The Cryin', the Twitchin' and Wardrobe Malfunction

I thought today I'd reminisce about a few instances of outright hilarity or frustration I've come to find funny from my work life over the past one score and eight years ago. These things are long hidden and have risen to the surface for reasons I cannot explain. I think it has to do with the holidays, perhaps, and getting together with my crazy family.

At my first real job, I was only nineteen, a very innocent, untraveled kid and completely unaware of my pretty good looks. I worked with only one older woman in the office of a large machine shop. That is to say, an all-male environment, before the No-Sexual-Harassment-You-F--king-Bunch-of-Apes Guidelines were made law. I was prime pickings for these pre-neanderthals.

The guy just outside the reception room door, Hacky Damon, had a huge beer gut and his nickname was "Hackys Crack." Can you guess why? C'mon, guess!! Part of my job included collecting reports from the Engineering Department. So I'd leave reception, walking out into the shop area, where Hacky worked at his machine to my left and facing me. "Hey Hacky, how're ya", I'd say, then I'd turn a sharp right, into the engineering offices and collect my reports. This was the uneventful part of my journey. It was the return trip that all the other machinists waited for with great delight because then and only then could I see the glory that was Hackys Crack. This man's pants would be suspended by the grace of God somewhere on his thighs and his entire ass-crack would be exposed for me to see along with his hairy, pimpled old man buttocks. All of the men would be standing stock still, grinning and staring, silent as lambs until I got back into my office. Then they'd burst into hysterical laughter, screaming Hacky's name, hooting and hollering. I'd like to say it was more humiliating for Hacky, but I don't think it was. It may well have been the highlight of his day.

Now to the reason why I no longer wear half-slips. They fall down. The goddamned things fall down while you're standing beside your boss getting instructions on a project. With a rush of horror, you feel a gossamer poof around your feet. You know what I said about peripheral vision being a blessing and a curse? Well, this applies here as well. The trick, men, is to get as close as possible, blurring the edges of the peripheral vision, thus limiting it, without touching the other person. Much to my great dismay, this happened in the presence of Sir Twitchy, J.D. ("Junk Diddler") my voodoo victim, and I really didn't want to get closer for fear he'd get the wrong impression and get "ideas." But I just had no choice. I felt my son-of-a-bitchin slip whoosh down my legs, and Thank Goog, I had a long skirt on that day. Horrified, I leaned in, stepped out of it, and balled it up in my right hand. Now this couldn't have happened at a better time. Sir Twitchy was such a self-absorbed crotch-whopper that he probably thought I was coming onto him, so he was riding that wave to shore while I was taking care of my little issue. Now, it's a full slip or nothing. On a clear day, you can see forever, and through my skirt.

One of my sisters said she was crossing the post office parking lot after lunch, and felt her half slip fall down around her ankles. Thinking fast, she kicked it under a nearby car and kept on walking like nothing ever happened. I would love to have seen that.

The comedian, Sinbad has a skit about a man falling down versus a woman falling down. Men trip and fall, and the whole world hears about it. He stands back up, arms flailing, getting all the attention he can for it. A woman falls down with her groceries scattered in a fifteen foot radius. You ask her if she's alright, and she has no idea what you're talking about. It wasn't her and no, those aren't her groceries. I once worked with a woman who while crossing the street was hit by a slow moving car. She rolled over the hood, landed on her high heels and kept on walking. She said the guy jumped out of his car to ask if she was okay and she said she just yelled over her shoulder "Uh huh" and kept on going. I'm laughing as I'm writing, remembering her telling about it. She was completely indifferent to admitting it even happened, just as I never admitted to anyone that my slip fell down. Until now.

Ah, memories!

"Hope is the thing with feathers,...

...that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all." Emily Dickinson

I hope to reach a conclusion today, and arrive at sanity but I fear it's more than a day trip.

Since talking over my ambivalence with my husband regarding taking a job that I feel is "beneath my skill set and pay requirements," my mind is unsettled and my legs vibrating under my desk like tongs on a tuning fork. He informed me in no uncertain terms that he has done much work for little money when the situation called for it........[insert gigantic pause]....and these times were not few and will be again [now insert man scowling at the television.]

My darling husband has little, actual point of reference here. He's always called his own shots, having never applied for any job anywhere. He's either been a carpenter, sought out by others, or he's fished, dug clams and worms or picked periwinkles. Mother Nature is his boss, and he answers to her. He complains about her like a real employer, damning her for too much wind or rain, when either of those things cramp his style. But she favors him as he always returns to me from his sea voyages. He delights in coming home to tell me how giant waves came "right over the boat today" and "sometimes all you could see was water on all sides." She's no small boat either at 42' feet long, 18' feet wide; a Nova Scotia or "Novi" hull with a riding sail. Built to take "it," he says. He's very proud of his girl.

Friedrich Nietzsche said, "One must separate from anything that forces one to repeat 'No' again and again." Ah, that has been my mantra since the brightness of the interview wore off. As a matter of fact, I've refused several jobs for this same "No" my not-so-inner jackass brayed when it saw my potential working conditions. I knew I wouldn't be able to function and would soon seek my own undoing as I have done again and again.

Is this ego? Am I too good to do certain work? No, it's not about being too "good." I would rather shovel manure in a cow barn than sit behind a sliding glass window. At least I would be doing something for the cows out in the fresh air, no pantyhose required, no lipstick, no mascara; no mask whatsoever. I think environment says everything about the kind of work a person will be expected to perform. The more a place looks like a jail cell, the more a prisoner you are. I once visited an old jail here on the Midcoast. The cells were carved from solid rock. I'll never forget the feeling of me, at 5'3", having to stoop well down to walk into those dark and fetid rooms. I am reminded of those cells whenever I am shown the kind of environment I saw at that interview. They don't show you the leg chain until after you agree to work there.

As I look around my home office I am more than pleased to work here. I've painted it a color called "Wanderlust," a lush dark blue periwinkle color; my shelves are painted "Pink Adobe." Off-white berber rugs and lacy curtains in the windows. A honey-birch desk that my husband made is tucked into the corner. All my paintings, framed certificates, favorite poems, funny cartoons and memorabilia are posted here and there around me. Abalone, oyster and hen clam shells gathered on the shores of Prince Edward Island fill my ginger jar desk lamp. Pens shaped like red poppies and ladybugs sit in flowered handmade pottery cups given to me as a wedding present. My beagle and shepherd snore, sprawled behind me on the floor. One kitty lies behind the computer in the sunshine; the other watches the cursor on the screen with great fascination. This is not a huge space, but I don't have to stoop to enter and there is no leg chain. There is but a spiritual tether to keep me grounded.

Toni Morrison said, "If there's a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." I have a book in mind, but the blank white page stymies me as it has thousands of others before me, and millions ahead of me. Onward...