Quit Bitching and Get To Work: Management 101

Whiners, complainers and gossipers

In my experience, people who complain about others at work are usually a worse employee than the person they are complaining about. When someone comes to you with a complaint about another employee, I recommend that you pull the people involved directly into the office so you can all three talk about it, there and then. Does it make people uncomfortable? Yes. But it meant enough to them to bring it to you, and they expect some sort of reaction. They got it. In the future, they will think hard before bringing the petty things your way. Make this your reputation as a leader, and you'll know in the future that if they do bring something to you, it is a valid complaint.

If they want to gossip about another employee, inform them that your next move is to tell that person what was said, and who said it. That will bring it all out there in the open. Your job is not to keep secrets. Your job is to prevent them. Not allowing gossip to happen in your presence, and letting your staff know the repercussions if they do, will help to eliminate the problem.

Awkward? Yes. And thus, only those with BIG complaints will come to you for a solution. It will squalsh most or all gossip that comes your way, and you can go on to focus on those bigger fish you have to fry.

Buddy's Crab and Ribs

I have GRAND memories of going to Buddy’s of Annapolis, Maryland. About 15 years ago, I was visiting my friends Ruth and Todd in Washington DC, and while they were working, I rented a car on a quest to find the Atlantic Ocean. Little did I know what was meant to be a quick stop for lunch in Annapolis would lead to? I’m not going to get into details. That is not what this blog entry is about. If I were blogging about that trip, it would contain information about King crab legs, the Navy Lacrosse team, a little old lady named Ginny and the Christian Science Reading Room.

But no. This blog entry is about Buddy’s Crab and Ribs of Annapolis, Maryland, and our horrific experience on 5-6-11.

When traveling for work, we have a set amount of money we can spend on food and beverage every day. Most of us tend to find a way to spend all of it on delicious food that we would not ordinarily spend our personal money on. We try new things, go to new places. Dive bars, holes in the walls, bistros and privately owned restaurants are my favorites! So when Doug, a co-worker, told me that he wanted seafood for dinner, the first thing that popped into my mind was Buddy’s. I knew right where it was, it was a privately owned establishment and it was great 15 years ago, when I was there with the Navy Lacrosse team.

When Doug, Rachida and I arrived, we walked up the stairs to find that there was an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet. The only thing that scares me more than a regular buffet is a seafood buffet. We asked if they had a menu and the hostess told us they have a full menu.

Walking to our table, we all exchanged glances. We try not to be snobs, but from the get-go, this place seemed just way too casual for what we were looking for on a Friday night. But nobody spoke up, and we were seated at a table by the window. The chairs from the tables on each side of us backed right up to our chairs, so we were basically back-to-back with the guests at our neighboring tables. Doug is a tall guy, and I could tell he was uncomfortable with this, but still, we sat.

It wasn’t a surprise when our waiter came over and casually asked “Whasssss up?” and took our beverage orders. As he walked away, he stopped half way to the bar and yelled out to us “Was that Merlot?” No, I told him… it was Chardonnay.

He returned to our table with the bottle of wine and plopped it right down on the table with passion, and set out two wine glasses that had apparently just came out of the dishwasher. They were dripping wet! Rachida kindly handed us a couple of paper towels from the roll that was strategically placed on our table, and as our waiter unscrewed the cap, we wiped our glasses dry. Mind you, I had just spent time that very day doing bartender training for a different staff, so I had, only an hour or two earlier, showed a bunch of people how to do a proper wine presentation. Our waiter then proceeded to pick up my glass by the bowl of the glass, not the stem (gasp!) and pour the wine. “Tell me when to stop” he said, as if we were at some frat party. “Stop” I told him, when the glass was filled almost to the top.

Our orders were placed, and our waiter didn’t write anything down. This always scares me, but he seemed pretty confident. Rachida ordered a shrimp cocktail, and he didn’t seem to know what a shrimp cocktail was. In a seafood restaurant. So we explained to him that it was simply shrimp with cocktail sauce. “Oh, steamed shrimp” he said… and we explained that no, it isn’t steamed. “Oh oh, Ok.. I gotcha!” he said. Doug ordered a salmon dish with crab on top of it. Rachida ordered some sort of “Seafood Annapolis” dish, and I ordered the fish of the day, blackened.

My salad arrived first. It was wilted and bad, so I munched on a shriveled piece of cucumber and then pushed it aside. At some point, Rachida had to ask when her shrimp cocktail would arrive, and our waiter asked “Oh, you wanted that as an appetizer?” He returned to the table within only a few minutes with her shrimp cocktail, which wasn’t shrimp cocktail at all. It was steamed, unpeeled shrimp in a bowl. Rachida went to work peeling her shrimp and we discussed the possibility of leaving.

Then, our entrée’s arrived. A food-runner named Skippy delivered our food. He brought the first two entrees, and then returned with the third. By the time he returned, we had discovered that Doug’s salmon/crab dish was lukewarm, at best, and that I had a big black spot on the inside of my baked potato. So when Skippy returned to the table with Rachida’s dish, I pointed out the spot in my potato and Doug told him about the temperature of his fish. He was bewildered. He grabbed Doug’s dish, and since he was heading to the kitchen anyway, Rachida tried to hand him a plate with her shrimp casings on it. He said “I can’t... I can’t… I just can’t… I don’t know how to.. I just can’t….” and sort of did this little bounce back and forth thing, as if he couldn’t figure out a way to carry all of the items back to the kitchen. As a trainer, my instinct was to help the guy out, give him a few pointers. But he didn’t give me a chance. Instead, he put Rachida’s plate back on the center on the table, grabbed the baked potato off my plate with his bare hand, and walked away, potato in one hand, Doug’s entrée in the other.

HE GRABBED THE POTATO OFF MY PLATE WITH HIS HAND!

There was a moment of silence at our table, until Doug said “Did that really just happen?” and we were undecided about whether we should laugh or walk out. We found a happy medium and with bewildered awe, told our waiter what had happened. Our waiter, who apparently had never had an upset customer in his life, didn’t seem to know what to do. He said “Well that should be worth somethin’ for free… I’ll send over the manager”.

The manager arrived, a tall lanky guy with a mouth full of chewing gum. He pulls a chair up from another table and plops down, as if he, too, were at a frat party. “So, I hear you've got a potato problem…” says he. I just stared at him, my mouth gaping open. Finally I mustered up some words… and explained to him that no, I don’t have a potato problem; I have a problem with the fact that Skippy had reached onto my plate to take the bad potato away.

All he did was say “Well, what would you like for me to do for you?” And again… speechless on my end. And for those of you who know me, you have got to understand what it takes for me to be speechless. He comped my meal, but that was far from enough. I actually can’t even think about what he could have done at that point to salvage the situation. It was a lost cause. Maybe he knew that, and as he chomped on his gum, he had decided to give up.

So, we sort of picked at our food, polished off our bottle of chardonnay and made a quick escape. The thing that Buddy’s doesn’t realize is that all three of us teach lessons about customer service every single day of our lives. From here forward, this is going to be a story I tell every associate I teach. Buddy’s is going to be an example of “What not to do” as well as an example of “Where not to go.”

Ice, Ice Baby

London – March 24, 2011

Grace and I searched far and wide for an ice bucket in our room, to no avail. Considering the fact that this is a 5-star hotel that even has a trouser press, we were surprised not to find one. So, we walked to the little grocery store on the corner and picked up a few snacks, and when we got back we stopped at the desk and asked for an ice bucket. The girl gave us a funny look and told us she’d have someone bring one to our room.

As we made our way to the 6^th floor, we saw a hotel employee walking down our hallway with a stainless steel ice bucket filled with ice. I said “That is probably for us, so I’ll just take it” and he grumbled something, handed it to me and was off. Grace and I just shrugged at each other and kept walking. Then, we saw a door that says “Ice” on the outside. We decided to investigate.

We opened the door to what appeared to be an empty room, about 8X8. It was all white, white walls, white floor tiles, and behind the door was the tiniest ice machine I have ever seen. We giggled and continued onto our room.

Once we got to our room we decided to pour ourselves a beverage and make use of this ice that, apparently, has the whole hotel atwitter. No ice scoop, only a tablespoon. Here is a picture of what amused us soJ

Choose your Punishment

My sweet, sweet daughter Grace is growing up to be quite a handful. Maybe it’s poor parenting on our part. Maybe it’s just a 10-year old thing. Maybe we’ve spoiled her. Maybe we don’t give her enough. Maybe I shouldn't have taken this job. Maybe I should become a soccer mom. Either way, I am pretty sure that no matter what I do, someday she will grow up to tell the world that her mother is the cause of all of her problems.

But alas, I can’t throw in the towel just yet, and do my best to enforce a certain amount of discipline when she acts up, talks back, disregards household rules, neglects her pets, neglects her homework, fails to complete her very meager list of chores. I try to match the punishment with the violation, but to be fair, I’m never sure with her, which punishment is most effective. I'm still testing different things out.

When I was a kid, if I was punished (which was probably more often than not) it meant something. I was afraid to get into trouble, and always felt as if I had failed my parents when I did something wrong. Punishment received (whether it be a grounding or The Belt) I would move forward with a new lesson learned, and I knew I would never do That Thing again. I think that what I feared most was disappointing my parents.

What I am dealing with here, folks, is a kid who doesn’t care about punishment. I tell her that she is grounded from TV, and she says “That’s OK, I don’t need to watch TV anyway.” If I ground her from doing things with her friends, she says “That’s fine, I’ll see them on Monday.” If I spank her, she stares at me with this look of disbelief, as if I am the most abusive parent in the world, but challenges me with this stern look and a refusal to cry, as if that rigid smack on her ass didn’t hurt. I know better than to threaten punishments that won’t happen, such as “If you’re not a good girl, you don’t get to go to Caseville this year,” because she would know that didn’t mean a thing.

So, this week I tried something different. She was outside playing, and was told to be back at 7pm. At 7:30 she comes wandering in the front door without a care in the world. I knew she was safe, playing in our neighbor’s back yard, but that was not the point. I had asked her to be home at 7, and she disregarded this. A punishment was in order.

Her choice: No TV until Friday, or a 2-page essay explaining to me why it is important that she follow the rules. (The latter would serve an obvious double-purpose) To my surprise, she chose the essay.

With vigor, she snatched up a pencil and some paper, and slams the office door and went to work on the following piece of timeless literature. This is what she handed to me 15-minutes later, clearly written in haste and with passon. The look on her face was full of self-pride and success, and then she plopped down on her bean bag to watch bad Disney shows. As if she had somehow won.

Why I must listen to my parents, by Grace

I must listen to my parents because they are the boss of me. I have no power so they can boss me around like a little maid. There is only so much daylight in a day so I try to get outside before it gets dark. Mom is mad at me for not coming in on time.

3 reasons why I didn’t come on time

·         If I had brought my phone it would have slipped out of my pocket and fallen in snow.

·         There was no clock outside

·         I didn’t want to keep checking in because it would get cold inside when I opened the door and mom would get mad.

My mom and dad might feel mad because I did not do what I was told. I am a fighter and have a good memory so I make up good points. If mum and dad got points to top mine then it would stop because eventually I would run out of points. My parents should remember that I have a good memory and I’m smart and use big words and love Science. I want to become a scientist. Hmmm I wonder why I get A’s in Science? OK, Mom, look. Just because I can top you does not mean I am stupid. Why are you mad at me because I am smart? When you are mad at me I always have a reason. I must listen because you are my parents and I am powerless. I can’t do anything. I’m sorry I encouraged you to buy your beloved iPhone.

The End

By Grace Y.