13 hours ago
Monday, May 10, 2010
Do I look like the kind of girl that shops at Home Depot?
Dear Home Depot Hiring Manager,
I admit that I am not the most conventional member of the Handy-Peep Community. I am fully aware of how I look... and what I wear... and that I carry designer handbags... I, unequivocally, embrace and celebrate my allegiance to spiked heels and Nordstrom sales. I suffer no ambivalence in regards to my self-image. And I make no apologies for any of this.
I am also a bit of rock star when it comes to fixin' shit. I was raised by an I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar type. Independence was ingrained in me from the start. I have never been under the assumption that a man is required to carry, or repair, or reach, or program, or lift, or hang anything. Helpful, they may be, but necessary, they are not. I can take apart a vacuum and find out why it smells of burning flesh. I can repair a leaky faucet with a pipe wrench and a smile (that's what she said). I can program one remote control to serve as the mother board for a bevy of electronics. I have a tool box... with tools... that I use...
Which brings me to today's experience at your fine establishment. Now, admittedly, I did forget to don my paint-stained coveralls. And I retired my favorite carpenter jeans in 1997... (er... 1999... stop judging me). But in my own defense, I left the stilettoes and winged eyeliner at my place of residence. And as I strolled through your oh-so-warm-and-welcoming warehouse of fix-it yo' damn self paraphernalia, I was confident in my ability to "look the part" as it were. And then I was greeted by Paul. Oh, Paul. A man of roughly 48 years. Orange apron, work boots, stand-alone molestache. I smiled... like I do... with nary a hint of confusion upon my face, and Paul, in all his asstard chauvinistic glory responded, "Are you lost? You don't look like you belong here."
To which I replied, "No, Paul, I'm not lost... but I appreciate your concern."
His retort? "Ha... hu... well the mall is just down the road if you're looking for directions..."
Now, as the years wear on, and the memories blur, I have found it sometimes difficult to remember certain details of certain events, and certain names of certain people, and what I ate yesterday... However, I am confident that I would have recollection of strapping myself in to Doc's magic Delorean and flux capaciting my way back to 1954. And yet, I have no memory of this... which leads me to believe that I remain safe and secure in 2010.
Confused by this unsolicited character assassination, I checked to make sure I hadn't accidentally left the house with my polka-dot apron fixed to my torso, or my hot rollers fastened snugly to my skull... (Okay, I won't lie to kick it, I don't have an apron... I can't even boil water) And alas, Home Depot Hiring Manager, no such costuming was present. Just a typical gal, I was, being verbally accosted by Paul VonSexistPrick.
So I am writing this letter as a sort of Atta-Boy... to you, mainly. I would like to assure you that your clientele are undoubtedly thrilled with your decision to hire a man with the kind of integrity and forward thinking that is so lacking in this community. Rest easy in the fact that the manhood of your patrons has not been compromised by the likes of mall rats and damsels running amuck in your lumber department.
Well done, my friend, well done indeed.
And PS- I will continue to shop for my home improvement needs at your establishment, just to be witness as Paul's testicles crawl up inside his body to die and he is forced to chest bump and shotgun beers to prove his dominance.