Daily Archives: 12 August 2005

cat names

Robert says we can get kittens after the vacations. If we know we’re not moving to North Carolina soon, which is looking less likely. Oh, sidenote: some months ago, he told me that things were looking really good on the job front – oh right, May. Because he went to Kalamazoo to collect that award. I said oh, hm, whatever.

Not long after that, he told me he had a Feeling he’d have a job within a year, and I went into a frenzy of pre-packing plans. He said first you don’t react at all, then you overreact. I said “What? You said you had a Feeling!” That’s enough, right? I mean, hunches are important.

So a month or so later, he tells me the feeling went away. Great.

So I couldn’t tell you what’s going to happen next, but if I push it, we can have cats pretty soon. Of course we are now waiting for the vacations to be over because they will be chaotic, and then it will be “Wait till the MLA joblist comes out” (October, I think), and of course there will be some good possibilities there so it will become “Wait till after the convention, when we see how my interviews go,” and then he’ll have a good feeling about one or more of them, so it will change to “Wait till I hear back from them, should be in March…” See how that works? But as I said, if I push it, there will be kittens. Soon. So we are already discussing names.

Gus (of course) wants to name them SpongeBob and Patrick. Um, I think…no. Wait, make that No Effing Way. I suggested we name them Kilian and Gus, so we can say things like “Oh no, Kilian peed on the floor!” Kilian, however, wants to name them Phobos and Deimos.

I keep forgetting how smart he is.

Matthew in Beirut: Backstroke of the West


finally, an extreme sport for me

I saw this article in Wednesday’s Guardian. Admittedly, it doesn’t say anything about extremism, but golf in Spain’s natural landscape has got to be a bit rougher than on those gigantic, water-sucking, carpetlike regular courses. I think you’d be tempted to hit that ball just a bit harder, WHOCK! And if I could wear my combat boots and decorate my clubs with feathers and studs and carry them in a ripped-up army duffel – yeah, Punk Golf. That’d open up the market a bit.

Not Your Mother’s Golf.