Posted by lex, on March 24, 2006
You should read this slowly, because that’s the way I’m typing it. Langorously. Why you might ask?
Well, I’ll tell you: I have finished yet another academic quarter and am, for the space of a week’s time, entirely unencumbered by the need to screw myself into a knot-hole in preparation for some bit of scholastic tomfoolery, silly at the best of times, ludicrous at my age.
I snapped awake this morning at 0400, and headed to the study, morally convinced that I was Not Quite Prepared for my final exam in systems engineering. My professor is one of those rare types of hyper-intelligence you only occasionally run across, the kind of person to whom leaps of intuitive brilliance are as routine as tying ones shoes is to we mortals. Since he is so very clever, and so routinely far ahead of us, it was at times a challenge to follow his train of thought, as it bounded from the peaks of Olympian Jove to the valleys of Pallas Athena.
Whatever that means.
(Although I will point out that I may have scored a brownie point or two by making the analogy between one of his predictive analysis tools and Schrodinger’s Cat. The other girls were so jealous.)
Which anyway, it made preparing for the final in his course a sore trial. Fortunately, he has unusual common sense to go with his genius, and realized that we were only human, so the test was not so very hard at all. I do not know that I have gained three months later, anything more than a renewed appreciation for my own limitations.
But I do know that it’s over.
In celebration of which I treated myself to a 90-minute massage – Leah, I’m serious girl – when I hit the lottery, you’re hired. Full time. With dental.
And I am, even as I type, enjoying a vodka martini: Ketel One, up, dry, twist – which is three adjectives, for those of you keeping score at home. The reason for which I will shortly reveal.
But hence the langor.
So: I learned in a San Diego Tribune article last week that bar tenders are judging us by the drinks we order. S’truth.
Use more than two adjectives to order your drink (dry, neat, up, slushy, dirty whatever) or get picky (you want your lemons cut into wedges, not slices) and you can come off as pretentious, says Logan Grey, a bartender at the Roo Bar in Denver. A colleague, Dustin Gathright, agrees. He’s happy to make what customers order, but “if a group is waiting to be served and someone comes up and orders something that takes like 15 minutes to make with multiple ingredients, that person is self-centered.”
Up, dry, twist.
Fuggem, says I. That’s the way I like ‘em.
Tomorrow is the Hobbit’s birthday. This is an event not unlike a summer solstice, or vernal equinox: We celebrate it, without attempting to attach any numerical value to it.
It merely is.
And I am, or very shortly will be, the boy. On account of I have, exceptionally, all of my ship in one sock. For a change.
Everyone has a card, there are many several presents (reservations at a nice restaurant, a bottle of perfume that she will keep, clothes that she will no doubt instantly return in favor of something she actually likes) and no flowers.
No flowers at all. I was expressly forbad to buy flowers. Was made to promise.
So promise I did, and then called Son Number One up, and told him to buy flowers. To go along with the reservation, cards, perfume and clothes. Because, while I am not a systems engineering professor, neither am I entirely stupid.
Been at this a while, haven’t I?
Are you looking for substance? Some thoughts on the brief, meteoric rise, and quick Pheonix-like combustion of Washington Post “Red State Blogger” Ben Domenich? Do you burn to know what I think of Yale’s celbrated Talib? Do you wonder, deep in your heart, whether that Afghan convert to Christianity will be set free, or whether he might instead, at the request of cleric’s from the “Religion of Peacetm,” be murdered – to prevent him being “torn to pieces” – instead? To kill him, in other words, in order to save him?
Not tonight, constant reader.
Tonight is Friday!
Have a great weekend!