Things We Talk About In Bed

"Hey," I said to Brian last night, in the dark. "If we were contestants on The $20,000 Pyramid and the category was "Things Associated with Rednecks," what clues would you give me?"

"Skoal," he answered immediately. "Nascar. Country music. Big belt buckles."

"Hmm," I said. "Those are good. I was thinking of camouflage clothes. Wrestling. Smoking." I paused, then added, "An unreasonable love of American-made cars."

He laughed, then we thought of some more: Rebel flags. Skynyrd. Bumper stickers about Jesus.

These are the kinds of things we talk about in bed.

Workplace Tale 3: The Pursuit of Employment

This is a 3-in-one post about job interviews. The first two are my personal stories while the third is a friend's.

I used to be a bartender. I went to Georgia School of Bartending which offered lifetime job placement, so whenever I was out of work I could call them up and they'd send me on interviews. One time, they advised me of an opening at a strip club that I believe was called the KitCat Club. Of course as a bartender I would keep my clothes on, so I thought, What the heck, I might make good money at a place like that. At the time I had never set foot in a strip club in my life but the guy at the bartending school told me to just ask for Jane. I got there and walked up to the door, and I told the guy who was collecting the cover charge that I had an appointment with Jane. He called her. I was picturing every other female restaurant manager I'd ever met--middle-aged, overweight, stern. Well. Jane soon appeared: long, lean, brunette, and topless. I found it quite hard to have a conversation with her and ignore her large naked breasts. The bartending job had already been filled anyway, but I got an interesting experience for my trouble.

Another time, the bartending school sent me to interview at a country club. The guy who interviewed me was either the food and beverage manager or the golf pro--I can't remember which, but anyway in my memory he looks and sounds just like John Madden, if that gives you a mental picture. It was a pretty standard interview; fill out an application, tell a little bit about where you worked before, etc. Then the guy followed up by asking me, "You never got caught f---ing any ni-g-rs in the back of a car or anything like that, did you?" I seem to recall that the club was closed that day; anyway there weren't many people around, and this question made the hair on my neck stand up, it was so creepy. I was like, No, dude. Now let me out of here before you come unhinged anymore than you already are. Needless to say, I didn't take the job.

Last story: Brian and I once had a friend named Jerri. She was a large woman, both tall and heavy. She shared the story of sitting down for an interview in a leather chair, and ripping a fart so loud that her interviewer could not control his laughter. He held a manila folder in front of his face to try to hide his mirth, but unfortunately the sound was not the only problem: "The man needed a gas mask," Jerri said. She hauled herself out of the leather chair, ran for the nearest restroom and burst into tears. But the interviewer eventually got himself together and sent his secretary to get Jerri, and he gave her the job anyway.

Workplace Tale 2: Psycho Christian Wife

One time I worked at a company that manufactured styrofoam boards. It was a small company. I was the receptionist and general office chick; I entered orders into the computer and stuff like that.

We had three outside salesmen who called in to the office numerous times daily, so I quickly got acquainted with them. Two were in Atlanta and actually came into the office fairly often. The other, whose name was John, was based in Alabama and never came in. Although I joked around and talked trash with both of the Atlanta reps, the FIRST thing I was ever told about John was that he was a "born-again Christian." To me this pretty well equates to "tight-ass stick in the mud," so I was never any more than mildly friendly and courteous when talking to him.

Once a week I put together a package of various reports and things to mail out to each sales rep. I felt rather sorry for John, stuck off by himself in Alabama and having no camaraderie with the rest of us, so I used to stick a Post-It note on top of his reports. It would say....brace yourself..."Hi, John!" Sometimes when I was feeling especially wild, I'd draw a smiley face.

So one day the office phone rang, and when I answered it, a lady asked to speak to one of my coworkers [who, it turned out, she wrongly thought was my boss]. The coworker was unavailable, so the lady then identified herself as, oh, let's call her Chrissy Christian--John's wife.

"Oh, HI, Chrissy!" I said in delighted surprise. I was just tickled pink to get to talk to her, since unlike the other salesmen's wives, she'd never called in before.
Turned out, though, that Chrissy had an agenda. She wanted to know what was the meaning of these notes I was sending to her husband. What was my intention? She and John had discussed it, she said, and he assured her he had never given me any encouragement. She didn't like it, didn't appreciate it, and wanted to know what it was all about. Oh and by the way, how old was I?

I was about twenty-three or -four, I guess, and COMPLETELY MORTIFIED. The very idea of these two married people sitting around their living room having a heated discussion about my inappropriate (???) notes to her husband! The very idea of HER (not John, who worked there) trying to call my BOSS over it! What was my intention? A friendly hello, you crazy bat.

I assured her that she would NEVER have to worry again--which was an understatement, because I was a frickin' iceberg to her gonadally-challenged husband from that day forward. When I hung up after her call I marched straight into the office of the lady she'd been trying to call about me, and bawled my eyes out, I was so embarrassed and so mad.

I wonder sometimes if these two lovely Christian folks stayed married. For all their fine principles, I think you'd have to be the most nightmarish kind of an insecure psycho shrew to call your husband's job and mess up his relationships with his coworkers over a Post-It note that said "Hi."

COMMENT, damn you!

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Now please enjoy the first in my new series of anecdotes from my numerous jobs.