My Love Affair with Cookie Tins

My love affair with cookies and more importantly, cookie tins began many holiday seasons ago. My mother always had a stash of Royal Dansk Cookies in the cellar and you may laugh at me for this, but every time I see those tins in the stores, I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. The cookies were there, not because my parents loved to serve us store bought concoctions, but because if we were ever invited to someone’s house, we always had something to bring to them. It’s a lesson that was deeply instilled in me and one I value today. The first time I go to someone’s home, I never arrive empty handed. (And if someone comes to mine for the first time empty handed, they move down a notch, but that’s another blog.)

Not only were the butter cookies quite yummy, but their tins were valued just as much as the sweets they held inside. We were and continue to be, a family of cookie bakers. My grandmother was always in the kitchen at Christmas time. Flour decorated the counters like a dusting of new fallen snow and her cookies were always stored in festive tins from gifts that made their way into our home. Small, large, oblong – no matter the shape, every time we were at a gathering and someone was going to throw away a tin, it was quickly snatched and given a new home.

To this day, my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Lil – has a stash of empties in her house. When she baked regularly, she always asked me to save the tins for her and now I find that each holiday season, I go on the hunt for ones that will not only store my Christmas cookies, but make the perfect holiday present. When food gifts make their way to our department, I stash any empty tins in my office as I think of what kind of cookies I should make to keep them company. 

Recently, I was in Target and the holiday decorations and storage options were almost too much for me. I wanted to buy them all and then remembered that the party invites have been few and far between this year. If I bought all the tins and filled them with cookies, where would I bring them? Except, I do buy a few for the sheer fact that it makes me turn my kitchen into a floured wonderland, and that brings me back to when I was a child baking with my grandmother. I start the recipe and I can feel her beside me, I know my mother would compliment my latest batch even though they are slightly on the done side, I hear my aunt telling me to save her the tins, and all three of them make me feel warm and loved. Then, once I’m done, I take a look around at the volume of sweets I've baked and hope against hope that someone will invite me to a party.

Customer Service Eruption

Maybe it was my last blog post that caused a lack of customer service explosion on my part, or perhaps it was simply the fact that I had reached my breaking point on people messing with not only my money, but my time. This morning, I diligently brought my car back to the dealer to finish round two of my major car repair. Arriving, as is my usual practice, right on time for my appointment, everything seemed as if it were going well. I settled into the service area with my work laptop when 90 minutes later, the service man came up to me.

“Forgive me,” he said trying to hide the bad news he was about to deliver with a chuckle. “But we ordered one part and it looks like you need a second.”

Dumbfounded, I sat there, peering over the top of my glasses at him, not yet feeling the rush of anger that would soon explode like an erupting volcano.

“We don’t have it here so if you can bring the car back tomorrow –“ he said before I sliced his sentence in two.

“Get that part now.  I’m here, you had all day Saturday to figure out what you needed.”

He then, unsuccessfully, tried to explain why the dealer warehouse would not deliver today to just one location. Then after telling me to return on Saturday, he came back and said that deliveries are not made on the weekend. The poor bastard could not shield himself from the onslaught of profanity and frustration that swept from my lips like a raging tsunami against the shore.

Perhaps it was the work week of IT mishaps and server crashes catching up to me, or the fact that my “service adviser” told me last week that driving my reliable auto would be a safety issue if driven much longer that fed the fire in me. Maybe it was a combination of every wronged customer service experience I had encountered up to this morning, but it was about time that my time (and money) be treated respectfully. If they weren’t going to offer it, then my outrage was demanding it. 

So, fifteen minutes later, underneath a grey and threatening Southern California sky, I walked into their rental car reception area only to be told by the girl behind the counter that for $12.99 more a day I could upgrade the rental. The look on my face shut her up before she uttered one more word. With my laptop beside me, I drove off in a GMC pick-up truck – the very first time I’ve ever been behind the wheel of a car bigger than a compact, but the first time a car has been covered by a dealer for the duration of the weekend. 

In all honesty, yes, I could have taken the car and returned for a third time on Monday, however, in some small way, my rage did what I have wanted to do so many times in the past: grab attention and make it known that a “customer service” person needs to do exactly what the title of their job tells the public what they should do. I deserve to be treated courteously, and if you tout on your website that you’ll get your customers in and out quickly with the best service, then I am here to make sure that I, your customer gets exactly what you advertise. And now, I'm going to settle into this mini pick up truck and attempt to feel butch for an entire weekend. Maybe by then, the volcano will go back to sleep.

Customer Service is Six Feet Under

Customer service is officially dead and buried. Perhaps I have such high standards because I began my career tethered to a telephone and the skills of follow up and courteousness were ingrained in me as if I were a cattle branded with its rancher’s mark.  For years, whether it was for a long distance phone company or an up and coming software firm, I was never allowed to let any customer wait for an answer. Even today, working in the entertainment industry, I'd like to think people outside of my expertise contact me because they realize the level of my customer service skills.

Just this past weekend, after spending almost 6 hours waiting for my car to be serviced, it was finally ready, but, as the service man told me. “We don’t have a part we need, so you’ll need to come back.” Since I made my appointment a week ago, didn’t they know the parts they would need? Dejected and tired, I walked up to pay my large bill and present my coupon for $50 off to the cashier.

“I don’t do coupons,” she said to me without a hint of apology. “You’ll have to go back to the service adviser to have him give you a new bill.”

Seriously “customer service woman”? Seriously? I have to do that?

And the good times kept rolling during my call to make a dermatologist appointment. After leaving a message because the office “was away from the desk,” I had to call again later that afternoon. Not once did they mention that they had heard my message. And, a day later, they did call – only to inform me that the office would be closed on my appointment day. Seriously, Dermatologist office? Seriously? You didn’t see your office was closed when I booked my appointment?

I hesitate to use the phrase, “back in the day,” but more and more, I’m finding that I continually look back to the past and wonder when it all changed. Just today, I called the Honda dealer to see if the part they ordered had arrived on time. I knew I would have to call them to check, but I remained hopeful that someone would follow through and take the initiative to call me. 

"Can I call you back," the man said to me.

 Can you or will you?

To combat it all, I continue to harken back to my training and give people what I think they deserve. And my reward? I get calls outside of my expertise because everyone knows that I will follow through and get them an answer, no matter if it can help them solve their problem or not. Though at times I felt brainwashed by the constant hammering of monitoring in my youth, I wish I could go back to those days and thank those task masters for the one skill that I am most proud to possess.

Men, Boys and the Bitches In Between

Is there a marked difference between boys from L.A. and those from other states? Before I continue, I need to clarify that I continually flip flop in calling  men boys. For one, they never really grow up and two, they seem to always be chasing a real honest-to-goodness one that it’s just easier to lump them all together under the boy topic. Occasionally, I meet a man but sooner or later he reverts back to his adolescence, so to save time – boys it is.

If there were any doubt how different boys can be, then you had to only spend a few hours at one of the three birthday parties I attended in Palm Springs this past weekend. Surrounded by countless gorgeous Atlanta boys at every turn, I was happier than Scarlett O’Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. Beyond their good looks, what amazed me the most was that no one possessed an ounce of the attitude I find in West Hollywood and L.A. in general. For a second there, I thought I’d driven too far down the 10 freeway and landed in some alternate universe.

For years, I used to say the difference between L.A. and San Francisco boys could be summed up thus: If I wore a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt out, the Bay Area boy would ask, “When did you go to Disneyland?” while his Southland counterpart would probe, “how long have you worked for Disney?” And now, I’m certain that the Atlanta boy would not even care but simply return the hello you throw his way.

Not only did the hosts welcome the two friends I invited along with me, but every guest we met was nicer than the next. From lipstick lesbians who surprised even my keen eye to boys who have been together for years – everyone I spoke to was welcoming and unassuming. And best of all – every boy was secure in his relationship.

“Don’t you mind that you always meet the married ones,” my friend asked me.

I didn’t even have to think before I answered in the negative. The single ones never pay me any mind and after I put it out there that I am indeed open and ready to know them more – they disappear. For years, this bothered me and only recently have I become secure in not caring simply because if a boy is secure in sticking around then I know he’s worth more than just a flash of my smile. I take the cards in front of me and play my best hand.

As with any gathering that results in an overflowing smorgasbord of boys, I was in my flirting element. Never at any point did any boy’s partner come up to me and threaten to beat me, cut me, punch me out or make it perfectly clear to steer away from his other half. Everyone I met was secure in their relationship and that is something I very rarely experience in L.A.

Once, at a restaurant’s bar, my friend and I were making eye contact with an incredibly breathtaking man.  Neither of us could tell his nationality and I took it upon myself to walk over and simply ask him his origins. I flashed my smile, said hello and presented my question only to hear a bitchy tone reverberate in my ear that I can still hear to this very day.

“His boyfriend is right here.”

“Yes, I see you,” I said without turning around to that nasty queen who was just one of a long line of bitter boys who spit their venom at me. “But your location wasn’t my question.”

I could write for hours on the boys who threatened to get me fired or throw a drink in my face for simply being me. The simple fact is that I know where I fall on the food chain of gay boys and I use the assets that work to my benefit. I continue to spend a lot of money on my dental work and am never shy about using it to say hello. And the fact that I have a full head of curly hair doesn’t hurt either.

Perhaps it was the Southern gentility that made every boy such a refreshing delight to meet. Or maybe, it was that I’ve become better attuned to choosing friends who are as secure as I have become over the years. At any rate – it’s good to know that there exists a class of man who doesn't just exist in the pages of a book. And it's nice to realize that like Scarlett - there is a belle deep down in that flirtatious facade of mine that will love only one man when he makes his presence known.

Moving to the Slums

Today, I vacate my plush NBC office and move to what we are lovingly referring to as – “The Universal Lot Slums.” The new offices are a hop, skip and a jump from our current location, but as in any neighborhood, the difference between here and there is substantial. This is the third office move in three years at the network and over the years, since I was 24, I have moved too many times to enjoy the sight of boxes and packing materials.

To me, moving when I was so young was a new beginning – an exciting chapter of my life where the ending was unknown. I never really knew what my relatives thought about me leaving for a state 3000 miles away, but as is typical of me, I never gave it much thought. What others think of me is none of my business. It may bother me for a bit, but you either love me or in the case of some ex-friends, really hate me. Either way – I have always stayed true to myself. I’ve looked at my past as events that have shaped and molded me to the person I am today and I wouldn’t be where I am if I had taken another road. A decision in life, no matter how big or small affects everything.

It was New Year’s Eve, 1989 into 1990 when I called my mother from my hotel and told her that I loved California so much that I could live here. I had stepped off the plane in San Diego that December to spring time temperatures and instantly knew that I never wanted to shiver in below zero temperatures ever again. My friend Bruce and I nixed going to Los Angeles and opted for San Francisco instead and for years, that one decision has filled me questions. If we had come to Hollywood and I’d chosen Southern California as my destination, who would I be today? Who would be my friends? Would I be in a relationship? Would I be a porn star? (My secret is out – I’ve always been fascinated by the what if of that scenario.)

My mom laughed uncomfortably at my news, but she knew deep down that what I said would come true. Determination to follow my own path is something I’ve never lacked. These days, major moves are a thing of the past for me. Even when I buy my place in Palm Springs – I plan on not packing up from my current residence. I’ll simply live in the desert and reside in Los Angeles during the week. There won’t be any boxes to pack or movers to hire. After all these moves – I finally know what my destination was to be all along. The ride has taken me on quite a circuitous and complicated route and patience, which I do not possess, is needed to finish the journey. There is no doubt that more moves on this lot are in my future, but these are "industry slums," and at least, unlike a friend of mine who lives in Oakland, I won’t have to worry about walking around after dark.

Where Has All the Social Gone?

I’ve long held to the belief that social media has signaled the end of being social. It’s never more obvious to me than when I go out to what used to be the main places to meet people: bars, restaurants and the neighborhood coffee shop. Back in the day – a phrase I find myself saying repeatedly, there was no other choice but to socialize with the outside world and make a concerted effort to meet another person. Today, I’m sorry to report, that the person who knows how to meet someone without the help of their smart phone, laptop or iPad is as rare as finding a pink panda in the wild.

Case in point, this past weekend, I found myself once again in Palm Springs, which has, over the last few years, become my favorite place of escape from the madness of Los Angeles. There, amongst the palm trees, the cooling waters of the pool and the refreshing endless cocktails – I use what has always, until late, never failed me – my smile and what is left of my outgoing personality. It’s become a fun game of sorts to see how fast someone will scatter when met with a simple greeting and a flash of the results of great dental work and flossing hygiene. Years ago I was quite adapt at conversation and picking up a stray here and there, and yes, on occasion, everywhere. But today, take a look around and you’ll see what seems like the entire establishment on their social media device of choice even while hordes of people surround them.

Granted, the Internet has given those painfully shy and socially challenged people an outlet, but I can’t somewhere feel that it’s given them a crutch that will always need to be at the ready. It was amusing when I gave my business card to the good looking age appropriate man at the bar this past weekend. He looked at it as if it were a foreign object that needed to be disinfected. In his defense, I suppose people no longer hand out cards and instead immediately exchange numbers via their phones. But, somewhere in the devious corner of my mind – I want to test them to see if they’ll make the effort of saving the card and dialing the number themselves.

Perhaps I’m too outgoing in this new world of texting and twitter. Should I act the same in person as some of those profiles? Only talk to those 5’11” or taller or demand to know what “scene” they’re into before I invest any time on them?

“What’s your type?” a man asked me once after I spent over half an hour talking to him and intermittently flashing my smile. 

“I’m equal opportunity,” I said instead of answering the way I wanted which was it was you until you acted as if you were typing on your keypad and failed to notice how many times I flashed these expensive teeth. Did you miss the fact that I offered to buy you a drink and you declined?  He then took his leave, checking who was closest to him in the vicinity of the bar on the latest gay app. A little extra effort goes a long way - except it seems, in my direction.

It all makes me remember my favorite episode of Sex and the City, “They Shoot Single People, Don’t They?” In synopsis, Carrie has a magazine cover shoot that goes terribly wrong, as she’s photographed ragged and puffy from a night out of partying.  Elsewhere, Samantha is horrified that she has been stood up in a restaurant where she is forced to pretend her date is still coming. While Samantha can’t handle being exposed as single in such a public environment, it’s Carrie, who at the end, sits down at a sidewalk café and announces to the waiter, that, indeed, it’s just her for lunch. No book, no magazine, no single armor - just a glass of wine and the company of her own company. It’s the one episode where I am Carrie.

To be fair, I’ve leaned on my phone to keep me entertained while I’m enjoying a cocktail or two, but in my defense I still know how to read a person’s body language. I can easily tell when the object of my affection wishes he could block me as easily as he would delete my cyber greeting. It’s amusing many times over – but on occasion gets a bit exhausting as I’ve paid a lot to keep my smile fresh, white and straighter than I could ever be. It’s an attribute that will always read better when face to face with it.

Once upon a time I used to believe I would meet someone in the aisle of a grocery store – we’d reach for the same apple and the fruit display would come tumbling down around us. I’d smile, pick up the rolling granny smiths and offer to make him a pie. I even wrote a story about that – but In the end, I recognize my own fiction from the truth that is all around me. Yet, I remain ever hopeful that when I sit at the counter for a meal or enjoy a beverage in a crowded room, that there exists one person who’ll log off their app, walk across the room and hand me their business card.

Packing Up Again

In two weeks, I lose my plush executive NBC office and relocate to a smaller space across the Universal Studio Lot. And although I despise moving, in the grand scheme of things, this move will be one of the less painful ones I have done over the years. From Boston to San Francisco and then San Francisco to Boston and back again, I have moved too many times to enjoy it ever again. And to top it off, as if those cross country moves weren’t enough – I took off again from the Bay Area to Los Angeles six years ago this month. So when the announcement came that we were to vacate our offices – I was less than pleased.

My current space is perhaps the best office I will ever have in my professional life. From its private bathroom to its sprawling balcony, once the higher executives discovered my oasis, I knew that it would be taken away from me. It’s a lesson I learned many years ago – anything you have that’s job related is never yours. From your phone to your car to your parking space to your paycheck – whatever the perk that you claim as yours, readjust your thinking as soon as possible. Once you do, you won’t be under any delusion that you are indispensable.

The move of course reminds me of all those times I’ve packed up for a brand new start. I’ve bubble wrapped and newspapered just about every possession imaginable and along the way, I’ve filled a lot of dumpsters with things I never wanted to see again. Hiring movers the last few times to take care of everything was an even better luxury. I’ve also said, why should I do something that I can pay other people to do and they may actually enjoy it? Hell, I don’t even do my own nails, why should I do my own packing.

All of this is just a rant of course, as what I’m really upset about is I have to share a bathroom again with a floor full of people. Sure, I will have a door and windows and not be stuck in a windowless cave crammed in with three others or even worse, in a hallway cubicle. But where the heck am I going to read all my trashy magazines in peace and quiet?