So, yeah, I’ve been pretty busy with the whole Save UAH Hockey thing. Tonight, Coach Cole and I went to pitch the SGA on taking a trip to Notre Dame. They listened well, and I think it’ll come off.

Afterwards, Coach and I talked for a good half-hour about everything else going on. Most of that conversation will have to stay completely off-the-record, but I’m feeling like we have a good shot as an independent. I’m hopeful.

As we left, I thanked Coach for his time and he thanked me for mine. “I wish I had 2,000 guys like you,” he said.

“I don’t know about that, Coach. That might get out of hand.”

“Well, you’d probably start something.”

“They couldn’t throw us all out at once, Coach.”

He laughed, and we walked to our cars.

Those who argue that government should be run like a business, I find, rarely have any experience in running either one.

Tommy: “Are you a Mac guy?”

Me: “Yeah, I have like five.”

George: “No wonder you vote Democrat!”

Me: “I own Macs, I grow a beard, I love my TiVo, and I drive a Subaru. Damn straight I voted for Obama.”

Tommy: “You forgot to mention that you’re a Methodist.”

To be clear, I don’t consider myself a Democrat. I’m slightly left of center these days, but I would vote for a moderate Republican—though those are becoming a dying breed.

Scene:

Your narrator walks downstairs, aiming for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up from the vending machine. Arriving at the foot of the stairs, he sees a test rig surrounded by five people.

Co-worker, known for droll humor and dry wit: “It’s not rocket science.”

Narrator [hitches up belt]: “Well, that’s what I went to school to do.” [pause] “What are y’all testing?”

Co-worker: “How many people we can get to stand here, watching the computer.”

Narrator: “What’s your goal?”

Co-worker: “Eight is a successful test.”

Narrator: “Well, I’m gonna fuck it up and walk away now. Bye!”

The narrator retrieves his quarry and returns to the scene, finding a sixth hanger-on standing near the test rig. “Seven!” The narrator turns to head back up the stairs, and seeing a co-worker, makes an about-face.

“EIGHT!”

Exeunt.

A: “You let me go without taking that poster!”

B: “I … didn’t know you needed to take it.”

A [walking disgustedly away from B's office]: “You’re supposed to remember everything for me!”

B: “I … wasn’t aware that we were married.”

A: “My husband can’t remember his own name most of the time.”

A [pauses, then returns to B's office]: “Everyone has two spouses: their real spouse, and their work spouse. Now, around here, the ratios are such that some of the folks are, well … gay. But you’re my work spouse.”

Names omitted to protect the innocent and provide general humor value if the guilty ever end up reading this on the Web.

We were having a conversation about someone I know and their dry sense of humor. I then said …

“Well, you know, I like that, but I always think whatever I said is hilarious, so I just go ahead and laugh. I can’t keep a straight face.”

Misty: “But you are hilarious.”

“Oh, whatever.”

If you don’t think I’m funny, I do! In fact, I’m frickin’ hilarious … to me.

My stress level is best indicated in the relative desire for me to go eat Thai for lunch.

Today, I crave it.

So today at work, we took a colleague out for lunch on his last day. He’s leaving the contractor world to become a civil servant. PB is a hard-working thermal analyst; hell, he was in the office on Sunday when I was. If I was in my last week of work, I … wouldn’t be in on the weekend. But there he was. When we talked about how life as a civil servant would be different, I said, “Hey, man, you’re gonna have to get some hobbies or something.”

At lunch, we talked about a variety of weird subjects—after all, this was a table full of nerdy engineers. But I think I out-nerded them all. The subject of earthquakes came up [in the context of a what-to-do-in-an-earthquake discussion about some safety slides that NASA/MSFC had circulated, because we're in such a dangerous zone here in Alabama ], and someone talked about the New Madrid earthquake. I then brought up Kentucky Bend, and then …

“How the hell do you know this stuff?”

“I read Wikipedia late at night when I can’t sleep.”

“And you tell me that I need a hobby?”

Heh. I come by it honestly. Dad used to read the encyclopedia as a kid. [So did I.]

Text received: “What do you use to make screwdrivers?”

Response sent: “3 parts vodka and 1 part triple sec to 5-6 parts OJ”

Response considered: “Cold-worked stainless steel and a petroleum-based polymer for the grip.”

Me, I’m working in the morning and am still a bit dehydrated from being sick, otherwise, well, I might have to fix myself a drink …

The NASA teleconference system always asks for the same thing before joining you to the call: “Please state your name, followed by the pound sign.” No, most mornings, since we’re a staff meeting, I say, “Teledyne Brown, Huntsville” or “Huntsville” or “TBE Huntsville”, because we’re the only group from our company and city tying in. As you’re joined to the conference, some of the numbers ring out, “[recording of what you've said] is now joining.”

This morning, I responded, “Puddintane! Ask me again, I’ll tell you the same.”

There was a brief delay, and then everyone laughed. But I could tell that they really wanted to throw shit at me.

I have considered other options:

• “James Tiberius Kirk, captain of the starship Enterprise.”
• Various politicians. Were I Frank Caliendo, I’d do it with impressions.
• “Who has two thumbs and doesn’t give a crap?” Only to see if someone responded, “Bob Kelso“.

The nuclear option is, of course, “YOUR MOM.”

Some days, it’s a wonder that they put me in positions of responsibility.

Co-op: [hands me data] “Here’s everything I have. The first couple sheets are exact quality records, the next two are photocopies of build paper, and the rest is all stuff I wrote down on an indentured parts list.”

Me: “Excellent! Just the kind of data that we need.”

Co-op: “How do you want me to organize this?”

Me: “Well, we need weights and part numbers.”

Co-op: “We’ve also got serial numbers …”

Me: “Good point. Just … get started with the data entry, and the organization will come to you. Promise.”

And that’s the truth: faced with a blob of data that you know only in part, you’re best to get it all entered and then figure out how to make it pretty. You could spend a half-hour with a plan for all this, and something on page 47? Gonna kick your ass. Better to just get started.

[And now my co-op is going to see this on Facebook, since I import notes there, and she'll know that I care. 'Cause I do. 'Cause she's kicking ass. I'm just trying not to tell her too much so she won't get complacent. ]

P: “It’s always dark in [my office].”

Me: “Juuuuust like I like it.”

P: “Maybe it’s because …”

Me: “I have a dark personality?”

P: “Maybe that’s it.”

Me: “You’re just now figuring this out?!”

Ain’t gonna lie. Mood improves with coffee, though. The sad thing is that I’m maximally productive at some level of irritation. The trouble is keeping from being so irritated that I go back down the curve …

Boss: “How was your weekend?”

Me: “Honestly, pretty shitty. I spent all weekend tangling with my Web server and got three hours’ sleep.”

Boss: “I’m not really sure that it’s worth the time that you put into it.”

Me: “Trust me, on days like today, I wonder about that myself.”

Amy, at lunch: “Quit with the Twitter already!”

Me: “You’re just jealous. I’m Twittering that we’re playing with the JesusPhone.”

I meant to take the receipt home so I could snap a photo of it, but printed in all caps on the receipt:

YOU HAVE BEEN SERVED

Mind you, below that it said “BY: $cashier”, but … too funny. I turned it around and showed Stephen, and he got a laugh out of it as well…