In which I am random
Aug. 25th, 2003 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonSo, first day back at work; four hours of meetings, five weeks' worth of crap piled on my desk, e-mail from here to the moon and back. Open up my calendar and discover I'd gotten tapped to do the two-hour presentation to the late orientation group this afternoon, apparently as my comeuppance for having had five weeks off. My co-workers! Whatta bunch of cards! Ah hah hah hah! I love you guys! ::sending spray of shotgun pellets around the office::
The presentation was especially diverting because this orientation group was largely composed of athletes who'd already had their classes arranged for them (given paucity of available seats + exigencies of their practice schedules). No fools they, they alertly figured out that this meant the whole orientation thing (meant to prepare them to choose classes) was bogus, so they spent the two hours talking loudly amongst themselves, annoying both me and the subset of earnest non-athletes who are actually going to have to try to find something to register for tomorrow.
Two random things I hate about work:
(1) Eating regular lunches at normal lunch times, after getting accustomed to wandering into the kitchen whenever hunger strikes and noshing randomly on whatever's in the fridge.
(2) Setting the alarm clock. Oh, my, was that depressing.
Work done, I pedaled home through Sargasso-level mugginess. I had not turned on the AC before leaving this a.m. (thinking it stupid to air-condition a vacant house all day); I did not turn it on when I got home (thinking that by the time the AC had made any appreciable dent in the ambient fug, it'd be cooled off outside anyway). So the house is like the armpit of an old fur coat that's been sitting in someone's attic since 1953.
In cheerier news, my dad is apparently doing better. I should head up to the hospital for a visit, but I've got a bit too much Jack Daniels aboard to be operating heavy machinery. Many thanks to all you kind people who left supportive messages; you are my sanity bulwarks, and I send you loving and inebriated hugs.
Oh, and I have been trying to watch West Wing reruns on Bravo, but find myself daunted by two constants of the show:
(1) The statutory Message Scenes of Moral Uplift (which are usually better written, but no less annoying, than Chris Carter voice-overs, and inspire me in like fashion to fling things at the screen); and
(2) The striding-about. They stride up the halls! They stride down the halls! They stride right into the camera! It wears me out.
However, I have developed a mad pash for CJ, and would gladly kidnap her away to Paris for a crazed debauched interlude of passionate illicit conversation. I just watched the scene where what's-his-butt, the reporter, gives her the bowl of goldfish, and I tell you, she cracks up better than anyone on television.
OK, is it time to go to bed yet? Yes, no? Maybe.
The presentation was especially diverting because this orientation group was largely composed of athletes who'd already had their classes arranged for them (given paucity of available seats + exigencies of their practice schedules). No fools they, they alertly figured out that this meant the whole orientation thing (meant to prepare them to choose classes) was bogus, so they spent the two hours talking loudly amongst themselves, annoying both me and the subset of earnest non-athletes who are actually going to have to try to find something to register for tomorrow.
Two random things I hate about work:
(1) Eating regular lunches at normal lunch times, after getting accustomed to wandering into the kitchen whenever hunger strikes and noshing randomly on whatever's in the fridge.
(2) Setting the alarm clock. Oh, my, was that depressing.
Work done, I pedaled home through Sargasso-level mugginess. I had not turned on the AC before leaving this a.m. (thinking it stupid to air-condition a vacant house all day); I did not turn it on when I got home (thinking that by the time the AC had made any appreciable dent in the ambient fug, it'd be cooled off outside anyway). So the house is like the armpit of an old fur coat that's been sitting in someone's attic since 1953.
In cheerier news, my dad is apparently doing better. I should head up to the hospital for a visit, but I've got a bit too much Jack Daniels aboard to be operating heavy machinery. Many thanks to all you kind people who left supportive messages; you are my sanity bulwarks, and I send you loving and inebriated hugs.
Oh, and I have been trying to watch West Wing reruns on Bravo, but find myself daunted by two constants of the show:
(1) The statutory Message Scenes of Moral Uplift (which are usually better written, but no less annoying, than Chris Carter voice-overs, and inspire me in like fashion to fling things at the screen); and
(2) The striding-about. They stride up the halls! They stride down the halls! They stride right into the camera! It wears me out.
However, I have developed a mad pash for CJ, and would gladly kidnap her away to Paris for a crazed debauched interlude of passionate illicit conversation. I just watched the scene where what's-his-butt, the reporter, gives her the bowl of goldfish, and I tell you, she cracks up better than anyone on television.
OK, is it time to go to bed yet? Yes, no? Maybe.
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Date: 2003-08-25 06:34 pm (UTC)The walking does give some visual interest to what is essentially a talking-heads show, true, but then I don't mind talking heads. (My Dinner with Andre remains one of my all-time favorite movies, for instance.) I just get fatigued from the combo of the walkingwalkingwalking plus trying to keep up with the dialogue speed. I'm too old and slow in the brain, methinks.
Research proves that you are right about reporter-guy's name. He gives me a wiggins, solely because he's played by Timothy Busfield, who at some point in the past was here in the Twin Cities filming some movie (not the Mighty Ducks, but the baseball one, where that little kid becomes manager of the Twins, and...oh hell with it, I can't recall the name) and he apparently behaved like a complete horse's ass, and there were rumorings about sexual advances to underage girls that stopped just short of statutory rape, and so on, but anyway. It's probably just as well I don't know much about the private life of most actors.