Overstrained Paperweights

This is a pitiful availability
Are you serious?
All you purport is you are a harassed
Overstrained paperweight
All the tearless basics on your agenda
Are unmoved by poesy and embarrassing 
To most commonly unforeseen imprudence
All resolve to evolve into moods specious and disproportionate
And misinterpreting of compromises
Again and again and again and again!

#spamobservations since the 22nd of November.

Not that work is stopping me from accomplishing stuff outside of work.

Me, November 22, 2019

I think work heard me. Nice work, good work, I’m wrong, I’m sorry, and I will never take my birthday off again.

I’m kidding!

I’m also not kidding. While I was at my birthday dinner, a storage array fell over, and with its tumble, created two and a half days’ worth of incident bridges (I was on one for 21 hours straight, and four-five hour stretches after that), and generated every-half-hour-on-the-half-hour-sleep-what-sleep-were-you-expecting-to-have-uninterrupted-sleep-even-after-your-application’s-back-up-and-running text updates that haunted me until the following Monday.

I did get this past weekend off, however, which was good, because it meant I didn’t get paged out while I was volunteering for our PTAC’s Santa’s Workshop on Saturday or failing to recover from volunteering on Sunday, because I made myself go to the grocery story this close to Christmas.  I did recover some while I forced myself to plan a dinner menu for the week and write up a grocery list first, instead of just going and wandering dazedly through the aisles while things jumped into my cart.

At the risk of antagonizing work again by mentioning it … things have been productive? We acquired a lawn tractor, and some furniture and some curtains and we busted out the holiday decorations (too much of which hadn’t been unpacked since we moved from Pennsylvania), and hosted the in-laws for Thanksgiving. Studying is still a slog, but I’m working on it. Writing is not a slog, but I’m really not investing much of my brain in it. I am managing most of the end-of-year-festive crazies while wondering why we keep running out of elderflower tonic water.

I did put elderflower tonic water on the grocery list.

Thanks to a FFA fundraiser, we are in no immediate danger of running out of clementines.


Merry Clementines! (atop the farmhouse table @bhoneydew built us for Thanksgiving)

Immediate danger. I can’t say that for the rest of the fruit that’s in the house:  we’re almost to the point where one of those ludicrously expensive fresh fruit subscriptions might be cost competitive with the weekly produce runs, if it was something other than fifty percent pears. @bhoneydew is trying to convince me that pears are delicious instead of decorative, but jury’s still out.


Yeah. There’s that, or rather, there’s not that. I’ve read ten out of my anticipated eighteen books this year, and I’m not sure I’m going to get in the missing eight before New Year’s.

None of the ten books were from my mental reading list for 2019 (Radch, murderbots, gods, National Park mysteries, oh, my), though I did read Meg Elison’s The Book of Flora and Lavie Tidhar’s Central Station. Deanna Raybourn’s Veronica Speedwell mysteries are still parked, and I didn’t crack any of Cathy Yardley’s Fandom Hearts books. I also wound up putting Katie Ruggle’s Rocky Mountain K9 Unit series on my list, of which I did read the first book, so that counts, right?

Eh. I’ll shoot for 20 in 2020. I won’t even make a list.  I’ll just read.

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