("Beavis and Butt-head" are coming back! YAY!)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Verrrry interesting....
Summer sessions are normally low-key and, dare I say it, boring. Not this week!
Firstly, going back to work after vacation sucks. Second, going back to work only to have to deal with fall semester procedural crap (book orders, registration drama, departmental bullshit) sucks harder than an Electrolux. I girded my loins and headed to campus to handle paperwork.
I pulled on to campus only to see the Lib Arts classroom building tented. There was a triangular flap pinned back in the general area of the faculty entrance. Inside there was a coat rack, festooned with surgical masks, and a sign on the wall: "All entrants must wear a mask to proceed."
Wrong building for any out-of-control chem or bio mishaps...no one had contracted yersina pestis (that I'd heard through the grapevine, at any rate) and there were no faculty trips to exotic, parasite-ridden locales on the calendar. As this is the building I do most of my teaching in, and that the faculty offices are attached to, my interest was piqued. I donned a mask and proceded in. Warily. (OK, I was pretending to be in a video game like "Left 4 Dead," "BioShock," or "Silent Hill. Sue me -- one of the Deans totally resembles Pyramid Head.)
I asked Old Crusty, the departmental secretary, what was up. She rolled her eyes. "They decided to remodel a bit and discovered that the floor tiles contained asbestos. Supposedly non-friable and not a risk, but...six weeks to remediate."
What, I asked, was I to do about the fact that I am teaching a summer session in one of the classrooms at the far end of one contaminated hall? No one had informed me of a classroom change...
"Yeah," Crusty replied. "Tell everyone to grad a mask, run down the hall -- tell 'em not to dawdle! -- and keep the classroom door shut and the windows open. 'S only a few weeks."
Are you shitting me? Seriously? A top-floor corner classroom that has floor-to-ceiling windows on two of four walls, with already-anemic A/C (it's routinely in the low 80's when the air con is actually working)...have myself and all the students sprint down a hall and up six flights of stairs, only to slam a classroom door shut and hope there's enough breeze to keep us from expiring of heat exhaustion?
I re-donned my mask to leave the building, and then wandered over to facilities and made a quick copy of the "Occupied/Unoccupied" schematic. Then I went to the Registrar's Cave, dodged a few stray bats and low-hanging stalactites, and filed a change-of-room request. There were only a dozen classrooms open...this should not be a problem, right?
Three phone calls and a memo storm later, I got my new classroom. With two hours to spare! I papered the outside of the tent with change-of-room notices, sent out a mass e-mail, and hoped that my students would actually pay attention to their environs long enough to come to the new classroom in a different building.
A minor miracle -- 3/4ths of them actually did! Though I got home to several e-mails ("Dude. Was class cancelled?" "Where was everyone?") Interestingly enough, not a single one of the absentees thought to ask about the giant tent...
Firstly, going back to work after vacation sucks. Second, going back to work only to have to deal with fall semester procedural crap (book orders, registration drama, departmental bullshit) sucks harder than an Electrolux. I girded my loins and headed to campus to handle paperwork.
I pulled on to campus only to see the Lib Arts classroom building tented. There was a triangular flap pinned back in the general area of the faculty entrance. Inside there was a coat rack, festooned with surgical masks, and a sign on the wall: "All entrants must wear a mask to proceed."
Wrong building for any out-of-control chem or bio mishaps...no one had contracted yersina pestis (that I'd heard through the grapevine, at any rate) and there were no faculty trips to exotic, parasite-ridden locales on the calendar. As this is the building I do most of my teaching in, and that the faculty offices are attached to, my interest was piqued. I donned a mask and proceded in. Warily. (OK, I was pretending to be in a video game like "Left 4 Dead," "BioShock," or "Silent Hill. Sue me -- one of the Deans totally resembles Pyramid Head.)
I asked Old Crusty, the departmental secretary, what was up. She rolled her eyes. "They decided to remodel a bit and discovered that the floor tiles contained asbestos. Supposedly non-friable and not a risk, but...six weeks to remediate."
What, I asked, was I to do about the fact that I am teaching a summer session in one of the classrooms at the far end of one contaminated hall? No one had informed me of a classroom change...
"Yeah," Crusty replied. "Tell everyone to grad a mask, run down the hall -- tell 'em not to dawdle! -- and keep the classroom door shut and the windows open. 'S only a few weeks."
Are you shitting me? Seriously? A top-floor corner classroom that has floor-to-ceiling windows on two of four walls, with already-anemic A/C (it's routinely in the low 80's when the air con is actually working)...have myself and all the students sprint down a hall and up six flights of stairs, only to slam a classroom door shut and hope there's enough breeze to keep us from expiring of heat exhaustion?
I re-donned my mask to leave the building, and then wandered over to facilities and made a quick copy of the "Occupied/Unoccupied" schematic. Then I went to the Registrar's Cave, dodged a few stray bats and low-hanging stalactites, and filed a change-of-room request. There were only a dozen classrooms open...this should not be a problem, right?
Three phone calls and a memo storm later, I got my new classroom. With two hours to spare! I papered the outside of the tent with change-of-room notices, sent out a mass e-mail, and hoped that my students would actually pay attention to their environs long enough to come to the new classroom in a different building.
A minor miracle -- 3/4ths of them actually did! Though I got home to several e-mails ("Dude. Was class cancelled?" "Where was everyone?") Interestingly enough, not a single one of the absentees thought to ask about the giant tent...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Felines and sacraments do not mix.
Dinner is alsoways when the most interesting family discussions occur. Over supper this evening, SnarkGirl asked if pets could be baptized. This led to Wee Ginger Beastie asking if Bitey could be baptized.
"I catches him! We stuffs him in a pillowcase and takes him to Monsignor! He blesses him!" (To get the full effect, you have to imagine a toddler pantomiming grabbing a cat as large as she is, cramming it into a sack, and dragging it around. It helps of you realize that she is forever stuffing him into sacks, bags, baby clothes and boxes.)
Both were disappointed with the answer: you can take pets to church to be blessed on the Feast of St. Francis, but no baptism for cats.
Neither of my daughters was impressed with my expanded opinion: I think that if you tried to baptize a cat, it would probably burst into flame as soon as it touched the holy water font. Cats are pure, concentrated, fur-covered evil. Satan's oven mitts, one and all. I'd be surprised if they could pass the threshold of a church without spontaneously combusting.
The mental image of our grandfatherly, rather portly Monsignor fishing around in a wildly thrashing, yowling pillowcase, hauling out Bitezilla by the tail and dunking him, teabag-style, into a marble font...only to be left holding a black furry tail, as the rest of the cat had gone POOF!...
That's gonna stick with me.
"I catches him! We stuffs him in a pillowcase and takes him to Monsignor! He blesses him!" (To get the full effect, you have to imagine a toddler pantomiming grabbing a cat as large as she is, cramming it into a sack, and dragging it around. It helps of you realize that she is forever stuffing him into sacks, bags, baby clothes and boxes.)
Both were disappointed with the answer: you can take pets to church to be blessed on the Feast of St. Francis, but no baptism for cats.
Neither of my daughters was impressed with my expanded opinion: I think that if you tried to baptize a cat, it would probably burst into flame as soon as it touched the holy water font. Cats are pure, concentrated, fur-covered evil. Satan's oven mitts, one and all. I'd be surprised if they could pass the threshold of a church without spontaneously combusting.
The mental image of our grandfatherly, rather portly Monsignor fishing around in a wildly thrashing, yowling pillowcase, hauling out Bitezilla by the tail and dunking him, teabag-style, into a marble font...only to be left holding a black furry tail, as the rest of the cat had gone POOF!...
That's gonna stick with me.
Mai butt is sunburned and sore.
So, for our first real family vacation since the Husband started law school, we went away to Rodanthe. (Yes, the kids and I went last year, but Himself actually came with us this year.) we rented a cool, self-catered house right on the beach -- this one, as a matter if fact -- and spent a glorious six days and seven nights grilling, crabbing, boogie boarding and sunning like alligators on the sand.
It was fabulous. This particular stretch of beach is isolated enough that there is NO real outside entertainment. I don't care for beach crowds, and this avoid the Jersey Shore like the plague. Nor do I care for boardwalk bullshit. Basically, the whole beach is a part of the national Seashore, and thus there is very little commercialization once you get past Nag's Head. Peace and quiet!
We shared the house with my 'rents (The good Scots dad spent the week smoking his pipe and burring directions for the proper Loch Ness sand monster and trying to keep his kilt from blowing up) and a few other family members from my side of the family.
The family Trivial Pursuit belt was up for grabs, as was the fiercely cut-throat gin rummy title and several rounds of cut-throat/bodily harm guaranteed Monopoly. Everyone slept late, old jokes were revisited, family stories were related...
My only complaint was the bed situation. I was grateful that, as a married couple, Husband and I rated a room to ourselves with a queen bed. The headboard....well, you had to jam all the decorative pillows between the headboard and the wall, lest the whole house know what vacation shenanigans you were up to. Breakfast on Sunday morning was quite the spectacle. Also, the bed itself was a bit decrepit; the mattress was a lumpy horror. There was one particular spring that violated my backside repeatedly, without so much as a kiss beforehand.
The Ginger Beastie proved to be a genius at catching ghost crabs and sneaking them into people's beach bags "to take home for Bitey!"
SnarkGirl proved to be excellent at boogie boarding and body surfing.
OctoBoy loved surfing, but had the best time palling around with his grandfather, fishing.
A good time was had by all!
(It's nice to be home, though.)
It was fabulous. This particular stretch of beach is isolated enough that there is NO real outside entertainment. I don't care for beach crowds, and this avoid the Jersey Shore like the plague. Nor do I care for boardwalk bullshit. Basically, the whole beach is a part of the national Seashore, and thus there is very little commercialization once you get past Nag's Head. Peace and quiet!
We shared the house with my 'rents (The good Scots dad spent the week smoking his pipe and burring directions for the proper Loch Ness sand monster and trying to keep his kilt from blowing up) and a few other family members from my side of the family.
The family Trivial Pursuit belt was up for grabs, as was the fiercely cut-throat gin rummy title and several rounds of cut-throat/bodily harm guaranteed Monopoly. Everyone slept late, old jokes were revisited, family stories were related...
My only complaint was the bed situation. I was grateful that, as a married couple, Husband and I rated a room to ourselves with a queen bed. The headboard....well, you had to jam all the decorative pillows between the headboard and the wall, lest the whole house know what vacation shenanigans you were up to. Breakfast on Sunday morning was quite the spectacle. Also, the bed itself was a bit decrepit; the mattress was a lumpy horror. There was one particular spring that violated my backside repeatedly, without so much as a kiss beforehand.
The Ginger Beastie proved to be a genius at catching ghost crabs and sneaking them into people's beach bags "to take home for Bitey!"
SnarkGirl proved to be excellent at boogie boarding and body surfing.
OctoBoy loved surfing, but had the best time palling around with his grandfather, fishing.
A good time was had by all!
(It's nice to be home, though.)
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Still on vacation!
If you treat the beach as your personal ash tray and leave cigarette butts buried all over in the sand, you are an asshole and ought to have each and every one of those butts jammed into your orifices and re-lit.
If you walk your dog on the beach and do not bag up and remove that which your dog puts out, I will bag it for you. Then I will take your picture the next time I see you standing there, ignoring your dog crapping on the beach where my kids play, and take another picture of you walking away from the steaming pile.
A quick visit to the one-hour photo place, and I will be happy to present you with a gift-wrapped box of your own dog's shit, complete with a personalized picture card of the offense.
Ah, vacation always offers the most cathartic events...
If you walk your dog on the beach and do not bag up and remove that which your dog puts out, I will bag it for you. Then I will take your picture the next time I see you standing there, ignoring your dog crapping on the beach where my kids play, and take another picture of you walking away from the steaming pile.
A quick visit to the one-hour photo place, and I will be happy to present you with a gift-wrapped box of your own dog's shit, complete with a personalized picture card of the offense.
Ah, vacation always offers the most cathartic events...
Friday, July 2, 2010
As of four AM on Saturday...
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