o lord.

The conquistador lord of the undead is acting erratically- or more erratically than usual. He's not picking up facial and tonal cues to emotions, he's making unreasonable demands, and he's responding irrationally to inconviniences. Since he has a family history of early onset dementia, early strokes, and deep depression, we're a little worried.

It is the perfect time for him to go on a backpacking trip in a third world country. <- That is sarcastic.

Working lateish

Or staying late, avoiding working. Something like.

So the other day I was volenteeeeeering to play with dead plants from the polyester ages. My mentor was in the middle of a important fuck off meeting and was going to have me sit in the back, sorting dried flowers and playing with glue. Reminds me of going to meetings with my parents in my extreme youth.

Speaking of extreme youth- you know how you revisit things that terrified you as a child? How the huge gorilla stuffed animal that you couldn't share a room with at bedtime now seems small and definitely inanimate... How the really scary secretary at your grade school is actually a pleasant woman with bad teeth who babysits guilt struck children on their way to the principal eight hours a day while dealing with nervous parents and actual, you know, secretarial work? Things that through the lens of adulthood are simple, normal, even funny?

Right, yeah. There was a woman at the meeting that I used to be terrified of. She worked with my parents for six odd years, and though I grew older, she never got less scary. I recall a brief visit to her house where I was convinced she would spring for my baby* brother's throat- he seemed unconcerned, and so did my mom, so I tried to stay between the two of them the entire visit- unobtrusively**.

*This was when he was actually a baby, instead of now, when I call him my baby brother to piss him off.
**For a six-year-old

Now, I wasn't sure this woman was her until I was introduced to her and the other woman in the room. I smiled, she said something about knowing me in my youth, I looked her in the eye- and was filled with terror. I swear there were little shrieking dudes in her pupils. I turned to the other woman and said,
"I worked for a man with the same last name as you do you know him?" and she said,
"Oh, you mean my soon-to-be-ex-husband."
"Oh yes," I said, "How is he?"

It just seemed slightly less uncomfortable to say nice things about a boss I hated to his estranged wife than to chat about my youth with _her_.

Course, I mentioned the whole thing to my parents later on. Rolled the story out as a "ho ho, still can not overcome all my childhood fears, so funny" anecdote, which they love. My dad nodded and said
"Yeah, she's the devil." My mom concured;
"Did you see the way she glared at E after he started walking? Awful woman. And she killed a man."
"And had one deported."
"Right. She is the devil."

So... maybe the stuffed gorilla really can move around the room?

Post

Totally posting, like a reliable updater. I'm thinking this blog might become like that guy with Memento style amnesia's diary- endless pages of "Now finally completely aware" all crossed out

I'm making pasta with my mom, BTW. Mad pasta skills.

the Endangered Species Act at Work

"This plant has two known populations of severely limited size. One was unintentionally sprayed with herbicide. The other is threatened by road construction, road maintenance, power line maintenance, and rockslides."

It's like we're popular

Señor C and I had two sets of guests this week. We got to dust off the social skills that spent the winter languishing in little boxes in the laundry room. I think we were pleasant enough that they'd contemplate returning, even.

On Sunday, we had one of Señor C's coworkers over, because his girlfriend was away. He was very gracious about being called away from cleaning up after his LAN party/drunken orgy to find our house at the end of its labyrinth. We fed him, and Señor C demonstrated that he both possessed many video games and could play them as well, and then he went home to cram two days of recharging into two hours. Perfect dinner guest!

On Friday, we had a couple from the Old West over. They are actually not cowboys- they are observers from the twenty-first century stranded in the past, except when their cars need smogging. I got to practice cooking courses, (went okay- Señor C wouldn't let me put chopped hard boiled eggs on the pizza though, like a spoilsport) and they were all sweet and lovey dovey. I was envious for a while, until the imaginary Amy that lives in my head smacked me for being an idiot. Thanks, imaginary Amy!

I won't say they left the room they stayed in neater than it was when they came- but that's because they were last people who stayed there. Last time, it was definitely the case. What is this amazing square corners on made beds skill other people possess? When I run a load of every sheet and pillowcase in the house later today, I'll never be able to make the bed look that good.

They were also delightful, graciously overlooking the fact that we've been talking to no one but each other for four months. The conversation was a bit stymied by my obsession with Myers-Briggs. (but that's normal for a QMHR! It's all in this book!) I think that topic might be moved down a notch to heavy conversational repression. Along with career plans and bowel movements. Gotta work on Austen's conversational topics: "Traveling and staying at home, new books and old music."

I've been corrected on my French swearing- it apparently should actually be C'etait fucké.

We played The Game this weekend as well. It echoed my misspent youth to the extent that I didn't feel unimaginably old when I set up an appointment with a financial adviser. Maybe I'll eat some baloney faces before setting up my IRA.

The farmer's market is back! Glory is returned to the world!

Bedtime is 10 pm, in theory.

I'm sitting here, teeth all brushed, freshly bathed, in my piyamamas, listening to Jorge play Stupid China Game IVI; the Green Revolution. I'll just sit here typing until he goes to bed like he promised he would do... fifteen minutes ago. Little agronomists all on the screen, discussing dwarf wheat varieties and second generation pesticides. He's playing S.K. De Datta, smashing aside competing scientists, achieving victory against thousands of dissenting farmers, wiping out raised bed rice farming and heirloom rice varietals for the GREATER GOOD.

Okay, Jorge is off to read his nighttime internets before bed. I should go nag him.

Oh yeah, guess which one of us has to work tomorrow, for money?

How I intend to keep your son in the manner to which he has become accustomed.

Just because you were the best botanist at a timber company does not mean you are an awesome botanist.