So the other night, I'm doing a party in Bessemer City, NC. And it is Country. And as I'm driving there, I'm marveling at the subtle little twists and turns that my life has taken which have led me to be driving through the backwoods of NC with a car full of "marital aides."
Anyhow, the party wasn't all that well attended, but the people were nice and it was a decent take at the end of the night. There were two hostesses who are Pure Romance veterans and so they knew exactly what they wanted to purchase. The first hostess had just finished placing her order and was writing me a check while the second hostess was telling me her order. Suddenly, she stopped talking and she whispered to hostess #1, 'I think Ray's Grandma just came in.' I had no idea who this was, but from the horrified looks on both womens' faces, I assumed it was not a good thing she was there.
The first hostess, who owned the home we were in, walked out of the bedroom and tried to shut the door behind her to keep our new visitor from seeing inside. (Keep in mind, this was about 10:45 PM and Grandma Crazy just walked in and shouted hello without a knock or anything!) She said to Hostess #1 with mounting alarm in her voice "What are you ladies doing?" To which #1 delicately replied "We're having a ladies' party Mom." And all hell, literally, broke loose. Outside the bedroom door, I could hear Grandma Crazy going on and on about how we were bringing the devil into the house and how we were going to have to pay someday and did we think it was worthwhile to spend eternity in hell?
While this was going on outside, Hostess #2 was telling me that Grandma Crazy is actually #1's Grandmother-in-Law, but raised #1's husband because his mother died from complications of childbirth. And apparently she is quite the burr in her daughter-in-law's side, calling the police because she thinks her son is being poisoned by her daughter-in-law, accusing her of practicing witchcraft, etc. So I am hoping against hope that she will not come into the bedroom and am trying to hurry through #2's order.
AND... the door flew open. Grandma Crazy walked in, her 5 foot 3 inch body full of righteous (literally) indignation and accusation. She takes in the product sitting on her son's bed. She saw my bins full of lotions and lubricant and the like. She saw money changing hands. And she was horrified. She began her lecture. It's pretty amusing, so I was keeping my lips pressed together as tightly as possible.
"Ladies" G'Ma Crazy intoned, addressing all three of us. "You are beautiful, intelligent women. Do you know that what you are doing right now is putting your immortal soul in great peril? You have two places to go when you die. One of them is heaven and one is hell. And right now, all of you are headed to hell!"
Then she turned to address me directly. "Ma'am. How many places do YOU think there are to go when you die?" Inside my head I'm saying, 'Do I want to tell her I'm Jewish and I don't believe in any afterlife at all?' And as I hesitated, she prompted me. "Do you think there are three or four different options you can choose from? How many do you think there are?" Well, I have made the very smart decision at this point to play along to get her out of there faster because I want to collect my money, throw stuff in the car and begin the very long 45 min. drive back to my house so I can get some dinner and get to sleep sometime this evening. So, for the very first time in my little Northerner life, I invoke the "M" word. "No Ma'am," I said politely, "You're right. There are two." I was having a hard time keeping the amusement off my face, but I made a valiant effort. I think she sensed my inner struggle, but assumed that I know the path to righteousness regardless because she was pleased with my answer. "That's right," says Crazy. "There are two places. And there ain't nothin in this whole world, in this whole life, worth spending an eternity roasting in hell for!"
She turned to me again. "Who are you" she demanded. I was desperate to say, "I'm the Northern Headonistic Jewish Pure Romance consultant who is instructing your daughter-in-law on how to have a better orgasm ma'am." But instead, I stuck with, "My name is Sheri, ma'am." "Sheri," she responded, "You look like a smart girl. Do you read?" "Yes ma'am," I answered. (HONESTLY, I have never called anyone ma'am in my life! And suddenly it's coming out every other word!) "And I bet you understand what you read, don't you?" I had no idea where this was going, of course, but my strategy seemed to be working because she is talking quieter and looking triumphant. "Yes ma'am." "Well, Sheri, I suggest you go home and pick up your King James' bible..." (Sure, I keep it on the shelf next to my Stephen King books!) "...and you need to read it cover to cover and see if you can't find your way back to God."
She continued on in that way for what seemed like a very long time, although it was probably only about 5 min., while internally I struggled with the decision of whether or not to continue putting together #2's order while she talked. I didn't. Instead, I just kept repeating, "Thank you for thinking of me ma'am. I appreciate your opinion." And eventually she gave up and went away.
#1 apologized quite a bit after she left and we all laughed about it. And I finished taking their orders, packed up my five million pounds of stuff and started the drive back to Charlotte. And along the way, I thought about what she said.
I don't mind her belief that my soul is doomed to hell. It might bother me if I believed in hell at all, but I don't and so I don't mind. And frankly, I gave advice to a woman that night whose marriage is in real trouble because of their sex life. So if the advice I give manages to make her marriage better, I'm confident God will be pretty pleased. At least, the God I believe in will be.
I think, as usual, what bothered me the most was the assumption. The assumption that I am a Christian. And I know I was in the country and I'm in the south and the assumption is pretty logical down here. But it still frustrates me that people think everyone is exactly like them. That there is this automatic assumption when someone is bagging my groceries at the Harris Teeter that they need to tell me to have a Happy Easter. And that I feel guilty if I don't say it back, when all I want to say is, why do you assume I celebrate Easter? But I wouldn't say that cause it makes people uncomfortable.
When we were kids, I used to tease my sister and tell her she had Gentile-envy. She used to bug the hell out of my mother begging for a Chanukah bush. I never cared. Honestly, I thought the whole tree thing was cool, but I was just as happy to light the menorah. Either way, I got presents. And that's the end game for most kids anyway. Dad used to make us march around the house singing Chanukah songs before we could get our gifts and he would invariably make up extra verses to the songs to keep us marching longer while we whined and pleaded for our gifts, which he cleverly hid all around the house. After singing we would take off looking for the presents which, 6 nights out of 7, were boring things like socks, or a new jacket that I didn't care about at all. But the real joy is in the unwrapping for me, so I was happy. Seemed just as fun to me as sitting around a giant tree opening gifts. And I still have no Christmas envy. And I don't have a problem with Christmas either. But sometimes, when the woman filling my prescription at Walgreens wishes me a Merry Christmas, I wish that people would maybe step outside of their own comfort zone and stop assuming that the whole world thinks how they think and believes what they believe. And every year I tell myself I am not going to be bothered by it because people are just saying Have a Nice Day with different words. Maybe after a few more years here, I'll be immune to it.
One can hope.And so... tonight let me share yet another chapter in the
ongoing saga of "Are you SURE this is my life?"
Sometime in 2007, I did a party for a woman who got my name
through the corporate office. She was nice and everything, but all of her
guests showed up an HOUR late and by "all of her guests" I mean all
FOUR of her guests. Anyhow, one of the woman there was African. Let's call her
"A". She didn't wind up buying anything, but she came into the order
room for a while to talk to me about some issues she was having physically with
her sex life. It wasn't an easy conversation to have because her accent was
very thick and her English... not so great. But got the point across
eventually.
She said to me that night that she wished women of her
culture didn't feel it was so tabboo to talk about sex. She thought a lot of
them could benefit from hearing me talk. So I told her to feel free to send me
any of her friends that needed help and I would work with them one-on-one.
She's done that a few times since. Couple of women who were having issues with
their sex life and wanted product that their partner would never know about...
which makes me sad cause it sounded to me like the partners were a big part of
the problem (what, you mean it's hard for you to finish when your partner asks
you every couple of seconds if you're ready yet? Shocking!) but I always do the
best I can to help them.
A few days before New Year's, "A" called me again,
this time on behalf of a man she knew who was having some issues. I talked to
her about some product that I thought could help and she gave me his name and
number and asked me to call him directly. As we were hanging up, she added
"He doesn't have English so good, but he will understand you."
"He doesn't speak English," I questioned, concerned.
Cause God knows I don't speak nothin' else.
"No, he speaks French, but he will understand you. He
just won't talk well."
"Okkkkaaaayyyyyy, I'll give it a shot."
So I called "C" and it went better than I
expected. I told him that "A" had filled me in and I had a few
products in mind to help him and when I got back to Charlotte after the
holiday, we could meet and talk about them. Somehow, I had it in my mind that
if I met with him while holding visual aides, he would understand me more than
he would on the phone.
Since then, he has been very anxious to meet with me. He was
not at all pleased when I got home from Nashville (where I spent a rockin' New
Years with she of the Snelly-ness) with bronchitis and was too contagious to
leave the house. I finally re-entered the world today and so I agreed to meet
him at his work. And there-in lies the source of our first English -->
French road bump. Somehow, directions were beyond our ability to communicate to
one another. When I asked him for the address to his store, he didn't
understand the question (!!!). He kept saying something about an Exxon station.
I had NO idea what he was talking about. So I tried to figure it out myself
on-line and was lead astray by inaccurate information. Basically, I wound up
wandering the streets of Charlotte for a while. I kept calling him, hoping he
would either figure out what I meant by, "What's the address" or put
someone else in his store on the phone who maybe spoke some more English. Alas,
I was disappointed. He kept talking about the Exxon station. Finally, I
realized he was telling me to pull into the Exxon station by his store and ask
for directions from there. I am wayyyyyyy too stubborn and lazy to do something
like that, so I just started driving around in circles until I finally stumbled
onto the location by sheer, dumb luck.
He pulled up next to me in the parking lot and was nothing
at all like I pictured in my head. I got out of the car with the product I had
brought to talk to him about and he invited me into his car. I got in, against
my better judgment, and got out the catalog to start talking to him about his
options. As I'm talking, I'm trying to remind myself that he's probably not
understanding everything I'm saying, so I'm trying to speak in easy words. But
at the same time, my Pure Romance training has ingrained deep in me the need to
use the REAL words for body parts and body fuctions. To avoid crude words and
use language that doesn't scare people. Sadly, the words that don't scare
people are, in many cases, multi-syllabic and much less a part of the
vernacular than the slang. So the two voices in my head are warring as I'm
trying to explain to him how a c-ring works.
He finally decides which product he wants to try and I pull
it out of the bag and pass the toy over. He immediately rips the bag open and
starts trying to figure out how to put it on. NOW don't get carried away, pants
stayed zipped the entire time (thank the LORD!) But he was holding up the new
c-ring, asking me what went where and how it worked and how he could keep his
partner from knowing he was using it... (which he can't. Cause it vibrates. And
unless she shoves some double "a" batteries up his butt and assumes
he works like a vibrator, she's gonna notice the difference.) And the entire
time I'm trying to explain to him, he's getting more and more confused. We pull
out the bullet and I show him where it goes on the toy and he continues to be
confused.
And this is when I realize that, technically, I am breaking
the law. (There is actually a law saying that if I hold up a toy and explain
it's usage to a man with the intention of selling it to him, I am committing
solicitation. Is that RANDOM or what? But it's a law!) If there is a cop in
this GIANT empty parking lot that we are sitting very conspiciously in the
middle of, and he sees what I am doing, he could really have me arrested. And I
could lose the whole business. So now, as I'm trying to explain to this
befuddled man, I'm also looking around me furtively, trying to see if the SWAT team
is closing in to bust me. (Those of you who partook in illegal substances with
me in college will remember the paranoia that can plague me when I know I'm
doing something I shouldn't.) He notices my discomfort and wonders if we should
drive closer to the building where we will be hidden from sight. HELL TO THE NO
BOBBY BROWN! I am not going to go sit in a car, hidden from the world, to talk
about sex toys with a French man I have never met before! I'll take my chances
on prison.
It's about this time when the thought that has been hanging
out in the back of my brain finally comes to the forefront. Really? Is this my
life, really? Am I really hanging out in the parking lot of a furniture
superstore in a 78 TransAm with a missing ceiling with a french-speaking
African explaining how to use a c-ring for the love of God?
And now we're off to the races. Cause now, as I'm
desperately trying to explain to him that he should wear this toy for no longer
than 30 min at a time or his penis may fall off, in my brain, I'm cycling
through the following thoughts... 'nice, Jewish girl from a wealthy Cleveland
suburb... wore a blue sailor dress to my Bat Mitzvah... played the flute in the
marching band... majored in television in a half-way decent college... worked
on the Olympics... met Brad Pitt once... really? How did I get here again?'
Of course, that's not to say I don't enjoy my job. I love my
job. Can't imagine doing anything else with my life right now. And truthfully,
I admire this poor man who has to sit in a car with a woman he has never met
before to explain his sexual issues. I know quite a few men, and women for that
matter, who would rather have the bad sex than have that conversation. (Crazy
people!) But still, in moments like these, I wonder... how on earth is this my
life? How on EARTH is this my life? Seriously, how on earth is this my life?
Poor "C" and I finally gave up trying and agreed
that I would call "A" tonight and explain to her everything he needed
to know and she would then translate for him. Probably a good decision for us
both. I am saved the frustration of trying to explain and he is (hopefully)
saved from wearing his c-ring too long and having his penis fall off. I got out
of the car, returned to my own safe haven of a Honda Element and pulled away as
quickly as I could without looking like I was pulling away as quickly as I
could.
Five minutes later, back on my home turf, I was driving
through my neighborhood when I heard a honk from the car beside me. I look over
and there, in the SUV driving next to me, waving enthusiastically, are the
President/Founder and the CEO of Pure Romance. Who are usually in the home
office in Cincinnati. So weird... right? What are they doing driving down my
street? Turns out they are in town to shoot a recruiting video and saw the
magnet on my car and realized I was one of them so they wanted to say hello.
(Did I mention that I worship these two people and am more intimidated by them
than I ever was by the Brad Pitts of my former life?)
I decided that their sudden appearance by my side in such a
random fashion was fate reaching out to me. Telling me that although it seems
like a weird life and such a random detour for an admittedly strange but
none-the-less ordinary girl from the mid-west, it's really where I am meant to
be. What I am meant to be doing.
Which is good, cause if this wasn't the right job, I'd have
to go work for someone else again. And that would SERIOUSLY inhibit my sleeping
in every day of the week! I do have my priorities.
So the other night, I'm doing a party in Bessemer City, NC.
And it is Country. And as I'm driving there, I'm marveling at the subtle little
twists and turns that my life has taken which have led me to be driving through
the backwoods of NC with a car full of "marital aides."
Anyhow, the party wasn't all that well attended, but the
people were nice and it was a decent take at the end of the night. There were
two hostesses who are Pure Romance veterans and so they knew exactly what they
wanted to purchase. The first hostess had just finished placing her order and
was writing me a check while the second hostess was telling me her order.
Suddenly, she stopped talking and she whispered to hostess #1, 'I think Ray's
Grandma just came in.' I had no idea who this was, but from the horrified looks
on both womens' faces, I assumed it was not a good thing she was there.
The first hostess, who owned the home we were in, walked out
of the bedroom and tried to shut the door behind her to keep our new visitor
from seeing inside. (Keep in mind, this was about 10:45 PM and Grandma Crazy
just walked in and shouted hello without a knock or anything!) She said to
Hostess #1 with mounting alarm in her voice "What are you ladies
doing?" To which #1 delicately replied "We're having a ladies' party
Mom." And all hell, literally, broke loose. Outside the bedroom door, I
could hear Grandma Crazy going on and on about how we were bringing the devil
into the house and how we were going to have to pay someday and did we think it
was worthwhile to spend eternity in hell?
While this was going on outside, Hostess #2 was telling me
that Grandma Crazy is actually #1's Grandmother-in-Law, but raised #1's husband
because his mother died from complications of childbirth. And apparently she is
quite the burr in her daughter-in-law's side, calling the police because she
thinks her son is being poisoned by her daughter-in-law, accusing her of
practicing witchcraft, etc. So I am hoping against hope that she will not come
into the bedroom and am trying to hurry through #2's order.
AND... the door flew open. Grandma Crazy walked in, her 5
foot 3 inch body full of righteous (literally) indignation and accusation. She
takes in the product sitting on her son's bed. She saw my bins full of lotions
and lubricant and the like. She saw money changing hands. And she was
horrified. She began her lecture. It's pretty amusing, so I was keeping my lips
pressed together as tightly as possible.
"Ladies" G'Ma Crazy intoned, addressing all three
of us. "You are beautiful, intelligent women. Do you know that what you
are doing right now is putting your immortal soul in great peril? You have two
places to go when you die. One of them is heaven and one is hell. And right
now, all of you are headed to hell!"
Then she turned to address me directly. "Ma'am. How
many places do YOU think there are to go when you die?" Inside my head I'm
saying, 'Do I want to tell her I'm Jewish and I don't believe in any afterlife
at all?' And as I hesitated, she prompted me. "Do you think there are
three or four different options you can choose from? How many do you think
there are?" Well, I have made the very smart decision at this point to
play along to get her out of there faster because I want to collect my money,
throw stuff in the car and begin the very long 45 min. drive back to my house
so I can get some dinner and get to sleep sometime this evening. So, for the
very first time in my little Northerner life, I invoke the "M" word.
"No Ma'am," I said politely, "You're right. There are two."
I was having a hard time keeping the amusement off my face, but I made a
valiant effort. I think she sensed my inner struggle, but assumed that I know
the path to righteousness regardless because she was pleased with my answer.
"That's right," says Crazy. "There are two places. And there
ain't nothin in this whole world, in this whole life, worth spending an
eternity roasting in hell for!"
She turned to me again. "Who are you" she
demanded. I was desperate to say, "I'm the Northern Headonistic Jewish
Pure Romance consultant who is instructing your daughter-in-law on how to have
a better orgasm ma'am." But instead, I stuck with, "My name is Sheri,
ma'am." "Sheri," she responded, "You look like a smart
girl. Do you read?" "Yes ma'am," I answered. (HONESTLY, I have
never called anyone ma'am in my life! And suddenly it's coming out every other
word!) "And I bet you understand what you read, don't you?" I had no
idea where this was going, of course, but my strategy seemed to be working
because she is talking quieter and looking triumphant. "Yes ma'am."
"Well, Sheri, I suggest you go home and pick up your King James'
bible..." (Sure, I keep it on the shelf next to my Stephen King books!)
"...and you need to read it cover to cover and see if you can't find your
way back to God."
She continued on in that way for what seemed like a very
long time, although it was probably only about 5 min., while internally I
struggled with the decision of whether or not to continue putting together #2's
order while she talked. I didn't. Instead, I just kept repeating, "Thank
you for thinking of me ma'am. I appreciate your opinion." And eventually
she gave up and went away.
#1 apologized quite a bit after she left and we all laughed
about it. And I finished taking their orders, packed up my five million pounds
of stuff and started the drive back to Charlotte. And along the way, I thought
about what she said.
I don't mind her belief that my soul is doomed to hell. It
might bother me if I believed in hell at all, but I don't and so I don't mind.
And frankly, I gave advice to a woman that night whose marriage is in real
trouble because of their sex life. So if the advice I give manages to make her
marriage better, I'm confident God will be pretty pleased. At least, the God I
believe in will be.
I think, as usual, what bothered me the most was the
assumption. The assumption that I am a Christian. And I know I was in the
country and I'm in the south and the assumption is pretty logical down here.
But it still frustrates me that people think everyone is exactly like them.
That there is this automatic assumption when someone is bagging my groceries at
the Harris Teeter that they need to tell me to have a Happy Easter. And that I
feel guilty if I don't say it back, when all I want to say is, why do you assume
I celebrate Easter? But I wouldn't say that cause it makes people
uncomfortable.
When we were kids, I used to tease my sister and tell her
she had Gentile-envy. She used to bug the hell out of my mother begging for a
Chanukah bush. I never cared. Honestly, I thought the whole tree thing was
cool, but I was just as happy to light the menorah. Either way, I got presents.
And that's the end game for most kids anyway. Dad used to make us march around
the house singing Chanukah songs before we could get our gifts and he would
invariably make up extra verses to the songs to keep us marching longer while
we whined and pleaded for our gifts, which he cleverly hid all around the
house. After singing we would take off looking for the presents which, 6 nights
out of 7, were boring things like socks, or a new jacket that I didn't care
about at all. But the real joy is in the unwrapping for me, so I was happy.
Seemed just as fun to me as sitting around a giant tree opening gifts. And I
still have no Christmas envy. And I don't have a problem with Christmas either.
But sometimes, when the woman filling my prescription at Walgreens wishes me a
Merry Christmas, I wish that people would maybe step outside of their own
comfort zone and stop assuming that the whole world thinks how they think and
believes what they believe. And every year I tell myself I am not going to be
bothered by it because people are just saying Have a Nice Day with different
words. Maybe after a few more years here, I'll be immune to it.
One can hope.
I do apologize in advance if this is an uncomfortable
subject for the men in my readership (such as it is)...
So throughout my Pure Romance presentation, I ask the
party-goers questions to keep their attention and provide them with an
opportunity to do more than just listen to me run my mouth. I always tell them
that I do not acknowledge shouters and they must raise their hand if they know
the answer, whereupon I will call on them to give me the answer. If they get it
right, they get candy. If they get it wrong, they get candy for being the
student willing to walk up to the blackboard when the teacher asks for
volunteers. Cause you know I was never the one to raise my hand when a question
was asked and did everything short of physically removing my own eyeballs to
avoid making eye contact, lest the teacher be reminded that I am there and
decide I should be called upon.
Sometimes I get strange answers to questions. One that is
typically answered incorrectly is "Why are all of our products
sugar-free." And at EVERY single party, three people yell out, Cause of
diabetics! Which seems like the right answer, although it isn't, so I
understand the inaccurate guess. (Psst... the right answer is because
sugar=yeast infection.)
HOWEVER, I always ask at a certain point in the presentation
if someone can tell me what is the one part of the human body that exists for
no other reason but pleasure. I stress before I call on anyone that this body
part serves no other function at all. It is there only to bring pleasure to a person.
(For those of you who are picturing a little man in a boat right now, that is
correct! Once again, sorry to the squemish.)
Now I don't expect everyone to know the answer to this. I'm
not, after all, unreasonable. And sometimes a question can put pressure on
people. Not make them think straight. I get this. And the desire for candy is
strong. I get that as well. But at a party last night I heard some of the
strangest answers ever, and sadly, this is not the first time I have heard some
of these answers.
The first one, I believe, was EARS. Yes, ears. Those things
we hear with? You know? And even if you discount hearing as an important
function, we can also count on
things-to-tuck-our-hair-back-with-when-we-have-no-sunglasses-around as a useful
function. They are also a good area from which to dangle accessories. And
speaking of sunglasses, how about the fact that ears hold up that which
provides me crystal clear vision. All of these are functions served by the ear.
I do recognize that some people find pleasure in the ear and yay for them, but
can we all at least agree that the ear serves many useful functions? I hope we
can.
Another fun answer I heard last night was tongue. Tongue.
Did I say that clearly enough? TONGUE! CLEARLY, the tongue serves no other
function than to bring pleasure. That whole taste buds thing-- totally a myth.
The assistance it provides with both chewing and drinking, not actually true
either. Just pleasure. Yup. Sure.
And last but not least, last night's big winner of my
"How do I keep a straight face and not call this woman a moron in front of
all of her friends" contest...
LEGS!
Yes, legs. Apparently, in this woman's world, she doesn't
use them to walk. She doesn't use them to hang her feet off of. She doesn't
even use them to wear fashionable pants with. In this woman's very limited
world, legs are there for pleasure. And nothing else.
Now, I realize that not everyone is a rocket scientist like
yours truly. (and by rocket scientist, I mean someone who could not figure out
the tax on an order if the fate of the entire universe rested upon it.) And I
hate to bag on these lovely women who give me money and something to do on the
weekend nights. But seriously? SERIOUSLY?
