In 1991, I lived in San Francisco and was in desperate need of work. I grabbed a Bay Guardian newspaper and searched the classifieds. There were plenty of clerical and medical assistant gigs but I didn’t want to work in a corporate or hospital setting. I considered a bike messenger gig but this required something sturdier than my wounded Schwinn. That’s when a strange ad leaped out at me: “Oven Mitt Factory in need of Customer Service Manager.” This was mysterious and worthy of a second look.
I called the number and spoke with the company president, a woman named Catherine. She sounded young and quirky though her dialogue was dotted with hippie jargon like “bummer,” “trippy” and “you dig.” We arranged an interview for the following day.