Or, great tales of getting canned, anyway. Show regulars Ophira Eisenberg, Colette Hawley and I were all featured in an article from yesterday’s New York Post by fellow Chick Mandy Stadtmiller called, “You’re Fired! ‘It’s Not You, It’s Post-9/11 Us’ and Other True Tales of Getting Canned.”
Here are the excerpts:
Booty call
“I worked at Kinko’s briefly during college. I took the graveyard shift – 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. – which was typically really dead. My co-worker and I would get so bored with nothing to do and no one to call, so we started doing the obvious: photocopying anything interesting we could find. We started with office supplies, moved up to food and candy, but soon started photocopying our hands and feet, which then of course led to other body parts including our bare asses. I don’t know why looking at a photocopy of a bare ass is so funny – but we found this absolutely hilarious and couldn’t control ourselves. We probably made 40 or so different photocopies of our asses each. Before the shift was over, we threw everything away, stuffing our racy photocopies near the bottom underneath other garbage. I came into work the next night and was asked to see the manager. He was holding 10 or so photocopies of my ass and asked me if I knew who these belonged to. I told him the ass belonged to me, and I was fired on the spot. The manager told me that ‘at Kinko’s we have morals.’ Then he gave me the photocopies to take with me and ushered me out the door.”
- Ophira Eisenberg, 33, Manhattan
Location, location, location
“Twenty years ago, I was working at a hair salon as a receptionist. We had some lame holiday party and one of the hairdressers hit on me, and I ended up sleeping with him. I had no idea the lady owner and he were secretly a couple until the next day when I went into the salon for work, and she took me in the waxing room and fired me. She said they were ‘overstaffed’ and ‘didn’t have room for me,’ as if it were this big Wall Street numbers thing. Meanwhile, the whole time, I’m sitting there on the waxing table while she’s cramped in the corner standing next to me. Like a total loser, I put my head down and started crying as if I had been asked to step aside as the president of IBM. I will never forget the smell of body hair, hot wax and disinfectant as the tears streamed down my cheeks. It was tough to get fired, and it’s hard to admit I slept with a hairdresser – but nothing was as humiliating as it all going down in that tiny waxing room.”
- Colette Hawley, 44, Manhattan
IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU
“I got fired from a temp job once. It was a long-term assignment, the kind without a real end date at a bank that sounds like Horan Hanley. I was working in purchasing or some boring department like that just checking other people’s math all day. I didn’t mind the job – it was easy enough – but apparently the women running the department thought I was too boisterous to be a number cruncher. They said, ‘It’s not that we don’t like you, it’s just that you’re very creative and we think maybe you’re in the wrong department. Oh, and we don’t like you.’”
- Carolyn Castiglia, 30, Manhattan