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.

The Reason I Couldn’t Help 28 August 2009

Folks, this could be considered graphic.

Sometimes, I’m a pretty bad wife. Occasionally, I’ll insist the chicken is still frozen so that we have to have pizza instead. And, every so often, I’ll stick my head out from a  book and say, “Why is the cat meowing?” without even checking to see if he has food. I know, dastardly. I don’t even make up for it in other ways. You see, I don’t like to touch the wet laundry unless there’s lotion nearby and I don’t like to fold things that are inside out. I don’t like to unpack things and I don’t like to talk about key racks, picture frames, closet organizers or decor. But, at least I do these thing every so often. Throwing her a bone, so to speak. Like I said, I’m a pretty bad wife.

I don’t think I’d had a single panic attack until I rode a collapsing deck down a couple of stories. After that, creaking wood sent me into heart-fluttering shakes. But otherwise? Totally okay. Totally okay in all areas except, apparently, disco rice. I would link that, but I’m not up for whatever images might be behind that Google search. No, seriously.

I think I’ve been storing up panic. Pre-deck crunch, I went to Africa a reletively undamaged person. In fact, I’d say my interests ran to the macabre and that I had a stronger stomach for gore than most. And then I spent one very hot afternoon in an African morgue. Culturally, it was fascinating, though that word implies a lightheartedness I don’t intend.

A crowd of women in colorful fabric crouched around a small set of steps in the morgue courtyard. The courtyard itself was pretty, trees and benches dotted a walled cement area framed on one side by tall concrete and the other by a low L-shaped building. The women wailed. Isn’t that what you’re meant to do when mourning? It’s not really crying anymore, it’s a ripping sort of hollow sob that rises and falls with your breath and your memories. I watched them cluster and mourn while I was taking a break from watching a body.

This was on the heels of several mundane things. The stereo from the embassy truck was stolen after delivering the coffin. My boss yelled at me on the cell phone for not being able to be two places at once. I watched dried leaves drift on the pavement. It also followed some firsts for me.  Speaking with the tender-voiced manager of the morgue about why we would need to use our U.S. coffin. Explaining why someone needed to stay with the body. Learning about the draining mechanism in the steel lining of a coffin.

Even now, I’m unable to give eloquence to that afternoon. There was blood in swirls on the floor. And, there were bodies. More than I expected. Stacked and carried in ways I hadn’t expected. A smell that never faded, even after hours. And of course, there were bugs. This is not CSI’s cool, dimly lit morgue. This is a bright, summery place with no air conditioning and wide open doors and windows. Honestly, it was easier to stare at the tiled walls than at the waiting body. Or worse, the wide hallway with a slide-show of atrocity. At least, it was easier until I realized that I wasn’t dizzy so much as the tile was moving. And that the small, white bugs responsible for the movement were everywhere.

You know, that’s all I can say today about that day. And it’s the first time I think I’ve put it into writing. Shared with someone who wasn’t my partner or a therapist. I’m not sure how I developed the idea that the larvae exclusively populated one-hour crime shows, read-in-a-day detective thrillers and third world countries. How privileged to assume wealth is an inoculation.

One weekend before we moved in, we left a trash bag with discarded sandwich wrappings on the floor of our new kitchen. When we came back a few days later, I picked up the nearly empty bag to toss with the rest of the painting detrius. I’m sure I don’t need to explain what was under the bag. I can’t anyway.  The 20 minutes of sobbing and shaking that followed was enough to turn D. pale. That was a real panic attack. It put my issues with cracking wood to shame. She cleaned up the mess and soaked the kitchen in chemicals. I don’t know how long it took or how awful it was. I’m not even sure where I went in my mind as it happened.

Last night, we discovered our outdoor trashcan had picked up unwanted visitors. First a few, then a lot. I think we’re both happy that I wasn’t the one who discovered it. Regardless, I also wasn’t the one who dealt with it. If, by dealing, you mean dousing the interior with dichotomous earth and returning, green, to the house with this statement “Let’s throw out the whole can.” I can’t help but wonder if she’d be less squicked if I hadn’t turned the first instance into weeping, startling panic. But they are gross, and I don’t blame her for wanting to spare the trash collectors.

Summary?  She is amazing and I am damaged.  I’m the lucky one.

Firestarter 24 June 2009

Today, I was selecting books to get rid of to make more space in the library.  I pulled several in the parapsychology section out halfway, getting them ready to shelve on a cart.  When I bent down to look at the bottom shelf, a book flew out and nailed the back of my head.  The title?  Telekinesis.

Nice.

It runs in the family… 6 November 2007

My sister called today to announce, through tears, that she was coming to spend the weekend.  I’m devoted to my sister, but she’s 3000 miles and a pricey plane ticket away from this weekend.  As it stands though, she’s coming to drown her sorrows in a cold snap and fall leaves. 

When I told D., the first thing she said was, “She’s not moving in with us again, is she?”  And thank goodness, she’s not.  But she is grappling with a best friend who hates her boyfriend-almost-fiance and the third year of law school.  If I were her, I’d run away too. 

It runs in the family.  I also made a 3000 mile bolt one year.  The Foreign Service, wonderful though it may be, isn’t known for its tranparent, fast hiring process.  I’d been told, over and over, that I’d need to be in DC  in late September.  The Thursday before class started, I still sat, still in sunny Arizona, still unpacked, still without a plnae ticket, still in shorts, still without knowing where I needed to be on Monday.  When I called (no, no not in panic, really!), they told me that if things “worked out,” I’d need to be there in a suit and heels, shiny and happy.  I still did not own a suit.  So I bought a ticket instead of a suit, and flew to Chicago to stay with my mother’s best friend.  She bought me a piece of pie, and let me be a runaway for a weekend.  I’ve never forgotten how kind she was not to ask what I was running from.

Bonus points if you, too, run further than the nearest Baskin Robbins if you want to escape…

Director of General Chaos 2 November 2007

At some point, I’m going to write about the recent events at my place of employment.  The edge of fist fights, sworn comrades mocking one another, mother ripped from infants, love, grief. 

But not tonight.

Today, the man whose fault it is or the man who’s going to take the fall for the woman whose fault it is patted my arm as he walked past smiling.  I nearly kicked him in his teeth.  How’s my week going?  Terribly, thank you.  When are you going to “volunteer” to serve in Iraq?

No bonus points for deciphering.  Be patient and the words will come. 

Out of Toilet Paper 25 August 2005

I’m wondering what the bathroom ettiquette for lack of toilet paper is:

Today, in the tiny, three stall at my new office, one of my new coworkers calls out, “Can you pass me some toilet paper? I seem to be out.”

I, washing my hands, pause. No one has ever taught me how much TP to pass. What if she needs a lot? What if I give her a lot and she thinks I’m an environment abuser for not giving her just one square? If I give her a lot will she think I think she’s doing something lengthy in there? But if I give her just a bit, I don’t want her to have to dash, pants around ankles into the adjacent stall when I leave.

I end up passing a good amount, saying “I don’t want to judge, so I’m giving you a lot.” That was probably too much, wasn’t it?

Bonus points if you know what Emily Post has to say on the matter.