Sounds like the opening line of a short story competition, doesn't it? If you want, you can leave me a comment telling me what your short story would be, if it began with that line. It was, in fact, what I said to husband in my sleep last night. "And that's why I did labels."
Wouldn't it be interesting to know more about sleep and dreams? It's such an undiscovered world still. I mean, why do we all conk out for several hours a day? Why do we sometimes dream and sometimes not? Why do some dreams seem to make sense, and some are entirely random? Why do we sometimes speak out loud? I suppose it's the brain, left undisturbed, getting on with its work of processing experiences, cogitating on them, filing them away, bringing up old memories, working out how they tie in, imagining new possibilities. All very clever.
What a preoccupation sleep is for new parents. I can remember periods when I'd have given anything at all for a week of undisturbed nights. What am I saying? I'd have given anything for one undisturbed night. Impossible to believe that it will ever pass, but if you're in that phase of life, take heart. It does. I'm hardly ever disturbed at night by the children these days. If I am, I've lost the art of dealing with it. I'm all groggy, hardly functional. "House on fire? Are you sure? It's probably ok. Go back to bed and I'll deal with it in the morning." Then I can't get back to sleep again. Not like the old days when my on/off switch was brilliantly effective.
Sleep is a mercy, isn't it? Whatever the true extent of all of its mysterious unknown functions, it is one of life's blessings. The chance to lay aside worries and burdens for a few hours, the chance to recharge physical batteries. I've always been a good sleeper. I can't imagine how horrible long-term insomnia must be.
Let's go back to where we started. "And that's why I did labels" came, of course, from a dream about the toy shop. Price labels are my nemesis. You'd think it was simple, in the grand scale of things, to stick the right price label on the right object. I guess my education didn't prepare me properly for such tasks. I know I always used to write on job applications "attention to detail" as one of my impressive skills, but my experience with labels in the toy shop have led me to see that as something of a fib (though what else is a cv but a list of fibs?) Too many toys are similar, but not quite the same. That is the essence of the problem. And the importance of accurate stock control. Bleugh. Whatever.
So in my dream, having been given complicated instructions about which set of labels went on which boxload of items, I found I was four labels short. So I was trying to print out the extra four labels on the computer, and making a bit of a hash of it, and then my boss came over and asked me what I was doing, and I went into a lengthy explanation of the whole issue, most of which was to do with the personalities of the other people working in the shop, and ending with "and that's why I did labels".
Then I was in a cake shop, ordering a birthday cake (Husband's 50th birthday this week?) and wondering how on earth I was going to carry it home on a London bus and the tube in the rush hour (memories of Sarah Brown's story at CyberMummy? and my own journey to CyberMummy on buses, as the tube line was closed? - perhaps, in my dreams, I AM Sarah Brown?). Then the cake shop lady started insisting that I buy some new clothes as well (sartorial insecurities?), and I noticed that it was a shop selling cakes and clothes (odd... or perhaps a brilliant idea for a new small business venture?). But then as I ran for the bus, my top kept falling down, and it turned out to be a dream about mastectomy scars. Ha! You didn't see that one coming did you? Nor did I, at the time.
I rest my case. Sleep. Dreams. Fascinating stuff.
Showing posts with label toy shop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toy shop. Show all posts
Friday, July 29, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Manners in the toy store
Well, I was going to leave the toy shop and blog about something else, but as many of our customers find, once you're in there, it's hard to depart. So here's one more story. This was a moment I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed.
It was after Christmas, so not too busy. The owner, let's call her Ali, was with a difficult customer. She was an elderly lady, accompanied by a younger woman (her daughter, probably). "Demanding" wasn't the word. Everything was questioned, wrong, inadequate, not what she wanted.
Now, I've got used to the American style of shopping. For a customer, there's none of that English embarrassment about not buying an item. However you say it, it's fine. You don't need to apologise or explain. You just say "I won't take this one", and leave it on the counter. I've also got used to what in England would seem like a rude criticism of a product. I don't think it's at all odd if a customer says "I don't like the way this book of nursery rhymes doesn't have words, just pictures", or "The instructions for this game seem somewhat complicated for a 5 year old. I'd prefer to look for something else." Expressing a negative opinion in this context doesn't seem offensive to me any longer (though it took a bit of getting used to at first). However, most customers express themselves politely, and usually balance negative comments with complimentary ones. This woman was something else. EVERYTHING was wrong. It was all too big, too small, too simple, too complicated, not made in the USA, not what she wanted. Not only did she say so, but the way she voiced her criticisms was rude. Ali guided her round the store, patiently making suggestions, but she clearly just wanted to be unpleasant, no matter what was offered to her. It was a slow and painful process.
Eventually the woman was ready to check out. She didn't like the two choices of gift wrap. She didn't like that we don't take cheques. She used a credit card, and as she signed the slip, she started shaking the pen in an irritated manner, the same pen that every other customer that morning had used, and asked,
"Can I get a decent pen somewhere here?"
Without missing even half a beat, Ali replied politely,
"Office Max*. It's the other side of the parking lot."
It was truly a marvelous moment.
The woman replied "What?... Oh... OH...", shut up, signed the slip, and went on her way.
Gotta love working at the toy store.
*Trying to think of the UK equivalent of Office Max, but feeling very out of touch. Rymans?
.
It was after Christmas, so not too busy. The owner, let's call her Ali, was with a difficult customer. She was an elderly lady, accompanied by a younger woman (her daughter, probably). "Demanding" wasn't the word. Everything was questioned, wrong, inadequate, not what she wanted.
Now, I've got used to the American style of shopping. For a customer, there's none of that English embarrassment about not buying an item. However you say it, it's fine. You don't need to apologise or explain. You just say "I won't take this one", and leave it on the counter. I've also got used to what in England would seem like a rude criticism of a product. I don't think it's at all odd if a customer says "I don't like the way this book of nursery rhymes doesn't have words, just pictures", or "The instructions for this game seem somewhat complicated for a 5 year old. I'd prefer to look for something else." Expressing a negative opinion in this context doesn't seem offensive to me any longer (though it took a bit of getting used to at first). However, most customers express themselves politely, and usually balance negative comments with complimentary ones. This woman was something else. EVERYTHING was wrong. It was all too big, too small, too simple, too complicated, not made in the USA, not what she wanted. Not only did she say so, but the way she voiced her criticisms was rude. Ali guided her round the store, patiently making suggestions, but she clearly just wanted to be unpleasant, no matter what was offered to her. It was a slow and painful process.
Eventually the woman was ready to check out. She didn't like the two choices of gift wrap. She didn't like that we don't take cheques. She used a credit card, and as she signed the slip, she started shaking the pen in an irritated manner, the same pen that every other customer that morning had used, and asked,
"Can I get a decent pen somewhere here?"
Without missing even half a beat, Ali replied politely,
"Office Max*. It's the other side of the parking lot."
It was truly a marvelous moment.
The woman replied "What?... Oh... OH...", shut up, signed the slip, and went on her way.
Gotta love working at the toy store.
*Trying to think of the UK equivalent of Office Max, but feeling very out of touch. Rymans?
.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Jesus in the toy store
You know that whole WWJD thing? “What Would Jesus Do”? I’m hopeless at that. If I ever stop and think to myself “What Would Jesus Do?” in a situation, and try to engage my imagination, I find either it’s a cultural leap too far (would Jesus let his 10 year old son go and watch Tron: Legacy at the movie theatre?), or Jesus says something enigmatic which doesn’t help at all, like “oh, I think you know the answer to that already, deep down”, which leaves me bleating “I don’t, I really don’t” to an elusive vanishing mental image of a face with a beard.
However, it is a laudable exercise, and in that spirit, I have tried to envisage Jesus in the toy store. This is how it goes.
He comes in, and I say “Hi!” enthusiastically (we greet all our customers). Then as he walks towards the counter, I ask my usual line “Can I help you find something?” and he replies “Actually, I was wondering if I could help you find something”. See? Right there? We haven’t got beyond our opening exchange, and he’s already gone all enigmatic on me.
I persevere, and start showing him round.
“Why’s everything in this corner pink?” he asks.
“This is what we call 'Girlie World',” I reply. “Girls like pink. Girls’ clothes are mostly pink these days. I know your mother always wore blue, but these days, it’s pink.”
“My mother didn’t wear blue actually. Not until the Renaissance artists got hold of her”, Jesus says.
“Oh. Sorry. Well, anyway, girls nowadays wear pink. Trust me.”
“ ‘Trust me’? Did you say ‘Trust me’? That’s my line.”
See again? I just can’t get this whole WWJD thing running smoothly at all.
I move on to the science kits.
“We sell a lot of these,” I say, “especially in the run up to Christmas. Your birthday. It’s so commercialised these days. I’m sorry about that. Do you mind?”
He’s reading the blurb on the back of a science kit box.
“This says it encourages an enquiring mind in a child. That’s good. I like that.”
I feel a little glow of pleasure. “Lots of our toys are educational” I point out, but it sounds a bit more smug than I meant it to.
“Enquiring minds is good. What do you have for enquiring hearts and enquiring souls?”
For a panicky moment I am at a loss for words, but then Lego comes to my rescue.
“Look. This stuff is really fun for kids. It encourages their imaginations. They can build anything they like. You can buy a Star Wars kit like this… (Star Wars? Oh… yes, a little after your time. Never mind.) Or a tub of bricks like this… Or a board game like these.” I pick Lego Creationary off the shelf. “You’d enjoy this one, I think.”
I get a smile from him with that.
The Lego is next to the magic kits, which catch his eye.
“What are these for?”
“Magic kits? Oh, you know. Tricks. Like changing an object into something else, or making things disappear,” I tell him.
“Ooh, that sounds right up my street!” exclaims Jesus. He looks at the price label. “I don’t think I’ll be needing to spend $29.99 on it though.”
How does the visit end, I wonder? Do I show him the small crusader knight figurines, and lament with him the dreadful things that the church has been responsible for in its history? Do I browse the board game section with him, and use Fact or Crap (yes, there really is a game called that) to strike up a dialogue about the discernment of truth? Does the play-pretend doctor’s kit give me the opportunity to ask him why there’s evil in the world… cancer, might be one example I’d toss in… and tell him how, frankly, if I was almighty, I’d jolly well have found a way to create a world that would stay perfect? Or do I take him into the back office and offer him a cup of tea (Hello?... Yes!!... Duh… of course Jesus likes a nice cup of tea…) and witter on at length about my life, not letting him get a word in edgeways?
What? You think it’s the “wittering on at length” ending? Why would you think that?
However, it is a laudable exercise, and in that spirit, I have tried to envisage Jesus in the toy store. This is how it goes.
He comes in, and I say “Hi!” enthusiastically (we greet all our customers). Then as he walks towards the counter, I ask my usual line “Can I help you find something?” and he replies “Actually, I was wondering if I could help you find something”. See? Right there? We haven’t got beyond our opening exchange, and he’s already gone all enigmatic on me.
I persevere, and start showing him round.
“Why’s everything in this corner pink?” he asks.
“This is what we call 'Girlie World',” I reply. “Girls like pink. Girls’ clothes are mostly pink these days. I know your mother always wore blue, but these days, it’s pink.”
“My mother didn’t wear blue actually. Not until the Renaissance artists got hold of her”, Jesus says.
“Oh. Sorry. Well, anyway, girls nowadays wear pink. Trust me.”
“ ‘Trust me’? Did you say ‘Trust me’? That’s my line.”
See again? I just can’t get this whole WWJD thing running smoothly at all.
I move on to the science kits.
“We sell a lot of these,” I say, “especially in the run up to Christmas. Your birthday. It’s so commercialised these days. I’m sorry about that. Do you mind?”
He’s reading the blurb on the back of a science kit box.
“This says it encourages an enquiring mind in a child. That’s good. I like that.”
I feel a little glow of pleasure. “Lots of our toys are educational” I point out, but it sounds a bit more smug than I meant it to.
“Enquiring minds is good. What do you have for enquiring hearts and enquiring souls?”
For a panicky moment I am at a loss for words, but then Lego comes to my rescue.
“Look. This stuff is really fun for kids. It encourages their imaginations. They can build anything they like. You can buy a Star Wars kit like this… (Star Wars? Oh… yes, a little after your time. Never mind.) Or a tub of bricks like this… Or a board game like these.” I pick Lego Creationary off the shelf. “You’d enjoy this one, I think.”
I get a smile from him with that.
The Lego is next to the magic kits, which catch his eye.
“What are these for?”
“Magic kits? Oh, you know. Tricks. Like changing an object into something else, or making things disappear,” I tell him.
“Ooh, that sounds right up my street!” exclaims Jesus. He looks at the price label. “I don’t think I’ll be needing to spend $29.99 on it though.”
How does the visit end, I wonder? Do I show him the small crusader knight figurines, and lament with him the dreadful things that the church has been responsible for in its history? Do I browse the board game section with him, and use Fact or Crap (yes, there really is a game called that) to strike up a dialogue about the discernment of truth? Does the play-pretend doctor’s kit give me the opportunity to ask him why there’s evil in the world… cancer, might be one example I’d toss in… and tell him how, frankly, if I was almighty, I’d jolly well have found a way to create a world that would stay perfect? Or do I take him into the back office and offer him a cup of tea (Hello?... Yes!!... Duh… of course Jesus likes a nice cup of tea…) and witter on at length about my life, not letting him get a word in edgeways?
What? You think it’s the “wittering on at length” ending? Why would you think that?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Therapy in the toy store: Part ll
Do you know who gets the best therapy at the toy store? It’s me! Yes, me, me, ME!
I love the people I work with and for. They ‘get’ me without trying, in a way that is rare here (they’re East Coasters – I wonder if that helps.) It’s not often in America that I can relax as I make the darkest worst taste jokes, and know they’ll be received with guffaws of hilarity, and that the thread will be picked up and continued with. There’s nothing I love better than a running joke, and we have a few of them scampering around the aisles.
I love the space. It’s not mine, you see. There’s not that inescapable feeling that I could be… should be… tidying, cleaning or repairing something, somewhere. Am I the only stay-at-home mum who can’t relax in her own home? At least I used not to be able to, but now I can, because now home is where I’m off work, not where I’m at work.
I love the variety the job brings to my life. I love how in the morning I think to myself “ooh, work today, good!”, or “ooh, a day at home, just what I need!”. I love how I no longer have to be so self-sufficient. Being at home full-time is a tough call, sometimes.
I love the change in myself that the job has wrought. It’s as if someone directed me to the shelf marked ‘confidence toys’, and let me choose the one I wanted. I’ve overcome my early fears. I’m not afraid of the till. I’m not afraid of the credit card swiping machine. I’m not afraid of doing returns. I’m not afraid of coupons and discounts. I’m not afraid of answering the phone. I’m not afraid of customers (and they’re pretty scary when you first start). I’m not afraid of gift-wrapping while someone is watching me, or while several people are watching me (which is very different to gift wrapping at your own kitchen table, trust me). I’m not even afraid of the wayward raffia. That stuff has a mind of its own, but my authoritative fingers can now deftly tame it without fail into a delightful bow.
I love wearing make-up and decent(ish) clothes when I’m there. I’ve noticed (and I love this too) that all the clothes I’ve bought since I’ve started work have been strong colours: plum, raspberry, teal, mustard yellow. Get me. I’ve never worn anything mustard yellow before. Oh. Wait. Not true. In 1988, I had a mid-calf-length wool skirt from Benetton which was mustard yellow. But that was more of a subtle French mustard, not a statement Colman’s English mustard, and I always wore it with grey or black, not daringly paired with other equally assertive tones as I do now. Speaking of Benetton, whatever happened to Benetton? We all thought Benetton was the last word in cool, high street, natty dressing at one time. That’s retail for you, though. Tough business. I should know. Did I mention that I’m in retail now?
Where was I? Ah yes, the confidence that the job has brought me. I nearly died of sheer unadulterated pleasure when a customer thanked me for helping them, and said “you’re very good at your job”. Two people in the week before Christmas made a point of telling the store owner, in front of me, that I’d found them exactly what they needed. One of them used the word ‘awesome’, actually. (*blushes*) (*face clashes with mustard top*) I’ve noticed that people who come in trying to sell advertising space or whatever it is, now ask me “are you the owner?” rather than “can I speak with the owner?”
They warned me from the outset, when I started in September, how crazy busy the shop would be for the whole of December. They painted a picture of madness, chaos, unrelenting pressure, trials and tribulations. And guess what? I loved every moment. Every single moment. I thrived on the continuous activity. I drank in the atmosphere like a tonic. I flourished. I’m actually a bit bored, now it’s January.
One more thing I love, and this one has taken me by surprise. I love contributing to the family income. It’s not much. I’m on an hourly rate which is embarrassingly close to the minimum wage, and I don’t clock up many hours. But it’s a good feeling nonetheless. I didn’t know that about myself. I always thought I didn’t mind at all that Husband was the sole breadwinner.
I recently missed a reunion dinner at my old university. A friend sent some photos, and as I looked at the faces in the pictures, I reflected on how topsy-turvy life often is. Most of those people, all of them probably, are in well-paid, high-powered jobs (let’s face it, the ones who aren’t, don’t pitch up so much at the reunions). Their jobs are appropriate to the education we together received. And I’m not saying that they’re not successful, satisfied, stimulated, happy in their jobs. But I do know this. None of them, not one single one, will be getting the same unmingled joy out of each day, each hour of each day, that I am, in my lowly sales assistant position, in my small unknown toy shop, in my out-of-the-way crevice of this fly-over state.
I’m not naïve. I know that this job won’t keep me happy forever. I know that I’ll get bored before too long. I know that I’m capable of more, and that I’ll be restless to experience and prove that. But when it came my way, this job was a godsend. The last job I had was the opposite. The children were aged 1, 4 and 7: one at home, one at preschool, one at big school. A challenging time to return to work, by any account. But Husband was suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly, unemployed. I worked half-time to see us through, in a job which on paper seemed interesting, challenging, do-able, suitable for someone with my educational background and employment history. But it was a nightmare. I resigned at the end of the first week, in fact, but was persuaded back. The experience sucked all my confidence out of me, and though I knew in a rational way that it was the job description, the organisation, the people who were to blame, not me, that didn’t stop the sucking process. It ended badly. So over the past couple of years, as much as I was chasing a green card, I was secretly always relieved when it didn’t come, because I was so scared of the world of work. But now, as I said, I’m not even scared of the raffia. I’ve come a long way. It’s not often you’re on the payroll for your own therapy.
.
I love the people I work with and for. They ‘get’ me without trying, in a way that is rare here (they’re East Coasters – I wonder if that helps.) It’s not often in America that I can relax as I make the darkest worst taste jokes, and know they’ll be received with guffaws of hilarity, and that the thread will be picked up and continued with. There’s nothing I love better than a running joke, and we have a few of them scampering around the aisles.
I love the space. It’s not mine, you see. There’s not that inescapable feeling that I could be… should be… tidying, cleaning or repairing something, somewhere. Am I the only stay-at-home mum who can’t relax in her own home? At least I used not to be able to, but now I can, because now home is where I’m off work, not where I’m at work.
I love the variety the job brings to my life. I love how in the morning I think to myself “ooh, work today, good!”, or “ooh, a day at home, just what I need!”. I love how I no longer have to be so self-sufficient. Being at home full-time is a tough call, sometimes.
I love the change in myself that the job has wrought. It’s as if someone directed me to the shelf marked ‘confidence toys’, and let me choose the one I wanted. I’ve overcome my early fears. I’m not afraid of the till. I’m not afraid of the credit card swiping machine. I’m not afraid of doing returns. I’m not afraid of coupons and discounts. I’m not afraid of answering the phone. I’m not afraid of customers (and they’re pretty scary when you first start). I’m not afraid of gift-wrapping while someone is watching me, or while several people are watching me (which is very different to gift wrapping at your own kitchen table, trust me). I’m not even afraid of the wayward raffia. That stuff has a mind of its own, but my authoritative fingers can now deftly tame it without fail into a delightful bow.
I love wearing make-up and decent(ish) clothes when I’m there. I’ve noticed (and I love this too) that all the clothes I’ve bought since I’ve started work have been strong colours: plum, raspberry, teal, mustard yellow. Get me. I’ve never worn anything mustard yellow before. Oh. Wait. Not true. In 1988, I had a mid-calf-length wool skirt from Benetton which was mustard yellow. But that was more of a subtle French mustard, not a statement Colman’s English mustard, and I always wore it with grey or black, not daringly paired with other equally assertive tones as I do now. Speaking of Benetton, whatever happened to Benetton? We all thought Benetton was the last word in cool, high street, natty dressing at one time. That’s retail for you, though. Tough business. I should know. Did I mention that I’m in retail now?
Where was I? Ah yes, the confidence that the job has brought me. I nearly died of sheer unadulterated pleasure when a customer thanked me for helping them, and said “you’re very good at your job”. Two people in the week before Christmas made a point of telling the store owner, in front of me, that I’d found them exactly what they needed. One of them used the word ‘awesome’, actually. (*blushes*) (*face clashes with mustard top*) I’ve noticed that people who come in trying to sell advertising space or whatever it is, now ask me “are you the owner?” rather than “can I speak with the owner?”
They warned me from the outset, when I started in September, how crazy busy the shop would be for the whole of December. They painted a picture of madness, chaos, unrelenting pressure, trials and tribulations. And guess what? I loved every moment. Every single moment. I thrived on the continuous activity. I drank in the atmosphere like a tonic. I flourished. I’m actually a bit bored, now it’s January.
One more thing I love, and this one has taken me by surprise. I love contributing to the family income. It’s not much. I’m on an hourly rate which is embarrassingly close to the minimum wage, and I don’t clock up many hours. But it’s a good feeling nonetheless. I didn’t know that about myself. I always thought I didn’t mind at all that Husband was the sole breadwinner.
I recently missed a reunion dinner at my old university. A friend sent some photos, and as I looked at the faces in the pictures, I reflected on how topsy-turvy life often is. Most of those people, all of them probably, are in well-paid, high-powered jobs (let’s face it, the ones who aren’t, don’t pitch up so much at the reunions). Their jobs are appropriate to the education we together received. And I’m not saying that they’re not successful, satisfied, stimulated, happy in their jobs. But I do know this. None of them, not one single one, will be getting the same unmingled joy out of each day, each hour of each day, that I am, in my lowly sales assistant position, in my small unknown toy shop, in my out-of-the-way crevice of this fly-over state.
I’m not naïve. I know that this job won’t keep me happy forever. I know that I’ll get bored before too long. I know that I’m capable of more, and that I’ll be restless to experience and prove that. But when it came my way, this job was a godsend. The last job I had was the opposite. The children were aged 1, 4 and 7: one at home, one at preschool, one at big school. A challenging time to return to work, by any account. But Husband was suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly, unemployed. I worked half-time to see us through, in a job which on paper seemed interesting, challenging, do-able, suitable for someone with my educational background and employment history. But it was a nightmare. I resigned at the end of the first week, in fact, but was persuaded back. The experience sucked all my confidence out of me, and though I knew in a rational way that it was the job description, the organisation, the people who were to blame, not me, that didn’t stop the sucking process. It ended badly. So over the past couple of years, as much as I was chasing a green card, I was secretly always relieved when it didn’t come, because I was so scared of the world of work. But now, as I said, I’m not even scared of the raffia. I’ve come a long way. It’s not often you’re on the payroll for your own therapy.
.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Therapy in the toy store: Part l
You don’t just get a toy, when you come to the toy shop. You get therapy, and like the gift wrap service, it’s free.
Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.
We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.
We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”
We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.
We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.
Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.
I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.
The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.
Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.
We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.
We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”
We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.
We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.
Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.
I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.
The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Learn to Dress Kitty
This is it. This is my least favourite toy in the shop.
It's the Learn to Dress Kitty. The idea behind it is that you use this friendly fun cat to teach your child all about clothes fastenings. See, there's a zip (zipper), a button, and shoes with laces on the front, and various hooks and eyes and other things on the back. It retails at $34.99. We also sell a wooden shoe with laces, for $14.99. Same idea, but just a large wooden shoe. No cute cat. It's my second least favourite toy in the shop.
The reason I hate these items so much is this. You just don't need them. Trust me. I've had three children. You truly don't. Here's why (and it's not rocket science). You can use your child's own clothes to teach them how to do fastenings!
"Wait a minute!" I hear you interject. "It's easier for the child to learn on an object in front of them, than on clothes on their own body." I've thought of that, and I have a selection of answers.
First, it actually probably isn't.
Second, what is the point of teaching your child a skill that's easier than the one they need in daily life? What good is it if your child can operate that taut, easy-to-pull 2-inch zip, if at preschool they need to be able to do up their own wrinkly, tricky-to-pull 10-inch zip? Eh? Tell me that. How impressed will the beleaguered preschool teacher be if they say "I can do the Kitty one at home"? Not very.
Third, even if it were helpful to have a teaching aid that the child isn't wearing, even if it were helpful to have easier fastenings to start learning on, even then, this is still a total waste of $34.99, because guess what? You can use an ordinary shoe to practise laces. You can use your handbag or a pair of jeans to practise zips. You can use a cardigan to practise buttons.
There are so very many things that are worth spending $34.99 on. Plus tax. If you still aren't persuaded, if you're still tempted to purchase this toy, or teaching aid, or whatever it is, then STOP right now. Buy a puzzle, or a doll, or a teddy, or Monopoly, or write a cheque to Oxfam. You're still liking the kitty? I hate this toy so much that I am almost at the point of offering to pay my own travel expenses to your house, where I will take you by the hand, and lead you to your own wardrobe, and help you find items which you have right there which will do the same job. It could be a life-changing releasing moment for you.
Quite apart from not buying into the whole idea behind this toy (had you noticed?), I have some issues with the details of the design. The staring eyes... The fact that the zip is so short (what's the point of a 2-inch zip?)... But most of all (and this REALLY annoys me), that orange button under the cute cat chin? See it? It's not even a real functioning button. It's a decorative button. What IS the point of having a button on a learn-to-dress toy, that doesn't have a button hole to go through? Aaaargh...
Before I self-combust in the heat generated by my own ire, I just have to show you this.
Yes, it's the equivalent toy for boys. The Learn to Dress Monkey. I hate it with the same passion, though at least the two buttons on the front are functioning (one with a button hole, the other with an odd loop arrangement that you never ever see on clothes). And there are poppers (snaps, in the US) too. But I have to tell you this about the monkey. In this picture, he's holding the banana in one hand, and his tail in the other. But in the toy shop, he hangs on a rack with both hands fully extended down in front holding the banana - they both attach to it, and (visualise it, go on) it just looks very rude.
Here's my final thought. (If you're not persuaded by now, I'm thinking you're probably beyond my reach on this item.) If your child struggles to do up laces, don't buy the kitty, the monkey or the wooden shoe. Join the rest of Planet Motherhood, and buy shoes with velcro! That $34.99 could buy a very nice pair.
It's the Learn to Dress Kitty. The idea behind it is that you use this friendly fun cat to teach your child all about clothes fastenings. See, there's a zip (zipper), a button, and shoes with laces on the front, and various hooks and eyes and other things on the back. It retails at $34.99. We also sell a wooden shoe with laces, for $14.99. Same idea, but just a large wooden shoe. No cute cat. It's my second least favourite toy in the shop.
The reason I hate these items so much is this. You just don't need them. Trust me. I've had three children. You truly don't. Here's why (and it's not rocket science). You can use your child's own clothes to teach them how to do fastenings!
"Wait a minute!" I hear you interject. "It's easier for the child to learn on an object in front of them, than on clothes on their own body." I've thought of that, and I have a selection of answers.
First, it actually probably isn't.
Second, what is the point of teaching your child a skill that's easier than the one they need in daily life? What good is it if your child can operate that taut, easy-to-pull 2-inch zip, if at preschool they need to be able to do up their own wrinkly, tricky-to-pull 10-inch zip? Eh? Tell me that. How impressed will the beleaguered preschool teacher be if they say "I can do the Kitty one at home"? Not very.
Third, even if it were helpful to have a teaching aid that the child isn't wearing, even if it were helpful to have easier fastenings to start learning on, even then, this is still a total waste of $34.99, because guess what? You can use an ordinary shoe to practise laces. You can use your handbag or a pair of jeans to practise zips. You can use a cardigan to practise buttons.
There are so very many things that are worth spending $34.99 on. Plus tax. If you still aren't persuaded, if you're still tempted to purchase this toy, or teaching aid, or whatever it is, then STOP right now. Buy a puzzle, or a doll, or a teddy, or Monopoly, or write a cheque to Oxfam. You're still liking the kitty? I hate this toy so much that I am almost at the point of offering to pay my own travel expenses to your house, where I will take you by the hand, and lead you to your own wardrobe, and help you find items which you have right there which will do the same job. It could be a life-changing releasing moment for you.
Quite apart from not buying into the whole idea behind this toy (had you noticed?), I have some issues with the details of the design. The staring eyes... The fact that the zip is so short (what's the point of a 2-inch zip?)... But most of all (and this REALLY annoys me), that orange button under the cute cat chin? See it? It's not even a real functioning button. It's a decorative button. What IS the point of having a button on a learn-to-dress toy, that doesn't have a button hole to go through? Aaaargh...
Before I self-combust in the heat generated by my own ire, I just have to show you this.
Yes, it's the equivalent toy for boys. The Learn to Dress Monkey. I hate it with the same passion, though at least the two buttons on the front are functioning (one with a button hole, the other with an odd loop arrangement that you never ever see on clothes). And there are poppers (snaps, in the US) too. But I have to tell you this about the monkey. In this picture, he's holding the banana in one hand, and his tail in the other. But in the toy shop, he hangs on a rack with both hands fully extended down in front holding the banana - they both attach to it, and (visualise it, go on) it just looks very rude.
Here's my final thought. (If you're not persuaded by now, I'm thinking you're probably beyond my reach on this item.) If your child struggles to do up laces, don't buy the kitty, the monkey or the wooden shoe. Join the rest of Planet Motherhood, and buy shoes with velcro! That $34.99 could buy a very nice pair.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Christmas picks
This is the time of year when many mummy bloggers do reviews of toys, and give their hot picks for Christmas presents. Well, I’m going to do the opposite. I’m going to give you my cold picks.
The vast, vast majority of the toys in the toy shop where I work are brilliant. They’re high quality, well made, educational, imaginative; some are old favourites, some are different and unusual. I just want to point that out. I need to cover my back in case, just in case, the toy shop owner somehow is reading this and has worked out who Iota is, because I really don’t want to be dooced. And if you are reading this, oh please, please don’t dooce me. I love my job. Please, please don’t give me the sack. I love your shop. I love working in it. I’ll work for you for free.
With that disclaimer, of the thousands (actually, I think it might be tens of thousands) of toys in the shop, there are a very few that I really dislike. So here are my cold picks for 2010.
Hexbugs - I’m sorry, but I just don’t get Hexbugs. We’ve got a couple at home, from 10-yo’s birthday last year. They do two things. They either stay absolutely stationary, or they scuttle in a straight line. Neither is remotely interesting after the first 5 seconds. They are expensive, and as far as I can see, you might as well put your dollar bill or your credit card on the floor. That will stay absolutely stationary, which is 50% of what the Hexbug does. Then you can pick it up again and put it back in your wallet, and have it to spend on a different item. In my opinion, that will have been a much better use of your money. You will miss out on the scuttling, but trust me, you’re not missing out on much. I’m guessing that people buy Hexbugs because some in the series have the title “nano”, and “nano” sounds intelligent and impressive. Even the ones that aren’t “nano” somehow bask in the reflected glory of the ones that are. Also, some boys reach an age where they are almost impossible to buy presents for, and Hexbugs are the straws at which desperate friends and relations clutch.
Ugly Dolls - I don’t see the point of Ugly Dolls. They are ugly. They are overpriced. They do nothing. They don’t even scuttle. If your children ask for an Ugly Doll, it means they’ve got too many toys.
Chew by Numbers kits – I had my first introduction to this concept when 6-yo was in Kindergarten. I used to help out in the classroom each week, and once, I couldn’t believe it when the activity to help the kids learn the letter ‘G’, was to chew gum to make it soft, take it out of their mouths, and then stretch it into a string and stick it onto a sheet of paper in the shape of a ‘G’. Very suitable letter, given the huge number of Germs that were being happily spread around the place. Well, the idea must be flavour of the month with educators and toy designers, because someone has produced these kits containing different coloured gum, which you chew and then stick on to pictures. It’s painting by numbers, but with gum. Yet no-one has had the wit to call it “painting by gum-bers” which would at least add a bit of wry humour to the activity. Answer me one question. Why would anyone buy this kit, when there is a huge range of really good, creative, sensible art kits on the market, which don’t involve chewing and spitting out? Answer me another question. What are you meant to do with these chewing gum pictures when you’ve finished them? Hang them on your wall? Used gum, in colourful blobby shapes, masquerading as art, on your wall? Or put them in a drawer? Yuk. I rest my case.
Anything that says “Everyone loves” on the box - It’s like reading a recipe that says “Children will love this tasty and nutritious snack”. You just know it’s going to have spinach and chick peas in it, and that your children are not going to love it; they’re not even going to try it unless you deploy a big bribe. We sell a craft kit for making wind chimes that says “Everyone loves wind chimes” on the box. Well, I have news for the manufacturer. I don’t love wind chimes. I don’t mind them. I don’t object to them. But I don’t love them. So that’s a fib, right there, before the description goes any further. I am one person. So if I don’t love wind chimes, you can’t say “Everyone loves wind chimes”. Who wants to buy a toy from a company that fibs? We’re all ethical consumers these days.
Snap circuits - I have no idea what these are, in all honesty. I just know that the description on the box makes no sense: “Have fun learning all about electronics”. That is a sentence made up of two entirely discrete concepts – “have fun”, and “learning all about electronics”. That sentence is like vinaigrette. You can shake it vigorously, and it’ll be tasty for a short while, but then the oil and the vinegar will separate out again. You just can’t force two things to combine that don’t belong together. I think the word I’m looking for is immiscible. (Oh, how very, very gratifying. That is indeed the word, but it’s not in Microsoft’s thesaurus. I’m more literate than Microsoft! Ha!) I do have to tell you, though, that we sell a lot of snap circuits, and that people love them and come back for more. There are things called "snap circuit extension kits". I really have no idea at all what those four words mean (though I will happily sell you a box).
So those are my cold picks. I do have one more. It’s not so much a cold pick, as a frozen pick. It’s an item I hate with exquisite loathing. I’ll tell you about it in the next post.
The vast, vast majority of the toys in the toy shop where I work are brilliant. They’re high quality, well made, educational, imaginative; some are old favourites, some are different and unusual. I just want to point that out. I need to cover my back in case, just in case, the toy shop owner somehow is reading this and has worked out who Iota is, because I really don’t want to be dooced. And if you are reading this, oh please, please don’t dooce me. I love my job. Please, please don’t give me the sack. I love your shop. I love working in it. I’ll work for you for free.
With that disclaimer, of the thousands (actually, I think it might be tens of thousands) of toys in the shop, there are a very few that I really dislike. So here are my cold picks for 2010.
Hexbugs - I’m sorry, but I just don’t get Hexbugs. We’ve got a couple at home, from 10-yo’s birthday last year. They do two things. They either stay absolutely stationary, or they scuttle in a straight line. Neither is remotely interesting after the first 5 seconds. They are expensive, and as far as I can see, you might as well put your dollar bill or your credit card on the floor. That will stay absolutely stationary, which is 50% of what the Hexbug does. Then you can pick it up again and put it back in your wallet, and have it to spend on a different item. In my opinion, that will have been a much better use of your money. You will miss out on the scuttling, but trust me, you’re not missing out on much. I’m guessing that people buy Hexbugs because some in the series have the title “nano”, and “nano” sounds intelligent and impressive. Even the ones that aren’t “nano” somehow bask in the reflected glory of the ones that are. Also, some boys reach an age where they are almost impossible to buy presents for, and Hexbugs are the straws at which desperate friends and relations clutch.
Ugly Dolls - I don’t see the point of Ugly Dolls. They are ugly. They are overpriced. They do nothing. They don’t even scuttle. If your children ask for an Ugly Doll, it means they’ve got too many toys.
Chew by Numbers kits – I had my first introduction to this concept when 6-yo was in Kindergarten. I used to help out in the classroom each week, and once, I couldn’t believe it when the activity to help the kids learn the letter ‘G’, was to chew gum to make it soft, take it out of their mouths, and then stretch it into a string and stick it onto a sheet of paper in the shape of a ‘G’. Very suitable letter, given the huge number of Germs that were being happily spread around the place. Well, the idea must be flavour of the month with educators and toy designers, because someone has produced these kits containing different coloured gum, which you chew and then stick on to pictures. It’s painting by numbers, but with gum. Yet no-one has had the wit to call it “painting by gum-bers” which would at least add a bit of wry humour to the activity. Answer me one question. Why would anyone buy this kit, when there is a huge range of really good, creative, sensible art kits on the market, which don’t involve chewing and spitting out? Answer me another question. What are you meant to do with these chewing gum pictures when you’ve finished them? Hang them on your wall? Used gum, in colourful blobby shapes, masquerading as art, on your wall? Or put them in a drawer? Yuk. I rest my case.
Anything that says “Everyone loves” on the box - It’s like reading a recipe that says “Children will love this tasty and nutritious snack”. You just know it’s going to have spinach and chick peas in it, and that your children are not going to love it; they’re not even going to try it unless you deploy a big bribe. We sell a craft kit for making wind chimes that says “Everyone loves wind chimes” on the box. Well, I have news for the manufacturer. I don’t love wind chimes. I don’t mind them. I don’t object to them. But I don’t love them. So that’s a fib, right there, before the description goes any further. I am one person. So if I don’t love wind chimes, you can’t say “Everyone loves wind chimes”. Who wants to buy a toy from a company that fibs? We’re all ethical consumers these days.
Snap circuits - I have no idea what these are, in all honesty. I just know that the description on the box makes no sense: “Have fun learning all about electronics”. That is a sentence made up of two entirely discrete concepts – “have fun”, and “learning all about electronics”. That sentence is like vinaigrette. You can shake it vigorously, and it’ll be tasty for a short while, but then the oil and the vinegar will separate out again. You just can’t force two things to combine that don’t belong together. I think the word I’m looking for is immiscible. (Oh, how very, very gratifying. That is indeed the word, but it’s not in Microsoft’s thesaurus. I’m more literate than Microsoft! Ha!) I do have to tell you, though, that we sell a lot of snap circuits, and that people love them and come back for more. There are things called "snap circuit extension kits". I really have no idea at all what those four words mean (though I will happily sell you a box).
So those are my cold picks. I do have one more. It’s not so much a cold pick, as a frozen pick. It’s an item I hate with exquisite loathing. I’ll tell you about it in the next post.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Tales from the...
... shh, you know I'm not writing this blog. But if I was, I'd tell you about...
... the person I met today whose little boy is called Soya.
... how I posted a transaction for over $22 million by mistake. Something for my boss to sort out when she balances the books.
... the woman who bought a toy for a child whose name she couldn't remember (not her own child - at least, that's what she said).
... how at home I feel with a boss and coworkers who get my English sense of humour. They are truly like an oasis in a desert. It's such a relief to be able to make jokes in horribly bad taste, and know that people will laugh uproariously rather than be offended. Jokes, like saying that the electronic talking-singing toys might have been inspired by... by... no, too much bad taste for a blog, sorry.
... how I wish Playmobil and Lego used different coloured boxes. They are both an identical blue, and it makes life very complicated. Is it a stand-off between the Germans and Danes?
"Ve choze ze blue first. Ve vill not change to anuzzer colour."
"We may be a smaller country than you, but we have a statue of a mermaid in the harbour of our capital city, and we, too, will not change to another colour." (Sorry, can't attempt a rendition of English spoken in a Danish accent.)
... how you should never ever assume that you are alone in the shop, because otherwise, you might be boogie-ing along to a kid's song, snapping your fingers and wiggling your bottom, and find out that, oops, a customer is watching you.
PS It was actually Sawyer (as in Tom Sawyer). I had to ask, because I just couldn't get my mind round Soya, and I didn't want to refer to the child as 'your son' in every future conversation.
... the person I met today whose little boy is called Soya.
... how I posted a transaction for over $22 million by mistake. Something for my boss to sort out when she balances the books.
... the woman who bought a toy for a child whose name she couldn't remember (not her own child - at least, that's what she said).
... how at home I feel with a boss and coworkers who get my English sense of humour. They are truly like an oasis in a desert. It's such a relief to be able to make jokes in horribly bad taste, and know that people will laugh uproariously rather than be offended. Jokes, like saying that the electronic talking-singing toys might have been inspired by... by... no, too much bad taste for a blog, sorry.
... how I wish Playmobil and Lego used different coloured boxes. They are both an identical blue, and it makes life very complicated. Is it a stand-off between the Germans and Danes?
"Ve choze ze blue first. Ve vill not change to anuzzer colour."
"We may be a smaller country than you, but we have a statue of a mermaid in the harbour of our capital city, and we, too, will not change to another colour." (Sorry, can't attempt a rendition of English spoken in a Danish accent.)
... how you should never ever assume that you are alone in the shop, because otherwise, you might be boogie-ing along to a kid's song, snapping your fingers and wiggling your bottom, and find out that, oops, a customer is watching you.
PS It was actually Sawyer (as in Tom Sawyer). I had to ask, because I just couldn't get my mind round Soya, and I didn't want to refer to the child as 'your son' in every future conversation.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Words, words, words
Words, words, words. There are so many of them that just don't translate quite exactly from British English to American English. Here are four that have troubled me this week.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The blog that will never be
Well, the book News to me is going to Shirley, who was number 1 in the comments. Congratulations (if you can be congratulated on an achievement based entirely on random computer selection). I have emailed you, Shirley, to ask for your address, but if it doesn't reach you, then please email me.
I am itching, itching, ITCHING to start a new blog entitled Tales from the Toy Shop (thanks for that suggestion, Plan B), because after two days in my job, I’m telling you, there is blog fodder a-plenty. I’m not going to, though, as you never know who is reading your blog, and I don’t want to be dooced.
First of all, there are the characters who work there. It figures, I suppose. I mean, you’re going to have characters in a toy shop, aren’t you? I wonder why they recruited me. I’m jolly normal and ordinary! I’ll just have to put that down as one of life’s puzzles...
Then there are the intriguing customers, whose stories I would love to know. The woman who came in, put a toy on the counter, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and said “I’ve got the receipt for this, it isn’t broken or anything, there isn’t anything wrong with it, it’s just that he didn’t play with it at all, he didn’t like it, there’s no problem with it or anything, but he just didn’t like it so I’m going to change it for something else, I have the receipt and it’s in the original packaging”. And it was – in the original packaging. Well, sort of. It was in the original box, but of course you can’t actually get a toy back into its packaging, with all those odd-shaped bits of cardboard and those irritating plastic tags. It was a toy for a 1 year old - a chunky plastic truck - so really, there wasn’t much for a 1 year old to like or dislike. She picked out a very similar toy for the exchange. And then also bought another toy using a Groupon coupon (have you all discovered Groupon yet?)
What about the online order that came in for a Hello Kitty playset to be sent to an American Forces Overseas address in Afghanistan? That’s a story I would dearly love to hear. Is it a joke present for a squaddie? Or does someone want to be reminded of their daughter back home? Perhaps a soldier has befriended a local child. A tale to be told, for sure.
You’ll enjoy this one. There was a customer who was looking for a present for a 10 year old, who’s just had a bedroom makeover. I asked what the colours were, and it was black and white. So I showed her, helpfully, a big round cushiony zebra, which I thought would be cool for a trendy 10 year old's bed. It was half soft toy, half snuggly pillow. I was just looking at it more closely (which was a bit awkward as it was hanging high up), wondering if it was a clever rolled-up sleeping bag, or perhaps something to put your pyjamas in, when the toy shop owner kindly intervened and stopped me selling the customer a baby play mat. This is it.
I’ve learnt to spot the homeschoolers. You know how? I work from 10.00 to 3.00, so if someone comes in with children of school age, they’re homeschoolers. But I think I could spot them on a Saturday too. They spend AGES in the shop. I think they’re probably trying to fill in time, (which the rest of us do by sending our children to school... Hello? That's what school is for...).
See? It’s potentially a blog post a minute in the toy shop, and I haven’t even started on what's for sale. There’s:
an inflatable turkey (think dining table, not farmyard),
whacky hand puppets (including a flying tree squirrel, a frog in a space-ship, a sinister crow, a leathery turtle, a very weird leggy alien grasshopper, a pig with wings, and yay! a buffalo!),
fabulous books (I couldn’t resist buying Mom and Dad are palindromes), and
fake dog poo in a spray can (it’s called Instapoop, if you ever need to ask for some).
Ah alas, for the toy shop blog that will never be.
I am itching, itching, ITCHING to start a new blog entitled Tales from the Toy Shop (thanks for that suggestion, Plan B), because after two days in my job, I’m telling you, there is blog fodder a-plenty. I’m not going to, though, as you never know who is reading your blog, and I don’t want to be dooced.
First of all, there are the characters who work there. It figures, I suppose. I mean, you’re going to have characters in a toy shop, aren’t you? I wonder why they recruited me. I’m jolly normal and ordinary! I’ll just have to put that down as one of life’s puzzles...
Then there are the intriguing customers, whose stories I would love to know. The woman who came in, put a toy on the counter, didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and said “I’ve got the receipt for this, it isn’t broken or anything, there isn’t anything wrong with it, it’s just that he didn’t play with it at all, he didn’t like it, there’s no problem with it or anything, but he just didn’t like it so I’m going to change it for something else, I have the receipt and it’s in the original packaging”. And it was – in the original packaging. Well, sort of. It was in the original box, but of course you can’t actually get a toy back into its packaging, with all those odd-shaped bits of cardboard and those irritating plastic tags. It was a toy for a 1 year old - a chunky plastic truck - so really, there wasn’t much for a 1 year old to like or dislike. She picked out a very similar toy for the exchange. And then also bought another toy using a Groupon coupon (have you all discovered Groupon yet?)
What about the online order that came in for a Hello Kitty playset to be sent to an American Forces Overseas address in Afghanistan? That’s a story I would dearly love to hear. Is it a joke present for a squaddie? Or does someone want to be reminded of their daughter back home? Perhaps a soldier has befriended a local child. A tale to be told, for sure.
You’ll enjoy this one. There was a customer who was looking for a present for a 10 year old, who’s just had a bedroom makeover. I asked what the colours were, and it was black and white. So I showed her, helpfully, a big round cushiony zebra, which I thought would be cool for a trendy 10 year old's bed. It was half soft toy, half snuggly pillow. I was just looking at it more closely (which was a bit awkward as it was hanging high up), wondering if it was a clever rolled-up sleeping bag, or perhaps something to put your pyjamas in, when the toy shop owner kindly intervened and stopped me selling the customer a baby play mat. This is it.
I’ve learnt to spot the homeschoolers. You know how? I work from 10.00 to 3.00, so if someone comes in with children of school age, they’re homeschoolers. But I think I could spot them on a Saturday too. They spend AGES in the shop. I think they’re probably trying to fill in time, (which the rest of us do by sending our children to school... Hello? That's what school is for...).
See? It’s potentially a blog post a minute in the toy shop, and I haven’t even started on what's for sale. There’s:
an inflatable turkey (think dining table, not farmyard),
whacky hand puppets (including a flying tree squirrel, a frog in a space-ship, a sinister crow, a leathery turtle, a very weird leggy alien grasshopper, a pig with wings, and yay! a buffalo!),
fabulous books (I couldn’t resist buying Mom and Dad are palindromes), and
fake dog poo in a spray can (it’s called Instapoop, if you ever need to ask for some).
Ah alas, for the toy shop blog that will never be.
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