Barbie Doll Feet and the Beginning of My Demise

“She can’t expect you to do that!”

It was my mom, protesting on the phone.                                      

“She can.”

“Why in the world would she think you can do that?”

“She doesn’t know. Why would she know?”

“Well you need to tell her! Doesn’t she realize what you’ve been through?”

“No, Mom. No. She doesn’t.”

I sighed. In a moment of emotional neediness, I’d called my mom to talk about the proposal from the manager at Cracker Barrel. I needed to increase my work hours to 35 hours per week so that I could qualify for the company’s health insurance by my probation date.

When Mary Beth the HR girl told my manager to add hours to my schedule or I’d be moved to another part of the restaurant, the manager had a “solution.”

And it was nothing I ever expected.

Let’s dial back about 24 hours before the phone call to my mom … when my manager called me into her office in the storage room.

“Well,” she said, eyeing a calendar over her desk, “You need to add hours to the schedule. I don’t have enough to give you to work on the retail floor. But you can make them up by doing one thing. You’ll have to come in early, though.”

She looked at me, with one eyebrow raised. I’m sure she was ready for me to balk, but I answered, “Sure. I’ll make arrangements for my mom to take my child to the school bus stop so that I can be here early. I’ll do anything to qualify for the health insurance. What time do you need me here?”

“7 a.m.”

“Done. What do I need to do?”

She looked past her office door and smiled a Mona Lisa smile … one of those smiles where there’s a hint that what the person is about to say isn’t going to match what’s really going on inside their diabolical mind.

“You’ll help unload the morning truck. We will have a lot coming in now that we’re getting more into the Christmas season. I’ll need you to stock the shelves in the storage room.”

I gulped. The storage room, as you remember, was like the “Room of Requirement” in Harry Potter’s Hogwarts castle, crammed with every conceivable gadget, pancake mix, quilt and candle to deck the halls of every country-décor-loving American woman in a 100-mile radius.

But how hard could it be? I would just take the items in from this “truck” and put them on the shelves. And the shelves were already so crammed, it couldn’t be that much more to do.

Could it?

“Sure! Not a problem!” I said, summoning my sweetest Cracker-Barrel-country-fresh smile. “I’ll do it!”

And therein was the root of my mother’s objection.

See, what the manager didn’t know was that before I’d even filled out a job application, I’d endured three horrendous months of physical therapy on my feet and legs.

The basic problem … was that I have … for lack of a better description …. Barbie doll feet.

Any woman who has had a Barbie doll as a child or who has daughters with Barbie dolls will understand this. “Barbie doll feet” are shaped so that the doll literally stands on her tip-toes. They’re perfect for tiny plastic high-heeled shoes. And … pretty much … my feet have a similar shape. No, I don’t walk around on my toes all day, but the arch of my foot is so high that after about seven years as a regular runner, I was told that the bones in my feet would break unless I had physical therapy. I’ve been told more than once that there are women in Japan who wrap their feet in such a way to force their arches into the arches with which I was born.

By the time I started working at Cracker Barrel, I had regained strength in my legs to resume my gym workouts. But I was still wearing a certain type of shoe, along with expensive inserts that my podiatrist had designed with a computer program to give my feet as much support as possible. And I’d begged this doctor to sign off with her blessing for me to take a part-time retail job. She was dubious that I could stand for several hours at a time, but until this point, I’d pulled it off, albeit with a great deal of Ibuprofen at the end of my shifts.

And this was the root of my mother’s objection.

Fast forward back to that phone call ….

“Are you going to tell her about your feet?” she pressed.

“No. I’m not. I need these hours. Besides, I’ve been lifting weights!” I shot back.

“This is very unfair, what she’s doing to you. If she’d given you the hours in the first place, you wouldn’t be having to do this.”

“Well, fair or not, I need this health insurance. I’ll make it work. Besides …” I paused ... “what could possibly go wrong? I’m strong again. I can take a few things and put them on shelves for a few hours. No big deal. No. Big. Deal.”

Right.

That’s what I told myself.

Tune in for the next part of the story, “An 18-Wheeler and the Impossible Odds of Completing the Mission Impossible.”

Battle of the Steel Magnolias

Southern women are, by far, the toughest women on the planet. I’m not talking about Amazon warrior princesses. I’m talking about something far more lethal: the ability to tell someone to go to Hell in such a fashion that they actually look forward to the trip. It’s the skill of deftly disarming any antagonist with smile, grace, charisma and charm so that they gratefully accept a hug and then register shock when you plunge a knife into their spine.

That.

Do you get me?

The film, “Steel Magnolias” only scratches the ice berg tip of the resolve and tenor of these women. Cross a Steel Magnolia over something that is important to her – her child, her man, her safety, her livelihood – and just brace yourself for the fallout, because you’ve woken a sleeping viper.

As I’ve written earlier, I was brought up in the Northeast, but I’m the daughter, granddaughter and niece of a pack of Steel Magnolias. I learned by osmosis the manipulations. If you’ve been brought up by a Steel Magnolia, you’ll understand this: Your reactions to the attacks of others become kneejerk. You don’t even have to think about your response. It is swift and usually always accurate, unless you are dealing with a creature similar to yourself.

This is one reason why I was able during my career as a news reporter to disarm difficult interviewees. Because I spoke with a very “Yankee” accent, many people wrongly assumed that my non-verbal persona – that of a sweet, gullible, flaky woman – was open invitation for snowballing me.

What they didn’t realize, however, was that at the core, I’ve been trained to be a Steel Magnolia. I can’t even count the number of devious interviewees (mostly men, by the way) who handed me information on a silver platter, never expecting to see it in print.

Now the reason I tell you all of this is that the woman manager at the Cracker Barrel where I worked made the same mistake. She was the epitome of the Steel Magnolia, all country bluff and bluster and “Y’all-come-back-now” saccharine dripping with sugar-coated smiles. But because of my nasally-Northeastern-Philly-girl front, she assumed I didn’t see through it. And quite frankly, I was playing her in the same way that she was playing me, except she didn’t know it.

When it came to my attention that the Cracker Barrel store managers received bonuses based on the flow of the retail merchandise … and that she was withholding my work hours as leverage to get me to crank out more sales … I fully dove into a strategy.

If she wasn’t going to give me the hours I needed to qualify for the health insurance, I would simply go around her. Because you see, even though there are Steel Magnolias out there who are deviously self-serving, there are also Steel Magnolias who possess the same strengths but use them for good.

Mary Beth, the HR employee trainer on site, was one such woman. I liked her immensely. Just like one Steel Magnolia recognizes another’s deception inherently, the same goes for recognizing another Steel Magnolia’s genuine spirit. So when Monica suggested that I approach Mary Beth about the problem with my work hours, I felt a surge of hope that I could actually make this Mission Impossible … possible.

Mary Beth agreed to sit down with me in the employee break room about 30 minutes before my shift was to begin.

“So what’s going on? Do you still like working here?” she asked.

“I love being here,” I said. And it was the truth. “Everyone has been very kind, and I have no complaints. I am really excited about all of the Christmas decorations, too.” (Steel Magnolia Trick #1: Never come out of the gate with your concern immediately. Steer the conversation to pleasant things before the difficult.)

“Oh, I know, I know!” she gushed. “Just wait until you see the place fully decorated! The tree decorations all have themes, and you’ll love the old-fashioned toys. And people come here just to shop for the stockings; we have so much candy that they had when they were children. And when the fire is going and you’re smelling all of that home-cooked food, it’s just like Christmas.”

She sighed.

I sighed and beamed back at her. A fellow Buddy the Elf fan! A kindred spirit! I loved this girl!

Loved her!

“I do need to talk about something important. Is that okay?” (Steel Magnolia Trick #2: Ask for permission to discuss the matter at hand. It gives the person the mindset to hear you out.)

“Of course. How can I help?” (Take note if you’re from the Northeastern United States, because I don’t ever remember one person asking if they could ever help me. :-P)

I took a breath and dove straight into the deep end.

“Well, you remember that I took this job so that I could qualify for Cracker Barrel’s health insurance policy. I know that I have to average 24 hours of work per week to qualify. But here’s my question: My probation period is up the third week of November. Do I have to reach that 24-hour-per-week average by that day on the calendar? If I do, I’m afraid that my manager isn’t giving me enough hours to qualify.”

She thought for a moment. “I would like to call HR at headquarters quickly to find out.”

And right then and there, she picked up the phone and called Lebanon, Tennessee, where Cracker Barrel is based and talked to someone while I sat across the table. This girl wasn’t trying to hide anything and really wanted to help, I realized. But the one-sided conversation I overheard wasn’t giving me a good feeling. She hung up and looked at me sadly.

“How many hours total do you have now?”

I’d been keeping a log every week and gave her the number. She whipped out a calculator and punched in a few numbers and raised her head.

“It is correct that you have to average 24 hours a week by the end of your probation date to get the health insurance,” she said. My heart sank, and I groaned. “No, but wait! I have good news!” she said. “Your probation date is here.” She pointed at a calendar on the wall. “I just crunched the numbers. If we can give you 35 hours a week between now and then, you will reach your 24-hour-per-week average by your probation date.”

This was a blow. It was huge. How could I manage 35 hours a week at Cracker Barrel and keep up my main source of income, which was magazine freelance writing?

“What happens if I don’t reach the average by that date? How long would I have to wait until I can qualify?”

“If that occurs, then you would have to average 24 hours per week until the next calendar year, and at that point, you could qualify.”

I chewed my lower lip. I had exactly 3 ½ weeks left to get to this average. I decided that I had no choice. To accomplish the Mission Impossible, I would have to push some paying magazine assignments aside in order to work 35 hours a week at Cracker Barrel. If I could just do it for 3 ½ weeks, then I would have the health insurance locked in, and the sacrifice would be worth it. I would come out ahead in the end, even though in the short-term, it would be a financial setback.

“But here’s another question: Will my manager give me the hours? If she can’t, then I’ll have to quit this job.”

“Let’s make sure that won’t happen,” Mary Beth answered calmly. “I will go and talk to her. If she can’t promise 35 hours per week for the next 3 ½ weeks, we will find some other places where you can work in the store, like the hostess stand. You can do another job temporarily and get the 35 hours per week. Once your probation date comes up on the calendar, you can return to the General Store retail spot and then keep working like normal at 24 hours per week. Do you have objections to waitressing if we can’t get you on the hostess stand?”

“None, none at all. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get this health insurance,” I answered.

“Good. OK, well let me talk to your manager first. If she is willing to give you 35 hours per week for the next 3 ½ weeks, keep working in the General Store until your probation date ends. If she won’t, I will tell her we’ll move you to another part of the restaurant that can give you those 35 hours per week temporarily.”

Oh, this girl was an angel from God. I knew it was the right move to go to her! I felt hopeful and happy – genuine happiness. This Mission Impossible actually could be accomplished, but it would take a great deal of resolve and some more hits to my personal pride to turn down magazine assignments from my editors. But if I had affordable health insurance? It would be the best thing ever.

Ever.

“Thank you, thank you!” I said, and I reached across the table and shook her hand. “I would hug you, but it doesn’t seem appropriate!” I laughed. (Steel Magnolia Trick #3: Offer a hug, even when you can’t hug, to seal the deal.)

She laughed.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your health insurance. I will help.”

I left the break room elated. Despite the maneuverings of my Steel Magnolia manager, the Steel Magnolia HR girl was going to rescue me. I felt like this was a lock, and no matter what happened, I would accomplish the Mission Impossible.

I was sure of it.

Tune in for the next part of the story, “Barbie Doll Feet and the Beginning of My Demise.”