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internet license
Mar. 19th, 2008 08:45 amZ, ever-supportive, suggested last night to our league mediator that my Internet license be taken away. The league mediator rolled his eyes and suggested that the Internet be abolished entirely.
Monday after work I forced myself to Be Productive, and despite getting out late (a confused old man called from California at two minutes after five, and I had to explain time zones to him), and also despite a case of apparent early-onset dementia in that I couldn't remember which street Home Depot was on, I managed to run errands. I had meant to buy Z a new shower head for Valentine's Day, because he hates the one we have, and he got me underwear (at my request), so I figured I should get him something. Monday was the first day since Valentine's that I've not had some urgent thing going on, or been sick, or not had the car, or thought there was something else I had to do, or been home already and too exhausted to go out again.
So I went to Home Depot and got him a nice shower head.
Then I went to a shoe store and bought some flat shoes I could put arch supports into, so I don't have to keep wearing ratty old black sneakers and long pants to work and hoping nobody notices, because none of my nice shoes will accomodate the shoe inserts that keep my knees from ripping their own patellar tendons. Good stuff.
Z installed said shower head yesterday, and assured me today that it works very well. So, hurrah: I've done at least one thing this month that hasn't gone to shit, even if it was over a month late.
Z, incidentally, began his contract job yesterday, hired by the league mediator to do some client-side programming work for his web development company. Z went in and met with the graphic designer and the server-side programmer and was very reassured as to their respective wavelengths; both other employees were exceedingly relieved that Z had been brought on for the project, because he's the middle bit between them, and neither of them really wanted to have to do the work he's doing on top of the work they're doing.
So he's happily at home in bed with his laptop buzzing away, with his Laser Coding Eyes of Doom, uninterrupted by anyone but Chita, who is Laser-Proof. (Unlike me.)
Last night's practice was run by a visitor from another league, which was pretty cool. She had some extremely nifty drills, very different from what we've done, and I was excited to do them. But the first one involved lunges, striking one kneepad on the floor and then getting back up while you were still moving. Great drill, really good motion to practice... and I immediately tweaked the hell out of both knees.
I just skated laps for the rest of that drill, and rejoined for the next few, but my knees were unhappy, and eventually, by about halfway into practice, I'd worked myself up into such a state over whether to ignore them or not, that I thought I might actually throw up. The next drill involved skating in a very close line, and I thought, if I hang on and then toss my cookies in the middle of that line, that's going to be really unfair to a lot of girls whose wheels will probably never come clean properly again. Eugh.
So, feeling like a complete loser, I went and sat out, and was mocked by Z for not doing any actual work. (Hey! I did the twenty minutes of sprinting drill! Doesn't that count for something?)
I am sore and grumpy today, but taking consolation in that "sore" is nothing like as bad as the days I spent so sore I had to strategize how to sit down and get up from the toilet. I can walk just fine. It just... is there. Note to self: no lunges.
Oh, tomorrow is my mother's birthday. Shit. I had better remember, somehow.
And I know there are holes in my knowledge of classic science fiction, but I did want to link to the story by the late Arthur C. Clarke that Neil Gaiman linked to in his blog today, in case anyone didn't see it. It's one of those perfect SF stories that isn't all gadgety, is warmly human, and has a really killer last line that leaves you nervously checking the sky.
The Nine Billion Names of God.
Monday after work I forced myself to Be Productive, and despite getting out late (a confused old man called from California at two minutes after five, and I had to explain time zones to him), and also despite a case of apparent early-onset dementia in that I couldn't remember which street Home Depot was on, I managed to run errands. I had meant to buy Z a new shower head for Valentine's Day, because he hates the one we have, and he got me underwear (at my request), so I figured I should get him something. Monday was the first day since Valentine's that I've not had some urgent thing going on, or been sick, or not had the car, or thought there was something else I had to do, or been home already and too exhausted to go out again.
So I went to Home Depot and got him a nice shower head.
Then I went to a shoe store and bought some flat shoes I could put arch supports into, so I don't have to keep wearing ratty old black sneakers and long pants to work and hoping nobody notices, because none of my nice shoes will accomodate the shoe inserts that keep my knees from ripping their own patellar tendons. Good stuff.
Z installed said shower head yesterday, and assured me today that it works very well. So, hurrah: I've done at least one thing this month that hasn't gone to shit, even if it was over a month late.
Z, incidentally, began his contract job yesterday, hired by the league mediator to do some client-side programming work for his web development company. Z went in and met with the graphic designer and the server-side programmer and was very reassured as to their respective wavelengths; both other employees were exceedingly relieved that Z had been brought on for the project, because he's the middle bit between them, and neither of them really wanted to have to do the work he's doing on top of the work they're doing.
So he's happily at home in bed with his laptop buzzing away, with his Laser Coding Eyes of Doom, uninterrupted by anyone but Chita, who is Laser-Proof. (Unlike me.)
Last night's practice was run by a visitor from another league, which was pretty cool. She had some extremely nifty drills, very different from what we've done, and I was excited to do them. But the first one involved lunges, striking one kneepad on the floor and then getting back up while you were still moving. Great drill, really good motion to practice... and I immediately tweaked the hell out of both knees.
I just skated laps for the rest of that drill, and rejoined for the next few, but my knees were unhappy, and eventually, by about halfway into practice, I'd worked myself up into such a state over whether to ignore them or not, that I thought I might actually throw up. The next drill involved skating in a very close line, and I thought, if I hang on and then toss my cookies in the middle of that line, that's going to be really unfair to a lot of girls whose wheels will probably never come clean properly again. Eugh.
So, feeling like a complete loser, I went and sat out, and was mocked by Z for not doing any actual work. (Hey! I did the twenty minutes of sprinting drill! Doesn't that count for something?)
I am sore and grumpy today, but taking consolation in that "sore" is nothing like as bad as the days I spent so sore I had to strategize how to sit down and get up from the toilet. I can walk just fine. It just... is there. Note to self: no lunges.
Oh, tomorrow is my mother's birthday. Shit. I had better remember, somehow.
And I know there are holes in my knowledge of classic science fiction, but I did want to link to the story by the late Arthur C. Clarke that Neil Gaiman linked to in his blog today, in case anyone didn't see it. It's one of those perfect SF stories that isn't all gadgety, is warmly human, and has a really killer last line that leaves you nervously checking the sky.
The Nine Billion Names of God.
