A girl's blue collar journal: Part 1.

{It was an ordinary work day ... or something like that.} The afternoon sun shone into my office windows as I sat at my desk emailing my friend a list of all the activities I had planned for that day at work. It read as follows:

1. See how long I can hold my breath before passing out.

2. Rearrange my desktop; possibly organize pens and post-it notes by color.

3. Stare into space for as long as possible without blinking.

4. Write a clever poem about underpants.

5. Email clever poem about underpants to everyone in my address book.

6. Hold breath again. This time for longer. See if I pass out.

7. Repeat until 6:00 pm.

I think there are a few women who have found themselves stuck behind desks. Phones pressed into a perma-crook in our necks (as if we are gazing at everyone with an interested and sympathetic head tilt). Aching fingers foreshadowing carpel tunnel syndrome. Fannies prematurely flabby and spreading out over ergonomically-correct swivel seats (in tasteful, professional hues). In desperation, we seek new jobs at new desks in new offices, as if a different color of cubicle or brand of genetically engineered ficus tree might assuage our anxieties of an unfulfilled life spent in climate-controlled bondage.

Or something like that.

It doesn't work, of course. At the end of the day, we still find ourselves haggard in front of the mirror, facing the eternal question:

Is there more to life than clever Post-It Notes and casual Fridays? And if so, then what?

My answer, the only obvious answer: Carpentry.

I often daydreamed at my desk, daydreamed of fame, of fortune, of myself clad in overalls and work boots, giant tool belt encircling my slender hips, muscles glistening as I wielded hammer and nail gun like a pro. But never before had I taken it seriously. It was always more about how a girl of my stature (slight, a little scrawny) might appear tough and powerful in such a get-up. And work fashion for a job like carpentry would be so much easier and more comfortable than professional attire: no dry-cleaning, no ironing, no make-up (well, maybe a little lip gloss on occasion), no fancy, painful shoe. Just dirt and saw dust and denim.

In the past, my experience with carpenters, working at wood shops and the like, had pretty much consisted of me begging for work and subsequently being sent to the office. I would get a patronizing, "Aw, that's cute you want to play with wood," maybe a little wicked laughter at the double-meaning, and a finger pointing me to the office, where I answered phones, did paperwork, and talked to clients. Where I, in short, had a desk job. Men don't want the hassle of hiring an unskilled apprentice, especially if that apprentice was a woman, and a small woman at that.

Full confession: I never took into account how tiring the work might be. I never considered that the glistening muscles of my fantasy life might come with attendant aches and pains and ripped tendons. I only yearned for the change of pace. I hungered for the chance to build things in three dimensions. I wanted the satisfaction of leaving a day's work knowing I hadn't merely spent eight hours staring into a flat computer screen, making flat things, with the assistance of flat Pantone colors. I wanted dirty hands and something I could touch that didn't smell of paper and ink. And I didn't want to be so fancy pants all the time.

The Interview

As a woman in the professional world, I have endured many interviews, individually unique, but generally the same in tenor and scope.

I arrive in a fashionable, yet tidy navy blue or black suit, offset with a colorful scarf or some other accessory. My hair fixed, make-up fresh, face set in a mask of plucky determination, I try to convey a nonchalant "If I don't get this job, it won't be the end of the world" look. I walk in confidently, give a firm, yet friendly handshake, and sit down. I smile while the employer collects himself. The questions proceed thusly:

Q: "What do you feel you have to offer this place of business?"

A: "I have determination blah blah and drive to accomplish anything blah blah blah"

Q: "What are your best and worst qualities?"

A: "I can handle situations blah blah grace and ease blah-di-blah teamwork blah creative thinking blah blah blah, yeah. Worst qualities: Work too hard blah overachiever blah blah"

Q: "What's your experience?"

A: "Blah Blah worked in this field for blah blah years. Know my way around an office blah (wise-sounding laugh). Competent in every aspect of this profession blah blab care to see my portfolio?

My salary expectations? Well, they're negotiable, but I can start as soon as next Monday, and I can't wait to see you then, sir.

Dazzling smile.

Applause.

I am a pro at these interviews, having done so many. As a senior in college I was required to do a mock interview in front of a video camera so I could analyze my body language. I remember watching myself, dressed in a little maroon suit and scarf (the scarf is key; it adds color and flair the potential employer will find memorable). I was charming, graceful, and smooth. All attributes worked for me. I got an A on the project.

Of course, it is/was mostly acting, another skill I keep handy in my arsenal. It's not so much about lying as it is about knowing the right way to spin yourself to the right person. Should you be more aggressive or more docile? More or less girly? More or less southern? You play the right character for the right employer audience, tell them what they want to hear and BAM, you've got the job.

The interview for the carpentry job was significantly different; I didn't have the slightest idea how to go about it. First of all, I couldn't wear the navy suit (it would look ridiculous), I couldn't go on about my best job qualities (thinking outside the box on a construction site is at best irrelevant, and at worst disastrous), I couldn't tout my years of experience (I hadn't a lick), or my well-studied grace and charm (which would certainly help me with a nail gun if by "certainly" you mean "not at all"). In short, I was at a loss. Totally and completely out of my element.

I guess it's never too late to try something new.

I showed up at Jim's house on a Tuesday evening. I wore a pair of jeans, a light blue sweater, and a pair of sneakers. Cute, but unassuming. Outdoorsy. Not fancy. I took a seat at the kitchen counter. He brought two PBRs and sat beside me.

"So," he said, opening his beer. "You wanna do carpentry?"

"Yep," I said.

"And your experience?"

I coughed. "Well, I worked in a furniture shop for a few months." I waited for my interview brain to kick in. "I-I sanded some-" Think articulate. "Some stuff. And ..." I cleared my throat. "And I ..." Come on, there must be something else. "And I guess that's ..." Screw it. Might as well be honest. "That's about it."

Jim narrowed his eyes, sighed.

And proceeded to scare the crap out of me.

The next few minutes were sort of a blur. I remember hearing things like: "Well, how do you feel about using a pick-ax?" and "Have you ever dug a ditch before?" Or "If I hired you, you'd be the only woman on the job site most of the time, and my crew won't mess with you, but I can't guarantee what other crews will do. You probably will get hit on, can you handle that?"

He closed with my favorite question. "What are your menstrual periods like?"

I think I must have choked at this one, or just stared blankly, because Jim elaborated.

"I know that's a weird thing to ask," he said. "But I can't have you out an entire week every month because of cramps. I've never worked with a woman before so I don't know how these things go."

I managed to stay calm through all his questions until that one. The thought of being on the job site, with my period was intimidating. I mean, have you ever used a port-a-john before? They don't have nice receptacles for feminine products, and I knew it. But I called up on my old buddies, grace and charm, to answer with the right measure of humor and indifference. I said, honestly, I was not one to miss work on account of cramps.

The rest of the questions I fielded with some measure of success. I said if any dude tried to hit one me, I'd tell him where to go and how to get there (my paraphrase here).

Jim laughed and liked my answers. Then he got serious, again:

"We work ten hour days, four days a week. We don't take smoke breaks or coffee breaks and we work hard. I would expect you to show up on time, and if you have to miss work, you'd need to tell me way before hand. And, Mary, if you can't carry your weight, then, well, you might need to consider another line of work. I can't treat you any different because you're a woman."

I nodded, slowly, taking it in.

Then, he told me how much he'd pay me to start, promised that I'd make as much as I was worth to him, and if I showed improvement he'd give me a raise.

"So," he said, setting down his beer. "You want the job?"

I would be taking a five dollar an hour pay cut to start. I would lose my health insurance. I would have to pay my own taxes. I would be leaving my office comfort zone, fitted with shiny computers and stacks of paper samples.

But I was so ready to get the hell out of the office world that I was like a desperate child, who'd just as soon tell the truth to get the cookie. And truthfully: I was elated. Nervous, uncomfortable, clueless, anxious, hell, terrified, but, for the first time in a long time, really excited about starting my new job.

I blinked, swallowed the rest of my beer, and said: "How soon can I start?"

Mary Long is a graphic designer, carpenter, and an all-purpose woman who lives in Asheville and is always up for something new. Any questions, comments, new jokes, or tales of your own, please feel free to email her at [e-mail].