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Recent News... Just for Pope Gregory... |
2003-04-21 - 8:03 a.m. Blue Shirt Star Trek science officers always wore blue shirts, you know. For those you are still interested in hearing me carry on about work, we passed the confirmation review (that thing that's consumed my life for a month) with *flying* colors. I had been feeling like a dull, useless workaholic with the review eating my life, all I talked about lately was work, work, work. But here's a strange epiphany. My work is more a vocation than a career. Give me a meaningful science mission, and I will engineer a way to do it. And I will die happy knowing I've contributed to the bulk of human knowledge. The toys also rock. Conversely, jerk me around with political crap and unorganized bullshit and I am miserable. And that has happened in my work assignments, no denying it. Like all human endeavor, people are everything in engineering. My first manager told me There's something about a good mission team. You can't explain it, you can't manufacture it, but you sure know when it's missing. And we have it. There's a natural flow and synergy. Bad enough my systems lead and I have progressed from finishing each other's sentences to speaking in chorus, now we're all dressing alike without even discussing it. Five of the six design teammates who've been through my office last Tuesday are wearing blue shirts/khaki pants to match me. Thank God someone wore orange, before that got too freaky. Though, the Trek engineers wore red. Hmm. Still, life is all about balance. Trust me. I�ve been too busy catching up on life to write. Saturday before last was gorgeous. Really gorgeous. Gorgeous enough to get my ass out of the extremely comfy new bed and into the car for a trip to Spring Revel, where I spent most of the day goofing off with the Padraiga. We arrive only to find Cuan pacing because the field is too wet and they've decided to fight inside. First gorgeous spring day, and the wild Cuan beast did not want to be caged. But I just stepped down. I don't want to be difficult. I'll, I'll make Roland do it. So off they go, down the long steps from the parking area, Balynar, Cuan and Roland striding up and down the field. Padraiga is minding her own business, attempting to find her shoes, or something in the truck. However, I am sitting on the tailgate, watching the three come back up the hill with that wide legged stride, Balynar's hands on his hips. And, as usual, my mind begins it's own theatre of the absurd, building in a the scence of a bad spaghetti western where the cowboys stride in from the long trail. Then, Cuan turns around and spits. And I fall off the tailgate laughing. P, from across the parking lot: What's so funny? My mind is it's own special Idaho. The heroes save the day, the boys move the fighting outside and we go off to buy a lovely lunch from the Red Mountain Inn. Except, I didn't have a mug. Luckily, there's a blanket merchant who provides me with a cup for a small fee. Ah, but the Inn has no bowls or spoons for the unprepared. So P goes back and buys a spoon (weird pewter-aluminum thing). We fill my newly acquire mug with the first serving of soup and wander out into the spring sunshine. At the back of the cafeteria, there are several old concrete tables - you know the ones cast to look like carved marble but unable to avoid looking like concrete. Edges chipped, mosaic and paint on the top. They were in the lovely spring breeze, so we sat and passed the bowl of soup back and forth, idly scratching tic-tac-toe games across the scarred table top. And watched the college kids systematically work hard at getting nothing out of the trailer. One would come out, undo all the bolts, dart into the trailer and come out with - nothing. Repeat process several times. One guy did actually change clothes and we helped him even out the skirt of his tunic - and I say good for him, because when you get dressed in a dark trailer without a mirror, you should ask someone. Few mirrors in the middle ages. Think about that. In the middle ages, you could walk around for weeks with that same bad cowlick when your hair just unfortunately dried that way. And there'd only be your friends to tell you. Now that's friend trust. Of course, some of my friends would let you walk around with loser tattooed on your forehead. Last time Jeremy trusted me and Mel like that, we drew crayola marker murals up his legs while he was under the influence. (Free tip: If you are ever drunk in a situation involving crayolas, shave all the body hair first. The pumice stone cleanup next afternoon is a lot less painful.) Eventually, the Padraigin and I finish two bowls of soup, shamelessly lick the honey butter off the remaining bread and toss it away, cause there's no ducks to feed. And the college kids dart pointlessly in and out of the trailer voluntarily - so no need to feed them to lure them closer. Two blissful hours later, we finally go back to the field, where we explain the one bowl-one spoon process that slowed us down. Ah says the Cuan wisely you were like real medieval people. No real comeback there. Congenial afternoon is passed with Jack helping Padraigin and I figure out how to play backgammon with a board from the dollar store and really bad rules. Kira bounces about adorably, amusing us all. I win one round, Padraigin wins one and we stop, inciting Ragnarr to comment That's such a girl thing. In my squire world, all games were two out of three, no ties allowed. By the time the gear is stowed, we've missed most of Balynar's court, so we decide to head to Bob N Laura's farm to drop off the furniture. (Our old bedroom furniture will provide lovely temporary storage before someday going to their local goodwill.) Ragnarr insists on coming cause he loves us and doesn't want me lifting things (hello, who do you think helped Roland put it in the truck?). The farm is lovely. The daffodils are blooming. I've never been before, timing always makes me miss events at the farm. Of course, there is a small problem. The driveway gate is locked, and farm girl here must pass compliments to BnL cause nothing short of bolt cutters was getting it open. None of the usual dodges work, so Rags and Roland just pass everything over the gate and we reassemble it at the top of the driveway. Slightly annoying, but, eh, we'll all live longer for the exercise. I left the daffodils, though it was very tempting to pick them. The big shade tree is still bare of foliage, but it has the nap zone aura I've heard about. Must wrangle invitation for later in the summer. Last Sunday was spent doing our taxes (14th), marking the latest we're ever filed. Happily, it only took two-three hours to do a bunch of financial stuff. Even better, we're getting money back, so Woot! (Damn you, Kenny, I keep saying that at work - and like I needed that cause people stare at me quite enough already.) Roland had his own little Enron party going, shredding old statements. Hmmm says I, Is it really an Enron party unless you throw the confetti up in the air? Roland, I must say, has quite a good glare. So that�s a bit of the week before last. Perhaps tomorrow I will tell you about last week, and how Theo can be really inadvertently sneaky. � � � 
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