The T-shirt Chronicles

My Big Sister "AJ"

Nothing against uniforms, but coming from a long line of fashion plates, I work hard on keeping up appearances.

My Mother and Me

I put even more effort into guiding my life by certain  principles. Like compassion. Honestly. Respect. And commitment to excellence. But this is about  my clash with a T-shirt. An ugly brawl that tested my core values, and challenged my life long commitment to Vogue. 
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After working in corporate America for twenty-five plus years,  I developed my own brand of business chic.  Every day, my goal was to be impeccably groomed and fashionable.

 I'm a carbon copy of my sister - a lady who, before leaving for work, would do a million "fashion checks," back and forth in front of the mirror, switching out earrings, belts and shoes, until she got it "just right."

My Aunt Verlie

I’m also cut from the same cloth as my mother, a high-principled woman, a stay at home mom,  and a fashionista.  When I was a little girl, every time she woke me up in the morning,  she was all dolled up – nice dress, manicured nails, and curler-free hair.  

And then there was my aunt, who had a huge motorized closet, just like the dry cleaners,  with her clothes going round and round in a circle until she picked something.  Okay. She had to spin it around with her hand, but you get the point.  It's in my blood.

All three are in heaven now, watching me do my best to keep the tradition alive, in my personal life, and as a working stiff valued employee. 

Staying en vogue served me well for most of my career.  But one hair-raising day, everything changed.

Towards the end of my working life, I was part of a team that managed an award-winning trade show - It  drew 30,000 business people from around the world.  The highlight of all of my years in business was putting that show together and then graciously and professionally running it every winter.  When I was at the show, dressed to the nines, meeting, greeting, overseeing, and putting out fires, I was in my element. 

I’d been working on the event for nearly ten years when the team was asked to attend a strange meeting.  The topic:  Show Attire.  I assumed my boss would give a talk to the young’uns’ on how to dress for the show.  So why were the old-timers invited?  

When I entered the conference room, I thought it was odd that she’d placed photos of tacky, polyester, powder blue, long-sleeved T-shirts on the conference table.  

Then she dropped a bombshell.  She wanted us to wear the godawful, powder blue, “unisex” T-shirts at our mega trade show, in front of all those people, like it, or not. 

As I looked around the table I saw long faces, quizzical looks, and  one poor soul who was guzzling bottled water, to help absorb the shock.  (Oh wait - that was me.)  Worse, my boss had already put her name and shirt size on the sign-up sheet.  WTF?  She was a top executive, running a team of seasoned pros. T-shirts?  For a company picnic – fine.  But not at a high-level marketplace like our show.  It was not a good fit.      

After the meeting,  I huddled with colleagues.  Some were incredulous, others started making T-shirt lemonade:  It made packing easier.  They’d save money. It was only for four days.  I on the other hand, was trembling in fear.  For me, wearing a T-shirt at the show would feel unprofessional, and humiliating.  Plus, we’d only get two shirts each, for a four

WARNING: Objects may be tackier than they appear.

day event. Somebody’s math (and hygiene) was way off.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day. T-shirts.  I didn't even like it when we asked the temp helpers to wear them at the show, for advertising purposes.  A lot of those folks looked just like me. Seasoned. Poised. Businesslike. On Opening Day, did they struggle to pull those shirts over their heads, like I would?    

I imagined packing my suitcase.  Piece of cake, right?  Throw in two tacky blue shirts, and you’re done.  Except packing for the show was a ritual for me.  I enjoyed picking just the right boots, dresses, and accessories. 

This event was a big deal for all of us. Every man on our team showed up looking like an Adonis, and every woman was straight out of a fashion magazine.  

Why didn't she want us to look good?

  

Let me take a shot at it:  Her self-esteem was below sea level.  An executive, happy to show up at a first-class event in a polyester shirt, with 30,000 well-groomed people watching, was no mental health poster girl.  Freud would have a field day with this T-shirt edict.

For me, it was a nightmare.   

I know you may be thinking, “Just put the shirt on!”    

Like everybody else, I didn’t want to risk being fired for insubordination. But I had to stand in the truth of myself (and my role models). I was a professional. I could not wear the stinking shirt to the show. Full stop.

I went to HR.  After they shut their mouths, which had flown open when they heard my story, they said the following:  You and the rest of the team always look great at the show.  Why would she put you in T-shirts? We don't get it.  So HR decided not to interfere, suggesting I tell my boss why I objected to wearing the shirt, and that should be the end of it (they thought).  I quickly realized my boss was a known troublemaker and nobody wanted to cross her.* It was left up to me.

So I told her why I couldn’t wear it.  She was unfazed. Then I did something that is hard for me to admit:  I begged her to release me from this obligation.  Now she really knew how much it meant to me.  Rather than making her soften her position, I had fueled her resolve. Unable to mask her glee, and almost celebrating the pain in my face, she promised to march right into HR, to make them force me to wear it.   

I went back to my desk and hung my head.  Within less than an hour, I saw an email from my boss.  It read simply,

You may wear the shirt to the show, or not (wear it).

I won.

But it wasn’t over yet.   I feared blow back from my colleagues, many of whom secretly loathed the shirts, but would wear them anyway.  I’d have to face them at the show.  

On Opening Day, I showed up looking like most of the other 30,000 people. Professional. Neat. Well groomed.  My teammates were wearing their polyester shirts, and I’m sorry, they’re an attractive bunch, but on that day, they didn’t look so hot.  I felt like a traitor, but damned if I didn’t have on a smokin’ outfit with matching boots and accessories.

I went to the staff room where my boss was just starting a meeting with an all male group of managers.  She was circled by grown men, wearing lovely powder blue shirts, just like hers. Awkward.  I’m no mind reader, but I’d say they were a bit distressed.  After years of wearing their own shirts and ties, this was no picnic.  Meanwhile, I felt like Judas, and could barely look them in the eye. 

Me, at the show.

Later, a co-worker called me a traitor.  He might as well have stuck a knife into my heart, but I did not wince.  I stood strong and explained that I did what I had to do, and he could have done the same.  I told him I was still the same team player I had been before I rejected the shirt. I hoped he understood. Then I hugged him, and walked away.

It was my hardest show ever.  

I got compliments from people, nods from the president and others,  and I felt good when I looked in the mirror.  I had no reason to be uncomfortable.  But I was.

The next year, I didn’t feel as guilty.  By the third year, I was guiltless, and at least one other person followed my lead (I think) and rejected the shirt.  Then one day our boss grew into her big executive shoes, announcing she would stop wearing T-shirts at the show.  She also told us we could wear whatever we wanted.  The shirts were officially optional.

 

 I never saw those ugly shirts on anybody, ever again.

*See I Worked for a Witch  

Scenes from a Hotel Chain of Fools

My dream of being a hotel catering queen turned out to be a nightmare on steroids.

Nuts

Before getting my feet wet in one of the few New York City hotels with an indoor pool, I faced a strange job interview with my soon-to-be employer.

My appointment with Tina left me just as nervous and jerky as she was. At one point she lit a cigarette, missing the ashtray with every flick, taking heavy drags until she smoked it down to a nub, and then lighting another.  Okay, it was the 80’s, but sucking down smoke during an interview was not the norm. Within a few minutes, I saw a million red flags.  I thought,  “Nope. I’m out.”

So right after I agreed to be her banquet assistant, she started calling in sick. On my first day, I booked parties, supervised events, scheduled waiters, and zipped around the hallways, trying to cover a lot of bases. I’d been bamboozled. They were only paying me to type, answer phones, and track banquet orders. My feet should not have been killing me. By day two, I wanted to quit, but I needed the money.

When Tina did come into the office, she’d spill her guts, sharing the sad details of her prior life, ad nauseam. Like the time she jumped out of a window and broke both of her legs.  A tragic figure, she was not exactly a breath of fresh air when she showed up.  

And then there were her "magic eyeglasses."  Whenever she made an appearance wearing

glasses, she’d be a different Tina.  The cast of characters lurking behind her "corrected" vision was unnerving.  Sometimes she had a French accent.  At other times she spoke like a truck driver. Once she was a southern belle for an entire day.   And she sat.  And sat. She drank up all the coffee, and never lifted a finger. The girl was a hot mess.  

After six weeks of Tina, I snitched.  I summoned all my courage and scheduled a meeting with her boss. He needed to know I was running the department by myself. I also had to tell him Tina was cray-cray. Nutty. Whacko. I wasn’t criticizing. But boy, did she need help.  And I needed a transfer.  

When I blurted out my story, he was sympathetic, and not the least bit shocked. He knew.  Then he gave me the PC response:  Her absences were excessive and he was going to let her go.  He’d hired a replacement.  I'd have a new boss by Monday.  But wait – there was more. He promoted me to assistant banquet sales manager, which meant I’d get a percentage of every banquet I sold.  Oh. My. God. A raise.  With renewed enthusiasm and a few more bucks, I was ready to take on anything. Well, almost anything.

Jive Turkey

Enter my new boss, Vickie.  Nice lady. Experienced. Native New Yorker. Smart. And we had similar hobbies. A pal.  A kindred spirit, I thought.  Not. So. Fast. 

At five o'clock on the dot Vickie was often MIA, leaving me to cover those annoying evening parties, usually after having been on my feet all day. Vickie prided herself on selling events, which meant she was on the phone a lot.  Funniest thing – If you overheard her, you’d think she was talking to her boyfriend, and on occasion, to her manicurist.  But my snitching days were over. Besides, she was way better than Tina, so my lips were sealed.

Things seemed to be improving, but I was overlooking the cooking.    

Rubber Chickened Out

Our banquet “chef,” Ben, whose English was marginal, wasn’t qualified to run a hotel kitchen. A sweetheart of a guy, he was a “bargain,” plucked from a now defunct fast food chain. We never knew his country of origin, although he told us, more than once.  Who could understand what this man was saying?  Poor Ben was hard pressed to prepare anything palatable. We artfully dodged most culinary disasters by steering guests towards a foolproof menu selection – the roasted chicken. For cocktail parties, we always led with our “très chic” franks in a blanket.  If the guest recoiled in horror, we’d explain it was the latest trend and also very hot in Paris, of course. Thank God most guests were gullible, and cheap.  

Ben was a trooper. He’d thumb through the pages of the esteemed Escoffier cookbook, studying recipes.  He wasn’t great at reading English, although I’m sure the pictures were helpful. Still, his most edible feat was rubber chicken, with a murky (but tasty) gravy, poured all over it.  

Day after day, we got away with it.  Until he was fired.

Chopped

Enter Stan, our new “chef,” a nice fellow who spoke English and was fond of knives.  One day, in a huff about his salary, he was seen juggling knives while shouting profanities.  Soon the knife show became routine. Walking through the kitchen was no picnic when he was around. A fine pastry chef, he made a great Crème Brûléee but not much else. I was relieved when they let him go, and I prayed for a real chef, without the quotation marks.  

You can't make this stuff up.

 Pity Party

I thought my life at the hotel would get a little easier when we finally got an authentic chef. They said he was on loan from another hotel in our chain, but I was told it was his last stop on the way to the front door. I also heard he was known for making great hors d’oeuvres but “couldn’t judge food.” In our business that meant he’d only prepare enough for forty people when you told him you had seventy-five.  

Enter a potential client, anxious to book.  He paid a hefty sum for his one hundred person cocktail party, and we told him it would go off without a hitch.    When the chef brought the food up to the kitchen, Vickie and I were thrilled.  Everything looked scrumptious.  We waited for more to come up, only to learn that was it. We were in trouble. I don’t think he made enough to feed six hungry men.  

The waiters passed the hors d’oeuvres.  We didn’t dare lay everything out buffet style, because even Stevie Wonder could see the food would never stretch. 

Back in the kitchen, the trays of hors d'oeuvres were quickly dwindling. We’d be out of food in no time, and the party was just getting started.  The chef had disappeared. We huddled with the runners and waiters, thinking. Worrying.  Panicking.

Then Vicky had an idea, and it wasn't good.  

As the discarded little plates of picked over hors d'oeuvres came back to the kitchen, she suggested we harvest the uneaten, intact pieces, and re-serve them.   Judging by the blank stares around the room, I'd say we all considered it.  But when she showed us how to reconstruct half eaten hors d'oeuvres, demonstrating how to smoosh and remold them, only to re-serve the slobbery mess to hungry guests.  Like you, we gagged.  That’s when I told Vicky I had a migraine and needed to leave.

The next day I learned there were no complaints, and towards the end of the evening the chef returned with "alternative" snacks.  Tidbits of food, nicely decorated but resembling leftovers from the hotel lobby cafe, were passed around to the uninformed victims guests. We never mentioned that night again, until now.

Cutlery Capers

Food wasn’t our only problem. While planning a luncheon for two-hundred fifty, records showed we were short fifty silverware settings. When we learned the hotel had tons of silverware locked up in “inventory control,” we requested more than enough to get us through the event, and breathed a sigh of relief. Shocked when the inventory folks turned us down, we asked, “Why?” Because our luncheon was at the end of the month.  If we pulled out the silverware, it would be charged as an expense. An expense we were not allowed to post until the first of the next month - two days after the banquet.  

Once again, I felt the burn of familiar hot water.

Ricky, our street smart banquet helper, offered to go up to the Bronx to steal buy silverware for us, through his “connections.”  This was of course a foolish proposition. Why would Vicky and I do something so unscrupulous?  We were not that desperate. Besides, Ricky was quoting sky-high prices – we couldn’t afford it.   

On the day of the banquet, tensions were high, until the waiters assured us they’d solved the silverware problem. I watched them laughing and running to and from the back elevators, and then back to setting up the banquet room. Something fishy was going on, but so what?  Every table was fully set, with time to spare before the guests arrived.

Relieved and happy, I went down to the lobby cafe to take a break before my luncheon started. When I stepped across the threshold I could feel chaos in the air. I saw angry customers, fuming waiters, busboys racing around in circles, and a lot of untouched plates of food, just sitting in front of customers. And then I got it.  Our banquet waiters stole silverware from the cafe to cover our luncheon! With a bit of aiding and abetting by the café dishwasher, silverware was run up to our banquet room, as needed.  I slinked out and went back upstairs to cover my event, which was going quite swimmingly. That leads me to our next disaster.

Drain 'n Serve

The indoor pool was our best feature, so we looked forward to greeting a group of one hundred high school kids from Ohio who were coming in for a pool party. They’d only be at the hotel for one night, and the pool party was the highlight of their stay.  

A few days before the kids arrived, Vickie and I headed to the pool area to map out the event.  I kept staring at the water, which seemed to be awfully shallow, from end to end. Vickie brushed off my concerns. But when we came back two days later, the water was totally gone!  In a panic, we interrogated the pool manager, who explained it had been drained for routine maintenance. WTF? 

In spite of all hell breaking loose, there was no way he could refill it, which would have taken a few days anyway.  The group would be arriving that night.  We alerted the hotel brass, who decided to give the school a discount on their sleeping rooms. But the kids would have a swim-less evening. Bummer.  

When the students showed up for poolside fun, Vickie and I kept low profiles. We let the brass take the heat.  Later, I peeked into the pool area and saw unhappy teenagers, siting at poolside tables in their bathing suits, eating off of a sparse but beautiful buffet. SAD.

Last Course

After an exasperating year, with Silverware Gate, Alternative Snacks and The Pool Party from Hell behind me, I found another job. I also learned a lot. I am now unflappable.  I can pull off an event in the middle of a war zone, if necessary.  And I’ve used those skills to my advantage, for many, many years.

I Worked for a Witch

Don’t judge. Many of my favorite bosses were women.  Some were mentors. Role models. Pioneers. But once upon a time I worked for a witch. She was a bully. A train wreck.   A trickster.  A predator.  A woman with no redeeming qualities. 

When she was in the office, the mood was ominous.   

When she wasn't around, she reared her ugly head on our smartphones, in the form of scathing emails.  No road trip, sickbed, vacation, family emergency, or act of God could stop her.  Like a witch, she hovered overhead on her broomstick, ready to swoop down and attack. She was a killer, sapping energy, shooting down ideas, and badmouthing the best of us. 

Full of jealousy and self-loathing, she also lacked poise, had  few no smarts, and was shameless. In her merciless campaign to be top dog, she ruined careers, schemed to get people fired, and battled every perceived threat to her ultimate goal.  

Powerful men, giants sky-high on the executive food chain, feared her. Unqualified for most jobs but wicked as Satan, she rose up the corporate ladder, because only a fool or an exorcist would dare to cross her.  

I watched her leave trails of dead bodies behind as she whooshed through the hallways wreaking havoc, without looking back. Those of us who were spared shivered in fear, hoping not to be her next prey.  

Lacking the skills of an exorcist, I vowed to do the next best thing, if she ever came after me. I’d put up my skinny dukes and fight like hell.

But I was caught off guard. 

She cornered me behind closed doors and claimed I’d been asleep at the wheel for a year. Worse, she'd penned a ruthless evaluation, full of fake accusations, claiming I was a waste.  And the witch read every word of it to me. Out. Loud.   

The hatred in her eyes was so unnerving even God would shudder.  When I opened my mouth to defend myself, my voice was faint.  I was visibly shaken, and that's when she went in for the kill. Pushing all of my buttons and stripping me of my dignity, she did not stop until I nearly collapsed. Then she dismissed me.

I staggered up and down the hallways, trying to pull myself together. 
Although I hoped no one noticed me, I saw the concerned faces of a few colleagues, and I almost lost it. I made it to the elevator. Then, dazed and shaken, I stumbled out onto the street and cried like a baby.

She got me.   I was on the ropes.  But not for long.

Why me? Unlike others she’d killed off, I posed no threat – I worked for her, and was no obstacle to her bloody fight to the top.  

Wait a minute.  Was this racial?

I’d never played the race card. Not when a brazen boss called me a nigger.  Or when my supervisor said, “They told me not to hire a black girl.” Not even when I overheard my manager refer to black people as “jigaboos.” I held my head high and let it go.   

But this wicked woman was threatening my livelihood.  No. Freaking. Way.

I built my case.

I was the only African-American on her award-winning team.  Is that why was I the only one whose job was on the line, after a successful year?  And why did she once offer me a well-deserved promotion and then deny it, until HR held a gun to her head? I went back over the years and found more incriminating details to bolster my claim.  

I called lawyers.  I contacted the EEOC.  My allegations led to an investigation.  

Investigators made frequent visits to our corporate headquarters, collecting evidence from others as well as from me and the witch. In a shameless attempt to push her "some of my best friends are black" agenda, she was seen parading an unknown black woman around the office. That’s when I knew the witch was running scared.

She wasn’t as badass as she thought.

It ended well for me.  I retained my dignity and good standing in the company. People of all colors, creeds and professions – friends, family, coworkers, and passersby who got an earful, supported me.

Legally, she could not retaliate.  I kept my job.

I slayed a witch.  

She had to eat so much crow I heard her choking on it.

I won.