Chipotle

I went to Chipotle today for lunch. Around lunchtime, the one that I frequent generally has a line that practically goes out the door, and today was no exception. I passed the time, talking to my friend Karen about her vacation, some work gossip, and drug cocktails that would make a reasonable substitute for Ambien (answer: two Benadryl, a glass of wine and a Xanax). By the time we got up to the counter, I had settled on what I was going to eat, and waited for the man ahead of me to give his order.

The man in front of me, however, was not a simple order. It was clear that he had never, ever been anywhere near a Chipotle in his life. He seemed like he had never even heard of Chipotle, and that this whole concept of customized fast-food was utterly foreign to him. He didn’t understand the food, the menu, how to order, or what he would get when he did order. He also looked like a cross between James Woods at the end of Citizen Cohn and Reverend Henry Kane from Poltergeist III. Just click on the links if you don’t know who they are. Reverend Kane is so scary!

Anyway, this guy had some sort of voucher for the food, and he was clearly trying to stay in accordance with that. He asked many, many questions. “What can I get? What is that? How do I order it? How does that work? Can I have tacos? Can I have a burrito? Can I have meat on it? What else does it come with? Do I tell you?” You get the gist. Meanwhile, everyone else in the line, which was now curled around the restaurant in an almost-complete circle, was freaking out, wondering what in the hell was taking so long. Seriously, if a Red Cross helicopter had dropped off a package of rations into that line of people, there probably would have been a riot. We are talking some hungry corporate-types.

Now here’s the beautiful part: those Chipotle folks who were on the counter line, and there were five of them, treated this guy like he was the only customer in the place. With infinite patience, they explained to the man that he could get whatever he liked. If he wanted tacos, he could get those. Burrito? He could get that. They showed him the difference between the size of the burrito and the tacos. They walked him through the process, and showed him how he could get whatever he wanted on his food. They explained the different meats. The different salsas. They offered him chips. There was no smirking, no eye rolling, no condescension, no irritation, no impatience, whatsoever. Every single person down the line treated this guy like gold - not just one employee, not just the manager – everyone. And when it was my turn, the first guy on the line gave me an extra big smile, like I was the only customer in the place, too.

Over the years, I have become numb to how I, as a customer, am treated. I’m used to cashiers not greeting me and not saying “thank you,” when they hand me my receipt. I am used to the heavy sighs when I ask someone to tell me where something is. I’m used to waiting for teenagers to finish their text message before they can take my order. I don’t even think about it anymore. And I am used to people in general not waiting their turn, being rude and impatient, and trying to hit me with their car because I have the audacity to cross the street at the crosswalk at the same time that they want to get somewhere. It seems like rudeness and nonchalance is sort of becoming our way of life. But when I have an experience like the one I had at Chipotle today, it reminds me that we’re just better than that. Sure, people may have had to wait two or three extra minutes for their delicious burrito, but they waited so that someone could be treated like he was valued, respected, and appreciated – not just as a customer, but as a human being.

So, here’s a little fact about customer service: a dissatisfied customer will tell anywhere from 8 to 20 people about his or her bad experience, while a satisfied customer is likely to tell just two or three. I think what happened today at Chipotle, which goes way beyond simple customer service, deserves as many listeners as it can possibly get. I am telling you right now – not only does Chipotle have delicious food, but it demonstrates that it values the customer in a way that we can all get behind. So, go eat a burrito; perhaps you’ll see pure decency in action.

The First Year of Law School

When I tell people I’m in law school, quite often, they will say to me, “I thought of going to law school, too,” as if, somehow, thinking about it is exactly the same as going. I have to tell you right now, it’s not. The first year is especially rough, and I mean rough in a way that is not normal to humans. So, just in case you are getting any ideas about actually going to law school, I’d like to provide you the complete list of “What the First Year of Law School Is Like.”

The first year of law school is like finding a swinging door that is being held open by a doorstop, and pulling out the doorstop so the door smacks you in the face. But over and over again.

It’s like gathering every person in your life who’s ever told you that you suck into one room, and asking them to provide you feedback.

It is like every dream that you have had where you show up on test day, having completely forgotten to study for the test.

It is also like standing in line at the DMV for 14 weeks in a row, but the eye test in the end is written in invisible ink. In Cyrillic.

The first year of law school is that thing that makes you wish you had just been happy with that barista job at Starbucks. If you’ve never had a barista job at Starbucks, it makes you seriously envy those who do.

It is like going to a party that you thought was going to be really fun, but as it turns out, the only thing you had to wear is a dress that totally makes you look fat, every person you’ve ever hated in your life is there, and the only refreshment that’s set out is a bowl of mustard.

It is like someone asking you if they can pet your adorable new puppy, and then punching it directly in the face.

Often, it’s like creating an exact scale model of Monticello, complete with tiny, embroidered upholstery and tiny cloves wearing overalls to represent all the slaves, spending three solid nights practically deforming your arm so that you could create an exact replica of the fresco on the ceiling of the tiny-but-exactly-to-scale grand room, and having your third grade teacher look at it dismissively, fart, and toss it in the trashcan.

It is like running a marathon….and then being told that they forgot to start the clock, so you need to run it again. But this time they’re going to release thirty hungry saber-toothed tigers.

It is like sending a letter to your friends, your family, and all of the things you enjoy, that says, “For the next year, you will be living with a hollow-eyed, paranoid, stressed and often irrational stranger. The real me will see you in a year. Maybe.”

It’s like being forced to undergo repeated cavity search by burly, mustachioed police officers with halitosis, and at the end, being given a bill for $20,000.

It is like going up to every person you’ve ever met in your life, and asking them, “Do you like me?” and having them respond, “That depends.”

It is like driving your 1990 Ford Festiva with bald tires and nonexistent brake pads down a road that is half oil slick, half ice storm, with fogged up windows and a baby throwing up in the back seat.

And, after all of that, you will find yourself, two years later, reminiscing about the good old days when you were a 1L. So I guess it was totally fun.

GOODLIFE

Forgive my crassness, but seriously, I get annoyed with pretentious motherfuckers. You probably get annoyed, too. Everyone does, because they represent that thing in us that can’t just quietly enjoy the awesomeness in our lives – we have to make sure to rub it in everyone else’s face.

Now don’t get me wrong – I think we all have the urge. We got a new car, or a new job, or someone told us that we were stellar in some way or other, and we want to share it with the world like this, “Ha HA, world, you never thought I would be anything, but here I am, driving a fancy car that I only ever dreamed of having and LOOK AT ME, my hair is flying IN THE WIND! That’s right! The wind!” That’s what we want to say. But because we have reason and restraint, instead we say, “Got a new car. Yay!” And that’s what keeps our society moving. Not forcing people into your (figurative) ample bosom and forcing them to (figuratively) motorboat it, all the while, yelling, “YOU LOVE MY TITS!” Because that is gross.

This whole idea occurred to me long ago, when I saw on Facebook some status or other that said, “When you see a middle-aged man driving a Chrysler Sebring convertible with a vanity plate that says, ‘GOODLIFE’ you know that person’s screwed,” or something like that. I read that and thought to myself that only a pretentious motherfucker would look at someone driving a car that costs between $22,000 and $36,000, and say, “Thank God I’m too good for that.” That only a pretentious motherfucker would look at someone else’s representation of a really good life, and say, “You suck, loser.”

Perhaps it all just struck me a little too personally, because my father bought a Chrysler Sebring convertible, which he thought was an adorable, sporty car to cruise around town as a legally blind retiree with a concealed gun (that’s a different story), and then he promptly lost most of the function of his legs, and wasn’t really ever able to drive it. To my dad, the good life would be driving at all; he would love to have the freedom to go, move, and be independent, but he doesn’t. That Sebring convertible represented a part of him that he’ll never have back (but don’t worry, he still carries the gun). So, when I think of GOODLIFE, I think about more than material stuff.

I don’t think that pretentious motherfuckers think that way. I think they’re so caught up in their belief that the entire world is looking at them, and judging them by how much they spent on their bag, how many pairs of shoes are in their closet, who designed their living room, what kind of watch they wear, where they vacationed, how disdainful they are of flying anything less than first class, and how nothing, really, is ever good enough for them. But we all see through you. We know that you’re just a person who always felt too shabby, not good enough, not exceptional enough, and maybe, somewhere deep down inside, you still do. But I’m here today to give you hope.

Here’s the deal, pretentious motherfuckers: nobody is really looking at you. We’re all just a little too busy looking at ourselves (have you SEEN our Facebook statuses? You’re not even mentioned!) to worry about what’s going on with you. So, next time you want to comment on how extraordinarily you are living, think a moment about Madonna, who said, “We are living in a material world…and I am a material girl,” and then think about how she is such a mess that she has to have a fake British accent just to get through the day. And then think about Mother Teresa, who was, in her day, widely regarded as one of the least pretentious motherfuckers who ever roamed the planet. She said:

People are often unreasonable and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.
If you are honest, people may cheat you. Be honest anyway.
If you find happiness, people may be jealous. Be happy anyway.
The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway.

Cubicle Courtesy

According to CareerBuilder, a company that does something (not sure what) and has an excellent Superbowl commercial, there are certain rules that us cubicle rats should follow. They call them Ten Commandments for cubicle dwellers, and they are:

1. Focus and refocus
2. Make it comfortable
3. Stay off speakerphone
4. Go elsewhere for meetings
5. Be careful of what you say
6. Avoid informal gatherings
7. Be mindful of volume
8. Use your indoor voice
9. Befriend your neighbors
10. Use your manners

Well, with all deference to CareerBuilder, I think they left a few out.

11. Do not bring egg salad, or any variant of hard-boiled eggs to work. There is no circumstance under which I want to smell boiled eggs all day. Furthermore, egg salad is gross. Get some freaking fiber in your diet.
12. Do not clip your fingernails at work. I don’t shave my legs at my desk, so I’m asking for a little from you in return. No one wants to hear the snip, snip, ship of your little fingernails biting the dust.
13. Do not bring your weird collections to work. Beanie babies, glass figurines, vintage beer signs….let it go. I understand you want to make your desk feel homey, but it appears that your home is full of crap. Take this opportunity to make work the one place where your hoarding tendencies can take a rest.
14. Your desk is not a food kitchen. I totally understand that you get occasional snack cravings. Totally understandable. But there is no need for you to keep an entire pantry in your desk drawers. I have a name for your desk: the roach motel. Now just take your Lipton cup-o-soup and assorted flavors of Pop Tarts back home.
15. If you leave your desk, take your cell phone with you. While I like “My Prerogative” just as much as the next person, making it your ringtone means that I have to hear it for an hour straight while your creepy, unemployed boyfriend checks in on you for the hundredth time today. That’s starting to wear on my nerves. There are only so many times that I can do the cabbage patch while sitting in my desk chair.
16. Likewise, just turn the sound on your computer off. I think it’s nice that so many people are emailing and instant messaging you. I am thrilled for your popularity. But the “ping! Ping! Ping!” every time someone tells you something is giving me the twitches.
17. No scripture, please. Please feel free to needlepoint John 3:16 onto every pillow in your home, but it is just inappropriate to post that stuff at work. Keep a bible in your purse. Send private emails to your friends about how great the psalms are. But respect the fact that the atheist next to you is not moved by your faith, and thinks you’re pushy as hell. And don’t give me this, “It’s a private saying for my own benefit.” No, it’s not. It’s a display of your particular religious ideology, which is as inappropriate for the workplace as a demonstration of our sexual ideology, political ideology or social ideology (my social ideology: Skittles for everyone!)
18. If you happen to be kind of slutty, a casual drug user, in a rotten marriage or if your children are all delinquents, please do not work through these issues from your cubicle. I cannot take overhearing your discussion with the clinic about your STDs, I don’t want to hear your calls to the divorce lawyer, or to your children’s school about how you do not know why the class iguana went missing and turned up, dead, in Billy’s backpack. Neither I, nor anyone else, want to hear about how wasted you got over the weekend. That shit is gross.
19. Do not be weird. Trekkie? Part-time dominatrix? Got some bizarre skin disease? Do you LARP? Have very vivid fantasies about killing your boss? Are you heavily medicated? Obsessed with steam engines? Stalking (part-time) Cameron Diaz? Do not share this information! Don’t do it! Work is ever so much better when we all just pretend that we’re normal.