This Sunday I took part in an all-day outdoor promotion ceremony/10-year dojo anniversary/barbecue shindig. As usual, I was called on to be the uke for students demonstrating their self-defense skills in front of the panel of black-belt instructors. This inevitably ends up with me getting a taste of the floor at some point, or, in this case, the turf.

It was after the first dozen or so faceplants that my forehead started to hurt. My brain long since having been rattled numb, I became acutely aware that my forehead felt prickly and hot. Since I am susceptable to the occasional plant allergy, I immediately assumed it was due to having my mug meet the the sod all afternoon, but sometime around 4:00 in the afternoon it was finally pointed out to me that, sans sunscreen, I’d simply broiled my head in the sunshine.

On Monday, every last dying skin cell let its closest pain receptor know of its impending fate. It hurt to talk, eat, and emote, to say nothing of the minor hell that was shaving. While the pain receded today, I still look like I’ve been parboiled—and had the stupidity to wear a bright red shirt that does only amplifies the glaring scarlet beacon that is my nogggin. The worst part of the ordeal is that I don’t tan from burns; my flesh is apparently better suited to a slow braise instead of a flash frying. By tomorrow, it’ll go straight into the peeling phase, leaving family and coworkers alike aghast at the ribbons of dead flesh that are soon to dangle from my skull.

Since I’m ashamed to admit that I was just too stupid to apply sunscreen before spending all day outside, I just tell everyone I’ve been working in the Crocker Lab here on campus. I imagine the peeling stage will lend some extra credence to the fib.

I got a call last night from a number I didn’t recognize, so I let it roll over into voice mail. Later, I dialed in to listed to the message. It was an older woman, somewhere in 60+ territory, judging from the sound of her voice, and I listened to her apologize for misdialing and reaching my number. Over and over again.

Four times she apologized, sounding more penitent on each successive pass, until she issued one last quavering, unintelligible mumble and hung up. I checked my mailbox greeting just to make sure I—or some other malefactor—hadn’t managed to record some sort of threatening, evil outgoing message; my familiar nasal, milquetoast tones put that theory to rest. I guess the reason for her pathos will just have to remain a weird little mystery.

I don’t know about you, but it astounds me that you still have to set up an Exchange account through the Windows control panel instead of through Outlook. It’s not that it’s difficult, but it’s needlessly opaque, especially since users expect to go through Outlook, which is, after all, their mail application. I suppose I shouldn’t complain—job security and all that—but it’s baffling.

Recently my ancient Hotmail account has seen an uptick in (supposed) porn spam with subject lines bearing subject lines sounding suspiciously like their author relied heavily on an English-to-whatever dictionary: “Whisky becomes stepdaughter easy of access” or “Fascinating son executed stemothers desire to be filled”. While crudely translated, the gist is certainly clear. Today, however, the result was amusing: “Teen nymphomaniac gets all holes hardly fucked”. With a disappointing lead-in like that, I can’t imagine their clickthrough rate was very high.