UnCONventional is (almost) here!
So, yes, I've redecorated the blog. Lovely, no?
UnCONventional, the anthology I've been harping about for months, will be released this very weekend! It's launching at Arisia, and we'll have a major celebration on Sunday at 8pm. Stop by & say hi!
In the meantime, here's an excerpt from my contribution, "All In":
The whoosh of the air conditioners intensified the cavernous,
underground effect of the auditorium. But instead of stone, we
were surrounded by gray, fabricesque walls and nondescript
patterned carpeting—all the better to hide the inevitable spills. A
long stage, reminiscent of school plays, occupied one end, while
the other held tables of finger sandwiches and other assorted
appetizers. A vast sea of folding chairs stretched betwixt the two.
It was the same—nearly identical, even—as all the conferences
Amy and I had attended before, and would probably be a dead
ringer for many as-yet-unscheduled events. I imagined that
Hell was an auditorium that held endless conferences, with the
denizens doomed to an eternity of egg salad sandwiches and
lukewarm beer.
I sighed, and sipped my merlot. "At least the booze is free."
Amy nodded her agreement. These conferences put the bore
in boring, and alcohol was our only solace. Actually, what we
really needed was to not attend in the first place, but Amy and I
had just been promoted to Senior Underwriters. Our new, lofty
status, coupled with all the letters that now trailed after our
names, made our presence mandatory.
Is it wrong to want a demotion?
As for those letters, they were for the various professional
designations attained in the insurance industry. I, myself, have
ACS (Associate, Customer Service), FLHC (Fellow, Life and Health
Claims), and the coveted CPCU (Chartered Property Casualty
Underwriter) status. The only reason I—or anyone in my office
except for Neil, but he's one of those annoying overachievers—
ever pursued such designations was for the monetary bonuses
that accompanied them. I could care less about furthering my
insurance career, although that wasn't what I said in my reviews.
Anyway, Amy and I were both being singled out for
recognition at this conference because of our recent promotions
and our plethora of professional designations That's a lot of p's.
Time to ease up on the wine. Oh, and because we're women. You'd
think—what with us having the right to vote for the past hundred
years or so—that it wouldn't be such a big deal to have successful
women in an organization, but no, we're still a rarity. No matter
what the propaganda says, the glass ceiling is still very much
present in corporate America.
In fact, our entire company, Living Financial Corporation,
was frequently lauded for having so many women in leadership
positions. In a perfect world, people like Amy and me would just
be good employees, but the fact that we're successful, intelligent
people with girl-parts is newsworthy. And our successful
corporation with over fifty percent female managing officers is
super-newsworthy. Sure, our CEO's a man, but he's surrounded
by smart, capable women.
The prior CEO once called us his "harem." His office was
vacant by lunchtime.
Not only did we employ the most women in upper
management, we also insured more women per capita than
any other Fortune 100 company. Our marketing campaign was
calibrated to capture the hearts of budding young professionals
of the female persuasion, many still clutching their newly minted
degrees, and encourage them to live life to the fullest, all the
while leaving their trusted insurance company to handle the
future. Our slogan was:
Life is not a spectator sport. Get in there—all in!
That slogan tended to be printed below some stock photography
of women skydiving or rock climbing without a care in
the world; if they went splat, we'd pay their heirs. Handsomely.
And, if they survived their many adventures (most did) we'd
begin payments promptly on their sixty-fifth birthdays.
See? Getting old isn't all bad.
The worst were the string of commercials that ran last
summer, like the one that showcased a harried female executive
wading through reams of paperwork while the clock tick-tocked
away. Then, a cheerful colleague would poke his head in the
door and extend an invitation for kayaking (or hang gliding, or
snowboarding; there were three commercials). The ever-cautious
executive would nearly decline, but then her eyes would fall to
a brochure bearing the company logo: an ouroboros rendered in
green ink. She'd smile devilishly, take off her glasses and shake
out her hair, then declare:
"I'm in. All in!"
Yep. I work for those cheeseballs.
"Want another?" Amy had been sucking down gin and tonics
like they were water. Before I could fire off a witty comment
about the dangers of excessive alcohol consumption, she nodded
at my empty glass.
Okay, so I sucked down merlot like it was water. Like I said,
this place was boring.
"Sure." We sidled up to the bar, which, in stark contrast to
prior conferences, was staffed by several virile young men. It
seemed that someone had finally gotten the memo that attractive
people get better tips.
As I clutched my refilled wineglass and ignored Amy's lame
attempts at flirting with the bartender, I surveyed the auditorium
at large. I gnawed my lower lip when it hit me: there were almost
no men present. Sure, this conference honored women in the
industry, but men still make up the majority of the workforce.
Even more strangely, the few men in suits looked like they'd hit
the open bar a bit too hard.
"Check out Bill." I nudged Amy's ribs with my elbow. Bill
was our Chief Underwriter, and you'd never find a more straightlaced,
by-the-book man anywhere. He accepted nothing less than
excellence, both in his work and in his appearance. Just as his files
were never out of compliance, his shoes were always polished,
and his tie perfectly knotted. But not today—no, today the tie was
askew, his suit was rumpled, and was that an untucked shirttail?
Scandalous.
"He's gonna get cut off if he keeps it up." Amy set down her
g & t. "Maybe open bar wasn't such a good idea."
I sipped my wine and silently disagreed. I thought it was a
great idea.
Then, Bill took off his jacket, which was just about naked for
a man of his conservative demeanor. The impromptu striptease
made me glance down at my own attire; for the conference I'd
shed my standard uniform of khaki pants and polo shirt for a
black-and-white floral dress and fire engine red heels.
These conferences may be boring, but my footwear will never
be.
Amy had also opted for something a bit dressier, a blue shift
dress with black boots. I was about to ask how she could walk
on those impossibly tall and thin heels, when the most annoying
employee of Living Financial snuck up behind us.
"My double-A pupils!" chirped a voice that made me cringe,
sending icy waves down my spine. Being that our names were
Amy and Ann, and that we were nearly inseparable during the
workday, we were the butt of all sorts of A-themed comments.
Double-A, A-Number One... you get my drift. I didn't have to turn
around to know Maggie Wilson, our Training and Development
Coordinator, had found us.
"That's us." I gulped some more merlot. At this rate, I'd be
wasted before the speeches—awesome.
I hope I don't trip when I walk up to the podium.
"Now, I trust you girls have made time for our Guest of
Honor?" Maggie's voice warbled between a singsong and a
caterwaul. She'd wrestled her iron-colored hair into pin curls
and wore her standard ensemble of pencil skirt, white blouse and
cardigan. Horn-rimmed glasses perched on the very tip of her
nose, held on by one of those beaded lanyards sold at school craft
fairs. Her shoes were soft brown loafers; if they got any more
sensible, they'd teach logic and rhetoric.
"We'll be here for the speakers," Amy said a little too quickly.
We'd only ever left one conference early, the one in Boise for
the release of new risk codes (I know, more evidence of my
glamorous lifestyle?) and as far as I knew no one had ever caught
on. I wanted to keep it that way.
"Oh, not the speaker." Maggie leaned closer, a conspiratorial
glint in her eye. "The true Guest of Honor. The one we're all here
for."
Our blank stares must have spoken volumes, but the everprepared
Maggie didn't miss a beat. Heck, with shoes like those
clodhoppers she made her own beats. She beckoned us to follow
her, her gestures saying we were about to be let in on a great
secret. I figured this knowledge was the fancy ladies room,
stocked with everything from hand lotion to extra pantyhose in
nude and black.
Was I ever wrong.
We followed Maggie to the rear of the auditorium, down a
stark gray hallway lined with identical gray doors and glaring
fluorescent lights, and finally to an area partially obscured by
heavy velvet drapery that reminded me of the curtains around
an old-time movie screen, complete with gold tassels and heavy
fringe. I made a crack about being on the wrong side of the casting
couch, and Maggie shot me a withering glare.
"Now girls, you know I like to have fun as much as the next
gal," Maggie whispered. I restrained myself from the obvious
jokes and nearly blew merlot out my nose. "But this is serious. I
need the two of you to be respectful. Best behavior, okay?" Amy
and I both nodded. Thus assured of our cooperation, Maggie led
us around the edge of the curtain.
On the one hand, I wish we'd had more of a warning, but then
again I don't know what would have adequately prepared me
for what was on the other side of the curtain. The marble dais in
the center of the room had an actual red carpet leading up to it.
Small pillars set on either side of the carpet held enormous floral
arrangements. Throughout the room, women lounged on sofas
and huge floor cushions, along with several men in varying stages
of undress, with a few clad in what appeared to be loincloths.
Bill would freak.
Anyway, these men were feeding women grapes, combing
their hair, rubbing their feet… It was as if we'd wandered out of
the insurance world and into our own private seraglio.
However, this harem of semi-nude men wasn't the amazing
part. Atop the dais was a plush velvet chaise edged in gilded
wood, and atop that chaise reclined a woman so lovely it was
almost painful to look at her. Long, black hair, dark eyes, and
skin as pale as paper, she wore a toga-like garment of a pale pink,
diaphanous fabric cinched about her waist with a golden cord.
Oh, and instead of legs, the lower half of her body was a
serpent.
My jaw dropped as I stared. Snake woman. A freaking snake
woman. I've got to lay off the booze.
