Lydia O'Lydia, Ph.D.

I was promoted a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, into a technical field from sales. Apparently I did such a good job reorganizing and streamlining my company’s quoting system that they want me to take it over completely. This is both astonishing and worrisome. I have never considered myself terribly astute in technical subjects, being a girl and all. However, as some of my readers may know, I have an overblown sense of my own potential. I have never, not once in my life, thought to myself “That is over my head and I could never comprehend / do it.” This is sheer folly, and gets me into trouble from time to time, but life would be no fun without occasionally diving head first into the unknown, damning the consequences. I am naturally reckless, and I like me that way.

I work for a company that has been in existence, in one form or another, for over twenty years. It is a forge facility, well-known and respected in the aerospace industry, that manufactures blades and vanes for turbine engine applications for users like Boeing, Rolls Royce, Pratt & Whitney, Lockheed Martin, Honeywell, and General Electric. It is non-union, as it has been for ten years or so, and the employees are, by and large, fairly bright individuals with unavoidable proletariat mentalities and no spokesperson. Not surprisingly, almost all of them are male and white, and have been throughout the company’s history (we have one brown man working third shift and one other full time woman, who works final inspection).

I am neither particularly male, nor particularly white. I am only mostly white. But my point is this: I am the first woman to ever break into a technical position in this company.

This is a ridiculous amount of pressure. Believe you me, I have scrounged every book I could find on relevant subjects and spend hours and hours of my free time studying. I pore over the driest text I have ever read on the subject of manufacturing processes and materials on my lunch break. I study the minutiae of blueprints and try to apply what I have learned to establish a working process (saw, deburr, glass lube, extrude, coin, trim, FPI, sonic inspect, etc.) and determine how much it will cost while examining all risk factors associated with manufacturing the part and how they will impact future profitability. While training to take on this new position, I am training other people to take over my old position; when not doing this, I put out corporate fires and pacify angry customers with hastily learned diplomacy. Exciting stuff.

How did this happen? Never in my young life did I ever think I would either be doing what I do, or working so hard at it. What do I have to prove, and to whom do I want to prove it?

When I’m not studying subjects related to my job, I read “The Age of Faith” by Will Durant, part of a twelve book series on the history of the (mostly Western) world. It is five inches thick, and I have about three inches to go. I really, truly enjoy his writing. I have always loved history, especially Medieval Europe and the Middle East from 300 A.D. to 1300 A.D. But I still have to wonder if there is some ulterior motive lurking deep in my psyche. Am I just trying to impress someone?

What’s a girl who was born with above average intelligence and below average opportunity to do (the mean IQ is 100 – think about that for a moment and then get in your car, merge on to the nearest freeway, and be very afraid)? I love to learn, and greedily snatch up every opportunity that comes along to do so. But more than that, I want People to classify me as a nerd. I have to shush the little girl inside of me so often, when she tries to pipe up and say “Pay attention to me! I’m smart too, really I am!” Instead of letting her speak, I channel her into a pretentious writing style and self-aggrandizement. Ultimately, my strategy backfires.

Given my choice, I would pursue a Ph.D. Extra letters after my name would, I think, assuage the inner child desperate to be noticed, and would give me an excuse to write pretentious, dry papers all day long. Maybe then, everyone would know that I am not just a girl, but one with a sharp mind and the degrees to prove it. But this would only be an exercise in proving to People what I already know. And so I will be an armchair scholar, and occasionally I will have an opportunity to speak up and prove that I know what I am talking about. Unfortunately, it is just not as much fun to impress just myself. It is as lonely as throwing a party for yourself. People will come, but mostly just for the free booze.

Having Made Her Choice

Having made her choice, she reclines on a couch
With a contrived and sultry smile.
And all the men around her leer and prod;
Answer her charming timidity with empty assurances.
She wears a silky robe, overpriced and polyester;
Minces gingerly across the shag
To where she will toss her untrained wealth before
Twice-nominated Woody Rockhardt.
Even in skin, she hides close within;
Exposes only what can be seen.
She knows what she wants and how to get it;
And she is strong enough to write the check.

Denied the dignity of a bed, she mounts the hearth.
Glittery marble marks her flesh,
And calluses scratch and grab and pinch
And smack and spank and knead
And fire crackles and burns and flickers
And she thinks why, why, why, why, why
And stop and start and stop and start and
Not loud enough, get rougher, work harder
No not that way oh yeah oh yeah you slut
And then it is over.

Bruised, she collects per diem and goes home to her de-clawed cat.



Or this version...

Having made her choice, she undrapes a velvet body; warm, young, damp, brief.
All the men around her leer and prod;
answer charming timidity with assurances.
She doffs overpriced polyester; minces gingerly
across the shag; tosses untrained wealth at the feet of some guy called Woody Rockhardt.

Even in skin, she hides close within;
exposes only what can be seen. Knows what she
wants; how to get it; how to write the check.

Denied the dignity of bed, she mounts the hearth. Glittery marble marks her flesh,
and calluses scratch and grab and pinch
and smack and spank and knead
and fire crackles and burns and flickers
and she thinks why, why, why, why, why
and then it is over.
Bruised, she collects, forgets, and goes home
to a de-clawed cat named Georgie.

I submitted this version to poetry.com. I couldn't help it!!!

Cheese Incarnate

The other night I sang a jazz gig, a Symphony on the Green date at the *bleep* golf course in *bleep*. Two other singers were scheduled to be there, but one couldn't make it and he had a sub. The sub got up to sing, and his performance of "The Lady Is a Tramp" inspired the following ditty:

He’ll tell you he’s Catholic but it’s easy to see
He’s really a Czech Jew from Dallas and he
Will answer to Frank, or Tony, or Dean
But he’s not smart enough to be that mean -
Or good, but he’ll make you wish for Las Vegas
And just ‘cause his name isn’t Randy Ortegas
Doesn’t mean he can’t croon with the best of them, baby,
He wants his bottle and he don’t mean maybe.

His slickery head’s a combover deluxe
And his watery eyes suggest goiter or flux.
He’s got the moves kinda like Sammy, but white.
He could almost be charming - almost, but not quite.
He calls women sweetheart and angel and toots,
And has leathery skin like he worked a kibbutz.
As dapper as Dan and as simple as Simon
He’s snapping his fingers regardless of timin’.

Any Joy Will Do

Few things are more satisfying to me than the vast, unlimited workspace of a new MS Word document, untarnished by any mark except for a blinking cursor. It winks at me at regular intervals as if to say “Now?...Ok, how about now?...Please can we now please please please”; a fine substitute for a clean, well-lighted space, and a canvas that can be filled or cleared with the touch of a key. I get excited when I see it, as if it were Christmas in a world in which I actually liked Christmas.

But this is about neither MS Word nor Christmas. This is about joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

Where does one find this elusive quality? C.S. Lewis had a thing or two to say about that. My humble offering is dross by comparison, but he’s gone on to his Great Divorce and so I shall not have to risk his rebuttal.

Joy is completely subjective! This concept has excited me since I figured out its relative truth, which is in itself a sort of joy. But before knowing where to find it, it is necessary to define it, or risk not recognizing it when it oozes winsomely across one’s path, as it is wont to do. Joy is tricky and likes to hide.

I found joy while painting eleven yards of silk ribbon in variegated colors one evening last week. I cut the ribbon spool into 5 feet sections and stretched it across my kitchen from utility rack to cupboard, using rubber bands, safety pins, and hair claws (WWMD?). My kitchen looked like Shelob’s Lair when I was finally ready to paint, but when I stepped back to consider a plan of attack, it hit me square between the eyes: I get to turn white ribbon into w h a t e v e r c o l o r I w a n t ! ! ! Right at my elbow, on the counter, competing for space with unwashed dishes was a box of 12 luscious dyes with which to create innumerable shades and tints upon simple strips of silk. I painted for about three hours and had more fun than was reasonable for a woman my age. I felt like a messy child with a box of Crayola watercolors, cheap white paper and a waterproof dropcloth. It doesn’t even matter that my project turned out great – oh, the beautiful ribbon! – what matters is that I tapped a great big keg o’ joy right there in my dirty kitchen instead of cleaning it and making dinner like I “should” have (I ordered pizza).

What shall I do with the product of my joy? Why, I will wind and weave it into wondrously wild bouquets with which to decorate a silk charmeuse pillowcase (deep periwinkle, once I’ve joy’d it) for my niece’s 10th birthday. I wonder if she will feel it as she sleeps, and have beautiful dreams? I hope so.

Maybe I am goofy, sappy, and simple minded to be so thrilled by the process of painting ribbon. My mind is sharp, I am fashionably complicated, and it should take more than this to get me off. But in the end, the colors almost made me cry, and it’s a little easier now to understand why God even bothers.

Whatever. I bought more ribbon. This joy stuff is addictive.

K_sra's Questionnaire

Ten Questions for My Readers
1. Did you take full advantage of your college years?	What college years?
2. What was the weather like during your first kiss?	Sunny, warm, and tense.
3. Peanuts or pretzels?	Peanuts
4. Do you have eye boogers right now?	Suprisingly, no.
5. Most bizarre crush:	Benjamin Netanyahu
6. Video game you most rock at:	Any Mario or Tomb Raider (except the last one, TR VI, which is from the pits of Hell)
7. Most frequently called person in your life right now:	God
8. You are facing open heart surgery. What do you do to prepare?	Eat today, for tomorrow we diet.
9. What name, if any, did you want to have more than your own?	Genevieve. It would be pretentious to name myself that, but if my parents had done it, it wouldn't be my fault and I could get away with it. I would roll my eyes heavenward and sigh when people commented, but secretly, I would feel like a princess.
10. What is the most frightening thing you have ever had to do?	Strike out on my own.
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

Twenty Steps Upon the Back of Julius

If I thought for an instant that you did
Not care, I would not have bothered to
Dig deep into your custard, to
Find a plump fig of John-ness;
And I would not, I would
Not have spat out mine
Into your hand
With all the
Juicy
Truth.
But then,
I might have
Anyway, since
All I ever had
Was a brother, and this
Is quite a pudding indeed.
Bring us a figgy pudding
And bring it right now, said the WASPs,
But even they could never rush it;
Their spider fingers will never crush it.

Survey (Thanks, Brian)

Given a choice between Olive Oyl and Popeye, which would you save from the burning wreckage of a sinking ship?	Popeye
Blue is your favorite color. Explain.	Because it isn't orange.
What is the worst thing you've ever eaten?	Crow
When was the last time you swam unsupervised?	I have never done that.
Do you have a favorite mistake? If so, explain.	How to choose one out of so many? Why are you so nosy?
Under what circumstances should prayer be allowed in public schools?	Apparently any circumstance except those involving Christians.
Which is more annoying: an insistant cat or an apathetic one?	Both are equally annoying.
Is there anything that is wrong to imagine?	No.
How do you define good poetry?	Something I either did not write or did not overthink.
Which is preferable: a quick wit or a slow temper?	Wit, dammit! Now you're pissing me off!
You love J. S. Bach. Explain why in 5/7/5 haiku.	DAH-na-NAH! DAH nah / Nah-nah nah...NAH! J.S. Bach / Toccatta and Fugue.
Why not't orange?	Why not't, indeed.
How old should you be before drinking alcohol?	at least 6
Should penalties for marijuana possession in the U.S. be strengthened or relieved?	Relieved. It's obviously not working, so try something else.
How much money would it take to get you to eat a live, angry African Cave Spider?	50.3k and a good life insurance policy
How much water do you drink per diem?	1 liters. Carpe Agua
I like my men like my cocktails: neat, but with a twist. How do you like yours?	Breathing, tolerant, and funny.
Compose a limerick about facial hair.	There once was a towel-head from Araby / Who was losing control of his Satrapy. / He scratched at his beard / So hard, that he feared / He’d need follicle-replacement therapy.
What is your favorite ethnic food?	hummus
What type of person is the most annoying?	Those who don't like me.
Which government leader deserves most to be shot or at least muzzled?	If Kerry wins, that's a given.
Where in the world IS Carmen San Diego?	On my computer.
Which Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream flavor is most inappropriately named?	Anchovy Delight
Assume an spherical cow. Discuss.	It's round, it moos. In my head, it floats like a balloon.
Are hamster exercise balls a good or a bad idea? Why?	A good idea until the thing pees, and then it's a big furry, damp, stinky mess that bites.
How many times will you let a person interrupt you before snapping at them in fury?	I'm usually the one interrupting.
What was your last deep thought?	Boxing is a lot like Ballet, except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.
Is a person who plays a mean kazoo a musician?	As opposed to a kind kazoo?
Assume there is no such thing as white. What color would your walls be?	Tuscany Red, Flirty Orange and Tickle-Me-Peach
On a scale of 1-10, anathema being 10, how gross are dirty fingernails?	Pretty much 10.
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

I'm So Happy But I Can't Stop Crying

I made a rather outstanding jambalaya last night with 2 pounds of shrimp, a pound of chorizo and a whole lotta rice. I boiled the raw shrimp in Louisiana hot seafood boil spices that came in a neat little packet. Dump in pot, add water, boil. This seemed like a simple project until the shrimp were done and I realized I had to peel them.

Shrimp are nasty and creepy looking, but they do taste good. I’ve never liked peel and eat shrimp; to me, it is like sitting down to a big plate of juicy, chitinous insects and dismantling them before devouring them in a single bite. Ew. So usually I buy my shrimp pre-cooked, de-veined, un-shelled and properly neutered, thus missing out on a wonderful Cajun tradition, but this time, I bought the suckers raw. They had split shells and were already de-veined, so I can’t claim to have gone full bore, but I did pull their legs and shells off. I say again, ew.

This explains why my eyes hurt like a sonofabeeyatch today. I washed my hands several times, but apparently the pepper oil (if I knew how to make that a link to Belfry, The, I would) did not wash off, because this morning when I tried to put in my contacts I was in for a painful and long-lasting surprise.

Lesson learned: next time, wear gloves.

“Now we know!” said the stupid children.
“And knowing is half the battle,” answered Duke with serene condescension.

I Just Want to Be the Boss

A while ago I interviewed with an employment agency for a spot in a new entity being formed in Muncie due to the award of a government HUD contract to a local real estate and property preservation company. I passed the initial screening interview done with the employment agency and had my first interview with the actual company yesterday. There were 3 job placement companies hired to cull the city of Muncie for qualified applicants, each choosing 45. So I made the first cut out of the initial 135 hopefuls and made it to the 2nd round.

I'm not sure I even want to make the 3rd round.

The first interviewer was the owner of the real estate agency, a woman who looked to be in her 60's, graceful, confident, and unerringly polite. The kind of woman I want to be when I grow up. We had, I think, immediate rapport as I answered her questions. I could see the tell-tale signs of camaraderie as I described my current work environment which consists of 48 jackass men and 2 full time women (there are 2 other part time women). I would like a little diversity, please. I also want a clean work environment that doesn't ruin my nice clothes so I can actually look professional again, which I have always enjoyed over wearing jeans every day. I know, most people would think me crazy, and I am, but I grew up wearing skirts and I prefer them. One of the questions she asked was "What sort of thing is most likely to really get under your skin and make you angry?” I answered immediately: "Disrespect". Her eyes flared with instant approval. Score!

The second interviewer was not so easy. In fact, I thought about it all evening because he asked some very thought provoking questions, and was also a shining example of exactly what type of person I do not ever want to work for. Let me describe him in some detail, because this is a man I don't ever want to forget. I'm not sure why, but I think because he taught me a valuable lesson in the short span of an hour.

He looked like Aragorn with a comb-over after 10 solid years of a steady diet of bourbon and cigars. It's not that he was bald and was trying to cover it. He just for some odd reason chose to part his hair way, way too far over on one side, about two inches above his ear; a dead giveaway of a man with little aesthetic eye. I knew innate creativity wasn't going to help me here. More than his appearance, his manner was exceptionally unattractive. He was direct, but what’s not to like about that? He was arrogant, but so am I and I can dig it. Maybe he wasn't a chauvinist, but that was my impression.

He started off the interview with a modicum of small talk, a little pleasant laughter, comfortable enough. Then he took a minute to look over the test I had taken at the employment agency that was probably the "meanest" test I've ever taken. Every question was a trick, and they didn't warn me. Even so, I scored better than most. Rather than commenting on what I got right, he immediately launched into what I missed, explaining condescendingly what each question I answered incorrectly was supposed to measure. Each one was a lesson in semantics - had I known this going in, I would have applied everything I learned from my logic classes to pick each question apart. Of course, one of the questions I missed was "How many feet are in a mile?” and I still don't care, nor can I think of an instance where I ever would, unless it would be that stupid test. He tried to make me feel intellectually inferior, in a poking, put-you-off-guard way, so you can imagine just how hard he put my back up. I was determined not to let this bastard get the best of me.

The interview degraded into an hour-long test of wills and poker faces. He told me he couldn't decide whether I was emotional or logical. The personality test I took at my first interview put me evenly between the two, and he was trying to decide which way I leaned. He put the question to me directly, and I declined to commit, saying that I believed either extreme was to be avoided, that I sought always for balance. He was instantly intrigued, and also instantly determined to tip the scales one way or the other. He proceeded to try to crack my composure and make me slip up. It was on.

He told me right up front he was logical and almost totally unemotional, which I didn't buy for a moment but I smiled and nodded anyway. Not changing his tone of voice a mite, he said, "This is what I sound like when I'm angry. This is how I sound when I'm amused, and this is how I sound when I discuss politics. I'm like this no matter what". I had to keep my gaze from flicking down to his left ring finger to see if he was married. I did a little bit later when it wouldn't look suspicious, and he wore a college class ring. I wasn't surprised.
Directly after this, he leaned back in his chair, tipped it back and put his feet on the desk nonchalantly. He casually asked "This doesn't offend you, does it?" Another test. I answered "Of course not. It's your office." Implying that anywhere else, and under any other circumstances, yes, it would offend me. In fact, it did offend me because it was rude, but his entire demeanor was rude so it was not surprising and not worth tipping the scales for.

I think he tried so hard to get under my skin because he wanted so very bad to put me in a box, to make me a simple equation that he could weigh against all the other applicants he interviewed that day, to make sense of me and put me in perspective so he could determine easily whether or not I would work for his huge, new enterprise. The interview would have gone much, much more smoothly if I had let him slide me into the Emotional, Irrational Woman pigeonhole he had prepared before I even walked in the door. I think he would have liked me a lot more if I had bent to his will. He said he couldn't figure me out, and that was really unusual for him because he could almost always peg people within 5 minutes of meeting them. He alluded to this no less than 3 times. I replied differently each time but always with the same theme of "What you see is what you get".

One of the most valuable things I learned from this experience is that I will probably never have an interview more difficult or more unpleasant than that one. If I can perform well, keep my cool and not get rattled after an hour of a man with 2 masters degrees (computer science and history) and a long, long history of success on a major scale trying to find my weakness and exploit it so he could fit me into his scheme of the world...I can take on anyone after this. Bring it, bitch.

In retrospect, my tactics probably will cost me the position, in part because I specified I won't accept anything less than $x/hr. He explained to me that while he wasn't trying to talk me down, he had a limited number of positions open that would qualify for that salary, and that he wouldn't call me for anything less than that. I nodded and smiled coolly with a look on my face meant to say, "I know what I'm worth, and if you hire me, you'll find you got a bargain." I went for calm confidence, no fidgeting, and polite reserve, but worked in a generous touch of friendly warmth that may or may not have been manufactured to put him at ease.

I probably came off as dodgy and cordially adversarial. I found myself wanting so badly to argue with him, and had we been having this discussion over a pint of Guinness, oh the debate we could have had. I know I intrigued him, and the satisfaction I would get from getting him on my turf and f*cking with his mind would be triumphant.

I can't say if I'll get a 3rd interview or not. Maybe he's looking for cardboard cutouts that he understands. Maybe he doesn't want the risk of a free radical who looks soft and prizes kindness while speaking with more intelligence, logic and reason than he is used to in a woman. And all the while I struggled to put him in a box of my own making, one of the arrogant prick who is ungodly good at running a business. Immensely capable of making an enterprise work and making money hand over fist, but one who leads by intimidation rather than inspiration. In short, an excellent manager of business, but a terrible manager of people.

People like that don't understand, or simply don't care about, the value of making people like you. That a little kindness sprinkled on the top goes a long way. You get farther with a good rapport, so why throw away such a valuable tool that lets you manipulate people into doing your will without letting them know you are doing it? It's simply a different approach, I guess, but my way takes less energy and is therefore better.

All in all, I'm considering the idea of shining where I am. Making the most out of a job I already have and finding a way to mold it into something I can live with. That in itself should be enough challenge to keep me busy for a few more years. I have proven to myself that it's not the job I hate, it's the lack of authority to back up the work that I have to do. I herd managers, but I am not one myself. The question is, am I willing to do what it takes to become one?

I just want to be the boss. That's all.

Hold On To Each Other

Some of us took the injunction too literally, or just too far. What better place to carry on an illicit amour than against the colorful backdrop of Lake Kinesset - also known as the Sea of Galilee? Kiddish wine laid out on Shabbat banquet tables by the bottle were just too tempting for the sticky, oppressed fingers of an Arphod youngster, just as being half a world away from a waiting spouse presented an irrestible opportunity for the bored housewife who found an associate pastor all too appealing.

I wonder how many affairs were begun and perpetuated during Israel trips? I know of at least five without even trying to remember. A romantic place, it's true, so there was that to content with. But I also wonder how many affairs were begun by the simple following of that often repeated command: Hold on to each other.

The streets are slick, damp with camel piss as often as human, if one may judge by the effluvescent (made-up word!) aroma. Cobblestones are uneven, and hawkers employ fierce, often physical tactics to peddle their wares. The footing is treacherous almost everywhere you go, and in Jerusalem especially. So this bit of advice made sense, on one level.

It also made for quite a lot of contact between men and women; an easy excuse in an arena where "women love the women and men love the men" was de rigeur. I can't hug my male friend hello? Well then, I will cling ferociously to his arm as I totter down the steep, bumpy road leading to the Lion's Gate, and I will press my right breast constantly against him and pretend to slip so I get the full contact treatment now and then.

Also, repeated commands to stay in our rooms between services and touring so that we were properly "rested" probably did not always get quite the desired effect. It was just too easy.

Even easier was grabbing a couple bottles of sickly sweet wine from the buffet table and heading down with a friend down to the bottom of a stairwell and getting well into our cups while everyone else was at dinner. I know for a fact she got some play that night, meeting up with another 15 year old on the trip from some other church that was easy enough on the eyes. I bet he really held on to her.

And I can't forget the 36-year-old tour guide who had a thing for young girls, that ever-so-solicitously helped me watch my footing from midnight to around 2:00 A.M. one morning in Tiberius. More treacherous than the cobblestones was his 5 o'clock shadow that had left quite a rash on my face by the time I got back to my room.

I was put on house arrest for the rest of the trip, and he was fired, all because we were following a bit of sound advice, taken slightly out of context.

The real irony of the statement in question was that it was invariably followed by anecdotal evidence stating that 90% of all injuries sustained from falling occur in the bathroom.

Hold on to each other, indeed.

Bethlehem Has the Best Food

O little town of civil unrest
where rubber bullets bounce
off gummy smiles that suffocate
within angry nests of facial hair;
small village once that now sprawls heavy
with grit and pathos and smoked Byzantium:
your churches ache for clear skies,
too shaded and God-locked by oceans
of spilled religion.

How still we see thee lie in almost death
while bagel vendors tear bread apart
to show us all the good white inside.
Pink and brown, your children scrabble
in stony ruts none remember making
that stretch the length of damp streets.
Dark chips of oil-rich eyes peer at me,
asking stoically

"Do you pray for a piece of Jerusalem?"

And the bells ring at the Nativity,
untold years of holy scent still roiling
in grim communion, blessing the bones
of Crusaders' ghosts that lie beneath her walls.
A call to prayer, piercing sweet rise
of an old man's faith lances keenly
through the smoke, and all who listen
face the East and wonder
when is lunch.