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…)