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Aaagggg.

"Waving its antennae at me like it owned the place!" -- Dad, on a particularly bold pentatomid.
More recently, me, about a small implementation of la cucharacha.


Work was monitoring. Monitoring, as anticipated, was work. I sped through, despite it being the first day of the logical week and having one monitor out. (It helped that a good seven or eight of the people I got from the monitor who was out's list were Spanish-speaking interviewers, so I could just tape those and have an actual bilingual person do them, though I know that survey well enough to follow along: amistades, actividades, escuela...)



After monitoring, I wound up "testing" -- new survey going out, needs test data generated, utter nonsense will do, and needs bugs caught & typos swatted. It involved high-tech equipment. The supervisor overseeing the testing did not think that my commentary on one of the questions (on a $HIGH_TICKET_EQUIPMENT_PURCHASE, the question was, "Did you get any other equipment with it?" and my quip was, "Would you like fries with that?") would be amusing to the geek in the back room. (I thought it would, but what would I know? I'm only a geek.) Ditto the commentary on a typo: "While the thought of web-enabled pigs amuses greatly, I am forced to conclude that the intended word is 'websites' rather than the given 'websties'."



I really would have preferred to be sitting in a different monitor room. The back monitor rooms have more insulation from the bullpen, and my paranoia index has been up. It's creepy knowing you're being gossiped about, even if half of it you can dismiss as aforementioned paranoia.


Keeping the faith. Maybe Tuesday. I'll ask when I call this weekend.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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