1. Erinaceous: Like a hedgehogFrom here.
2. Lamprophony: Loudness and clarity of voice
3. Depone: To testify under oath
4. Finnimbrun: A trinket or knick-knack
5. Floccinaucinihilipilification: Estimation that something is valueless.
6. Inaniloquent: Pertaining to idle talk
7. Limerance: An attempt at a scientific study into the nature of romantic love.
8. Mesonoxian: Pertaining to midnight
9. Mungo: A dumpster diver - one who extracts valuable things from trash
10. Nihilarian: A person who deals with things lacking importance (pronounce the ‘h’ like a ‘k’).
11. Nudiustertian: The day before yesterday
12. Phenakism: Deception or trickery
13. Pronk: A weak or foolish person
14. Pulveratricious: Covered with dust
15. Rastaquouere: A social climber
16. Scopperloit: Rude or rough play
17. Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange, marvelous, wonderful.
18. Tyrotoxism: To be poisoned by cheese
19. Widdiful: Someone who deserves to be hanged
20. Zabernism: The abuse of military power or authority.
June 30, 2008
Logorrhea
The challenge du jour is to incorporate the following into daily conversation:
June 19, 2008
Grrr
It has been two weeks of rampant grumpiness. I am equal parts I-hate-everything and I-want-to-curl-up-into-a-ball-and-cry. When vigorously mixed, you get a lovely dose of not-much-fun. Please take a moment to send Z your thoughts on the most sympathetic channel you can find.
I need a vacation.
I need a vacation.
June 15, 2008
June 10, 2008
Please hold
A couple of weeks ago, my external hard drive died. As it was within warranty and only served to back up all my data, it wasn't such a big deal. The replacement unit arrived over the weekend and today I'm transferring all 100+ of my fish videos from DVD onto the hard drive. You know that window you see when you're copying a file between locations on your computer, the one that tells you the "Time remaining"? It's usually terribly inaccurate, right? Well, I was just informed that it would take 37551 days and 22 hours to complete a transfer. That's about 103 years. And the count is going up. I think this is what is referred to as a lost cause.
June 09, 2008
A first
On Saturday evening, Z and I met up with just about all of our Melbourne friends to celebrate Mr. Z's birthday. There was drinking involved (it is Australia after all): lots of wine and a couple of beers. We got home around 1:00 and crawled into bed. Z fell asleep immediately. How could I tell? The incredibly loud snoring was a hint. I'm sure all the neighbours could tell just as easily. I tried the usual tactics to counter over-active nasal passages: the nudge, the elbow, the kick. No go. I had to resort to sleeping on the futon in the office. I felt bad about leaving the bed, not so bad once I realized I could still hear him through the solid brick wall between the rooms. This is the first time we have slept in separate beds under the same roof. Next time, however (and I presume there will be a next time) he's the one getting the boot.
June 07, 2008
This is hell
Two weeks ago I went to hell on a boat near Melbourne. It happened like this:
Day one: The high for the day is 16C, much less if one takes into account the very chilly southern wind. The water is 14C. There is no sunshine. It is very, very choppy in a very, very unpredictable way. This makes getting in for dives difficult as we are constantly (and literally) being thrown all over the boat. It also makes us all (even CJ who has never felt queasy on a boat) feel at least mildly sea sick. Despite the fact that I am in a dry suit, I am very cold after my first dive. As I get into the water for dive two, I slip and snap the back plate on my BCD (the vest that holds the tank and provides buoyancy). I have a spare BCD on board but it will take me a while to get it set up, so I send in another diver and sit out dive two. It is cold. I have a choice: duck out of the wind into the semi-enclosed space in the bow and get terribly sea sick or sit out in the open and get hypothermic. I choose the latter and get sea sick anyway. While I throw up I realize that this is my version of hell: the boat won't stop moving; the wind won't stop blowing; my body won't stop violently shaking - and I am about to go diving. I keep falling asleep though it is less like napping and more like passing out. The guys surface from dive two and I get ready for dive three. I am attempting to add a weight to a weight-belt when I realize that I am no longer functioning; I look down and discover that I have mis-threaded the weight, a task as easy as looping a belt through a buckle. I mention that maybe I shouldn't dive. The guys look at me and tell me that I look like hell: shockingly white with blood shot eyes and the violent shakes. The verdict: no diving for me. I get out of my dry suit and into gortex while the guys do another dive. The violent shakes calm to uncontrollable shivers. I sit on the boat thinking about quitting; no data is worth this much pain. After their dive and on the way home, we go to pull in the camera and discover it is stuck, wedged into the reef. Despite the cold and the sick, I jump in for a dive to free it. Then we go back to the house in which we're staying.
Day two: We get up before dawn to do it all again. On our way up the estuary at low tide we run aground. I jump in to push us off the sand bank. At the time, it seems like no big thing. Later, I realize it was a sign from on high to TURN AROUND; GO HOME; GIVE UP. Being blind to such omens, we continue on.
Out on the open water, there is weak sunshine and less chop. I am wearing more layers but still get unbearably cold while in the water. I don't know what's happened to me; Monterey is far colder and I used to dive that in a wet suit. Is this what happens when you get old? In between dives, we all discuss the appeal of terrestrial research. Dive two takes place in about 3m of water under crashing waves. It is not fun to be thrown repeatedly into rocks while trying to take measurements. In fact, it is so not-fun that it earns a prize: The Worst Dive of the Entire Six Month Field Season. Because I don't have my BCD with its integrated weights, I am using a weight belt. This causes my back to contort into an incredibly painful position which the cold cements into place.
At the end of the day, we go to pick up the baited camera that I dropped in at the beginning of the day. Because my wrists and back are all screwy, CJ pulls up the frame. He gets it to the side of the boat and says, "That's not good." I rush over to look over the side and see the frame minus lid and minus camera. Which is to say, minus $3000 camera. We all swear. I immediately start getting into my gear and jump into the water. I get to about 3m and realize I can't equalize - my left ear won't clear. I surface, leaving John on the bottom completely unaware of what's going on. CJ gears up as quickly as possible and jumps in. They spend about twenty minutes searching. As they surface, I see they are holding something colourful - the camera! I think. But no, it's just the lid for the frame. Perhaps the camera is positively buoyant? We search the surface for it, zig-zagging our way towards the beach, following the waves and wind. We decide that a couple of us should swim in to shore and search the beach while the other two drive the boat around to the launch ramp, get in the car, and come to pick up the searchers. I volunteer to go in along with John. We pull on fins, masks, snorkels, and throw some food and phones into a dry bag. We have a surf zone to get through before the beach. This is made all the more difficult by the fact that we extremely buoyant in our dry suits; diving under breaking waves or any kind of swimming is impossible. Instead, we are tumbled into shore like flotsam - or is it jetsam? We get there eventually and start to walk. I hear my phone ring; it is CJ calling from the boat to ask where the car keys are. "Could you please tell me that they are not in the dry bag in your hand?" he begs. We all let out a collective "D'Oh!" but with more expletives. CJ suggests that one of us hitch a ride to the boat ramp while the other continues to search. I agree, hang up and relay this message to John. There's a pause. We look at eachother: dripping wet and covered in sand. No-one will pick us up. So I call CJ back to tell him that I will drop the keys off a nearby bridge into the boat as it passes underneath. It takes about 1/2 an hour to walk to the bridge in the heavy dry suit. Dropping the keys goes well (you thought we'd lose the keys, didn't you?) and then I start walking toward the boat ramp, a few miles away. Somewhere along the way, my phone battery starts to beep its last warnings. It is my only form of communication with the car. The sun sets. I keep walking. I feel like I walk forever, but it's probably only about 45 minutes before the car appears. I am nevertheless absolutely exhausted.
Meanwhile, John has been walking down the beach, on soft sand in his heavy dry suit. He climbs all the way up a set of stairs from the beach to the road before realizing that he is no longer in possession of his phone. Returning to the beach as the last rays of light are fading from the sky, he finds his phone bobbing gently in the shallows. This explains why our frantic calls to reach him have not been answered. We have no idea where he is; he has no idea where we are. I walk down cliff stairs to the beach looking for a lone figure in the twilight: no luck. I call again: no luck. When I try for about the 6th time, John answers and we talk - me on dying mobile, he on drenched mobile. He gives us an idea of where he is. It takes a while but we eventually find him in the dark.
I call Z to tell him that we're off the water and relatively safe. Upon hearing about our day he asks, "What did you do - piss off Shiva?"
Back at the house, I realize that my back is truly rooted; I can't straighten it. I swallow massive quantities of ibuprofen and crawl into bed at 8:30. In my exhaustion, I wonder if I haven't in fact died; that I will wake up in the morning to the start of the previous day; that I will be stuck in an eternal cycle of hell, unable to do anything except repeat these horrendous days over and over and over again.
Day three: We wake up at 5:30 and do the whole thing again. This third day, however, has much less hypothermia, fewer bouts of sea sickness and, of course, we have no camera to lose.
Ah, the glamorous life of a marine biologist. Doesn't it sound like fun?
Day one: The high for the day is 16C, much less if one takes into account the very chilly southern wind. The water is 14C. There is no sunshine. It is very, very choppy in a very, very unpredictable way. This makes getting in for dives difficult as we are constantly (and literally) being thrown all over the boat. It also makes us all (even CJ who has never felt queasy on a boat) feel at least mildly sea sick. Despite the fact that I am in a dry suit, I am very cold after my first dive. As I get into the water for dive two, I slip and snap the back plate on my BCD (the vest that holds the tank and provides buoyancy). I have a spare BCD on board but it will take me a while to get it set up, so I send in another diver and sit out dive two. It is cold. I have a choice: duck out of the wind into the semi-enclosed space in the bow and get terribly sea sick or sit out in the open and get hypothermic. I choose the latter and get sea sick anyway. While I throw up I realize that this is my version of hell: the boat won't stop moving; the wind won't stop blowing; my body won't stop violently shaking - and I am about to go diving. I keep falling asleep though it is less like napping and more like passing out. The guys surface from dive two and I get ready for dive three. I am attempting to add a weight to a weight-belt when I realize that I am no longer functioning; I look down and discover that I have mis-threaded the weight, a task as easy as looping a belt through a buckle. I mention that maybe I shouldn't dive. The guys look at me and tell me that I look like hell: shockingly white with blood shot eyes and the violent shakes. The verdict: no diving for me. I get out of my dry suit and into gortex while the guys do another dive. The violent shakes calm to uncontrollable shivers. I sit on the boat thinking about quitting; no data is worth this much pain. After their dive and on the way home, we go to pull in the camera and discover it is stuck, wedged into the reef. Despite the cold and the sick, I jump in for a dive to free it. Then we go back to the house in which we're staying.
Day two: We get up before dawn to do it all again. On our way up the estuary at low tide we run aground. I jump in to push us off the sand bank. At the time, it seems like no big thing. Later, I realize it was a sign from on high to TURN AROUND; GO HOME; GIVE UP. Being blind to such omens, we continue on.
Out on the open water, there is weak sunshine and less chop. I am wearing more layers but still get unbearably cold while in the water. I don't know what's happened to me; Monterey is far colder and I used to dive that in a wet suit. Is this what happens when you get old? In between dives, we all discuss the appeal of terrestrial research. Dive two takes place in about 3m of water under crashing waves. It is not fun to be thrown repeatedly into rocks while trying to take measurements. In fact, it is so not-fun that it earns a prize: The Worst Dive of the Entire Six Month Field Season. Because I don't have my BCD with its integrated weights, I am using a weight belt. This causes my back to contort into an incredibly painful position which the cold cements into place.
At the end of the day, we go to pick up the baited camera that I dropped in at the beginning of the day. Because my wrists and back are all screwy, CJ pulls up the frame. He gets it to the side of the boat and says, "That's not good." I rush over to look over the side and see the frame minus lid and minus camera. Which is to say, minus $3000 camera. We all swear. I immediately start getting into my gear and jump into the water. I get to about 3m and realize I can't equalize - my left ear won't clear. I surface, leaving John on the bottom completely unaware of what's going on. CJ gears up as quickly as possible and jumps in. They spend about twenty minutes searching. As they surface, I see they are holding something colourful - the camera! I think. But no, it's just the lid for the frame. Perhaps the camera is positively buoyant? We search the surface for it, zig-zagging our way towards the beach, following the waves and wind. We decide that a couple of us should swim in to shore and search the beach while the other two drive the boat around to the launch ramp, get in the car, and come to pick up the searchers. I volunteer to go in along with John. We pull on fins, masks, snorkels, and throw some food and phones into a dry bag. We have a surf zone to get through before the beach. This is made all the more difficult by the fact that we extremely buoyant in our dry suits; diving under breaking waves or any kind of swimming is impossible. Instead, we are tumbled into shore like flotsam - or is it jetsam? We get there eventually and start to walk. I hear my phone ring; it is CJ calling from the boat to ask where the car keys are. "Could you please tell me that they are not in the dry bag in your hand?" he begs. We all let out a collective "D'Oh!" but with more expletives. CJ suggests that one of us hitch a ride to the boat ramp while the other continues to search. I agree, hang up and relay this message to John. There's a pause. We look at eachother: dripping wet and covered in sand. No-one will pick us up. So I call CJ back to tell him that I will drop the keys off a nearby bridge into the boat as it passes underneath. It takes about 1/2 an hour to walk to the bridge in the heavy dry suit. Dropping the keys goes well (you thought we'd lose the keys, didn't you?) and then I start walking toward the boat ramp, a few miles away. Somewhere along the way, my phone battery starts to beep its last warnings. It is my only form of communication with the car. The sun sets. I keep walking. I feel like I walk forever, but it's probably only about 45 minutes before the car appears. I am nevertheless absolutely exhausted.
Meanwhile, John has been walking down the beach, on soft sand in his heavy dry suit. He climbs all the way up a set of stairs from the beach to the road before realizing that he is no longer in possession of his phone. Returning to the beach as the last rays of light are fading from the sky, he finds his phone bobbing gently in the shallows. This explains why our frantic calls to reach him have not been answered. We have no idea where he is; he has no idea where we are. I walk down cliff stairs to the beach looking for a lone figure in the twilight: no luck. I call again: no luck. When I try for about the 6th time, John answers and we talk - me on dying mobile, he on drenched mobile. He gives us an idea of where he is. It takes a while but we eventually find him in the dark.
I call Z to tell him that we're off the water and relatively safe. Upon hearing about our day he asks, "What did you do - piss off Shiva?"
Back at the house, I realize that my back is truly rooted; I can't straighten it. I swallow massive quantities of ibuprofen and crawl into bed at 8:30. In my exhaustion, I wonder if I haven't in fact died; that I will wake up in the morning to the start of the previous day; that I will be stuck in an eternal cycle of hell, unable to do anything except repeat these horrendous days over and over and over again.
Day three: We wake up at 5:30 and do the whole thing again. This third day, however, has much less hypothermia, fewer bouts of sea sickness and, of course, we have no camera to lose.
Ah, the glamorous life of a marine biologist. Doesn't it sound like fun?
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