Let’s talk about sex(ual harassment training) baby.

So about a month ago, unbeknownst to me, I was supposed to have completed online sexual harassment training. I got a passive aggressive email from my boss today, informing me that I need to complete this online training immediately so the certificate of completion can be sent to HR (I asked for a copy so I can frame it).

As I’m going through the myriad of lessons about what constitutes sexual harassment, who can sexually harass/be harassed, and quiz questions, I’m Facebook chatting with one of my favorite people, B. Here goes part of that conversation:

Me: I get to do online sexual harassment training.
I’m doing it now, as a matter of fact.
You should be jealous.

B: Well. Good thing you don’t work for me.

Me: I personally disagree with everything in here.
It said that sexual harassment can lower employee morale.
Personally, I’m much more motivated to work when I’m being sexually harassed. I’m also more motivated to look nice, which increases productivity.

B: I’m still laughing about the PCD night. [See “Sexy like a cotton ball” blog]

Me: Me too.
I’m learning about quid quo pro sexual harassment. I love the way it was explained: “this for that, so if quid pro quo sexual harassment occurs, a supervisor (or other manager) has requested sexual favors in exchange for providing job benefits–or a supervisor (or other manager) has threatened to deny job benefits in order to gain sexual favors.”

B: So, is there such thing as supervisor with benefits?

Me: And not health benefits. But yes.

B: Well, good sex is healthful.

Me: I’m slightly offended. All of the images are of an old black man.
He repositions himself expressing disdain to emphasize the tone of the computerized voice. Like the news he’s getting about sexual harassment is getting progressively worse, and he’s seriously reconsidering working for this company based on their policies.

B: What, old black men need ass, too.
Heh heh. I said “old.”

Me: It just seems slightly racist.
Old white men need ass, too.
So do old black women. Or old white women.
E’erybody need ass.
Me:

Me: Nailed it.

B: Clearly, you can’t answer that without knowing whether he’s hot.

Me: Clearly! Stupid online training… It’s so unrealistic. Obviously there are always mitigating circumstances. 

B: Written by asexual robots. Which is prolly redundant.

Me: “You just learned about quid quo pro sexual harassment. But wait, there’s more types of sexual harassment! There are TWO types of sexual harassment: there’s also hostile environment sexual harassment!”
I gained a regular booty call from sexual harassment at work.

B: And if they AREN’T hot, isn’t it all harassing?

Me: Exactly.
If the person is hot, it’s flattery. If they’re ugly, I’ll scream.

B: There’s your seminar.
Eew? Harassment. Ahhhh! Not.

Me: Precisely.
I’m hoping that’ll come out.
That’s what she said.

B: I thought she hoped it would stay in.

Me: Trick question. The scenario was a woman who supervises this guy she wants to have sex with and asks him out on a date. He’s also interested, and gladly accepts. Sexual harassment or no?

B: Applying the “Eew/Ahhh” rule, nope. Hope they hook up like rabbits. Good for them.

Me: That’s how I answered. There really should be a fill in the blank option. Here’s my favorite:

Fact: Ethel and Lucille work together in a software firm. Ethel often makes inappropriate comments about Lucille. Lucille is offended by Ethel’s remarks.
Fact: Ethel is an ugly name, therefore it is sexual harassment.

B: HAHAHA

How much longer? The thingy. You’re watching. For work.

Me: I’m 41% done because I keep stopping to screenshot it and laugh hysterically.
Also, because although there’s text I could easily skim through, I like hearing the robot voice man say “sex.”
It’s like C3PO teaching me about sexual harassment. When he describes the scenarios, it’s almost like dirty-talk. 

B: Cold. But long lasting.
Probably not much of a cunnilinguist.
C3PO.

Me: I just pictured the scene in Dumb and Dumber with the frozen pole. A fill in the blank option would be fantastic. I wonder if the computerized voice could be programmed to respond to fill in the blank options. I’m sure it could. I’d talk to it. Call it “tonguefucking C3PO.” See if I can strike a chord, maybe get him to talk about R2D2.

B: That should be a model of C3PO. Normal C3PO, and Toungefucking C3PO. I wonder which model would be more popular.

Me: Clearly the TF C3PO. Nerds gotta get some, too. Tappin’ dat ass.

B: Especially nerds.
Not to be confused with the discontinued YOLO C3PO. You Only Lick Once. “Dumped him.” “Why?” “HOLO.” “Bastard.” See also, “SOSO.”

Me: “How’s that femmC3PO?” “She’s so-so, also SOSO, so, that’s really why she was so-so.”

B: Would one tap femmC3PO’s ass, or tink it?
Ditto, the tin man.

Me: Tink is more aesthetically pleasing.

B: “With a tink and a squeak, he shuddered as his hot oil shot across her sweaty navel…”
Ava, on her online sex training, “I really thought this would have more helpful ‘how-to’ information.”

Me: Yet another sexual encounter ending with disappointment.
And gin.

B: Well, there’s always gin and a dangerously hot bath.

Me: That’s what I call a Monday night.

…

Since I was otherwise occupied with above conversation, I crossed my fingers and hoped to FSM (Flying Spaghetti Monster) the sexual harassment training I learned from watching the episode “Sexual Harassment” on The Office would come in handy.

It totally did.

–AM.

P.S., for more screenshots from my online sexual harassment training, see new page “Sexual Harassment Training.” 

Flogging Molly wasn’t a coincidence.

There’s really something magical about the first snowfall of the season.

The leaves are still dried, rotting away in gutters, illuminating the grayness of cement with the colors of their death — reds, yellows, and oranges, turned a musty brown as the moisture seeps into the skeletons left behind. All bets are off when it snows.

It snowed today.

I presented with BFF and a few others tonight to a large group of eager (for extra credit) students, discussing history and travel and humanity. BFF, D (who also presented), and I decided we needed to catch up. D has been teaching several counties away, and we no longer have classes together since he’s working strictly on thesis hours. We wound up at Jonny Carino’s splitting a pitcher of Bellini with three straws since it was too thick to pour into our glasses. The three of us became friends on a trip to Italy a couple summers ago, and our decision to split the pitcher was familiar territory, ringing distant memories of bottles upon bottles of wine in Florence and Rome, huddling up to keep our shit together. D and I almost had a thing on that trip, but he recently began dating his roommate’s ex-girlfriend before the trip, so nothing came of it but dancing, holding hands, and sharing drinks.

We asked how things are going with the two of them, since the last time we drank together his apprehension about a serious commitment wavered. He pulled out his phone and said “Check out what I’ll be picking up when I go back to Indiana over Christmas.” It was an engagement ring. Beautiful. Classic. “It was my great-grandmother’s.” Of course it was.

BFF and I reacted appropriately, offering congratulations and excitement and suppositions that “we’re of course invited to the wedding, right?” but when we made eye contact, like true BFFs do, we knew we were both screaming on the inside.

“I bet you’re jealous, huh? Since you don’t have this,” D said to BFF, who has been in a relationship for the last few years. What a little fucker, I thought. Somehow we changed the subject, but the sting of it stuck: when the hell did everyone decide now was the time to get married?

We said our goodbyes, and BFF and I decided we needed to continue drinking (even though it’s Thursday and I teach in a few hours). So we went to our favorite bar. Well, really it’s my favorite bar, mostly because the bartenders know me by name and have my gin and tonic prepared as I’m walking to the bar. I spent about 82% of my weeks there over the summer getting pre- or post-drunk. I’m an extremely good tipper for those who are responsible for my drunk.

“Dude, seriously, what the fuck,” isn’t really an uncommon way for us to start conversations, and this was no exception.

I mean really, it’s like someone decided that the second you hit your 20s, you’re supposed to have a ring on your finger and a zygote growing in your uterus. College? Careers? Post-graduate degrees? Na, bro. That shit’s for fools.

Clearly we’re fucking fools.

BFF hasn’t been out drinking with me when I’m in usual form for quite some time; mostly because she’s in a relationship, and single beast-me knows how to welcome conversation from strangers.

A homie with glasses and a satchel sits down across from us, offering his hand and a name. [Okay, total side note, but my radiator just kicked on and it almost made me piss myself. Damn old radiators.]

We spent the next hour or so accepting shots of tequila and chatting it up with homie with the glasses and satchel and his friend, Twitchy. Twitchy is awkward as shit, which I find ridiculously adorable. So much adorable, that when they got up to close their tabs, I told BFF I think Twitchy is super adorable and I could totally fix him, to which she replied “Bitch, I swear to God I will smack you in the face if you say that again.” Reason why we’re best friends? I think yes.

I’m not one to refuse strange conversation, especially from not-entirely-creepy guys who tell me I’m pretty, so I allowed it. Where was I from? I’m a German Jew, abandoned in the corn fields of Nicaragua. “Really? I’m a first generation American, too!” Hell-fucking-yeah. Making headway.

I spent most of the night awkwardly laughing, grateful that homeboys came around. I’d finally admitted to myself and to BFF that no matter what pseudo-homeless guy says or does, I forgive him and I never hold it against him — that much in love. (He’s a whole other story and kind of makes me turn into a Debbie Downer, so maybe I’ll save that for another day, but the quick and dirty version: I’ve been madly in love with him for years.)

I know it’s a good night when I (mostly soberly) tip 80% and can’t stop smiling as soon as I sit in my car. I live up the street from this bar, which likely contributes to my frequency of it. The ride home was brought to me by Flogging Molly’s “The Times They Are A-Changing”:

It’s no accident that tonight, when we learn of D’s engagement, we’re also reaching epiphanies of our (hopefully) inevitable happiness in relationships and how ridiculous we’ll feel in a few years (again, hopefully) when we’re with whoever-his-face-is while being courted by nice, drunk-as-fuck awkward guys who buy us shots and listen to me lie and tell us we’re pretty, the first snowfall is here, masking the death of summer in a blanket of silence.

The times are a-changing. I can feel it in my bones.

Or maybe that’s just the gin.

–AM.

That’s the spirit.

I’m approaching the downward spiral of the semester. My day today (and, let’s face it, most days):

Woke up at 6:00 with every intent of going for a run. The neighborhood I live in truly is extraordinary. The entire avenue is lined with century’s old trees and homes. I live a 1/2 mile from a beautiful park, meticulously kept, surrounded by beautiful oaks and pines. This time of year, some type of bird chirp religiously all morning in the trees as I pass them, creating a beautiful contrast to the pounding of my tennis shoes on the pavement. But then I decided I liked the feeling of my thick blanket and the sound of my humidifier more, so I set my alarm for 7:00.

I then got out of bed, fed the cats, and showered with Shelley keeping a watchful eye from the rim of my tub. It’s cold in the mornings, so I keep a fluffy, pink robe and house shoes in the bathroom for when I get out. Shmow was laying on my bed, and she just made it look so perfectly comfortable, I lost balance of my legs and somehow fell on top of the bed, deciding to take a nap. Just a quick nap, really, since I didn’t need to leave until 8:30 to be ready to teach at 9:00 (to include a stop at my office to pick up the essays smoldering with mediocrity to hand back).

Woke up again at 8:00, threw an outfit together, pulled my hair into what resembles a Snooki poof meets Mae West, grabbed an apple, and fought Shelley to get out the door. He’s a sneaky little bastard and will take any chance the door is open as an opportunity to escape and investigate the outside world. (I decided I’m getting him a harness and leash to take him to the snow once winter comes. That’ll be exciting.)

My students were continuing their presentations today, so I got to sit there with my laptop open and give them feedback. As much as they annoy me with their banalities, I honestly think the best thing I can do as a teacher for introductory writing is help boost their confidence so they can have the lady/man balls to write something better somewhere down the line — hopefully for me, but I’m a burst of rainbows and sunshine, so I’ll find something good to tell them (“You spelled your name right! Good for you!”)

I spent my entire office hours catching up on homework for my graduate course tonight. Researching, annotating, alphabetizing, contextualizing, and trying to one-up everyone else (because I’m great and I need to continue to prove it).

By the time I got to my last class of the day, I realized I forgot to reread (since the last time I read it) what I wanted them to read, so I broke them into groups to present on sections while I skimmed it (‘cause I’m a fucking genius). Began a lecture on the rhetorical canons, then class ran out, with a “to be continued” note. They’re so ridiculously excited to pick up the discussion.

“Miss! Miss! Tell me more about Quintilian and Cicero and Aristotle and Socrates! The Sophists are just fascinating!”

Only not.

I came home for lunch, pulling together my expertise in culinary magic to make my lunch: a quesadilla, a spoon of cookie dough, and a small bowl of mango sorbet (‘cause I’m a fucking health nut) to finish my homework, despite Shelley’s efforts to convert my keyboard into a naptime spot.

Back to the office, continuing homework, meetings and strategizing with BFF about our ultimate takeover, then onto coffee. More coffee, and then another cup, you know, to make it through the evening.

Class for three hours, during which time I’m forced to work with a woman I actively despise, but since I’m the typist of our group, I choose to selectively ignore her stupid ideas (because they’re stupid and I’m more eloquent — clearly. Stupid).

Finally I get to come home, greeted by excited meows from the beasts as I trip over my once-clean apartment that is now for all intents and purposes akin to a frat house post Tour de Fat. Granted, the bottles of Wild Blue are from me, but still. They could’ve cleaned up a little bit and prepared for my arrival.

I took out the trash, lovingly guiding (or swinging bags, whatever) at Shelley, who attempted to run out the back door. There’s a gravel parking lot in the back of the house for the tenants of the building, and the dumpster is along the alley. The street light is motion-censored, so when a cat or bird or bat or zombie walk by, it turns on, but approximately 93% of the time it turns off right as I dump my trash in the dumpster. The dogs of the neighborhood sound the alarm (another reason why I have cats).

I decide on cereal for dinner, but then realize I have no clean spoons. I briefly consider using a fork and a coffee mug (because I also have no clean bowls), but then opt for cleaning some dishes. Another downfall to my cheap apartment: no dishwasher. Well, technically there is a dishwasher, but she’s a cranky bitch and generally refuses to wash dishes because she’s above that.

Before I even begin to wash dishes, I realize I left the washcloth in the crockpot to simmer. (What, you don’t cook your washcloths?) I find a new one among wine bottle openers (plural), lighters (also plural), coupons (yeah, still plural) for cat food, and a switchblade (singular. I thought more than one switchblade would be excessive). As I’m washing with the new cloth, it occurs to me that my housekeeping capabilities would terrify my grandmothers, serving as further evidence of my perpetually single life, and probably sending them to an early grave.

Feeling festive, I poured myself some eggnog in a wine glass because the other glasses I own are dirty. Oddly enough, my wine glasses are all clean. I typically only use wine glasses when I have company because, to be completely honest, I open a bottle of wine with absolutely no intent of drinking it one glass at a time. I’m classy that way.

The rest of my night will undoubtedly be filled with drinking Wild Blue (delicious lager) while watching reruns of “The Big Bang Theory” and dodging leaps from Shelley and Shmow as they engage in battle royale, burrowing under my carpet and knocking trinkets off my shelves.

Tomorrow? Same shit. I have to say, my twenties are turning out pretty delicious.

–AM.

The cat says no voting this year.

I didn’t catch the debates last night because I went with BFF to Applebee’s for some (lots of) drinks (Long Islands) and covert operations. (Our drinking nights generally consist of some scheming — usually about how we plan to take over the world. Shh, you didn’t hear it from me.) Our graduate cohort is divided. Camps have been set up. Chaos is ensuing, and you can cut the tension with a knife. All this started when the graduate student teachers went 7 weeks last spring without getting paid. BFF and I thought we should organize a walk-out since the GTAs teach 70% of the classes, it’d force the administration to address the problem. The others in the cohort thought a letter would be more appropriate (probably because they had other, more substantial sources of income and weren’t wholly dependent on this paycheck as BFF and I were). Between furrowed brows, nervous twitching, shaking heads, and ulcers, we met exhaustively and “hashed it out,” effectively ostracizing me and BFF. The othering has continued, and they’re recruiting new members to the anti-team. So we decided to steal their recruits.

Aside from being feisty (I’m a big fan of protests and civil disobedience), BFF and I are also significantly younger than the rest of our graduate cohort, and were beginning our undergraduate program when most of them began their graduate program. We’re also going to be defending our theses before they defend theirs, so win. There’s electric nastiness about, the anti-team citing favoritism for our success rather than crediting our merit where it’s due. Do we kiss ass? Absolutely. I prefer to consider it intelligent networking. I’ve written thank-you cards to every teacher I’ve had since the first grade. It’s helped me be more liked, opened up more opportunities, and has allowed me to build a type of trust with people who can change my life. So, yeah.

So, since we were plotting our ultimate takeover last night (okay, so maybe it was mostly name-calling and a hope that someone would overhear and a delightful rumor would start), I missed out on some good ol’ fashioned democracy in action. I’ve since began an attempt to catch up on the debates via my iPad while I got ready for work this morning, which was stymied by the cat.

I have two cats: Shelley and Shmow (a boy and girl, respectively. I don’t want to limit them to gender roles by their names). Shmow is a short hair gray, black, and brown tabby, about 3 years old, and I found her underneath my parents’ front porch. She’s a talkative beast, but she’s grateful to be living inside and does everything possible to accommodate me by simply laying around and being adorable (and will occasionally lay on top of me when I’m trying to sleep because I mistakenly have laid on “her side” of the bed). Shelley is a 6-month old, long hair, black cat I accidentally brought home when I went with a friend to pick up her kitten.

Shelley is a little asshole. He likes to hop in the tub to play with bubbles, jump in the shower, eat shoelaces, gnaw on FedEx notices (which I then get to explain to the FedEx man why half the paper is missing via sticky note in cute, girly handwriting so I’ll be forgiven), play zombie with Shmow, dash through the house with the handle of a plastic bag in his mouth, creating a Safeway-brand parachute, and he loves cheese — specifically Velveeta cheese (but he’s not picky). His latest endeavor came as I was getting ready this morning and attempting to watch the debates so I can talk about them with my students. I was standing in my bedroom, double-checking the hemline of my skirt, and he smacked the roll of toilet paper hanging on the open bathroom door and pulled it through the house à la a ribbon dancer. I have a lovely rug in my living room from Urban Outfitters, and he used this as his dance platform (he’s fancy). As he leapt around the floor, toilet paper in tow, he flipped around mid-air, pulling the toilet paper with him. “Godammit, Shelley,” are the first words out of my mouth this, and most, mornings. I chased after him, ripping the toilet paper from his mouth, but his crazy eyes narrowed in on my untied bootlaces, and he launched, digging his claws into my tights.

I blame the rule-breaking debates for showing my kitten that it’s perfectly acceptable to not follow rules and fuck around as he sees fit.

–AM.