Another Semantic Debate

As I sit surrounded by boxes, trying to keep some semblance of sanity in my last few days in small town *&^%, I can't seem to come to a conclusion about something. Maybe you can help me figure this out.

D & I have discovered we know a man that has a history of marrying rich women, spending every cent they own, then filing for divorce. He's on wife #3 right now, and has an impressively expensive hobby at the moment. We shall see.......

Anyway, D suddenly realized not too long ago that "Holy shit, he's a gigolo!"

Is he really?

I always thought that gigolos were male prostitutes, not patient opportunists that stick around for a few years to really leech off a rich wife.

What do you think? I checked out the definition of gigolo on Wikipedia and learned more than I ever wanted to about male prostitution. But if language is really what we make of it, then this calls for a better source that one web site.

What is a gigolo? A straight up prostitute, or something slightly more......creepy. If this man is a gigolo, then what do you call a plain old male prostitute? What does gigolo mean?

There's not much to do out here but work and pack, so please let me know what you think.

The Last Hour

Though not as depressing as the Elliott Smith song by the same title, sitting here at my desk with an hour to go on my last day of work here makes me sad.

I really liked my job. It was everything that graduate school had promised me and yet had that down-to-earth quality that I like in all of my endeavors. The public, the staff, all of the stakeholders were grateful and appreciative even if they didn't always quite understand what I did. I had the kind of support that is rare in any library or archives situation regardless of size of institution or budget.

It wasn't always perfect. I'm sure none of you have cleaned 100 years of dust and rat poop to get the goods, but in the end I leave square. The Archives are better off than when I started and I got an alleged "kick ass" job.

So have any of you out there ever left a job you didn't really want to? I'll say that I know of one person who did and she did it for me 3 years ago and I'll always be grateful to her.

I realize that I'm in the minority here and may not get any responses, but have at it.

Its Friday?!

Did you know that today is Friday?! (That handy little exclamation point indicates sarcastic shock)

It really doesn't feel like a Friday. It feels like just another day as my highly structured, highly routinized life melts like the molecular bonds of butter between a grilled cheese sandwich and a hot teflon pan.

Of course these aren't really problems; how could I dare complain when the future was initiated by us and miraculously worked out perfectly?

The stress really originates from the struggle to keep a routine as our life slowly changes. It's as if we're peeing in our space suit as we wait to get clearance to take off. We'll wait another 18 days and then in a matter of hours our lives will be so different, our dogs will barf.

In the meantime, we'll indulge ourselves with Little Caesar's Pizza, crisp cool dry morning air, drumming without fear, and playing my tunes as loud as I want at work.

Of course, this is how I feel this week. Next week will be totally different. As Jerry Seinfeld explains it:

"When you're moving your whole world becomes boxes. That's all you think about is boxes. Boxes, where are there boxes? You just wander down the street going in and out of stores. Are there boxes here? Have you seen any boxes? I mean it's all you think about. You can't even talk to people because you can't concentrate. Shut up I'm looking for boxes. Just after a while you become like really into it you can smell them. You walk into a store. There's boxes here. Don't tell me you don't have boxes. Dammit, I can SMELL them."