kz_blogorambling

I am so disgusted with my builder.  This is nothing at all new, it's just at the fore because I am sending him the final "HERE IS THE LAST OF THE MONEY YOU CLAIM WE OWE YOU, YOU SCUMBAG" check today and I hope he never darkens our door again.

To refresh my memory, and document what I am paying, I went back over old emails where I argued with him about invoices and stuff.

He was pretty great at the start.  And then he just wasn't.  I hope he drops his favorite cordless drill in a bucket of drywall mud.

My son went to school late this morning.  When my husband signed him in, he looked at the line above him and that kid had put "Clown attack" as the reason for his late arrival.

Most of these super-cold days, I've been parking in the attached parking structure.  That means I have some flights of steps to take, but not really much time out in the cold.

This morning I let the husband have the good pass, so I parked four blocks down the hill in a commuter lot.  Wow, was it cold.  I took a big breath at one point and my teeth ached from the cold air.

Thank heaven for these stretch fleece cuddle duds my sister sent me.

I've been going through some videos of Dad looking (in vain, sadly) for the conversation where he discussed our archeology trip. I ran across his response to my question of who influenced him. He named several people I knew, but one unexpected person (and a stranger to me) was a professor who was the head of the art department at University of Iowa. Apparently he came to review senior work in Omaha (where my Dad was in school) and pitched an art education career to all of them. Dad said he'd never considered that before, but it set him on the path to a graduate degree. Same with all of his fellow graduating art seniors--all went on to teaching careers.

I figured this fellow would be dead, but I checked anyway. I found a family genealogy page put together by his son (the father had passed away 14 years ago). I contacted him via email and explained why I was writing, and he sent my recap along to his two sisters. Now I've heard from all three of them, each tickled to hear this story about their Dad which they had not heard. One of them lives in Canada and she got the message on Remembrance Day, which she said made it that much more special to her.

That was a feel-good thing this week.

Two days from now will bring a possible deluge of 9/11 memorials. That's fine; it was not a small thing that happened.

However, I predict that on my facebook wall will be one or more sentiments of "SOME of you may have forgotten but..."

This makes me punchy. This is a statement of someone who is concerned that his flag gif is not wavy enough, or his eagle photo is not sufficiently majestic (or perhaps the tear on the raptor's cheek does not glisten adequately). It is a person who has to go the extra mile with some finger-pointing and accusations, to firm up his foundation of LOVE OF COUNTRY lest any of us doubt him. It is pure sanctimonious chestbeating, because only a fucking idiot would honestly believe we would "forget" that shitstorm of a day.

If it's a contest, if it will reassure your trembling soul, I cede the victory to you, oh person whose patriotism MUST be best, first, and most fervent. Here is your trophy! Enjoy it in good, bitter, flag-draped health! I'll just be over here, being a normal American, getting shit done.

Thanks to its crappy pricing structure for non-academic university usage, my office may be no longer buying SPSS for me, and forcing me to switch to SAS.

COMMENCE PANIC.

I have been using SPSS since 1988. I am by no means a "power user" but I do like the syntax and know a lot of it, and I have dozens of syntax files already written that I can roll out to use on files, saving me tons of headache and hassle. The idea of those going away in a puff of smoke could make me break out in hives

I could barely get through the day yesterday; I put my head down on my desk for awhile, and then after work I went and slept in my car for 20 minutes. Then I went to bed early and had trouble getting up.

Also, my long-dormant dyshidrotic eczema has decided to pop back in for a hello and does not seem inclined to leave, competing with the poison ivy for areas of my hands to plague.

GOOD TIMES

This season sucked me in since Meryl Davis & Charlie White were competing.

I know people 'ship hard on the teams, and the dance moves add fuel to the speculative fire. Which is not unlike the ice dancing chemistry that couples try to perpetuate on the ice. I thought Meryl & Maks did a clever job handling it. Maks jokes a little, Meryl acts like she is deaf to it all, the hungry audience gets nothing, NOTHING I TELL YOU! Tune in next week to maybe see something that might tip you off!

Last night, the LAST night, after being asked about it, for what I am sure was the eleventydozenth time, Maks said this:

"I want to ravage her and have ice-skating, big, Russian, mean babies. We’re going to call them Boris and Oleg. Their nicknames are going to be Bear. Both. One nickname for both."

Heh.

Complaining about winter is not effective and this year I know it's gone beyond tiresome.

But. But still. I feel compelled to say it today: Boy howdy I am mightily offended by the ongoing BULLSHIT.