01.13.05

Oof-dah. Worked another full day today. I wanna know where my massage is? Where are my men clamouring to be the first to get my Italian coffee with real, homemade, whipped cream. I do mean whipped cream...I know what you naughty, naughty types were thinking.

Spent most of the day in the back of the shop, playing with the automatic paper folder. Let me tell you about the automatic paper folder.

It's ancient. It looks like a prop from Brazil. The metal is blackened with age and grime. There are black plastic knobs and rocker switches. Pneumatic hoses snake up from its innards to control the paper flow. Gears and long screws adjust the machine, controlling the size and type of fold. To better control the adjustment, there are numbers and letters printed on gauges that run alongside the screws. There's a wheel at the bottom of the hopper that has rounded studs that pull the paper into the maw. Underneath, where the folded paper comes out, there are two rubberized belts that convey the paper into a tray. The tray has handwritten tips and hints for better care of the machine taped to it. There's a homemade cardboard rim at the bottom of the tray to better catch the papers.

Here's a picture of a much newer and snazzier paper folding machine; just to give you an idea.

It's a finicky beast. I anticipate many happy hours listening to my co-worker curse at it, or wrassling it into submission myself.

Oy. Did I say I was sore? Judging from how much my ass and leg muscles hurt I am going to be one hot momma come spring. All that running around, bending and lifting boxes. Hell, even standing for several hours a day should do some good. Ain't no one gonna be able to keep up with my shaking tucchus. *grin*

Which reminds me, when are people going to realize that a belly dancer is not a stripper? Two very different styles of dance, but (in the American mind) since they are sexually suggestive they are the same thing.

Which brings another thought (I'm full of beans tonight--damn good chili) the other day on the radio, I heard of some high school in Washington state cancelling all dances because the students refused to stop doing The Freak. Great leaping prickly anthodites! I was dancing the freak in (oh dear, dear, dear) 1978. Twenty-seven years ago. Hang on, check math...ooooo argh.

I'd like to remind the sour faced fools that it ain't the couple out on the dance floor that they should be worried about. It's the couples that disappear into corners, dark gyms, and cars and into basements. Simply because something is suggestive does not necessarily mean that it is fact.

Of course, the same argument was made against the swing dancers, the Charleston dancers, and the waltz. The waltz? you say with disbelief. Oh yes, because the man put his arm around her waist. It could lead to All Sorts Of Things.

Considering what sorts of things that the self-appointed moral arbiters imagine happening, (and love to talk about, endlessly) I wonder if they should be trusted with the morality of the nation.

Don't get me wrong, I am all for sexual expression (with the caveat of safe, sane and consensual). It's an important part of who we are as humans. Yet I wonder if it's healthy to obsess about it as much as the moralizers seem to.

Hmmm. Damn. There I go, thinking again. Rats.

Oh well, go be fabulous personified.

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