Sometimes you feel like a nut

So this morning, my coworker stopped by to borrow some hot chocolate. "You look tired," she said, and I was just in the middle of explaining why when, out in the hallway, we heard a little shriek, and then silence.
Obviously, we stopped talking and ran out to the hallway to see what was going on.
My boss was out there, completely and understandably freaked out because a squirrel had climbed the ivy and run in her second-story window, jumping over my boss's shoulder to run around on her desk.
When I got there, she was in the hallway, the door to her office was mostly but not entirely closed, and the window was only open a crack, not enough for the (also freaked-out) squirrel to get out. A small crowd had gathered.
Turns out, nothing wakes me up like a wildlife-related crisis in the office. I walked into my boss's office, closed the door behind me, opened the window wide, the squirrel went out the window again as fast as possible, and I closed the window.
Grateful boss, impressed coworkers, overly-pleased-with-herself me.
I feel that my boss will keep her screen closed from here on out.
Of course, squirrels are the kind of wildlife us city-slickers are used to. When she's got a black bear (heck, or even black flies) in her office, I will be powerless.

Calling the fashion police

This post requires lots of comments, from my urban and rural (and northern and southern) friends alike.
Today, for the first time since moving here, I am wearing my winter white pants. Those of you who knew me in my last life are probably sick to death of these pants, because I used to wear them a lot. They're off-white (slightly), and in a wintery material (almost flannel). Clearly winter pants. But is it too weird to wear whitish pants this time of year? Does it matter that there's snow on the ground? Does it matter that I can't imagine anyone else in my office wearing them? People who've ever seen these pants before, did you used to snicker behind my back at these pants? You can tell me now; I'm too far away to punch you in the neck.
If you say I can't wear them, I'm getting rid of them, because they are too hot for summer. Today I am wearing them with a tan sleeveless sweater and a black cardigan and black boots.
People who do not know (or claim not to know) what the word "cardigan" means are off the hook here.

Plane spotting

Spotted on or near my flight from MHT to CLT Friday midday:

• A prettyish, 40ish woman with red hair styled such that it would have fit in fine at my prom in 1988, wearing a black leather jacket, black leather pants, pointy black leather boots, a teeny black leather backpack — and carrying a long black leather coat.*
• A heavyish, 50ish man with greasy gray hair, with a wedding ring, wearing a purple polo shirt and reading Maxim. I am pleased to say his collar was not popped.
• A very sweet college boy who asked if Charlotte was in the same time zone. Repeat: College boy.
• The pilot, leaning so far out the window of the cockpit I was worried he would fall out, to clean the windshield. Maybe I haven't been paying attention, but I've never seen that before. My college boy friend was also amused.

Spotted on or near my flight from CLT to MHT Sunday evening:

• A child, maybe 6 years old, dressed as Superman. His parents were in street clothes and were treating him like he was any other child and not the Man of Tomorrow, which I guess is how to instill that strong moral compass in him. I did not ask why he was bothering with a plane.

*To be fair, I was also wearing pointy black leather boots and a black leather jacket. But I was a little worried that would be too much. She relieved my concerns entirely.

Another day, another blizzard

That's the view out my window right now. That's all I've got.
Almost. Also, the way to my heart is totally hot chocolate. Someone sent me three big cans of it and two beautiful mugs a little while ago; I kept two cans and the mugs at home, brought one can to work to enjoy at times just like this, out of a slightly less awesome mug.

How you know you're too into a book

When it's 12 degrees out, half an hour after you told yourself you'd already be asleep, and you are in the garage, barefoot, in your robe, rummaging around the car to find said book.
That is how you know.
I know, now you want to know what book is that awesome, and I'd tell you, but it's not. It's just OK.

Miss thing

Since I moved, folks ask, kind of a lot, whether I miss Washington.
In general, I gotta say, no.
I miss specific people, a lot. I'd say, "you know who you are," but I'm bad at the mushy stuff, so you probably don't know who you are. If you think or even hope I might miss you a little, know that I probably miss you a lot. Yeah, you.
And I miss events. There have been some big events, and small ones, that I wish I could have been at — christenings and celebrations of lives ended too soon, holiday parties and movie nights and happy hours. So, yeah, I miss events.
But mostly, I haven't missed being in D.C. much at all. Car horns and shoving, Code Orange and mismanagement, as it turns out, are the kinds of things you can get over fast.
But tonight, for some reason, I miss the bugle at Fort Myer playing Taps, which I used to be able to hear from my bed.
They say it's the little things. Guess so. Because, really? Taps, more than sports teams and public transportation and monuments?
Yup.
OK, next post will be back to the funny.

Carillon, my wayward son

In my horror at the big lettuce disaster this afternoon, I entirely forgot what I was going to blog about, which was the (electronic, I assume) carillon here on campus.
There are chimes, often, which is nice, and also tune-outable. At noon, the carillon plays a little tune. I am more accustomed to hearing something churchy coming out of a bell tower, and so was caught a little off-guard by Beatles songs ("Michelle," actually, which I assume is someone's idea of a joke, and I think it's funny), but I've gotten used to it.
Today, as I was walking back to my office with what would turn out to be a lettuce calzone, I wasn't especially paying attention to the carillon, until I found myself singing, only inside my head, "Dolly'll never go away, Dolly'll never go away, Dolly'll never go away again!"
"Hello Dolly?" Really?

Adventures in dining

Ew ew ew ew ew ew.
So it's a blizzard here, as usual. I decided my best choice for lunch was to run over to the student center. The special looked bad for me, but yummy.
Then I got it back to my desk.
What had been described as a "Chicken Parmesan calzone," with chicken tenders and marinara and cheese in a calzone, actually appears to be chicken salad, lettuce, and ricotta, baked into a calzone.
I have never had a stranger experience, food-wise, than this, although the time I went to the Cafeteria CuCu and got a turkey sandwich with strawberry jam because they'd run out of cranberry sauce and figured I wouldn't care (WRONG) is in the same family. I am unsure whether this is salvageable, but do not want to go back out into the snow for a replacement.
But seriously, there is no place in my life for hot lettuce.

...but Texas wants you anyway

From a recent conversation with my mother:

Me: So [mutual acquaintance] is not gay?
Her: No, definitely not. [recites litany of straight credentials] ... He has some Texan mannerisms; I think that's what confuses some people.

Now, my gaydar's only medium-good, but I have spent some time around Texans, and I will say both that I have never confused Texan for gay before, and also, I don't know any other Texans who come across like this guy does. Except the gay one, kind of.
Hm.
Maybe she is thinking of the cowboy from the Village People.

This is the way we wash our clothes

I don't have a dryer.

There was a broken dryer in the house when I bought it, which I asked the sellers to remove, and they did. There is still an oldish washing machine, but, since there's been no dryer, I have done a few loads of laundry at my parents' house (too far and it drives their dog crazy), paid the nice folks at the laundromat for a few loads (they stole the gray pants I was borrowing back from Kay), and finally decided it was time to see how I could make my own laundry setup work for me.

I took my parents' suggestion that I make my first load vigorous and full of bleach. One load of socks and towels and sheets later, the washing machine appears to work. I've strung clothesline up around my otherwise empty basement, and it seems that everything dries just fine in less than a day.

So here, now, is the real question: How long will it take before it feels like it's worth $500 or so not to have to iron? Commenters who want to start a pool are welcome.

The arithmetic of really, really cold

This morning, at 8:15, it was four degrees below zero, Fahrenheit. For those of you who have not spent a lot of time in that kind of weather, here is the best way to describe it I can think of:
-Think about what it's like when it's, say, 80 degrees. And think about how you're likely to be dressed in that weather to keep yourself comfortable.
-Now, think about what it's like when it's 38 degrees. And think about how much more clothing you put on to keep yourself comfortable there.
-Four degrees below zero is that much colder than 38, but if you're me, you're wearing essentially the same clothing you were at 38, with perhaps some slight modifications.
It's really, really cold.

Also: I drive little enough, and my car heater is slow enough, that the snow I tracked into my car two days ago is still snow, rather than a puddle.

Also: All this snow and cold inevitably leads to jokes about how global warming isn't real. Sigh. If you are inclined to make those jokes, even if you don't really believe them, know that you're wearing the rest of us out. There's a paragraph on why all this cold and snow is actually evidence of global warming here, at the end of the "Greenhouse Effect" section. As a friend of mine said a few weeks back: "That's three near-foot snows in a week — before Christmas. This place is going under."

Silent but not secret

We had several more inches of snow yesterday.
Oh, and there's more falling now.
If you're anything like me, you may be reminded of Conrad Aiken's classic short story, "Silent Snow, Secret Snow."
This isn't like that, I swear. It's actual snow that just happens to fall all the time.