LOST 12 November 2009

Lost:

One Sense of Humor.  Possibly abducted by a pack of threatening grey Rain Clouds skulking around the city and pissing on everything.  Wanted in connection with the case: A bad Attitude wearing a black ski mask and driving slowly in a paneled van, a large quantity of Dog Hair seen seeping into every corner, a menacing pile of unwashed Laundry, a shifty Obsessive Streak, an Emotional Mess lurking in the shadows and a Personality Both Panicked and Apathetic.  The latter is considered armed and very dangerous.

Sense of Humor last seen quivering in a back alley under the glare of one Short Fuse and his accomplice Fruitless Frustration.  No reward has been offered for its safe return, given the owner’s current tightfisted behavior and worrisome penny-pinching.  Also possible that Sense of Humor has run away from home.  No one in the home would be surprised.

In Which I Side With Rats 9 November 2009

You all know by now that I’m awake at night more often than I’d like to be.  Last night, I lay there as long as I could, wondering why I couldn’t fall asleep.  Usually, it’s an exercise in solving every possible problem that could come up in the next 20 years.  Surprise!  It can take awhile.  This time I was caught up in things I’d like to be doing.  It’s as if I would never have another free moment ever and these precious eight hours were all I would have to get a million things done.

I wish I could say these were important tasks, but they aren’t.  Sure, that wedding present is late.  But my sister’s birthday gift doesn’t need to be shipped til next week.  And really, that recorded show from October can probably wait another week.  It just feels like there are never enough hours in the day.  Or maybe I’m squandering the time I do have.  Regardless, I’d rather not lay there in bed thinking about it.

And then there’s this.  Yay!  Lab rats agree with me, lack of sleep isn’t a good idea.  I’ve exhausted my fall asleep methods, now to figure out how to pack more into a day.

Rake 8 November 2009

It’s impossible to avoid feeling suburban when you have trees in your backyard.  Sure, we live in the city (well, for what that’s worth) instead of the surrounding vast network of rural counties.  City or not, our neighborhood is studded with oaks, maples, cottonwoods and…you get the idea.  Those leaves are pretty but they have to fall.

I had no idea being a homeowner would give me such sore abs.

At least, raking is slightly more fun that it was as a kid.  Now there’s an ipod and I’m actually tall enough to move the rake without whacking myself in the head (Thanks for that chore, dad).  Sure, we aren’t jumping in the leaves – have you seen the bugs out there? – but it’s fun to smell the dry leaves in the sun and hear them crunch underfoot.

Sore everything.  But, completely worth it.

Drip Baby 7 November 2009

We realized sometime over the summer that we were getting HBO for free.  Well, not free exactly, since we had already given our first-born to the cable company in order to be able to have full access to AMC’s Hoarders.  What?  We have our reasons.

So, we’ve been enjoying our free year of HBO.  If, by enjoying, you mean sometimes remembering to see if any good movies are on, deciding there aren’t, hoping for a rerun of True Blood instead, and otherwise forgetting we even have cable.  But, we have it and with it we have access to semi-risque programming that involves scantily clad women.  As you can imagine, we’re all about scantily clad women.

This has led us to the early 90s wackiness that is Real Sex.  Have you seen this show?  Between segments on all manner of kinky indulgence (like phone sex, masturbation and mutual massage – the horror!) folks on the street are asked to give their opinion on topics relevant to the clips.  These are usually early thirties folks out for a night on the town, often tipsy, usually giggly, holding forth on everything from spanking to talking dirty.  Not a huge range. Especially not considering the favorite topic of Real Sex – getting messy.

Perhaps the producers were really into food and sex.  Or maybe they love the idea of women with whipped cream on their noses.  One way or another, episode after episode of Real Sex features beautiful women  in some state of food or paint related mess, often in a ring, or pool with chubby, messy men looking on.  Wikipedia describes this fetish nicely, though I wonder if there isn’t a more technical term for it.  Whatever it is, someone out there is fascinated by it.

That someone is shilling faucets.

Things Are Going Downhill 6 November 2009

Two days before guests come, the dog throws the contents of his stomach all over the house.  He uses his mouth and the rest of his orifaces to decorate our walls and carpets with the stinking perfume of intestinal distress.

Two days.

I know, that’s what you wanted to read today.  You thought, gee, maybe I’ll just get online for a second and maybe there will be something to read about bitter old woman, or better, inflatable lawn jesuses.   I’d like to point out that I am no longer the number one search result for said jesuses.  People, you’re slacking.

Although, come to think of it, maybe you aren’t slacking since a number of you are getting here by searching “describing indira gandhi”.  Nice to see I’ve moved past inflatable religious characters but can’t seem to dig my way out of dog shit.  Welcome to my world.

Sniff 5 November 2009

You know, while we’re on the topic of libraries (we were, you know) let’s talk about smells.

Some of you may be book fans, love that paper smell that wafts up when pages are ruffled.  Or maybe you love the dusty smell of still air tucked between the stacks.  I admit, with no shame whatsoever, that I can tell some publishers from others just by the smell of the book.  I also admit that I have a finely tuned sense of smell.

By this I mean, I can smell you through the computer.  What are you eating?!

I can also smell the library patrons from several feet away.  In some cases, several rooms away.  I know I’ve got it pretty good as far as public facilities go.  For someone who loses her lunch at strong smells good or bad, I think I’m lucky to be working in a place where most patrons smell like mostly clean t-shirts, jeans and school books.  Every so often we’ll get someone who lets their clothes sit too long in the washer or, on early Sunday mornings, the waft of stale beer and joints will come drifting across the counter.  It kills me though when I can smell seventeen layers of odor coming from one person.

I don’t ever want to still be able to smell you after I blow my nose.  I’m blowing my nose because my sinuses have just collapsed.  They’ve done so because I’ve been gagging.  I’m doing that because of whatever is living on your skin and eating your soul.

I don’t ever want to have to change clothes because you walked past and shed some awful perfumist’s idea of a rose garden onto my shirt.  And you huggers, I’m looking at you.  Should my skin so much as retain a hint of your scent until I shower again, you are so off my buddy list.

I don’t want to pick up the newspaper you just handed me and get hit with a face full of decay.  I don’t want to know you’re coming before I even turn around to see you.

It doesn’t matter to me what steps you take to remedy the condition, I’ll be delighted no matter how it happens.  I know some librarians attribute this to working with the great unwashed public but really, it’s just a symptom of leaving my house.  Thinking about it though, given the dog’s recent puke olympics, I’m really not safe anywhere.

I remember my mother complaining about this very thing when I was growing up (smells, not the puke olympics) and ignoring her constant gagging.  She recently visited me and had no idea she was cooking slightly spoiled meat until I said something.  So here’s hoping that 30 years from now I’ll be living in a world where the odor of humanity goes unnoticed.

points for being delicately scented.

 

Step Back 4 November 2009

Personal space fascinates me.  Although my default preference is just a bit less than an arm’s width away, I don’t experience enormous discomfort if you stand too closely to me when talking.  (As an overview, Wikipedia captures the concepts of personal and social distance nicely.)  As if personal preference wasn’t enough of a problem with regard to space, the stereotypes about specific cultures and space requirements are vast.  We group proxemics right up there with judgements about personal warmth, extraversion and formality.  Close-talkers are loud, friendly and from warm places.  Greater personal space indicates standoffishness, professionalism and a cool personality.

We also take space personally.  Is there something wrong to make her stand so far away?  Is it my breath?  Or more commonly in the U.S.: Why is he standing so close?  What does he want?  Is he dangerous?  Sloppy social skills?  It’s an affront to my delicate sensibilities!  Doesn’t he know he’s so close?  Some folks drop their eyes, back up across rooms, and physically place objects in between a conversation in order to preserve space.  We want what feels comfortable to us, even at the expense of someone else’s comfort.

Generally, civility outranks preference.  Think of it this way, there are two people and two types of ice cream, creamy vanilla and fresh strawberry.  One person is mildly allergic to strawberry.  He can eat it, but it makes his tongue tingle uncomfortably.  Nothing else happens.  The second person loves vanilla ice cream but thinks strawberry is just okay.  Knowing about the first person’s allergy, I think the second person will pick the strawberry dish every time.  In the case of space, preference often outranks civility.

Maybe a change is afoot, many it’s generational or need driven, but in the library, students often crowd up against the desk without regard to space.  It’s not a problem keeping a queue.  They know exactly who is next and respect each person’s right to a turn but rather than form a physical line (which they never have) or stand the appropriate social distance away (more typical) they often huddle up against one another at the front.

The first time I saw it, I wondered if the two people were friends or classmates.  When it was obvious they didn’t know one another, I was surprised that neither looked particularly uncomfortable.  Since then, I’ve watched it happen again and again.  Whether the current student is checking out a book or defending a fine, folks will crowd up and around offering no privacy at all.  Typically, I think it bothers me more than it bothers them and I’ve got a solid 2 feet of oak between us.  I wonder at what point the commonly understood 12-18 inches of space between the person in front of you (line or no line) evaporated.

Where do you stand while waiting for service?  I’m willing to bet it isn’t at the elbow of the stranger being helped.

Happy National… 3 November 2009

Let me tell you people, November is one wacky month.  Today, for instance, is National Sandwich Day.  By the way, November is host to so many commemorative days that I’m bound to mention more than just this one.  But first, let’s talk sandwiches.

Fact one about sandwiches.  In my house we do not refer to them as sammies.  Oh no, my friends.  Just as the acronym EVOO does not cross my lips, neither shall the word sammies.  If you don’t know the horror from which these words come, I’m not going to enlighten you.

Fact two about sandwiches.  I do not like peanut butter and jelly to touch.  Not today, not ever.  Not within the sweet confines of a loaf and not outside of it.  Not jam, not preserves, not crunchy, not natural.  No PB and J.  It’s a flavor combination to kill for – me killing you, that is.

Fact three about sandwiches.  As a child, I begged my mother to wed marshmallow fluff and peanut butter.  She never did.  I had one sandwich, once, at a friend’s house that blended warm, toasted, white bread with a sleek layer of peanut butter and a thick, fluffy cloud of marshmallow.  I have never forgotten the beauty of that moment.  I’ve also never fixed such a sandwich for myself, preferring to let that sunbeam streaked kitchen and sticky little fingers keep the memory.

Fact four about sandwiches.  I really only like to eat them for breakfast.  My prefered breakfast (besides a hamburger and fries…but that’s another post) is a sandwich.  In fact, the best sandwich I can think of for breakfast is a hard roll with one slice of thinly cut ham and a slice of cheese, nothing else.  However, be warned, you’ll never get me to eat ham and cheese that have been touching at any other time of day.  I barely even tolerate ham.  But, in the morning, I fall into some mysterious twilight zone breakfast hole that renders most dairy, all eggs and whole grains kryptonite and installs the duel combos of ham and cheese and hamburgers and fries as my saviors.

Happy National Sandwich Day.  Have one for me.

Acupuncture 2 November 2009

I started seeing an acupuncturist.  I mean really started – just one visit so far.  Apparently, she let loose seven dragons and, considering I didn’t even know I had any dragons, it was very pleasant.

She was a likable lady.  I’ve had mixed results with therapists and doctors of all sorts in the past and it’s always a delight to find someone who is likable from the first instant.  I had hoped she would be as sincere, upbeat and professional as her voice sounded on the telephone and I was delighted to find she was.  Given my typical reaction to white coats (not that she was wearing one) things went very well.

I’m trying acupuncture for a billion reasons, not least of which are the nasty migraines and incessant nightmares.  D and I would both like to get a good nights sleep.   The first session was a long two hours – the first spent exhausting my physical, mental and emotional history and the second pushing needles.  The history was unremarkable, except for the disturbing self-realization that I’m gathering soul scars as I get older.  I deeply enjoyed the second half.

Shedding my pants and socks, I had a lovely high table to lay on with sheets and blankets.  She used seven needles (to release the seven dragons that fight the body’s demons – an initial treatment done once) and put three in my stomach, one in each thigh and one on each foot (or was it ankle?)  She then came back at regular intervals to twist the needles a quarter turn until she’d gone all the way around.  Sounds a little brutal but wasn’t remarkable at all.

The sensations during treatment were remarkable.  As she put each needle in, it felt as though someone was gently pressing down on my back from the inside.  It was a heavy, pleasant feeling.  I’m not afraid of needles, and these are so small, they barely created a sensation other than the weight in my center.  Occasionally, the needles felt cold or radiated tingles, but for the most part, I was unaware that they were there.

During the times she was out of the room, I concentrating on breathing as she suggested.  At first my mind was busy, flying all over the place.  When she came back into the room and I mentioned the commotion, she said I might try being a river bed with the thoughts flowing above.  That worked beautifully and I felt as though I was glued to the table when she came back into the room again.  I couldn’t have moved if she had asked.  I was cemented to the table.  After that I slowly spun upward again until I was ready to be on my way by the time she finished.  I don’t think I’ve been so completely relaxed in a long time.

I’ll be heading back again every week for six weeks to see if the acupuncture has any effect.  Folks have been suggesting I try for years and I’ve always been willing but never motivated to spend the extra time and money.  At this point, no new solutions are coming from the traditional medical community and I’ve always been at home with alternative techniques, so it’s well worth the try.  Here’s to hoping the dragons swallow the nightmares.

National Blog Writing Month 1 November 2009

Somehow November crept up on me.  I suppose it’s only fair to say that October and September did too.  It’s been lovely, fall in a new house.  We’re been watching the leaves flash a most beautiful red and yellow.  Some folks say it has been a brighter fall than usual, but I can’t tell the difference from last year.  Our old neighborhood was heavy on the dogwoods – young ones that turned a sullen purply red.  This neighborhood has old oaks and cottonwoods (along with a few grown dogwoods) that have lit up the sky.  Late October is one of my favorite times of year.

This is National Blog Writing Month followed by Holidailies in December.  I’ve managed to write nearly every day in these two months for the last two years (Nov. 1 posts here and here) without much fanfare.  So consider this a statement of intent and an invitation to join me.  I’m not necessarily brilliant for 61 days, but I’m company at least!