Various and Sundry

Englishman and I just finished our Six Feet Under marathon, thanks be to the Merrimack Valley Library Consortium. With all due respect to PBS, the series holds the distinction of being The Best Television On Television. Seriously, I think I'm giving up on the gogglebox now. Nothing could ever top the last 3 episodes of SFU. I realize we have come to this series nearly seven years too late but, really, the way we viewed was almost preferable. We had no interminable waits between episodes or even seasons once I got the library's material request process down to a science. We had little more than 5 days between each DVD disk arriving in our local library from a neighboring town. Even Comcast On Demand couldn't keep up with our voracious viewing. In fact, we started our SFU habit in January when HBO put Series 1, episodes 1 - 12 on their list of On Demand offerings. To date, they are wrapping up Season 3. Meanwhile, we're basking in the Wow of the whole package.

Today is the sort of hot, muggy number that slimes your forehead, gums your woodwork and just generally gives summer a bad rep. I hate summer because of days like today. Never mind that Sunday was a perfect 10: sunshine, bright blue sky, temperatures in the mid- to upper-seventies, and dew point in the forties. Humidity is so despised by me I've become a bit of an obsessive pedant when it comes to observing it. Forget all about percentages. They don't tell you jack. It was 58% humid in my daughter's room on Friday night and it was about as perfect a sleeping night as you could get -- windows open for fresh air, blankets and duvets on to ward off the chill. Delicious! We slept hard and we slept late. In the winter, the humidity in her room has been as low as 29%. (How do I know this, you ask? Daddy moved his wine cellar thermometer with humidity meter up there this winter when he was trying to humidify the room to keep the nagging dry allergy cough at bay.) Today it's gluey muggy and in the 90's. Gotta be better than 90% humidity, right? Wrong. 44%. So comparatively, 58% is practically raining. But, no. It was dry, comfy and lovely on Friday night because of the dew point. That's the number that matters. Here's how dew point works:

1. Under 30: Cracked skin and chapped lips
2. 30 - 50: Yeah, baby, you can touch me.
3. 50 - 55: "It's getting humid." "It is?" "Yeah, can't you tell?" "I thought it was fine." "No, it's humid." "Seems fine to me." "Don't touch me."
4. 55 - 62: Ick. Put in the damned air conditioners. Today. Please.
5. 62 - 70: This is Massabloodychusetts not Missifreakingssippi. What the hell?
6. 70 - 74: DON'T TOUCH ME! IF YOU DON'T INSTALL THOSE FREAKING AIR CONDITIONERS, I'M CALLING A DIVORCE LAWYER!
7. 75+: Whimper. I'm leaving you. I'm moving to the dairy section of Market Bastard. Or Antarctica. Whichever is colder.

Things Englishman Doesn't Know: I will have central air conditioning before another decade passes, whether we have to add it to our crapbox cape or move to another house. I can't live like this.

Job news: I have found one. I'm starting next Monday so expect the thin blog postings to continue for the foreseeable future. The one thing Busywork, Inc. had going for it was lots of underpaid underemployment which translated to plenty of blogging time. The new company has lots going for it too among which are schedule flexibility (my recruiter negotiated one weekly work-from-home day that begins immediately -- the first he's ever negotiated in 14 years of recruiting), really really nice people, twenty thousand extra dollars, and loads of exciting technical skill development that could, in theory, make me unstoppable in the future (we're talking six figure salaries and telecommuting from France for the summer if I so choose). What's not to love?

I'll tell you (you knew I would, didn't you?). The commute. I have to travel with traffic a mere measly 10 or 11 miles which is 15 to 20 minutes mid-day but somewhere in the neighborhood of an hour during commuting times. That's an hour of sitting behind the wheel in a car doing nothing, going nowhere, seeing no one. This is excruciating to someone who is accustomed to sitting at my desk 5 minutes after dropping off at daycare.

In order to enjoy the additional income, Englishman has had to consent to doing one leg of the daycare journey. We've settled on Drop Off. There was a practice run this morning that started with a pouting, teary-eyed little girl and a weeping Mommy. Change is hard for anyone but it's well nigh impossible for my little Jujube. Saturn conjunct Ascendant, this kid. She does Not. Like. To. Move. Fast. She likes schedules and routines, as you might imagine with that Saturn placement, but she likes them to be hers, not Mr. Corporate Mommyhogger's.

I've been waking up gasping just after dawn the last few days with "What have I done?" thoughts fading from my dreamy brain. That worries me because I think it's my subconscious, Higher Self, inner guide, better angel, whoseywhatsit thinking that. It all sets my "First Chakra" a-clenching (google it -- I'm being polite -- for a change).

Oh, it'll probably be fine. And for what it's worth, my Saturn? Natal Saturn opposite natal sun. Transiting Saturn conjunct natal sun (which makes transiting Saturn opposite natal Saturn right now too). Translation: Likes change NOT MUCH AT ALL but is getting it anyway because that's what Saturn does best. Holds you upside down and shakes all the loose change out of your bra. So what if your brain is jiggled loose in the process.