Day in the Life: May 2008 Archives

So I'm driving along the road yesterday, en route to getting my hurriedly reinflated tire patched up by the tire guys (if there is a nail within 20 miles of my home, I will drive over it.  It's a talent I have.), when I catch a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye and look over at the yard of one of the pricey McMansions that have recently begun sprouting in our rural burg.

There, strutting serenely along inside the wrought-iron fencing of the $500,000 home, is a rooster.  A pretty big one, too.  I managed not to wreck the car, but I did have a WTF moment.  Perhaps no one has told this person, but roosters?  Not really cuddly pets.  Plus, they're loud.  And chicken poop is really, really foul - no pun intended.

I was all set to chalk this up as a random "country-folk make good, still keep in touch with their roots - welcome to Johnston County" experience, until I read this article about a therapy rooster named Mr. Joy. 

And then I remembered the local "trend story" last week about the urban chicken-keeping fundraising event.

Oh, brother.  I see the beginnings of a trend.  On the plus side, I see a surplus of cheap eggs and chicken meat in my future when this trend goes the way of the pot-bellied pig.  On the minus side - I'm not a morning person, and I'm doubtful that Mr. Rooster will be able to keep his voice down. 

So all that stuff about posting more often?  Bunk.  Sorry about that.  And now I will reiterate my promise, because the T-ball season is officially over, which should mean that I have more time on my hands. Although t-ball's demise also means I won't be able to share stories like this one with you until at least the fall:

One of the two annoying players on the team is a boy who I shall call Dennis.  Unlike his randomly violent teammate, Dennis isn't cruel, he's just categorically incapable of listening or paying attention or doing what he's told.  And also?  He has a REALLY high opinion of himself.  Kindergarten is going to be a rude awakening for ol' Dennis. 

Dennis' exploits have included wandering off (during the game) to play on the field equipment, refusing to put down a bug in order to throw a ball, laying down in the middle of the infield and refusing to get up, leaving the field (also during a game) just because he got "bored," and resolutely ignoring anyone who tells him what to do.  I really, really, REALLY do not like Dennis. 

Last Wednesday was going to be Dennis' last game, and as we got underway he was, true-to-form, annoying the hell out of everyone and not listening to a word either I or his parents said.

FINALLY it was his turn to bat, and I told him to get ready.  He said he didn't want to hit right then, he wanted to hit last.  I told him he'd hit when it was his turn, and walked over to get him his helment and bat.

And then the smell hit me, just as Dennis said, "I need to go potty!"

I told him to run, not walk, to get his mom and hit the port-a-potty.

That's the last I saw of Dennis until our next at bat, when the entire family appeared, chalk-faced, at the dugout and his daddy made a rambling excuse about an "upset tummy."

"Okay!" I probably said in a way too cheerful tone,  "Feel better, Dennis!  BYE!"

Later, as Hublet and I pondered whether or not we were going to hell for being happy that Dennis crapped his pants at the ball park and had to leave, Hublet shook his head and said, "Wow, Dennis' father looked as if he'd stared Death in the face."

I thought about having to deal with copious amounts of Big Kid poop in a small green port-a-john in the middle of a field in Johnston County, and realized that Hublet was probably closer to the truth than he knew. 

So today I called in to a media teleconference that was featuring one of the researchers in one of the colleges I do PR for.

Now, in order to attend a media teleconference, someone in a PR office has to give you the dial-in number and a passcode.  You dial in, give the passcode, and tell the folks your name and affiliation, then you're signed in.  Usually, they'll have the scientists give 5 minute presentations, then they open the floor to media questions.

To ask a question, you hit a couple of keys on the phone and you're in the question queue.

Sounds easy and civilized, right?

O.M.G.  Not today.  Today, after the presentation portion of the media conference, the questions began.  The first two were garden-variety science writers asking follow-ups on the research.

And then some random weirdo comes on and says, "So does this mean we can ship moon crickets off of earth?" 

Huh?  I don't know about moon crickets, but you could hear regular crickets chirping as everyone tried to figure out what in the hell this yahoo was talking about.  [ETA - apparently, the "moon cricket" thing is a racist slur, and one that was completely lost on me, as well as the others at the press conference.  Seriously, I thought the guy was trying to conflate space aliens and insects, or something.  Good Lord.  This only makes the whole thing simultaneously worse and, if possible, more stupid.  Thanks for the head's up, Skippy!]

So the mediator recovered nicely and moved on, and things went along okay until suddenly beeping was heard and some wackjob starts yelling about how he wants to talk about va-jay-jays!

At a press conference.

About astrophysics.

Yeah.

My only question?  Well, perhaps I should say my most important question? 

Who gave those freakjobs the number and passcode?

My job...never, ever, boring.

UPDATE - Wired liveblogged the event.  Their version of events is here.

So, Hillary and Obama have departed, leaving the university feeling used, wrung out, and with a sneaking suspicion that maybe baths and an STD screening are in order.  God, I've never been so happy to see two people go away in my entire life.  We had random family members from both campaigns as well as the candidates themselves popping up all over campus for a month and a half, with very little notice. FYI, PR flaks aren't real big on the "very little notice" thing, even though our job description pretty much consists of doing crap with very little notice.  Contrarians, the lot of us, I know.

And no, if you're asking, I did not attend all those events.  I do not have time to participate in history, people!  I have a JOB. 

Hopefully I will have more time to do the bloggy thing now, and hopefully I will also have the time to actually be somewhat interesting.

On a lighter note, it seems as though my continued efforts at brainwashing my child are starting to bear fruit. Not only did he order water to drink - VOLUNTARILY - at a restaurant (so, okay, maybe I sort of told him that if he didn't drink water every day his kidneys would stop working and he would drop dead), when the water tasted like regular old tap water instead of our Brita-filtered goodness and I asked him what the problem was, he said:

"Well, this water doesn't taste very good...but I guess I'm just gonna have to deal with it." 

And then he actually dealt with it!

Bravo, Boy!  Bravo!

Twice the robo-calls, ten times the aggravation.

Last night, over the course of one hour, my home received six calls.  One from the local Republican candidate running for governor, one a "poll" concerning one of the democratic candidates for governor, a random call from an organic food PAC - they call all the time, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why - two from some sort of medical association which was probably a front for a political poll, and one from our very favorite "caller unkown."

I can only imagine that the number and frequency of these calls will increase between now and next Tuesday, and I shudder to think what October will be like.

Here's a news flash, folks - we don't answer these calls.  The number and caller ID appear on our TV screen as soon as the phone rings (THANKS, DIRECTV!  No, really - it's a cool feature) and we put them on ignore.  All you're doing is getting the name of your candidate or company embedded in our heads and associated with fiery hate at your unwanted intrusion into our lives.

LEAVE US ALONE!  If I want to tell you something, I'll send you an email.