The
by Marie — Age 53 — La Grange, IL
The only problem with work is bosses, for me anyway.
My first boss was old Mrs. Dowd. I was ten. My job was to walk her dog, a boxer named Lady. I liked Lady, even though one time she ate a rag, and I had to use two sticks to pull it out of her behind during an afternoon walk.
Mrs. Dowd was no lady, however. After walking Lady, I had to sit Mrs. Dowd’s kitchen table, waiting for my two dollars, while Mrs. Dowd shared her wisdom about colored people, Jewish people, and Polacks.
My second job was as a bakery girl on Chicago’s south side. My boss, Mr. W, was a round-shouldered, apostrophe-eyed father of seven boys. He had a crush on my older sister, who also worked at the bakery. When she left his clutches for college, he’d drive sixty miles to NIU to bring her coffee cakes.
I was jealous, at the time. Why couldn’t I be his favorite bakery girl? I did his payroll every Friday (for $2.85 and hour). I sliced the green crowns off the strawberries faster and with less waste than any of his other bakery girls. Now, as a middleaged mother of a young daughter, I appreciate the lesson I learned from Mr. W: predators come in all disguises.
My last boss was Ethel, head of the pension department at a UFCW Fund Office. I was her star pension processor. I could crank out death benefits and retirement calculations faster than anyone else under her rule.
She made us start our workday doing jumping jacks at our work stations. She smoked constantly. Even my bras reeked of her smoke. Once, she called me into her office and shared that when she had orgasms, they hurt like hell. Did that happen to me, she wanted to know?
I eventually had three kids, left paid employment, and became both my own boss and the family slave. My husband vents about his latest boss, a height-challenged alcoholic who whistles at his underlings to get their attention.
Yep, I console my husband, the only problem with work is bosses.
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