It’s Called Work for a Reason

I have four attractive glass bottles dating back to the almost-vintage 1980s, around the time fancy salads came into vogue. The smaller bottles are for salt and pepper, the larger ones for oil and vinegar. They’re a nice brand, Bodum, but, shaped sort of like lightbulbs, they are a nuisance to clean, store, and don’t even perform that well. The salt doesn’t sprinkle and olive oil only sputters out. But I won’t let them go and here is why.

The bottles were a gift. At my job working for an investment firm, we received a catalog featuring a wide selection of fancy things. It was an initiative, from corporate, to show appreciation to staff. As the office supervisor, I circulated the catalog to the team of assistants supporting the stockbrokers and we all chose something for ourselves. 

It was a happy day when our packages arrived. Until the manager noticed the expense came out of his budget. He had to “pay” for them and, once it was too late, he realized that the gifts could have been for the stockbrokers. You know, the guys –  there were two women out of twenty brokers—who generated company revenue while making six-figure annual commissions for themselves. Certainly not for the lower-rung-pittance-paid assistants.

Oh, one could say the assistants were valued. Our office was open-plan and the meeting spaces featured a glass wall. While interviewing assistant candidates, always women as we never had a man apply, the guys would walk past the glass holding up a piece of paper rating her looks: “10” meant she should be hired. Afterwards I would give them hell and hire for competence. 

One day, the chairman of the company, Mr. Taylor, a towering, outsized man, lumbered through the office and stopped at one assistant’s desk and asked, “Tell me, are you here because of your abilities or your beauty?” She did happen to resemble Marilyn Monroe. But Really? The chairman? This woman, as did all the support staff, worked hard. But apparently the men operated with different priorities.

I wanted to be a stockbroker. I had the licensing credentials and abilities but never got a break. I admit resentment. Maybe the attractive, almost-vintage 1980s bottles represent the glass ceiling I couldn’t crack.