The Proverbial Female Magic Practitioner's Mammary Gland
Oh, friends. It is currently 10 degrees here in my neck of the woods. Ten. Degrees.
Ten.
Remember how I used to say that I would never move north of the Mason-Dixon, ever again? That's right--I am now being punished for absolutism. I have not been this cold in a long time, and I had forgotten the internal algorithm that takes the temperature and my age and multiplies the latter exponentially. I am creeping around like a 90-year-old woman, listening to my hips and ankles creak and protest. After my shower just now, I stuck my head out the back door to call the dog in, and the top layer of my hair froze. Just like that. Jasper, my youngest cat, has never seen weather like this in all his two years. Once King of the Neighborhood, now he's increasingly frustrated by his choices: stay inside and die of boredom, or go outside and die. He'll poke his head out and then look at me in high indignation--very much a "HEY now, make this stop IMMEDIATELY. It's not funny any more" sort of look.
Faugh, says I. Wish I could oblige.
In related news, we made it through the Great Wind Storm of '08 relatively okay. We were without power for about 24 hours, and I kept thinking of sauvagerie's category of First World Problems. Lots of damage around us, and we have a big, scary limb menacing the roof but currently jammed in amonst the other limbs, but in the grand scheme of things we are low on the arborists' priority list. If you want to make a lot of money right now, buy a chainsaw and find your way to WallaSquared and set yourself up as a tree removal specialist. It's where the cash is.
And in unrelated news, I have a full-blown, wild-eyed conspiracy theorist in my Research Writing class. *sigh* I just...really have a hard time with those, and this one is particularly frothing-at-the-mouth. After repeated attempts to redirect, I finally took him by the ear yesterday and said, "Look. You are just really not understanding the fundamental nature of the class. All the things that you're talking about doing require a seasoned, experienced, well-connected investigative journalist. We cover academic topics and research, not exposes. YOU ARE NOT THAT PERSON, and THIS IS NOT JOURNALISM CLASS." He slunk away--we'll see if he's still in class today (because, friends, due to computer lab sharing attempts, I teach this class on MTR, while my other two classes are MWRF). There were probably better things to say, but I do not know what they are. The irony for him is that if he tries to get into the other RW class being offered this quarter, he will find himself in the hands of my Better Half, who will look at his wild eyes with much the same expression as I do.
Ten.
Remember how I used to say that I would never move north of the Mason-Dixon, ever again? That's right--I am now being punished for absolutism. I have not been this cold in a long time, and I had forgotten the internal algorithm that takes the temperature and my age and multiplies the latter exponentially. I am creeping around like a 90-year-old woman, listening to my hips and ankles creak and protest. After my shower just now, I stuck my head out the back door to call the dog in, and the top layer of my hair froze. Just like that. Jasper, my youngest cat, has never seen weather like this in all his two years. Once King of the Neighborhood, now he's increasingly frustrated by his choices: stay inside and die of boredom, or go outside and die. He'll poke his head out and then look at me in high indignation--very much a "HEY now, make this stop IMMEDIATELY. It's not funny any more" sort of look.
Faugh, says I. Wish I could oblige.
In related news, we made it through the Great Wind Storm of '08 relatively okay. We were without power for about 24 hours, and I kept thinking of sauvagerie's category of First World Problems. Lots of damage around us, and we have a big, scary limb menacing the roof but currently jammed in amonst the other limbs, but in the grand scheme of things we are low on the arborists' priority list. If you want to make a lot of money right now, buy a chainsaw and find your way to WallaSquared and set yourself up as a tree removal specialist. It's where the cash is.
And in unrelated news, I have a full-blown, wild-eyed conspiracy theorist in my Research Writing class. *sigh* I just...really have a hard time with those, and this one is particularly frothing-at-the-mouth. After repeated attempts to redirect, I finally took him by the ear yesterday and said, "Look. You are just really not understanding the fundamental nature of the class. All the things that you're talking about doing require a seasoned, experienced, well-connected investigative journalist. We cover academic topics and research, not exposes. YOU ARE NOT THAT PERSON, and THIS IS NOT JOURNALISM CLASS." He slunk away--we'll see if he's still in class today (because, friends, due to computer lab sharing attempts, I teach this class on MTR, while my other two classes are MWRF). There were probably better things to say, but I do not know what they are. The irony for him is that if he tries to get into the other RW class being offered this quarter, he will find himself in the hands of my Better Half, who will look at his wild eyes with much the same expression as I do.