Well, among other things, it means that by 6 PM tonight I have to come to a decision: do I go with Og et al to the blogmeet, or do I stay home?
It's this weekend because this is the weekend of the big Indy 1500 gun show, and if I've got a sciatic nerve that's playing me up the last thing I want to do is go to a place where I'll be walking and standing a lot. (To say nothing of riding in a vehicle for a total of 4 hours.)
The pain's not bad but there isn't any if I'm not standing...and I'm a firm adherent to the doctor's advice in the old joke:
Man: Doc, it hurts when I do this!If it hurts to stand and walk, stay off your feet.
Doc: Well, don't do that, then!
The timing is, however, execrable. But I'm used to that.
* * *
So I just went downstairs to check on the freezer. To my dismay, it sounded as if it were still running, so I tried turning down the thermostat to see where it would shut off.
It didn't. There was no "click", meaning it was already as cold as it gets at that setting.
Fine; I turned it up, expecting there to be a click.
...but I could hear sounds coming from the thing!
Finally it hit me: the noises I was hearing were from refrigerant bubbling through the pipes. I'd wager the compressor runs until the refrigerant reaches a certain pressure, then shuts off until the pressure falls again. And stays off, regardless of thermostat setting, because there's no point to having the compressor run if you're just pushing refrigerant past a blowoff valve.
The thermostat is set on "3", whatever that means, and the temperature inside the thing is sufficiently low that the ice has not melted. I think I'm going to want a freezer thermometer; but from here it's looking pretty good nonetheless.
* * *
I ended up going to bed later than I wanted to last night, and woke up early this morning. I gave the cats some treats and had a Suzy Q, then returned to bed, and didn't wake up until after noon.
Now I'm trying to figure out what I want for breakfast. At 1:35 (as I write this) I don't want bacon and eggs. I don't want to go buy anything. There's nothing that looks appetizing in the fridge. *sigh*
It would be easier if I was super-rich like Rush Limbaugh and had a personal chef. Let him decide what the menu is, and I just eat what's put in front of me--that's the way to do it.
Actually, make it a "she". The older I get, the more I find myself indulging in my Dad's fantasies, like the one he had about getting a big sailboat and crewing it solely with women who've got large breasts. So make that chef a young woman with big tits, and have her be one of several women after my affections, so she does things like serve the food to me while wearing only the apron, only then there's the clumsy well-endowed maid (with glasses, of course) who's also vying for my affections and she trips and falls and grabs the chef's apron on the way down and--
...okay, never mind.