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.

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.

 

Why Am I Awake 24 October 2009

At 3am.  Again.

I’ve always been a sound sleeper.  Well, “sound”.  Meaning, I went to bed, slept, got up and felt well-rested.  I sleep walk, sleep talk and apparently even sleep kiss my wife.  I suppose this isn’t really sleeping well but I always felt fine.  Lots of reasons for that probably.  But I’ve never been…awake at night.

Like tonight.  I am wide awake.  I’m wide awake at 3 in the morning.  Nothing woke me.  It’s lighter in the house than it normally is.  My grandmother is visiting and the night lights in the hall cast a weird pale light in a streak over the sheets.  It’s warmer than usual also.  It has been drizzling since yesterday and the clouds are trapping the heat on the ground.  I left the dog’s collar on and every. time. he. moved. he jangled.  D is in DC at a rock show, where she always is when she’s away overnight.  Perhaps there are more reasons than I thought.

I try to stay in bed, knowing that the laptop and the computer won’t help me sleep.  I try to meditate.  I try to think sleepy thoughts.  I might as well try to count sheep for all the good it does.  So I get up and go downstairs and watch infomercials or reruns of Chelsea Lately.  You’d think I’d be tired the next day, but usually not.

Is this part of aging?  If so, I’m going to have to start being more productive at night.  Think of all I could get done.

No, Actually, I’m Peachy. 5 October 2009

Hi concerned citizen! I’m delighted to see that you’ve noticed me.  After all, it’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? To be noticed? Recognized? Although I’d prefer to go silently past, I’m aware that you’re doing what you think is your social duty to acknowledge me and make small talk.  As you can probably tell, I’m thrilled that you’ve broken up my day with an observation about my person or, even better, my personality.

I look grumpy? Well, that’s flattering. But not as flattering as when I tell you I’m not and you go on to say that I look like I have allergies, then.  I had hoped any ruddiness on my face was invisible to the human eye, but you’ve done me a great service by letting me know that my eyes are red-rimmed and my nose is bigger than normal.  I’m sure you didn’t mean to deflate me so quickly.

While we’re on the topic, I forgot to thank you the last time you commented on my health.  It was, of course, months ago, so you probably don’t remember how cute it was when you told me in such a concerned voice that I was always sick.  That you have somehow remembered the last time I had a cold (March) and combined it with the time I had food poisoning (November) and formed this idea of an ambulatory heap of seeping disease that is me.  Thanks so much for noticing.  Please keep telling me I’m always sick.  We’re going to be best friends, I can already tell.

I know you have the best of intentions and I’m being, well, insensitive, to your needs, but I would be deeply grateful if you could stop remarking on my health, mood or emotions.  They are all fine, thank you very much.  And, if they’re not, you can be certain I won’t be confiding in you.

No More Than One Path 25 September 2009

In the restroom, the students hang fliers.  There are the standard club fliers and audition notices.  A few stalls still have 2005 Women’s Center stickers with informational blurbs about sexual assault and helpful phone numbers.  It’s a perky sign.  I can never decide whether that makes me more, or less, likely to read it.

Occasionally signs are defaced.  The abstinence crew is easy with the pens.  Quick to decry any sex, no matter how non-consensual, the Wait! and Promise Ring contingents are always armed with a witty (and hurtful) remark to jot onto the sexual assault signs.  Once peppered with comments, those signs can never come down fast enough.  Before the inevitable trip to the bin, it’s gratifying to see the backlash from the more reasonably-minded folks that frequent the stall.  Thank goodness they also carry sharpies.

The latest sign to catch my eye fell into the club category and  proclaims that a “large group!” will be meeting this Sunday (Sunday, Sunday) to share supper and fellowship.  There will be SINGING.  And also, PRAYER.  But probably no dancing, unless it’s swaying with the Lord’s love.  Sorry, some of my snark snuck out.

I don’t begrudge groups the right to publicize in the stall.  Paper bulletin boards, walls and doors with your missives, houses to rent, cds for sale and religious invitations.  I’m for it.  Here’s what I’m not for: alienation.  You’re the Swedish Culture Group?  Let’s not write, Swedes Only.  And, for the record, that group (and there is one) does not.  By the way, Dinner Is Only 10 Dollar$$$!  There will be dancing!  Of course, you’re with me here – outright discrimination won’t do.  But what about alienating folks based on your name?  Although I am just as happy to see that a Christian group is meeting as I am to see that FAME is auditioning models and photographers (bring 3 inch heels if planning to walk), the name of the Christian group is One Path.

I wasn’t offended at first, actually I was pondering the inclusion of the “large group!” notation.  As someone who is inordinately shy in new groups, I’d be thrilled to see outright that I wasn’t walking into a tiny, religious room of three.  But “One Path”?.  Why is it just one path?  Lots of folks use the phrase one path but this instance is nagging at me.  If I had considered going to the group (billed only as Christian) I might feel put off by the implication that the group is so steadfastly aligned behind the one. path. that they’ve named themselves that.  What if I had a different, but compatible path?  Am I not welcome?  Is there a screening process?  How can I tell in advance?  Does this one path imply a specific religion?  It’s too much for me to linger over on the loo, but I’m clear on one thing: as someone who isn’t generally put off by the paper graffiti all over the restroom, the words one and path together have certainly sent me into an irritated tizzy.  Clearly I don’t have enough to do.

By way of begging forgiveness for that half-baked bit of piss and vinegar, I give you this photo from our recent trip to North Carolina.

Not Witty and Clever 24 August 2009

As much as I wish I could tell you witty and clever things about the weekend to both amaze and inspire, I’m having trouble shaking the late summer blues. However, if I were witty and clever, I would tell you about:

The biscuits I had this weekend at a local restaurant that might have been better if they didn’t look like whole wheat rolls while simultaneously tasting like biscuits.  I thought eye-taste confusion really only happened with mashed potato scallops and the like. I was wrong.

The return of students and their impossibly skintight jeans to campus. Perhaps they will start wearing these

The tendency of the millennials to consider a busy signal an indication that no one will ever answer. Not even several days later.

By the way, despite my grumpy and generally high-strung nature, my wife still loves me. She draws delicate hearts with our initials in the steam on the shower door. D + M.
Dear reader, you would love her, too.

Not Flying 11 August 2009

If you asked me what sort of family I come from, I’d say “close”.  Maybe even “very close”.  Yes, one sister is a crackpot (and that goes for all of us – I’m sure I’m someone else’s crackpot) and my mother never tells us anything (“oh honey, that dog’s been dead for months now”) but we’re close enough that we share gales of laughter together.  We’d do it more often if they lived closer, but we’re on the east coast and they are…well, not.

Both sisters and my parents (and every last stitch of extended family) are a plane flight away.  This wasn’t a problem ten years ago.  I flew everywhere.  San Francisco on the weekend, Johannesburg, London, Rio.  In the pre-TSA days, my mother dumped me onto planes from five forward, just to fly to see my grandparents.  Alone.  Suffice to say, I’ve been around the aviation block.

Somewhere in all of this, I lost the traveling bug.  I’d much rather drive than fly and really, I’d rather stay nearby.  As time goes by, it’s less “I’d rather not fly” and more “I’m avoiding flying”. I’m not afraid of crashing, through frankly, it seems a much more reasonable fear than it used to be.  It’s more the restriction of personal freedom on a public conveyance.  If I need to use the bathroom, I will (as long as it’s safe).  I’d like to be able to move my arms (even as a skinny little kid my shoulders hit the edges of the seat and I’m not doing any better now).  I’m not a fan of being sprayed down with disinfectant in a sealed plane (never happened to you?  Be thankful).  But mostly, I don’t want to spend hours without air on a hot piece of pavement.

No, really.  I’m Tucson born and so I’m familiar with the particular form of torture that comes with onboard idling, cabin power off, in summer heat.  There have been times I’ve sat there so long, breathing so much stale air that the world got grey on the edges.  I’ve had flight crews apologize (though they no longer seem to) for sealing the flight up and letting it toast in the sun but acknowledge that due to another plane with a problem, power problems with our own or downright aviation orneriness, that no one was going to get a breath in edgewise til the plane took off.  I’ve been trapped off of planes, too.  Once, in Miami, they cleared everyone into a gate for a Brazil-bound flight, shut the security gates behind us and closed the airport.  The bathrooms and water fountains were on the other side of the gate.  That was a very long six hours.  It also was before TSA.

I’ve already put off going to see my sisters this year, but I would have eventually given in and bought a plane ticket next year.  Now I’m not so sure. The fact that Congress has to legislate to allow people to disembark in a common sense situation is ridiculous.  Congress, please spend your time making laws protecting me from being fired because I’m gay.  Better still, get around to kicking DOMA back under the rock from whence it came.  It is unbelievable that existing laws require additional legislation to ensure human compassion.

Will we fly again?  Of course, but not without dread.  Will we forgo trips to Paris in favor of trips to Nantucket?  Yes.  Will we drive every chance we get?  Yes.  Because I would rather further subsidize foreign oil for my individual conveyance and sacrific oodles of vacation time than have to sit next to you in a tiny little steel case breathing the same air for hours on end while slowly choking on my own claustrophobia and dripping sweat.  No offense.

The Devil’s Fruit 30 July 2009

Spoiled, stinking, garbage in the sun, rotting.

Yes, cantaloupe is in season.  I’m sure there’s some smell you can’t stand.  Something that can send your stomach into convulsions with just a whiff.  Maybe you haven’t smelled it yet, but you will.  For me, it’s the cantaloupe.

It’s a serious problem.  I happen to like the taste of cantaloupe and I like the way the inside of cantaloupe smells but I might. die. if you bring a whole cantaloupe within 10 feet of me.  Die.  Choking on my own vomit.

Unfortunately for me, cantaloupe is all the rage at the CSA and we’ve been bringing home one a week.  They are getting gradually larger and I’m beginning to fear that soon we’ll be bringing home two a week.  D has cut some up (thus saving herself from a harrowing life as a spinster) and I cut some up this week.   You’d think it would be impossible to wade through the stench in order to chop up the fruit but once I can crack the rind, I can once again breathe in pure, sweet melony air.  Going into grocery stores lately has become an exercise in self-discipline.  Will I be able to hold my breath long enough to get from the parking lot, through the door, and safely down an aisle?  Get out of my way, cart man, lest I throw up on your shoes!

Seperate Toilets 18 June 2009

It seems a little unreal that domestic partners employed by the federal government will have some benefits.  I have confidence that, eventually, it will as illegal to discriminate against gay individuals as it is to discriminate based on age or gender.  There’s no perfect world and discrimination still happens to all kinds of people all the time, but I look forward to the day when it isn’t sanctioned by the government.

For a second, I thought I might regret leaving the State Department in light of this change and the almost certain extension of more benefits by the Secretary of State.  But I don’t.  I don’t regret leaving for a second.  It was no longer the right job and the limited benefits wouldn’t make up for that.  Unfortunately, I’m confident that the good state of Virginia is unlikely to get on the progressive bandwagon anytime soon.

The whole thing leaves me feeling a little hopeless and unsettled.  It seems like no one is able to make change.  The President says it’s beyond his ability to change and if left to the general public, I’m afraid a vote would be to maintain the status quo.

At Capital Pride Sunday I watched a man my age walking with his pretty wife, their young baby and the baby’s grandmother tell his family that they could not use the restrooms in the area because (hushed whisper) “Look at that sign” (pointing to Pride banner) “we can’t go over there”.  I couldn’t tell if he was afraid they might catch something, sheer discrimination, or fear that we might tar and feather them.  Seperate toilets.  Great.