Behave Yourself

Four men have told me to behave myself. This has all happened very recently, within the last month. While those two words and four syllables - be-have-your-self - say more about the men than they do about me, I would like to explore in words for you, dear reader, just what circumstances compelled these men to attempt to put sideboards on how I live my life.

Exhibit A: I'm sitting in a meeting, in Grand Junction, surrounded by handlebar moustaches. I am cogently explaining the programs I manage and a new project in the works. Another male manager leans across the table to me and asks with a smirk, "How much is that gonna cost us? Thirty two million?"Referring of course to our recent thirty two million dollar accounting error in Denver. I lean across the table to him and say, "About three dollars a person, but thanks for asking. Your question was extremely helpful to all of us." Dead silence in the room for a beat. Then twenty people start laughing and handlebar moustache man is red in the face. Special note: This is not the only instance in which I give him the what what. There is another one, but you get the point.

Exhibit B: I have several meetings with the Director over the course of five months, about a merger we are going through and about a very political project I've been working on. At one point I think I get exasperated and throw my hands up and say, "Dude!" After our last meeting he says, "Behave yourself, but not too much." Special note: I'm still analyzing that one.

Exhibit C: I'm sitting in a meeting in Denver, with a guy with a handlebar moustache from Grand Junction, not related to the special man from Exhibit A. We are discussing meeting options for our budget meeting. This older man, who was most likely hot shit in the 1970s, says, "There's a new gentleman's club. We could go there for the meeting." To which somebody replies, "But would the women be invited?" To which he says, "As long as they dance." I have three options here, as a high-ranking female manager who has the responsibility to stop sexual harassment in the workplace. I can ignore it. I can use sarcasm. Or I can very intelligently and firmly explain that the comments are inappropriate and unappreciated in the workplace. Of course I use sarcasm. I told him that his comment, coupled with the fact that he asked me to get him coffee at the beginning of the meeting, made me want to take him behind the building and beat him in a fight, which I was sure I'd win. I think I also told him, "Dude!"

Exhibit D: My father-in-law, a man I love dearly and use sarcasm with whenever possible, has been slightly befuddled at my insistence that my husband take some turns hosting holidays, as in cooking the entire Thanksgiving dinner, including organizing it and doing grocery shopping while I drank vodka from a plastic cup. At Easter dinner, I filled my plate ahead of my father-in-law, and he started blathering about the men always getting to eat first in the family and so on and so forth, to which I replied that if he needed somewhere to cry he could go in the back bedroom and I'd go the extra mile and get him some tissue.

Behave yourself. From each one of them. Independently. Without holding some sort of inner circle meeting to coordinate their strategy. I take it as a sign that I make them slightly uncomfortable, or maybe that I lack the tact, or maybe that I need to zip it more often.

I find it highly amusing.

Belinda's playlist

Belinda was a large German woman who sat hunched in her office most days. I dreaded asking her for a deadline extension on the paperwork. She always looked either insulted or angry when I asked for anything outside of normal routine.

Her office was in the basement, sandwiched between the custodian's closet and the men's restroom. She wasn't behind her desk, so I decided to wait. I sat in a rickety plastic chair shoved into the corner. It was the first real chance I'd had to study her work space. Usually our conversations were short verbal missives fired at each other while I was half-turned to go and her eyes were glued on her computer.

Haphazard cords fell from the back of her computer, which faced the doorway. There were no plants - no way they would survive in the windowless basement. One glaring ceiling light buzzed above; a dust-covered bookcase housed cracked plastic binders. Belinda had one picture on the wall: a yellow cat with distended claws stuck in window curtains, and a caption that read "Hang in there!"

I shifted - the plastic chair scraped the linoleum floor - and glanced back towards the doorway, wondering if I should come back another time. That's when I saw the diploma hanging above the door. A Ph.D. in Social Sciences with a concentration in economics from CalTech, 1995. Belinda was slightly above a secretary and far below a mid-level manager. She had worked at our company for fifteen years. It struck me that she was probably smarter than her boss and his boss put together.

I heard squeaking shoes and Belinda walked in - I stood up - she saw me and moved sideways. "What do you want?" she asked.

"I just wanted to keep you in the loop. I'll be turning in the StaffCo contract paperwork about a week late," I said. "We have some more negotiations to do."

Belinda was in a blue and green flower-print dress, long-sleeved. There was a ring of dust around the bottom of her dress where the fabric had slid through the muck of the linoleum. Greasy hair framed her red-splotched face. This giant German thought to dress herself in flowers from the early nineties. I choked down a panicked laugh.

"Any changes mean more work for me," Belinda said, and sat down behind her desk. She looked at her computer screen. "I'm sure you can appreciate that I don't have time to waive deadlines for every contract. The answer is no." And she put her hand up and motioned me out of her office.

Ugly, big, mean white lady. No imagination. No flexibility. Out of her office and up the stairs to my corner office with bright windows and plush carpet. Belinda had no decision-making authority. We both knew I would take as long as I needed to with the negotiations, and she would "forget" to process my paperwork until I had to come to her squat dirty office again to check its status. A game, an office power play. I was tired of it.

So I made her a mixed tape. Jon Bon Jovi, Bee Gees, Madonna, P!nk. Joan Jett. A little Slip-Slidin' Away by Paul Simon. A little Michael Jackson. Some Elvis Presley. I kept it light, dance-ready, upbeat. Some Queen seasoned with a little Hall & Oates. I grew up in the eighties, so I still call them mixed tapes. What I really did was go on itunes and create a playlist called "For Belinda;" then I burned it onto a CD. Since she had no way to play CDs in her office, I bought the cheapest CD player I could find: a Hello Kitty pink boombox for $9.99.

I figured at some point in the past fifteen years, she had been confident, maybe even well-regarded. The big bosses must have asked for her ideas. Little by little, she had been ignored. Her promise as a highly educated member of the workforce was forgotten; she was given menial tasks that required no brain power. She could either fight back, challenge her bosses to give her more meaningful work, or become bitter and protect the small responsibilities dumped on her in the basement. I figured she had chosen the latter.

I waited one night until she went home, and then placed her gifts on her desk. No "To...From..." note, just the CD and the pink boombox.

I waited a week, then two; continued my negotiations with StaffCo. I forgot about Belinda. StaffCo and I finally came to an agreement, so I made the long walk down the basement stairs to face her. I found her office - empty. Dust patterns showed where the computer had been, the phone...the diploma above the door. The only things left were the scuffed plastic chair and the cat poster.

I walked back upstairs and went to my boss. "Did you finally fire Belinda?" I asked.

"No," he said. "We promoted her. You need her for the StaffCo paperwork?"

"Yeah...," I said.

"Give it to Sandy until we can find a replacement for Belinda's old position."

I started to walk out of his office, and then turned and asked, "What's Belinda's new job title?"

"Senior VP of Marketing," he said. "She's a couple rungs up the chain from you now."

Senior VPs had offices on the sixth floor. I got on the elevator and rode up. I had to get past the receptionist to find Belinda - I made up an excuse about being summoned there for a meeting.

Belinda was pin-striped and well-groomed, not a hair out of place. Her skin was clear and smooth. She regarded me with a steady gaze, and smiled.

"Congratulations on your promotion." I hovered in the doorway and looked past her to the view of the city. Green plants in a tasteful arrangement on the windowsill framed the skyline.

"I'm just livin' on a prayer," she said.

I caught a flash of pink: the Hello Kitty CD player was nestled under her diploma on a gleaming mahogany side table. "You're halfway there," I said, and smiled back.

The Love Song is Dead or, The Making of Girl Power Five

Is the Love Song dead? Yes, girls, yes it is. Girl Powers One, Two, Three, and Four had no love songs, and Five certainly doesn't either. When I want to lift up my girlfriends, inspire them, I don't pick a love song. Seems like a trap, a giving in, a surrender. Never surrender, chicas.

Girl Power Five has been fun to make. With lyrics like these, it is an exploration in feminine whoop-ass:

It's him or me
That's what he said
But I can't choose
Between a vegan
And a pothead
So I chose you
Because you're sweet
And you give me lots of lovin'
And you eat meat

(She can't choose between two men, so she chose her dog.)
--"Man of the Hour" - Norah Jones

Then there's the country girl take on girl power, which often plays on themes of domestic abuse and killing the guy who done you wrong:

His fist is big
But my gun's bigger
--"Gunpowder and Lead" --Miranda Lambert

Then there's the hip hop take.

Hell no
I don't need your dough
I'm not gonna be your ho
You can keep your ring
Tough shit
I see you're full of it
I'm not gonna be your bitch
I don't care about your bling
--"Hell No" --Frankee

That is deep shit right there, girls. Deep, deep shit.

This is the way the world works. Women's boundaries are not a given. We must carve them out ourselves, bare our teeth, growl, and bite back if necessary.
Manage your own calendar, you rock-clapping Neanderthal.
Why don't you pick up a vacuum, genius?
Oh yeah, you're not willing to commit to the relationship? Then get the hell out.
Make your own damn dinner.
Hey, out there in la-la land - get involved with your family! Enough "you" time, jackass.
Guess what, hottie? Your good looks don't save you from waking up in the middle of the night with the baby.
Of course there are nicer ways to say these things, but if you want nicer, read someone else's blog.

There are consequences for fighting back, for asserting ourselves - loneliness at times, fucked-up relationships, horrible stereotyping labels - but as Alicia Keys says:

If I could touch the sky
I'd risk the fall
Just to know how it feels to fly
--"How It Feels to Fly" --Alicia Keys

Here's touch of mush: I'm grateful for all the strong women in my life who I lean on, who inspire me. Remember, the search for validation is fruitless. Just believe in yourself to begin with.

Myths

Shout out to the wife of Rock-Clapping Neanderthal, who is, even as I am embarking on my Girl Power vacation, tipping back white wine with her girls in TX.

Thought I'd share this quote:

"Modern women, especially, need to tell the true myths embedded in our contemporary lives so our daughters and theirs will start out with desire lines more rewarding than Cinderalla hoping for a prince to save her."
-Tristine Rainer, Your Life as Story

Girl Power

Next week I'll be heading to Washington D.C., from lil' ole' Frederick, Colorado, to visit my best girlfriends from college.

When women get together, with no men around, they laugh. They belly laugh. They relax into themselves. They talk for hours to catch up on the important stuff - not sports, or jobs, but men and sex and feelings.

These are the people who accept me flawed, who actually laugh at my jokes, who make me think and bring me back to the reality I often forget (that I need to take care of myself), who challenge my assumptions about the sacrifices I'm making and help me think about what I need. Who are witty and crass and free.

We have a tradition. When S was married, I made a CD, called "Girl Power." Songs from Cyndi Lauper, The Dixie Chicks, Pat Benatar, etc. Then when I got married, C made "Girl Power II." Joni Mitchell, etc. Then when S & C visited last May, C made "Girl Power III." Melissa Etheridge, Pink, Carrie Underwood, etc. So for the DC trip, "Girl Power IV: Love Full Circle." Pink, Shania Twain, Sugarland, Blu Cantrell, etc. Music to last us through the times when we can't laugh together.

Here's a tribute to S & C and all the powerful women in my life, who I notice never crumble under all the crazy shit life throws at them:

Girl power is
going to work when you have breast cancer and showing your bald head and telling coworkers it's not that bad.
caring for your mom and your daughter and your rock-smashing neanderthal husband and trying to hold down a job all at once.
putting on a brave face for your grandson when you know the story won't end well.
building your own blue garden gate out of paint and cedar and willows.
being there for your brother when his child is in the hospital.
staying the strong one and dealing with being a new mom when your parents are splitting up.
pumping breastmilk at work and putting one foot in front of the other at your job when your heart tells you to be at home with your babies.
forgiving your daughter when she treats you horribly, because she is your child and you will always need her and you believe she can be better.
training for a triathlon and being a mother of two.

and for S - eternal generosity and utmost silliness.
and for C - undying loyalty and refusing to type smiley faces on any electronic correspondence.

and for all of us - faith in ourselves.