Ravings of a Textual Deviant

This is deliberately vague, but I think the point still gets across.

I work for a consulting company, and we have a Service Level Agreement contract with A Client. Part of that contract says that we produce 95% of an Important Theoretical Number every month. Unfortunately, the formula used to calculate the Important Theoretical Number doesn’t precisely coincide with reality. So, in order to compensate for that, I have a column on one of my spreadsheets that is labeled “Difference between 95% and Reality.”

Me: I’m not eating at [location] anymore.

Him: Why not?

Me: I saw an enormous bug toes-up in the middle of the floor there this morning.

Him: Well, it was dead, wasn’t it?

Me: And where do you think it had its last meal?

I’ve lived in Indianapolis long enough that when someone mentions “the track,” I automatically think of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. So, when Housemate asked me if I’d like to go to the track with him and his family, I’m afraid I gave him the sort of look that passes for an answer when I’m wondering if I’ll have to check the questioner for signs of pod-person-ness.

Well, housemate is from Louisville, and when someone mentions “the track,” his mind automatically goes to Churchill Downs. I’ve never been to a horse race—mostly because I’m not terribly fond of horses–but I thought, why not? An opportunity is an opportunity, and I can usually salvage at least a good blog post from any adventure.

Turns out that it’s a very nice venue, and my lack of interest in horse-racing was a very minor matter. There are lots of video monitors with replays, live feeds, and info screens hanging around the room, but otherwise, it looked like a nice restaurant with big windows overlooking some ambitious landscaping. The races are about 20 minutes apart, so people would occasionally excuse themselves to make bets, and there would be a few minutes of yelling and cheering during the race. Housemate’s aunt had a good day, winning most of her $2 bets, and Housemate ended the day 50 cents up on his single attempt.

I even went outside to watch one of the races in person; I was high up in the stands, so I can’t speak to the experience at field level, but I did enjoy the real thing much more than the video feed. The food was good, too, especially the enormous piece of carrot cake that got shared around generously when its owner wasn’t looking, and the bread pudding with bourbon sauce that Housemate split with me.

I also let Housemate’s mother and aunt talk me into letting them teach me to play golf. (Housemate just started learning in February and goes down to play with them once every couple of weeks.) That, I’m sure, will be the source of many a good future blog post, and it might even help my croquet game.

Housemate: Did I tell you about the “milk of human kindness?”

Me: Is that the green, smelly stuff in the back of the fridge?

Every once in a while, I like to take the time to eat breakfast at home, rather than rushing out the door and eating a food-substitute bar at my desk. Today seemed to be as good a day for that as any. I usually get into work 15-30 minutes later than planned, which isn’t a problem…except when the Screw-up Fairy drops in.

I was about a third of the way to work when I looked down and noticed that Housemate had left his car keys in my car. He has to go to Kentucky today, and probably should have been on his way out the door about the same time that I figured out that I was going to have to turn around.

Housemate did get on his way, and it turned out that I’d left without my security badge for work, so while we’ll have to get through today to find out whether all’s well that ends well, at least we got through the start.

The master suite isn’t completely finished, but it’s done enough that I was able to move my furniture in (or, more to the point, Sean, Jerry, and Michael were able to move my furniture in—thanks ever so much, guys!) and for the first time in nearly a year, I slept in the master bedroom.

There are a few decorative details to take care of, as well as a couple of functional ones, and the master bath needs a good spring summer cleaning. But going to sleep in a freshly-cleaned-and-painted, uncluttered, non-dual-purpose room was unspeakably wonderful. And as the bed is facing the turquoise accent wall with the sun mirror on it, I woke up to a perfectly clear and sunny sky…and I’ll get to do so every morning, whatever the weather.

Life is good.

Last weekend was my Level One re-training, or “integration,” for my Registered Yoga Teacher 200-hour certification. I have a break for six weeks or so, and then, at the end of July, the schedule gets very, very interesting.

But first things first. Originally, when I found out that re-training was required for Levels 1-3, I was skeptical. However, having done the first one, I can see the benefit. My first training was a transforming experience, but at the same time, there was so much material that I felt mentally and physically overwhelmed by the end of it. Being able to go back and pick up what I missed the first time around is a major benefit. I had huge amounts of sympathy for the first-time students, especially the ones who were coming into the class as group fitness instructors without a yoga background.

Also, the same material can be completely different depending on one’s instructor, and while both of the instructors I’ve had for Level One are very good, they had radically different pespectives. One was a group fitness instructor who was certified in a number of areas (spinning, aerobics, etc.); the other was an Ayurvedic practitioner with a theology degree. Furthermore, I hadn’t started teaching when I took Level One the first time, and now I’ve got six months of experience, so I could focus on areas that I knew I wanted to improve, rather than try to absorb a ton of brand-new material.

I always enjoy the training weekends, even when they take a lot out of me, and this was no exception. I have yet to come out of a training weekend without some stiffness and soreness to let me know I’ve had a really good workout. However, this time it was in my triceps—and only in my triceps, which is a considerable improvement. I did have a bad moment when I woke up from my post-workshop nap on Sunday and couldn’t move my legs, but that had a much more external cause—twenty-two pounds of cat on my ankles. 

“We’ve all been using each others’ specimens.”—M.

Well, last night actually…but noteworthy nonetheless.

Mags and Minx were reclining along the back of the sofa, facing each other. Mags took an ill-advised swipe at Minx, who’s nearly twice his size. Without blinking, Minx swatted back, just hard enough to put Mags off his balance. Mags rolled down the inside back of the couch, across my lap, and continued tumbling tail over teakettle for a good two feet upon hitting the floor.

And in true cat fashion, he immediately sat up, turned his back on the housemonkey who was laughing at him, and began grooming himself as if nothing at all had happened. At least, nothing unintentional. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing to see…move along…

The other day, I wandered into the kitchen and found Mags tummy-to-floor with Minx’s paw on the back of his neck. Minx was assiduously grooming Mags, and the expression on both faces was priceless. I don’t speak Cat, but I imagine Minx was saying something like, “Ya gotta wash behind the ears, kid. Behind the ears!”