sn…OMG

Apparently we’ll be heading into the snopocalypse this weekend in Virginia.  In fact, we’ve preemptively declared a State of Emergency around here.  Since I’ll be the shoveling one, I’m wondering what the etiquette is on shoveling as a homeowner.

As a renter, I waited blissfully for some guy wrapped head to toe in grey all-weather gear to drive his snowplow around, slamming into hidden speedbumps and creating an excellent sheet of snow to form into ice.  When he was done plowing, he heaved himself into some snowy bank, unearthed his blower or shovel and trudged through the neighborhood, salt minion trailing behind him.  At some point later, I find my own shovel and haphazardly clear out the car.  The most snow etiquette I’ve ever had to consider is whether or not to put my shoveled snow into the empty parking space next to me.

Now, I’ve got a house, driveway, sidewalk and neighborhood to think of.  Sure, at some point one hopes the city will drive up the giant hill plowing and salting.  So let’s not worry about that.  And, given our excess of cars, we’ve actually covered the driveway quite nicely.  No parking spots to shovel into.  The sidewalk though, that’s my problem – front and back stoops, steps, path to car, front walk.

At what point do I need to be out there, clearing the way for my neighbors to maneuver?  Can I dump the sidewalk snow into the street or does it have to be on the grass?  Is there a rule about salting?  If I use the non-dog friendly salt that is the only salt in this town, will they torch my yard?  Will my own dog die after perilously licking his toes?

The city says I have 12 hours from snow cessation to shovel.  But what is the neighbor ordinance?  You know, the Tsk Tsk Tsk ordinance?  I guess I’ll find out.

In the Family Way

Well, well, well.  Times have changed, haven’t they?  I’d say I didn’t know what caused it, but I do.  It’s all this pure countryside living.  Either that or the fertility clinic we went to this summer.  I know, I didn’t tell you it was coming.  Think of it this way, we didn’t really tell anyone.  Not even our parents.  Okay, ESPECIALLY not our parents. And now we’re in trouble, knocked up, in a delicate condition, pregnant.

D, in particular is pregnant, but isn’t that what you say?  We’re pregnant?  It’s amazing how early a woman’s body quickly belongs to the collective once she’s bearing a child.  I give myself a good mental smack every time I think it in an effort to psychologically give her her body back, but I’m thwarted at every turn.  For example, several people took the liberty of hugging us today when shared the news.  This is work folks, we are colleagues, we don’t hug.  Don’t even get me started on the way many pregnancy books manage to marginalize both the mother and any partner she has that isn’t her straight, American, husband.  Like I said, don’t get me started.

You might have questions.  How, in fact, did two hot, sexy women such as yourselves manage to conceive the miracle of life? We selected sperm from a bank, we shipped it to a doctor, he injected it into her uterus twice (once in August and once in September), she got pregnant.  Here’s what we didn’t do: we did not tell our other “trying” friends the number of our donor (I’ve heard that occurs), we did not take any fertility drugs and we did not tell people we were attempting to fertilize an egg.

Honestly, we’re still a little queasy about the idea of thwarting evolution at all, but have opted to become glassy-eyed with baby thoughts instead of considering the damage we’ve done to the human race by electing to use artificial means of conception.  Well, she’s queasy for entirely different reasons.  So, details: she’s 13 weeks, due in late June, we’re not going to find out the sex, and I won’t be numbing your eyes with baby chat here.

Two things – check out the page at the top titled “Plus One”.  If baby talk is your thing you can find me at Counting Chickens.  That’s it for this pregnancy public service announcement.

Points for not shunning me.

No Over the River

The best thing about this season has been the absolute lack of travel.  Seriously folks, the closest I’ve come to taking a trip has been watching jet contrails spin off into clouds.  I don’t know about you, but fall usually triggers a series of family visits interspersed with lines at the airport, bulging suitcases and hours spent in traffic.  This rigmarole goes straight through til January and then we get half a year’s peace.

I never thought I’d see a year in which we didn’t have to travel.  This year, my parents brought the circus in October.  Our closest friends came to us for Thanksgiving and we’re spending the winter holidays in our house alone.  D’s mom is coming on the 26th but until then, it’s peace and quiet.  It’s more than peace and quiet.  It’s amazing.

Twinkle Twinkle

I’ve never lived in a house of my own.  I’ve never lived in an actual house as an adult and I had no idea there was such baggage attached.  No, it isn’t the responsibility of the mortgage payment.  It’s not changing the air filters or mowing the lawn.  It isn’t getting to walk around naked with all the blinds open and then remembering you have nosy neighbors.

No one told me about the pressure around the holidays.

People, I thought the excessive stars and stripes on July 4th were over the top.  First one house, then another and soon practically every brick ranch had a flag streaming in the wind.  Shiny ones and heavy cloth ones.  Big ones and ones with satiny gold trim.  Some houses even took the extra step to jam into the ground some sort of cartoony independence day flag with fireworks emblazoned on it.  I didn’t see it as a competition then, oh no.  Just a friendly little (okay, big) show of spirited decor.  Ho, ho!  We’re all such patriotic pals!

That was this summer.  Now, it’s a whole new ball game and it’s an all-stars invitational.

First, I saw a few single candle lights appear in a few, isolated windows.  How cute, I thought.  How very Virginian.  Then it snowed.  Oh, it was beautiful.  Trees popped up in warm, glowing living rooms.  Decorations sparkled and tiny lights twinkled from deep inside evergreen bows.  We were with them.  Our tree is evergreen (because it’s plastic) and a weird assortment of sentimental ornaments jangle on the branches.  In our neighborhood, I suspect the trappings of religion are tucked away behind the shower of lights but the outward focus is less religion and more padding the pockets of the electric company.  I’m sorry, I mean celebration of the season.

Lest I sound like a grinch, I’ll reveal that I grew up in a decorated house.  My father put his light-based spirit on the outside and my mother spewed crazy on the inside.  No surprise there.  So we had strings of lights on the eaves with big, fat colored bulbs.  And that was it.  My father was more interested in using our limited cash for presents than lighting up the neighborhood.  I’ll admit I was jealous of the sparkling string of blue lights across the street, the fake snowman on the lawn down the way and the blinking extravaganza next-door that lit my bedroom like sunshine.

I didn’t realize the pressure he was under.  Every night, D and I drive home and there are more light displays.  Just tonight there were four new nets of lights draped over round bushes.  Red velvet bows are casting shadows on boughs of green wound around stairwell banisters and wreaths tacked on front doors.  There is our dark house, sitting quietly amid the commotion.  Like my father, we weighed our options and sided with the minimum.  A tree makes my wife happy and gives off enough heat that I can lower the heat a few more degrees.  I’m kidding!  Sort of…

Is it like this in your neighborhood?  Is there a burgeoning sense of guilt as the neighbors dip their properties into sparkles, lights and inflatable santas patting white wire deer?  I know you’ve seen those deer.  This isn’t the sort of neighborhood you’d drive through just to see the lights, but it has its fair share of people who wished they lived there.  I’m glad they don’t though.  Because here, I can make sure they stand out.

No Parades of Any Kind

We had a fantastic snowfall last weekend.  It’s the first time I ever remember decorating the tree while heavy snow fell and Christmas carols played in the background.  I can’t believe it has never happened, but with a childhood spent in the west, it’s not entirely unlikely.  Still, it was a particularly storybook memory to tuck away.

While I’m not religious, I celebrate a holiday that brings family together (however you identify family) and focuses on giving.  We decorate a tree, we give thanks, we sing carols, I’m sure my wife has a word or two with god.  As for me, I welcome the coming longer days and the change of the seasons.  Spring is coming and along with it rebirth.  First though, rivers of eggnog, fantastic mistletoe kisses and heaps of chocolate.  Let’s not skip past those.

D says my family is fanatical about memory making.  Okay, I added the fanatical part.  And they are.  I grew up with my mother insisting that we were a “white picket fence” family and she constructed memories to go with it.  At the holidays, that meant gingerbread houses and men, sledding and hot chocolate, ice-skating on frozen ponds with colorful scarves and mittens.  She kept our childhood ornaments and carefully marked the dates, though the construction paper and popsicle stick ones have somehow disappeared, leaving only pretty ones behind.

Food features prominently in my family’s memories. Turkeys are golden and huge.  Ham is perfectly glossy.  There are dozens of tins of different cookies and plates of pies.  It’s a little like a Karo syrup Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  This year, I’m quietly appreciating a holiday season (and I’m counting Thanksgiving and birthdays in that) spent without my extended family and all the food and perfection that comes with it.  Not up to speed on my family’s weird birthdays?  Now you are.

This season, I’ll be able to get up as early (or as late) as I want to, wear sweats at the breakfast table, eat toast instead of cinnamon rolls, eat tacos instead of turkey, enjoy a non-gift focused celebration, listen to whatever music I want and not have to watch any parades OF ANY KIND.  There will still be memories (like when my wife doesn’t kill me for putting on the seventeenth unique version of Let it Snow.  You think I kid.) and the look on her face when she finds the tiny gifts I’ve tucked in her stocking.  It will be good.  I’m looking forward to my own sort of memory making.

Drip Baby

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

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

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

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.

No, Actually, I’m Peachy.

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.