workplace

“So, he said I have a really cute vagina…”

I just about dropped the carton of eggs I was pulling out of the fridge for our breakfast but made the save. The half-smoked cigarette I was balancing between my lips wasn’t as lucky, falling onto the kitchen linoleum, just barely missing my bare feet—as my mouth hung agape.

My roommate chattered on as I stomped out the hot ash that was skittering about with my heavily callused heel.

“One of the prettiest he’s ever seen.”

“Wait. Who said that? Michael? Your boyfriend?” I asked as if I really wanted to know.

Moments earlier I had innocently asked how her visit to the Gynecologist had gone the previous day. She’d had a couple of wonky pap smear results and, well, now here she was, off talking about all the compliments her vagina was getting—and I was confused.

She did have the attention span of a spider monkey so this wasn’t new, but the subject matter was. We weren’t in the habit of sharing super intimate, sex-related pillow talk.

“No, silly, Dr. SoandSo”, she laughed, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she snuffed out her cigarette in the Philodendron on the kitchen table.

We had a habit of smoking while cooking. Only while cooking. It nauseates me even now. All of it. Even this conversation. Especially this conversation.

I whipped around, setting the egg carton down hard in front of her. Egg snot ran from several of the perforations onto the vintage 1950’s Formica diner table we sat around in the kitchen.

She jumped, startled, as I yelled into her face.  “What the fuck?! Are you telling me you’re Gynecologist said that to you?!”

She looked at me as if my head had spun around (which it had, but just once), her big, brown saucer eyes filled with fear.

“Uh, yeah, he was just…um…it wasn’t…uh…”

“Please tell me he at least removed his hand before he said that!” I asked,  again not really wanting to know the answer. I’m not even sure why that mattered, it’s just that the thought of her doctor wrist-deep inside of her, cooing that bullshit while she’s on her back with her legs in the stirrups made me want to puke—and call the police.

“That is sexual harassment!” I screamed louder than I intended.
”He’s a professional! He should NEVER say that sort of thing to you! Everyone knows gynecologists are only allowed to talk about the weather when they’re down there—below the equator!”

She looked bewildered.

“Honey”, I pulled up a chair and sat straight in front of her, lowering my voice into a calmer, more soothing register as I realized she had no idea what he’d done.

It was a compliment. About her lady parts. From a man.

UGH.

“You have to report him. He’s a bad guy, and not a good doctor. That wasn’t a compliment. It was HIGHLY inappropriate.”

When she finally got it, she looked ashamed.

“If you don’t—I will!”

Sexual harassment in the workplace, from people in positions of power, and I think, in general, is SUCH a subjective topic and to this day—I’m not sure why.

It’s been my observation that most men just don’t get the intricacies.
The boundaries are blurred to the point that unless it comes down to an actual physical assault—it can slide under the radar like it did for my twenty-seven-year-old roommate.

It is often covert—cloaked in a compliment, delivered by someone in authority, wrapped inside of a joke or said straight up to your face with a wink—and if you so much as bat an eyelash—you’re overreacting.

Clearly, the situation was “misconstrued”.

I loathe that word. Misconstrued.
Lots of slimy people get away with highly questionable shit by hiding behind that word.

Here’s the thing, I don’t misconstrue anything. My gut construes everything you said correctly. Your innuendo? It was interpreted exactly how you meant it. There was no mistake made.

Except for you thinking I wouldn’t say anything.

I worked in a male-dominated business for almost twenty years.
And I grew up with a brother and worked my way through school on the night crew of a supermarket as one of only two girls.
I know men. I love men, and I know male humor.
I get it. I can even appreciate it. It can be bawdy and blue and I’m a real broad—one of the guys—so I’m often right there in it AND I can let a lot of shit slide.

But there’s a line. A boundary that should never be crossed, and you know when it has been by the pit in your stomach.

My male boss was always the epitome of appropriate behavior. He never made a misstep.
But one day in the midst of an all-male jewelry buy (or a shark feeding-frenzy, take your pick), the free-range testosterone in the room took control of one of my boss’ partners and best friends. As he went to leave, he hugged me goodbye for a little bit too long, and the hug was just a little bit too tight and there it was—his semi-erect “little friend” pressed up against my thigh.

It was no accident. There were a couple of dry-humps. I kid you not.

Reflexively and forcefully, I pushed him away with both hands looking him straight in the eye—horrified.

He winked, and yelled something back at the guys about his jeans being too tight, and made a quick getaway.

I could barely catch my breath. I was shaking and red in the face. Immediately, I grabbed my boss by the arm, yanking him out of earshot of the others.

As a woman in a man’s world, you walk a tightrope—you want to be a “good sport”, “one of the guys”, yet still be treated with respect.

“THAT man!”, I whisper/yelled, “You had better keep your FRIEND away from me—he is NEVER to lay a hand on me again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? If he does—I will quit and then I will sue him all the way to hell and back!”

He shook his head and shrugged, confused. “O…kay…”, he stammered still staring at my panting, red face.

“He pressed his dick against my leg!” I whispered forcefully, staring him down, trying to make him understand. He immediately looked down at his feet, embarrassed. “Okay”, he replied, wishing he were invisible as he slowly turned and walked back to his buddies.

I think, rather I KNOW, that he thought I was overreacting. That I had misconstrued his friend’s natural affection for lechery.

I tried not to gag every time I had to see that man again, which was often since he was a part of my boss’ inner circle. But nothing even remotely resembling sexual innuendo or impropriety happened again. I don’t know if my boss had a talk with the guys or if they had just decided on their own to behave themselves.

All of them except for that one man.
In the space of ten years, with a wife and two kids to support, he settled three workplace sexual harassment cases (that I know of ), out of court.

If I remember correctly, I think it was when my boss told me about the second one that his face registered some sort of understanding and an unspoken apology for having doubted me.

That would have to be enough.

Talk to me.

Carry on,
xox

Dear Woo Woo Crew,

My brother has found himself in the midst of a personal shitastropy. You know, just like we all do from time to time.

And even though it’s winding down — it’s winding up (isn’t it weird how that happens? It gets really bad before it goes away. Like that stubborn boil on your ass). So the fan is blowing shit all over the fucking place. You know, like it does.

Anyhow, he’s had your help. I call you his Woo Woo Crew because of the alchemy you have performed through your love, loyalty and laughter. You have helped my brother weather his dark night of the soul with your special brand of magic.

Now, before you get all weepy on me (Billy).
Can we just talk for a minute about the medicinal properties of laughter? Guffawing your way through tears is highly underrated. It has a Merlin-esq magical quality to it. Laughter is the best medicine is no joke. Doctors should prescribe a visit to a comedy club (or humor blog) for depression. Seriously.

And as I see it, that’s been an indispensable part of his cure. You, his WWC make him laugh.
A lot.
Everyday.
The joke is often at his own expense—but that’s okay—he’s freakin’ funny.
You aren’t walking on eggshells. You aren’t worried about what YOUR future holds. You show up to his business with smiles and hugs and donuts. (I took artistic liberties in assuming there are donuts. It just seems like you would have something deep-fried and I like icing, so….)

Hey, don’t get me wrong, you work as hard as you play. You are so smart, so good at what you do, that I want to buy you all ponies. Well, Billy already has a pony, so maybe cars for the rest of you.

You are loyal, you are loving, you cut him slack when it’s needed and pick it up for him when he’s down.


I could not send bigger love to Y’all. I mean it.

My hope is that all you guys out there have your very own Woo Woo Crews. If you don’t — find one fast.
They will save you.

Better yet, maybe you are a card-carrying member of one.

My friend Kim is also walking the temporary tightrope of terrible. Again, like we all have; and I see or speak to her almost every day.

Seems my life makes her laugh.
My triumphs, my tragedies are…funny to her. I suppose it’s in the delivery, but still, we laugh A LOT!
The thing is, when I see her walk up the driveway with a sad face and then later, I watch her walk back to her car and she’s still laughing about that thing I said. That makes me feel good.

Listen I’m no Mother Theresa.
The other day I yelled at her mid-cry, right to her sad, soggy face: “Stop crying! Stop being sad!”…and instead of punching me in the face — we both burst out laughing. Like doubled over, can’t speak laughing.

Dammit, it was time. Time for her sadness to turn the corner, lose its grip and get the hell out of her life!
Just writing this make me giggle because I can still see the shock that washed over her before she started laughing. I’m sure my face looked the same.

It was priceless. Like a two-year-old. Tears one minute, laughter the next.

Why can’t we do that? When did we lose that talent? Why does the laughter dissipate so quickly but the tears stay for…weeks?

Woo Woo Crews Unite! Be funny! Be kind! Be goofy! Bring donuts! Buy ponies!
Turns some frowns upside down (yes I did say that).

Write love letters to people who are making a difference, so they can become aware that they are.

Enough rambling.

So incredibly grateful for you guys,
Carry on,
xox

Here’s some medicine for you — Happy Friday!

GRACE
ɡrās/
noun

1. Simple elegance or refinement of movement.
“she moved through the water with effortless grace”
synonyms: elegance, poise, gracefulness, finesse

2. (In Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings.

verb
3. Do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one’s presence.
“she bowed out from the sport she has graced for two decades”
synonyms: dignify, distinguish, honor, favor

“Go out into the world and be a source of Grace for people.”
~ Caroline Myss

Shit. That’s a tall order, right? I can’t do that. Be a source of Grace? What does that even mean? I read the definition and I’m still not sure.

You guys, are we out in the world being a source of grace — or are we a part of the problem?

The first definition made me blanche. It does not apply to me AT ALL.
My movements are as far from refined as I can be without calling too much attention to myself. Remember how Elaine danced on Seinfeld? That’s how I move through the world. Every step is void of poise, there is not a drop of elegance to be found, and as far as finesse goes? — forgetaboutit.

So…Am I the source of grace in that respect? No, no I am not. I am definitely part of the problem.

As far as definition three goes, well, I feel like when we can, when the stars align and we have some free time — we show up for people. We do our best.
Actually some of us drop everything and Grace certain people or places with our presence TO OUR DETRIMENT, or at least I used to. Now a days I’m super picky about to whom and where my Grace gets distributed.

So again I suppose I’m part of the problem, except…Just like fucks given, Grace can be depleted (in my opinion, the studies are inconclusive) — you can over extend, you can run out, and you only get what you get.

But unlike fucks, Grace CAN be replenished by other people bestowing their Grace upon YOU.

So there you have it, there’s what I think Caroline Myss meant by being a source of Grace for people.

Sprinkle it around, like fairy dust, like a tall drink of water to the parched masses.

Replenish each other.

You know the people in your life that need a re-fill.

And you can recognize them on the street.

They look pale and hollow eyed, over tired, over wrought, over stressed and more than likely over weight. In other words they are just plain over it.

Wait. I’m so confused. Blah, blah, Grace. Blah, blah, replenish each other. So how do we do that?

And there’s where definition number two comes into play.
Bestow your blessings.
Being a source of Grace is about bestowing your blessings, and blessings, unlike fucks and Grace, come in an unlimited supply.

Blessings look like volunteering yourself for babysitting or dog walking.

Blessings look like filling the refrigerator of a workaholic.

Blessings are about picking up the check or leaving a thirty percent tip.

Blessings can hold open a door, clean up a mess, fold laundry, hold a hand, drive carpool, give a foot message and bring the wine (two bottles please).

Blessing are bountiful.
Blessings are bottomless, and in my humble opinion, blessings and the bestowal of them is what being a source of Grace is all about.

So easy peasy, right? Not such a tall order after all.
Whew! Sometimes this spiritual shit sounds SO undoable.

Whatcha think? Any more ideas for being source of Grace for people? I’d love to hear from you guys!

Carry on,
xox

Think of your work life, not as separate from your spiritual life but as central to your spiritual life. Whatever your business, it is your ministry
~Marianne Williamson~ 

Can I get an Amen?
I don’t believe that the people around us, are there accidentally. Especially those we see every day at work.
This is not a random Universe. It is a Universe of order. Nothing is extemporaneous. Everything is on purpose. We are all brought together with the intention of the enlightenment of all concerned. Sounds heady right? Not so much.
It happens by showing those around you respect. By making them feel seen and heard and fostering their creativity.
So, that being said, what the fuck is with my boss? What karmic debt am I repaying at this job? I must have been a REAL ASSHAT in a past life.

I had lunch with my besties last week. We discussed and tried to solve allllll the problems of the world. We may know what happened to the Malaysian airliner, at least we have some pretty intriguing theories.
A lot of salad, some fries, a couple of eggs and lots of work talk.
A couple of us work for small businesses, mom and pops. Some of us are currently unemployed.
One of us has a corporate job for which she is EXTREMELY grateful. Let me just get that in there. She LOVES her job and the benifits, but the dynamics are not sitting well with her. Some recent life circumstances have caused my beautiful friend to grow and change, so the BS in her company seems just that much more manipulative and petty.
She yearns to enjoy her life. They would rather she not.

Even the swankiest workplace at the best address can have a gulag mentality. You get minimal breaks with lunch standing at your desk, if you eat anything at all. There is jockeying and score keeping for time off, unreasonable sales expectations, and a fostering of unhealthy competition, suspicion and greed where commissions are concerned.
I believe the heading on the moral compass is set at the top; so when these corporations become so large that human influence gives way to the bottom line…..they are lost. Thing is; they need human beings, not every sale is closed online
And therein lies the rub.

This year the topic of questioning. “The American Work Ethic” seems to have reached a tipping point. I’ve recently read Sheryl Sandberg’s “Lean In” and “Thrive” by Ariana Huffington. After I finished reading this article in The Washington Post:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/she-the-people/wp/2014/02/21/5-things-you-get-from-working-too-hard/?tid=pm_pop%20)
I Wanted to cheer and vomit, just not at the same time.

We all agree that everything is energy, right? What kind of energy do you suppose is at a company where the employees are overworked, underpaid and grossly unappreciated? Does that corporation really believe those people will represent them and their brand at the highest level? Will they brainstorm the best ideas for their company’s continued growth? Or, are they worried about getting that weekend off for a wedding, the sick kid at home or the constant insinuations about being easily replaced?
I think as an employer it is perfectly acceptable to expect the highest standards, and as an employee, to feel respected and appreciated.
When we are able to live our lives full of enthusiasm and creativity, we will bring our A game to the office. Doesn’t that make more sense?

There are four rules of miraculous work creation: Be positive. Send love. Have fun. Kick ass. Amen.
~Marianne Williamson~

Do you try to function at your highest level in an unconscious workplace? Are you willing to challenge the status quo, even if just by example? Let’s talk about this! I’d love to know.

Xox