Power to the people.

When I started this job and moved into this office, there were a certain number of pin-up ladies on the wall next door. I am not offended by these ladies. They are all very pretty. They are all wearing clothes – not very many – but their dignity is preserved to a certain extent. The fact that they are holding chainsaws between their legs just makes me laugh. Poor ladies must be cold out there in the forest with so little clothing on and need to be careful they don’t nick their nice shiny legs with that big piece of machinery. I’m a little jealous that they look way better in a hard hat than I do, though if I wore make-up to work I might look that nice too.

Yesterday I went to heat up my lunch in the microwave and to my dismay, I found the collection had been added to. Some girls who had no right to be here. For a start they weren’t carrying any forest industry equipment and they definitely weren’t here to work. Nor were they here to encourage my employees to work. Later, there was a crescendo of voracious laughter and what can only be described as leering, though that’s not a strong enough word. I can’t think of one.

I am not a shrinking violet. I am not normally one to be intimidated, no matter how burly a cretin I am squaring off to. Problem is: the man I expected to be responsible for the increased sluttony was off sick. I had no-one left to gripe at and suspect that the men left in my department were probably as embarrassed by the combination of pornography and intelligent stroppy but sensitive female boss as I was, but were succumbing royally to pack-behaviour peer pressure alpha male type under-evolution. I really can’t imagine that the grandad in our midst approved of the pictures being around whilst someone his daughter’s age was in the room.

It took me 24 hours of deliberation to decide what to do. I ran through many scenarios and even ran some of them by the respected company accountant. Should I rant and rave? Should I accuse them of being disrespectful and inconsiderate? “Should I pin pictures of erect penises all over my office walls?” she suggested. No, it would only encourage them. Should I take a black marker pen and draw panties on them? The accountant suggested I black in their teeth and draw glasses on them. “You think they’re smiling?” I ask. “You think I can see their faces?” I ask, thinking of the picture that reminds me of my least favourite view of the cat.

At 4pm last night, I decide that if I am going to have this discussion with any of the men, I’m going to have it once, with the man responsible. So I steal his porn when they’ve all gone home and stick it in a file in my drawer. A woman who looks like she’s fresh from the 80s with afro frizz and golden eyeshaddow and a name that looks like Sharron keeps staring at me with her big brown nipples. I put an upside down file over her head. Poor Sharron, she should’ve finished high-school.

This morning no-one has had the balls to come and ask me for their pornography back. They must know it was me that took it, as we have no cleaning ladies to be offended. Just Stan, and though he has long hair, he’s not a lady. SO why leave something lying around for me to see, that you’re too embarrassed to fight for?

I think he was looking for a reaction, a good fight. There’s little friction down in this department anymore. I believe in quiet oversight, not confrontational management and it’s left them feeling duty-bound to do a good job and get along. In that relationship there’s no space for smoking dope at lunchtime, being late, rebelling and having a good fight. They’re frustrated, bored and getting far too much achieved. They wanted to tip the scales and piss me off. I’m glad I didn’t rise to it.

I am just enjoying my new-found superiority when the phone rings. It’s the BFOB*. He wants me to sell his Rotary club raffle tickets in the plant. He wants me to go around asking men who earn less money than me (and way less money than him) to donate to a society largely consisting of other BFOBs who need to be in a club to find friends to eat lunch with on a Friday afternoon whilst the rest of us work on. A club that makes them feel better about themselves because they otherwise struggle with the concept of compassion and giving, unless it’s organised and handed down to them on a plate and they can bully people with their power into giving money.

Why did I just say yes? Because I felt bullied into it. I go to get my coffee. I slam down my cup onto the table. It isn’t in my upbringing to go around begging from people (especially those less fortunate). I’ve done, like, one sponsored run, ever. I go to the washroom and throw my radio and coat on to the countertop. I don’t even believe in the rotary club. I slam my hard hat down on the toilet roll box and sit down. “Fuck” I shout, fast, deep, vicious, so no-one will know it was me. I am not a tin-rattler. Did I mention I am having anger management issues right now?

I go to see little boss who I like. Wassup? BFOB wants me to sell his Rotary raffle tickets and I don’t want to, I don’t believe in it. I am ranting.

I don’t blame you.

He stops me. OK. It’s not just me being unsociable. I don’t want to come over all un-Canadian at Christmas time. All I have to do now is figure out how to tell BFOB.

I ask my friend Duanne. How do you tell BFOB No?

Duanne draws himself up and says, “Like this”… he gets uncomfortably close, puts the lip of his hard hat to mine and shouts, “NO!”. He suggests I go tell him to tread sand. I tell my office-mate I might be back in a while, to pack up my things at my desk.

I go into BFOB’s office, a thing I try to avoid doing more than once a week. “I’m afraid it’s not in my nature to solicit money from people,” I say, “I’m going to have to say No”. He’s shocked, I’ve sent him sideways, he’s talking in a high pitch but he can’t argue the case because I’ve stated my point. He’s part way through telling me to take them to little boss when little boss appears and says, “No way, it’s not in my job description”.

Er Errrrr. XXX. Pass me the red rag, the bull is in the room.

BFOB starts to reach for the Job descriptions file where the last line of every page basically says, “Do anything you’re goddamn asked to do”.

I’m going out the door, I’m saying “I’m hanging up now…” It’s his favourite line at the end of an uncomfortable phone conversation, the type where you’re trying to make the point you’ve done everything you were goddamn asked to do.

I walk down the road laughing. I can say no to the fat man but I feel bad that little boss has a handful of raffle tickets. He obviously doesn’t feel quite so strongly as I do.

The prize was crap. I didn’t buy one.

*Big, fat, obnoxious boss.

Having read everyone's Miss World blogs for today, I'd just like to point out I'm not a party pooper, I like looking at beautiful women as much as the next person, there's just parts of them they should keep to themselves when I'm around. What I'm trying to say is, "my asshole's probably just as pretty as yours dear, put it away".