… as in “I’m going to crack open your rib cage and feast on your liver.” The entomology of this phrase has several branches. The first and most obvious, is as a reference to Hannibal Lecter’s famous liver and fava bean dinner, the other is the ancient practice of eating the body of a slain enemy to gain his strength. In my case, this is a phrase almost exclusively reserved for those who quite simply have not demonstrated the ability to drive a motor vehicle.
Usage of this phrase reached its zenith with the daily commute between central Maryland and DC. At this time it has almost entirely passed from regular use. That’s not to say that drivers in Memphis are any better than those in the DC suburbs… there are just fewer of them and rush hour is considerably shorter. Drivers in the DC area are aggressive, that makes sense to me. If you know your fellow drivers are aggressive you can plan accordingly… In Memphis, on the other hand, it seems that many drivers tend more towards being oblivious to what they are doing and the world around them, which makes them unpredictable. Come to think of it, maybe I throw this one around more often than I think.
So, for the rest of the week I’m trapped in the most boring class ever. I so don’t care how many “cool” tables I can pull out of the database “using these simple commands.” If anyone wants to sneak in and pull the fire alarm tomorrow or Friday let me know.
One of my personal favorite phrases and one that doesn’t get enough use once I left Frostburg, is the venerable “Goddamn wine in a box.” The phrase was coined when a friend blamed the consumption of, not surprisingly, a box of wine for sleeping with a girl we all affectionately called “Dumpy.” As best I can remember, she sort of looked like a bullfrog. What can I say, young adults can be a cruel lot when they’re traveling in a pack. And when the inevitable question “how could you sleep with Dumpy” was asked, I suppose the only natural response could be, “I don’t know, man… it was that goddamn wine in a box.” To this day, when I see a box of wine, I smirk and then laugh. *sighs* Thanks for the memories.
My four-month odyssey to move from one end of the building to another seems to be complete this week. I say seems, of course, because every advance on this front has been beaten back up till this point. Now, finally, with all my workly possessions moved into my new digs, taking marching orders from my new boss, and only occasional questions from the old, I dare to hope this could be the real deal. I forgot what it was like not to be continually surrounded by procedural dysfunction. I haven’t wanted to beat anyone to death with their own arms for at least three days… and that might just be a personal best.
So, whatever was kicking my ass seems to have been a 24-hour bug. I’m feeling much better now. It’s so nice not to feel like death on a biscuit. Hopefully this isn’t just the intermission!
I don’t know what kind of freight train hit me a little after noon today, but I am well and truly tired. Actually, check that. I’m flat out exhausted. It feels about half like the flu, with the dizziness, achy muscles and joints, and almost complete inability to actually sleep. Whatever this is sucking the life out of me needs to knock it the fuck off and I mean right now, because it’s taking every bit of effort I have to focus on getting through these couple of lines to bitch about it. That’s clearly not the recipe for a good and productive day.
So, it’s been no secret that I’ve been trying to get set up in my new job for the better part of the last three months. Management, circumstances, and just pure dumb luck have all conspired against me at various points and now, in a personal affront, nature (that bitch) has decided to throw her hat in the ring… Every tried to leave a job in emergency management during a natural disaster? Yeah… good luck with that.
Anyone out there need an exceptionally well-qualified logistician or need a campaign plan written for taking out those damned pesky neighbors? I’m totally on the market.
Yes. Yes I do… and apparently you do as well, officer. I got pulled over for the first time in 7 years yesterday on my way home from work. It hardly seems right, really. I was in an awesome mood, had finally gotten my satellite radio in proper working order, and had 381 horses under the hood. The fact is, I blew by the nice sheriff’s deputy in a marked car like he was sitting still and he was at least nice enough to only write me at 14 over the 65 miles per hour limit. Now I just need to figure out if I want to pay or drag my ass to court and pretend to be humbled by the experience. Somehow I think I’ll be writing a check to Shelby County sometime in the near future.
My voice has been heard calling out from the wilderness and I have been delivered! Unending thanks to an old friend who with the simple word “tomorrow” has granted a reprieve from two months of delaying tactics which others were too timid to protest. With that, I conclude my short career as an emergency manager. I still love the work, but find that continuing to work under a regime willing to exploit my talents while at the same time being told that I was not yet ready for greater authority was simply intolerable.
I’m just glad this version of deliverance doesn’t have a scary banjo-playing kid.
I’ve hear it said that there’s nothing as powerful as the sense of smell to carry us back to a moment or a place we haven’t thought about in years. I had one of those moments a few minutes ago. In smelling the combination of fresh-cut grass and the exhaust of a not-quite tuned gas engine, I was hit with an overwhelming recollection of my grandfather and his Allis Chalmers B-10 lawn tractor. I don’t think my grandfather was ever happier then when he was tooling around the yard on that mid-60s vintage machine. With that smell hanging in the air, for just a second, I was a kid again and could see people and places I haven’t set eyes on in twenty years. It was really quite remarkable and, I’m not too proud to say, it choked me up there for a minute. Memory is a funny thing like that.