Welder World
Posted: Fri May 21, 2010 9:13 pm
For those of you who were interested in reading about my new job, or could otherwise care less;
I’m a Soldadero Soldadera once again! Which translates as ‘welder-woman-fighter’, sí, that’s the translation, for both are the same in Spanish; fighter = welder. I was going to name the thread that, but ‘Welder World’ won out because it rolls off the AMERICANO English tongue much better.
There’s got to be some significance to that serendipity.
Any day now, I’m going to get a cosmic message from the cosmos saying that the combination of welding rays, female hormones and an ancient Meso-America prophecy recently unearthed in a temple beneath a Mexican Pyramid, right after a drug lord raid, but before afternoon siesta; will decree me as:
WELDER WOMAN the SUPER SOLDADERA™! ♪Daa-da-daaaaaaaa! ♫
(No relation to that other ‘W-Woman’; she’s Greek and tall. I’m Latina and short ...and not into that bondage thing either.)
I am hoping one of my super-powers will be lightening bolts! I mean, I know you don’t get to pick your powers but they’re usually along the lines of what made you a superhero in the first place and welding is controlled lightening, right?
Maybe, I’ll be able to fry things with my touch! Or, maybe intense UV light from eyes will give you really bad sunburn! Woo, I’m bad!
Until then, I’m establishing my secret identity as a short-brown-cute (sometimes bitchy) blue-collar, welder babe in the Big City.
As such, my alter alias burns metal at an undisclosed location in the wee hours when I should be drinkin’ and carousing’. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.
It ain’t glamorous, like a News reporter, a playboy millionaire or …um …hey wait, what does Wolverine do? Who pays him, does he even have a job? No really, who gives him his lunch money? Professor X? Who pays him then, huh? This isn’t fair, I don’t wanna be a part-time Superhero, but I can’t fight crime and hold down a paycheck at the same time. How do those guys do it; somebody give me the number to their agent, or at least, tell me who does their dry-cleaning, OK? I would never normally wear spandex underneath my street clothes, too hot! But they do it somehow.
Speaking of crime-fighting costumes, I think my WELDER WOMAN™ outfit should integrate Mexican-Indian Tribal elements [re: feathers] with weld leathers, gauntlets and goggles. The over-all effect looking kinda like a shaman-samurai sans swords. Yea no swords, I couldn’t pull that off, but maybe I’ll wield a hammer as a weapon, a la’ Hawkgirl! However, when I wasn’t using it, I would wear it correctly …you know Hawkgirl wears that Morningstar of hers backwards? It’s true! Paul Dini’s design of her carrying that mace on her belt from the handle doesn’t take into account the weight of the head will now swing and drag. Ask any construction worker or day laborer, Dini’s never done hard labor in his life; you carry your hammer on your hip head up.
So, to get picky about it; I know I really should be wearing a full face hood not just the goggles, but you gotta consider the whole theatrical ensemble effect when choosing an identity cover. Long since the days of The Lone Ranger™, the good guy has never completely hidden his (or her) face, just masked it. (Except for Spiderman™ but he was trying for creep-factor in the first place - I mean spiders? that’s worse than bats, bleh!) The Superman™ of them all doesn’t wear a mask at all!
So, figure a female flower-warrior in stunner shades! ♪Dun-Naaaaaah! ♫
…
Meanwhile, back in reality;
The real job is a high-end quality production shop with some artsy-fartsy stuff thrown in. All well and good; quality production can bring top dollar. The shop had gotten through the recession with their sterling reputation of 96% perfect stuff, and it was time to ramp up the output! Mass production pays the bills, and a steady monthly job order assures the shop will be there when the big ticket items come in.
Yet for some reason (and I don’t’ really care what it is, it just got me a job!) these precision TIG welders had forgotten what it is was like to mass produce the daily bread N’ butter. They’re a fine crew of torchers, yet introduce a customer order that was simple MIG welding but had to be put out quickly, and they soon realized they needed a haul-ass like me. Yep, you could hitch me to a plow and I’d pull all day! (Try that and I’ll hurt you - I’m just sayin’)
We’re making a good team: they get the intricate detail work and I get the intensive labor work; sounds a bit cock-eyed I know, but it works. (A white woman wouldn’t be expected to work this hard, but add –‘Oh, she’s Mexican’, and it’s ‘Ah, that explains it!’ ~Heh ) I haven’t slowed down since I got here, and the initial good impression has become the expectation of my average workload.
The other day, I was delayed because of dealing with a mechanical failure, and Diego the floor manager came to me concerned of my welfare, ‘You Okay? What Happened?’ Like a meteor had struck the clap of doom, and that was the only thing that could have impeded me. Could be that meteor was my ‘kryptonite’? Every superhero has to have a secret weakness; was there anyway my work ethic could be warped?
Hard work. <shrug> It’s just what Hispanics do. Girls are not excluded, I remember as a wee Locita being taught to cut and stack firewood by my Pa. My first job was at age 12 because I really wanted to get to work; to pull my weight. Gran’po Tekka had labored from dawn till dusk for over 60 years in less than OSHA approved conditions; I had a legacy to fulfill! That first job wasn’t stuffing envelopes nor stacking shelves neither(not to disparage envelope stuffers nor shelf-stackers) no, Loca was a newspaper girl- have Schwin will travel. If you recall those days- the newsprint was dumped on the curb at O’dark-thirty and the paper carriers had to be there to meet it. In bundles of ink-soaked pulp; newspaper ain’t light. I’d overload my bike’s rear basket so much, it would have reared like a horse if not for my weight in the seat (barely) countering it. Tipping that scale was the apron with front and back pouches for carrying more papers and I was one load bearing burrita.
It was all for the job satisfaction; I wasn’t saving up money for anything; in fact I didn’t know what to do with my earnings. Both my parents had good jobs; I didn’t want for anything, I just wanted to work.
In our ancient tribal religions, it was believed the soul continued to perform a function even after death. That’s how hard-workin’ Hispanics are: even killing us doesn’t stop us from doing our job. ‘Being with the Gods’ didn’t mean heavenly repose or spiritual rest it meant service to the deities. In other words; death was punching into that big time clock in the sky! (git ta work ya ghost!) The Meso-American gods weren’t omnipotent, you know. They were more like foremen on a VERY big construction site- they wrote and implemented the blueprints, but the work had to be carried out by the Latino laborers. There were even different skill sets each god(foreman) needed, and how you died determined which god you were going to serve in the afterlife.
If you died of drowning- you served the River God. If you could swim but died from alligator attack- you served the Reptile God. If you survived drowning and the alligators, but died of pneumonia- you served the Nagging God, who had told you not to go near the river in the first place. Personally, myself, I’d hate to work for the Nagging God; that’s a minimum contract of four years being the little voice in the back of someone’s head that sounds like their mother screeching, ‘Wear a clean loincloth downtown!’ ‘Wash your hands before you make a sacrifice!’ and ‘How many times do I have to tell you!? Don’t track blood across my nice clean floor!’ Imagine being a Nag Hag to death! Bleh!
AnywayZ, I’m a shoe in with the Storm God; if I get fried by 50,000 volts at this job, I’m gonna be a lightening tender for sure!
Already, I’m:
WELDER WOMAN the SUPER SOLDADERA™!
♪Daa-da-daaaaaaaa! ♫
I’m a Soldadero Soldadera once again! Which translates as ‘welder-woman-fighter’, sí, that’s the translation, for both are the same in Spanish; fighter = welder. I was going to name the thread that, but ‘Welder World’ won out because it rolls off the AMERICANO English tongue much better.
There’s got to be some significance to that serendipity.
Any day now, I’m going to get a cosmic message from the cosmos saying that the combination of welding rays, female hormones and an ancient Meso-America prophecy recently unearthed in a temple beneath a Mexican Pyramid, right after a drug lord raid, but before afternoon siesta; will decree me as:
WELDER WOMAN the SUPER SOLDADERA™! ♪Daa-da-daaaaaaaa! ♫
(No relation to that other ‘W-Woman’; she’s Greek and tall. I’m Latina and short ...and not into that bondage thing either.)
I am hoping one of my super-powers will be lightening bolts! I mean, I know you don’t get to pick your powers but they’re usually along the lines of what made you a superhero in the first place and welding is controlled lightening, right?
Maybe, I’ll be able to fry things with my touch! Or, maybe intense UV light from eyes will give you really bad sunburn! Woo, I’m bad!
Until then, I’m establishing my secret identity as a short-brown-cute (sometimes bitchy) blue-collar, welder babe in the Big City.
As such, my alter alias burns metal at an undisclosed location in the wee hours when I should be drinkin’ and carousing’. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.
It ain’t glamorous, like a News reporter, a playboy millionaire or …um …hey wait, what does Wolverine do? Who pays him, does he even have a job? No really, who gives him his lunch money? Professor X? Who pays him then, huh? This isn’t fair, I don’t wanna be a part-time Superhero, but I can’t fight crime and hold down a paycheck at the same time. How do those guys do it; somebody give me the number to their agent, or at least, tell me who does their dry-cleaning, OK? I would never normally wear spandex underneath my street clothes, too hot! But they do it somehow.
Speaking of crime-fighting costumes, I think my WELDER WOMAN™ outfit should integrate Mexican-Indian Tribal elements [re: feathers] with weld leathers, gauntlets and goggles. The over-all effect looking kinda like a shaman-samurai sans swords. Yea no swords, I couldn’t pull that off, but maybe I’ll wield a hammer as a weapon, a la’ Hawkgirl! However, when I wasn’t using it, I would wear it correctly …you know Hawkgirl wears that Morningstar of hers backwards? It’s true! Paul Dini’s design of her carrying that mace on her belt from the handle doesn’t take into account the weight of the head will now swing and drag. Ask any construction worker or day laborer, Dini’s never done hard labor in his life; you carry your hammer on your hip head up.
So, to get picky about it; I know I really should be wearing a full face hood not just the goggles, but you gotta consider the whole theatrical ensemble effect when choosing an identity cover. Long since the days of The Lone Ranger™, the good guy has never completely hidden his (or her) face, just masked it. (Except for Spiderman™ but he was trying for creep-factor in the first place - I mean spiders? that’s worse than bats, bleh!) The Superman™ of them all doesn’t wear a mask at all!
So, figure a female flower-warrior in stunner shades! ♪Dun-Naaaaaah! ♫
…
Meanwhile, back in reality;
The real job is a high-end quality production shop with some artsy-fartsy stuff thrown in. All well and good; quality production can bring top dollar. The shop had gotten through the recession with their sterling reputation of 96% perfect stuff, and it was time to ramp up the output! Mass production pays the bills, and a steady monthly job order assures the shop will be there when the big ticket items come in.
Yet for some reason (and I don’t’ really care what it is, it just got me a job!) these precision TIG welders had forgotten what it is was like to mass produce the daily bread N’ butter. They’re a fine crew of torchers, yet introduce a customer order that was simple MIG welding but had to be put out quickly, and they soon realized they needed a haul-ass like me. Yep, you could hitch me to a plow and I’d pull all day! (Try that and I’ll hurt you - I’m just sayin’)
We’re making a good team: they get the intricate detail work and I get the intensive labor work; sounds a bit cock-eyed I know, but it works. (A white woman wouldn’t be expected to work this hard, but add –‘Oh, she’s Mexican’, and it’s ‘Ah, that explains it!’ ~Heh ) I haven’t slowed down since I got here, and the initial good impression has become the expectation of my average workload.
The other day, I was delayed because of dealing with a mechanical failure, and Diego the floor manager came to me concerned of my welfare, ‘You Okay? What Happened?’ Like a meteor had struck the clap of doom, and that was the only thing that could have impeded me. Could be that meteor was my ‘kryptonite’? Every superhero has to have a secret weakness; was there anyway my work ethic could be warped?
Hard work. <shrug> It’s just what Hispanics do. Girls are not excluded, I remember as a wee Locita being taught to cut and stack firewood by my Pa. My first job was at age 12 because I really wanted to get to work; to pull my weight. Gran’po Tekka had labored from dawn till dusk for over 60 years in less than OSHA approved conditions; I had a legacy to fulfill! That first job wasn’t stuffing envelopes nor stacking shelves neither(not to disparage envelope stuffers nor shelf-stackers) no, Loca was a newspaper girl- have Schwin will travel. If you recall those days- the newsprint was dumped on the curb at O’dark-thirty and the paper carriers had to be there to meet it. In bundles of ink-soaked pulp; newspaper ain’t light. I’d overload my bike’s rear basket so much, it would have reared like a horse if not for my weight in the seat (barely) countering it. Tipping that scale was the apron with front and back pouches for carrying more papers and I was one load bearing burrita.
It was all for the job satisfaction; I wasn’t saving up money for anything; in fact I didn’t know what to do with my earnings. Both my parents had good jobs; I didn’t want for anything, I just wanted to work.
In our ancient tribal religions, it was believed the soul continued to perform a function even after death. That’s how hard-workin’ Hispanics are: even killing us doesn’t stop us from doing our job. ‘Being with the Gods’ didn’t mean heavenly repose or spiritual rest it meant service to the deities. In other words; death was punching into that big time clock in the sky! (git ta work ya ghost!) The Meso-American gods weren’t omnipotent, you know. They were more like foremen on a VERY big construction site- they wrote and implemented the blueprints, but the work had to be carried out by the Latino laborers. There were even different skill sets each god(foreman) needed, and how you died determined which god you were going to serve in the afterlife.
If you died of drowning- you served the River God. If you could swim but died from alligator attack- you served the Reptile God. If you survived drowning and the alligators, but died of pneumonia- you served the Nagging God, who had told you not to go near the river in the first place. Personally, myself, I’d hate to work for the Nagging God; that’s a minimum contract of four years being the little voice in the back of someone’s head that sounds like their mother screeching, ‘Wear a clean loincloth downtown!’ ‘Wash your hands before you make a sacrifice!’ and ‘How many times do I have to tell you!? Don’t track blood across my nice clean floor!’ Imagine being a Nag Hag to death! Bleh!
AnywayZ, I’m a shoe in with the Storm God; if I get fried by 50,000 volts at this job, I’m gonna be a lightening tender for sure!
Already, I’m:
WELDER WOMAN the SUPER SOLDADERA™!
♪Daa-da-daaaaaaaa! ♫
