Fall is a busy time in our office as we plan for the new year and try to wrap up the projects that should have been done last year. One of the projects that we just completed was a long-delayed revision to our employee manual, written with the knowledge that the employees will never read it and our office manager will ignore it.
Our office manager has two children in the Broward County public school system, and at this time of year each of them is trying to sell something to raise money for initiatives that are not in the budget at their particular school. Because this is 2009 and because we live in Broward County, our office manage would not dream of letting her kids go door to door selling things that nobody wants in the first place, so she comes to the office with her arms filled with catalogues. Even though there is a section in our Employee Manual that prohibits selling stuff at work, the office manager ignores it.
The problem is that she knows that we know that she is the only one in the office who actually does any work. In addition, since no one else is able to fix the copier or load the electric staplers, it goes without saying that we will buy stuff that we don’t need and don’t want just to keep her productive.
This year her daughter’s middle school was selling cookie dough and candles while her son’s elementary school was pushing Christmas figurines and candy. Because her two children have intense sibling rivalry there is an unspoken agreement that we must each purchase something from each child.
I was thumbing glumly through the catalogues while she peered over my shoulder. The first catalogue contained china replicas of dancing snowmen and sad-eyed kittens with halos. “These make excellent Christmas gifts,” said the office manager as I wondered if I disliked anyone enough to give them a Scotty dog wearing a Santa hat.
I looked at the cookie catalogue next. “Cookies make good gifts,” I murmured. “Umm, those are not cookies, it is cookie dough,” she said. I was immediately outraged. “Do you mean,” I said, consulting the catalogue, “that after paying $27.50 for cookies I have to bake them myself?” The office manager regarded me coldly and folded her arms.
I switched catalogues. “Maybe a candle?” she said. “Scented candles are lovely,” she continued, reading aloud from a script. “They are certain to impart a gracious atmosphere to your home, and they make excellent gifts for your Secret Santa at work!”
“Gift exchanges are prohibited in the new employee manual,” I said.
In the end I ordered some cookie dough and a candle from her daughter and some fudge and a set of caroling kittens from her son, total: just under $100. As I was getting my checkbook, she cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she said, “we only accept cashier’s checks.”
“You’re joking,” I said. “Do you really expect me to wait at the bank for a cashier’s check for a load of cheap Christmas trash that I don’t want anyway?” She was clearly annoyed now. “It’s for a good cause,” she said, “and they make excellent Christmas gifts. Besides,” she said darkly, “the copier is jammed again.”
I threw in the towel, but as I was driving to the bank, muttering, it occurred to me that maybe this year we should have a Secret Santa gift exchange after all. I hope our office manager likes candles and cookie dough. I wonder if she’ll be surprised.