Hear that in a William Shatner sort of voice, as in "Help me ... Spock ... thoughts ... disconnected." Ok, enough.
I'm fine, though, and even feeling better than I have in a week, since the major gastric reflux attack last Friday. I read all the lists on mayohealth.org, eat this, don't eat that, but I swear orange juice is not on any of them. That may have been the culprit; I had a big cup of it that morning. Hadn't had any in a couple of months. And never again.
Winter break is coming up next week, a good thing. Not that I mind working (although I do hate that place with a zeal), it's just that I need a break from people. I need to be with a much smaller number of people for a while; it's like I'm on human overload. And the SCM -- well, I won't start. Okay, I will. His health issues turned out to be a lot of fury over nothing (which was good, of course) but he's still both wired and weird. I need a week of not hearing his voice, or seeing his oddly trimmed beard.
You know how you can see someone every damn day and all of a sudden one of his personal quirks just gets to you and then when you look at him that's the only thing you can see? You know that, right?
I don't know if I've ever mentioned this about him. He has never shaved in his life. Ever. (He's in his late fifties.) When he was a kid and the beard started coming in, he let it come. He keeps it very short and trimmed to a little point -- R always refers to him as "Goat Man" -- but right where his neck starts I guess he can't see it so well and it's just too long, like wisps. Is that more than you wanted to know? It's more than I want to see, let me tell you, as this causes his beard to blend in with the hair sticking out over his collar. Okay, that's more than you wanted to know.
And yesterday I felt the need to tell a boy that, hey, maybe I'm just old, but really, I just don't want to see his underwear anymore. I can do this with girls, but I figure that it's up to the men teachers to tell the boys how to behave like men. But here was this very cool member of the hockey team, wearing sweats handed down from Ruben Studdard and wearing bold plaid boxers on Monday, orange paisley on Tuesday, both days his class was in doing research. And he was sitting right in front of me and kept leaning over the table to flirt with the girls. Eeuuw, enough for me. Time to get a pair of pants that covers your butt.
I'm rambling again. Perhaps a coherent entry tomorrow. Perhaps not.
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I'm watching Friends
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