Question of Vital Importance

We do not own a recliner. We have a couch, two kind of uncomfortable but lovely old wooden office chairs, a rocking chair, the four chairs with our dining table, my office chair and if we're getting desperate a balance ball, a zafu, a perching stool, and some random pillows.
Oreo doesn't look this derptastic.

My parents and Tom's parents do, however, have recliners as do some friends. Oreo immediately occupies any open recliner as soon as doggily possible. It doesn't matter how many other comfy spots are open - in the absence of food to beg for or appealing toys he is in that recliner. On occasion, he attempts to occupy the recliner even when the usual occupant is still present. Watching Oreo just wander over, jump onto Dad's lap, and actually try to wedge himself further into the recliner with my dad already in it is hilarious.
"Oh, I'm sorry large boy-human, were you already in the chair? I'm a guest, you know. And I need this chair. Also, I find your gruff demeanor entirely unconvincing and will therefore cuddle with you for a minute."

With Tom's dad there's usually a stare down when his dad returns to his briefly unoccupied chair to find Oreo in it. Tom's dad tells Oreo to get out of the chair. Oreo blinks at him. Repeat until Oreo finally slithers out of the chair looking deeply offended.

We were just talking vaguely about getting a nicer couch and recliner at some point. And I wonder - if we could afford it would Oreo prefer a full size recliner or would he like one of those little ones for little kids?

Serious freakin' business, people.


Happy Holidays, Enjoy Your Balls

Went to my in-laws for Xmas this year. Nice trip, fun to see little kids for Christmas.

We drove home today. We pass a state penitentiary on the way. Tom says we should take Oreo to the penitentiary (because saying mean things to Oreo is one of Tom's hobbies).
I replied that Oreo did his time in the joint and had paid his debt to society. (I adopted him from Animal Control lo these many years ago.)
So Tom says maybe we should take him to talk to the inmates:
"Once, I was in a place like this, just like you..."
And I finished:
"...and then they cut off my balls and gave me to some strange lady."

I don't think Oreo will be pursuing a career as a motivational speaker.

In other news, Tom got me knitting books! Rock!


And the Children Shall Lead

Turns out the Plaquenil was doing more than giving me heartburn. I've been out for about a month and the past few weeks my various autoimmune related symptoms have gotten much, much worse. I've been running a fever for at least the past few days, hands have swollen up again, arthritis is worse, tingling/numbness in hands, and my mid-back is like crazy painful. And, really, I was still having wicked heartburn. Dammit. Anyway, I've resumed taking it, hopefully it will work again.

I have also found a wonderful general care clinic. Very happy about that.

Discomfort has been keeping me up late - arthritis or heartburn/acid reflux seem to be taking turns. Grumble.

Tonight I decided some knitting and Star Trek were in order. Tonight, I was particularly interested to notice something about the episode "And the Children Shall Lead." The scary-ass Gorgan dude looks remarkably like a certain former Speaker of the House. Coincidence?
One used mind-control techniques to take advantage of others and sap their strength through fear. The other one is a fictional character.


And here's some bonus scary:


Identity Crisis

The Instructor
Image via Wikipedia
How did they do aerobics in those robes?
And what exactly is dude measuring with his hands?
And is Jesus pearl-clutching?
So I finally got around to checking the academic schedule to see when I'm teaching next term. I thought I'd have to be ready to go on the 2nd of January as long, painful, sometimes hung-over experience at the University of Chicago had taught me, but it turns out I have until near the end of January to procrastinate updating my lectures and junk. My textbook samples arrived last week (I had requested them in September) and after a grand total of 5 minutes examining them, I adopted two of them for this term in the hopes they'll be slightly less confusing than the textbooks I used last time.


It occurs to me though that I am not quite sure what to say when people ask me what I do. I already had a preview of this after my Nana's funeral. Someone asked what I did and my uncle told them I was a teacher. So the guy asked what grade I taught. And I said "college." And there was sort of awkward silence.


Then the guy asked what class I taught and I said "ancient Egyptian history" because that's the easiest answer. And every few minutes for the rest of the afternoon he kindly (and loudly) warned me to watch out for mummies. Why, yes, there was drinking involved, why do you ask?

I decided that was probably not the best time to bring up excavating cemeteries and storing skeletons under my bed for safety (of the skeletons).  Seriously, though, that got really damn annoying.

Anyway, thus my identity crisis.

I'm not a professor. Technically I'm an instructor. But I can already see the hilarity possible in that conversation.

Random person: So, what do you do?
Me: I'm an instructor.
Random person: Of what?
Me: (Gripping cane tightly) Aerobics.1

Also, the campus where I teach is in a mall. As in next to JC Penny's. Because surreality is my reality.

1 Other potential responses include: "Karate" and "Your Mom"


Grover Is Disappoint

I'm glad to see that despite no longer living in the big city, we still get stories of utter derpitude locally. Like this bunch of dimwits calling themselves the Savior Unit. I especially like this quote from the news article I linked:
The manual has a manifesto of the group that includes promoting Christ, helping law enforcement, doing community service, reconnaissance, infiltration, apprehension and “retrieval.”

This puts me in mind of a song from my childhood.

I think maybe these guys missed Sesame Street.