Mamma brought me up to expect proper behavior in ladies. I used to go by that training for many years. Nowadays, I’m cosmopolitan enough to know that we live in a day and age where women are free to explore their masculine sides. Often in quiet moments as I observe the women make attempts to do this, I find their human candor to be oddly refreshing. There is no better example I can give than my female coworkers at the fast food business I work for.
With all their beauties and their crudities, their graces and their warts, their curtsies and their grunts, I find them to be absolutely adorable. No matter how much they may irritate or annoy me, I always consider them to be “my girls.” When the staff on shift is fifty percent male or more, they pretty much mind their P’s and Q’s. When the staff on shift is predominantly female and the males get busy with their own things, the females interact, clash, unify, coalesce, and move about with the disorganized beauty of the flows and currents in a vigorous brook.
Often men mistakenly believe that locker room talk is a “guy thing.” What they fail to realize is that while they are comparing notes about an individual woman and her relative willingness for certain activities, women compare notes about the relative lack of finesse, talent, or length that an individual man may or may not possess. Once you get them going, the women will describe this with all the frankness of a linebacker, while blithely shuffling fries into paper sleeves and capping lids on drinks with all the tender loving care of a mother feeding her child.
At times, the girls can really make me blush.
This afternoon “J,” one of my favorites, stepped behind the wall between the kitchen and the counter. She had a desperate, miserable itch that could be ignored no longer. She reached into her clothing, and with an earthy grunt, vigorously relocated offending undergarments into their proper position around sensitive places. Like a gentleman, I tried to be sure I gave her the privacy she needed by looking the other way and pretending not to notice. “Mama Kitty,” the female shift leader on duty at the time, shouted “J! Stop groping yer chick bits and get back up here to help out!”
Yikes. Never would I dare say such a thing, but I guess you can get away with it when it is woman to woman. By the way, they don’t call her “Mama Kitty” because she’s like a mother cat. One of the girls clued me in to the real meaning of the name, which is cruder and far more ribald.
“S” is another one of my favorites. For a brief time she used to be a model, but life and children got in the way of that dream, and she’s desperately trying survive while working the drive through. She’s part Latina, part Native American, part Caucasian, and the blend gives her a deeply enchanting, spellbindingly exotic look that still shines through her fast food hat, headphones, and baggy restaurant shirt. She has faded gang tattoos that have been reworked and redrawn into less stark images, yet when she takes change from the redneck construction workers, she stands tall with all the pride, majesty, and grace of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She is Mother Mary personified.
Whenever “S” opens her mouth to speak to the customers, I hear the kind of cheer, warmth and tenderness a new mother would give to her infant child. Then, on a dime, she can whirl around and give a stern warning to a female coworker who bothers her. “Back off, b*!” she says, and you realize that Mother Mary can command the very lightning of the sky. Today, she stepped up to the grill and laid out a line fresh beef to help Matt while he had to step away temporarily. “Mama Kitty” called her to help up front, and sweet little “S” shouted back “hold on a minute, I’m still playing with Matt’s meat!” She looked sideways at me and winked.
Of course, as I wax eloquent about what I love in these ladies, I conveniently forget all the times they sorely bother me. But with “my girls,” I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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