All in a Day’s Work
FROM THE 1980s
◆ Applying for a sales job at the local fabric shop, my sister-in-law was given a short test of her knowledge of measurements and calculations. The owner was amazed when she answered all ten questions correctly, and immediately offered to hire her.
“You wouldn’t believe,” he said with a deep sigh, “how many people get seven or eight wrong on this test.”
“Oh yes, I would,” she replied. “They’ve been waiting on me for years.” SHIRLEY J. TISCHER, RD DECEMBER 1983
◆ We’d been going slightly crazy with a new copying machine that seemed to gobble paper like a piranha and needed repair almost every day. In addition, a large sign proclaimed: “Only qualified key operators are allowed to open machine. Please call one of the persons listed.”
These people were very difficult to find at crucial moments, so someone scrawled on the sign: “Jammed if you do – and jammed if you don’t. JEANNE ROGERS, RD DECEMBER 1983
◆ For many years, I was a university theatre director. My wife was once asked by one of her clients about her plans for the coming weekend.
“I think I’m going to watch my husband’s play,” she replied.
“Oh,” the client said. “How many do you have?” ROBERT PUTNAM, RD FEBRUARY 1984
◆ I was 21 when I broke the news to my mother that I was going out with an older man. I asked that she be especially nice to my friend, who would be picking me up after dinner. The doorbell rang, and I was still getting ready.
“It’s come to our attention that you have a personal life.”
“Make him comfortable,” I shouted to her. “I’ll be down soon.”
Twenty minutes later, I entered the lounge to find a total stranger, about 60 years old, sitting there with a drink in his hand. And Mother was, of course, treating him with great courtesy.
I suppose the kitchenware salesman still marvels at the welcome he received that night. B. S., RD FEBRUARY 1984
◆ Delivering speeches was usually a thankless part of my publicrelations for a large bank, so I was surprised to receive a phone call shortly after appearing on a convention programme.
“I heard you at the convention,” the man said. “You were good. Can you give us that same talk at our next meeting?”
Ego soaring, I readily agreed.
Two weeks later, I sat at their head table. The programme chairman sent my ego even higher with the glowing introduction. But then, as I stepped to the podium, he added, “What we most want to hear is that great story you told at the convention – the one about the old lady taxi driver who smoked pot.”
I was puzzled. “That couldn’t have been me,” I explained to him. “I’ve never even heard it.”
The chairman sank back in his chair. “Oh, no,” he groaned, “I’ve got the wrong man.”
ORV GOERGER, RD FEBRUARY 1984
◆ I used to have a job painting clown faces on children at a flea market. Each day when I arrived, I’d paint my own face first. One morning as I examined my make-up in the rest room, I was pleased that my clownwhite looked even, my mouth and nose shone a suitably garish red, and my bright-purple eyebrows formed perfect triangles. I also noticed a woman at a sink nearby watching me and shaking her head disapprovingly. Finally, on her way out, she tapped my shoulder and whispered, “Too much!
ROSA MICHNYA, RD APRIL 1987
◆ Hairdressers, like bartenders, are expected to listen sympathetically when needed. One Friday morning, a regular customer came in, sat down, and as I flung the towel round her neck, asked, “Now where did I leave off last week?”
CAMILLE MANDELL, RD APRIL 1987