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If insanity can be defined as doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results, maybe stupidity can be defined as continuing to do things when you know they make you feel like crap and aren’t good for you. Just a thought.

A completely unrelated thought: I’ll be traveling to Dublin, Ohio (the home of Dublin Core) later this week to do a conference presentation. The tricky thing will be actually writing that presentation since I pretty much lost the whole past week, which was the time I had budgeted for that. I think I’ll be okay, though. I may make a side trip after the conference, either to Cleveland, to Detroit and Windsor, or to Pittsburgh. Any suggestions?

I’ve always collected cities in much the same way I used to collect sex partners. In fact, my relationships with cities parallel stereotypical love affairs in many ways. Some are quick flirtations (Seattle, Atlanta) and some (New York, Los Angeles) are just masturbatory fantasies that I’d probably despise in real life even if they were attainable. But my most serious relationships have been with San Francisco, Pittsburgh, and Toronto.

I’ve told many versions of my San Francisco story. We’ll call this plotline “true love gone wrong.” I loved that place so very much, and for many years I thought we’d spend the rest of my days together. It was a love like I’d felt for no other city and I allowed myself to be blinded to all its many, MANY faults. And that’s why it was not to be. I changed, and San Francisco changed, and I realized that much of what I had loved about it was not real to begin with. It ended badly, and I’ve come to realize that San Francisco and I will probably never really be friends. I get the sense that San Francisco is OK with that; it attracts thousands of new friends every year and will no doubt get along fine without me.

Pittsburgh was very different for me. It was always sort of a side attraction, never my primary love (nor residence), and that may be what has allowed us to stay friendly despite some tense moments. Pittsburgh is the classic “fuck buddy” and the only real problem surfaced when things started to get a little too serious. Fortunately, we got past the awkwardness and I think we’ll be just fine now with our very causal but mutually satisfying arrangement.

And then there’s Toronto. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to what I felt about San Francisco. But I’m not sure I could ever make another commitment like that. Maybe Toronto is the idealized “long distance relationship”; I love it all the more because it’s a convenient escape from my everyday routine–one that I can have in small doses pretty much whenever I want it–and leave the rest to fantasy. Toronto can be my “happy place.” When I feel sad or lonely or just plain overwhelmed by life (which happens a lot lately) I can escape to that little fantasy world–or sometimes even to the actual place. I never have to deal with commuting to work or fighting my way through lines at Loblaws every week, etc. In short, we don’t have to wake up next to each other everyday.

I’m not sure what would happen if Toronto and I ever got serious. I’m a little scared of the idea and am not at all prepared to be hurt by another city. And it’s not terribly realistic anyway. Legally, I could move there tomorrow. I have my Canadian permanent residency. Finding employment and building a life would be another story altogether. But that hint of possibility without the attendant expectations may be be what I find so enticing about Toronto. Plus it’s a pretty sexy place in my view.

As an academic librarian in a university setting, I find myself engaged in stimulating intellectual discussions on a daily basis. For example, just a few minutes ago a colleague and I were debating about whether Jane Withers played Madge, the Palmolive lady, in the commercials. Of course, we now know (being librarians) that Jan Winer played Madge. Jane Withers was, in fact, Josephine the Plumber.

Evidence and context:

The discussion also strayed into such important areas as the extra value Rosemary Clooney found with Coronet, Rosie’s quicker picker upper, and the special appeal of Martha Raye, denture wearer.

I like being a librarian.

And I want a big can of “Other Cleanser.” Right now.

We had a departmental retreat at work today, one of those daylong affairs at a cabin by a lake outside the city with intradepartmental brainstorming, strategic planning, etc. Actually, this one was much better than most and wasn’t really annoying at all. But at the inevitable introductory communication exercise, my question was, “What was the happiest day of your life?”

I had to pause and swallow before answering.

Eighteen or nineteen months ago, I would have had a very quick and easy answer to this question. That’s no longer the case. It’s not that I don’t have lots of happy days on file in my mind. I do. And new ones are still being added, albeit not always so often as I might like. But there’s no longer that one special day that trumps them all for me. And it made me kind of sad to realize that. It also made me ponder two important points, which I guess I’m now expressing as bits of advice:

1. Always accumulate as many happy days as you can. Not only is it a very good way to live your life, but it also comes in handy sometimes when you have to have a ready response to a question for a team-building exercise at work.
2. Never allow a significant part of your own personal happiness to be dependent on another human being. It’s a universally bad move that you will nearly always regret at some point in the future.

I’m now going to enjoy the fact that I actually got home early tonight.

Six years ago today, the ex and I took possession of this lovely house in Winston-Salem.

In a lot of ways, it’s the only place I’ve ever lived as an adult that’s ever really quite felt like home. At the same time, it also sometimes feels like I’ve never really lived here at all. For the first few years, I was waiting for Mark to be here full time so we could really “start” living here together. Once he moved back (only for a few months, as it turned out) we pretty much immediately put the house on the market with an eye toward downsizing and moving to Greensboro, and it’s been on and off the market ever since–in a pretty much “staged” condition, devoid of any personality whatsoever. And then there was the mortgage nightmare earlier this year, where I took full possession even though I wasn’t particularly sure I wanted to do so. I feel like the poor house and I have both been in limbo for a good chunk of the past six years.

And now, strangely enough, I’m thinking about hanging on to the place for a while. I’d be hard pressed to find a rental that would compare at the same price point. I really do like the house even if it is too big and too much to maintain. I have a lot going on in my life for the next year and the thought of a move fills me with much dread. And to be brutally honest, I kind of like having thirty miles separating me and my parents right now; I think that maintaining that distance might be essential to my sanity.

So after six years, I’m thinking of actually moving in. On my own terms. With my own stuff on the walls, and new curtains in the somewhat grim bedroom, and maybe even a new refrigerator and some paint.

But when I ponder the yard and the roof and that big, dead tree out back, I waffle a bit.

To be continued, evidently…