RIP Farrah Fawcett

I am oddly saddened by the news that Farrah Fawcett has died. She was an icon of my era, my formative years. I even had the Farrah doll, replete with 70s jumpsuit. She embodied what I'd so hoped to grow up to be. My 10-year old self willed just a glint of the glamour and confidence and beauty she owned. And let's be honest, she owned it. Farrah was my fantasy glamour girl. She was my "It" girl before I ever knew such a thing existed. How I coveted her feathered locks. I was the only kid in middle school who didn't have her hairstyle. My mom called it a "Wingback Wanda" and thought it was too tacky to grace the hair of her geeky little petite Indian daughter. I did, however, carry a plastic handled comb in the back pocket of my Gloria Vanderbilt jeans so I could at least look the part. I so wanted to flip back my feathered mane like the cool girls did who wore Candies shoes and Calvin Kleins. Farrah was a bombshell icon of the feminist ideal to this impressionable, shy, insecure girl who thought she'd never have the guts to lift her chin to face the world.

Peace, Farrah.

Corporate Sexism or When I Worked with a Couple of Pricks

A tweet from Pundit Mom inspired me to dig deep into my complex past to rekindle the memories I am about to share. Before you read on, let me just say that a) I turned out fine, if not a tish better b) I am glad to not have daughters who might face this uphill climb one day, c) I am doing everything in my power to raise respectful, smart, decent sons.

Back in the day, as in back in 1991, I was in my first real job. The kind of job with a 401k and a pension. The kind of job with yes men, ass kissers, office politics, and lunch meetings. I worked in the financial services industry for a global player who still leads its segment today. It was the 90s so I went to work in a plain navy suit with gold buttons (gasp!), a striped silk shell, pearls, stockings, and sensible pumps. My uber conservative dress code defied my uber progressive leanings. I was a gem to this company, pardon me for being so blunt, if not a bit big headed. Here I was, an Indian woman with a brand name education, impeccable references, an articulate manner.

I was one of few women in my department and I was the only one with a degree in English and history, as opposed to the finance and econ majors I shared cube space with. At first I was mercifully teased for having no financial services background or education but I proved to be a quick study. My retort in defense of my liberal arts education was, "Hey, at least I can read and write about what we're doing here!" I quickly climbed the proverbial corporate ladder, having written a training guide about advanced financial planning topics and techniques and promoted to a national trainer.

And that's where the real fun began.

I have been paradoxically blessed and cursed by genes that make me look a decade younger than my age. In fact, a few years ago the dean of a national business school refused to hire me as a marketing consultant because he thought I was too young and inexperienced (nevermind the unjust ageism issues here). He needed proof of my experience because he thought I was a 23-year old recent college graduate upon simply seeing me at a meeting. I was flirting with 40 at the time. And such has been the lot I've drawn. I'm short (5'0 if you must know), slim (getting less slim with every vanilla bean cupcake I eat), and youthful. That's all dandy anywhere but the boardroom.

In my training days I faced more than my share of sexism. It was my first taste of slimeball men, a jolt coming from the daughter of a straight-laced, if not stoic, man. Join me in a stroll through Memory Lane.

I spent my days talking to financial advisors around the country. Mostly I dealt with the heavy hitters who were living high on the hog, which might explain the pigs they had become. A large care package arrived in my office one afternoon. Everyone gathered around to watch me open this, making a scene, gushing on and on about how cool it was to get a secret admirer gift. To my horror, I pulled out a beach towel, suntan lotion, and a bikini too small to fit on that obnoxious Hollywood Chihuahua. Inside was a note, "I hope to see you in this poolside." We were days away from a conference in Palm Beach. The guy who sent this was a Baptist preacher turned financial whiz, married, three kids. I never did find him to introduce myself.

When I was a trainer we naturally got course evaluations. Mac Daddy and I tag teamed many classes (yes, we were the Pam and Jim of our time). His evaluations were chock full of remarks like "He really knows his stuff." "He has an excellent command of the materials." "I'd take any class he was teaching." Meanwhile, my evaluations, from the exact same classes, for which I wrote the training materials, read, "She looked hot in that black skirt." "I couldn't concentrate because the instructor was so hot." "Watching her made it easier to be away from my wife." "She always dresses so well." Of course the slimy bastards wrote that crap anonymously. When I complained to my boss, brace yourselves here, he said that I should be flattered! Flattered!

In another class, the participants, all men 10-20 years my senior, handed me a wad of cash at the end of our session. They apparently had placed bets on how old I was. The one closest to my age won the pot. I was fuming but maintained my composure. Finally, I asked them what ages they put their money on. Turns out no one was right so I pocketed the cash and walked out of room, never once turning back to see that gaggle of jaw dropped men.

I was in a regional office once when an advisor, visiting from out of town, asked me to show him the sights. I explained that I couldn't. He proceeded to call me a stuck up bitch and other choice taunts. In the office. In front of clients. The glimmer of goodness that came from this particular episode is that a fellow advisor, whom I did not know, overheard this outrage and turned the ass into HR. Now that guy's mama raised him right. Sadly, HR discouraged any action against this guy, who just happened to be a top producer. Money Maker = Invincible.

I faced all kinds of sexism and general assholism in my daily life in the cubicle trenches. The offhand snide comments. The oogling of my chest, resulting in my hand knocking some guys upside the chin. The negative remarks about mothers and wives who work. I learned to suck it up. I learned that complaining, regardless how justified, blackballed me. I learned to sit tight but be firm. I learned to tread lightly. I learned to suck it up. I harbored resentment that ate away at my soul.

I never got my payback but I do believe in divine justice. And I did turn up my moxie to demand a raise one day after finding out that Mac Daddy earned more than I did for the exact same job. That small victory was like a TV perfect golf shot after 12 holes of double bogeys; it was enough to fire me up, enough to find my voice, enough to force some change. I eventually moved on.

I don't know how the workplace has changed for women in the male dominated, old boys network of the financial industry. My fear is that all too many women today share my story. My hope is that men like Mac Daddy, and my sons when they're of age, will turn that wheel.

Remembrance

We've just marked the one year mark since my father-in-law's death. We didn't really acknowledge the occasion with a Manhattan toast or anything, though we stopped in our own ways to remember him. I miss his Sunday phone calls for a sports recap and weather update. I miss his funny voicemail messages because leaving a message on a machine is something he never got used to. I miss him.

In many ways, I was closer to him than I am to my own father. Perhaps because we came to know each other with no baggage, tangled relationship issues, or guilt attached. We simply met as two people who made each other laugh and shared an affinity for endless teasing. In that regard we had met our match. The man I knew is far different than the man Mac Daddy knew growing up.

We would all say that about our fathers, right? They are different men to others than they are to us. Sometimes better. Sometimes worse. Few of us really get to know our own fathers of a generation ago. Coming home at 5:30 to a scotch, a smoke, and Dan Rather was the norm. Changing into play wear and sliding around the house in sock feet to chase bad guys at 5:30 is a new fatherly phenomenon.

Nonetheless, the father-in-law I knew would play super heroes and spies with Bird and Deal. He must have realized that the universe gave him a second chance. And he relished it. He was quick to give a wheelchair ride and convince the kids that his wheelchair lift was as fun as any whirly ride at a carnival. He taught Bird and Deal that a wheelchair is nothing more than a seat on wheels. Cliche as it sounds, they learned at an early age to see the person, not the device, be it a wheelchair, scooter, crutches, or walker.

He teased me for being a wimp in temps below 50 degrees, and he laughed at my complete inability to identify tools or other such manly gear. We enjoyed Friday fish fry and were often the only ones getting second helpings. He laughed at how much food I could stuff into my five foot tall, slight frame. He made sure there were plenty of sweets for me when I visited, sometimes saving some of his special stash of chocolate bars for me. When I couldn't stomach the Sanka he so graciously bought for my visit, he wasn't offended. He just teased me for being a coffee snob and puckered up his face in mock disbelief at the price I paid for a cup of joe at the local coffee shop. Truth be told, he smacked his lips and enjoyed that coffee too.

He readily welcomed me into his family, even though I came from places that he had only read about. Born in India. Raised in Virginia. He didn't care what made me different. Keep in mind that he was raised in what I affectionately call Podunk, Wisconsin in a town of 500 people. Though we never identified with each other in terms of our past or shared experiences, we knew one thing: we both fiercely loved Mac Daddy.

I see traces of my father-in-law in Mac Daddy, in demeanor and bewitching good looks. A charming, toothy smile. Full body laugh that just makes you want to laugh right along, even if you don't get the joke. Gentle hands. Quick to laugh. Affectionate. Sarcastic, yet witty. An instigator. Passionate about the Badgers and Packers. And yes, that Wisconsin accent that sneaks out time to time despite Mac Daddy's best efforts to sound like a Midwestern news anchor.

Bird asks about Grandpa once in a while. I never know what will trigger it but I'm glad he's still thinking about him. Deal doesn't remember him, but recognizes him in photos. I am most saddened that my boys won't grow up knowing their grandpa, the fun one who'd be on the floor wrestling with them if he were able. Mac Daddy and I try to keep his memory alive so they will at least know about the chapters of his life that they played a part in. The other day out of the blue, Bird told me that he thinks Grandpa is in heaven petting Capote on his lap (our cat who died 2 years ago). I think Bird is exactly right.