T'was neither the alarm clock, nor the radio kicking on, nor the hour
of the morning that got me moving today.
T'was the sound of a cat puking and the need to find the mess before I
forgot it existed and inadvertantly stepped in it later.
Oh, my life is rich.
Sent from my iPhone
I went to the store for cat treats and came home with a cat from the Humane Society. Still not sure how that happened. The rest of the Posse is not pleased.
OK, I don't mind Facebook. I don't love it. I'm not obsessed with it. I do enjoy reading about what my friends are doing. I like the pithy comments most of all.
What I don't like? I don't like that so may people use FB as a retweeter system for posting every single damn news story they read. If I want to read the entire Huffington Post, I'll surf there myself and read it. In this day and age of digital news sources proliferating worse than H1N1, why do you think I need your help in finding news?
Even if you think the story is important or raises pertinent issues that should to be discussed, why do you think just posting a link to the story is enough to get that conversation going? You posted no thoughts of your own on the topic with the link so all I have is a headline. Here's where the methodology falls apart. You posted the link to a story about the obesity epidemic, the strains this puts on the health care system, the cultural movement to treat it as a disease rather than an individual's weakness at the buffet. You know what I saw in the link? A hilarious headline that said nothing more than Obese People Pushing Back. I laughed at the hilarity and didn't bother reading the story. Whatever point you thought you were making fell noiselessly into the ether.
How about telling me why you think the story is important? If you turned in someone else's work like this in school, you would have been in the dean's office so fast for plagiarism your head would spin. Simply reposting an article is not a far leap from the actions of the Dittohead army of Rush Limbaugh. You get a 0 for effort, let alone critical thinking.
You are in a bathroom.
You are at the sink.
This is on the wall above the taps.
You really needed that extra piece of info to tell you what's inside?
Found via Neatorama
I'm just posting this here so it's easy to find when I want to watch it again. This commercial would be an example of superb timing.
My first mistake was watching The T get into Facebook. That was a small step but a major one. I could feel my mind split into two. I followed her down the FB rabbit hole and now I suffer from online schizophrenia. This is just like in Stephen King's The Drawing of the Three, the second installment in the Dark Tower epic when Roland has two sets of memories those that really happened and those that also happened. There was a boy. There was no boy.
Here I am at a major research university in the Emerald City for a
week long class in how to lead discussions. Some of my colleagues
wonder I feel I need this class. I think the fact that I am
questioning my skills as a discussion leader reveals differences in
our perceptions of our classrooms. That is a blog topic for another day.
I love being in a university setting. There is an energy unique to
this setting I didn't know I missed. And you have to love that the
prof started us off by telling us where the best drip coffee on campus
could be found.
Caffeine is the fuel of academe.
Sent from my iPhone
After about 18 hours spent in a classroom and on the, uh, range, I am now the proud holder of a motorcycle license. I also have a bit of a sunburn on the back of my neck. The latter I earned by tooling around a paved lot while never getting above 2nd-gear. The former was acquired the same way. I've spent some time reflecting on the whole experience—T says possibly too much time.
Last century when I was in middle school, my gonads dictated that I take Home Economics rather than woodshop. Well, it didn't take. I am helpless in the kitchen. I can struggle through pizza, popcorn, pasta, and reheating restaurant leftovers. My mother, on the other hand, can do some serious magic when it comes to cooking. When I was wee, her renditions of Leftover Surprise were stupendous (how leftovers ever existed in our family of six is beyond me). She had a few recipes that were cycled through every now-and-again and she has at least one soup that cannot be committed to paper since the main direction is "continue to add sugar and vinegar to the duck blood, raisins, and prunes until it tastes right." Yummy. I kid you not.
She had one cookbook that I foresaw even at a young age as the thing we four siblings might fight over at the reading of the will. My brother headed this feud off by getting all the sibs our own copies a few years ago. Good move, bro!
The Encyclopedia of Cooking was compiled by Mary Margaret McBride and has 1536 pages. My mother's copy is bound in hinged steel plates (my copy has a cover but it is not attached). It is massive. It has recipes on everything, including raccoon and other game. Lard is a major ingredient throughout the recipes. This is not surprising since it was published in 1959, the heyday of the Lard Era. It shows every kitchen gadget of the time and how to use it. It defines cooking terms, like "pasties." (I'm making those tomorrow.)
It also has a typo and I only know this because of what I must have picked up Home Ick, er, Ec over three decades ago. Fact: the ingredients in American cookbooks are listed in the order they are used. So the recipe for Rice and Cheese Croquettes that lists mayonnaise, flour, then flour again is in error. "Why is a self-confessed reheater making something she cannot pronounce?" I hear you cry. I was both drawn to the combination of rice and cheese and comforted by the fact that I knew what all the other ingredients were and that none were raccoon.
Anyway, the corrected typo should read: mayonnaise, flour and milk. The amounts of the ingredients isn't what helped me solve the problem. I know not how to make a sauce that will thicken and two tablespoons of milk would certainly be stiffer than 2/3-cup of milk, wouldn't you agree? Well, if you agreed, we'd both be wrong. It was the directions for how to add the ingredients to the saucepan that helped me solve the dilemma and use 2/3-cup of milk.
Now, if Ms. McBride had not been from deep in the heartland and perhaps had a habit of sipping a wee bit of sherry between steps and sounded a bit more like the Queen, I don't think I could have solved my dilemma. Apparently, cookbooks on the other side of the pond list the ingredients from greatest to least quantity used. I don't think I picked up this part of the factoid in junior high. Regardless, I would like to thank my teacher whose name is lost to me. Tomorrow's lunch of rice and cheese croquettes is a go. Dinner will consist of turkey pasties. Stop by for a nibble if you're in town.
One of the norms here in Meanwhile Manor is that toilet paper and Q-tips and tissues just seem to get replaced when they are empty or running low. We are believers in the Toilet Paper Fairy, as identified here in this Pickles comic:
So there is part of the back story to today's post. The other facet of the back story is that The T and I have been totally sucked into the black hole that is Facebook. We are currently having a good time and yet trying to figure out how to carve out time in our day where Facebook fits in. But I digress. To summarize thus far: we believe in the TP Fairy and we joined F'Book.
What follows is what you would have overheard had you been listening in this morning.
The T: Supplies are running low. It seems the the TP Fairy is slacking off.For the record, that is one social network I would not browse.
Me: Distracted. Maybe the fairy is distracted.
T: By Facebook? The fairy is spending too much time on Facebook?
Me: TushBook. It seems more appropriate that the TP Fairy would be distracted by TushBook.
Dear Sir,
As per your letter last, I thank you for your ane compliments. Yet my eptness is useless in the task you have sent. Alas, though I chalantly try to answer your query and discern what a silhou is, I am as yet dumbfounded. I have info regarding a possibly related animal, however.
The following item is, of course, the famous creature of the silhouette family that is pandemically spreading over the globe right now, facebookus shadowus:
Facts so far: This chameleon-like creature is able to look like everyone and no one. It has an incredible rate of growth (increasing by 5 million per week; 150-million silhouettes worldwide), and each spawn—er, offspring seems to be unique from all others. It is masculine, feminine and Alfalfian. Since the sex of silhouettes is undetermined, we must be careful in assuming that of silhous until we observe one in the wild or capture one.
I have recently infiltrated the facebookus shadowus community and will begin studying behaviors, traits, customs, etc. more closely. As always, I'll send more info as it becomes available.
Our gardener dude Duane (first mentioned here) came by to do a little work. I think I should mention now that (we just learned) he is a bit of a legend in the northwest plant community. We're somewhat lucky to have found him because we met him at a party and he works with a friend and we happen to live in the same zip code, etc. He's talented and we're thrilled. Anyway, it has been a while so I was happy to work on the lawn with him. I had a lot of pent up frustration from the tiling episode and I needed to do something physical that in no way was limited to staying inside the lines.
About six weeks ago, Duane came by and killed a third of our front yard. Yes, on purpose. He sort of cleansed the palate. Apparently he follows the starting from scratch methodology of urban jungle creation. Our front lawn has been one-third dead and dry and two thirds green yet dying with extensive clover. We've been answering the neighbors' questions of what our plans were for the dead dry strip with pithy responses such as: "oh, we just like that color better" or "we're going to pave it" or "it's a landing strip." A few replies like that and your neighbors will stop asking you what you're doing. I guarantee it.
On yesterday, Duane came by to roto-till the landing strip. I offered to help. My frustration over the tiling debacle made the prospect of swinging a pick very enticing. I picked all the sod and ripped it up and Duane ran the tiller and—voila!—in about four hours, the dead dry strips of grass became overturned strips of dirt with dead grass sprinkled throughout. And this is an improvement.
While we were taking a break, I mentioned to Duane that I was thinking of painting a runway or parking stripes or something on the dead grass just to tease the neighbors. He said there is paint meant for use on vegetation. It's used to mark out pathways or bed locations or somesuch and will degrade over time without harming the plants. In fact—get this—another client has been painting some ground cover green because it died almost immediately after he planted it. He went on to say, "yeah, but now even the paint doesn't look that good. (pause) I'm not a very good gardener."
Well, that's bullhockey and was very humorous because it is so exceedingly self-effacing.
I'm going to go rub some ben-gay on my sore pick-swinging muscles and look out over my strips of dirt on the front forty.
No! I will not set the float down and step away from the tile saw! I am going to stay right here until I am heard dammit.
"Tiling is easy" they said. Who is they, you ask? Everybody I've mentioned this little project to, that's who. "I'm tiling the bathroom," I would say. "Oh, tiling is easy. I did a wall/floor/basilica," they would reply. I believed. Why would they lie to me?
So I went and got books on how to tile and the history of tile and tiling made fun for the whole family. And I read these books and I believed. I could not find the lies. The books showed pictures of tiling done correctly. A few photos even showed what not to do. I thought this was great. I thought the books were on my side.
I still wasn't sure, though. I would stand in the bathroom and study the tub surround and then look at the books and then ask people questions and then go back to stare at the tub surround. It seemed the two worlds were not connected. The books were of one universe and my tub surround was of another. I was apparently the link between the two but I could not see how.
For example, the books said "mix the thin set according to the manufacturer's instructions." I looked at the package and read only "mix water and mortar for 5-10 minutes. Let stand for 5-10 minutes." No info on how much water or how much mortar. Back to the book for: "not too watery and not too dry." Swell. You know what? I'm not stupid. I understand extremes. I get it. But where is the in between? What is good enough?
I covered the floor and the tub with plastic and cardboard to protect everything for inadvertent mortar droppings. And it's a good f*&#ing thing I did because the mortar wanted to be anywhere but on the wall. You know what else is missing from the damn books: how to get the mortar from the bucket to the wall. What tool does that? Is it a tool I've already been loaned by the liars? The books show mortar on the wall, being smeared then combed. Books show no method for getting mortar on the wall in the first place. The bathroom looks like I'm trying to replicate the pyramids minus the large stones.
After day one of 4 hours and about eight tiles I stopped. I know myself. I need a day to process what I've done here and think about it and look at the books again and–Hey! I'll check out YouTube! Great idea!
Bullpucky. Will somebody please post a video showing the reality of tiling a wall? Nothing but f*&#ing success in those goshdarned videos. Nothing showing how to deal with really small spaces or tile orientation in interior corners or saving space for the corner shelf. Only big smooth walls being tiled by women in short shorts at double-speed or large floors being tiled by men who keep flashing their bellies (wtf?) when the camera is on them. Nothing showing how the damn mortar gets from the bucket to the wall without making a detour on the floor or a leg or other random object.
So to all you people who have said "tiling is easy" I say go jump in a bucket. You lied by omission. I'm calling someone who has the skills and understanding to bridge the gap between these fictional books and the reality that is my empty wall.
Given the following image, what question(s) spring(s) to mind? Add 'em to the comments.
Found at Dark Roasted Blend
I'll get the ball rolling with: Where did the box come from?
I believe the S in iPhone 3G S stands for shorter, not speedier. I may change my mind whence I acquire my own but for right now, here's my evidence:
Found at MacRumors.
As per her comment in Zoom Zoom, Frenchie came through with fierce footwear suggestions. I have to agree with her. I can think of no other word to describe these:
I am leaning toward the pair on the right with the rivets. The gold overlay also goes nicely with the Carhartt coat I've been wearing until I acquire a leather jacket.
Yesterday while I was having the last vestiges of spring quarter stress worked from my back muscles by a very talented massage therapist, she asks, "You've read books and I suppose you think. Would you consider yourself a liberal thinker?"
Two things for ya' right now. Both from Stranger than Fiction. Both make me giggle.
Thing 1: I love the scene when Will Ferrell and his buddy are talking about their superpowers. My superpower? Suspended animation. I am very good at it. Nothing can keep me from it. I only use it for good. I became good at it through practice. In fact, another practice session may happen this afternoon, for about an hour, on the couch, under a good book.
Thing 2: This has no connection to my daily life other than I walk around saying it, most times completely unrelated to whatever is happening at that moment: I brought you flours. Gah! It's hilarious. Hmm, maybe you need the visual. Go watch the movie then we'll talk.
Lesson the First, learned while riding Clickwheel:
Don't sneeze with the helmet face shield down.
There's a new toy in the house. This is the first gadget I have ever bought with which I can cause physical harm to myself and others, text-walking injuries notwithstanding. I am now the zippy owner of a scooter named Clickwheel.
Original photo at Motorcycle Philippines
I've been riding it for about six weeks now and it is a hoot. What a blast! Zoom zoom.
Yes, zoom zoom indeed. And I haven't even gone faster than 30 mph yet! This speed limit has not meant a limit on unadulterated joy, however. I am restricted from, ahem, riding it like I stole it so that the engine is broken in correctly. After reading a little about this on the interweb, I am happy to maintain STL* speed in return for payback over the life of the engine in higher mileage and less pollution. I have only 200 more miles to go before I go to 31 mph and beyond!
I have washed Clickwheel. I have not even washed the Prius which cost seven-and-one-half times more money.
I have successfully changed Clickwheel's oil. This is an event that The T thinks of fondly as evidence that I am fried from the academic year. It took multiple trips to multiple stores for me to successfully acquire and return and try again to acquire all the materials I needed to swap used dinosaur juice for new dinosaur juice.
First I bought a drip pan and a funnel and oil. I stood Clickwheel up on her kickstand and quickly realized that the drip pan was not going to fit between the rear wheel and said stand. So the drip pan was returned. This accounts for two trips. I went to a different store to find a drip pan substitute. I found a six-inch wide roller pan used for painting. I also found a 21-piece socket wrench set with a 17 mm socket perfect for removing the oil plug. However, always the conscientious consumer, I looked around and found—for only a dollar more—a 40-piece socket wrench set. Nineteen more pieces for a buck? What a deal. I verified that the 17 mm socket was in the 21-piece socket set, placed it back on the shelf and made my way home only to return immediately once I realized that the 40-piece socket set did not have a 17 mm socket.
If the oil didn't need changing before, it sure as hell did now.
You might think that the story ends there. Depending on where you are on the Funny vs. Pedantic spectrum at this moment, you're either reading on for more or you may have already abandoned this page for something more entertaining. If you're still here, please laugh with me as I share with you what I should have thought of at the beginning of the oil saga: there is a tool kit in the stowaway zone. Yup, in the caboose where the iPhone charging port (!!) can be found is a collection of wrenches and other forged from steel items suitable for wrenching and other tasks associated with scooter engine maintenance.
I foresee future oil changes taking far less time.
* Sci-fi fans may know FTL as faster than light. STL would be the opposite.
Coffee holds a very important place in the life of The T. As the person who often makes the brew, I should know. I have been the recipient of both praise such as "I would move the planets for you right at this moment because this coffee is so good" and complaint such as "WTF?!? This could bring the water reclamation plant to a grinding halt."
This is the background for the taste test which occurred in the kitchen moments ago (since I'm taking the time to compose and spellcheck this blog entry rather than feed another tweet into the frenzy, does that make this old news?) I made a pot of brewed coffee and also a mug of instant. The instant was a sample of Starbuck's new commodity. The brewed was the same brew we've found The T can enjoy and not break the bank; it's some Cost-mo' brand. We did a blind taste test and The T made her choice between the mug with the rubberband and the mug without the rubberband. I knew which was instant and which was not. We then did a double-blind taste test where she switched or did not switch the rubberband and I chose between the two mugs.
I am shocked—SHOCKED!—to say that we both picked the instant coffee over the Mr Coffee-ed brew. Shocked! More study is necessary.
In the meantime, I asked The T which mug she would like to finish off. She picked up the brewed mug. "But I thought you liked the instant coffee better?" I asked.
"I do but I need consistency more."
Wow. Another beaten down consumer tucks her tail and huddles with hands wrapped around a mug.
The T and I were doing the we-have-no-kitchen-counter-space dance as we constructed the evening meal and I dropped some cottage cheese on the teeny tiny little rug. It really was a perfect shot. All that linoleum and the cheese lands right on the rug.
Me: What is my problem today with dairy products? I did a similar thing in my office this morning with yogurt.
T: Sorry can't help you. You missed a spot.
Me: Thanks. What's the third thing going to be? Should I go cow tipping just to get it over with?
The T, upon arising from bed: Ow, ow, ow, ow.
Me: What did you do?
T: I used my legs.
I was waiting for more information, like "I used my legs to kick the
bed" or something similar. None was forthcoming.
Perhaps the pain is related to the nine miles run yesterday. Perhaps.
Sent from my iPhone
Yesterday, The T and I went on an adventure to the dump. While this might not sound like a good time to you, it was kind of fun for us. The main reason for the fun was the novelty: we had never been to the local dump before. I was excited to learn more about the intricacies and logistics behind waste management. Face it, for most of us, garbage disposal is a magical process which happens out of sight and out of mind. Only on occasion when a cat or raccoon or boogie-man knocks over the garbage can are we reminded of the mess surrounding the vast amount of things we throw away. I was curious as to how this is handled. And since I am a city resident who pays a fee to have my garbage hauled away from my yard and my conscious thought, I also wanted to see where my money was getting tossed. This trip was a long time in coming, also, if for no other reason than to get some crap out of the yard.
We loaded up the not-so-big pile of items we couldn't cram into our bin and headed off to the waste amusement park. As a diet-inducing maneuver, might I recommend weighing yourself while sitting in your car? You know you're surrounded by steel but seeing your 4-digit weight flash high in neon lights makes your pants feel tighter all the same. We found the three-sided barn which serves as the main depository before the trash is transferred to the big hole in the ground and a broom-pushing dude directed us to back in—pretty close to the pile, I might add. The smell alone encouraged us to not look at the pile too closely. Even though I was fascinated, this was not a place to linger. We opened the hatch, we each grabbed a side of the compact pile of debris (smell-free, I might add) and heaved it onto the pile...
... and this is where a disaster of monumental proportions was narrowly averted. I did a tiny countdown of "three... two... one" and tossed with all my might. The T, on the other hand, realized we didn't have to heave since the bulldozer would push the pile higher and so she was not prepared for my display of strength. I heaved while she was still hanging on. When our deposit landed, I glanced over to see The T doing a tap dance sort of routine to keep from falling into the stinking heap.
24 hours later, I'm still apologizing loudly and often for almost tossing her into the pile.
Hmm, there's been an earthquake in China, an earthquake in Italy, an active volcano in Alaska, North Dakota is flooded and frozen, and Oklahoma is on fire.
I have but one question: where are the locusts?
This comic panel wins the award! I don't know what award but it wins. Hands down.
I'm still giggling and snorting. My nose hurts—perhaps it has to do with the hot tea that came out through my nostrils.
I will no longer struggle to come up with the right word. This gives me permission to just insert the type of word that I need, not an actual word.
Comic panel from Dog Eat Doug (c) Brian Anderson
The T and I are simple folk at heart. We have few needs and don't ask for much. For instance, neither of us can understand why some shampoos cost $10 or more for a 12-ounce bottle. What gives? The ingredients look the same to me. Well, we finally found a brand we really like about five years ago. It's inexpensive and our hair doesn't react to it after a week of use and go all insta-oily immediately aftering toweling off following a shower.
So far, our only complaint with this shampoo is that the marketing department seems to think that the bottle must change every eight weeks or so to keep the product fresh and in the face of the wandering consumer. For us, faithful customers that we are, this constant label tweaking means we have to hunt for the bottle every time we need to restock. There is this brief moment of panic when I think the brand has disappeared and then—poink!—there it is, plain as day in a new outfit. A heavy sigh usually ensues.
But the last trip to the ol' suds aisle has me dismayed. Not only was it hard to find the shampoo but once I did I noticed that the shelf space allotted to this brand seems to be shrinking. The UPC tags of the other brands are encroaching. I fear we will have to find a new brand. Oh, poop.
So I brought home a couple of constestants. If you'd been listening in, this might be what you heard:
Me: So what did you think of shampoo X?
The T: I thought it smelled a little like dead fish when you put it on your head.
Me: Hmm. Smelled like bubble gum or watermelon to me. This goes a long way toward explaining the differences in our ... (pause) ... food choices, I think.
The coffee stand on campus has a sign-up sheet for the Alliance for Animals that Eat You, or AAEY.
The manifesto is not provided. Is it pro-predator? Is it a movement to make more animals carnivores?
Sometimes I feel like an ESL student.
It seems as if The T and I have managed to overcome our blockage regarding the Remodel (I capitalize it because it is going to be with us a long, long, long time). After not making any progress for many weeks, we've managed to cross four items off the list—the least of which was to make a list of tasks we have to do. This circular referencing has done the trick and I think the ball is rollin' now, baby.
Item #1 Make a list.
Item #2 Determine which of us will do what on the list.
Item #3 Make sure at least one of us is home when the contractors show up.
So far, so good. After much deliberation, the future woodstove has completely circumnavigated the first floor of the house and is going to be installed in the spot we originally picked out. Are decisions decided like this for all remodelers? I kid you not when I say the stove started in the middle of the southwest wall, slide to the north east to act as a room divider, perch in the southeast corner for a bit to admire the view, and then scoot over to the southwest corner to catch its breath before settling back where the journey began in the middle of the wall.
Now that that is settled, we can call Brien to start pounding out the construction documents and get a little more detail on paper.
We also asked a contractor to {cough cough} submit a bid for the bathroom out in the Taj Garage. Since we are so anxious to get the bathroom done out there that we're going to go with this gent who is a worker for our architect's father's construction business. He's a bit of a known quantity by Brien and we're anxious to have the plumbing room completed so we're going to accept his bid unless it's off by a power of 10.
We also met with our gardener. Didn't know we had one of those, did you? Well, we didn't know either until we realized he had us pegged perfectly after about 20-30 minutes of circling our lot with us. Our gardener, whom we'll call Duane, summed us up in one fell swoop when he pointed at me and said I like chaotic splashes of all kinds of color all mixed up and then pointed at The T and said structured color was more her speed. It was that accurate assessment of our design, er, styles that won him the contract to turn our drab city lot into a northern amazonian jungle, complete with wild felines.
We asked him where we should locate the outdoor cat enclosure. The grrllzz want to be outside and I want them to be contained and safe from traffic and the fleabags across the street. The T voiced her concerns over having the pen near the front of the house where its addition might make the house look "white trashie." Duane slowly turned and looked out the front window and across the street. He drily said, "You have a pink house across the street. What are you worried about?"
Point taken. Where's my shovel? I see some ground that needs a breakin'!
While clicking along and pondering the ginormity of the interweb, this passed in front of my eyeballs: 
And I am speechless. It is brilliant. I mean, who would mistake that drive for their own and accidentally walk off with it? Half the world's population would leave it on the desk. Awesome. It also has me thinking about floppy discs—with wings. Best not go too far with that one.
I'm more of a visual person so the picture was enough for me. When I followed the link to The Bloggess, I was pleasantly amused by the blog entry preceding the image. Better than hearing about the budget nightmare again. I scored a two-fer.
Off to scrounge up some dinner now.
I appreciate the graphics as well as the fact that it has pulled back the Wizard's curtain just a bit and explained what's underneath very clearly. There will be a short quiz after.
Found at Neatorama
The information gathering part of the remodel is continuing. The other day I met with Mr Pyro, from the woodburning stove place. It was oh so delightful and informative and I learned I should be out there felling trees, splitting stumps and stacking logs right now if I want to heat my home with wood in eighteen months. Swell. And yet I sit here and blog about it rather than do it.
On the day in question, the sun was out and this meant that the front room of the Manor was a bit warmer than usual. The room has no curtains and faces south. In other words, the fishbowl was a-warmin' up. I'm sitting in my usual spot at the end of the table, in a sunspot, chatting with Pyro when I catch something out of the corner of my eye. I glance out the front door—which is open—and through the screen door—which is closed—to see Barque strolling up the walk. "Excuse me," I say to Pyro. "One of my cats is outdoors and I don't have outdoor cats."
I scoop up Furdini, trying to determine how she escaped. I think she has figured out the latch mechanism and whacked the door open while I was engrossed in a discussion about chimney height. I'll have to collect more data on this and possibly up my estimation of her IQ score a bit more.
Our weekend morning routine has a decidedly techie aspect. As I come out of that blissful halfway point between dreaming and full wakefulness—you know that state of consciousness where the sounds in the room don't quite jive with the dream you're having and you struggle with trying to reconcile the two—I begin most mornings by grabbing the iPhone and checking the weather. I expect no excitement from the updates. I just want verification that, indeed, Meanwhile Manor is a sieve and the temperature outside the covers is probably not very different from the temperature outside the walls.
The T came to as I was going virtual and the morning inter-romp followed the following path: check the headlines, change apps to check the weather, scan the radar map, change to the Maps app and search for Nevada City, California, search for Alamosa, Colorado, search for Area 51. In other words: random map perusal. This is our idea of a good time.
Comment of the morning: Hmm, shouldn't that be Roswell Intergalactic Air Center?
This morning at breakfast while perusing the birthday announcements in
People magazine, The T mentions that Dolly Parton is 63 years old.
Me: Wow. She looks good. How old do you think her breasts are?
T: Much, much younger.
Happy Valentines Day
This one's for you, Frenchie. I have no information on availability, efficiency, pricing, or registration requirements with your DMV or MVA.
Which one of these does not get along with the other three: sugar, cream, coffee, and the letter Y? Let me give you a few hints. Three of the four were quite content to be safely encapsulated in a travel mug. One of the four had no idea its demise was so near, about as near as the travel mug was to the keyboard upon which it was perched.
Apple, Inc. recently celebrated the 25th year of the Mac's existence. Here's to many more. This morning, I toasted the end to my own streak of approximately 28 years of using keyboards attached to Apple computers and drinking beverages of all kinds without the two ever coming to a nasty impasse. More than 10,000 consecutive days of keeping the liquids separate from the solids right went down the drain.
And the Y paid for my clumsiness with its life. All the keys around the Y dried out unscathed after a gentle swabbing with many tissues and some canned air. An additional odd injury to the keyboard was the inactivity of the N if the shift or command key to the left of the space bar was depressed but not the shift or command key to the right of the space bar. At that point, I placed the order for a replacement.
Entered in the budget ledger for the day was $65 ... for coffee.
In my efforts to be a little greener, I adopted reusable canvas bags for grocery shopping. A couple of these are all I need since I am not stocking up the way my parents did with only one shopping trip per week and six mouths at the trough.
I noticed something odd after my last trip to the store. If I use my own bags, 3¢ is discounted from the final bill. That's swell. But this begs the first question: how are those three pennies charged when one is not supplying their own bags? I've never seen a charge for 3¢ on a receipt.
There is also another question. When I purchase just milk or just some other single item for which I do not need a bag, I am not credited 3¢. Why does the discount only kick in when I use my own bag?
I believe I am going to request the 3¢ discount the next time I buy items I carry out in my hands and I am a) checked-out by a manager at the register, and b) it is not crowded so we can talk about this without a line forming behind me. Stay tuned.
Well, that was fun. The T is embarking on her own new year and so we threw a little shin-dig in order to get it started right. Those of you who know us well know that we need very little excuse in order to throw open the doors and have a party. You also know that when the guest list expands beyond five or six people, my upbringing at the knee of a woman whose house always looked ready for a Good Housekeeping photo shoot kicks in and I need to clean furiously lest I get a rash. So we cleaned. And cleaned and cleaned and cleaned...
...and barely made a dent in the debris of the abode. But at least it was presentable and somewhat child-proofed. Our breeder friends have a cute little routine upon entering the house. While Ma chats and trails the Mini while he investigates everything, Pa follows behind at a slower clip and tries to see the house through Mini's eyes. Wires, pointy things, fragile items, catfood dishes all look different to Pa, Ma, and Mini than they do to The T and I. Mini amused himself for a bit by trying to find all the occurrences of Bugs Bunny present in the house. He found a few I forgot about. Thanks, kid.
We introduced something new at this party: games. The germ of this idea was planted over xmas when I spent a goodly amount of time playing with a Wii. I thought we'd have a Wii bowling tournament. Well, I couldn't find a Wii for rent anywhere (I am not ready to buy since the remodel is still looming and I am leary of buying one only to have to pack it up for an extended period of time) so we fell back on the toychest of joy. The game of choice was Taboo. What a great way to learn how people see the world. It's essentially a word association game with some words disallowed. How can I make you say glasnost without using the terms perestroika, Gorbachev, or Reagan? After a few drinks, the question becomes even more amusing.
Today we'll do an assessment of the party protocol, debrief regarding the pros and cons of pizza toppings and wine choices, and begin planning the next gathering—optimally timed for when the house needs another good cleaning.
Who: Flight of the Conchords
What: a post dedicated to Amelia
Why: she said she liked the idea of feety-pjs; this gives her another reason to do so
What do you mean? Listen for the line about socks and all will become clear, Grasshopper.
Color me one of the stunned folks regarding the airplane landing in the Hudson River. What sticks out in my mind is that in all the news stories I've been reading about this event, there was only one mention of the actions of any member of the crew besides the Captain. The flight attendants repeated "brace for impact" and gave other instructions while the plane was descending and then they disappear from the news reports.
It is interesting piecing together the atmosphere inside the cabin based on passenger stories: some prayed, some brayed, and one gent began reading the information card to review how to get the door open once they hit the water. Once they were down, the crowd all ran to the back of the plane. They then reversed course and ran toward the front of the plane. Where were the cabin attendants while this was going on? Pretty quickly, rafts were in the water and people were on the wings. One woman now regrets having worn 3-inch heels (she made it onto the wing but ended up in the drink as she removed them and her feet slipped on the smooth, wet metal). Then the armada showed up and all passengers were eventually on dry land.
We're hearing all about the "heroic" actions of the pilot. Yes, he should be commended for his cool head and his skills and his professionalism under pressure but didn't he simply do what he was supposed to do and what we hope every pilot would do if we were the passengers? He is a role model for other pilots to look to for the way it should be done in the time of crisis. But I stop at calling him a hero. He did his job. The word hero is overused. Where is the line between doing your job right and stepping up when conditions demand it and the opposite end of the spectrum of just mailing it in? If you cross the line—toward the positive side—should you be called a hero?
There's a new gadget here at Meanwhile Manor and it has made me very happy indeed. It allows me to do two of my most favorite things simultaneously.
When the sun goes down and the grrllzz have been fed, watered, brushed, and whatever other [___]-ed that requires attention, I don my feety pajamas and head off to bed. This is Thing One. I love sleeping.
Thing Two involves numbers: collecting, sorting, graphing, analyzing, describing, drooling, etc.I love random data collection. I bought a pedometer to count the number of steps up the hill. I carried a GPS to collect data on altitude change, heading, and more. I write down my gas fill-ups religiously. The problem with all the sources of those types of data is that I have to be awake to experience them. Not so with my new gadget: a SleepTracker watch. It tracks my sleeping and sets off the alarm when I am at an optimum place in my sleep cycle.
The data collection is a total perk. I got this watch in order to combat the six months of overcast skies here in the Northwet. After the clocks get turned back and darkness rolls in around 4 pm, I have the darnedest time waking up in the morning. This is not conducive with morning classes. So I figured this watch might help.
And then I discovered the data review mode. Heaven. It records each time I am at an almost awake moment, before I start to drift back down into the inkier depths. If an almost awake moment coincides with the alarm time, then I should awake most refreshed. My breakfast time just got a wee bit more exciting. I've got my oatmeal and my sleep data.
I've only had it a week and two of those days were a weekend when my sleep schedule is totally whacked. My jury is still out on the effectiveness of this gadget but I'm loving the data in the morning.
