The Avon Lady

There were a few resolutions I made before moving to Maine. I swore I would not start wearing Tevas, or begin buying my clothes at L.L. Bean. (Well, at least not regular clothes. Outdoor stuff, maybe.) I also might have resolved not to drink microbrew beer exclusively. But there was one danger I didn’t foresee. The Avon Lady.

When I started my new job, I was supposed to get an office. But, ironically (and I think I’m using that word correctly here, not Alanically), even though I work for the planning department--no, because I work for the planning department—my boss, (the VP of Planning) didn’t want to give the appearance that he was pulling rank by giving me, his new hire, my own office in a building that was short on space. So instead I got stuck in a little outcropping of cubicles. Two other women share this no-man’s land with me. (And there really are no men in there. Just us three women.)

The two women who share space with me are middle-aged suburbanites with husbands and children. Lord, spare me from their fate. The main topics of discussion revolve around amusement park rides, chores, and how expensive or not expensive things are. One of the women, who moved up from central Massachusetts for the job she has as a cost accountant, constantly puts down Portland, and can’t understand why I ever would have left New York City for Portland, Maine. One of her chief complaints about Portland is that she never wins the scratch ticket lottery up here. In Springfield she won “all the time—$50 here, $10 there.”

The other woman in my office (I’ll try not to give any identifying details here) is much less of an overt Debbie Downer, but she’s got her own crosses to bear. Like, calling her 12-year old son twice a day to ask if he’s done his “chores.” Just the word “chores” gives me the creeps. When co-worker #2 found out that I’d moved up from New York, her first question was whether I’d had “any trouble down there.” She’s got a southern and/or mid-western accent that’s so strong, I sometimes wonder if she’s imitating a hick accent just so her words will have emphasis.

They’re both very nice people (I think), but try as I might, I just can’t find anything to talk about with them. Given their somewhat envious, somewhat snide tones when they ask about it, I think they think it’s completely extravagant that I fly down to New York every month. And they both looked perplexed when I said I walked up the hill from the somewhat distant parking lot rather than wait for the shuttle provided by the hospital.

So when the Avon Lady showed up one day, and Debbie Downer helpfully offered me a catalog, I figured the least I could do was browse through it. I remembered something about how several years ago Avon customers realized that their Skin-So-Soft lotion happened to work really well as a natural bug repellent, and it became a runaway hit product. Since then they’ve reformulated the lotion into actual bug sprays. So, I bought two bottles. Two weeks later, a tall, tanned and leathery woman, with a raspy, loud voice delivered my little bottles in a paper bag. Co-worker #2 bought some press-on nail polish. Debbie Downer bought bug spray for her daughter. And for once, we had something to talk about.