Oops I Did It Again, A Stupid Conversation, And Frances
I’ve been away from writing for a few days. Would you like to know why? There are a couple of reasons, but one of them should be glaringly obvious. Yep, you guessed it. I have painstakingly created yet another template for myself with the gruelling work of hand coding and limited Photoshop knowledge. Every time I do this I swear that it’s the last time, but I now know better. This time I am telling myself that I have to keep it for at least two months. Who knows. Maybe I finally have the bug out of my system.
My co-worker sniffed something at work and said, “This smells weird.”
“What’s weird about it?” I asked, immediately kicking myself for having bothered to entertain this man’s conversation. He is a philosophy major who knows nothing about the simple facts of the physical world.
“You know, mouldy weird, like how clothes you hang to dry probably smell.”
“What the hell are you talking about?!” See, now I have been pulled into the conversation. I am such easy prey. The Fiery One does this sort of thing to me all the time.1
“Yeah, you know, wet clothes always mould. I never did get why anyone buys those clothes you have to hang to dry. Who’d want to smell like that?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Are you saying they don’t mould?” He looked confused and a little hurt by my obvious incredulity.
“Yes, and the thing that keeps them from moulding is evaporation.” I mouthed the last word slowly, in case he hadn’t heard it before.
“But when my clothes are wet, they get mouldy.”
“Do you keep your wet clothes balled up in a bag or something?”
“Well, on my floor, but why should that make a difference?”
“Evaporation. Ever heard of it?” I stopped being gentle with this guy about two days after he started working with me, because frankly, he’s too stupid. I shouldn’t point fingers too hastily, though, because I’m the one who allowed myself to have this discussion.
“Why would it make a difference if you hung them up?”
“When you hang them up, more of the surface area of the clothing is open to the air, and so the water can effectively evaporate. That can’t happen as well when they’re balled up, so mould grows inside them.”
“Doesn’t mould need air to grow, because I think living things need air to live, so that means that there’s air available, so they shouldn’t mould. They should dry out.”
“Yes, there’s some air in your balled up wet clothes, but the situation just simply isn’t conducive to a rapid enough process of evaporation... Okay, look. There’s enough air and moisture for the mould to grow, but not enough air exchange for decent evaporation to occur.”
“Oh, that’s good to know, because I always thought hang-to-dry clothes were really gross.”
It’s conversations like this that really make me wonder how some people manage to live.
My friend, Frances, came into town for the weekend, which made it a wonderful weekend indeed. She is one of the few people who will play Scrabble with me, so we carted my travel Scrabble over to a local pub and played a round on Thursday evening. I really must play that game more often. Maybe I’ll coerce the Fiery One into a round when he gets back. Then yesterday, after a leisurely afternoon coffee, she and I headed over to a friend’s apartment where he cooked us and Red supper and fed us copious amounts of wine, which was followed by our attending a fabulous artists studio opening party. Frances had a painting on display and played a couple of songs on guitar. She’s such a multi-talented girl. Beer on top of the wine we’d had earlier seemed like a good idea, and before we knew it, 5:30 am had rolled around, and being the eosophobe that I am, the brightening of the sky chased me home where I hid myself under three layers of blankets. Needless to say, words that describe today best are: thirsty, tired, bad breath, braindead, and oh so pleasantly happy.
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1Fiery One: You should have seen me win that dance contest that one time.
Schmutzie: You have never won a dance contest.
Fiery One, while doing a shuffly soft-shoe: Sure, I did. Well, actually I came in second, but the prize was a ring of farmer sausage, and the first-place winner was a vegan, so she stepped down from her duties.
Schmutzie: Shut up.
Fiery One, still shuffling and doing a wiggly thing with his fingers: What? Are you saying I’m a liar? Because if you are saying I’m a liar, then I’ll just have to show you my moves.
Schmutzie: That won you a dance contest? I don’t think so.
Fiery One: Oh yeah, baby.
Schmutzie: Shut up!
Fiery One: Want to know what my duties were as the winner?
Schmutzie: No. Damn. Okay, what were they?
The Fiery One will carry on with something like this for quite some time, and I just keep swallowing the bait, over and over again. I’ll fall right into the trap you set when you tell me you were born in an italian bakery and that they cleaned you off with a warm loaf of bread, and I will argue its verity with you every time.