And now for a cuppa coffee (or two) out in the Leafy Bower, courtesy of some very balmy weather. It rained a little yesterday, out of a warm sky. Today is gorgeous, a few high mares-tailish clouds keeping the glare down, perfect for yard-loafing.
Yes, it’s absolutely true, you’re right: I should not make up another pot of coffee, not at the absurd prices I’m paying. If I indulge myself with a third & fourth mug of the perfect elixir (one French press pot holds two mugsful), it doesn’t take too long to go through a pound of beans.
In that vein, I happened to notice, as I was entering this week’s receipts into the budget spreadsheet, that the last time I bought a pound of the same dark-roast coffee, the charge was two dollars less. So, either The Little Guy (the shop’s proprietor) has jacked up the price by 12% or our friend the tip-begging counter clerk quietly inflated the bill. So I think we’ll be buying coffee somewhere else after this.
Do you own a Cuisinart food processor? Did you know that in some models the ultra-sharp blade has been recalled? Mine, which I use once every eight or ten days to concoct dog food, is one of the affected models. Since these things are known to fall apart and install ultra-sharp, mouth-slashing metal shards in the food, you might want to check your model number.
One of the tasks of the day was to call the number on the page at that link (the supposed form you can fill out is nonexistent). So after more hours, starting at 7 a.m., than I wish to reckon laboring over Chicana/Latina postmodern feminist theory, along about 10:30 I finally got around to that.
This morning I read and tried to render more or less literate an essay by a junior-level tenure-track type who argued… oh, God, it defies belief. This woman dragged a fussy baby to an academic conference. When the poor little infant made, as unhappy infants tend to do, a distracting racket, she was asked to take the baby out of the meeting room. She interpreted this outrage as clear and present evidence of White (always capitalized) privilege and anti-feminist, anti-Latina hegemonic discrimination.
It’s all about me, hm? Never seems to have occurred to her that maybe the woman giving the speech would have liked to be heard. Or that maybe, just maybe some people at the meeting would have liked to be able to hear the speaker.
First-World problem. With a vengeance.
Meanwhile, the lead author on the latest Chinese magnum opus e-mailed asking if I would please re-issue my statement with just her name and institution on it, since it’s her grant that’s funding the research and Nanyang Tech has to pay just her, not her and her co-author. No problem.
Does China have First-World problems? Hmmm… If you’re at Nanyang Tech, no doubt. It’s in Singapore, not China. As for her young co-author, recently escaped from that august institution with a Ph.D. in hand, now ensconced at what sounds very much like the equivalent of Yankton State College? Maybe not so much.
First-World problem. Qualified.
Yesterday I actually succeeded in getting through another 10,000 words of the client’s 89,000-word F&SF novel. Finished along about 8:30 or 9:00 p.m., in spite of not getting started before about 1:30 or 2:00 — thanks to church & grocery-store run.
It’s Monday, so I needed to deposit the (very nice!) check said client had mailed me, which didn’t arrive until Friday evening. In knee-jerk fashion, I put “drive to credit union, deposit check” on the to-do list. Finishing the Latina feminist rant and the very cheering and interesting artist’s statement for the Latina feminist journal (some people really are outstandingly wonderful…), there was nothing more for it but to haul myself to my feet and get dressed and drive to the credit union and…ugh.
I…do…not…want…to…drive…to…the…credit union. So much so that one delaying tactic entailed cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the toilet. That’s how much I didn’t want to drive to the credit union.
But it was a useful delaying tactic, because while I was applying Clorox toilet bowl cleaner to the john in the middle bathroom, it occurred to me that I could avoid driving to the credit union by…yes…by electronically depositing the check. There’s a unique idea…
As usual, scanning the thing correctly was a bit of a hassle. But the CU has hugely upgraded its magical-digital-deposit function, so once a check is scanned, it takes all of about 30 seconds to deposit it.
First-World problem, on steroids.
This left me with having to actually sit down and…you know…work for that check the guy sent. I’d like to get through another 10,000 words today — unlikely, since it’s 2:30 now and my enthusiasm for work isn’t any better than it was an hour or two ago, when I sat down to this little squib.
Emptied the dishwasher, reloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed the tile countertops, put a load of laundry in the washer.
Cleaned up the back yard; hauled the dog shit and trash out to the garbage.
Sprayed the weeds in the alley. Pissed because the young pups who moved into Sally’s house won’t do that, which means that by mid-summer yet another fire hazard will be piled up along their alley fence. Is there some part of “Fourth of July fireworks will set fire to that damn grass” that they can’t understand? Realized the rubber-tree plant is dying and will soon have to be replaced with something. Would like to haul the potted palm around to the west side but can’t budge it; need Mexican laborer to cart it over and put it in place. Hope to God Gerardo is here legally. Think he is. Better be.
And, in the Annals of the Floored and Flabbergasted, every morning we awake to find we still have a grandstanding, egotistical, clown for a president… Every. single. day, some new antic!