The WalMart Girls

In August, I lost my position at the insurance company. This was somewhat unexpected, but not devastating. I had grown tired of watching the Executive pat themselves on the back for doing fuck-all. I think, for example, that it is bad form and inexcusably insensitive, to send one of the Executive off on an all-expense-paid trip "to somewhere warm" to celebrate their anniversary at the company, and expect the office to applaud when one third of them have been told they will be in the unemployment line within two months because the company lost a crucial federal contract. It might just be me.

I was also sick to fucking death of listening to Hopalong talk about her adult-sized rocking horse in the cubicle behind mine. Because of my ever-growing disenchantment, I was able to approach unemployment with a good attitude. As Julie Andrews said in The Sound of Music, "When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."

(And I would just like to take a quick moment here and mention that Ms. Andrews' husband of 50 years, Blake Edwards, died of complications to pneumonia just before Christmas. Since then, I've been pondering how to woo her after all these years: any suggestions? I mean, this is my shot at one of the hottest GILFs in Hollywood next to Helen ("I Do The Queen Better Than the Fucking Queen") Mirren. But I'm stuck on how to go about it. And don't worry about the Little Hunneydoo: she says this is my "freebie".)

Okay, so after not letting the door hit me in the ass on the way out of the insurance company, I signed on with a temp agency, who, in early December, sent me to do some data entry at a company that deals in the long haul transportation of things like fuel, flour, concrete, acids, etc. The work is not rocket science and the company, being peripherally connected to the oil and gas industry, has enough money to treat us employees very well. First off, they pay better than the insurance company did. Also, we have been sent home early several times over the past month due to concerns over road conditions. I received a gift card from a local grocery chain for Christmas, even though I am a temp and had only been there two weeks at the time. Breakfast is provided every Wednesday and lunch the last Friday of each month.

Overall, I can say that I enjoy my work and hope to stay on permanently.

It's just...well, it's the WalMart Girls. These are the women I work with. They are all rural and married to tradesmen (mechanics, construction workers, home reno contractors, parking lot attendants). Their conversations typically revolve around which WalMart is the best (Vegreville? Or the one in Grand Prairie? It depends whether you need a good deal on a case of Kraft Dinner or a 48 pack of tube socks), sex, their kids, how much their kids' schools/daycares/biological fathers suck, their husbands, sex, the weather. Oh, and sex.

These women get excited when the new Regal catalogue appears in the staff room.

I was with one of the WalMart Girls in the staff room one day on a break as she was idly flipping through the Sears Wish Book that showed up at Christmas. Suddenly, her eyes got big and she said, in a hoarse whisper, "Omigod, that is so cool! I want that!"

She turned the catalogue around to show me a large resin-cast timber wolf statue, its muzzle raised to howl at the moon.

"I love timber wolves!" she enthused, then pointed to the photo next to it. "I love this, too"--and it was another resin-cast sculpture, this time of a large bald eagle, its wings outspread. Painted timber wolves raced across the eagle's wings in a moonlit snowy landscape.

I almost bit through my tongue fighting the urge to ask her where her tattoo was, and did she like Formula One or NASCAR.

These women speak with appalling ease of their most personal information. I know, in a comparatively short time, how many times they have each been married, how many children and step-children they have, and how often they have sex. Have I mentioned sex is a big topic with them? Yeah, it comes up at every single break and lunch time.

As a rule, I generally like the WalMart Girls, because although they are uneducated and somewhat rough around the edges, they are fundamentally decent, hardworking and pleasant people. I would probably not have these people as my friends outside of work, but I get along with them and usually enjoy their company. Certainly, I can say with honesty and appreciation that they have been very patient as I learn their system and have made me feel very welcome, even if I am a snotty bitch.

The only fly in the ointment is Teeth. Teeth is the senior biller and self-proclaimed "WalMart Queen." I call her Teeth (tho' not to her goofy face) because she is possessed of a set of choppers Secretariat would envy. She cracks her knuckles loudly and constantly so that I can hear it across the room. She fancies herself quite a wit, although what passes for quips are heavy-handed and completely predictable double entrendres about big black boxes and knobs, etc. She is really quite inappropriate, and several times since starting there, I have heard her tell the story of how she was a bully in high school.

It's not a behaviour that has changed at all.

Teeth is a bundle of insecurities, no doubt stemming from an overbite so gigantic, fellatio must be a supreme act of trust on her husband's behalf (or maybe the danger is part of the thrill, I don't know--yet). She insists upon having her own parking spot in a parking lot of unassigned spaces, her own chair at lunch--which is different from her chair at breaks--and god forbid you should make a mistake and sit or park in these places. Rather than inform you that you are in her favourite chair, she'll look at around at the WalMart Girls and say, "Well, she moves right in, doesn't she?"

And then when you move, she says, "Where are you going?"

Yeah. I don't like Teeth. At all.

She pronounces the word "necklace" as "neck-a-liss". She orders Wolf Woman around in a passive aggressive style that sets my (rather nice, perfectly aligned) teeth on edge. She gossips incessantly and ruthlessly, and makes it her business to find out as much about everyone in the office as she can.

I was--and am--therefore reluctant to share anything personal with her. It's none of her business to start with, we're not going to be friends, and I don't trust her to have the wherewithal to cope with a lot of what I have going on. I mean, can you imagine telling Teeth about the SCA ("Like knights 'n' stuff?" Sigh), let alone, "Sometimes I pretend to be a male vampire on the weekend?"

Yeah. Not so much.

Take, for example, her reaction when I said I am a vegetarian. She curled her lip (at least, I think she did, it's hard to tell when her lips never fully close over her Bugs Bunny incisors. Actually, given how much she talks, her lips never close. Period). Anyway, she curled her lip and said, "Weird. Why would you do that?" As if I had just suggested douching with Drano. I explained it was for health reasons (because people just get defensive if you mention it might also be an ethical choice), but for weeks afterwards, she would minutely examine my sandwiches, and ask, "Is that meat?" or "Do you eat eggs and cheese?"

Clearly, vegetarianism was outside of her limited rural WalMart experience, so you can imagine that I was scarcely eager to share with her my penchant for the fragrant and sensual delights of the Little Woman. And yet, my reluctance to share this part of my life drove her absolutely mad. She couldn't just come right out and ask me about my living arrangements; that would be rude. I guess. Not like judging my diet or anything.

But, because I have a stellar command of the English language (compared to an office full of men and women who routinely say things like, "I don't got nothin'," and other linguistic crimes), I was able to talk about my partner without ever once resorting to gender specific pronouns. I confess, more than half the fun of this exercize was watching her go completely mental, trying to find ways to get me to spill the beans.

It's not like I'm Stealth Dyke or anything. I have short hair, I'm squat, I wear comfortable shoes, no makeup and a tattoo of Joan of Arc on the inside of my right arm. As far as I'm concerned, I might as well just wear a t-shirt that says, "Ellen Degeneres--CALL ME!" or "I EAT PUSSY".

Tho' maybe not to work.

So anyway, one time during break, Teeth asked me, "So what does your significant other do?"

"Oh, what's it called now?" I said, feigning a mental lapse. "Pensions analyst! That's it! Yeah, hours and hours analyzing pensions. Boring."

"Do they like it?"

"The pay's good," I said.

Round One went to me. Round Two: a couple of weeks later, the WalMart Girls were all in a flutter about the annual staff do. They asked me if I was going.

"No," I replied. "A friend of mine is having her 40th birthday party and we're all supposed to dress like we're in the '40s. They've rented a theatre and getting it catered. It's gonna be great."

Teeth snorted. "She just doesn't think we're worthy to meet her partner!"

I smiled and thought, How unusually perceptive of you, Bucky.

Finally, last week, I mentioned the Little Woman's name in conversation with Wolf Woman (who I genuinely like). She repeated the name with a question mark at the end.

I paused for a moment. It has always been my belief that if people are asking questions, they are ready for the answers, and I wasn't going to deny my spouse in the face of a direct question.

So I said, "That's my wife."

There were a few moments of silence as Wolf Girl and Teeth nodded and made an attempt to act as if this revelation was old news to them while their eyesbrows lifted above their hairlines.

Then Teeth said, "I knew it."

(And I had a strange, yet probably accurate, fantasy of her running home that night to Facebook the rest of the WalMart Girls: "You guys all owe me five bucks! The new chick's a DYKE!")

Then Teeth added reassuringly, "You don't have to worry--we've had that here before."

"That?" I repeated.

Back-pedalling is fun when other people do it, and Teeth was going at it so hard, you'd have thought she was facing the brink of Niagara Falls in a rubber dingy with nothing more than a Dixie Cup between her and certain disaster.

"I don't mean 'that' like that," she said.

"You don't mean, 'you people'?" I asked.

"No, I mean, it takes all kinds, we've seen it here. I mean, we've had husbands and wives with other wives and swingers and stuff. It's no biggie."

And I'll tell you something, dear readers: ever since I came out to Teeth, she's decided she's my BFF. She stops by my desk to show me pictures on her phone, she solicits my advice on sentence structure in emails she's sending...I mean, she doesn't let me sit her chair or park in her spot, but for all intents and purposes, I have been accepted. Not merely tolerated, but accepted.

It's as if the WalMart Girls, and Teeth especially, are overjoyed to have this opportunity to show me exactly how liberal and sophisticated they are. I'm sure they go home and tell their friends and neighbours, in an urbane tone, "Oh, yes, we have a lesbian at the office." As if I was a funky new piece of office equipment. The new Canon Dyke. I copy! I scan! In colour! Fast! Efficient! No office is complete without a Dyke!

I'm telling you, I feel like the only black woman in a white office and everyone is so anxious to tell me how much they enjoyed Roots.