Mommy Dearest

Better Engineering is well, better, way better.  I can’t believe I’ve been there for almost nine months, almost enough time to birth a baby. No more Endless Engineering, no longer being made to feel dumber than a rock, and best of all no fantastically fake Beer Girl. My new manager, Super Boss, tells me that I’m freaking amazing and allows me to run with scissors through the halls.   They even hired me a couple of 12-year old engineers to do a lot of the heavy lifting who are practically peeing their pants in their giddy excitement of being on a grownup team. 

But recently I have noticed a shift in how the professional world perceives me now.   I had a field meeting for a roadway design project that is located on tribal land with official state transportation oversight.  A major requirement for the visit where you play in traffic is to wear an attractive safety vest and hardhat. Stunning visual, me and helmet hair.   One of our sub consultants, Little Kenny, was far from that. Not only did he have to borrow a vest, we practically had to zip two of them together to straddle his massive girth.  The tribe gracious invited us to lunch at their casino where Little Kenny visited the buffet, three times to the point where the waitress offered him a bib.  Burp, I was afraid he was going to swallow me whole like a boa constrictor.

As we were saying our solemn goodbyes with steady handclasps, Kenny leapt upon me with a sweaty embrace declaring he just “gotta hug all the ladies”.  Awwwkkkkk, stop it, I am 15 years older than your target demographic.  I know I’m the only female here but hug Joe, my co-worker, if you need to feel the love.

The following week, on the way to another meeting, I recount the tale to Super Boss explaining that I work hard at radiating my super personal space bubble and my firm man handshake.    Then as I provide the introduction to an old client, I stick out my hand, only to get, “we’ve known each other a long time” hug. What the hell is going on? Am I in an alternate universe? I usual nip this shit in the bud. I once told a guy to stop calling me girl since hadn’t been a girl since I got my period at twelve in front of six coworkers.

Been feeling the need for less bread and more veggies in my diet so here is a little salad gig recipe my Sistah gave me.

Cashew Broccoli Salad

2 bunches raw broccoli cut into bite size pieces

1 pound cooked and crumbled bacon

¼ cup raisins

½ cup cashews

1 cup mayo

½ sugar

½ teaspoon white vinegar

Mix broccoli, bacon, raisins and cashews in a bowl. In separate bowl whisk together mayo, sugar and vinegar and pour over other. Chill several hours before serving.

At my husband’s holiday soiree I had an epiphany about all this free love as a young sale rep moved in for a little squeeze.  My thirties and forties flashed before my eyes. I have transitioned from being the Hot Chick to the comfortable Mom Hug. Ughh. Come here you widdle baby, didum have a no good horrible day?  There, there, come a little closer, so I can whip you with some wire hangers like Joan Crawford.    I am now going to go gargle with a little Botox and rest my weary head.  I’d sign this with XOXOXO but I don’t want to give any of you any ideas.  Good week Team Tuna.