Vignettes:
Down home cookin' department:
A bushel of apples will indeed make a whole lot of applesauce, although I still might be able to fit it all in my freezer. In addition, it takes rather a lot of time to render a whole bushel of apples into applesauce-- I'm only about a quarter of the way through. But it's a fabulous pink color, and it's great comfort food, even if it isn't quite as good as Mom's.
Disproportionate Response:
Yesterday, I sent an email to Amazon asking about an order I'd placed some time ago. It still hadn't shipped, presumably because, while they were waiting for Book A to be released, Book B went out of stock (and probably out of print). I sent a very nice little email, just asking them to let me know what was going on. They responded today -- it must have been a form letter, because it was remarkably contrite, and approaching groveling, along the lines of "We're so sorry, this must have been a terrible experience for you, it won't happen again" etc. So a polite query earns you 5 dollars off, a self-immolating email from customer service, and prompt action. Who knew. It was just such a strange contrast to all my other customer service experiences.
And at midnight we dispose of the bodies:
In the middle of last week, I discovered a dead sparrow in my driveway and another new facet of urban life -- the fact that there are no woods or even empty lots in which to dispose of the body. And, while I could rely on it mummifying pretty rapidly in the yard, I was dubious about what would happen if I just chucked it in the trash bin (which wouldn't be collected for another 6 days). (As an aside, I first thought, do I know anybody who would want this? One of the stranger parts of being an archaeologist is that you know a bunch of zoo-arch people who collect dead animals for comparative collections. But I can't imagine anybody is collecting urban avians.) So I left it under the prickly pear on sheet of cardboard, sort of out of sight of site of the fairly large number of people who cut the corner by trooping through my yard. And then didn't remember it until late at night, the night before the trash pickup. So there I am, in the dark, dark, yard (no streetlights) with my trashbag and my gardening gloves, reaching around under the cactus. Someday, when I write my memoirs, I'll become dishonest and embellish the story so that I was in my pajamas, dropped the body and impaled myself on the cactus looking for it.
Now he's really American:
Apparently, the new Captain America is standing up for the second amendment
And Graduate Education:
If I were a hypocrite, I'd say "Gosh, it seems awfully immature to give us an assignment in which we write out our names in Mayan glyphs. I mean, that's something I'd have kids do. We're scholars here." But I'm not a hypocrite, and I have to admit that I figured out several ways of writing my name in glyphs weeks ago. And I'm fighting an urge to give myself a string of titles -- she of the writing, she of the holy paper, 2 k'atun sage, holy ruler of Tucson, bakab.
And now, back to work, work, work.
A bushel of apples will indeed make a whole lot of applesauce, although I still might be able to fit it all in my freezer. In addition, it takes rather a lot of time to render a whole bushel of apples into applesauce-- I'm only about a quarter of the way through. But it's a fabulous pink color, and it's great comfort food, even if it isn't quite as good as Mom's.
Disproportionate Response:
Yesterday, I sent an email to Amazon asking about an order I'd placed some time ago. It still hadn't shipped, presumably because, while they were waiting for Book A to be released, Book B went out of stock (and probably out of print). I sent a very nice little email, just asking them to let me know what was going on. They responded today -- it must have been a form letter, because it was remarkably contrite, and approaching groveling, along the lines of "We're so sorry, this must have been a terrible experience for you, it won't happen again" etc. So a polite query earns you 5 dollars off, a self-immolating email from customer service, and prompt action. Who knew. It was just such a strange contrast to all my other customer service experiences.
And at midnight we dispose of the bodies:
In the middle of last week, I discovered a dead sparrow in my driveway and another new facet of urban life -- the fact that there are no woods or even empty lots in which to dispose of the body. And, while I could rely on it mummifying pretty rapidly in the yard, I was dubious about what would happen if I just chucked it in the trash bin (which wouldn't be collected for another 6 days). (As an aside, I first thought, do I know anybody who would want this? One of the stranger parts of being an archaeologist is that you know a bunch of zoo-arch people who collect dead animals for comparative collections. But I can't imagine anybody is collecting urban avians.) So I left it under the prickly pear on sheet of cardboard, sort of out of sight of site of the fairly large number of people who cut the corner by trooping through my yard. And then didn't remember it until late at night, the night before the trash pickup. So there I am, in the dark, dark, yard (no streetlights) with my trashbag and my gardening gloves, reaching around under the cactus. Someday, when I write my memoirs, I'll become dishonest and embellish the story so that I was in my pajamas, dropped the body and impaled myself on the cactus looking for it.
Now he's really American:
Apparently, the new Captain America is standing up for the second amendment
And Graduate Education:
If I were a hypocrite, I'd say "Gosh, it seems awfully immature to give us an assignment in which we write out our names in Mayan glyphs. I mean, that's something I'd have kids do. We're scholars here." But I'm not a hypocrite, and I have to admit that I figured out several ways of writing my name in glyphs weeks ago. And I'm fighting an urge to give myself a string of titles -- she of the writing, she of the holy paper, 2 k'atun sage, holy ruler of Tucson, bakab.
And now, back to work, work, work.