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For Christmas, I Got You an Empty Bank Account

I woke up this morning and the house was cold. Cold, and silent except for the sound of the cats and the hum of my laser printer in power save mode.

I’m sure everyone who has ever owned a home feels an empathetic sick, sinking feeling in the pit of their stomach just about now.

I called the HVAC people. They sent out a nice young man named Chris. His nametag helpfully informed me that he’d been both tested for drugs and undergone a background check. (They also e-mailed me his picture in advance, I suppose so a person posing as an HVAC technician couldn’t get into my house and monkey around with my broken furnace.)

Chris, with Loki close by, ready to assist him at a moment’s notice, fixed the furnace-not-turning-on problem very quickly. Unfortunately, he also found another problem.

“Look in this hole. See where I’m shining my light?”

“Yes?”

“See how this little tiny ring is missing from that aperture?”

“Yes?”

“That means your furnace is trying to kill you.”

Okay, that last thing is not actually what he said. Rather, he told me that it was the symptom of a badly cracked heat exchange, and that if it was that badly cracked, my furnace might start filling my house with carbon monoxide at a moment’s notice. So effectively, that last statement is what I heard.

That is why, the day before leaving the country for Christmas, we now only have about $500 in our savings account. I guess the good news is that we were saving all of that money for a new car next year, so we had it on hand to pay for a new furnace. The bad news is that we no longer have that money for acquiring a new car. But hopefully the faithful old steed will keep limping along while we try to rebuild our savings.

Chris brought in an electrician, who looked around and within five minutes found over $6,000 worth of reasons my house is not up to building code. Thankfully most of that can be ignored until I’ve managed to sell a kidney on the black market, several years from now. The stuff actually related to the furnace he took care of today, and the price seemed very reasonable in comparison to the number he quoted for, say, replacing my electrical panel, which comes direct from the 70s and is chock full of aluminum wiring. As far as I can tell, the sole purpose of aluminum wiring is to set houses on fire.

The new furnace will be installed tomorrow morning. Chris the Technician put a brand new carbon monoxide detector in that will warn us if the furnace tries to kills us, so that we can use tonight to prevent ourselves from freezing to death.

I guess I’m glad that this happened now, after I did all my Christmas shopping. It means all of our friends are getting nicer presents than a candy bar, or a used bookmark that Tengu has chewed up. I’ve now managed to take in enough alcohol that I no longer feel like screaming hysterically.

Santa, if this is how it’s going to be this year, I just can’t wait to see what surprises you have in store for me at the airport.

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My Next Bumper Sticker

Overheard at kung fu.

Shifu: “You’re assisting a face plant here. Some people plant roses. We plant faces.”

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Adding Disqus

I’m not overly thrilled with how Blogger handles commenting (sadly, I think LJ does a much better job) so I’m giving Disqus a whirl. I’ve installed the widget now. So if it looks like all the comments on this blog have disappeared, it’s not that I hate you and want to censor you (please, just pick one), or that Loki took over everything this morning and decided that you are all a giant distraction that’s keeping me from paying enough attention to him. It’s that I’m still in the process of trying to import them over to Disqus. Just so you know.

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Happy Voting Day

I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that it’s election day. You know why? Because that means this will hopefully be the last day that Robert Ramirez, Grover Norquist, and some lady named Cynthia who claims to be from Arvada robocall me multiple times in the space of 24 hours and urge me to vote for Ramirez. This is even more aggravating because:

1) Robocalls leave voice mails, which I have to keep going into my mailbox and deleting.

2) I’ve already voted, and it sure as hell wasn’t for Robert Ramirez. I’m certain he’s a lovely human being, but I like my current state representative (Debbie Benefield).

3) And, let’s be honest. Having Grover Norquist pulling for you is really not something to be advertised if you want to impress me anyway.

It’s enough to make me want to ask for my mail-in ballot back, just so I can make sure the circle next to Debbie Benefield’s name is good and dark.

There’s no need to even go in to detail about the amount of spam (both digital and analog) I’ve gotten over the last week. Though I am a little disappointed that I didn’t get any crazy mail from Focus on the Family this year. That’s always good for a rage-filled cackle.

Anyway, if you’re American, go vote! And while I normally try to just emphasize the awesomeness of civic duty because I don’t want to sound like the Cynthia from Arvada robocall, I do have one request for this year – please remember that women are people too, and it would be nice if the government didn’t want to lodge itself in our collective vagina. Shocking, I know. (PSST. That means if you live in Colorado, for goodness’ sake VOTE NO ON 62! And non-high-heels wearing senate candidate Ken Buck doesn’t think much of women either, it should be noted.)

And tomorrow we can all celebrate the end of robocalls and political spam for another, oh, year and a half. Right up until the Presidential race really gets cooking.

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Goodbye, Realms of Fantasy

Realms of Fantasy looks like it’s gone for good now.

The more I think about it, the more depressed I feel. I’ve actually been a subscriber to RoF since its first issue. It was what motivated me to start really trying to write, in a half-hearted, teenaged kind of way. While I make a lot of jokes about my collection of rejection slips now, the first rejection that I ever got was from RoF, years and years and years ago. It was my goal to some day get a story published in the magazine, because I just knew I had it in me to write stories that could make someone laugh, or sniffle, or cheer, or cringe, or think like the ones in RoF did.

And now it’s a goal that I will never attain. I guess it says something that until this day, I’ve kept alive one of the dreams that I had as a nerdy, awkward fat girl pecking away at the keyboard of a 486. I’ve come far since then, but not far enough. What I took out of high school was mostly a lot of stupid insecurities and confusion. But RoF remained something that my adult self could share with the awkward teenager of my memories, and it was without question wonderful.

I’m going to miss you, RoF. More than I can say.

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The Weekend That Wasn’t

I did survive the Rocky Mountain Rendezvous, though at this point I’m still not sure if that’s an entirely good thing. Two days of questionable food and a ridiculous amount of stress have taken a toll on my insides. I’m a miserable human being at the moment.

I did all of the driving, which was awful in a special way. I normally drive a Honda Civic with a manual transmission. On the trip I drove a Suburban with an automatic transmission. It made me feel strangely bloated. I think the only reason I was able to handle the car without going completely out of my mind was that I’ve still got some memory of the ol’ ambulance driving days. As it was, the defensive driving I learned then served me well when someone did a dead stop in front of me on Grand Avenue without signaling their intention to turn. I apparently did a masterful swerve into the right hand lane, which I got a lot of compliments for once my passengers had gotten their hearts restarted. I also apparently reached across the seat to hold on to my friend Gaby with my hand that wasn’t clutching the steering wheel. I don’t actually remember this, but Gaby insists it’s true and it likely means that I’m turning in to my mother.

The Suburban and I disliked each other to the bitter end. I managed to lock my luggage in the car and then returned the key before I noticed, and I blame the Suburban for that as well. I had to drive up to the motor pool early this morning to retrieve my luggage. The woman behind the counter handed over the key without argument, though she did accompany it with a look that clearly said, “You are a moron.” Which I suppose I richly deserved.

And if you haven’t figured out how this works yet, the minute I do something mortally embarrassing and stupid, I have to tell everyone about it.

Generally I feel like the weekend was a colossal, stressful waste of my time, and I’m sorry to say that. I only had three interviews, so I should be grateful just for the chance at practicing my interviewing skills. However, once I got there I realized that the meeting was more supposed to be a chance for students to schmooze potential recruiters. And to say that I’m not much of a schmoozer is an understatement. A couple of my fellow students were Born To Schmooze, so to speak, and watching them in action just left me feeling like the awkward fat kid on the playground.

We’ll see if I get an internship out of this, but I’m not going to hold my breath. I only feel like one of the interviews went really well. And everyone was surprised that I only got three, since I have five years of industry experience on my resume. Considering that in one of the interviews I was asked pointedly if I couldn’t just go back to my old company and get a job this summer, I’m thinking it’s something of a two-edged sword.

There was also some excellent highschool-style drama during the trip, which is a good reminder for me that while we all can’t help but get older, we definitely aren’t required to get any wiser. And I ruined my dress shoes somehow; the sole on one of the shoes developed enormous cracks in three places. Cracks bad enough that they cause me to wobble as I walk. This means that there is shoe shopping in my very near future. All I can hope is that the evil fascist conspiracy taking place in my digestive tract will finish me off before I get that far.

On a positive note, the Comfort Inn we stayed at had waffle irons in the breakfast room, so I got to make a fresh belgian waffle for myself two days in a row. And that’s certainly worth something.

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Meandering thoughts

The last two weeks have been absolutely ridiculous, in terms of my free time suddenly melting away and drying into a gross chalky powder like an unattended ice cream cone in the Mojave. I somehow got myself put in charge of a wad of department funding for the student trip up to the Rocky Mountain Rendezvous this weekend (an event where students go to beg petroleum companies to hire us and shower us with wads and wads of dirty oil money) so maybe that’s what’s been sucking all of my free time away.

What little time I’ve had left, I’ve used to do kung fu, or writing stuff. I just finished polishing up about five stories, so I’m bouncing those around and collecting an exciting new round of rejection notices to pin to the wall over my desk. No, I’m not kidding. I actually do that. It makes a rejection feel less like a punishment and more like an exciting collectors’ item.

Last night I didn’t actually make it home until midnight, since I was late at school working on a stratigraphy lab and finishing up my grading. I’m thankfully starting to figure out some grading strategies that make the process faster, or I probably would have ended up just sleeping in my office. Or I hear the couch in the undergraduate lounge is quite comfortable.

At least we’re in to October now. This is my favorite time of the year; the September heat is finally going away, and we’re getting cool, cloudy skies. It feels like autumn ought to feel. And of course the leaves turning makes it extra pretty.

Anyone starting the betting pool on if it’ll snow this Halloween? My money’s on yes, since we’ve had such nice weather the last several years. It can’t last. And the kids need a good Halloween snow storm. Makes ’em work for the candy.

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Field Trip Called on Account of Fire

Just in case you hadn’t heard, bits of Boulder are on fire. That made today at school a little unpleasant. Campus isn’t in any danger, but it was very hazy (I could barely see the Flatirons from the geology building) and everything smelled like smoke. My sinuses are feeling extremely irritated now.

The only mineralogy field trip for the semester was supposed to happen this week as well. I must say, canceling a field trip because of fire sounds a lot more butch than canceling it due to rain. Maybe next time we’ll be able to ratchet it up even more and cancel it on account of alien invasion or giant panda attack.

People weren’t talking about it that much, but the smoke is pretty oppressive, and fire that close to town is a little scary. At least one of the faculty has had his house burn down. He seemed to be taking it a lot better than I ever would, but at least he had his computer with him when everyone got evacuated. So he might have lost a lot of books and other prized possessions, but at least he didn’t lose any research he was working on. Another person I met in the building today mentioned that he’d been evacuated from his house, and he hoped that it didn’t end up burning down because he had all of the literature reprints he needed for an article he’s been working on for 10 years in his office, and if that goes up in flames he’ll pretty much just have to give up on it.

Maybe it’s that both of these gentleman are a lot older than me, or that when you live out where you can see something approaching wilderness from your front door, you have to come to terms with the fact that sometimes nature is one mean mother. But man, they both seemed pretty calm and resigned.

This is one more thing that makes me glad to live in the suburbs, though. Stuff is just stuff, but I also have kitties to worry about.

Also: Phil Plait has pictures over at his blog.

The picture of the sunset freaks me out a little – it makes me think of the Hayman Fire, when at midday in south Denver the sky was orange and ash was raining down. Brrr.

Don’t fuck with mother nature.

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Well, I took my 24 hour time out, and I STILL want to punch Robert Gibbs in the face.

Just in case yesterday was the one day of the summer where you unhooked your internet umbilical cord and were consequently far enough away from the general population that you couldn’t hear either the shrieks of outrage from the liberals or the squeals of schadenfreude-laden glee from the conservatives, White House press secretary Robert Gibbs said some really dicky stuff:

“I hear these people saying he’s like George Bush. Those people ought to be drug tested,” Gibbs said. “I mean, it’s crazy.”

The press secretary dismissed the “professional left” in terms very similar to those used by their opponents on the ideological right, saying, “They will be satisfied when we have Canadian healthcare and we’ve eliminated the Pentagon. That’s not reality.”

I have no doubt that I am not part of the “professional left.” From what Gibbs said in his total non-apology today, the “professional left” is apparently people on cable TV. So… I guess Rachel Maddow, Keith Olbermann, and a couple of other wonks over at MSNBC, and… uh… Michael Moore? I have a hard time buying that Gibbs took time out of his busy day to direct some spittle-flecked invective at people who can probably be counted on one person’s fingers and toes.

Be that as it may, considering I’m not one of the “liberal elite” (ooh, scary), that statement still really pissed me off. Because you’re damn right I’m not going to be satisfied until we get a reasonable health care system. (Though, really, the Pentagon is just fine where it is.)

There are a lot of specific points in what he said that I could address, like the whole thing with comparing Obama to Bush – which is not something I would personally do, though every time Obama continues a Bush era policy that widdles all over privacy and freedom, I cry a little – but I’m not going to. Instead, I’d like to go to the root cause of why exactly I still want to knock Mr. Gibbs one, right in the kisser.

It’s simple. Mr. Gibbs, you don’t own me. And, come to that, neither does your boss. I may have donated money to the campaign (and I did), and I may have proudly voted for Obama (which I also did), but that in no way obligates me to keep my mouth shut when he does something I don’t like. Particularly not when he’s specifically said on several occasions that the left ought to hold him accountable – or does that only apply if the left has nice things to say?

Coincidentally, I am far more invested in my relationship with my husband than I am in my relationship with the President of the United States, and you know what? I’m not obligated to keep my mouth shut when he does something dumb either.

And neither of those simple facts would change, even if I were Rachel Maddow or Keith Olbermann or whoever Mr. Gibbs claims he was having his tantrum at. They aren’t owned by the guy they voted for either. And, coincidentally, I also think both of them spend a lot more time saying nice things about Obama (and his various accomplishments) than I ever have.

When Bush was President, I think there was this idea in everyone’s mind that he had monolithic, unquestioning support from the right. I don’t know how much of that was reality and how much of it was a news narrative, though it’s pretty easy to make arguments that the Republicans are more disciplined than the Democrats in general (but let’s be honest here… slime mold is more disciplined than the Democratic party in general), that they have Fox News, and that there was quite a bit of equating criticizing the President with being un-American. So perhaps President Obama – or at the very least his press secretary – thinks that he ought to be on the receiving end of a similar sort of support. That he deserves it, even. That’s certainly the vibe that I’m getting from this.

No one in this world deserves that sort of dogmatic support from me, or from anyone else. Not even my husband, my best friend, or my parents. And certainly not a politician. If someone does something I don’t like, or something that I think is a bad idea, I am well within my rights to say so. And in fact, I actually start getting worried if I feel like I’m agreeing with someone too close to 100% of the time, because that’s just not natural.

That’s why, even a day later, I’m still angry at Mr. Gibbs, because I think his real position is that we shouldn’t be allowed to criticize the President if we voted for him, that we owe him some kind of special allegiance, and that we should just shut up and like what we’re given. No, I don’t think so.

And if you just take his comments on their face and not read into them, they don’t make much sense either. There really aren’t that many people (I’m not going to say none, since it’s not like I know everyone in the world) saying the words that Gibbs stuffed into his lefty meaniehead straw man’s mouth. A lot of lefties (and not-so-lefties) are bitching about the President compromising, or starting negotiations too much toward the center, or who knows what else. But I don’t think too many of them are claiming that (a) the President has accomplished absolutely nothing, and if they are, shame on them, and (b) that they wish they’d never voted for him, because the alternative was so great.

Aside: Often when someone coming from the left bitches about the President, a smug conservative pops out of the woodwork and snidely asks something like, “How’s that hopey changey working out for ya?” Well, here’s the thing. If we’re sitting on our blogs and whinging about how Obama’s not being liberal enough, what sort of brain tumor does it take to think that somehow means we’ve got buyer’s remorse and wish we voted for McCain and the lipstick-wearing IQ black hole that he wanted as his Vice President? Yes, because if someone’s upset that Obama’s talking about offshore drilling, the people who were chanting, “Drill, baby, drill” at their convention are the option we wish we’d gone for. So even if I’m wasting hundreds of words bitching about Obama (or as the case may be, his press secretary), the hopey changey is still working out just fine, thanks.

Frankly, Mr. Gibbs should be happy that the lefties are spending so much time kvetching about the current politics. Because that means we’re still paying attention. The alternative would be an absence of commentary, and an electorate that would rather play Madden on the Xbox than volunteer, donate, and vote.

This very well could be an all-new, exciting evolution in the Democratic strategy of taking careful aim and shooting itself in the foot, right before an election.

“I don’t think they will [stay home], because I think what’s at stake in November is too important to do that,” he said.

Pinning your strategy on the Republicans being so chock full of the crazy that the progressives you shit all over won’t dare not vote just seems like a really bad move to me. But what do I know? I’m not supposed to be talking because I don’t have anything nice to say.

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Poppin’ Fresh

Since quitting my job in preparation for grad school, I’ve been trying to fill some of the time in my days by writing, by looking for short term or part time freelance work, and by riding my bicycle around a lot. This means I’m going to the grocery store almost every day, just to pick things up for dinner that night since it’s a good excuse to put in five to seven miles, depending on the route I use.

Today, I picked up a couple tubes of croissant dough for something I’m going to make later this week. I pitched them in my bike’s basket with a few other things, then started the slow, quad-destroying ride back uphill to my house.

After maybe fifteen minutes, one of the tubes exploded. The pop was loud enough that I could hear it around my earbuds. I’m pleased to say that even though it really startled me, I managed to not swerve into the nearest fence. The half gallon of milk that was sharing the basket may never mentally recover, though, after being on the receiving end of a long smear of flaky, buttery dough. Or maybe it liked that. I don’t know about milk cartons these days.

I just let the ruptured tube sit, dough dangling obscenely over one side of my basket, and really put my back into getting myself home before the other tube could go up. Which it didn’t, thankfully. I just cut up the dough that was still in the tube and baked it into some really sad looking biscuits.

This whole thing just struck me as kind of strange, since I remember the Mythbusters episode where they looked at biscuits quite well. And it took those cans almost an hour in a 100+ degree car to go, not fifteen minutes in a breezy bicycle basket in barely 80 degree weather.

Who knows, maybe the croissant tube sense its proximity to Rachel Maddow on my iPod and just couldn’t contain itself any longer. So I’m guessing it’s either lesbian croissant dough, or a devoted fan of Bill O’Reilly. Considering that croissant is a French word, I’m thinking the former is far more likely than the latter.