-Restless in the family home at Thanksgiving; watching a parade of advertisements-

Tonight I have been considering that great, overt misogyny of early Bond films, and the different, but not entirely subtle misogyny of the later ones. Just because the new Bond girls can shoot and fight doesn’t make it fair.

Those advertisements mentioned in the title are embedded within the Bond marathon on the Spike network, whose target audience must be actively engaged in first-person-shooter games 16 hours a day. Any less, and it wouldn’t justify the cost of airing so many commercials for virtual gun nuts.

Just after 1:00 AM, a new development: the network slips one army recruitment spot into the parade.

Odd.

Do they really believe the virtual shooter audience produces suitable soldiers in real life?

The question hangs there.

Why am I bothering to watch, you may ask? Well, my brother and father fell asleep watching the marathon AND a pot of turkey soup. Turning off the marathon would wake them up – so I suppose I’d better stay nearby to make sure the house doesn’t burn down.

It is a bother, but I’ve pondered worst.

-Catatonic-

What should one do when a coworker - oh, hell, a BOSS - seems frighteningly indifferent about her health?

My feeling is that an employee can do very little about that, and until I find a better reason to intrude, that's my policy.

One can be accommodating, certainly, taking up some of the slack during sick days, half days, or late arrivals. But more often I've begun to feel split between covering for infirmities and resenting the fall out.

Lately, I've begun appreciate the times my boss is not here, partly because I get more work done in her absence, but mostly because I'm feeling uncomfortable (and guilty, yes, guilty!) watching her decline.

Some of the responsibility is mine, I freely admit. As anyone with two or more children in a family knows, when one child acts up, the other works harder to present a contrast; look at me, the good son. There are no superiors to judge us, my boss and I, but the parents live in my head. When she spends the morning reading movie reviews and cat cartoons, I rush to finish purchase orders. When she spends thirty minutes getting a cup of coffee and speaks of visiting the IT office to chat about computer issues, I've got IT on the phone while I'm answering reference questions on the side, all before she makes it out the door.

I relish overseeing daily operations, major and minor, and all the moreso when she puts her head down on the desk or takes an outdoor constitutional, both fruitless attempts to gather the necessary energy - to stay awake at work!

By degrees, I am usurping her job, and I hate it. I also hate that she seems entirely willing to let me take it.

To a professional ten months from retirement, this job in an insignificant library far from any culture of arts, far from any research institution of note, may very well be the pasture.

But when I see so many tired and broken educators without hope, I'm chomping at the bit not only to get out of here, but to make this field something worthwhile.

-Only the good file young-

I have heard many a retiree decide, after six unsuccessful pulls of a slot machine lever, to move to an adjacent unit that might be luckier. Other Blue-hairs who took the same bus into Atlantic City that morning have a diametrically opposed gambling policy; the type that refuse to budge, believing that the next successful pull could occur at any position, anytime, perhaps in the moment of seat shifting.

Of course, neither is fully right or wrong, but I imagine the happiest are the ones who believe they made the right decision.

No one is entirely certain what happened behind the closed door of the negotiation room, not even her closest friends with the company. What is certain is that her tenure with the College - six years - ended inside.

In true corporate fashion, the College whisked her out of the building before any of her friends knew what happened. She was able to send out a mass email later to several of her friends' college e-mail addresses, and it was interesting to peruse the recipient list and see who qualified as a ally, and who, by their absence, fell in the foe category.

I don't believe my boss qualified as a foe, but she wasn't listed, and I foolishly mentioned the e-mail before I had perused the list. I told her it appeared to have been assembled in a hurry; sometimes names and e-mail addresses were included, sometimes just the addresses, so the omission was most likely an oversight.

Not sure she bought it.

In any case, a card went around the office the next day, and I made sure I would be one of the last people signing it. Like the e-mail recipient list, there were some notable omissions. And from a few people who were not given the email, but also were not the reason for the girl's dismissal - like my boss - some rather tepid sentiments.

-The Astringent Sick Day-

It was Sunday. Not a genuine sick day from work, but you'll grant me the same empathy given to a personal day.

The headaches, the sneezing, the coughing...
Immaterial.

They'd be gone before the first date with the Russian classmate later in the week, but the skin imperfections they'd leave in their wake could be fatal.

I could feel the bacteria clogging the pores. The sensation was so unpleasant and distracting that I contemplated at least three untenable means of running a government and a free press in conjunction with the entertainment industry.

These three excellent but ultimately flawed ideas gave me enough pause to stop pondering while staring at the ceiling beams, and begin gathering household astringents. In that respect, my narcism is the same as everyone else's.

Windex would do in a pinch.
But I don't have much in the way of windows in the carriage house, so that was a no-go.

Toothpaste could work, but unlike the liquid window cleaner, this substance retains its blue color on the skin. No deal.

In my search I disturbed a silverfish. It could move, scrabbling out of the bathroom and around the wall, then down the stair space ceiling. Despite its speed, I had plenty of time to admire it, reach the top of the stairs, and remove Yoko Ono's Breadfruit from the nearby shelf.

All those years in Library school have taught me a thing or two about throwing books. The Silverfish didn't have ten legs to stand on, and I wiped all of them off the dustcover with tissue paper.

Right next to the tissues I found an old tube of clearsil. Basic, but I think it'll work.

-Absurd-

It has come to my attention that I use the term "absurd" too often. If you catch me using that adjective in the future, call me on it.

Next Week - We find out if the Russian class I audited was really worthwhile.