Pearl, You’ld Be Proud Of Me

Pearl, oh Pearl, you would have been so proud of me this morning. Really.

Pearl, the notorious roommate from my military days, was the reason I’ve decided to never live with friends. The experience of living with her was so traumatic, I learned that while flatmates may, on rare occasions, become friends, but friendship won’t outlast being flatmates.

Pearl was a neat freak, beyond belief. Not in the good way, that every roommate wants – the girl who cleans up and shuts up. She was fanatic and loud. With her fear of ants, insects, bugs and bacteria, she forbade us to bring food and drink into the room for fear we would attract unwanted, free loading roommates. Had she known I had stashed food in the trunk under my bed, she would have hung me, coating me with my own food, inviting the vultures to feast on my skin, barely gone cold.

With six girls in a four girl room, things were always messy, dirty, hair balling up under beds, sand coming in through the window. There was no way the room would ever stay clean, but once a week, on Monday nights we had to clean our room for inspections.

An hour and a half prior to inspections, Pearl was already in the room, pushing our bunk beds out of the way, lockers to one side, spilling buckets of soapy water and sponging it aside, moving all the furniture to the other side, more soapy water, more sponging. And then again. The first time was only to get all the dust and hair out. The second time was to clean. If we were running on schedule, she’d make us do it again, just to make sure. To make sure what?! Although it seemed utterly redundant and a waste of time, we played along, just to keep the peace. Everyone has those little things that drive them utterly mad and in order to live in peace with another person, you have to learn to respect those little things before it’s too late.

Today I cleaned my dorms, a ritual I reserve for special occasions and utter boredom. I moved all the furniture (ok, most of it…), swept, washed and washed again. And as I watched the hair balls reveal themselves from under my bed, I couldn’t help but think, “Pearl, you’d be proud of me!”

Then I moved on to do the kitchen, living room and bathrooms. It’s my turn to clean the common areas this week. I start from top to bottom, cleaning the stove top, microwave and toaster oven, brushing crumbs off the counter and finally getting around to washing the floor. I felt a heat flash as I saw the grease all over the stove top and as I sprayed the surface with some cleaner or other. I grabbed a cloth and started to clean up as I realized the gap between the bottom of the stove top and the rest of the counter. The sink, which was on the far side of the counter, seemed so far away and I brushed the grime into the gap. When it came time to washing the floors, instead of mopping up all the water that I spilled or sponging it to the bathroom, I discovered the gap under the fridge. Clean the toilet. No problem – just pour toilet cleaner, flush twice, smells clean. Windows. Spray with cleaner, wipe with yesterday’s newspaper. (Ok, I couldn’t find any short cuts for this one.) Within less than fifteen minutes, the apartment, at a glance, looked – and smelled – clean. Some things never change. So the common areas wouldn’t have passed Pearl’s inspection, but my room – well, you would have been proud, Pearl. I know I am.

We Were Expecting…

The calls came in. Two or three of them, but all I needed was one job offer. I’d accept almost anything that paid more than minimum wage and didn’t involve me explaining to large women that we sold junior sized clothing and maybe she’d like to try a XXL? [I, myself, as I always pointed out, was wearing a large.]

I had my first real job interview. It was in the business side of town, in a tall building. The interview was as a phone and computer operator for the Hawaiian telephone company. I wasn’t sure what the job entailed, but it didn’t seem too hard and I was happy that I had this interview.

I was excited as I wore slacks and a button down shirt, riding the bus downtown. (I ditched the bike so I wouldn’t arrive all sweaty.) I entered the building and the receptionist pointed me into the waiting room. I sat on a chair, feet firmly on the ground, hands in my lap, trying not to fidget too much. I waited. About five minutes later a woman in her late thirties or early forties came into the room. She called my name. [Here's the part where I mention that I've got a guy's name. In Israel, it's unisex, but somehow in the states, it's exclusively a man's name.] I stood up. She looked around the empty room and called my name again. I said “that’s me.” She looked at me and I repeated my name, reassuring her it was I she was looking for. “Oh,” she started to stammer, glancing down at my resume, “we were expecting a… uh, someone taller.” Her face flushed and I knew she meant “a man”. “I’m very tall,” I reassured her, “especially when wearing heels.” I joked at my own expense. I’d need really high heels to be taller than my 152 cm [5'1"] allowed me.

A few days later I got a call that they were interesting in continuing the hiring process and sent me to do drug tests. I wasn’t all that crazy about the company and the first woman’s lack of tact, but I went and did the drug test as requested. I still needed a decent paying job. Long hours at the store, knowing it really wasn’t worth the effort, wasn’t doing me much good.

Before I got the results from the drug test back, I got called into another interview. This one was at Decision Research Corporation and they were a small computer company. They were looking for a database administrator when they saw my resume. During the interview, they seemed pleased with my knowledge of SQL and Oracle and the fact that I served in the IDF’s intelligence unit. I was hired on the spot.

Next time the phone company called, I rejected their offer, telling them I had already found employment elsewhere. They seemed mad at the fact that I wasted their time and money, but I didn’t feel too bad about it.

I started working at DRC almost immediately. I was left on my own most of the time. It was a strange feeling of independence, mixed in with the fear that I would somehow screw things up and prove to be a bad employee. I kept the job at the store for a few more weeks, only working weekends. I didn’t want to burn my life line in case DRC decided I was a fluke.

Within a few weeks I was starting to feel more confident with my job at DRC and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be firing me soon. At the same time, I was still working weekends at the store, getting irritated by having to serve fat customers who wanted me to tell them how great that t-shirt looked on them and trying to convince them to buy more. One Saturday, an extremely large woman came into the store. As Kim, the other sales chick, was already busy with another customer, I tended to the large woman, explaining that we probably don’t have shirts that would fit her, but our shirts do make lovely gifts. She kept on insisting that she wanted to see so and so shirts in a medium. No way in heaven or in hell would she fit into a medium, but under Kim’s glare of “give the customer what she wants”, I gave her the shirts she requested. As she tried them on in the tiny fitting room, I could hear her grunts as she tried to wedge her way into the small shirts. Eventually, she came out, shirts fully stretched, the graphics distorted and said “Your shirts are shit. Look at this crappy quality.” I looked at Kim. She was dealing with a customer. “Our shirts are great quality,” I started. “We sell JUNIOR sizes! If you weren’t such a fat cow, you might be able to fit into one of our shirts, but you even refuse to try on a larger size – so what the hell do you expect?!” I found myself raising my voice until I was almost shouting. Kim had turned away from her customer and was glaring at me. I knew that look meant I was fired and so I just walked out of the store. Three days later I got a call from Kim, telling me I was fired and that they would appreciate it if I would stay away from the David & Goliath chain of stores. I could pick up my check at the end of next week, just don’t forget to turn my sales chick shirt in before I do.

I never did hand in my sales chick shirt. I did pick up the last paycheck, though. I also stole a bunch of buttons and stickers before I left. Nothing really expensive, but it was fun. They had a tank top that had two coconuts on the chest and said “Shake Your Coconuts!” (see my logo!) I really liked it, but I never did buy it. $20 for a tank top seemed a bit pricey, especially when workers don’t get a discount. Besides, they fired me, so I shouldn’t be giving them back my money, cause if you do the math, I would have had to work almost six hours in order to pay for the damn tank top! So not worth it.

Shake Your Coconuts!

I should probably explain why I took this as my blog title, aside from the obvious sex appeal theme…

Living in Israel means that upon your eighteenth birthday and having graduated from high school, you join the Israeli Defense Force (IDF, from now on) for a period of two years for females, three years for males. Upon completion of our military service, it’s very popular to take a long trip to South America or Australia/New Zealand. I did neither of the sort, yet opted for something slightly different. Being an American citizen (born and bred!), I decided I’d find work in the US. Using the internet, I started searching for jobs in Alaska. I’ve always liked the cold and Alaska seemed right up my alley. I sent resumes, hoping to get a job as a salmon fisherwoman or something along the lines of. Rejection letter after rejection letter flooded my mail box, claiming that as a female I had nothing to look for in Alaska unless I was planning on working as a stripper or getting married. Apparently they have a 4 to 1 male to female ratio and men were looking to get laid or married. The employers who sent me such letters weren’t doing much to help bring more women to Alaska, that’s for sure.

With less than a month left to go until the end of my service, I was getting antsy as I was still jobless and ticket-less.  And, just as I was about to give up, Randy, an old family friend, offered that I come visit him in Hawaii. Suddenly, I had a new plan. Get to Hawaii, find a job, find an apartment (I couldn’t stay with Randy too long…) and learn to surf. Now, not to keep you in suspense or anything, in short, I found a job, found an apartment and had quite an experience… A year of sin and fun in the sun.  But, Hawaii isn’t Vegas and “whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” just doesn’t hold the same water with Hawaii. These islands have equipped me with many tales and adventures to share with the world and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive the world of my swashbuckling stories and tall tales, mixed with much truth, a bit of flamboyant flair and twists and turns at every corner.

So, with this we begin.

Four days out of the army and I had my bags packed and a ticket to Hawaii. Without any concrete plans, I decided to look for a job doing anything. A few white lies and a month later, I found myself working at the David and Goliath Stupid Factory (Where Boys Are Made). Basically, a touristy, overpriced store selling juniors sized tank tops and t-shirts with funny sayings like “rock killed paper” and, my personal favorite, “Shake Your Coconuts!” Pissed that I didn’t get a workers discount, I never did buy anything at the store, although I did enjoy a five finger discount. My fingers found their way around postcards (we weren’t selling them anyway, just giving them out to customers who bought something), stickers (only the ones that weren’t really sellable),  buttons (ok, no excuse for this one, but I have a long-standing habit of stealing buttons and they had so many cute ones…) and when I left, I took my “sales chick” t-shirt with me. What did they expect if they paid minimum wage, didn’t give any benefits and by the time the government got a hold of their part and handed over mine, I was lucky if there was anything left to enjoy. I don’t know how anyone can live on such a salary.

That crappy job, as short lived as it was (not nearly two months), was a very significant part of my experience and later on I couldn’t get that shirt out of my mind (still kicking myself for not having bought it), especially since it would make a great title for my Hawaii memoirs.

So, here, mostly past, mixed in with a bit of the present, is “Shake Your Coconuts!” – a memoir.