I'm greatly peeved about having borked my operating system thanks to a new ISP's software. It attempted to install Open Transport, you see. OT may be the greatest thing in the history of time but I can't use it with the set-up I have now. So I spent almost 12 hours breaking, fixing, re-breaking, fixing again, and generally searching and destroying useless files in an attempt to get things back the way they were. No luck. I cancelled the account at the new ISP, much to the technical support person's annoyance. His attitude: "Look, it's just a software problem, lady! We only provide the connection, it's not our fault if you don't know how to make Open Transport compatible with your system!" My attitude: "Your accompanying software caused the problem. Get over yourself, cancel my account, and don't call me lady!"
Harrumph. So that was Saturday. Today was relaxation day. I met Ceej for coffee at a local caffeine trough next to the very wonderful Keppler's Bookstore. We talked, we drank lattes, we dished on various diaries we both read, and I bought books. Soon, we plan to invade Berkeley and make a serious dent in our disposable incomes at the bookstores over there. For now, I settled on the newest Terry Pratchett and a biography of Philippe, Duc d'Orleans as the next week's reading material. I'm going to have to get a library card soon or I'll go broke.
I dinked around online a bit this afternoon but the thought of paying 7 cents a minute for a non-local phone call sort of killed my interest in the procedure so I logged off and started reading the most recent Ned Rorem book. It's an autobiography rather than a diary, and as such is less interesting, more formal, than his outrageously intimate diaries. As I lay on the bed, hemmed in by the cats who think I exist to create a warm backrest for them, I heard John call out, "Honey? You'll never guess who's here." That was weird. I mean, we do not call each other honey except in extreme sarcasm, and he didn't sound sarcastic. I wandered out to the living room to find -- our neighbor from Nashville. It turns out Glenn Edwards was in town secretly looking for a job at Stanford and happened to be staying at the hotel nearest us. John had run into him at the corner store and dragged him home to tell us the hot physics gossip. They enjoyed themselves and I listened, content to overhear the latest in the labyrinthine, near-feudal Vanderbilt physics department wars.
And after that I went to see the last game of the Stanford Women's Volleyball season. It was great, as always. I love women's volleyball. I prefer beach volleyball, which I'll actually watch on tv, but indoor college volleyball is pretty rockin', too. Stanford beat Hawaii and the crowd went wild, already hyped up from yesterday's Big Game win. You know, the Big Game? Stanford versus Cal? No, huh? Me, either. I wouldn't have noticed it except the fact that it was the 100th Big Game was newsworthy. A Cal campus newspaper writer suggested people go over and beat up Chelsea Clinton and naming her dorm. Flurries of apologies ensued, and no one was serious about whomping on the president's daughter, but I was appalled by the writer's attitude. He brushed off the furor by saying it was just normal school spirit.
Now the games are all over, the season is done, things are settling down, and ... dang. The holidays are almost here. Oh, well. I hate relaxing for too long.
