Oh, it's good to be back home.
Our original flight plan had us leaving Vermont at around 11:00am, hanging out at JFK airport in NY for 3 hours, and then arriving in Oakland, CA at 7:00pm. This was a surprisingly humane schedule for traveling from the East Coast Boonies to West Coast Civilization.
Of course it didn't work out that way. Our 3 hour layover at JFK turned into an 8-hour debacle, where they constantly changed our flight time amidst a departure board that became increasingly riddled with flight cancellations. It was a harrowing wait for any number of reasons including this one.
At one point, when Hank and Daisy were in the bathroom, I got out of my seat and wandered over to the gate to make sure that our 6:00pm departure time had not changed. I found that it suddenly said 8:45pm. I swore audibly and heard a voice next to me say, "Maybe we should give up on this flight."
I turned around and was surprised to see that the voice came from a very attractive woman sitting at the gate. She was looking at me expectantly. I immediately replayed her comment in my head.
What did the 'we' in her question mean? Was she implying that she and I should take this opportunity to bolt from our existing plans and lives and take off somewhere? Had she noticed that I was formerly with family and that I was now suddenly alone and available? Was this fate speaking to me?
I parsed the potential meanings and outcomes in my head quickly. And then I turned and marched back to my seat. It was the only course of action that made sense.
Anyway, our flight did eventually take off, five hours later than scheduled. Earlier in the day I had used Google Maps on my phone to try and find a shuttle service to take us from the Oakland airport back to our home in San Francisco. I had googled for "Super Shuttle" near the Oakland airport, and Google Maps had returned a result for Super Star Shuttle. Good enough. I called them and arranged a pickup. They quoted me a reasonable price and said that they'd have a Lincoln Town Car waiting for us near baggage claim.
When it came time to meet up with the car service in Oakland, I was surprised at how poorly they seemed to know the airport. The pickup place they quoted was under construction and it was a comedy of errors trying to find each other. When we finally located the car, the driver popped out to open the trunk and it was filled with his personal belongings, including old boxes, gym shoes, and assorted trash.
Hank attempted to open the car door and it was jammed. The driver rushed over, apologized, and jiggled the handle vigorously. After a few seconds of that, the car door popped open and we climbed in.
This was clearly just some guy's car, and not the Super Shuttle I had hoped for. I climbed into the car hesitantly, but it was nearly 1:00am at by this time, so I would have accepted a ride in Satan's car if it seemed to have a good chance of heading in the right direction.
As it turns out, the dude driving the Super Star Shuttle was exceedingly nice. I don't know if he had a commercial license or not, but he got us home safe and sound. I fell asleep at around 2:00am, about 22 hours after I had woken up in Vermont. It was good to be back in my own bed.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Of course I spoke too hastily in my last blog entry. I made it sound like putting a worm on a hook was the grossest thing one could do. I disproved that theory on Saturday.
On that fine day Daisy and I went down to the dock again for some fishing. Although I had completely destroyed the ability of her fishing rod to successfully retract fishing line, I "fixed" that problem by jamming up the reel so that it couldn't release the fishing line either. At that point her "fishing rod" really was functionally just a stick from which we hung a line with a baited hook. I saw Grandpa successfully catch fish that way during the previous outing, so I figured we'd give it a shot.
We did actually get a few nibbles, and successfully pulled one tiny fish all the way out of the lake (whom we then threw back into the water, perforated jaw and all). After about 30 minutes of this game, Daisy was done. She handed me her rod. It still contained the last worm I had put on it, and he was still wriggling around despite the vigorous stabbing and drowning that had been inflicted upon him.
"Let's go swimming instead!" she exclaimed.
(Incidentally, I know I use a lot of exclamation marks when I quote Daisy, but that's just the way she talks)
"Ok, but if we're going to put away your fishing rod, we should probably remove the worm from it." I explained.
"Alrighty!" and with that, she marched into the house to put on her bathing suit, leaving me along with John Q. Worm.
On this particular afternoon, Daisy had been using a triple hook. When I baited the hook, I impaled John Q. on each of the three pointy ends, to reduce the chance that he'd get away. In fact, just the opposite had occurred. In all his watery wriggling, he had essentially wrapped himself more tightly around the hook structure. He had basically tied himself into a worm knot, a gooey, innard-leaking, squirming knot.
Do you know how to untie knots? Sure, you do. You grasp them VERY firmly. You use your fingernails to separate the strands. You push one end through another. You perform all sorts of actions that essentially just pulverize a living worm, like my friend, John Q. Let's just say that he was all done wriggling by the time I had "freed" him.
And THAT is why the one thing worse that putting a worm on a hook, is getting that worm back off the hook.
On that fine day Daisy and I went down to the dock again for some fishing. Although I had completely destroyed the ability of her fishing rod to successfully retract fishing line, I "fixed" that problem by jamming up the reel so that it couldn't release the fishing line either. At that point her "fishing rod" really was functionally just a stick from which we hung a line with a baited hook. I saw Grandpa successfully catch fish that way during the previous outing, so I figured we'd give it a shot.
We did actually get a few nibbles, and successfully pulled one tiny fish all the way out of the lake (whom we then threw back into the water, perforated jaw and all). After about 30 minutes of this game, Daisy was done. She handed me her rod. It still contained the last worm I had put on it, and he was still wriggling around despite the vigorous stabbing and drowning that had been inflicted upon him.
"Let's go swimming instead!" she exclaimed.
(Incidentally, I know I use a lot of exclamation marks when I quote Daisy, but that's just the way she talks)
"Ok, but if we're going to put away your fishing rod, we should probably remove the worm from it." I explained.
"Alrighty!" and with that, she marched into the house to put on her bathing suit, leaving me along with John Q. Worm.
On this particular afternoon, Daisy had been using a triple hook. When I baited the hook, I impaled John Q. on each of the three pointy ends, to reduce the chance that he'd get away. In fact, just the opposite had occurred. In all his watery wriggling, he had essentially wrapped himself more tightly around the hook structure. He had basically tied himself into a worm knot, a gooey, innard-leaking, squirming knot.
Do you know how to untie knots? Sure, you do. You grasp them VERY firmly. You use your fingernails to separate the strands. You push one end through another. You perform all sorts of actions that essentially just pulverize a living worm, like my friend, John Q. Let's just say that he was all done wriggling by the time I had "freed" him.
And THAT is why the one thing worse that putting a worm on a hook, is getting that worm back off the hook.
Friday, July 27, 2007
"Daddy! I can't wait to go fishing on my birthday!"
Statements like these from my daughter make me recall conversations that I had with my own father years ago. I wasn't much of a sports fan when I was a kid, but there have been periods of time in my life, including one now, when I enjoyed watching sports on TV. I went through a football period for a few years, and now I'm well into my baseball phase. Each time I'd discuss these sports with my father, a small grin would pop out on his face, and he'd wistfully say, "I don't think you are my son."
Much as my father had zero interest in sports, I have no interest in wrestling my own food from its happy home. I don't care to grow my own bananas, raise and slaughter my own cattle, or harvest chocolate chip cookies from their magical orchards. I recognize that someone is doing this distasteful work and I am happy to throw money at them to keep them doing it. My high school camping buddy once forced me to go fishing, and I was thrilled that day to not catch a single fish. I've never fished since then.
My daughter, however, has been looking forward to fishing since the last time she fished at her grandmother's house last summer. This summer she carefully planned her birthday's activities, which included catching some fish, and then eating those very same fish. Cake and presents were also desired. That part of the birthday I understood.
Anyway, so it came to be that earlier this week I was standing on a small dock here in Vermont, at Hank's mom's house, with my daughter, her grandpa, and a few fishing rods. Grandpa is an accomplished fisherman and had outfitted Daisy with her own rod, hooks, weight gizmos, flux capacitors, deflector arrays, a cotton gin, and a container of fat, helpless, and innocent little worms.
Grandpa affixed a worm to Daisy's hook, gave her some instructions and then set himself up. I stood to the side of this affair, trying my best to be both present and uninvolved. Worms? Live fish? Lake water? Yuck.
Daisy got some nibbles pretty quickly and lost her worm soon after that. "Daddy! I need a new worm on my hook, please!" she asked politely.
I looked over at Grandpa. "Uh, Bill, we need a worm over here," I suggested, hoping that that the ex-Marine would take pity on the computer programmer.
"The container is in the boat, Mike" he replied while managing his own rod and line.
Ugh.
Gah.
Crap!
I stepped slowly over to the boat and retrieved the container of worms. I plucked a worm out of the loosely-packed dirt and eyed it warily. He wriggled peacefully in my hand.
I grasped him firmly and he complied passively, trusting me implicitly, and then I impaled him upon the hook.
Worms, as it turns out, are both wriggly and hardy. He wriggled furiously, trying to twist himself off the hook. I responded by grabbing another section of his innocent little segmented body and foisting that upon the hook as well. Neither impaling killed the little dude. He continued his futile escape attempts while I grimaced and shuddered.
I gave the rod back to Daisy and she coolly cast the hook out into the lake. I breathed a sigh of relief. Worm out of sight, out of mind.
About 30 seconds later, Daisy cried, "I got one! I'VE GOT ONE!"
She reeled in her line and sure enough, a small squirming perch was attached to the end of it.I glanced over at Bill and he was at the other end of the dock. So, I grabbed the fish on my hand and examined it. He had swallowed the hook and worm entirely. They were nowhere to be seen.
"Bill!" I whined, "I can't get the hook out. The fish swallowed it!"
"We need that hook. You need to kill the fish now so that he doesn't suffer. Hit him with a rock."
Hit him with a rock? Jesus! Wasn't fish morphine available? I felt like a fish thug.
I brought Perchy over to the shore, gently laid him down on ground, grabbed a big rock and slammed it upon his head. He responded by flipping furiously away. So, I smacked him with the rock a few more times. Brutal.
Traumatized by the killing, I marched the fish over to Bill and suggested that he remove the hook. Thankfully, he complied.
This continued for another hour. I killed several more worms while Daisy caught about four small fish (which I forced Bill to gut and clean). By the time she was done, I had become slightly desensitized to the entire worm-impaling process, (and in fact, Bill, who is a Buddhist in training, proclaimed me blood thirsty)
When Daisy said she was done, I eyed her rod and the remaining worms. This was my chance to catch my first fish. I could still do it before I was 40 years old.
"I'll be up in a few minutes," I announced. "I'd like to catch one."
As it turns out, my relationship to fishing line is exactly like my relationship to saran wrap. They HATE me. I cannot use saran wrap without either cutting myself, wadding up the saran wrap, or literally screaming in frustration. Fishing was the same way. I had discovered that Daisy had made it look easy. Apparently I am to fishing as Charlie Brown is to kite flying. Within 10 minutes I had completely entangled myself in fishing line and broken Daisy's brand new rod. Nice.
We still ate her perch for dinner though. It was small, bony, and hers.
Happy eighth birthday, Daisy. No coal this year.
Statements like these from my daughter make me recall conversations that I had with my own father years ago. I wasn't much of a sports fan when I was a kid, but there have been periods of time in my life, including one now, when I enjoyed watching sports on TV. I went through a football period for a few years, and now I'm well into my baseball phase. Each time I'd discuss these sports with my father, a small grin would pop out on his face, and he'd wistfully say, "I don't think you are my son."
Much as my father had zero interest in sports, I have no interest in wrestling my own food from its happy home. I don't care to grow my own bananas, raise and slaughter my own cattle, or harvest chocolate chip cookies from their magical orchards. I recognize that someone is doing this distasteful work and I am happy to throw money at them to keep them doing it. My high school camping buddy once forced me to go fishing, and I was thrilled that day to not catch a single fish. I've never fished since then.
My daughter, however, has been looking forward to fishing since the last time she fished at her grandmother's house last summer. This summer she carefully planned her birthday's activities, which included catching some fish, and then eating those very same fish. Cake and presents were also desired. That part of the birthday I understood.
Anyway, so it came to be that earlier this week I was standing on a small dock here in Vermont, at Hank's mom's house, with my daughter, her grandpa, and a few fishing rods. Grandpa is an accomplished fisherman and had outfitted Daisy with her own rod, hooks, weight gizmos, flux capacitors, deflector arrays, a cotton gin, and a container of fat, helpless, and innocent little worms.
Grandpa affixed a worm to Daisy's hook, gave her some instructions and then set himself up. I stood to the side of this affair, trying my best to be both present and uninvolved. Worms? Live fish? Lake water? Yuck.
Daisy got some nibbles pretty quickly and lost her worm soon after that. "Daddy! I need a new worm on my hook, please!" she asked politely.
I looked over at Grandpa. "Uh, Bill, we need a worm over here," I suggested, hoping that that the ex-Marine would take pity on the computer programmer.
"The container is in the boat, Mike" he replied while managing his own rod and line.
Ugh.
Gah.
Crap!
I stepped slowly over to the boat and retrieved the container of worms. I plucked a worm out of the loosely-packed dirt and eyed it warily. He wriggled peacefully in my hand.
I grasped him firmly and he complied passively, trusting me implicitly, and then I impaled him upon the hook.
Worms, as it turns out, are both wriggly and hardy. He wriggled furiously, trying to twist himself off the hook. I responded by grabbing another section of his innocent little segmented body and foisting that upon the hook as well. Neither impaling killed the little dude. He continued his futile escape attempts while I grimaced and shuddered.
I gave the rod back to Daisy and she coolly cast the hook out into the lake. I breathed a sigh of relief. Worm out of sight, out of mind.
About 30 seconds later, Daisy cried, "I got one! I'VE GOT ONE!"
She reeled in her line and sure enough, a small squirming perch was attached to the end of it.I glanced over at Bill and he was at the other end of the dock. So, I grabbed the fish on my hand and examined it. He had swallowed the hook and worm entirely. They were nowhere to be seen.
"Bill!" I whined, "I can't get the hook out. The fish swallowed it!"
"We need that hook. You need to kill the fish now so that he doesn't suffer. Hit him with a rock."
Hit him with a rock? Jesus! Wasn't fish morphine available? I felt like a fish thug.
I brought Perchy over to the shore, gently laid him down on ground, grabbed a big rock and slammed it upon his head. He responded by flipping furiously away. So, I smacked him with the rock a few more times. Brutal.
Traumatized by the killing, I marched the fish over to Bill and suggested that he remove the hook. Thankfully, he complied.
This continued for another hour. I killed several more worms while Daisy caught about four small fish (which I forced Bill to gut and clean). By the time she was done, I had become slightly desensitized to the entire worm-impaling process, (and in fact, Bill, who is a Buddhist in training, proclaimed me blood thirsty)
When Daisy said she was done, I eyed her rod and the remaining worms. This was my chance to catch my first fish. I could still do it before I was 40 years old.
"I'll be up in a few minutes," I announced. "I'd like to catch one."
As it turns out, my relationship to fishing line is exactly like my relationship to saran wrap. They HATE me. I cannot use saran wrap without either cutting myself, wadding up the saran wrap, or literally screaming in frustration. Fishing was the same way. I had discovered that Daisy had made it look easy. Apparently I am to fishing as Charlie Brown is to kite flying. Within 10 minutes I had completely entangled myself in fishing line and broken Daisy's brand new rod. Nice.
We still ate her perch for dinner though. It was small, bony, and hers.
Happy eighth birthday, Daisy. No coal this year.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
We sat out on the deck of Hank's mom's house the other night, listening to Daisy plan the activities she wished to enjoy the following day, which just happened to be her birthday. She rifled off this list while twirling around in the nighttime air, visibly enjoying the feel of the movement.
"First, we'll make pancakes and have a pancake breakfast with lots of maple syrup!"
(presumably this is the main reason we came to Vermont to celebrate her birthday)
"Then, we'll go fishing. Then, after that, we'll have lunch and we'll eat the fish I caught. Then, we'll open my presents, and then we'll PLAY with my presents! And then..."
I stopped her here.
"Play with your presents?" I asked. "What makes you think that you'll get some presents that you can play with? What if you just get a lump of coal?"
She stopped and stared at me defiantly. "Then we'll make a fire!" she exclaimed, continuing the twirling and planning that happily occupied her every molecule.
Not even my orneriness could spoil her mood this time.
"First, we'll make pancakes and have a pancake breakfast with lots of maple syrup!"
(presumably this is the main reason we came to Vermont to celebrate her birthday)
"Then, we'll go fishing. Then, after that, we'll have lunch and we'll eat the fish I caught. Then, we'll open my presents, and then we'll PLAY with my presents! And then..."
I stopped her here.
"Play with your presents?" I asked. "What makes you think that you'll get some presents that you can play with? What if you just get a lump of coal?"
She stopped and stared at me defiantly. "Then we'll make a fire!" she exclaimed, continuing the twirling and planning that happily occupied her every molecule.
Not even my orneriness could spoil her mood this time.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Our traveling day on Saturday went pretty smoothly. By the time we landed in Vermont, the only hitch we had encountered was a 45 minute delay at JFK airport in New York where they forced us to sit on the tarmack for 45 minutes while our plane waited for for its turn to take off. Apparently this delay is routine enough that they just build an extra 45 minutes into your itinerary schedule, so we still arrived in Vermont on time. It's convenient that the airlines know that they're incompetent when they compute your flight arrival times.
Once we got to the transportation hub and mecca that is Burlington, Vermont, Hank went to go pick up our reserved rental car. However, the clerk at Hertz informed us that they were out of cars. I glared at the clerk and was reminded of the Seinfeld episode where the same thing had happened to him despite the fact that he had a reservation. He famously quipped, "Anyone can take a reservation. It's the holding of the reservation that's the important part."
I refrained from quoting Seinfeld or making the excellent arms-windmilling gesture that went along with it. The clerk suggested that perhaps we could rent a car from another agency, but because the Burlington airport closes down each evening when the maple tap runs dry, there were no other rental car desks open. So, we decided to take a cab into town and get some dinner while Hertz waited for "our car" to be returned by the previous renter.
Two hours later, they still had no car for us. This was a big drag because we were due to drive to Hank's mom's house which was an hour away, over the river and through the woods. By this point, the other rental car companies had found their backup stash of maple syrup and had reopened their desk, so the Hertz manager went to procure us a car from another agency.
The clerk then confided to us that they'd had a steady stream of angry customers all day (which is amazing, because it means that they overbooked BY A LOT). The clerk smiled and said that we were the nicest customers they'd had.
What? I'm glaring and I'm the NICEST customer?
That kind of put things into perspective. Maybe the clerk was having a worse day that I was. That took a bit of the wind out of my anger-fueled sails.
45 minutes later, the manager had found us a car. He sheepishly explained that this car was more expensive than the cheap-ass one we had rented, so would we mind returning it the next day so that they could give us the cheaper one? We assured him that we did indeed mind, but if he wanted to drive out to Vermont boonies on his dime, and exchange our semi-crappy car for the crappy car we requested, he'd be welcome to do that.
So far, he hasn't showed up. So, the fabulous luxury of the Ford Taurus is all ours for now. Lucky us.
Once we got to the transportation hub and mecca that is Burlington, Vermont, Hank went to go pick up our reserved rental car. However, the clerk at Hertz informed us that they were out of cars. I glared at the clerk and was reminded of the Seinfeld episode where the same thing had happened to him despite the fact that he had a reservation. He famously quipped, "Anyone can take a reservation. It's the holding of the reservation that's the important part."
I refrained from quoting Seinfeld or making the excellent arms-windmilling gesture that went along with it. The clerk suggested that perhaps we could rent a car from another agency, but because the Burlington airport closes down each evening when the maple tap runs dry, there were no other rental car desks open. So, we decided to take a cab into town and get some dinner while Hertz waited for "our car" to be returned by the previous renter.
Two hours later, they still had no car for us. This was a big drag because we were due to drive to Hank's mom's house which was an hour away, over the river and through the woods. By this point, the other rental car companies had found their backup stash of maple syrup and had reopened their desk, so the Hertz manager went to procure us a car from another agency.
The clerk then confided to us that they'd had a steady stream of angry customers all day (which is amazing, because it means that they overbooked BY A LOT). The clerk smiled and said that we were the nicest customers they'd had.
What? I'm glaring and I'm the NICEST customer?
That kind of put things into perspective. Maybe the clerk was having a worse day that I was. That took a bit of the wind out of my anger-fueled sails.
45 minutes later, the manager had found us a car. He sheepishly explained that this car was more expensive than the cheap-ass one we had rented, so would we mind returning it the next day so that they could give us the cheaper one? We assured him that we did indeed mind, but if he wanted to drive out to Vermont boonies on his dime, and exchange our semi-crappy car for the crappy car we requested, he'd be welcome to do that.
So far, he hasn't showed up. So, the fabulous luxury of the Ford Taurus is all ours for now. Lucky us.
Friday, July 20, 2007
I'm off to visit the in-laws for a week starting tomorrow. I'm sure that between the flights, the time away from work, and assorted in-law shenanigans, I'll have more blog material than time and access to post it, but I'll do my best.
During tomorrow's flight, however, I designate Cheney to be my Blogger In Chief. Dick, email me for my password.
During tomorrow's flight, however, I designate Cheney to be my Blogger In Chief. Dick, email me for my password.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Saturday night, after a full day of activity, I was ready for a restful night of sleep. Although my sleep patterns recently haven't been stellar, the Valerian tea has been a good aide, and I've gotten a few good nights of sleep. I looked forward to having another one on Saturday night.
I squirmed around until I found my happy position, closed my little eyes, thought happy thoughts, and....
BEEEEEEEEEP!
Huh? Wha? Was that a beep?
I rolled over to look at the clock and saw that the display was blank. Power outage.
I contemplated the beep. I've gotten good at discerning the dishwasher's Pardon-Me-Good-Sir-But-I've-Been-Opened-Midcycle polite beep from the smoke detector's Alert!-Alert!-Alert!-My-Battery-Itches whining beep, from all the other beeps. This beep was from the uninterruptible power system (UPS) in my office. It was telling me that the power was out.
Thanks, dude. Good to know in the middle of the night. I checked my nearby cell phone and it was 3:00am. Sweet.
I flopped around on the mattress trying to find my happy spot, but a few minutes later the UPS beeped again. In fact, it began beeping about once a minute, desperately trying to communicate that the power was draining out of its all important battery. BEEP!
I lay in bed trying to figure out how to interrupt the power to the uninterruptible power system. Unplugging it wouldn't help. Gah. Nothing would! BEEP BEEP BEEP! THE POWER IS OUT! MY INFORMATIVE BEEP IS ALERTING YOU TO THIS SITUATION AT ALL HOURS OF THE NIGHT! BEEP YOU'RE WELCOME!
After 10 solid minutes, I got up, went into the office and crawled under my dusty desk. I used the light from my cell phone to examine the UPS. There was a big switch on it. I flipped it. Uninterruptible, my ass.
I went back to bed, satisfied at my genius. I wriggled back into my comfort zone and....
Beeeeeep!
Doh! Crap! Dammit! Gah! Now what?!?!
This was a different beep. This was my cordless phone. It was complaining that it couldn't find the base that it plugs into DESPITE THE FACT THAT IT WAS SITTING IN THE BASE. The power outage had blinded it.
Beeeeeeeep! Momma base system! I'm lost! Beeeeeep! Mommmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaa!
I wasn't going to get up again. Surely the power would come back on.
Beeeep! Hellllo! The power is out and I'm beeeep lost! Mommmmmmaaaaabeeeeeeep!
I whipped the covers of and stormed back into the office. I ripped the batteries out of every phone within grabbing distance, perhaps more roughly than was required. Phone decorum be damned.
I got back to sleep at around 5:00. Stupid beeps. One more night like that and I will rip the ears off my head. Don't think I won't.
I squirmed around until I found my happy position, closed my little eyes, thought happy thoughts, and....
BEEEEEEEEEP!
Huh? Wha? Was that a beep?
I rolled over to look at the clock and saw that the display was blank. Power outage.
I contemplated the beep. I've gotten good at discerning the dishwasher's Pardon-Me-Good-Sir-But-I've-Been-Opened-Midcycle polite beep from the smoke detector's Alert!-Alert!-Alert!-My-Battery-Itches whining beep, from all the other beeps. This beep was from the uninterruptible power system (UPS) in my office. It was telling me that the power was out.
Thanks, dude. Good to know in the middle of the night. I checked my nearby cell phone and it was 3:00am. Sweet.
I flopped around on the mattress trying to find my happy spot, but a few minutes later the UPS beeped again. In fact, it began beeping about once a minute, desperately trying to communicate that the power was draining out of its all important battery. BEEP!
I lay in bed trying to figure out how to interrupt the power to the uninterruptible power system. Unplugging it wouldn't help. Gah. Nothing would! BEEP BEEP BEEP! THE POWER IS OUT! MY INFORMATIVE BEEP IS ALERTING YOU TO THIS SITUATION AT ALL HOURS OF THE NIGHT! BEEP YOU'RE WELCOME!
After 10 solid minutes, I got up, went into the office and crawled under my dusty desk. I used the light from my cell phone to examine the UPS. There was a big switch on it. I flipped it. Uninterruptible, my ass.
I went back to bed, satisfied at my genius. I wriggled back into my comfort zone and....
Beeeeeep!
Doh! Crap! Dammit! Gah! Now what?!?!
This was a different beep. This was my cordless phone. It was complaining that it couldn't find the base that it plugs into DESPITE THE FACT THAT IT WAS SITTING IN THE BASE. The power outage had blinded it.
Beeeeeeeep! Momma base system! I'm lost! Beeeeeep! Mommmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaa!
I wasn't going to get up again. Surely the power would come back on.
Beeeep! Hellllo! The power is out and I'm beeeep lost! Mommmmmmaaaaabeeeeeeep!
I whipped the covers of and stormed back into the office. I ripped the batteries out of every phone within grabbing distance, perhaps more roughly than was required. Phone decorum be damned.
I got back to sleep at around 5:00. Stupid beeps. One more night like that and I will rip the ears off my head. Don't think I won't.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Hank looooooves musicals. If I could replace our How-Was-Your-Day dinner conversation with interpretive dance and tuneful singing, she'd be much happier. My fascinating tales of software off-by-one errors might lose a little in the translation, but our marriage would be all the stronger for it.
So, I wasn't surprised when she bought tickets for us to go see a production of Assassins at a small community theater. I had never heard of the show, so I quizzed her about it.
Me: What's Assassins like?
Hank: It's a musical.
Me: I know that part. What's it LIKE though?
Hank: Well, it's not Angels in America, but it's not Carousel either.
I know, I know. Me either. I have no idea why she thought that would be an informative answer. Maybe if I had asked my question via interpretive dance I would have gotten a better reply.
The show itself was pretty good, I guess. I'm really not qualified to pass judgment on it. I'm not a big fan of musicals, but I did enjoy several of the numbers, and a show about presidential assassins (Lee Harvey Oswald, Squeaky Fromme, John Wilkes Boothe, and many more) wins points for originality.
The theater itself was noteworthy though. It was tiny. It seated 65 people, give or take 1. Positively diminutive. It was, apparently, too small to afford air conditioning, so by the third or fourth presidential assassination, we were all sweating up a storm. These were tough conditions to watch a show in, so kudos to the actors for actually performing a show in that place.
Afterwards Hank asked me what I thought of the show. I gave her the reply that I've been using ever since then, to describe everything from Daisy's attitude to my dinner. It was no Carousel.
So, I wasn't surprised when she bought tickets for us to go see a production of Assassins at a small community theater. I had never heard of the show, so I quizzed her about it.
Me: What's Assassins like?
Hank: It's a musical.
Me: I know that part. What's it LIKE though?
Hank: Well, it's not Angels in America, but it's not Carousel either.
I know, I know. Me either. I have no idea why she thought that would be an informative answer. Maybe if I had asked my question via interpretive dance I would have gotten a better reply.
The show itself was pretty good, I guess. I'm really not qualified to pass judgment on it. I'm not a big fan of musicals, but I did enjoy several of the numbers, and a show about presidential assassins (Lee Harvey Oswald, Squeaky Fromme, John Wilkes Boothe, and many more) wins points for originality.
The theater itself was noteworthy though. It was tiny. It seated 65 people, give or take 1. Positively diminutive. It was, apparently, too small to afford air conditioning, so by the third or fourth presidential assassination, we were all sweating up a storm. These were tough conditions to watch a show in, so kudos to the actors for actually performing a show in that place.
Afterwards Hank asked me what I thought of the show. I gave her the reply that I've been using ever since then, to describe everything from Daisy's attitude to my dinner. It was no Carousel.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
We followed up our Thursday night visit to a French restaurant with a Saturday afternoon visit to our friends' annual Bastille Day Bastille Day party. (Incidentally, I knew I had found the right Bastille Day reference link for this blog entry when I saw that the first sentence in the Wikipedia entry was "For the Battlestar Galactica episode, see Bastille Day (Battlestar Galactica." Ahh, the Internet is truly my home.) So, we bought some cheese, and headed over.
We don't see these friends very often, and I figured that I wouldn't know very many people at the party, so I decided to come equipped with some preprepared small talk. The party host was a Giants fan, and the Giants were playing that afternoon, so I was ready to bust out this bit of almost humorous banter:
Party Version of Me: Even the Giants are getting into the French spirit on Bastille Day!
Hypothetical Straight Man: How so?
Party Version of Me: They're losing.
I followed the party host around for a few minutes, tripping over myself to spit out the one thing that I had to say, but the opportunity never really presented itself. He was busy doing party stuff and my conversational fu is weak. After a few futile minutes, I latched back onto Hank in the kitchen and we struck up a conversation with another guest, who just happened to be the most boring person I had ever met.
This guy launched into an expansive tour of the regulatory situation of the financial niche company he worked for. My attempts to interject levity into the conversation bounced harmlessly off his tedium-based defense systems. Meanwhile, Hank excused herself to check on a dish she was heating in the oven, leaving me to suffer the full brunt of this guy's monotone attack. My mind wandered, trying to find a graceful exit out of this situation. This process took long enough that I just started to not care. I extricated myself by turning away from him and announcing, "Yes! I can help with that, Hank!"
And I marched over to Hank who required no assistance in removing her baked brie from the oven.
The next person we chatted with soon launched into her own pet peeve diatribe. She prattled on describing someone she clearly thought was insane, but with each passing complaint, it became more and more clear who the insane person was. Sadly, it was not the subject of her story, but rather the narrator. I just nodded demurely and ate more cheese. It seemed like the French thing to do.
So, uh, happy freaking Bastille Day everyone.
We don't see these friends very often, and I figured that I wouldn't know very many people at the party, so I decided to come equipped with some preprepared small talk. The party host was a Giants fan, and the Giants were playing that afternoon, so I was ready to bust out this bit of almost humorous banter:
Party Version of Me: Even the Giants are getting into the French spirit on Bastille Day!
Hypothetical Straight Man: How so?
Party Version of Me: They're losing.
I followed the party host around for a few minutes, tripping over myself to spit out the one thing that I had to say, but the opportunity never really presented itself. He was busy doing party stuff and my conversational fu is weak. After a few futile minutes, I latched back onto Hank in the kitchen and we struck up a conversation with another guest, who just happened to be the most boring person I had ever met.
This guy launched into an expansive tour of the regulatory situation of the financial niche company he worked for. My attempts to interject levity into the conversation bounced harmlessly off his tedium-based defense systems. Meanwhile, Hank excused herself to check on a dish she was heating in the oven, leaving me to suffer the full brunt of this guy's monotone attack. My mind wandered, trying to find a graceful exit out of this situation. This process took long enough that I just started to not care. I extricated myself by turning away from him and announcing, "Yes! I can help with that, Hank!"
And I marched over to Hank who required no assistance in removing her baked brie from the oven.
The next person we chatted with soon launched into her own pet peeve diatribe. She prattled on describing someone she clearly thought was insane, but with each passing complaint, it became more and more clear who the insane person was. Sadly, it was not the subject of her story, but rather the narrator. I just nodded demurely and ate more cheese. It seemed like the French thing to do.
So, uh, happy freaking Bastille Day everyone.
Friday, July 13, 2007
A new French restaurant opened in my neighborhood, so last night, after procuring a baby sitter for the kids, we went out for a Grownups Night Out with Liz and Larry.
The neighborhood has been eagerly anticipating this restaurant. For months, while construction was underway, each time I passed by, I'd peer through the dusty windows to try and ascertain an opening date. I'd count the number of finished surfaces, multiply by pi, and optimistically screech "ANY DAY NOW!". I was wrong for a very long time. (Note: this was excellent training to prepare me for the merciless delays in our own remodeling project, thanks to our contractor, Ming).
Anyway, we were all pretty excited to get some new eats. San Francisco is a wondrous land of delectable treats, but our own neighborhood has been woefully under-served by the gourmet industry for a very very very long time. Consequently the restaurant was packed last night. It's a pretty small joint, so the tables are wedged quite close to each other. The wait staff had a harrowing time navigating through the tiny slices of space between the tables.
This made for a crowded and cozy dining experience. Conversations naturally flowed from one table to the next, which was often only a few inches away. The fact that it was a neighborhood restaurant only added to the friendly and nearly intimate environment, making me feel that the other tables were populated by people who probably lived just down the street.
There's also only one bathroom in place. (Who here knew this was going to turn into a bathroom post? Me too.) Our table was pretty close to the john, but the restaurant is so small that they're all close to it. You couldn't help but notice when the bathroom was in use, and you often noticed who was on their way to/from it.
At one point it was my turn to use the john. I made my way to the can, closed the door, and found... a seat covered in urine. Doh!
Normally this isn't a big deal in a public restroom for a dude. I wasn't planning on plopping my ass onto the seat, so having a piss-covered commode was distasteful, but not really problematic. The issue, however, was that I was going to have to leave this bathroom in a minute and the next person to arrive was going to assume that I had liberally sprayed my urine all over the room in a spastic attempt to mark my lavatory turf.
So, after I pissed, I... wiped... up... some... other.... asshole's.... piss.
It didn't feel so all goddamned friendly after that.
I had a lovely time though.
The neighborhood has been eagerly anticipating this restaurant. For months, while construction was underway, each time I passed by, I'd peer through the dusty windows to try and ascertain an opening date. I'd count the number of finished surfaces, multiply by pi, and optimistically screech "ANY DAY NOW!". I was wrong for a very long time. (Note: this was excellent training to prepare me for the merciless delays in our own remodeling project, thanks to our contractor, Ming).
Anyway, we were all pretty excited to get some new eats. San Francisco is a wondrous land of delectable treats, but our own neighborhood has been woefully under-served by the gourmet industry for a very very very long time. Consequently the restaurant was packed last night. It's a pretty small joint, so the tables are wedged quite close to each other. The wait staff had a harrowing time navigating through the tiny slices of space between the tables.
This made for a crowded and cozy dining experience. Conversations naturally flowed from one table to the next, which was often only a few inches away. The fact that it was a neighborhood restaurant only added to the friendly and nearly intimate environment, making me feel that the other tables were populated by people who probably lived just down the street.
There's also only one bathroom in place. (Who here knew this was going to turn into a bathroom post? Me too.) Our table was pretty close to the john, but the restaurant is so small that they're all close to it. You couldn't help but notice when the bathroom was in use, and you often noticed who was on their way to/from it.
At one point it was my turn to use the john. I made my way to the can, closed the door, and found... a seat covered in urine. Doh!
Normally this isn't a big deal in a public restroom for a dude. I wasn't planning on plopping my ass onto the seat, so having a piss-covered commode was distasteful, but not really problematic. The issue, however, was that I was going to have to leave this bathroom in a minute and the next person to arrive was going to assume that I had liberally sprayed my urine all over the room in a spastic attempt to mark my lavatory turf.
So, after I pissed, I... wiped... up... some... other.... asshole's.... piss.
It didn't feel so all goddamned friendly after that.
I had a lovely time though.
Monday, July 09, 2007
This has been a bad year year for running. Although it started out well, setting a personal record in a half marathon back in early February, it's been all downhill ever since, and not the good kind of downhill either.
First, I had that Achilles injury that sidelined me for a few weeks. Then, a very mild hip injury that has been benignly hanging out for the last 9 months or so suddenly flared up. I blame the "boot camp" exercises I did in May. Rest assured, that's the last time I'm supportive of Hank.
I'm not good with anatomy, but it's the upper outside part of my right hip that hurts. We'll call that part of the body, "the hip". Anyway, after I did the boot camp, any time I'd bend at the hip towards the left, or if I was walked uphill, or if I ran, it would hurt pretty bad. Since my buddy Pablo was spending 16 weeks on crutches after two separate hip operations, I decided maybe this wasn't something to screw around with.
That motivated me to see an orthopaedic specialist a couple weeks ago. He poked me, bent me, pushed me, and eyeballed me critically. This was the same office that Pablo had gone too, so I was hoping that it wouldn't be a case of a surgeon examining me and then determining that I needed surgery. I'm familiar with the "I have a hammer and everything looks like a nail" phenomenon since I personally attempt to solve every problem I have with either software or my penis. Much as I have come to realize that this makes me a terrible cook, I was hoping that my doc would recognize that some situations don't require surgery.
After a few doctor-supervised bizarre contortions, he concluded that I'm immensely inflexible and have some muscle weakness in my hip and uh.... gluteal regions. He recommended taking a month or two off of running and getting some physical therapy.
So, for the last couple weeks, I've been seeing a physical therapist. She does amazing things like determine that I haven't stretched my hamstring in years due to a nerve in my calf, and says "In THIS office, we'll sit with good posture" when I was slumping, without even looking at me. I'm a little intimidated.
She also said I could keep running. That made it one vote for no running and one vote for running. Like Dick Cheney, the fourth branch of our government, I cast the tie-breaking vote, and I've been running for the last couple weeks. It's been a slow and unpleasant slog, but the exercise is good for me. The physical therapy exercises haven't had a noticeable effect, but in general I'm not very aware of what's going on in my body. I'm just hoping one day I'll drive to her office and she'll call out "You're all better! Go home!" before I even get out of the car.
Anyway, so first I had an achilles injury, and then a hip one. Looks like my injuries are moving up my body. The next one should either be a heart attack or maybe decapitation. I'm pretty sure I could run through either one.
First, I had that Achilles injury that sidelined me for a few weeks. Then, a very mild hip injury that has been benignly hanging out for the last 9 months or so suddenly flared up. I blame the "boot camp" exercises I did in May. Rest assured, that's the last time I'm supportive of Hank.
I'm not good with anatomy, but it's the upper outside part of my right hip that hurts. We'll call that part of the body, "the hip". Anyway, after I did the boot camp, any time I'd bend at the hip towards the left, or if I was walked uphill, or if I ran, it would hurt pretty bad. Since my buddy Pablo was spending 16 weeks on crutches after two separate hip operations, I decided maybe this wasn't something to screw around with.
That motivated me to see an orthopaedic specialist a couple weeks ago. He poked me, bent me, pushed me, and eyeballed me critically. This was the same office that Pablo had gone too, so I was hoping that it wouldn't be a case of a surgeon examining me and then determining that I needed surgery. I'm familiar with the "I have a hammer and everything looks like a nail" phenomenon since I personally attempt to solve every problem I have with either software or my penis. Much as I have come to realize that this makes me a terrible cook, I was hoping that my doc would recognize that some situations don't require surgery.
After a few doctor-supervised bizarre contortions, he concluded that I'm immensely inflexible and have some muscle weakness in my hip and uh.... gluteal regions. He recommended taking a month or two off of running and getting some physical therapy.
So, for the last couple weeks, I've been seeing a physical therapist. She does amazing things like determine that I haven't stretched my hamstring in years due to a nerve in my calf, and says "In THIS office, we'll sit with good posture" when I was slumping, without even looking at me. I'm a little intimidated.
She also said I could keep running. That made it one vote for no running and one vote for running. Like Dick Cheney, the fourth branch of our government, I cast the tie-breaking vote, and I've been running for the last couple weeks. It's been a slow and unpleasant slog, but the exercise is good for me. The physical therapy exercises haven't had a noticeable effect, but in general I'm not very aware of what's going on in my body. I'm just hoping one day I'll drive to her office and she'll call out "You're all better! Go home!" before I even get out of the car.
Anyway, so first I had an achilles injury, and then a hip one. Looks like my injuries are moving up my body. The next one should either be a heart attack or maybe decapitation. I'm pretty sure I could run through either one.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Well, it's been one month (30 days) since I started tracking my software-generated baseball bets online. In that time my bankroll of $200 has increased by a whopping $15.48. Blog-wise, this is an entirely annoying result. It's neither good enough to brag about nor disastrous enough to be comical. Significant profit would have been nice, but a total collapse leaving me penniless and shirtless from virtual betting would have at least been a good story if not an unpleasant visual image.
Still, it is 7.7% profit in one month, which is better than the S&P 500 or the Nasdaq composite index did in that time frame. A savings account would have paid out less than half a percent over that same period. The fact that the recommended bets turn any sort of profit in a casino that takes a 10% cut is a consolation of sorts.
I ain't quitting my day job though.
Still, it is 7.7% profit in one month, which is better than the S&P 500 or the Nasdaq composite index did in that time frame. A savings account would have paid out less than half a percent over that same period. The fact that the recommended bets turn any sort of profit in a casino that takes a 10% cut is a consolation of sorts.
I ain't quitting my day job though.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Having the 4th of July fall on a Wednesday is the dumbest thing since unsliced bread.
How exactly was this supposed to work? Was I supposed to party on Tuesday night like it was Friday (in 1999)? Maybe, just MAYBE that could have worked. It's weird, fo sho, but I'm a flexible man (except for my hamstrings, which is probably tomorrow's post).
Today, however, was a farce. Today was the ACTUAL HOLIDAY that we're celebrating and I had work looming over me since tomorrow is a work day. It loomed mockingly! LOOMED, I TELL YOU! A one-day weekend is no weekend at all. You just start getting your party on when suddenly it's time to take it off again. Bite me, Wednesday.
All in favor of moving the 4th July to the nearest Monday or Friday, please mail a loaf of unsliced bread to your congressperson. Thank you.
How exactly was this supposed to work? Was I supposed to party on Tuesday night like it was Friday (in 1999)? Maybe, just MAYBE that could have worked. It's weird, fo sho, but I'm a flexible man (except for my hamstrings, which is probably tomorrow's post).
Today, however, was a farce. Today was the ACTUAL HOLIDAY that we're celebrating and I had work looming over me since tomorrow is a work day. It loomed mockingly! LOOMED, I TELL YOU! A one-day weekend is no weekend at all. You just start getting your party on when suddenly it's time to take it off again. Bite me, Wednesday.
All in favor of moving the 4th July to the nearest Monday or Friday, please mail a loaf of unsliced bread to your congressperson. Thank you.
Monday, July 02, 2007
On Sunday we went went down to a water slide park with another family, the Psychologersons. Spending a day in the sun at a water park is pretty pleasant, but trying to hide my emotional defects from a pair of psychologists all day is tiring work.
Neither family had a car big enough for all six of us, so we caravaned down the highway, with me leading the way. In general, I'm not a big fan of leading another car down the highway. I like to change lanes at will, especially when I detect big speed differences between my lane and one across the highway, like say 1 MPH. (A second saved is a second earned, my friends.) So, if I don't know the driving style of the car following me, my ability to shave precious seconds is severely cramped. Severely.
I spent the first couple minutes of the drive attempting to analyze their driving behavior. They drove a BMW, which indicated that they probably enjoyed the act of driving, but it was a station wagon which also indicated that they sacrificed performance for practicality. They seemed to be fun-loving people, which suggested a penchant for playful driving, but there was nothing reckless about them, which hinted at a desire for safety. Clearly I could not choose the glass in front of me.
On this particular drive, I also had to wonder what my driving habits were saying about me. What kind of diagnoses can be performed in 50 miles? Medically speaking, how fast can I drive above the speed limit before I'm officially an aggressively psychotic asshole? I decided that keeping within 10 MPH of the posted limits would prevent them from diagnosing me as criminally insane. Is that right? Crap, I don't know. I'm a computer programmer.
(Incidentally, Mr. Psychologerson did make one correct move that most Follower Cars don't do. At one point we were on a multi-lane city street and our lane was very backed up. The lane to our left was moving, but there were no openings big enough for us both to easily move into, so there was no way for me to lead the way into that lane. He recognized this, signaled, and moved into the faster lane first, which then gave me an opening in front of him. Most caboose cars in a caravan fail to recognize and execute this maneuver.)
Anyway, once we got to the water park, the Psychologersons deftly stored their diagnoses notebooks out of view and we had a perfectly pleasant time, ignoring the fact that this was probably the coldest day that San Jose will have all summer long. Daisy slid and splashed herself to near case of hypothermia, which is pretty much the funnest possible thing for a kid. I was able to make that diagnosis myself, thankyouverymuch electrical engineering degree.
On a final note, Mr. Psychologerson shared the story of the first time he met Daisy. Apparently he was participating in a classroom activity with the kindergarten students and one of the kids was spazzing out. (Mr. Psychologerson did not use the term "spazzing out". I think he chose the more clinical term "acting in such a way as to attract attention). As the kid spazzed, Mr. P. heard Daisy say, under her breath, "Oh, I get it. You're always going to play dumb."
He was stunned to hear such a diagnosis from a 5 year old.
I know Daisy's current career choice is to be a teacher/candy-store-owner, but maybe if that doesn't work out, perhaps she can be a psychologist. She certainly has enough material to practice with.
Neither family had a car big enough for all six of us, so we caravaned down the highway, with me leading the way. In general, I'm not a big fan of leading another car down the highway. I like to change lanes at will, especially when I detect big speed differences between my lane and one across the highway, like say 1 MPH. (A second saved is a second earned, my friends.) So, if I don't know the driving style of the car following me, my ability to shave precious seconds is severely cramped. Severely.
I spent the first couple minutes of the drive attempting to analyze their driving behavior. They drove a BMW, which indicated that they probably enjoyed the act of driving, but it was a station wagon which also indicated that they sacrificed performance for practicality. They seemed to be fun-loving people, which suggested a penchant for playful driving, but there was nothing reckless about them, which hinted at a desire for safety. Clearly I could not choose the glass in front of me.
On this particular drive, I also had to wonder what my driving habits were saying about me. What kind of diagnoses can be performed in 50 miles? Medically speaking, how fast can I drive above the speed limit before I'm officially an aggressively psychotic asshole? I decided that keeping within 10 MPH of the posted limits would prevent them from diagnosing me as criminally insane. Is that right? Crap, I don't know. I'm a computer programmer.
(Incidentally, Mr. Psychologerson did make one correct move that most Follower Cars don't do. At one point we were on a multi-lane city street and our lane was very backed up. The lane to our left was moving, but there were no openings big enough for us both to easily move into, so there was no way for me to lead the way into that lane. He recognized this, signaled, and moved into the faster lane first, which then gave me an opening in front of him. Most caboose cars in a caravan fail to recognize and execute this maneuver.)
Anyway, once we got to the water park, the Psychologersons deftly stored their diagnoses notebooks out of view and we had a perfectly pleasant time, ignoring the fact that this was probably the coldest day that San Jose will have all summer long. Daisy slid and splashed herself to near case of hypothermia, which is pretty much the funnest possible thing for a kid. I was able to make that diagnosis myself, thankyouverymuch electrical engineering degree.
On a final note, Mr. Psychologerson shared the story of the first time he met Daisy. Apparently he was participating in a classroom activity with the kindergarten students and one of the kids was spazzing out. (Mr. Psychologerson did not use the term "spazzing out". I think he chose the more clinical term "acting in such a way as to attract attention). As the kid spazzed, Mr. P. heard Daisy say, under her breath, "Oh, I get it. You're always going to play dumb."
He was stunned to hear such a diagnosis from a 5 year old.
I know Daisy's current career choice is to be a teacher/candy-store-owner, but maybe if that doesn't work out, perhaps she can be a psychologist. She certainly has enough material to practice with.
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