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.

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.

You Are Late. 10 September 2009

I am here waiting and I have been here waiting 13 minutes.  I wasn’t even on time.  I was 2 minutes late.  This isn’t the first time I’ve waited, in fact, I have waited so many times that I have, in essence, stopped waiting.  This is why you’ll find me working in my office at 13 past instead of at your darkened door, waiting.

At first, I attributed it to your busy schedule.  You are more important than I am and so that gives you the necessary leeway (both because you have more power and because you are more involved) to arrive a bit late from back-to-back meetings.  After being in some of these meetings with you, I observed that you often schedule things on top of one another, without regard to when one event starts and another ends.  You seem content to believe that your presence for any amount of time is more valuable than the disruption.

I tolerate (though barely) your propensity to let your own meetings run long.  Once you start talking, you make astute comments and offer helpful solutions to problems.  Since you are the best person to get something done, I’m willing to stay past the end of the meeting (so long as it doesn’t make me more than a minute or two late for the next one) in order to benefit from your thoughts and experience.  These laudable attributes do not make up for the fact that your lateness is often due to poor time management. It’s okay to simply say, “I’m sorry but I have to go now” and recognize that you aren’t missing anything that can’t be caught up on later.  Although I don’t know the real justification, I assume you aren’t intentionally devaluing your colleagues’ time over your own, and that it isn’t your perception of your own elevated importance that makes it acceptable to make those around you wait.

I’m not so tightly wound as to never be occasionally late myself.  Professionally, I’m usually mostly on time, meaning I might be a minute early but that I’m usually not more than a few minutes late.  When I am late, it is with honest apologies and a fair bit of contrition.  I would attribute this to a previous career in the heart of government bureaucracy, but experience offered a few folks like you there, too.  Notably, one supervisor who arrived daily between 2 and 3pm, read the paper until 4:30 and then expected me to sit with him while he made phone calls and read email, usually for at least an hour.  You are better than he was, but you still are not here.  And, I am still waiting,

I’m more tolerant of flexible timing in my personal life.  Sometimes I am later than I want to be.  Sometimes I bring something to read because I know I’ll be early.  If you’re late and we don’t need to be somewhere, I’m happy to be patient.  Perhaps if we were friends, it wouldn’t matter.  Unfortunately, I work for you and while I wait, I work less effectively.  I can’t plan to be anywhere else and I’m inefficient for constantly looking at the clock.  When you arrive, sometimes as much as an hour later, I’ll be waiting.  It’s unfortunate for us both that I was at my best 60 minutes earlier.

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.

County Fair 28 July 2009

Dear readers, you know that I have a long history of country fair attendance.  You’d think that now that I’m more rural than ever, D and I would have more to write home about.  So far though, the only notable fair commentary I’ve had is what puts the county in county fair.

Admittedly, D and I are particular about what sort of fairs we go to.  We tend to steer clear of the smaller, Ferriswheel-only type events.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re not in it for the rides. We have two, clear criteria.  Food and a demolition derby.  Yes, we have attended fairs without those two crowning glories (one fair with no food – NO food! – and another with no transportation more exotic than pony rides).  But what makes my summer complete is a bang up, hootin, hollerin, demo derby followed by something deep fried and delicious.  So we keep our eyes open for candidates.  You’d be surprised at how many fairs eschew the demolition derby demographic.

We thought, since moving to Charlottesville brings us into a decidedly more rural territory, that we’d have our pick of the (junk)yard.  We were wrong.  So far only one candidate has proven to meet our minimum requirements – the Madison County Fair.  And what a fair it was.

The Madison fair had all the standard fair features.  Cows and other barnyard 4H standards, blue ribbon arts and crafts, rides, games and food.  There was a even a tiny three ring sideshow featuring (if you believe it) a giant alligator, a Man Eating Snake of the Desert Nations and the SMALLEST HORSE IN THE WORLD.  Well, clearly, Madison County has got what it takes in the fair department.   They even have a demolition derby, bless them.

So off we went.  An hour north and $10 later, we were walking around the midway (and a wee one at that) admiring the hometown fun machine and the win-a-fish ping pong toss.  We skipped the WORLDS SMALLEST HORSE (pity) in favor of a fried twinkie and a corn dog and moved out to get a seat in the bleachers well in advance of the main demo derby event.  While our 30-some bodies practically fell apart after an hour on the hard wooden seats, we were glad we held them since it quickly became clear that this was the most happening thing going on Saturday night in Madison County.  Lawn chairs, bleachers, standing room only, there was no place to be if you didn’t have a place already.

We had local company just behind us in the form of a family of 20; mothers, nieces, Paw Paws and Aunt Sissy’s of indeterminate familial status.  Who knows if they were blood, co-workers or just benchwarmers like us, but they were friendly enough, if a bit invasive.  At one point, Maw Maw leaned over and whispered close in D’s ear, “You all wanna mint?”

Maw Maw was holding down her family’s chunk of the bleacher like an anchor dropped in sand.  Never budging an inch but taking up more and more, she spread and melted in the humidity.  Eventually, the clan formed around us into a swarming hive and we had to give up reclaiming our seats from the matriarch.   After all this, it was easy to tell they enjoyed the derby as much as we did (Ma! Ma! Did ya see that? did you?) and I got the impression they made us as comfortable as possible in the heart of the chaos.

That said, while I had already noticed that my accent was more newscaster and less rural, Maw Maw’s country drawl spotlit my yankee clang well enough to send me shamefully into whispers the rest of the night.   Or maybe I picked up a little seashore Virginian from D and called it a day.  I’m not telling, I mean, tellin.

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.