Understandably Buoyant

It’s been an odd weekend.

Saturday I made a homemade tortellini with chicken, mortadella, and a bunch of cheeses (quiet, you), peas and tomatoes.  The tortellini took two tries – I mean how hard is it to mix flour and eggs into a dough – and I’ve got plenty of chicken filling for stuffed shells later in the week.

On my way out of the market, I saw a help wanted sign looking for a wine assistant.  I love wine.  Honeymooned in the Sonama and Napa Valleys, absolutely adore the wines of the Blue Ridge and Shenandoah Valleys in Virginia, and I always try to have a bottle on hand when I cook something special.  I served a Lindeman’s Cab (Bin 45) with our belated anniversary dinner.

My weakness is Port, specifically Grahams, but I know enough about wines to get around.

See, I worked in this market eleven years ago as a cashier, and when I got my office job, I swore I’d never go back to retail.  The kicker I’ve discovered is that practically any job where you deal with people is retail, because you’re either selling yourself or the company you work for.  What I must have hated was the people, which is going to be the case regardless of where I work.

About a month back, I ran into a manager I’d worked with years ago.  She’s now the Manager for all of the stores and she had joked that I must really want to work there again.  They’ve done some fabulous renovations, and I had to admit that working in such an upscale place – even if it is a market  – would be nice.
I put on some nice clothes, added make up and my friendliest smile, and asked for Sara in the Bakery, like the sign said. The application took longer to fill out than the interview, but I know I left her with a great impression.   The managers there don’t change much, and I mean in regards to attitude. They’re not an overly outgoing bunch, but they know the business of retail. Please the client, burn them in effigy later.

I’m crossing my fingers on this.  While I’m enjoying not working, I sort of miss the purpose of getting up for work.

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