Bikes, Birds, and (silent) Beeps

Finally got off my tukus today and did something that did not involve cleaning out either the fridge or a litterbox. I pumped up the bike tires and hit the trail for a little exercise. It was a fantastic follow-up to a leisurely morning spent over coffee and the Sunday paper. It was great to be outside in the sun, listening to the surf, feeling the breeze.

By golly, being outside almost killed me.

I swear the eagle that was cruising directly overhead for a bit was eyeing me up as a snack for its young. Your thighs, madam homo sapien, are an excellent source of the RDA for proteins and fats—particularly the fats. I am thankful that I could keep the bike moving briskly enough that the bird moved on to another item on the buffet.

This is the first time I have ever seen an eagle. It was quite amazing. I am a bit distressed that I am nearing 40 trips around the sun and this was the first time I'd ever seen one. On the other hand, let's hear it for environmental legislation that seems to have worked; the birds survived decades of poison in the food chain and soft shells.

A somewhat amusing sidelight to the exercise event: I was on a well-marked, often paved, constantly maintained path—and I took my GPS unit with me! What is it about this gadget that is so enthralling? I was never more than 5 miles from home and yet I needed to have satellites incessantly confirm my location. Somehow being able to say "I trekked from N48° W123° to some other equally obscure location" sounds more impressive than "I rode my bike for an hour and almost passed out from the exertion."

Sunday Morning CEO

Sunday's paper had an interesting article on the only two CEOs of major U.S. public companies who also happened to be married to each other. Stephen Reynolds is the head of the utility holding company Puget Energy. Paula Reynolds is the head poobah at Safeco. After reading the article, I still am not entirely sure what it is that Safeco does—manufacturing? insurance? investing? publishing? nothing?—but I do know that it is one of only eight of the nation's 500 largest companies with a woman at the helm.

Ms. Reynolds is not yet 50 and this is at least the second CEO position she's held. As I was reading the story, Tom Lehrer's voice was loud in my head: "It's people like [her] that make you realize how little you've accomplished. It is a sobering thought," Lehrer continues, "that when Mozart was my age, he'd been dead for two years."

Ms. Reynolds made, possibly even earned, a salary of $2 x 10^6 last year. Her work hours do not follow the clock so much as they ignore the calendar. There are evening and weekend commitments. Meetings ad infinitum. Stadiums whose naming rights need to be bought. Deals to be done and decisions to be made and the position of the hands on the chronograph are irrelevant. These things need to be done when they need to be done. Since the article was spun from the angle of the married couple, the focus was on how they make the relationship work. I got tired just reading the article.

And I thought about my own schedule. It is Sunday and today began as it does every week: with a conscious disregard for all timepieces. When I finally decided to open my eyes, I read my sci-fi book. I then moved with the swiftness of a sloth to shower, reclaim the countertop from the ever-growing collection of dirty dishes, fetch coffee and juice and a NY Times and plant my bottom in the sunniest room in the house to read about other people who do more in a day than I plan to accomplish in a year. Monday through Friday, my days are not my own, seeing as I have a job. When the weekend rolls around, I am dizzy with the freedom from any dictated requirements. I have wasted more Saturdays thinking about how I could possible put the time to use rather than actually using the time to do something enjoyable, creative, relaxing, world-changing, etc.

She is a driven CEO and I am so clearly not. Needless to say, while I was deepening the pattern of the butt-groove in my comfie chair, I was feeling somehow less worthy and wondering what I should change in order to make more of my day—short of getting up from the chair, of course. Ms. Reynolds deals with a different issue altogether: she has tasks into her day that serve to keep her grounded. She does all the housework, cooking and grocery shopping herself!! To stay grounded!

Well, comparatively speaking, since I had already done the dishes, made myself a bowl of cereal and bought bananas this morning, our To-Do Lists were virtually the same. It turns out we're not so different after all.

What's this powder?

Headline from this past Sunday's newspaper: Powder in dorm analyzed
byline: Sylvia Moreno The Washington Post

I submit this story as evidence that the constant banging of the drum of fear by the current administration and associated blowhards is turning us all into nincompoops too scared to think for ourselves. From the article:

" ... A student discovered the powder Thursday in a roll of quarters she was using to operate washing machines ... "

A powder? In a laundry room?!? Say it ain't so! Could it possibly be the dreaded Tide with Bleach Alternative?!?

The student was "weirded out" and called in dorm officials who subsequently called in university police followed by health officials, known in post-9/11 parlance as the "Special Operations Hazardous Materials Regional Strike Team"—complete with haz-mat suits and masks. There was a picture included and, I'm sorry to say, none of the Strike Team members in the photo were seen holding a random brassiere or pair of panties ... although I would not have been surprised if they were.

Allegedly, an initial test revealed the powder to be ricin, not Tide. However, all other tests "gave inconclusive or negative results." Am I alone in thinking this was a bit overblown and the initial test was positive for the sole reason of justifying the excessive response? Of course later tests are going to be negative: the panty raid is over, boys!

All you dorm residents out there be careful with your baby and foot powders. Who knows when a roommate will be "weirded out" and out your hygiene habits outed by the Strike Team.

Oh, the irony

I found this while surfing around looking at the latest Palm OS games and apps. Names and urls have been withheld to maintain the dignity of the webmaster. Typos involving dictionaries are one of the many things that make me laugh out loud, sometimes a giggle and sometimes a guffaw. This one earned a slightly audible snicker.

As it appeared on the website:

Concise Oxford English Dictionary and MSDict Viewer 7.30 - popular dictionary on Plam

No pretense of any accuracy whatsoever

In the past three days, I have found myself trapped in one of the circles of hell not known by Dante: the supermarket check-out line. It is often a challenge to maintain one's sanity during this time of limbo while the individual currently cashing out insists loudly enough for everyone to hear that:
a) I've got the pennies in the bottom of the purse/pocket/tubesock used as changepurse, or
b) I swear that card was good yesterday, or
c) If you count the cookies, chips, nuts, and pop as one meal, then I do only have 12 items.

When silently chanting a shakra to the bovine-spirits to keep my various dairy products uncurdled and chilled, I glanced at the tabloid headlines. It seems that all the celebrities in the world have condensed into only three people: Jen, Brad, and Angelina. Their mugs were on the cover of every tabloid and magazine except for the tiny little books full of secret's never printed before or horoscope wisdom or names for your pet/child.

The stories coming out of Bradgeliniston this week centered on the sex of the child and the matrimonial plans:


























Maybe other news sources weren't duped by claims of successfully cloning humans. Is there a more rational explanation for the current checkout headline confusion?

Context Means Everything

If this is Saturday then that means I went went out for breakfast this morning. What is it about someone else cooking the eggs and bacon that makes this dynamic duo taste so much better than when I cook them myself? This food prep maxim holds no matter what the food item is prepped, even a bologna sandwich. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. A lot of people still eat bologna. And it always tastes better when someone else makes the sandwich.

Anyway, it seems to me that the enjoyment of meals eaten out is also influenced by whether or not you are considered a regular. The other morning at work, for example, I staggered down to the legal drug pusher, aka: the coffee stand, and with eyes still closed, managed to complete the entire transaction without ever speaking a word. My coffee was placed in front of me, prepared just the way I like it, and I had not even needed to be conscious. At some point, I had evolved from being "just another customer" to "a regular." When does this happen?

But I digress; let's get back to breakfast this morning. It was basic fare: eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, bread, and coffee, lots and lots of coffee. You know the routine: enter restaurant, find a table, order coffee, scan menu, drink coffee, order meal, drink coffee, eat meal, drink coffee, linger over coffee. I've gone through the routine hundreds (thousands?) of times and it was not until this very morning as the waitron was topping off my coffee cup yet again that I realized that being a good waitron is not very different from being a good stalker. The waitron this morning was always just out of earshot, hovering, circling back with the coffee pot before I realized my cup was nearing the bottom, timing each appearance perfectly. Outside of the eatery, these same behaviors could land the waitron in jail. In the eatery, however, it is a finely choreographed dance and breakfast is always better for it.

For excitement, just add water

I'm not sure what to file this under:
a) Lucky to have made it for this long before it happened
b) What were you thinking, you numbskull?
c) Say-la-vee (how do you spell that anyway?)

The event:
On the eve of new year's eve, I was finally off to bed after a long day of ... of ... well, that's not important right now. We need to focus on what comes next. I pulled back the covers on Big Swampy, that's the name of my waterbed (what, you don't name things in your house?), and was shocked to see water soaking into the sheets. This is never a good thing. What was really odd was that the water was coming from underneath the mattress. And the cats were acting very casual and cool. All of them. Hmmm...

After stripping the sheets and poking around, I found the tiniest of holes down along the side in the corner of the mattrress. Given the size of the hole and way the water was soaking into the sheets, it could have been made days earlier. The water was not spurting out like it did out of Mulder's bed in that X-Files episode with the time loop and the bank hold-up. If that were the case, I think the cats would have been less nonchalant and more chalant, don't you?

I've had the bed for about 10 years now and this is the first time the water has tried to escape the confines of the mattress. Having also owned cats for that long, do you see my confusion about trying to file this event? I'm not sure if I should be surprised that it happened or just surprised that it took so long to happen.

Well, none of the grrllzz has fessed up to being the culprit. And the whole paw posse got a free manicure ... uh ... pedicure ... er ... pawicure ... they got their nails clipped and still have rights to the bed.

The best recommendation given to me when I went running all over town to find a patch kit is to use tire patches for quad tires from the local 4-by-4 dealer. I believe the quote was: "Ain't nothing going to get through that patch." So why isn't the whole mattress made from that material?

What a way to start the new year

Scene: Dark; industrial section of urban metropolis; dark; deserted urban landscape; raining; did we mention that it is dark?

... and ... ACTION!!

Our heros are driving to the ferry terminal after a long day spent foraging for computer gagdets and digital media in the capitalist mecca known as The Mall. Neither is familiar with the area they are driving through. They have followed the signs from the freeway to their present location which is under huge concrete overpasses, support towers, warehouses and contains a hidden surprise. Neither is quite sure where the ferry terminal is and they are attentively searching for the next sign. There is no other traffic except for the car in front of them.

Suddenly there is a long LOUD horn coming from ... an indeterminable direction. It seems to be coming from all around them.

Lee: What the heck is that?
Tee: STOP!! It's a train!
L: Where?!?
T: Right there! Stop!
L: Where the f*&# are the tracks? Are we on them?

Appearing just ahead in the darkness is a huge, massive, moving shape, definable only because it is blocking out the lights on warehouses behind it as it moves across their field of vision. Yup, it's a train and it is passing within five (5, V, cinq, cinco, fünf) feet of the front of the car.

L: Are we on the tracks?
T: Holy cow! It's a train!
L: ARE WE ON THE TRACKS?!? curse curse filth filth CURSE! CURSE! CURSE!

The locomotive stops right in front of the car and reverses its direction. When it moves from in front of them, Tee suggests to Lee that it may now be safe to move ahead and get to the ferry terminal. Lee will have none of it and continues to curse.
.....

OK, maybe it's time to stop talking about this in the third person. It was terrifying. After further review, we think the train blew its horn at the car in front of us that had squirted over the tracks right in front of the engine. We never saw the train and we had no idea where the noise was coming from because it was echoing off of all the concrete.

On the heels of my previous blog about no stop signs in my town, this is a bit ironic, don't you think? There were no lights or signs or paint on the road indicating that tracks were anywhere near the road or that tracks would intersect with the road. We were paying attention to signs because we were looking for them! It's not like we missed any. The train had no lights on it at all and it's horn was useless even though it was very loud.

You can't tell me we were the first people to have run into (no pun intended) this situation. Heck, you can't even say that about the car that was right in front of us. This has had to have happened before. We were driving near the city's sports arenas, for pete's sake! Traffic happens here when thousands of cars leave the game.

I am parking my car and not venturing anywhere near the roads for a few days. Blogging is much safer.

Diner lament

I went out to dinner tonight with some friends. Just trying to fill the gastronomic void, you know? We weren't looking for anything special so much as just something solid and filling. When this is the quest, there is only one place to go: the local diner. The fare is predictable and you can still make the mortgage payment after leaving a respectable tip.

My all time favorite diner dinner is the three-piece fried chicken plate with corn and mashed potatoes. The corn is always a bright yellow color that is found nowhere else in nature (the jury is out on whether it is frozen or canned). The potatoes are rehydrated flakes far removed from their underground days. The gravy is the progeny of something the astronauts squeeze from tubes while in orbit. But the star of this dinner theater is the chicken. The three pieces always consist of a drumstick, a breast, and that mystery piece. Since it is dark meat like the drumstick, I think it's safe to assume this third piece has something to do with chicken locomotion. But here's the kicker: no matter the location of the diner or the time of day or the season when the meal is ordered: the chicken pieces are always the same size. While cows have been given drugs to increase milk production and Tom Turkey is doped up to increase his breast size, the diner-bound chickens of today are no different from their ancestors of my youth.

This is a true Franken-meal and I find the craving hard to deny when it hits. Unfortunately, for myself and other fans of this delicacy, it is going the way of the dodo bird (did dodos also possess that odd third piece?) The culprit is the chicken strip. This larger and more heavily-breaded relative of McD's chicken nuggets (speaking of odd pieces) is taking over and shoving the three-piece dinner off the menu. Not only do these strips lack the greasy goodness of the fried pieces, but the meat under the thick crunchy outer-shell (a defense against chicken strip predators in the wild, perhaps?) is all almost-white meat. Whereas I cannot determine what role the odd third piece plays in a chicken's anatomy, at least I am assured it came from a bird because it contains bones. Where on a bird do these strips of white-ish meat originate from? And why are there always three strips in a meal? That's asymmetrical anatomy. Get me Darwin on the phone.

The level of satisfaction that washes over me when I survey the bone and napkin debris from a three-piece fried chicken dinner is not matched when I look over an empty plate, devoid of ... of ... strips.

We all suffer from our own version of nostalgia and I guess this is mine. See you at the diner.

Not quite Peyton Place, but curious nevertheless

This little patch of terra firma I call home is an interesting place. The topic for today is the roads and drivers. This is the only place I've ever lived that seems to have an aversion to stop signs. At any intersection, unless at least one of the two roads has a yellow stripe down its middle, the intersection is completely suggestion-free regarding right of way.

Think for a moment about how you would drive under these circumstances. Go ahead. I'll wait. … [insert Jeopardy Show music here] …

I lived here for two weeks before I realized that stop signs were just not there. Since I didn't see a stop sign on my right, I assumed the other street had one. It wasn't until I started changing my routes a little that I realized there were no signs. Not for anybody. Not from any direction. Upon realizing this, I broke out in a cold sweat. I am sure those fourteen days cost me plenty of carma … er, karma points.

When I mentioned the lack of signage to my car insurance agent, she responded, "Oh yeah. And the worst intersection in town is right down the block here. We get claims on accidents there all the time." Is this for real?

So how do the local townsfolk drive? Some: cautiously. Others: obliviously. It's not yet clear to me which group is in the majority. I am still unscathed but I have seen a number of cars that have been broadsided. I have dredged up those lessons I learned in driver education:

Rule #1: No one else knows how to drive as well as you do. Assume no prior knowledge or skill on the part of other drivers.
Rule #2: All other drivers are looking out for you, even though…
Rule #3: The default setting for your cloaking device is ON and no one else can see your vehicle.

I just wish people were more observant. I have been a nervous passenger in a car where the driver just zipped right along through intersections without looking or slowing and yet complained about the lack of stop signs. I have slowly approached intersections while other drivers blow right through without turning to look to see if another car was approaching (yes, that was me you didn't see). I have also participated in a scene similar to Looney Tunes cartoons with the British accented chipmunks: After you. No, after you. No, I insist. Well, if you insist. I do. Thannnnk you. On the whole, I would rather go through this saga than have to pull an SUV's grill out of my rear quarter panel which is resting peacefully behind a rhododendron in someone's yard.

This is a city of over 18,000 people. Granted, there may a few other souls who are recent transplants and are still learning the ropes but that leaves … uh … minus four … borrow from the hundreds place … uh … thousands of other drivers who should know better.

Hey you! In the minivan! Like the Baby On Board signs that came before, that ribbon-shaped magnet on your bumper is not a force field.