Ravings of a Textual Deviant

I’m not sure if I’ve got insomnia, or just really bad timing.

For reasons entirely beyond my ken, my body woke up at 2:15 this morning. I lay in bed, fighting it, for an hour, then got up and spent a little over an hour working on a document I’d taken home, because if weather permitted, it was going to be signed first thing this morning. (Well, relatively speaking, first thing this morning being 8:00 AM for people who aren’t suffering from and extreme case of early bird).

I took the time to have a real breakfast, and as the first cup of coffee kicked in, I remembered that it had taken me nearly two hours to get home from work yesterday. If it took anything close to that this morning, I was going to have to leave by 5:30 AM to get to work in time to park at the remote location, get my parking validated, etc. So, by 5:15, I was showered, brushed, dressed, and ready to have a look at Bart Peterson’s re-election campaign*. I was expecting a phone call between 5:00 and 6:00 AM to let me know if the 8:00 AM meeting was indeed a go. On my way in, I found out that it wasn’t, but had documents to drop off at that building anyway. Said documents were on the appropriate desk by 6:05 AM. By 6:45, I was at my own desk, with a large cup of coffee, and oh-so-ready for a nap.

The up side of this is that I hit my 40 hours for the week at 1:00 this afternoon…and I was off like a prom dress.

*If you’re the mayor of Indianapolis, and you want to stay in office, you’d better make sure that the roads get cleared eftsoon, if not sooner—screw that up, and people won’t vote for you even if you’re the Second Coming. As Ed said. “That’s why I vote for him.” I reminded Ed that he doesn’t vote, to which he replied “He doesn’t know that.”

From this week’s News of the Weird…

In November, NASCAR announced it had contracted with the romance publisher Harlequin Enterprises to arrange for steamy women’s novels with car-racing themes, beginning with Pamela Britton’s forthcoming book “In the Groove.” And according to an October Los Angeles Times report, the trade association Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America contracted to pay two writers a “six-figure” fee to write a novel about a national panic resulting from a fear that drug lobbyists had actually been trying to spread in Congress, specifically, that terrorists might poison lower-priced drug imports from Canada. (The Times reported that the association recently killed the project and blamed the whole idea on an unsupervised lower-level executive.) [Harlequin press release, 11-2-05] [Los Angeles Times, 10-27-05]

I have to say that I love the concept of romance novels as advertising and propoganda, if not the execution. I knew they had to be good for something.

A pattern for the knitter who has everything. From Karen, via Carl.

UPDATE: And from a coworker, “more proof why innards shouldn’t ever be knitted.” Personally, I’m most disturbed by the fact that the innard in question is displayed on a piano keyboard. Is this supposed to represent pianist envy?

Week 3: I gave a slightly more challenging class than the first two, and when we were done, one of my students allowed as how she was “sweating like a whore in church.” Another said that she thought that a lot of the poses simply couldn’t be done by anyone who’s overweight. Having started yoga at 70 pounds overweight myself, I have a certain sympathy for that problem—and an idea how to handle it. There’s even a 1-day seminar that address exactly that demographic, and I’m hoping that it’ll be offered someplace nearby, eftsoon.

Week 4 (today): Snow is coming down at an impressive rate; we’ve gotten an inch in the last hour. I’ve decided that discretion is the better part of valor, and cancelled the class. I do not want to drive across town and back in this mess. I’ll add another class in January to make up for it.

It’s no secret that I’ve had problems with pants the past several months. One of the main pants problems is that even at a healthy weight I’ve got hips*—and that doesn’t take into account it’s hard to find even petite-sized pants that accommodate a height that’s under five feet tall.

Normally, I avoid upscale shops at the mall; I can usually find something just as good in a discount department store or at a lower price point. However, a few months ago, I was desperate enough to break my own rules, and I found myself in one of those stores that reminds why I can’t qualify for the Fashion Police Academy. I spotted a style of pants called “Editor,” and because I am one, I tried them on. Apparently that was the answer, because they fit quite comfortably, and look good. The length isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough. The fabric has some stretch, and the legs are slightly flared, without being bell bottoms. They even have usable pockets! The test pants I got have held up well through several washes, and I’ve worn them at least once a week since I bought them. There are only a couple of minor problems; the first being that they’re expensive (at least by my standards) and the second being that the choice of colors and fabrics is rather limited. Nevertheless, I consider them worth saving up for…especially as the weather here is not conducive to a pants-free lifestyle.

*I perceive this as a problem with the design of the pants, not with my hips, just for the record.

It’s cold. Really cold. There are places in Antarctica that have a higher low temperature than our high temperature for today. The best description of how cold it is comes from one of my coworkers. He was driving into work, and saw one of those time/temperature displays in front of a bank. He watched the “5°” slide across…and kept waiting…and waiting…and waiting for the other digit to slide across in front of it.

Me: I was thinking it would be nice to do something for [$DECEMBERHOLIDAY], maybe a potluck lunch or snack table on the last Thursday that we’re here. What do you think?
Coworker 1: A sacrifice! Not too big. Not too small. Perhaps a goat. A small goat. A pygmy goat! Perfect.
Coworker 1: Nice holiday variable by the way.

***

[Coworker 1 calls me to ask what the thing I left on his desk was, then checks his email immediately afterwards.]
Coworker 1: See, I called you and there was this email in my inbox the whole time. It’s amazing I find my way home every night.
Me: Your house is probably in the same place every night. More or less. Discounting the rotation of the galactic spiral arm and planetary movement and such.
Coworker 1: Well, relative to [company] it’s in the same place. The rotation of the galactic spirl arm just makes my kidneys hurt, but does not affect my navigation to and from work.

***

Coworker 2: Anyone want an apple? No razor blades.

As Alisa said, this item lends a whole new meaning to the bailiff’s opening of court with “please rise!”, now doesn’t it?

The squirrel mafia is now a global phenomenon. Cayte and I have been trying warn people for years. Now, the only real question is, was this the Russian squirrel mafia, or squirrel triads/yakuza operating in someone else’s turf?

Personally, I became a believer in the squirrel mafia when I was in graduate school. One of my friends and I were walking through Dunn Woods, on the IU-Bloomington campus. On the side of a path, we saw an adorable baby chipmunk, carefully grasping an acorn between its cute little paws. Suddenly, an enormous squirrel stepped out of the underbrush, whacked the chipmunk in the head, and stole its acorn.

I never wanted to witness anything. Did I mention that there’s no witness protection program that can save you from the squirrel mafia?

For several weeks after that, the nasty little tree-rats had a hit on me and Cayte (my roommate), another unwitting witness to the evil that is squirreldom. We both worked at the main library, in the microforms room, which is in the basement. Several times in the next few months, the library experienced power failures that plunged the microforms room into utter darkness. And in that darkness, I could’ve sworn I heard an ominous…chittering. Turns out that squirrel were chewing through the power lines. That’s no coincidence, I assure you. I was certain my days were numbered when I saw a squirrel negotiating with a crow. Great, I thought to myself, the rodents are looking for air support.

The squirrel mafia does not screw around. If you don’t believe me, ask around the animal kingdom…but carefully.

Ed is feeling well enough to get back to the dojo, and last night, he got his orange belt. He also nailed a fellow student—the guy who has one speed, which is “on”—squarely in the crotch. Or, as Ed described it, “He kicked high, I kicked low, and I got to Scotland first.”

I’m not sure which accomplishment makes Ed happier.