Mountains Made Low

In Watauga County, North Carolina, anyway, is fun. FUN.

I went this morning to the courthouse in Boone and filled out my happy little small claims form. Not too painful, for the most part. But then I waited in the line to pay my filing fee (90 bucks, if you were wondering). My turn came, and the forms of payment the clerk’s office doesn’t take are: credit cards, debit cards, and personal checks. What did I have with me?

A debit card, three credit cards, and my check book. Total cash in my pocket?

$0.

So I ran to the other side of Boone to the bank and cashed a check. Ran back to the courthouse, and waited in the cashier line, again. Gave them $90 in cash money. Service of the process will ensue, and court is scheduled for 9:30 on September 13th. Good thing I don’t believe in omens (and it can only be unlucky for one of us).

But that’s that. And I got my car insurance paid today, too. But then I promptly bashed my head with a car door. It bled. Didn’t get any on my shirt, though. By tomorrow, though, I might look like I’ve been in a fight…. If I do, I’ll post a picture.

And check out the new facebook profile pic. Here it is in case you’re a reader but not a facebook friend:

I hardly recognize that pic as me. I dunno. But now I’m rambling, so I think I’ll admit I’m just doing stuff to have an excuse to play with my new MacBookPro, and call it a night.

…a question.

When did our society give up on teaching young women how to sit in a (short) skirt?

This was the topic I censored last week, but it’s continued to go on, and since my blog doesn’t come up when you google my name…here’s why I ask.

In the past week, as I’ve been trying to teach my classes, I’ve unintentionally seen more different women’s panties than I’ve intentionally (my intentions, mind you) seen in my whole life.

I know that the weather’s warm, and short skirts are in, but c’mon…. And when everyone’s being a good little student, and I’m standing at the front of the classroom (or moving around the classroom like a hyperactive hummingbird, as is more my wont), you’re not exactly flashing those knickers at the cute boys in the class with you.

And it seems like it’s wholly unintentional on the part of these young women. It’s not some “hot for teacher” thing, and it’s not the very studied, “I’m crossing and uncrossing my legs and you can see everything there is to see in the process and what are you going to do about it?” thing, either (though that one has happened to me a few times, in the past, too—but, to my knowledge, the “Gosh, you’re dreamy, professor, and I want you to see my undies” thing never has—the students who have had crushes on me haven’t been, generally speaking, those kinds of girls). No, no. It’s in neither way intentional. They seem to think they’re wearing sweat pants, or something.

Maybe it’s just the way things are, now (like the advent of the visible bra strap in the 90s, or the thing in the early part of this decade that matched low-rise jeans with high-rise thongs—which, I don’t care how shapely a person is, is just plain revolting). Or maybe, and this may be even more horrifying, I’m now to an age where I’m just not a threat—they don’t care because they see a “professor” instead of a “guy.” I was, after all, a freshman in high school when these people were born.

No matter what their reasons, though, I’m still a man, I’m still only 32, and, though I’m a professional, it’s distracting, and that’s annoying. And yet, I can’t exactly say anything, either. I discussed this with a (female) colleague today, and she suggested that I find out who my students’ FYE instructors are, and that—if the FYE instructors are female—I ask them to discretely mention it. I think that’s what I’m gonna do.

But I feel bad doing even that, in a way. Because it seems unintentional. Because it seems innocent. Maybe though, I’m just reading that innocence into the action because of what the action has, in every case so far, revealed—plain white cotton panties; no one’s showing off knickers that scream to be taken off.

I guess I’ll just consider myself lucky that no one’s going commando.

So I was randomly Websurfing, tonight, (geeky enough, I know), when I stumbled across an old school MUD RPG (played over JavaScript Telnet in a browser—dorks with too much time).

I thought, What the heck?

Okay, so text RPGs aren’t as fun as I remember them being—or maybe it was the other person I got dumped into the tutorial with (yep, that’s me, teacher to the end, “do the tutorial”).

So this other person (note how carefully I’m using that term—I’m guessing teenage boy, but I dunno), was thrilled that my character in the game was “a girl”—started following me around. Gave me little opportunity to learn by doing, like I like to do. Wanted to kill things.

Some people need to learn that you don’t go around hugging people you just met… (pretty sophisticated emoting in this game…). And you don’t assume anything about the player based on the character.

I mean, I don’t do this to mess with folks, but I’ve gotten in the habit of playing female characters in RPGs—even though you often miss the really good romance plots, because they’re plotted for a male lead…. But most of the RPG gaming I’ve been doing lately (and not real lately, at that) has been the Knights of the Old Republic games (and I wrote a book chapter, so it was WORK!!!), and let’s face it: Jedi girls are neat (and Sith girls are even neater—good lord, what is this bad-girl thing with me lately???). What can I say?

Other than that my online shadow really needs to read Cybertypes. (Did he think I was a real-live half-elf, too?)

…in that something happened, but it ain’t exactly a solution.

What I mean by that is the roof is happening…next week or the week after. Roofer #3 has decided to take on the job, but can’t get to it until then. And since the insurance guys have decided to give me an extension…. I guess everything’s okay.

And I’ll be suing Roofer #1.

Yep. Everything’s okay.

The roof should be getting done as I write this (but I’m in my office and can’t see my house, 15 miles away, from here).

And I called the Watauga County Sheriff’s office this morning, and they tell me that, much as it probably should be, this is not a criminal matter; I was referred to the Magistrate’s office. And the magistrate I spoke to on the phone was quite helpful. He informed me of the process for filing in small claims court, and told me that it sounded like I had a good case. I may yet see my $1,350 again—assuming the jackass roofer pays it when he’s ordered to. We’ll see.

So I contacted the wonderful people who’ve been helping me through this whole situation and let them know that I called the Sheriff and learned that it’s not a criminal matter. I’m waiting to hear further details from them on what’s happening. But I’m following instructions, and “enjoying my day at work”—letting them worry about the details. And I’m doing my best not to stress too much over the whole affair.

My best. Yes. My very best.

Grrr.

I was in such a hurry to scoot out of here and try to deal with the roof situation on Friday, that I didn’t take anything with me that I was likely to need over the weekend. And since I didn’t think, much, about school yesterday, and I slept off what felt like a “pre-sick” headache for most of the day today, I’m here, in the office, gathering up some stuff at 7pm on Sunday. Hooray.

Also got email today from a Capital student, who was my advisee, complaining about her schedule. She didn’t remember signing up for an evening class, and wants to know what we can do about that. I replied: Not my job, anymore.

Actually, I was nicer than that, but not much, because this particular advisee was a royal pain for as long as I was her adviser.

And now I’ve got my stuff gathered up, and I’m off toward home, I think. Could work here, but college offices are kinda creepy on Sunday, especially when you can see that students’ lives are proceeding apace on campus other than in the “teaching” buildings, but there’s nothing going on in those bulidings.

This will tell you about the state of my life.

Have I written here, yet, about the trash situation where I live now? There is no trash pickup, which is probably just as well, because I can imagine the wildlife’s reaction to trash cans set out by the road—and since the wildlife includes bears, well…. So, to get rid of trash, the county maintains what is known as a “dumping station” about three miles up the road from where I live. You simply take your trash there.

Today, I’m taking my trash, as well as the last of the moving-related (I hope the last) cardboard. My stuff is, basically, unpacked.

I’m also doing the standard Saturday chores around the house. (Warning!! Product endorsement coming). One chore I really hate is mopping floors. I don’t mind chasing the broom or the dustmop around, but actually mopping, I loathe.

Until now.

If you have significant square footage (acreage?) of mop-necessary flooring (as I do—pretty much the whole first floor of my house), get a Swiffer Wet-Jet. No bucket, no wringing, no rags. It sprays stuff on the floor ahead of where you’re working, and then scrubs and soaks it up, no problem. I like it a lot. (And the “stuff” comes in several different flavors—anti-bacterial for bathrooms, I use it in the kitchen, too, and a special “wood” formula, which does my bedroom, living room, and hall). This has to be one of the better ideas of the 21st century—a vast improvement over Swiffer’s first attempt to move into the mop market (Swiffer Wet) which was—in my mind—an unmitigated disaster.

But this. Is. Awesome. (Loud shout-out to Mom who told me I needed to get one!)

And that’s it really. Back to the chores du jour.