Department Of Because, You Know, Spooky
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Department Of Hipster Dad Fail
Dateline: Sunday, New Seasons market. I am pushing one of the small carts…
…on my way to a checkout counter, and as I navigate around a display of seasonal candies I encounter a man who could be a model for the iconic Portland Hipster Dad ® .
By encounter I mean he’s right in front of my cart. He puts his hand out, in a manner I recognize as Stop! Immediately! and steps slightly to his left (my right)…but says nothing. I stop pushing the cart, look down, and see a young boy, approximately 3-4 years old, who is walking, slowly but directly, toward my cart. Hipster Dad’s son  is holding a small electronic device in his palm; he is intently studying said device and seems oblivious to my presence. In other words, the kid was about to walk right into me…or into the path of my cart…or I was about to run over the kid – which I’m sure, was Hipster Dad’s interpretation of the future scenario.
Hipster Dad says nothing, not to me nor to his child. He continues to look at me intently with his hand out, while his kid is paying no attention to anything but the device in his palm. All three of us are silent; I look expectantly to the father, expecting him to say something to his son about stepping aside or paying attention, but Hipster Dad remains immobile and mute,  holding out that damn hand as if he’s stopping traffic for the passing of the Dalai Lama.
The boy finally looks up and sees me. He stops his forward movement, maybe a foot in front of my cart, but does not step to the side. I look at the dad again; who remains silent. I favor the kid with a smile/glower and say, “WELL?!?!?” and he moves out of my way.
* * *
Department Of Science-Induced Flashbacks
Reading a recent report on jumping spiders was the impetus for the following haven’t-thought-of-that-in-years recollection:
It was a late afternoon in the early spring, during my freshman year in college. About fifteen or so 3rd floor Bixby  residents, including moiself, were on our dorm’s rooftop…where we technically weren’t supposed to be, but it was a such a gorgeous, sunny day, why study at the library? Those of us who were finished with afternoon classes donned shorts and/or swim suit-ish attire, schlepped our beach towels and textbooks up two floors and through the forbidden stairway and claimed territory on the roof.
A guy who lived across the hall from me placed his beach towel next to mine. He was clothing-free except for swim trunks, which meant that his massively carpeted torso was on display for us lucky ladies…who, if truth be told, were not all that taken with the blond torrent of chest hairs which formed hurricane spiral-type swirls around his nipples (his dorm nickname, of which he was quite proud, was “The Hun.”).
The Hun opened his textbook for the engineering class he was soon to flunk transfer out of. After a minute or two he closed his book, looked around the rooftop, and decided to make conversation with me about how this was the first time he’d seen this many people up on the roof, and in shorts, and….
“Hey,” he tapped me on the knee. “You don’t shave your legs?”
“That’s right,” moiself said.
“Why don’t you shave your legs?” The Hun’s tone was curious, not hostile.
“Why don’t you shave your legs?” I tapped his knee, or, at least where I assumed his knee would be, under all that leg-wool.
“I’m a man,” he replied.
I shut my calculus book, my mouth gaping in astonishment to realize that, at that very moment, I was witness to
YET ANOTHER THRILLING MOMENT IN
GENDER IDENTIFICATION HISTORY
I pointed toward the reddish-yellow tendrils infesting his upper lip and curling down and around his chin. It seemed The Hun had been trying to grow a beard. There were several guys on our floor who had moustaches, but beards were not popular at that time.
“Why have you stopped shaving your face?”
With anyone else, the point would have been easily made, or even conceded. But not the Hun, whose face (which he was no longer shaving) assumed its confused countenance, a look which was his default expression when he was forced to contemplate anything more complicated than when his next beer break was coming from.
I reopened my textbook and smiled benignly – okay, patronizingly – as I considered both the futility of future conversation on the subject and the wisdom of a certain adage.
Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and it annoys the pig.
Oh but now, Dearest Reader, I could have directed him to news article and told him, “I don’t shave my legs because, well, Science. Following the example of the sisterhood of Jumping Spiders, I have found a way to increase my aural acuity:
* * *
Department Of It’s Later
Like most women I know – holy fucking festering pigslop, why is this the case ?!?!? – I have my own experience with sexual harassment. I will save that story for later.
In last week’s blog post I wrote about the #notokay, and women and girls sharing their stories of sexual assault and harassment being in the wake of the release of the Donald Trump Grab ’em by the pussy tapes.  In light of the truly appalling nature of so many of the stories, it didn’t seem somehow…respectful of me to reference one of my experiences…which was less crude by comparison but still…not okay, to put it mildly.
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away I worked in the Publications Department of a Society which was, at that time, California’s largest business, networking and continuing education organization for a certain profession.  The Publications Department was responsible for putting out a quarterly magazine for all Society members, as well as monthly newsletters for the fourteen regional chapters of the Society. The department consisted of the editor, assistant editor, art editor and classified advertising editor – moiself – who shared a large open office, and the PD Director and his secretary, who had offices down the hall, separate from The Rest Of Us ® .
It was an open secret that the Publications Department. Director, a man in his early forties whose perpetually smirking face sported what would nowadays be called a Porn Moustache, put in as little work as possible, with his secretary covering for him whenever someone higher up in the society needed to ask him a question. His long lunch breaks and frequent absences were fine by The Rest Of Us, who were all similar in age (mid-to-late twenties), who genuinely liked one another and sometimes socialized after work…and who individually and collectively did not like our boss, who gave off a distinctly creepy vibe.
One afternoon when the editor, assistant editor and art editor had gone down to the basement to confer with the mail guy about a magazine packaging, the PDD entered our office. I was alone at my desk, typing up some ad copy. Intent as I was on correcting the mystifyingly common grammatical errors of so-called professionals, I was not aware of the PDD’s presence until he was standing behind me. Very close behind me.
Without saying a work, the PDD placed his hand on my right shoulder. I shrugged my shoulder as if trying to dislodge a tarantula, and cast an excusez moi?! glance over my shoulder. He withdrew his hand. I proceeded to type. He proceeded to place both of his hands on my shoulders. He remained silent, but the intention of his touch was…ick.
I ripped the ad copy from my typewriter, stood up and strode across the office, to the editor’s desk. I placed the copy on her desk, crossed my arms and glared back at my boss, who was still standing behind my desk chair. At that moment, my three comrades returned. The PDD made small talk with the art editor and then slithered down the hall returned to his office. The editor began to fill me in about the meeting with the mail guy and asked me something about the ad copy.
I had no idea what to say, or even to think about, what had just happened. So I did neither.
Two days later the PDD called the four of us to his office, to discuss a few “minor changes” he wanted made to the next edition of the Society’s magazine. He mentioned a few graphics rearrangements he wanted to see on the front page, then announced that the masthead would be streamlined: from the next issue forward there would be just four names listed: The Publications Department Director as Executive Editor, the Editor, the Assistant Editor, and the Art Director/Editor. The position of Classified Ads editor would be deleted from the credits.
The Editor, flummoxed at first, quickly gained her composure. She argued in vain to keep my credit (“The classified ads editor has always been listed in the masthead; it’s an important position – advertising revenues are what supports the….”) while the art director and I exchanged what would nowadays be termed WTF?!?! looks. The PDD quickly quashed any further dissension on that subject and segued to his dissatisfaction with a banner ad the art director had designed.
Although I could have (hopefully) counted on my fellow editors for job references, should I have sought future employment in a related field,  my name in the magazine’s masthead was hard copy proof of my job title and experience. And just like that, it was gone.
I knew exactly what had transpired. I’d not yet heard the term sexual harassment, but I knew retaliation when I smelled it.
* * *
Department Of Remind Me Again Why We Put Up With This
One of the justifications for holding presidential debates  is that such forums are supposed to help undecided voters get off their cognitive asses and make informed if difficult choices make a decision. It’s hard for me to imagine how anyone can be undecided at this point, considering how the GOP candidate has repeatedly demonstrated that not only is he unfit for elected office, he’s unable to ape even the most basic civilized hominid behavior.
At this point, given the evidence amassed which shows he’s qualified for nothing other than Demagogue-In-Chief, it is likely that anything can change Trump supporters’ anacephalic minds. If verifiable video footage surfaced which showed The Donald joining forces with Vladimir Putin and Adolph Hitler to nude mud wrestle and hogtie an endangered baby rhinoceros, Trump supporters would point to it as evidence of Trump’s extensive foreign-policy experience.
* * *
May you voluntarily wrestle in the mud of reality;
May you be comforted by the baby Rhino of Reassurance; 
May you from this point onward have no #notokay experiences;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 That is what I assumed the little boy to be.
 He was not in fact mute, as I heard him say something to his son after I walked away.
 One of the high rise dorms at UC Davis.
 Not the world’s oldest.
 I didn’t, and I left that job about two months later.