boomerlaughs

The 70s and 80s were a time of  frenzied dating.  Sex was carefree and expected.  The dreaded AIDS had not befallen us yet.  Certain drugs were considered non-addictive.  We even questioned WHY cocaine was illegal.  You didn’t loose your judgement, it wasn’t supposed to be addictive, it made you feel like the king of the world, and you never got a hangover from it.  You could drive on it without being pulled over (unless you were also drinking at the time).  The term sports effing was coined and the honeymoon was on!  Years later, the honeymoon would be over.  But during the honeymoon…….

Pick-up lines were being honed right and left, and a lot of us (yes, that would include moi) fell for them hook, line, and sinker.  But we got wise (we thought) after a while, and that’s how I met my husband.

Some of the greats:

“Oh, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, you are THE most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Let’s go out for breakfast.” (which you actually DID, but later you were expected to go back to his place or your place or to his friend’s place or on a place mat)

“If you go in there, some guy’s gonna ask you to dance and then buy you a couple of drinks, and then try to kiss you, and then try to get you to go home with him.  Avoid the hassle, come home with me now!” (my personal favorite)

“Hey, wanna eff?”

“So, whaddaya do for a living?”

“That’s the sexiest dress I’ve ever seen.”

And the most famously touted, “What’s your sign?”  Yes, Virginia, people actually asked that question.  What’s more astounding is that they were serious!

So one night I had gone to my favorite club.  I had broken up with my so-so boyfriend a couple of months earlier and was still being pissed off at ALL men because of it.  The week had been nutsy-crazy and I just wanted to be by myself and listen to some music before I went home.  I did NOT want to meet anyone.  I did NOT want to dance.  I did NOT want to engage in mindless bar conversation in order for someone to get into my pants.  I ONLY wanted one shot of The Glenfiddich ( http://www.glenfiddich.us/lda.html?redirect=/index.html ), warm and in a snifter.  The Glenfiddich and The Glenlivet were just about the only two things I got right during that time.  EVERYONE knew that my “policy” was to drink ONLY The Glenfiddich or The Glenlivet warm in a snifter from Labor day to Memorial Day.  From Memorial Day to Labor day I only drank Tanqueray martinis, up with a twist. ( I just never was able to suck down green olives)

My club had standing bars in various places up close to the dance floor.  They were crowded, but, being who I was (then), I secured a nice cozy spot to watch the action, have my drink, and go home undisturbed. 

But not tonight!  Oh, no.  Peace, a little music, and a warm drink were desired but not to be had.  The universe had no intention of being so kind to me this close to Christmas.  I had settled into my little spot and the band was playing Centerfold ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wx6t11D99tA ).  It kind of blew past me.  Next song up was Freeze Frame ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmUY4eVNOkM ), followed by Celebration ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwEMxYggoKQ ).  I was beginning to unwind.

Then, they hit my favorite song of the era……….Funky-town ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUm6TCbEK0g )!  I could lose myself in that song, even still.  I began to move (ever-so-slightly) to the music, thoroughly involved in it, relaxing, lost, in mental dance splendor, and……….WHAT!?!   Mr. Overly-designer labeled-apres-ski-boot-wearing-mid-life-crisis moved in and asked me the equivalent of “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”.

I was annoyed first, then mortified.  HOW DARE he interrupt my favorite song!  How dare he….Mr. Fila tagged, Gucci sweatered, 5 inches shorter than I am….HOW DARE HE!  I gave him the cold, bored universal look that says, “you are soooooooooooo never, ever, ever, going to get my attention for even two seconds, dude,” and then told him in no uncertain terms to go “eff off”, and turned back to my drink and MY song.

Did it stop him?  Uh, NO!  A couple of minutes later I realized that he had snarfed his way into a spot right next to me.  He threw his keys on the bar, “Porsche” side up.  My eyes could NOT roll far enough into my head and my gag reflex was beginning to engage.

“So, what do you do for a living,” he, he, he, he ACTUALLY asked me with the blank look of someone who just asked Albert Einstein for the time and didn’t know who he was.

“Are you EFFING KIDDING me?” was my incredulous reply just before I blurted out, “Get (pause) lost!”.

He stayed and bought me a drink, flipped the Porsche keys around a couple of times to which I emitted, “I’ll just bet the effer’s red, isn’t it?”.  He said, “Why yes, it is.  How’d you know?”.  “It’s cliche.  By looking at you it would HAVE to be red.”  The superiority was rolling off of me.

He didn’t leave.  Every time I insulted him or tried to ignore him he responded with a new question.  Eventually, we were having a conversation.  Not pleasant, just slightly chilly stilted talk.  The evening wore on and he asked me to……………you got it……..breakfast.

The breakfast thing was just plain weird because I WAS hungry by that point.  He told me I would be safe because he’d let me drive his car.  We went out to THE dive Chinese restaurant.  It’s the kind of restaurant that everyone went to after hours.  They didn’t go there because the food was good, they went there because it was open.  It smelled of ALOT of bad grease, but most never really noticed because they were either too high or too drunk.  It was American Chinese food, not Chinese Chinese.  You know the type……bland chow mein with an MSG laden gelatinous sauce, deep fried and overly breaded shrimp, fried rice that looked like the wok had been used 10,000 times before and half of those times the food had burnt.  But we ate it.  And talked.

I drove us back to the club parking lot and let myself out to drive home.  He asked for my phone number.  I gave it.  I’m still not sure why.

The funny thing is……..we got married a year later. 

With aging there often comes changed and altered bodily functions.  They are unpleasant at best. Sometimes they can be dealt with, sometimes they become one’s daily horror that can only be endured, covered up, or ignored.

Such an altered state is the inability to control flatulence either by timing or amount.

This particular change came upon me quite gradually…..I thought I might just be eating something that was causing all of this.  Not so, it seems.  EVERYTHING now gives me gas.  And worse, it seems that I can no longer bend at the waist, sneeze, cough, or walk at a fast pace without it’s vile presence being known to the world.

It’s not just odoriferous, it’s bad in it’s announcements.  It shows up at the worst possible moments, usually in stores; definitely when there are other people innocently shopping in the same aisles as I am.  Never, never, never does the wicked beast hold itself in check until I have climbed alone into my car, or out of earshot from others of my species.  No, it is not that polite a beast.  It waits in its lair until it is certain that there is a crowd before it makes itself known.  Dinner parties, you ask?  Prime time for an appearance of the beast.  Grocery stores?  Like clockwork.

As I explained to my best friend, it is as if the beast were insuring that I am not able to shop at any store.  One by one they are being eliminated as places where I dare not show my face again.  I can no longer go to Costco, Safeway (4 of them),  Albertson’s (3 of them), Nordstroms, Macy’s (but it’s pretty big, I can still shop in some departments)the Seven-Eleven down the street from me, Winco (1), the mini-mart at the Texaco station, and two Plaid Pantry’s.  Once I was in Safeway and with each step down the aisle the beast emitted a small peep.  I sounded like a defective Model T ambling it’s way to the mechanic’s.  Slowly, but surely, I am being reduced to shopping on line.  That is, until I’m old enough not to really care anymore.

I have removed (systematically) items from my diet, the way that I drink liquids, I have taken Beano and all it’s cousins, but to no avail.  The only thing I make sure of is NOT to consume ANYTHING at least three hours prior to shopping or going to an event.  I believe 2007 was my last season at the opera.  Thank GOD movie theatres have LOUD sound systems.  At least that venue is not forbidden to me (yet)!

Will this stall me out in life?  Not at all.  I hope, someday, to be known as “The Little Engine That Could”.

Among the most humiliating moments of my youth was when Janey’s evil twin showed up at work.

Janey was both a co-worker and a friend in the food brokerage community.  At work we were always supposed to be professional, well dressed, and conservative.  I usually had trouble with that last one.

Janey was FAR more conservative.  She held her nose up at the slightest dip in sophistication and often poo-pooed me for my more flamboyant (and usually flirtatious) ways.  We had known each other for several years.  She was an awesome cook, she was no dilettante when it came to intellectual sparring, and she looked and behaved as if she had just stepped out of a Henry James novel.  Underneath it all, however, she had an evil twin full of puns and punishments, practical jokes, and bar room humor.  The evil twin Janey could have been Oscar Wilde in drag.  When ever she got caught in a misdeed or  misstep she even blamed it on the evil twin. 

Somehow, I was all too often the focus for the evil twin.  Probably because I was an easy mark.

One fine summer day our office was in the midst of being remodeled.  They were working on the area where Janey and I had cubicles at the time and had pushed our desks, etc. almost directly in front of the main double doors to prepare for the installation of the new flooring.  Janey’s desk was against the back wall of the foyer.  She sat directly facing the main doors.  I was placed in the foyer too, however, I was at a right angle to Janey.  I saw her on my left and if I turned far enough to the right, I could see the parking lot as I was almost in the path of the main door. 

The day the evil twin struck, Janey and I were alone in the office just after lunch.  The day was glorious so we opened the main doors wide to let the sun and breeze douse us with their summer splendors.  

Obviously, Janey was looking for something to amuse us other than our tedious work of filling out forms.  She found it.  While appearing to be deep in her paperwork she let out a snort that sounded exactly like a pig.  I giggled.  AND, of course, snorted back.

She snorted again a few seconds later, a little more quietly never looking up from her papers.  I was watching her intensely trying not to giggle.  I snorted again, twice.  In a second or two she snorted three times, even more quietly.  I was hooked, unfortunately.  I waited another second and (partially standing) lifted my head back, nose in the air and went  ”snort, snort, snort-snort-snort-snort” (as loudly as I could)!

Janey jumped up with a look of horror on her face and said, “Mame! What on EARTH are you doing”.  Her face crinkled up in a way that obviously said, “I can NOT believe you just did that”!

I looked at her with a mountain of perplexity……until…..I heard a “huh-hum” to my right.

I turned, and at the door stood not just some guy, but the President of a company that was our largest and most prestigious account.  I was mortified.  I could NOT speak.

They don’t make the color red that my face turned, except for circus tents and neon signs.  I wanted to die.  I had been begging for that account for two years. 

Janey politely and decorously led the gentlemen into the recesses of the office and got him settled until his account manager showed up.  All the while she was  apologizing for MY behavior.

The evil twin had seen him pull up in the parking lot and set me up to make a fool of myself.  The evil twin led me down the path to humiliation quickly and perfectly, and I was on that path not walking, but running to the destination.  And do you think for a minute that ANYONE believed MY story about how little miss angelic Janey was the one at fault?  NO.  And I didn’t get that account for another two years.

For starters, I was a food broker at one point in my 20s and I did quite well.  I was tall, thin, considered to be very pretty, and single.  The single part always seemed to get me into a mess.  Heck, it was the late 70s and early 80s.  Being single got MOST of us into a mess.

The wives of the other Account Managers held me at arms length, which, as it turns out, was a wise decision.  But that’s another story for another time.  I seemed to always be suspect for “sleeping” my way to the top.  That suspicion was only half-way warranted.  I did my share of sleeping around (including with the bosses son-yes, another story) but I was pretty good at what I did and actually merited my career steps.

One day I was given a new account, a seafood distributor.  I made an appointment for a sample presentation, prepared my spiel, and went off to conquer!  I wore a lovely outfit suited to the occasion (at least in the 80s it was).  A black stitched-down pleated skirt, a red silk stock-tie blouse, a waist-length black and white glen-plaid bolero jacket, 2 long ropes of pearls, a long gold chain, black pantyhose, black mary jane heels, NO underwear.  This may seem superfluous, however, it DOES indeed relate to the story.

I arrived supremely confident and well prepared.  The receptionist took me into a break room that was next to the offices, there was where I would make my presentation.  The break room was like one-half of the office space.  A wall of window-top/solid bottom separated the two with a double swinging door in between.  The opposite wall was filled with the standard vending machines of the day and the rest of the room was all tables and chairs.

At the front of the break room was another set of heavy, heavy double swinging doors that led into the cold warehouse area of the building.  The doors had a large metal loop at the bottom that could be attached to a large spike permanently implanted into the concrete floor to keep them open when needed.  The spike looked like the working end of a crochet hook that was intended for Sasquatch.  Unfortunately, the door spike was nearly invisible as it was the same color as the concrete floor.  I did not notice it until much later.

There were a couple of guys in the break room at the far end.  They were, at the time, in their own little world drinking coffees and colas, munching a bagel, and had become one with whatever news paper or magazine was on the table.  When I entered the room I entered as some blithe spirit passing unnoticed behind them.  Not wishing to disturb, I went to the corner by the warehouse doors setting my sample case on the floor and brief case on the table.  With no knowledge of my impending doom I unloaded my paperwork onto the table in pristine order for the presentation of my wares.

It was then that the world of ‘Oh my GOD, I can NOT believe this is happening to me’ opened it’s doors wide with plenty of room for me to enter and take full advantage of all the horrors that are offered there.

I bent down from my knees in a lady-like manner to open my case.  In my descent the unnoticed floor spike hit me on the buhtox (Forest Gump style) poking a hole right through my pantyhose while simultaneously removing the skin from my tender hiney.  Obviously, this startled me and I tried to stand up again, but that was not to happen.  The crochet hook end of the spike was stuck in my pantyhose.  The ONLY fortunate thing was that my pleated skirt covered everything including the evil spike.

Time was too swiftly approaching for the swarm of employees to enter the break room for my presentation.  My brain a-whirl with ways out of this mess.  The guys at the table had not even looked my way.  I contemplated reaching up my skirt and pulling it free but the guys were sitting sideways to me and I feared they might see. I then tried to squirm around and wiggle attempting to free myself.  Balancing on my heels added to the difficulty of my situation.

One of the guys got up to get something from a vending machine confirming that I should not dare to reach up my skirt to disentangle myself.  I continued slight wiggles and turns while attempting to cover my actions by pulling things out of my sample case tottering all the while.  From my crouched position I could see through the glass that people in the office were starting to stand up and get into ‘pre-gathering’ formation to enter the meeting.  

I wiggled, I squirmed, I tottered, I leaned a little this way and a little that.  NO WAY was this sucker ever going to come loose.  You would have thought the sucker had been woven into my pantyhose! Break-room guy sat down again and shifted things around on his table and then it came to me.  If I just stood up REAL fast the evil little sucker would just rip back out the way it had so unceremoniously found its way in.  Employees were now approaching the door to enter the break room.  I felt panic, sweat, horror, confusion, and anger.  There were NO women in this entire establishment save the receptionist and SHE was not coming in the room!  DAMN!

In one quick and desperate move I stood up.  AHHHHHHHHHH, I was loose.  However, the doorstop from hell had also ripped a gigantic hole in my pantyhose.  It couldn’t just leave a little tiny space.  NO!  It HAD the audacity to leave a hole large enough for BOTH of the cheeks of my bum to hang out and feel a foreboding breeze! You could have flown a 747 through it!

No time.  The guys were entering the room.  I quickly placed samples on the table.  I think I smiled at the men, I’m not sure.  Nothing was in my consciousness except the fact that every time I made a move BOTH sides of the tear tore a little more inching forward and forward toward my tummy.  I pressed my hand against the torn part as if it were just like putting my hand on my hip, casually, but with a red face I am sure. 

In dread fear that at some moment during my presentation my pantyhose would drop in a humiliating puddle down around my ankles I pressed on.  I made my presentation, feeling more tearing with each breath and movement.  Finished, I walked out holding my brief and sample case tight to my body lest there be any unwarranted movement from my pantyhose.  I have NO idea what I said.  I don’t recall any conversation or questions that passed between the employees and me.  I don’t even remember if I gave them samples to try.  I only know that I needed to get out of there.

Getting into my car I realized that my pantyhose were being held on by an inch of fabric just below my navel.  They had torn THAT much.  I pulled out and found a secluded spot to pull over, stop my engine and breath.  I quickly pulled off my hose, threw them into my car trash bag and drove off in search of a market to purchase a new pair.

Now one would think that this should be the end of the humiliation, but NO, not for me.  Further trials awaited me back at my office.

I waltzed into my office building relieved to have the incident behind me (no pun intended) when the president of the company called me to his office.  No casual meeting, no quick chat, but closed door.  In this company a closed door meeting in the president’s office did not bode well.  I didn’t know what this was to be about, but I sure as heck was nervous.

He began by asking how my presentation went.  I said flippantly, “so, so”.  I am certain my face was beet red, dripping with sweat as my mind rudely pulled up a complete video of the days events.

THEN this towering behemoth of a man who held my future asked the unthinkable.  “Are you on drugs?”  And that was it.  The sentence hung in the air like a dirigible.  He went totally silent, glaring at me.  With the laser beam of his eyes I understood how prisoners in a Nazi concentration camp felt when interrogated.  Although I wasn’t going to be killed with the wrong answer, my brain secretly wondered.  I didn’t want to find out.

I looked at him with the astonishment I felt throughout my body.  “WHAT?” I said, all offended and taken aback.  Where did THIS question come from, I wondered.  Not at all what I had expected, not that I actually had any idea what to expect.

He explained to me that whatever I had said or done at the recently daunting presentation had caused the owner of the company to call him and state that he thought I might be on drugs.  He further explained to me that the owner had complained to him that my presentation was so dis-jointed and unintelligible that he had no idea what I was really presenting.  Not to mention the fact that my physical behavior was, to say the least, odd.

I sat there in the chair, frozen, dreadful .  I felt I had no choice (if I were ever to work in this industry without suspicion of drug use) but to tell him all.  And I did.  Every second of fear and humiliation was laid out before him in detail.

To my shock he broke out in hysterical laughter.  THAT, in itself, was an amazing thing.  The president of the company was nothing if not anal, dignified, and a decorous poker face when it came to emotion.  I had NEVER seen him laugh.  Rarely had I seen him even grin.

When the moment moved to a calmer state he said that he would have to share this “little tidbit” (little, INDEED!) with the owner of the account so as to save the face of the company I worked for. I politely asked if I could be removed from the account.  He agreed.

I never saw any of those guys again, for which I am eternally grateful.  However, about a month later, one of my colleagues sidled up to me in the hall while I was on my way to a presentation and whispered, “Don’t get your pantyhose in bind”.  Need I say more?