimsical bedding from Banana Fish and Freddie’s Daisy and imported layettes from Petit Bateau. And for the bath, we carry fragrances and candles from Palais Royale and Dipytich. You have heard of Dipytich, I presume.”
I’d heard of dipshit, which is what this chick was making me feel like. As far as I was concerned, she was speaking in foreign tongues. “Of course I’ve heard of i t,” I said with a straight face. “No wonder Cornucopia! has the classy reputation it does, as well as legions of loyal shoppers.”
“Yes, well, I think both our custom stationery and our bridal registry contribute to our success, too,” said Cameron. “Which brings me to Rule Number Three: Since gift wrapping is our specialty, every member of the sales staff must be competent with a glue gun.”
“Hey, just call me Annie Got My Glue Gun,” I said jauntily, slipping in a joke that would incorporate my background as an entertainer as well as my team spirit and, hopefully, nudge Cameron toward hiring me.
“Oh, there’s one other thing,” she said. “Do you know how to iron?”
“Iron?”
“Yes. Sometimes the linens need to be ironed if we’re changing a table setting or a bedding display or if the fabrics have been picked over by the customers.”
“I can do that,” I said, my ironing skill on a par with my ability to pilot an airplane.
“And, of course, there’s the vacuuming. We usually have the sales staff vacuum right after we close at night.”
“That’s a given.” Just hire me already, baby, before I turn around and head back to the biker bar.
After a few more questions, Cameron did hire me, and the victory was bittersweet, obviously. It was tough to face the fact that I wasn’t cutting it as an actress, but so was watching my bank account dwindle to nothing.
When I got home, my mother was vacuuming the carpet in my bedroom.
“Gee, maybe you should take the job I just applied for,” I said.
“What job is that?” she asked.
“A job at a snooty retail shop in Brentwood. One of my tasks will be vacuuming.”
“Speaking of that,” said my mother after shutting off my Hoover, “they don’t make vacuum cleaners like they used to. The suction isn’t there. You have to keep going over the same spot until you finally catch a ll the dirt, which is terrible for your posture and a major strain on your back. I—”
“Isn’t it lunch time?” I said, finding this latest speech excruciatingly numbing and, therefore, eager to silence it, silence her. “Maybe you’d like to run home and fix yourself something. You know how you hate to skip meals.”
“Why don’t I fix us both something,” she said, thwarting my plan. I had hoped to crack open a jar of peanut butter, stick my finger in it, and curl up in front of Days so I could watch Maura’s expertise in action—alone. “How does tuna on whole wheat sound? Remember how you used to love my tuna fish sandwiches, Stacey?”
Yeah, when I was four. “That would be great, Mom. Thanks.”
I set the table while she puttered around in the kitchen. She had just started scooping the tuna out of the can, into a bowl, when she shrieked. Totally went berserk. Figuring she must have cut herself using the opener, I hustled over, prepared to wrap her finger in a napkin or hold her hand under cold water or call 911 if I couldn’t stop the bleeding, when I saw that she was perfectly intact.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“This!” She pointed downward, into the bowl, as if there were a giant tarantula crawling around in it.
“What?” I said again, not seeing anything but chunks of Fin’s premium solid white albacore in water.
“There’s a bone!”
I peered into the bowl and sure enough there was a bone—a long skinny fish bone that had no business being in anyone’s tuna sandwich. “Wow. I’m glad neither of us choked on
I’d heard of dipshit, which is what this chick was making me feel like. As far as I was concerned, she was speaking in foreign tongues. “Of course I’ve heard of i t,” I said with a straight face. “No wonder Cornucopia! has the classy reputation it does, as well as legions of loyal shoppers.”
“Yes, well, I think both our custom stationery and our bridal registry contribute to our success, too,” said Cameron. “Which brings me to Rule Number Three: Since gift wrapping is our specialty, every member of the sales staff must be competent with a glue gun.”
“Hey, just call me Annie Got My Glue Gun,” I said jauntily, slipping in a joke that would incorporate my background as an entertainer as well as my team spirit and, hopefully, nudge Cameron toward hiring me.
“Oh, there’s one other thing,” she said. “Do you know how to iron?”
“Iron?”
“Yes. Sometimes the linens need to be ironed if we’re changing a table setting or a bedding display or if the fabrics have been picked over by the customers.”
“I can do that,” I said, my ironing skill on a par with my ability to pilot an airplane.
“And, of course, there’s the vacuuming. We usually have the sales staff vacuum right after we close at night.”
“That’s a given.” Just hire me already, baby, before I turn around and head back to the biker bar.
After a few more questions, Cameron did hire me, and the victory was bittersweet, obviously. It was tough to face the fact that I wasn’t cutting it as an actress, but so was watching my bank account dwindle to nothing.
When I got home, my mother was vacuuming the carpet in my bedroom.
“Gee, maybe you should take the job I just applied for,” I said.
“What job is that?” she asked.
“A job at a snooty retail shop in Brentwood. One of my tasks will be vacuuming.”
“Speaking of that,” said my mother after shutting off my Hoover, “they don’t make vacuum cleaners like they used to. The suction isn’t there. You have to keep going over the same spot until you finally catch a ll the dirt, which is terrible for your posture and a major strain on your back. I—”
“Isn’t it lunch time?” I said, finding this latest speech excruciatingly numbing and, therefore, eager to silence it, silence her. “Maybe you’d like to run home and fix yourself something. You know how you hate to skip meals.”
“Why don’t I fix us both something,” she said, thwarting my plan. I had hoped to crack open a jar of peanut butter, stick my finger in it, and curl up in front of Days so I could watch Maura’s expertise in action—alone. “How does tuna on whole wheat sound? Remember how you used to love my tuna fish sandwiches, Stacey?”
Yeah, when I was four. “That would be great, Mom. Thanks.”
I set the table while she puttered around in the kitchen. She had just started scooping the tuna out of the can, into a bowl, when she shrieked. Totally went berserk. Figuring she must have cut herself using the opener, I hustled over, prepared to wrap her finger in a napkin or hold her hand under cold water or call 911 if I couldn’t stop the bleeding, when I saw that she was perfectly intact.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“This!” She pointed downward, into the bowl, as if there were a giant tarantula crawling around in it.
“What?” I said again, not seeing anything but chunks of Fin’s premium solid white albacore in water.
“There’s a bone!”
I peered into the bowl and sure enough there was a bone—a long skinny fish bone that had no business being in anyone’s tuna sandwich. “Wow. I’m glad neither of us choked on
Similar Books
