Taming the Wild Ego:In the Beginning

I'm an insanely competitive person.

Why am I like this? I was either 4 or 5-years-old when we were visiting my grandparents in New York, my father and I were on the sidewalk waiting for everyone else. Somehow we decided to race (my father at the time was a 25-year-old 6'3" man). I recall taking off down the sidewalk conscious of where the elm trees had lifted up the cement slabs and I remember I was winning. Until just steps before the finish line (well, steps for me, a step for him), my father went ahead and won.

In frustration I slapped his knee (that's how tall I was) and cried "You're supposed to let me win!"

As long as I live I will never forget him looking down at me and matter-of-factly saying:

"I will never let you win."

Okay, old man, it was game on from then on out.

At the age of 10 I was sent to bed for yelling at my father during family game night. I was thrown out of a Little League game for arguing with an umpire at 11. Once, out of boredom, Chris and I offered to play our little sisters in kickball; the three of them against the two of us. We gave them 25 outs an inning and a 50-run lead. Then we made the game last three days until we finally caught up to them and won. My best friend Joe played only one sport: tennis. He would routinely beat me. I paid for my own tennis lessons (never telling him I was taking them) so that I would be victorious. When video games came out, I went a month without doing laundry, spending four-weeks worth of quarters mastering the Galaga machine in the dorm lobby.

My furious need to win was cured by 14 little girls.

Marc, a good friend of mine, had a little girl who was going to play fastpitch softball for the first time. Marc wanted to be the head coach but his travel schedule wouldn't allow it so he asked if I would be the coach and he would be my assistant. I was fresh out of college and this sounded like it could be fun, so sure, I was on board.

Coaching little girls turned out to be one of the best things I ever did in my life: I learned to be the best person I could possibly be around them and they taught me to lighten the fuck up.

For example, I had three of my best players, Kate, Emily and Katelyn around me, explaining some finer point of footwork around the bases. They were looking at me intently, I knew I was getting through to them, imparting my baseball wisdom into their 9-year-old brains.

"Why is the hair on your legs a prettier color than the hair on your head?" Kate asked me suddenly.

"Wha? Huh?" I asked dumbfounded.

"Oooh yeah, it is!" Emily cooed pointing at my shins like they were kittens.

Katelyn looked from my head to my legs and back again.

"Do you dye your hair? My mom does. It looks like the hair on your legs. Why'd you leave the bad color on your head?"

I blinked rapidly trying to figure out how I lost the thread on my valuable teaching moment.

"I don't do anything to my hair. I was blond as a kid. I guess the hair on my legs hasn't caught up yet." The hair on my legs was goldy-reddish brown.

"Um, that's not blond," Kate pointed out.

"Okay," I said sternly, steering the conversation back to the point, "my hair isn't what we're talking about. We're talking about how you step on the base when you're catching the ball."

"Yeah but your hair is weird," Emily insisted.

I stared at the three of them. They stared back at me unflinching.

"Don't have your foot on the bag as you're reaching for the ball," I started again, demonstrating.

"Men have hairy legs," Emily announced.

"But why is it a different color?" Kate asked almost at the same moment.

"It's way curlier," Katelyn observed.

I blinked rapidly again. They stared up at me expectantly. I pounded the ball into my glove.

"Are we ready to continue?"

Kate squinted up at me.

"Look! In the sun the top of his hair is almost the same color!"

I headed back for the dugout.

Oh yeah, the Education of Coach Ian was just beginning.

Téa

I know the exact moment I fell in love with Téa. It was 11:27 PM. I know because I happened to be looking at the clock the instant my heart flipped in my chest like a hyperactive Romanian gymnast. Certainly I'd loved her before this even if I was hesitant to say it, but "in love" is a whole different level. And you'll shake your head when you find out what did it.

She was mad at me. Why she was mad is none of your business, but her anger and hurt were justified and I still cringe when I think of what an idiot I had been. I had to apologize. When I called she was walking her dog to calm herself down, ratcheting up my guilt at the thought of her in the dark with her ancient dog.


We talked quietly, working it out and she accepted my apology. You know that moment in a disagreement when it can go either way, when you can just shut it down or you can offer an olive branch and really move on? Yeah, she made a joke about my voice. I responded with a silly lisp and she laughed.


Téa has the world's greatest laugh. I'm not just saying that. A comedian stopped his show to laugh with her. People in movie theaters laugh harder at her laugh than they do at the movie. The bird mimics her laugh because he gets a huge response from it (the little attention whore). Her laugh is so good I have a recording of it on my phone, and at that moment, her laugh was like the sun coming out after a fierce thunderstorm. 


You think it was the laugh that did it? No, it was the snort that followed. Honestly. She laughed so hard she snorted at 11:27 PM which made me laugh even harder (and then snort) which in turn made her snort...you get the idea. 


I'd heard about people who "talk for hours." I thought that was a myth and worse, just stupid. Yeah, I was wrong. That laugh (and snort) unlocked something in me that I didn't even know was there. We ended up talking for over three hours about nothing in particular, but laughing with each other until we were in tears, hiccuping.


Life moves on and as much as I wish we could laugh like everything was new, it won't be that way again. But Téa, I still turn myself inside out to hear your laugh. On those rare times I can wrangle a snort out of you, the red numbers of my alarm clock jump right back in my mind's eye, reminding me of the moment I fell in love with you.

How not to Interview

One of the few joys of being in human resources comes from hiring people but lots of the biggest laughs come from interviews.

True Southern women
have virtually no lips.

One morning I was scheduled to interview Denise Marie McGuffey (name changed so she doesn't track me down and kill me). Called to the lobby, I met that particular type of woman you find in the South -- those whose gene pools remained untouched by carpetbagging Yankees. She was mid-40s, petite, fine boned with thin lips and a tiny nose. Her wavy hair was short and a pinkish red that doesn't occur in nature. I'm not sure where southerners find each other in order to keep producing ever shorter, thinner lipped, tinier nosed humans but I suspect that unless they introduce some bigger boned stock into the gene pool, "true" Southerners will eventually be fragile doll sized people who drink sweet tea through straws because they have no discernible lips at all.

But I digress.

The chairs looked
very much like this.

I offered my hand to say hello and she offered me the first two knuckles of her right fingers in return. I directed her back to the conference room where I conducted all interviews and offered her the squeaky Naugahyde chair with the good arm (being a gentleman I took the chair with the arm that fell off). 

"So, Denise, you're looking for work as a seamstress?" I asked amiably.

"No sir," she responded "I'm here to start working."

I liked her spunky response. Very positive. I smiled and nodded affirmatively.

"Well great. I see that you have sewing experience from several years ago, what have you been doing in the meantime?" I asked glancing over her application.

Where white trash go when the line at
Huddle House is too long.

"I worked at Waffle House," she answered with a bit of an edge. "Shouldn't I be clockin' in? Or you gonna pay me to talk to you?" 

I looked up. She was leaning forward slightly, her penciled brows beginning to furrow.

"Denise, even if I offer you a job today, you wouldn't start today, it's the middle of the pay period."

She hefted a paperbag onto the conference table. "I brought my lunch," she said matter-of-factly, as if that sealed the deal.

"Well, that's fine. But you aren't starting today, I haven't even interviewed you yet." I leaned back cautiously waiting for the chair's trick arm to send me lurching to the floor.

"The boss man hired me already and I'm ready to get going. I got bills to pay," she insisted.

Now I was annoyed. If Jack, the plant manager, had already hired her I was wasting my time. I excused myself and hunted him down.

"Did you already hire Denise McGuffey?" I asked, handing him her application.

"Fuck no, I don't hire people. You do," he grumbled handing the application back. 

"She said you hired her."

"Bullshit. I told her we were hiring, not that she was hired."

I went back to the quiet of the conference room and sat down. 

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," I started.

"There's been no misunderstanding," she interrupted hotly. "I start today. I brought my lunch."

I lifted my hands in a calming gesture. "The plant manager said he told you that we were hiring, not that you were hired. I do the hiring, not..."

"Well he's a liar!" she huffed, leaning back and folding her arms daring me to disagree. Her lips at this point had all but disappeared.

At this point my own lips probably went MIA in consternation.

"Denise, that's not really the way to go in an interview, calling the plant manager a liar."

She slapped her hand down on the conference table.

"Well he is! He said I start today! I brought my lunch! I have bills to pay. I am starting today."

I placed her application on top of the new-hire paperwork I had so hopefully brought in with me at the start of this fiasco.

"Denise, this interview really isn't going well for you."

Her hands reached for the stack of papers like a cat reaching for a scratching post. As she started to speak in low tones her fingers contracted claw-like drawing the helpless papers in like an accordion.

"I have bills to pay. My daddy lives with me and don't work. I got a kid, a daddy and a mortgage. I got a car payment and bills. I am starting today."

"No, you're not," I said standing up.

She stood up too, her knuckles turning white as she choked the shit out of the new-hire papers.

"I hope you lose your job," she hissed. "I hope you lose your house and your car and your daddy moves in with you so YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE!" She fairly spat the final words.

"Yeah, okay, I think we're done." I moved to open the door and wrangle her to exit.

She stormed out swinging her lunch bag.

"I hope you lose your job, you car, your house, your health. I hope you die!" she hissed as she left, the word "die" stretched so that it had three syllables.

You'd think that'd be the end of it, right?

Not so much.

A week later I was summoned to the lobby to interview Marie Turnipseed. I opened the lobby door and was stunned to be confronted by Denise Marie McGuffey.

Maybe it was just her evil twin.

"You're Denise McGuffey" I said in shock.

"No I'm not." she answered.

"Yes you are. You came in last week."

"No I didn't." 

I stared at the application. The experience was exactly the same (remember, I recall what I read with absurd accuracy).

"Yes you are. You're just using your middle and maiden name."

"Prove it!" she challenged.

(Seriously, she demanded that I prove she was the same nut who wished me dead the week before. Like I wouldn't remember that little episode.)

"We're not hiring." 

She deflated like a month-old party balloon. 

"Oh damn it," she sighed turning on her heel and leaving.

That was the day I started my "black list" the receptionist kept of social security numbers I would never, ever hire. It was also the day I had my number unlisted.

Fritos, Nigger

Judy came to me at 12:20, ten minutes before her lunch was about to end. She came into my office and shut the door behind her. I always had an open door policy so her walking in wasn't unusual, but her shutting the door was.

"Rosa called me the 'N' word," she said more upset than angry.

I was stunned. Rosa was one of our nine Hispanic seamstresses and easily the most popular with the entire staff. She acted as my translator; she sometimes made me lunch; I had given her son my old Playstation 2. In other words, I felt that I knew her and this was out of character.

Then again, Judy was one of my most respected associates. She was the person who kept me informed of what was happening on the plant floor that managers might not otherwise be aware of. She wouldn't lie.

"What happened?" I asked calmly.

Judy sat in the chair next to my desk.

Mmmm, Fritos.

"I asked her what she was having for lunch and she said 'Fritos, nigger.'"

I blinked rapidly in surprise.

"That doesn't sound like her," I stammered.

Judy fumbled with her fingers looking more upset.

"I know. I thought she was my friend."

I stood up and walked back to the break room. Obviously the news of Rosa's slur had spread and a tiny angry group women resembling a clutch of clucking hens had gathered by the microwaves looking at Rosa like she was a snake in their midst.

I slid into the booth across from Rosa wearing my best sincere face.

"Hey," I said calmly "did Judy ask you what you had for lunch?"

"Si," she answered, looking a bit confused and concerned.

"What did you tell her?"

Mmmmm, frijoles negros.

"Frijoles negros."

I kept a straight face and motioned Judy to sit with us.

"Did she say 'frijoles negros?'"

"That's about right," Judy answered.

"That means 'black beans' in Spanish" I smiled, pointing to some leftover beans in Rosa's lunch container.

Judy looked in turns relieved and indignant.

"Well, I don't think she should be saying 'negro' though. People will get upset."

"That's the word for black in Spanish," I shrugged. "I can no more write her up for saying 'frijoles negros' than I could write you up for telling her you clean with Spic and Span."

Judy made a little O with her mouth. "I gotcha," she chuckled.