“What is going on with the XY’s today?!”
-C.
Our adventures in male/female interactions continued yesterday when I had to attend a workshop in Preventing Sexual Harassment that the university insists its new hires take (note: I’ve been working here for 8 months, first I ever heard of it). I didn’t mind, it was a paid hour out of the office I thought…unfortunately by the end of it I was irritated enough to breathe fire. The problem wasn’t the topic, the problem was This Guy.
Picture if you will a short, rotund man with heavy jowls, greasy hair (where he had any left), small eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and huge pores gaping in his cheeks. Got that? Now add on the annoying personality of that kid you once had in some class or another who had to comment on anything the teacher says, and when he isn’t called on offers up a muttered running commentary anyway under his breath. And finally, top it all off with a nasally voice that was used mostly to talk about himself a lot. Charming, eh?
Not five minutes into her powerpoint presentation the teacher started a new slide with a cheery, “Now, there are several categories of personal aspects that are protected under the law–”
Up shot this guy’s hand. “Why aren’t men protected? When I was the vice president of XYZ Corporation, we had a situation–”
“Actually,” the teacher said quickly, “men are protected. Sexual harassment can pass between genders in any number of ways.”
“But say I was being hit on by a homosexual,” he demanded (the word homosexual was whispered darkly).
I personally couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind, regardless of sexual orientation, hitting on this guy, but I digress. It took a while but the teacher managed to get us back on topic, but then when she brought up the protected categories again: gender, religion, disability, race–
Up shot the hand again! “Well, in my last area of work at Such-And-Such University, I had nothing against the negroes, but…”
My jaw dropped, I couldn’t help it. Out of date, grossly derogatory racial epithet in the middle of an anti-harassment seminar? Seriously?
It sort of went downhill from there, culminating in an argument between this man and a female biochemistry teacher who talked (at length) about her personal dating history and how she’s been subjected to prejudice because of her unmarried status, but how could she marry when all the men she meets are intimidated by her intelligence, has anyone else had this problem, isn’t is unbearable, what is wrong with the men…
But, injects our enlightened friend the greaseball, you made the decision when you decided to pick school over dating, this is your fault, women can’t have it all and it’s ridiculous to try…
“Um, can we please try and stay focused?” asks the teacher in a small voice which no one hears because they’re too busy watching the train wreck.
In the end, the lecturer had to cut out the last third of her presentation and lamely hand us pamphlets saying, “Most of the material we didn’t get to is in here, and feel free to give me a call.”
“I have another question,” our hero demanded, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I bounded up, snatched the pamphlets with a breathless thank you and scampered back to the relative safety of my officer where stupid people, when we deal with them, are usually undergoing some kind of legal recourse.
It has been one of those weeks that makes a girl grind her teeth in sheer, agonizing irritation. Even though most of it has been completely uneventful, wednesdayand thursday were well and truly mind blowing, at least philosophically. First of all we had a guy come in to report that he was being sexually harassed: about a month ago he had written a letter to the editor of the paper of the university (which is a religiously funded one with a rather conservative mindset. Which is the understatment of the century…) about people’s various choices in fashion choice, most particularly women, and how immodestly dressed women deserved to be subjected to catcalls, name calling, and other behavior until they “put some clothes on.” For reasons this knight errant, obsessed with protecting the virtue and chastity of women (what century is this guy living in?), could not fathom some women found this suggested behavior offensive. Go figure. And in the spirit of the modern age, these ladies (grand total: 2) created a Facebook group against him, which was the basis for his harassment claim. 
Anyway, in the spirit of Anglophilia, Marie had rented a movie for us to watch and I’m completely smitten! It’s called 
But this incident got me thinking: I’m indebted to friends or circumstance for so many of life’s little gems. Way back when I was living in Micronesia my friend Biscotti Rose, during one of our many slumber parties, declared, “I have a movie you just have to watch!” And thus I met 
BBC and PBS stations! Where would I be without them? Agatha Christie’s indomitable Belgian detective 
stumbled upon each of these gems while doing late night laundry across the years and they fulfill my need for British TV (even though 
French classes exposed to Gerard Depardieu as 
The classic ENTJ: Napoleon. Um, can anyone say Small Dog Syndrome? Haha!
I got this questionnaire from Peregrine and since I recently I had to go through all my books before commissioning J. to move several boxes of them into our new place, I figured I was in a good position to talk about them. My Someday House has a huge library with full shelves around three walls, a fireplace, and the world’s most comfortable couch and chaise for lounging with a cup of tea. As the years go by and I keep buying more books, my imaginary walls keep expanding and the books have gone from cheap paperback to more impressive and beautiful editions, but the look of my fantasy library remains the same. 
But as long as this day is taking to end, and believe me a small eternity passes between clock checks even though the clocks don’t seem to move much, I may wish myself back in the office quickly tomorrow when I’m attacking my future flat with all things cleansing. Fingers crossed that our landlord has fixed the leaky pipe beneath our bathroom sink and hopefully we can paint. 
Small Dog Syndrome 