Norbert's water dish is a big Tupperware bowl that lives in my bathroom sink.
Tonight I was sitting in the bathroom shirtlessly contemplating, Norbert came in to keep her* company. To give her something to do, I put a rubber duck in her water dish. She sat on the edge of the sink and pawed it around, splashing water everywhere. She found the experience both exciting and fulfilling. I found it both cold and damp.
*Yeah, I meant her. I don't think she cares if I'm lonely or not.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Whacha Doin' Back There?
There are many problems with nursing homes. Some of them smell, some of them are full of staff that doesn't care at all about the patients, some are so crowded that it's hard to walk down the hall, and some have all these problems. But regardless of how nice or icky a nursing home is, they always have one patient who spends all day wailing. There's a guy at a place in Santa Rosa who shuffles around in his PVC chair asking everybody to help him. That's pretty creepy. And I went to a place today where a guy wailed in such a consistent monotone manner that I was tempted to harmonize with him.
In the same facility there was a guy who liked to walk around behind people and stand very close to them without actually making physical contact. It wasn't like he was sneaking up on anyone. He decided he would stand behind me and had to walk in front of me before he could circle around to my back. When he was satisfied with his performance, he moved on to somebody else. It was very strange.
There are many problems with nursing homes. Some of them smell, some of them are full of staff that doesn't care at all about the patients, some are so crowded that it's hard to walk down the hall, and some have all these problems. But regardless of how nice or icky a nursing home is, they always have one patient who spends all day wailing. There's a guy at a place in Santa Rosa who shuffles around in his PVC chair asking everybody to help him. That's pretty creepy. And I went to a place today where a guy wailed in such a consistent monotone manner that I was tempted to harmonize with him.
In the same facility there was a guy who liked to walk around behind people and stand very close to them without actually making physical contact. It wasn't like he was sneaking up on anyone. He decided he would stand behind me and had to walk in front of me before he could circle around to my back. When he was satisfied with his performance, he moved on to somebody else. It was very strange.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Beep Beep, Dinner's Mediocre
There hangs on my wall a little, white device. It winks its light from time to time to let me know it's on the lookout. Through night and day it stays vigilant, ready to leap into action at any moment.
When I'm cooking this little device warns me that whatever I happen to be making is going to turn out poor to middling in the taste department. Beep, the toast was done 30 seconds ago. Beep, that stuff that used to be sauce is now asphalt. Beep, your chicken has developed a crust.
Tonight was no different. I used a little more of my wine, some mushrooms, some garlic, and some onions. if I had stopped there I would have had a really excellent bowl of garlicky mushrooms, but I didn't. I added chicken and burnt the left over juices from cooking the mushrooms to the pan, and dried the outside of the chicken while leaving the inside tender and pink. I like my chicken well-done.
Two more chicken breasts to go. I may resort to my hour-in-foil-in-oven method and stick some pepper jack cheese on top. Cheese makes everything better. Or maybe I will throw the rest of the chicken away and just eat the cheese.
There hangs on my wall a little, white device. It winks its light from time to time to let me know it's on the lookout. Through night and day it stays vigilant, ready to leap into action at any moment.
When I'm cooking this little device warns me that whatever I happen to be making is going to turn out poor to middling in the taste department. Beep, the toast was done 30 seconds ago. Beep, that stuff that used to be sauce is now asphalt. Beep, your chicken has developed a crust.
Tonight was no different. I used a little more of my wine, some mushrooms, some garlic, and some onions. if I had stopped there I would have had a really excellent bowl of garlicky mushrooms, but I didn't. I added chicken and burnt the left over juices from cooking the mushrooms to the pan, and dried the outside of the chicken while leaving the inside tender and pink. I like my chicken well-done.
Two more chicken breasts to go. I may resort to my hour-in-foil-in-oven method and stick some pepper jack cheese on top. Cheese makes everything better. Or maybe I will throw the rest of the chicken away and just eat the cheese.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Big Sister
Some of you may remember this little tiny lighter I got at a flea market about a month ago.
Well, this weekend a friend found its big sister. At first glance it looks like a regular, albeit pink, Zippo.
However, only when you give it context can you appreciate the magnitude of the lighter. I'd show you picture of it lit (it's a real working lighter) but I don't have nearly enough lighter fluid. I'll have to make a trip to the barbeque store.
Some of you may remember this little tiny lighter I got at a flea market about a month ago.
Well, this weekend a friend found its big sister. At first glance it looks like a regular, albeit pink, Zippo.
However, only when you give it context can you appreciate the magnitude of the lighter. I'd show you picture of it lit (it's a real working lighter) but I don't have nearly enough lighter fluid. I'll have to make a trip to the barbeque store.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Quiet You!
(And By You, I Mean Me.)
While things are going well with the nurse I've been slowly dating (one date a month on average), she continues to live far away and remains a busy person.
Right as my wasted 3 month subscription to Yahoo Personals had run out a girl sent me a message containing her email address. With things as they are with my nurse, I decided that I should try and see if this other girl and I might get along. If nothing else, we seemed to have a lot in common and maybe we could be friends.
After a couple emails I called her on Saturday and we decided to go out Saturday night. I went to pick her up from her house which was a little hard to find, but I drove right there without any wrong turns or back-tracking. I can point to that fact as my single accomplishment for the evening.
Do you ever have one of those nights when you can't make yourself shut up? Mostly I don't have those nights. Mostly I have nights where my brain decides to stay home with the conversation when I leave for a date. While uncomfortable silence is not usually something to hope for, it would have been great on Saturday.
When, quite understandably, asked what an inflatable medical mattress was for, I embarked on a long, detailed, and disgusting monolog about bedsores, skin breakdown, hospice patients, and the Polaroid of the 90 year old man's ass. Later, when she asked what my average weekend was like, I took it upon myself to explain how most of my friends went to Tahoe this weekend without inviting me and how I don't go out a whole lot for some reason. (I also made a long and stilted joke about people in tin suits accidentally soldering themselves into immobility and someone discovering them years later, the whole ordeal being like a solder based Pompeii. However, I'm not sure whether to count that in the plus or minus column.)
On top of my interminable blathering, I could not for the life of me drive where I wanted to go. We tried to see Memoirs of a Geisha, but it was only playing near Union Square, home of the holiday shoppers and no parking. Instead of heading right for the parking garage I circled the block looking for street parking. That's my normal M.O., but there was so much traffic that circling the block took a half hour.
After it became obvious that we weren't going to make Memoirs, we decided to go to a theater in Daly City. On the way there I got on the freeway, missed an exit, got off the freeway, drove through the city to get back to the freeway, missed another exit, turned around, and finally arrived at the theater. On the way to take her home I took the wrong entrance and got back on the freeway, off again, on again, and then finally made it to 19th Ave. When I pulled up to her house she had the door open before I had completely stopped the car. I imagine she was tired of driving after being the car for a combined total of nearly and hour and a half.
I think there's an excellent chance I've disqualified myself from even the friend zone, which is too bad because I think we have a lot of the same musical and comedy related interests. None the less, it's completely understandable if she doesn't want to talk to me again. I wouldn't want to talk to a navigationally challenged, morbid, bedsore-obsessed, guy with no friends either.*
*I want to point out that I don't actually view myself that way.**
**I need to point that out so I don't get another self-help book in the mail from my mom.
(And By You, I Mean Me.)
While things are going well with the nurse I've been slowly dating (one date a month on average), she continues to live far away and remains a busy person.
Right as my wasted 3 month subscription to Yahoo Personals had run out a girl sent me a message containing her email address. With things as they are with my nurse, I decided that I should try and see if this other girl and I might get along. If nothing else, we seemed to have a lot in common and maybe we could be friends.
After a couple emails I called her on Saturday and we decided to go out Saturday night. I went to pick her up from her house which was a little hard to find, but I drove right there without any wrong turns or back-tracking. I can point to that fact as my single accomplishment for the evening.
Do you ever have one of those nights when you can't make yourself shut up? Mostly I don't have those nights. Mostly I have nights where my brain decides to stay home with the conversation when I leave for a date. While uncomfortable silence is not usually something to hope for, it would have been great on Saturday.
When, quite understandably, asked what an inflatable medical mattress was for, I embarked on a long, detailed, and disgusting monolog about bedsores, skin breakdown, hospice patients, and the Polaroid of the 90 year old man's ass. Later, when she asked what my average weekend was like, I took it upon myself to explain how most of my friends went to Tahoe this weekend without inviting me and how I don't go out a whole lot for some reason. (I also made a long and stilted joke about people in tin suits accidentally soldering themselves into immobility and someone discovering them years later, the whole ordeal being like a solder based Pompeii. However, I'm not sure whether to count that in the plus or minus column.)
On top of my interminable blathering, I could not for the life of me drive where I wanted to go. We tried to see Memoirs of a Geisha, but it was only playing near Union Square, home of the holiday shoppers and no parking. Instead of heading right for the parking garage I circled the block looking for street parking. That's my normal M.O., but there was so much traffic that circling the block took a half hour.
After it became obvious that we weren't going to make Memoirs, we decided to go to a theater in Daly City. On the way there I got on the freeway, missed an exit, got off the freeway, drove through the city to get back to the freeway, missed another exit, turned around, and finally arrived at the theater. On the way to take her home I took the wrong entrance and got back on the freeway, off again, on again, and then finally made it to 19th Ave. When I pulled up to her house she had the door open before I had completely stopped the car. I imagine she was tired of driving after being the car for a combined total of nearly and hour and a half.
I think there's an excellent chance I've disqualified myself from even the friend zone, which is too bad because I think we have a lot of the same musical and comedy related interests. None the less, it's completely understandable if she doesn't want to talk to me again. I wouldn't want to talk to a navigationally challenged, morbid, bedsore-obsessed, guy with no friends either.*
*I want to point out that I don't actually view myself that way.**
**I need to point that out so I don't get another self-help book in the mail from my mom.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Tastephone
Last night I dreamed, among other things, that I was working for a deli as the over-the-phone taste demonstrator. It wasn't clear how it worked, but when somebody called I would pick up the phone and eat things to they could have some idea of what they tasted like. The first lady who called really like the pepper jack and roast beef combo, but she still wanted me to taste the ham which was unfortunate because I don't like ham.
I may too much of a picky eater to get a position at the tastephone in real life.
Last night I dreamed, among other things, that I was working for a deli as the over-the-phone taste demonstrator. It wasn't clear how it worked, but when somebody called I would pick up the phone and eat things to they could have some idea of what they tasted like. The first lady who called really like the pepper jack and roast beef combo, but she still wanted me to taste the ham which was unfortunate because I don't like ham.
I may too much of a picky eater to get a position at the tastephone in real life.
Friday, December 09, 2005
She's Back
And she's contentedly curled up between my keyboard and screen making it hard to see what I'm typing.
Norbert is just as cute as she was when she left, and remains as sharp. Within the first hour she was back she bit me 3 times. The first two were for waking her up by petting her too hard, and the last one was for taking away a screw she was trying to eat. (I didn't get a chance to cat-proof my apartment before she came home.)
And then, to really induct her back into my little apartment, she flipped out and attacked me after I rubbed be belly for just a little too long.
We are truly a dysfunctional couple.
And she's contentedly curled up between my keyboard and screen making it hard to see what I'm typing.
Norbert is just as cute as she was when she left, and remains as sharp. Within the first hour she was back she bit me 3 times. The first two were for waking her up by petting her too hard, and the last one was for taking away a screw she was trying to eat. (I didn't get a chance to cat-proof my apartment before she came home.)
And then, to really induct her back into my little apartment, she flipped out and attacked me after I rubbed be belly for just a little too long.
We are truly a dysfunctional couple.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Spell Check Catastrophe
Or very nearly one. I was writing to a girl from Yahoo Personals who asked me if I play my own songs or mostly do covers. What I was trying to write was
I do some of my own stuff, but I'm such a slow and sporadic songwriter that mostly I play covers.
But because I spelled sporadic, sparatic, spell check tried to make the sentence:
I do some of my own stuff, but I'm such a slow and spermatic songwriter that mostly I play covers.
I'm not sure what a spermatic songwriter is, but it sounds messy, and certainly not how I want to identify myself.
Or very nearly one. I was writing to a girl from Yahoo Personals who asked me if I play my own songs or mostly do covers. What I was trying to write was
I do some of my own stuff, but I'm such a slow and sporadic songwriter that mostly I play covers.
But because I spelled sporadic, sparatic, spell check tried to make the sentence:
I do some of my own stuff, but I'm such a slow and spermatic songwriter that mostly I play covers.
I'm not sure what a spermatic songwriter is, but it sounds messy, and certainly not how I want to identify myself.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Little Colored Spots
We use a lot of pens at work. Permanent pens for writing on huge plastic mattress bags, ballpoint pens for the mountains of paperwork, and highlighters for no reason at all.
Once in a while one of these pens will go rogue and start ruining stuff. The guy who cleans the mattresses put his smock in the wash with a green permanent marker in the pocket. Now he has a perfectly polka dotted outfit.
Yesterday a pen, and we have yet to determine which one, started squirting ink all over its compatriots. This pen seems to be going, perhaps under cover of night, from pen box to pen box spreading its pen goo everywhere. So for the second day in a row I've come home with the hands of a 90 year old. (No, I didn't just change the subject. We never get body parts in the mattresses, not even from hospice accounts.) It looks like I'm developing liver spots.
Although I think I'd rather have liver spots than a big ink smear on my cheek as my supervisor did about mid afternoon on Monday. And it was still there at 5pm. Maybe he was getting all gussied up for his anniversary today.
We use a lot of pens at work. Permanent pens for writing on huge plastic mattress bags, ballpoint pens for the mountains of paperwork, and highlighters for no reason at all.
Once in a while one of these pens will go rogue and start ruining stuff. The guy who cleans the mattresses put his smock in the wash with a green permanent marker in the pocket. Now he has a perfectly polka dotted outfit.
Yesterday a pen, and we have yet to determine which one, started squirting ink all over its compatriots. This pen seems to be going, perhaps under cover of night, from pen box to pen box spreading its pen goo everywhere. So for the second day in a row I've come home with the hands of a 90 year old. (No, I didn't just change the subject. We never get body parts in the mattresses, not even from hospice accounts.) It looks like I'm developing liver spots.
Although I think I'd rather have liver spots than a big ink smear on my cheek as my supervisor did about mid afternoon on Monday. And it was still there at 5pm. Maybe he was getting all gussied up for his anniversary today.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Real Quick
I was checking one of my various email accounts when I noticed an ad for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show tomorrow night. On the ad there's a link which made me laugh:
Video: 10 Years of Sexy.
I like the phrase 10 years of sexy. I'm not even sure how to use it. "Oooh, she is 10 years of sexy." Or maybe "She had about 10 years of sexy, but now she's but now I'd describe her as being handsome." Or even, "You know, Phyllis, I've given you 10 years of sexy and now I'm tired. These love handles are here to stay."
I was checking one of my various email accounts when I noticed an ad for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show tomorrow night. On the ad there's a link which made me laugh:
Video: 10 Years of Sexy.
I like the phrase 10 years of sexy. I'm not even sure how to use it. "Oooh, she is 10 years of sexy." Or maybe "She had about 10 years of sexy, but now she's but now I'd describe her as being handsome." Or even, "You know, Phyllis, I've given you 10 years of sexy and now I'm tired. These love handles are here to stay."
Friday
Norbert comes back on Friday, but only temporarily. I'm cat sitting my cat for a month before she becomes someone else's cat for good. Maybe she'll give me more to write about. At the moment I have a serious lack of things to say.
Half way cooking some burritos for dinner I thought I might write another "Cooking with Michael" thing after dropping the beans in the sink, buying low fat beans instead of regular fat beans, forgetting the olives, and coming home with ground pork instead of my intended ground beef. But low and behold, they turned out fine.
It's a sad day when even my cooking doesn't lend itself to blogging.
Norbert comes back on Friday, but only temporarily. I'm cat sitting my cat for a month before she becomes someone else's cat for good. Maybe she'll give me more to write about. At the moment I have a serious lack of things to say.
Half way cooking some burritos for dinner I thought I might write another "Cooking with Michael" thing after dropping the beans in the sink, buying low fat beans instead of regular fat beans, forgetting the olives, and coming home with ground pork instead of my intended ground beef. But low and behold, they turned out fine.
It's a sad day when even my cooking doesn't lend itself to blogging.
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