Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

One of the top news stories of the day includes the proclamation that male ‘cast members’ at the Disney properties in Florida and California will be allowed to wear beards beginning the first week of February.

Now, before I get into my intended direction of this blog entry, I am going to step aside one moment to share my initial thought when seeing this story all over the media today. The fact that a few thousand men are allowed to grow facial hair while employed by an entertainment company makes the top headlines across our country is sad. There are many, many, many more important things going on in our country today, and a few whiskers is not really one of them. That being said, here I am writing about this topic on my blog, though I’m not really a news outlet more than a literary fart, so I guess that’s what my blog is about.

I’m not shy of the fact that I like facial hair. I have always liked looking at guys with beards and mustaches and since it naturally grows there, one would assume that it’s suppose to be there. Removal of the beard is contrary to nature, and while I find the act of shaving to be very fascinating (despite my attraction to beards and mustaches), it goes without saying that society as a whole sees a clean-shaven man as a more clean-cut man. It’s a stereotype that is not really that true but the stereotype is still there.

Back in the beginning of the ’00s, Disney started allowing men to wear mustaches. Prior to that, male employees had been required to be clean shaven since 1955. Walt Disney wanted to distance Disneyland, and later, Walt Disney World, away from the carnivals of the day, where scruffy looking men acted in shady ways. He wanted to show his parks were different, and the male grooming standards were part of that. Hence, the clean shaven rule in ’55. The mustache allowance at the beginning of the 21st century made sense in a way, since Walt himself had a mustache for the majority of his adult life. A man with a mustache can still look clean-cut in his Disney cast member uniform or costume, especially when the ‘stache is groomed to Disney’s dress code standards. (Hipsters are out as waxed handlebars aren’t allowed).

One of the beauties of visiting a Disney property is that it’s an escape. When you pass through the gates of WDW and the road signs go from green to purple-with-mouse-ears, you’ve left the real world behind and you’re about to enter a magical place where the colors all match and are even brighter, there’s music in the air everywhere you go and everyone has a smile on their face and not a care in the world. The magical land of Disney has clean cut folks doing their clean cut thing in their own little world. They’re there to help you lose yourself in their carefully constructed fantasy and accept it as your reality for as long as your wallet can support it. And in that clean cut fantasy in their clean cut world, bearded men are the villains in a cartoon plot. It could be that I’m just hypersensitive to beards because of my attraction to them, but a bearded cast member will be a stark reminder that you are in a temporary (and rather expensive) fantasy that is being painted as reality. It screams “none of this is real!!” Unfortunately, this will bring in all sorts of questions to mind; Does Snow White smoke? Is Mary Poppins really bitchy? Is Mickey REALLY smiling for the photo? You mean there’s a human head holding up the Mickey head? Is this bearded man strapping me into the Tower of Terror a good guy or a bad guy? Am I going to lose my lunch?

Having been to WDW on several occasions (thanks, sweetheart!), I like to say that I become a kid again when we’re there. I’m more outgoing, I’m a little more carefree and quite frankly I don’t give a flip as to what people think about me. It’s the fantasy atmosphere that fuels that letting go. During our last visit I noticed a few chinks in the Disney fantasy façade; the film for “Ellen’s Energy Adventure” is VERY dated, the new cash registers all over the place don’t quite fit where the old ones used to sit, creating weird holes and messy looking displays where the old customer readouts used to be and the burgers seems to be getting smaller while the tab seems to be getting bigger. (Thank god they updated the ‘O Canada!’ film on the back part of Epcot). I see the allowance of beards on men as another chink in the fantasy. The presence of facial hair says it’s just a job for the folks that used to be clean cut fantasy characters. And this makes me a little sad. It just doesn’t feel very ‘Disney’.

If I want to check out beards at Disney, I’ll check out the tourists (and probably sneak a few pictures). I don’t need to be brought back to reality when I’m trying to enjoy my little escape vacation.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Earl has been out of town for the past couple of night. While he gets to do the work thing in the lovely city of Buffalo, I have been trying to get a decent night’s sleep in our snug bed at home. This isn’t easy for me to accomplish, as I have mentioned before, because while I have my father’s tendency of being able to sleep in a moments notice, anywhere, I seem to also have my mother’s tendency of them waking up a few hours later so I can roam the halls of the house. I don’t think either of them made ghostly “ooooooo” sounds in the pitch black of the hallway in the dead of night, that’s my own spin on the family traditions. Tom caterwauls to add to the frivolity.

Part of my problem with waking up in the middle of the night is that I’m forcing myself to go to bed when I’m not tired so I can wake up when I am tired and head to work. Someday I’ll fix that problem and have a job that is in sync with my natural circadian rhythms, until then I will continue to exclaim “good morning” to everyone as I return from lunch. Imagine how much better my annual review would be if they actually had me as a productive unit all day long instead of just the afternoon. Hey, I didn’t pick the hours.

So I roamed the halls and the ghostly “oooooo” sound around 2 a.m. last night. I got a glass of water, I changed the water in the cat’s water bowl (as a reward for his contribution to the atmosphere) and I stared out the front window for a few moments to see if the neighbors were doing anything. Gladys Kravitz (the first one) would have been proud, the second one was just too mean to care.

Once I got back to bed I think I fell asleep rather quickly because I don’t remember seeing 2:30 on my iPhone last night, so that’s a good thing. Since I had awoken and then gone back to sleep, the dreams got a little bit funky. I dreamed of being outside with a bunch of people that felt familiar but I couldn’t really name today. It was then that I decided to apparently start singing for everyone in the dream, as they were apparently assembled around some sort of fountain situated in a park. I started singing “Defying Gravity” from the musical ‘Wicked’. The song is a little high for me if I were to sing it in it’s intended octave (I am in no way an alto like Kurt in ‘Glee’, heck I’m not even close to being a tenor) but in my dream my voice was able to soar in ways that it hasn’t soared since elementary school. I remember consciously thinking that I was singing so high and clear and brilliantly and being happy that there was no auto-tune involved.

The song went on for a few moments and I was just happy happy happy in the dream. I got to the bridge and started singing louder, feeling more free and happy as people enjoyed the tune.

And then I woke up.

I woke up because I had startled myself, having started singing the song, in my natural register, at full voice in my bed. The sound of the dream quickly faded away as the sound of reality came in and there I was, nearly standing in the bed (thank god the ceiling fan was off) singing my heart out as if I was standing on stage.

Had Earl been home, the whole production number probably wouldn’t have gotten that far as he’s pretty good at steering me back to bed when I start walking around or otherwise getting rambunctious in the bedroom. It doesn’t happen often but once in a while I start roaming around a bit. I don’t remember having sung songs from Broadway musicals while standing in bed before, but all I can say is that when I woke up I felt blissfully happy for expressing myself in this fashion (in the dream) and that the feeling has carried throughout the day.

I think we might need a baby gate across the stairway though if I’m going to be doing more numbers while the husbear is out of town.

And the ceiling fan must remain off.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

One would think that the struggle of working 55 miles away from home everyday would be the long drive in the wee hours of the morning, especially during these winter months. That doesn’t happen to be the case at all. I’ll admit that there are times that I don’t want to make that drive at 6:30 in the morning, and I would be remiss in not admitting that I miss coming home at lunch time, watching an “I Love Lucy” rerun and playing with the cat whilst I write my daily blog entry. These things are on my mind as I work 55 miles from home, but there is one specific thing that I can not get used to.

I struggle with doing my business in the bathroom at work.

We have around 200 people working the building and there is one common bathroom for the entire facility, and it’s rarely empty. Oh, I’ve heard rumors that there is an executive bathroom, appropriately located in the executive wing, but during the few, brief visits I’ve enjoyed in that part of the building, I’ve noticed that the executive bathroom, which appears to be a broom closet with some plumbing, is never in use. During my visits to the common bathroom I frequently see those that have multiple letters after their name on their office nameplates, opting to poop in coach instead of first class. They’re usually friendly. There’s no limp, blue curtain.

At my old job the bathroom had one urinal and two stalls, though usually only one stall worked at a time. Since there were heating issues in that building, I would never risk sitting on the toilet during the winter for fear of freezing into place and not being able to move until I thawed out at spring; and since I worked close to home back then I could make the trek home at lunch time and take care of my business.
I don’t have that luxury in my current employment situation.

I’ve mentioned before that my brief glimpses of the common ladies’ room (when the door has been opened and I can see in) revealed a two room affair, complete with a lounging area that has couches and easy chairs and a television for many to enjoy. As long as you’re female. My friend Sandy once mentioned that she was selling greeting cards at work. I asked where the display was and apparently they were on display in this lounging area that precedes the main event of the ladies’ room. They have a shopping district in there and everything. The actual rest area of the ladies’ lounge (as it’s marked on the building evacuation plan) shares a common wall with the mens’ room (we know when they flush but little else), which has four urinals shoved into the corner and four stalls, one which contains a telephone company truck hazard cone strategically situated next to the toilet. There are seven sinks along the front and a random number of paper towel dispensers; since the dispensers break once in a while, the maintenance folks just relocate the dispensers for the handicapped individuals to a higher location for those not in a wheelchair. I feel bad for the folks that are trying motor their wheelchairs with wet hands.

The sign on the door proclaims that the mens’ room is closed weekdays from 6:00 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. for cleaning. No exceptions. Don’t make it a habit of having an emergency because the cleaning staff isn’t leaving to accommodate you unless you’re doing it in the hall, apparently. This declaration is interesting to me, since the cleaning staff only comes to the building three days a week. The head cleaning woman is rather young, and named after a month in the year, but she’s not named March or August. August is a guy’s name. She has quite a few tattoos. At times she seems to have a mood adjustment assist to her day; I don’t know what counter her assists come over to fulfill her needs but she’s always quite friendly. I don’t mind the fact that she occasionally uses people that are walking the perimeter of the parking lot in the interest of staying fit as target as she comes flying into the parking lot. She’s smiling when she does it. 
I end up having to do my serious business in that bathroom at least once a day, though I pee quite frequently due to large consumptions of water. I hate doing my business in there because I know that people recognize my feet under the stall wall. I’m afraid that each individual has a distinct odor and that I have been rightly identified. I am conscious of the noises and gases. I worry that my suspenders drag on the floor. This is an interesting aspect to my habits and feelings of this nature, because I can go to a public restroom on the interstate or in a Macy’s and making some of the most foul noises and sounds known to the human race and not think twice about it. I don’t like it when people know me in the bathroom. When at a house party, I avoid using the “guest bathroom” which is usually located under the stairs, right in the middle of all the party traffic. On the occasions that I have to use the “guest bathroom” at a party, I usually end up farting loudly in there when there’s a lull in the conversation on the outer side of the door. I worry I kill the gaiety.

I don’t like it when people talk in the bathroom. Conference calls in progress at the urinal are just weird. One of my co-workers, a very jovial southern gentleman, usually flashes his trademark smile and says “Hello there, J.P.” just as I’m making a bee-line for stall #2, which does not have the hazard cone but does have the best wi-fi reception in the room. I smile on the outside, but I die a little on the inside, because he has identified who I am to any other person that may be doing their business and now they’ll be able to identify my smell. This terrifies me in a small way.

There was a different voice in there today when I thought I was alone in there. “HElllooooooo!”, chimed the mood-adjusted voice as the cleaning lady came in.

“I’m here”.

“I know, sweetie.”

Sigh. I needed to pass some gas to get things moving. Now she would know how my digestive system works.

I glanced at my watch and confirmed that it wasn’t between 6 and 6:30. What the hell was she doing in there? I didn’t want to have to evacuate and do my business in the broom closet with plumbing.

“I’ll be just a moment.”

“Ok.”  I heard her leave.  I then made a noise that I don’t really need to describe here during this dialog. And forget about the smell.
I find it interesting that I’m rather freaked out about this, aside from the fact that doing it where people don’t know me doesn’t bother me, because I have been nude in public on countless occasions in my life and back in the day I did a lot more interesting things in public without a second thought.

As I walked out of the restroom, she asked, “Everything come out ok?”

Oh my god.