The internal position I’d been holding out hope for had been posted with a soft closing date of May 12. Last Friday one of my colleagues, who happens to be on the search committee, asked the search chair what was going on, why they hadn’t started reviewing applications yet.

The search chair said they’d only received a handful of applications and she wanted to hold out for more.

I don’t see how this can be read as anything other than confirmation that I am not being considered for the position.

Grr.

I’ve been looking elsewhere, putting in a few applications, but I’ve had a hard time being enthusiastic about it. There’s nothing at all within driving distance, and I simply can’t afford a proper nationwide job hunt. Even though most academic libraries reimburse expenses, I just don’t have the scratch I’d need to shell out up front.

Le sigh.

For reasons too tangential to get into, it occurred to me that (at least for a certain segment of society) “Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra” has come to have an immediately recognizable meaning, that meaning being entirely separated from the meanings carried by the literal phrase. This is especially interesting as, of course, the phrase itself originated as an example of phrases having immediately recognizable meanings entirely separated from the meanings carried by the literal phrases. It is doubly interesting that the meaning the phrase has accrued is, in fact, unrelated to the meaning it was assigned when introduced.

I have to wonder: how many other people sit around and think about things like this?

I was supposed to just go in for the cleaning/scaling and a couple of fillings, but once I was trapped beneath the paper bib I discovered that I would be having two of my wisdom teeth out as well. Thus did my intended two hours off work become a full day off.

The scaling and cleaning turned out to be even more agonizing than I’d anticipated, and more disgusting than it was agonizing. I will spare you the grody details, as it’s something you’ll never even suspect unless you, too, find yourself in a dentist’s chair after an absence of several years.

Fortunately, no necrotic tissue had to be sliced out. Pete’d had me a little worried there.

The extraction of the wisdom tooth, perhaps because I’d insisted on surplus anaesthetic, proved to be a piece of cake. Of course, I say that with the left side of my face still looking like a stroke victim’s; once the feeling returns, I may discover why people use such hushed tones when speaking of having their wisdom teeth removed.

Eight. Thousand. Dollars. My teeth are going to cost almost as much as my freakin’ car.

Damn, but we need a national health service.

The good news is that, most improbably, I won’t need a root canal at all.

The bad news: at some point in the last nine years, my wisdom teeth came in, impacted, and rotted away to the gumline. This would explain the couple of years of excruciating pain earlier this century. The not-quite-stumps remaining have to be extracted, which I’m sure will be extra fun.

The possibly worse news: thanks to good ol’ periodontitis, my four lower-front teeth will be removed and replaced with a bridge. That accounts for a little over half the total cost, actually.

Today they got started, hollowing out one rotten tooth and putting in the temporary crown, sending a cast of the former tooth out for immortalization in some sort of ceramic or composite or something to be installed at a later date. Wednesday I go in for a few fillings, perhaps a couple of veneers, and a deep cleaning and (this sounds painful) scaling.

I imagine we’ll get to the wisdom tooth extractions next week; I’m actually curious about how they’re going to do this, since there’s nothing protruding enough for the dentist to grab with forceps. I haven’t yet committed to the removal and replacement of the front teeth, as the combination of my insurance and the line of credit extended to me still won’t cover the cost. I’m hoping they’ll hang on until my insurance resets next calendar year.

I should have come clean on this earlier.

I just don’t get what’s so funny about that one guy describing the Internet as “a series of tubes”.

It’s not an elegant metaphor, and it’s not the most apt, but it doesn’t strike me as particularly absurd. If you’re talking to a group of people you think won’t understand “a network of networks”, “series of tubes” strikes me as a pretty good (intentional but not meaningless) oversimplification. Looking at the number of results from googling bandwidth pipeline, it seems even less risible.

So what’s the deal, yo?

Why? Because she pulls off the trick of being highly stylized and plain-spoken at once. That alone is reason enough to envy/worship her.

But even better than that, she’s righteous. She stands for the things that should be stood for.

And even better than that, she’s funny as hell.

Oh, and she’s from Missouri, so reading her reminds me that this state isn’t all bad.

Here’s a taste, from a post on going to the Missouri Democratic convention:

Anyhoo, we drove towards Columbia and paused to grab a yummified breakfast at the Country Pride restaurant in SmallTownVille Missouri. As we chatted about all things political and presidential I couldn’t help but observe that the people in the restaurant were pretty representative of the diversity that is Missouri. There were older and younger people, gay and straight, various races and gender diversity as well…all gathered to catch all we could eat for $7.49.

I don’t know how much those of you from out of state have heard about the controversy over Washington University, a prestigious private school in St. Louis, preparing to award an honorary doctorate to Phyllis motherfucking Schlafly, but ABB has summarized the problem neatly.

So consider this my readers’ advisory for the week, and make some room on your blogrolls.

Update: D’oh! I fail at trick questions. I completely forgot about the number 2.

So, basically, ignore the following.

What is the next number in this sequence: 1, 3, 5, 7…

a) 8
b) 9
c) 10
d) 11

Pete: “We want drama and gore, and both on an epic scale!”

Zero: “What Pete said.”

And Amy, for the win: “Yup. Need details. Least you can do for putting that damn song in my head.”

As reparations for 80s sitcom theme song abuse, I will post a long, gory, drama-filled account of May 1-4. I’m a-gonna password-protect it, though, to save myself from the ravages of Google. I’ll be glad to share the password with anyone who wants it and doesn’t look like a possible future employer; just leave a comment here with a valid email address (which is viewable only by me, rest assured) and I’ll get it to you.

Of course, most of the people reading won’t need to ask. The password will be, uncapitalized, the name of Ragged Robin’s son. You know, rhymes with “whimper”.

I’ll get it up tonight.

…my weekend, actually.

It was quite an adventure, to put it mildly. Whew.