This is not…

This is not René Magritte's birthday.

For Sexism, Press 4

Being the pessimist that I am, you would think nothing could surprise me…

There are four individuals in my office: three males (Mr. Difficult, Buck Buck, and myself) and one female (the Veggie Pirate).^* Our phone system screens all calls ("Press one for Buck Buck, press two for Mr. Difficult…"), because the nature of our business involves so very little interaction with the general public. Truly, it is a very rare week that a single cold-call rings into our office, but they do happen occasionally.

We started to notice a pattern with the random calls. The number is completely unscientific, but I would surmise that 85% of the cold-calls press number four: Veggie Pirate. (Her number is last due to order of hiring.) The first few times, we thought little of it, but a year and a half later, it is very obvious that she is being singled out. The guys' names are fairly masculine names (though a caller could think "Toni" instead of "Tony," I suppose); the Veggie Pirate's name very obviously belongs to a female.

So, dear seller-of-office-supplies, if you ring our office go ahead and be a schmuck: press four and listen to the Veggie Pirate politely dismiss you. The do-not-buy-from-piggies list grows ever longer…

*As always, for the sake of privacy, a couple of chat-handles and a fantasy football name substitute for the real names.

Sitcom Moment:A Handwashing Incident

I had a classic sitcom moment at work this week.

Sitcoms, that mixed bag television staple, fail or succeed based on how well they walk that ordinary moment becomes absurd line. Great ones (Seinfeld) tread the line masterfully; they know exactly when normal people and situations must become absurd. Terrible ones (look for the CBS logo) do not know the line even exists. (Quick aside: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia tap dances along some silly-straw line that travels into some other dimension. Fantastic!)


…I am a thorough hand washer. I mean, you'd think I was heading into surgery. But, I'm a haphazard hand drier. We have paper towels in our restroom at the office. One is not quite enough; two is overkill. Usually, the Poor Richard in me only grabs one towel, and the damp hands resulting are between me, my jeans and my desk chair. No big deal.

I exit the restroom. In the hall stands Buck Buck^* and some other guy. "Hey, TonyN, this is Chris from LargeCompanyThatIsAnImportantClient." Reflexly, I extend my hand, "Nice to meet you," and they move on down the hall. Back in my edit bay, horror careens through my head. "Wet hands. Just water! Why didn't I use two towels!?! Oh, god, he'll think-- Obviously, that's what I would think. Go apologize; go explain. Don't be an idiot! Do something to explain it away: hey, this new waterless hand cleaner stuff is neat-o! No, no wait. Gotta have a plan. Maybe I could-- Oooh, I know! First, I'll go back into the bathroom. Then, I'll get a bucket of water…"

Luckily, I fought off the impulse to become a sitcom character. Instead, I went back to editing my little T.V. show, accepting the fact that some stranger thinks that I just pee-shook his hand. Sure, it sucks, but I think I've seen enough sitcoms to know that the outcome of attempting some scheme of explanation or cover-up would have gone sorely awry. I mean, who knows? I could have lost my job, gotten arrested, and been deported had I followed through with sitcom behavior, right?


*Co-owner of company; signer of paychecks. (His fantasy baseball handle is used here for the sake of privacy…)

Overheard… at a Taco Bell

Professor Matthew's description of a KFC outing made me recall an overheard conversation in a Taco Bell a number of years ago:

Three rather provincial, rusticated fellows sitting in a booth behind me.
Guy 1: Liqueur? What the hell's "liqueur" mean?
Guy 2: That's probably French for "liquor."
Guy 3: I dunno. I just drink beer.

Slices of the Timeline:Product Placement

As a television editor who relies on the boob tube to pay the bills, I'm not one of those "blow up your TV" people. However, I do feel responsible to educated my friends to reminded them that television is not reality. (I'll reserve my MythBusters rant for some other time. MythBusters ≠ science; MythBusters = entertainment, people!)

Today's lesson from the Timeline: there's nothing real about reality television.

Reality television lacking reality probably doesn't surprise you but try this one on:

I heard recently from another editor a tidbit about product placement in a reality television show. The show in question is not one of those reality game shows (like Survivor or Big Brother, etc.). It's a day-in-the-life show much like American Chopper or Miami Ink. One episode was partially financed by a major fast food chain. Apparently, the individuals on the show were eating lunch and, in exchange for the paycheck, the fast food logos were predominately displayed.

Even in my skepticism was astonished! They product placed on a reality television program? On reality TV! They setup where these workaday folks ate for payola?!?

Slices of the Timeline:Important Editorial Decision

The things I overhear in my job! A co-worker conversation:

        "What about 'schlong'? Do you think 'schlong' needs to be bleeped?"
        "Um, I don't think so…"

Eye of the Beholder

We have a print disagreement in our office. No, this situation doesn't involve lasers and toner; it is a disagreement over a framed decoration.

In one of the edit bays is an innocuous, framed print. It has been hanging for a number of months now, but one of my co-workers, insists that it is hanging in the wrong direction. It is clearly, Mr. Difficult^* says, a landscape. Another co-worker, Buck Buck^**, cites the position of the hanger on the frame and the signature of the artist to prove it is hanging correctly. (Aside: unlike the infantile atmosphere of my previous job, this is the closest thing to "office politics" we have…thankfully!)

This week, I entered the fray. I had never paid much attention to the print, but it was moved after a redecoration. I also suddenly saw a landscape turned on its side. "Who is to say the artist signed horizontally? I think Mr. Difficult is correct. It was hanging wrong. Maybe we should turn it when we re-hang it?"

The cold war was over.

I had taken a side, which left Buck Buck to find allies. The only other person in our small company, The Veggie Pirate^***, was not involving herself in this conflict. (I guess a wise pirate knows rough waters when she sees them.) So, who was to help? Would the print soon find itself hanging on its side in defeat?

Damn you Google.

Using his abilities to read nearly indecipherable signatures and keen search engine skills, Buck Buck presented us with facts. The artist is Noah Li-Leger. The print in question is "Solar Emssion II." Now remember, Mr. Difficult and I didn't have the benefit of knowing the title of the piece. Leaning the head far left, see the landscape?

So, the print was correct in the first place. I withdraw my opinion and status returns to quo, right? Eh, no. Mr. Difficult has decided we need to hang the print in landscape anyway. He likes it better that way. Take that artists! You sold it; you gave up a voice in the display! Um, right? Right?

Maybe this is a discussion better left to those more equipped to handle it, but "what if?" What if The Louvre displayed Mona Lisa upside down? Or David was suspended on his head? I mean parody is one thing, but purposefully hanging a work incorrectly!

For now the cold war has returned. The print remains in limbo and off the wall…


*Since I am disinclined to use real names or full names here, I'm replacing his name with a nickname. For the record, I did not invent this moniker. "Mr. Difficult" is a handle he often employs on the Internets…
**Again, I didn't invent this one…
***Her forum nickname…

Definition of Loser

From the Oxford American Dictionary:

los•er |'loōzər|
noun

• a person or thing that loses or has lost something, esp. a game or contest.
• a person who accepts defeat with good or bad grace, as specified : we won fair and square—they should concede that and be good losers.
• a person or thing that is put at a disadvantage by a particular situation or course of action : children are the losers when politicians keep fiddling around with education.
• informal a person who fails frequently or is generally unsuccessful in life : a ragtag community of rejects and losers.
• informal a person who watches a Star Trek episode at approximately 9 o'clock on a Friday night, esp. when said episode was recorded on his or her Tivo.
• Bridge a card that is expected to be part of a losing trick.

Slices of the Timeline:16:9 Is Bigger Than 4:3

"Hey, TonyN," you say, "give me a glimpse into the glamorous life of a television editor!"

"This is the third episode in a row of [insert name of a moderately popular true-crime series on a network aimed at women] that has breast enhancement surgery significantly in the plot." Sigh. "Now, please, turn off your TV. Thank you."

("No, I won't tell you when they are going to air!")

Childhood Delicacy

I have no culinary skills. I can attempt to follow a recipe, sure, but I have little understanding of how the ingredients are reacting together. Therefore, I have no ability to improvise.

I recently discovered a relic from my childhood. In my desk drawer along with assorted photos, letters and cards, I found a well-worn recipe card. It was my grandmother's recipe for Russian Coffee Cake. The cake, a brown sugary delicacy, I adored as a child.

Yesterday, I attempted to recreate it. Surprisingly, I came close, but it was not quite right. I think I know why. My grandmother, I suppose like most good cooks, tended to augment her recipes. People who understand things and do not simply follow directions. They are capable of improvising and creating new things out of the old. I can relate in my profession but not in cooking. In the kitchen I just try to follow the directions…and hope.

Related tangent:
My cousin, Trish, bakes the best approximation of Grandma's beloved Christmas sugar cookies. Many in the family have the recipe, but most do not know of Grandma's improvisation. I discovered the secret by accident one day not too long before she died: more cream of tartar.

Temptation

Sitting in the clinic today, I'm staring out a glass wall and down into the cafeteria. Inviting smells of coffee roll through the air from the coffee shop also nearby. I can't concentrate on my book. I'm glancing at the clock over and over. Fifteen hours have passed without a drop to drink or a morsel of food. Soon the test (and therefore my fast) will be complete.

I look up at a lady crossing the lobby. She returns an unpleasant look. "Don't look at me like that," she seems to be thinking, seeing the alluring gaze on my face. Oh, I'm looking. That vivacious, curvy sandwich, that hot cup of coffee in your hands. Yeah, I can't stop the stare.

Staring into the Darkness

The state of Tennessee has a huge sales tax rate (but no income tax). Occasionally, there is a sales tax holiday when the sales tax is waved on certain items (pdf). The timing of these weekends coincides with the beginning school. The theory is that people can get a break when buy school supplies (I'll let you draw you own conclusions about this one…).

I underestimated the throng of people that would be entinced to shop by the tax holiday. <shudder> I just need to buy some deodorant. It was horrible out there…

Dexter or Sinister?

I am not a doctor's office professional. I was never a sickly child and have—so far—been fortunate enough to dodge any serious accidents.

Lately, though, I've found myself going to the doctor more than ever. So, I've gotten pretty quick-on-the-draw with the battery of questions:
"Are you currently taking any medications?" No.
"To your knowledge, are you allergic to any medications?" No.

I just saw a specialist (neurologist) and I knew there would be some new tools and paraphernalia I had never seen before. (I was especially amused by a weird tuning-fork-like thingy that vibrates: "Tell me when you feel the vibration go away.") But, I was taken aback by one of the standard questions: "Are you right-handed or left-handed?"

Hmmm. It makes perfect sense that a neurologist would ask that question—perfect sense. Yet, I would never have predicted it. I have never thought of the question of hand preference in a serious manner:
•The old punchline: "Only left-handed people are in their right mind!"
•Learning a new word as a young kid: Eating with my off-hand at a family dinner, my uncle says, "Are you ambidextrous?" "What does that mean?" "Equally clumsy in both hands."

"To your knowledge, are you allergic to any medications?" No.
"Are you right-handed or left-handed?" Right.

Passphrase Guilt

Logging on to my online banking, the system wasn't satisfied with just a password, it also wanted me to answer a security question.

What is your favorite pet's name?

My one and only pet laid at the foot of the bed. I typed the answer: Kitty. [Name changed to protect her identity and my cash-ola.]

The answer is incorrect. Kitty stares at me. What is your favorite pet's name?

"Maybe that's not how I spelled it when I created the account," I thought. I tried again: Kittie.

The answer is incorrect. What is your favorite pet's name? Kitty stares at me.

Sheepishly, I enter the name of my childhood dog and proceed with my banking. Kitty stares at me…in judgment.

(Yes, yes. I changed the answer after I logged on. Conscious clear.)

Peaceful Stroll

Briskly walking down the greenway near my apartment, the keys hanging from my lanyard start clicking together. The click-click-click starts to really ruin the serenity of my walk. I snatch them from my neck and shove them in my pocket. There, much better.

How is it that the simple click was annoying my stroll, but the sounds of Gogol Bordello coming from my iPod seemed perfectly natural?

HOLY S#^|!

That biker coming around me scared the crap out of me! Guess I better turn the volume down a bit…