Why Won't Snoop Dogg Return My Calls?

Two weeks ago we had some pretty heavy rainstorms here in St. Louis. Normally, this isn't a huge deal - we get big thunderstorms once every month or so here, and it's never really been a problem (except for fans at Busch Stadium). But, lo and behold, our house had a bit of a leak during these most recent storms.

A little background may be in order. When we bought the house, we had it inspected, like all good home buyers should. The inspector pointed out two problems with the house - the first was that the otherwise flat roof had a bit of a dip in it. This was a problem, he said, because it indicated that something structural had gone wrong. He also pointed out that the flashing - the tar around the joints between the chimneys and the roof - looked like it had been done by a retarded monkey with a hatred of all things purple.

Just run with me, people - you're on the shapu train now, and there aren't any stops.

So, knowing these two things, Kirsten and I still bought the house. We knew there could be problems, but we figured we'd have time to work around them.

Until two weeks ago, that is.

I'm coming to bed on like a Tuesday night, and I hear Kirsten say, "What's that?"

I looked up, and there's a bubble on the ceiling. Bubbles mean one thing - water. And water inside your house means you have a problem with your roof. So I quick like a bunny got a bucket to put under the bubble and I punctured it, to allow the water to drip out from there and not get any farther in the roofing and cause problems.

It took a couple of tries, but we finally got a roofer to come by and repair the flashing around the bedroom chimney, as well as the chimney in the dining room, the chimney in the kitchen, and the sewer gas stack that runs past the library - four chimneys in all, plus a roofing tile that had been installed by that same hateful and impaired monkey.

As soon as the roofers were done, I breathed a sigh of relief, and said, "There's no more drizzle in the hizzle for shizzle."

Getting Used to It

So, I have to admit I'm confused about gender roles in modern society. Somehow I've managed to rope myself into doing most of the cooking and the cleaning around the house. And last I checked, I was still a man. Married to a woman (for a guy, cooking and cleaning the majority of the time are less odd when single), even.

But, despite the fact that I long for the peace, the safety, and the difficult-to-operate lingerie of yesteryear, I guess I can still say that I do enjoy being married.

Unrelated webcomic hilarity:
Click here

No, I'm at Work, I Promise

So, one of the tasks that I've volunteered to take on here at work has been the construction of a photo book of campus - something we could take along on visits and show to people who don't come back often, if they come visit campus at all. It's designed to be cheap enough to leave behind if we absolutely have to (only a couple of bucks each), but decent-looking enough that we don't mind showing it off.

So far, we're doing good. We have an older version it that one of our departments had been using for a couple of years and has been well-received. So this is really based on that, which was done by one of my coworkers. This is just an updated version that's being put together for Arts & Sciences, rather than for the whole university.

Anyway, this mock-up came to my desk the other day and I've passed it around to the other staffers. They've all offered their input, and I'm about to send it back to our public affairs person who, along with her intern, will put it all together.

The best part of it is that I got to put this line in the update request:
"Anything involving pictures of students doing student-type things. More thinky-thinky than drinky-drinky."

The second-best part? I'm hardly really doing anything at all, and yet I'm still going to get credit for how cool this will be when we're done with it.

A Few Disjointed Thoughts

I took my first work-related trip two weeks ago, to Jefferson City and Columbia to visit a few alumni and raise some dollas (holla, holla!) for the University. It was a good trip, more exploratory than solicitory, and I really enjoyed it.

Problem is, Kirsten didn't. She actively disliked it, in fact (which is different from passive disliking, in exactly the way you'd imagine).

I'm gone for this trip from Monday through Wednesday, getting back just before the work day ends.

Then, the following Sunday, I was gone again. I spent all of last week in Indianapolis for a training conference titled "Principles and Techniques of Fundraising." It was a good course, and the philosophy, though it wasn't expressly pointed out, was that the fundraiser operates in a middle space between the donor and the organization he's* fundraising for, and so has to make sure that both masters are served.

But Kirsten seemed better, somehow, about that trip than the trip to Jefferson City and Columbia, despite the fact that I was gone for two days longer. I don't really know why she would have been, except that perhaps it's a matter of being able to expect it this time around.

At any rate, I'm back in town now, and spent tonight, St. Patrick's Day, at a wine tasting in Lafayette Square.

Firstly, let me point out that wine is not the right drink for March 17th. March 16? Sure. March 18? Most likely. March 15 or 19? Why not?

But not March 17.

Anyway, this wine is some crazy nonsense from Washington state, and really, it wasn't any good. In point of fact, it was ridiculously expensive, too: like, 54 dollars per bottle for the last stuff we sampled. I won't mention the vintner for fear of being found on The Google and being sued, but really, it was crap. It definitely wasn't worth 54 bucks a bottle, and I doubt I'd pay 14 dollars per bottle. But there it is. And this tasting was at a trendy bar whose name isn't actually on the front of the place, so you just have to sort of know that it's there. Kirsten and I had walked past this place easily a dozen times, and never seen a name on it - thus, we didn't belong.

And now that I know what crappy wine they have for tastings, I'm not sure I want to go back. So now I'm going to have a cup of non-alcoholic, good old-fashioned coffee, that I definitely won't pay fifty-some dollars for.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!



*only men can be fundraisers. Look it up.