Sunday, December 02, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
Clayton: My Mews
Did I get a cat because I wanted some companionship? Because I thought Flannery would enjoy one? Do I just like scooping cat poo and have an unnatural interest in cross species scabies infestation? Or could it be that I needed something to blog about?
As Clayton and I become more acquainted I've come to understand his likes, dislikes, and his outright dreads.
[From Clayton's point of view]
Likes:
- The arm of the couch. It's high enough to sleep comfortably above the fray, but not so high that it's scary to jump off of like that stupid shelf I fell off today.
- Scarves. They have tassels which are both exciting and delicious. And I happen to be slippery enough that when i grab hold of the scarf I'm easily dragged across both carpet and linoleum.
- Microwaved burritos. At least I think I like them. They smell divine. (I got to stick my nose in a wrapper once.)
Dislikes:
- The vacuum. I know, all animals dislike vacuums. I'm not that creative, I'm a cat.
- Skylights. I just don't trust them. They're all bright and shiny and they remind me of when I was taken from a field and probed under my tail. I don't think I can have kids anymore.
Dreads:
- The toilet. It makes me uncomfortable when people sit on them, and despite jumping in numerous times to figure out what they put in there, all I got was wet feet that nobody seemed very interested in touching. I do my best to warn them away, but usually I just get shewed into the kitchen.
- The shower. This one scares the bejesus out of me. It forces people inside and makes them wet. WET! I wail and slash at the shower curtain and sometimes kick the crap out of the shower's minions, the bathmats. Eventually the shower sets them free and I can rest well knowing I've done my bit.
Did I get a cat because I wanted some companionship? Because I thought Flannery would enjoy one? Do I just like scooping cat poo and have an unnatural interest in cross species scabies infestation? Or could it be that I needed something to blog about?
As Clayton and I become more acquainted I've come to understand his likes, dislikes, and his outright dreads.
[From Clayton's point of view]
Likes:
- The arm of the couch. It's high enough to sleep comfortably above the fray, but not so high that it's scary to jump off of like that stupid shelf I fell off today.
- Scarves. They have tassels which are both exciting and delicious. And I happen to be slippery enough that when i grab hold of the scarf I'm easily dragged across both carpet and linoleum.
- Microwaved burritos. At least I think I like them. They smell divine. (I got to stick my nose in a wrapper once.)
Dislikes:
- The vacuum. I know, all animals dislike vacuums. I'm not that creative, I'm a cat.
- Skylights. I just don't trust them. They're all bright and shiny and they remind me of when I was taken from a field and probed under my tail. I don't think I can have kids anymore.
Dreads:
- The toilet. It makes me uncomfortable when people sit on them, and despite jumping in numerous times to figure out what they put in there, all I got was wet feet that nobody seemed very interested in touching. I do my best to warn them away, but usually I just get shewed into the kitchen.
- The shower. This one scares the bejesus out of me. It forces people inside and makes them wet. WET! I wail and slash at the shower curtain and sometimes kick the crap out of the shower's minions, the bathmats. Eventually the shower sets them free and I can rest well knowing I've done my bit.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
News for Computer Land
I had decided when I started my new job that I wouldn't write about people from work. It's not nice to write about people if they might read it at some point. But in the tradition of other IT stories ("my cup holder isn't working") this one had to be told.
So I get a call today with the following problem: A user has an issue where he often accidentally hits the ctrl button when he's typing. Occasionally he'll combine that with an A key thereby selecting his entire document. Upon his next key stroke his document is gone. Could I, by any chance, disable the left ctrl key?
Everybody else in my department balked and told me to tell the guy there was nothing I could do, and that I didn't want to encourage him.
Alas, I tried to tell him no, but I'm a push over. So I brought him a keyboard with some keys already missing and popped the right hand ctrl key off. Such a kindly IT guy I am.
In cat news Clayton's ear has started to itch again and his self imposed ear scabs are making a comeback. His scabies medicine isn't due for another week, so I'm taking him to the vet on Saturday so they can figure out if he needs a cream or a cone or something. Sooner or later I'm going to get all his deficiencies worked out.
Well, not all of them. He just accidentally rolled off the couch and tried to catch himself using a single claw and my thigh. I don't think there's a cure for being both clumsy and sharp.
I had decided when I started my new job that I wouldn't write about people from work. It's not nice to write about people if they might read it at some point. But in the tradition of other IT stories ("my cup holder isn't working") this one had to be told.
So I get a call today with the following problem: A user has an issue where he often accidentally hits the ctrl button when he's typing. Occasionally he'll combine that with an A key thereby selecting his entire document. Upon his next key stroke his document is gone. Could I, by any chance, disable the left ctrl key?
Everybody else in my department balked and told me to tell the guy there was nothing I could do, and that I didn't want to encourage him.
Alas, I tried to tell him no, but I'm a push over. So I brought him a keyboard with some keys already missing and popped the right hand ctrl key off. Such a kindly IT guy I am.
In cat news Clayton's ear has started to itch again and his self imposed ear scabs are making a comeback. His scabies medicine isn't due for another week, so I'm taking him to the vet on Saturday so they can figure out if he needs a cream or a cone or something. Sooner or later I'm going to get all his deficiencies worked out.
Well, not all of them. He just accidentally rolled off the couch and tried to catch himself using a single claw and my thigh. I don't think there's a cure for being both clumsy and sharp.
Monday, October 01, 2007
He's Not Going to Die
Things are looking up for Clayton. His ears have grown a cottony soft layer of fuzz and only a few scabs remain. His diarrhea was but a passing soft spot in what has become a solid groundwork of pooping. And his gas, while not completely gone, can be managed by not squeezing him too hard. All in all he is feeling much better.
Aside from that fact that he doesn't leak from sores and orifices, he lets me know that he's feeling better by making himself at home. For instance, he now feels comfortable enough to sleep on my bed. And while he was at the shelter he showed very little interest in playing, he now eagerly plays his favorite game: be a nut case for 5 minutes.
He's the first cat I've ever seen who enjoys chasing his tail. Dogs chase their tales in two dimensions. Cats can chase their tails off into the third detention which leaves all four legs free to grasp at it while somersaulting over the couch. It does, however, make for some uncomfortable landings from time to time. Especially if one doesn't understand how chasing one's tail through the air more than 2 feet in one direction brings one off the edge of the couch.
He's also recently taken notice of the interesting shapes that live inside my computer screen. He's not so interested in the cursor like Norbert was, he's most intrigued by the edge of the screen, where the pictures stop being so bright. He's just positive he can get in there. Alas, he can not.
Oh dear, now he's figured out that text can be fun to watch. He's learning to read!
I'm going to have to finish this post now before he jal;ksdjf;dlksajfksd.
Things are looking up for Clayton. His ears have grown a cottony soft layer of fuzz and only a few scabs remain. His diarrhea was but a passing soft spot in what has become a solid groundwork of pooping. And his gas, while not completely gone, can be managed by not squeezing him too hard. All in all he is feeling much better.
Aside from that fact that he doesn't leak from sores and orifices, he lets me know that he's feeling better by making himself at home. For instance, he now feels comfortable enough to sleep on my bed. And while he was at the shelter he showed very little interest in playing, he now eagerly plays his favorite game: be a nut case for 5 minutes.
He's the first cat I've ever seen who enjoys chasing his tail. Dogs chase their tales in two dimensions. Cats can chase their tails off into the third detention which leaves all four legs free to grasp at it while somersaulting over the couch. It does, however, make for some uncomfortable landings from time to time. Especially if one doesn't understand how chasing one's tail through the air more than 2 feet in one direction brings one off the edge of the couch.
He's also recently taken notice of the interesting shapes that live inside my computer screen. He's not so interested in the cursor like Norbert was, he's most intrigued by the edge of the screen, where the pictures stop being so bright. He's just positive he can get in there. Alas, he can not.
Oh dear, now he's figured out that text can be fun to watch. He's learning to read!
I'm going to have to finish this post now before he jal;ksdjf;dlksajfksd.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Clayton Comes Home
But not just Clayton. The SPCA decided it was ok if he brought his cat scabies too. And we're just tickled pink to have them. (The sarcasm is directed at the scabies. Clayton is ok.)
The test for cat scabies involves doing a skin scraping, where the vet shows off how aptly they name tests by scarping off a layer of skin. In Clayton's case the skin came off his right ear. It doesn't look very nice. I think he's embarrassed, but he doesn't let on.
And the poor guy itches. The combination of the raw ear skin and the scabies that live underneath got him scratching enough last night to make his ear bleed. His walleyed SFSPCA mug shot doesn't really do his coloring justice. (Or maybe it does. It depends on your screen.) Between his face and his tail he's nearly white, so a bloody ear really looks tacky. And being so blessed in the cheek department, he loves to rub his face on things, which yesterday left Flannery's pants covered in cat-ooze. Happily, cat-ooze doesn't seem to stain.
Having a sick cat makes me pause and consider whether or not Clayton and I are a good match. The first night he came home he was on his best behavior. He ate his dinner, didn't scratch himself too much, and pooped in the littler box instead of in my shoes, which was what I was worried he'd do. Last night he continued to use the facilities as he should, but decided to bleed on everything and then spent the night meowing outside my bedroom door.
Normally I would let my cat sleep with me. But as I mentioned previously, he has cat scabies, and I don't really want, nor does the SCPA recommend having cat scabies on your sheets. I don't want to walk around work scratching all the time. People will think I have lice, or fleas, or poison ivy of the lap. I wonder if I can get a polo shirt that say "Don't mind me, I just have mild case of cat scabies."
So he has to yowl in loneliness for another 4 weeks or so until his sustained company doesn't carry the possibility of an itchy couple of days. Or until I decide I value sleep more than I value having an oozing but affectionate cat.
The oozing ear.
Demonstrating how much of a faux pas he is after labor day.
Being ferocious, er, tired.
More cheeks than you can shake a stick at.
But not just Clayton. The SPCA decided it was ok if he brought his cat scabies too. And we're just tickled pink to have them. (The sarcasm is directed at the scabies. Clayton is ok.)
The test for cat scabies involves doing a skin scraping, where the vet shows off how aptly they name tests by scarping off a layer of skin. In Clayton's case the skin came off his right ear. It doesn't look very nice. I think he's embarrassed, but he doesn't let on.
And the poor guy itches. The combination of the raw ear skin and the scabies that live underneath got him scratching enough last night to make his ear bleed. His walleyed SFSPCA mug shot doesn't really do his coloring justice. (Or maybe it does. It depends on your screen.) Between his face and his tail he's nearly white, so a bloody ear really looks tacky. And being so blessed in the cheek department, he loves to rub his face on things, which yesterday left Flannery's pants covered in cat-ooze. Happily, cat-ooze doesn't seem to stain.
Having a sick cat makes me pause and consider whether or not Clayton and I are a good match. The first night he came home he was on his best behavior. He ate his dinner, didn't scratch himself too much, and pooped in the littler box instead of in my shoes, which was what I was worried he'd do. Last night he continued to use the facilities as he should, but decided to bleed on everything and then spent the night meowing outside my bedroom door.
Normally I would let my cat sleep with me. But as I mentioned previously, he has cat scabies, and I don't really want, nor does the SCPA recommend having cat scabies on your sheets. I don't want to walk around work scratching all the time. People will think I have lice, or fleas, or poison ivy of the lap. I wonder if I can get a polo shirt that say "Don't mind me, I just have mild case of cat scabies."
So he has to yowl in loneliness for another 4 weeks or so until his sustained company doesn't carry the possibility of an itchy couple of days. Or until I decide I value sleep more than I value having an oozing but affectionate cat.
The oozing ear.
Demonstrating how much of a faux pas he is after labor day.
Being ferocious, er, tired.
More cheeks than you can shake a stick at.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Super Girlfriend [X]
Good Job [X]
Bigger Apartment [X]
Pet ...
After many long, Norbertless months I've decided to re-cat my life. I actually decided to do it almost two weeks ago, but it turns out that it's very difficult to get a cat.
I looked through the SFSPCA's website and found a cute little number named Nelly. Despite my association of the name with people on MTV, I thought I should meet the cat and then rename it if I wanted to opt for adoption. I went by during my lunch break and she looked just as cute as can be. When I came back after work she was as adopted as can be.
A few days went by and I found another nice cat on the interweb. (I do seem to start relationships over the internet. Huh. Maybe I should look into that.) This one's name was Sammy and he was orange and fluffy and soft. I had paid my pet deposit and was just waiting for the cat approval letter so I could go fill out the paperwork to bring him home. In my excitement I sent his SFSPCA link to someone to show him off. She wrote back that he had been adopted.
Damn these cute cats! I needed a cat who wasn't quite so adorable on paper. Perhaps one that didn't look like the bluest crystal in the litter box. I needed Clayton.
Clayton is 3 years old, soft, affectionate, and looks like he should be named Clayton. If he lived someplace other than San Francisco I wouldn't be surprised if he would have been photographed with a piece of hay in his mouth.
Cat-approval letter in hand, I drove down to the SFSPCA to adopt Clayton before anyone else figured out that his eyes point in similar directions in person. I visited with him, we bonded, I filled out the paperwork.
"Do you have any questions before we finish up?" the helpful volunteer asked.
"Just one: He seemed to be scratching a little and had some red spots on his ear. Does he have allergies?" I asked, worrying that I would have to feed him Benadryl during the spring.
"We'll have somebody go take a look at him while you finish up here."
When that somebody came back down they made a squished mouthed, big eyed face and then said, "we think Clayton has ringworm. He's heading to the medical unit now."
So I nearly had a cat a week and a half ago. But now he's sitting in a cage while his ring worm culture incubates. Best case scenario is that he doesn't have ringworm and I can take him home on Monday. Worse case scenario is that he does have ringworm and I can take him home 4 weeks from Monday.
I have very little experience with ringworm, but already I find that I'm not fond of it.
Good Job [X]
Bigger Apartment [X]
Pet ...
After many long, Norbertless months I've decided to re-cat my life. I actually decided to do it almost two weeks ago, but it turns out that it's very difficult to get a cat.
I looked through the SFSPCA's website and found a cute little number named Nelly. Despite my association of the name with people on MTV, I thought I should meet the cat and then rename it if I wanted to opt for adoption. I went by during my lunch break and she looked just as cute as can be. When I came back after work she was as adopted as can be.
A few days went by and I found another nice cat on the interweb. (I do seem to start relationships over the internet. Huh. Maybe I should look into that.) This one's name was Sammy and he was orange and fluffy and soft. I had paid my pet deposit and was just waiting for the cat approval letter so I could go fill out the paperwork to bring him home. In my excitement I sent his SFSPCA link to someone to show him off. She wrote back that he had been adopted.
Damn these cute cats! I needed a cat who wasn't quite so adorable on paper. Perhaps one that didn't look like the bluest crystal in the litter box. I needed Clayton.
Clayton is 3 years old, soft, affectionate, and looks like he should be named Clayton. If he lived someplace other than San Francisco I wouldn't be surprised if he would have been photographed with a piece of hay in his mouth.
Cat-approval letter in hand, I drove down to the SFSPCA to adopt Clayton before anyone else figured out that his eyes point in similar directions in person. I visited with him, we bonded, I filled out the paperwork.
"Do you have any questions before we finish up?" the helpful volunteer asked.
"Just one: He seemed to be scratching a little and had some red spots on his ear. Does he have allergies?" I asked, worrying that I would have to feed him Benadryl during the spring.
"We'll have somebody go take a look at him while you finish up here."
When that somebody came back down they made a squished mouthed, big eyed face and then said, "we think Clayton has ringworm. He's heading to the medical unit now."
So I nearly had a cat a week and a half ago. But now he's sitting in a cage while his ring worm culture incubates. Best case scenario is that he doesn't have ringworm and I can take him home on Monday. Worse case scenario is that he does have ringworm and I can take him home 4 weeks from Monday.
I have very little experience with ringworm, but already I find that I'm not fond of it.
Monday, July 16, 2007
My Famous Laundromat
My local laundromat sells laundry bags in one of two varieties:
$0.50 - Yellow plastic. When half full it comes up to the knees of a little girl in a Sears photo studio.
$0.75 - Darker plastic. Nearly the same size as a small boy in the back yard.
I guess the gallon metric for plastic bags has fallen out of fashion.
If you are wondering why my laundromat qualifies as famous, go here and watch episode 6. After Demetri rides his bike down the hill (my hill) he helps an old lady (not my old lady) cross the street (my street), and there, in the background, is my famous laundromat (my famous laundromat).
My local laundromat sells laundry bags in one of two varieties:
$0.50 - Yellow plastic. When half full it comes up to the knees of a little girl in a Sears photo studio.
$0.75 - Darker plastic. Nearly the same size as a small boy in the back yard.
I guess the gallon metric for plastic bags has fallen out of fashion.
If you are wondering why my laundromat qualifies as famous, go here and watch episode 6. After Demetri rides his bike down the hill (my hill) he helps an old lady (not my old lady) cross the street (my street), and there, in the background, is my famous laundromat (my famous laundromat).
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
House in Haiku
My new house is swell
I shall write some featurekus
To explain the swell
Three windows are nice
Were the power to go off
Sunlight helps me see
Bedroom near bathroom
Toilet to 'puter sight-line
Movies while pooping
No ceiling pounding
No snot-rocket sounds next door
Nobody cooks feet
Leave 8:45
Fix computers, take a lunch
Home by 5:15
My new house is swell
I shall write some featurekus
To explain the swell
Three windows are nice
Were the power to go off
Sunlight helps me see
Bedroom near bathroom
Toilet to 'puter sight-line
Movies while pooping
No ceiling pounding
No snot-rocket sounds next door
Nobody cooks feet
Leave 8:45
Fix computers, take a lunch
Home by 5:15
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I know I haven't posted in quite a while, but I have an excuse, or maybe many excuses.
1) New job: IT for my local public radio affiliate.
2) Maker Faire. You can see my pictures here.
3) Girlfriend. (It's more fun to hang out with her than to type to you. Sorry.)
4) I'm moving! Yes, that's right, I'm going to have 3 windows and 2 skylight things. Woot!
1) New job: IT for my local public radio affiliate.
2) Maker Faire. You can see my pictures here.
3) Girlfriend. (It's more fun to hang out with her than to type to you. Sorry.)
4) I'm moving! Yes, that's right, I'm going to have 3 windows and 2 skylight things. Woot!
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Trading Spaces
Oh, the joy of apartment hunting in San Francisco. There are a lot of weird ones out there.
I'm looking for a new place, you see, because I now work in the up and coming IT industry. I work 9-5, get a paid lunch, and a company paid-for fancy cell phone which is basically a tiny computer with a phone built in. So with all these other luxuries going to my head I've decided that I'd like to have more than 1 window. And while I'm at it I think not having to drive around drug deals to get to my street would be nice as well.
The most interesting apartment of the weekend was one in the inner Richmond. I walked along the side of the house to find the apartment's front door nearly a foot and a half off the ground. Not a place for a person with bad knees.
Directly through the front door was the, um, living room? Foyer? One way or the other it was a little tiny linoleumed room with a big closet along one wall. Or so it seemed. In reality it was the portal to the water heater and central forced air heat for the rest of the house. I imagine it might get noisy when the other members of the household got chilly. Although, judging by the space heater in the room, I'm not sure any of that heat is shared with the in-law. Also, judging by the smoke detector dangling from the vent by a piece of wire, they might worry about the space heater.
Another highlight of the foyer is the little table they provide. It was placed right by the window for maximum light and matched the floor. Yep, matched. It had linoleum glued the top.
The bedroom was small but otherwise unremarkable. The kitchen, however, was just super. Much larger than my current kitchen and, like the front door, nearly a foot and a half higher than the room that precedes it. The half of the ceiling closest to the foyer slants down to allow the heating ducts to come off the furnace. I have to think that if they didn't raise the level of the kitchen floor so much they would have had plenty of room for the vents. And conveniently, if you cook like I do, you can shower off after making dinner as the bathroom is right off the kitchen.
And, they don't take cats. I'm still on the lookout.
Oh, the joy of apartment hunting in San Francisco. There are a lot of weird ones out there.
I'm looking for a new place, you see, because I now work in the up and coming IT industry. I work 9-5, get a paid lunch, and a company paid-for fancy cell phone which is basically a tiny computer with a phone built in. So with all these other luxuries going to my head I've decided that I'd like to have more than 1 window. And while I'm at it I think not having to drive around drug deals to get to my street would be nice as well.
The most interesting apartment of the weekend was one in the inner Richmond. I walked along the side of the house to find the apartment's front door nearly a foot and a half off the ground. Not a place for a person with bad knees.
Directly through the front door was the, um, living room? Foyer? One way or the other it was a little tiny linoleumed room with a big closet along one wall. Or so it seemed. In reality it was the portal to the water heater and central forced air heat for the rest of the house. I imagine it might get noisy when the other members of the household got chilly. Although, judging by the space heater in the room, I'm not sure any of that heat is shared with the in-law. Also, judging by the smoke detector dangling from the vent by a piece of wire, they might worry about the space heater.
Another highlight of the foyer is the little table they provide. It was placed right by the window for maximum light and matched the floor. Yep, matched. It had linoleum glued the top.
The bedroom was small but otherwise unremarkable. The kitchen, however, was just super. Much larger than my current kitchen and, like the front door, nearly a foot and a half higher than the room that precedes it. The half of the ceiling closest to the foyer slants down to allow the heating ducts to come off the furnace. I have to think that if they didn't raise the level of the kitchen floor so much they would have had plenty of room for the vents. And conveniently, if you cook like I do, you can shower off after making dinner as the bathroom is right off the kitchen.
And, they don't take cats. I'm still on the lookout.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Cooking With Michael
The Paper Towel Edition
Sometimes I'd like a hardboiled egg. And sometimes, when I want that egg, I don't want to wait 10 minutes for the water to boil. But because we live in modern times we have technology available that lets us cook food faster: The microwave.
I know, if you microwave an egg the pressure will build up inside and it might explode. I thought of that and I poked a hole in the top. Problem solved. Won't some of the egg spill out? No, I put it in a little plastic cup so it might remain upright, pressure reducing steam spouting from its apex.
I closed the door and set the microwave for 1 minute.
1 second.
5 seconds.
10 seconds. A small pop. I check my egg to find a small crack has developed and a tiny bit of egg has seeped out. I guess the hole on top wasn't enough, but a hole and a crack has to be sufficient. Right?
15 seconds.
20 seconds.
30 seconds.
45 seconds: BOOOM! Certainly the loudest indoor explosion I've experienced.
I opened the door to find an even coating of mildly cooked egg on all 6 interior surfaces of the microwave. And as the door hung open its coating of egg started to drip onto my fridge and floor.
Some things you may or may not know about partially cooked eggs:
1) They smell awful. About half way between scrambled eggs and a dead thing.
2) They are runny enough to evenly cover a surface, but firm enough to take several wipings to fully remove.
3) They smell awful. A repeat, I know. But it's true enough to be on the list twice.
4) It takes roughly twice the time to clean a medium sized microwave covered in partially cooked egg than it does to fully cook an egg by the conventional boiling method.
People keep telling me that if I want to learn to cook I have to learn by doing. I'm not sure that's always good advice.
The Paper Towel Edition
Sometimes I'd like a hardboiled egg. And sometimes, when I want that egg, I don't want to wait 10 minutes for the water to boil. But because we live in modern times we have technology available that lets us cook food faster: The microwave.
I know, if you microwave an egg the pressure will build up inside and it might explode. I thought of that and I poked a hole in the top. Problem solved. Won't some of the egg spill out? No, I put it in a little plastic cup so it might remain upright, pressure reducing steam spouting from its apex.
I closed the door and set the microwave for 1 minute.
1 second.
5 seconds.
10 seconds. A small pop. I check my egg to find a small crack has developed and a tiny bit of egg has seeped out. I guess the hole on top wasn't enough, but a hole and a crack has to be sufficient. Right?
15 seconds.
20 seconds.
30 seconds.
45 seconds: BOOOM! Certainly the loudest indoor explosion I've experienced.
I opened the door to find an even coating of mildly cooked egg on all 6 interior surfaces of the microwave. And as the door hung open its coating of egg started to drip onto my fridge and floor.
Some things you may or may not know about partially cooked eggs:
1) They smell awful. About half way between scrambled eggs and a dead thing.
2) They are runny enough to evenly cover a surface, but firm enough to take several wipings to fully remove.
3) They smell awful. A repeat, I know. But it's true enough to be on the list twice.
4) It takes roughly twice the time to clean a medium sized microwave covered in partially cooked egg than it does to fully cook an egg by the conventional boiling method.
People keep telling me that if I want to learn to cook I have to learn by doing. I'm not sure that's always good advice.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
On to New Things
I may have a new job on the horizon, I'm not sure and I don't want to jinx it. Suffice it to say that if the new job comes to fruition I'll be seeing significantly less of the aged and nude.
Things are looking good, I think. The universe is on my side, or at least its trying to tell me that my current job has run its course.
Last Tuesday I made a delivery up to Clearlake, CA. For those of you who have never been to Clearlake, it's tucked inside a mountain roughly 40 miles from the middle of nowhere. Clearlake needed a bed frame which required stopping in Manteca. Manteca, for those who have never been there, is quite a bit south and east from that same middle of nowhere. My schedule went as follows:
10am Leave San Francisco.
11:30am Arrive in Manteca.
11:55am McDonald's drive through.
12:25pm Regret McDonald's drive through.
4pm Arrive in Clearlake.
4:30pm Leave Clearlake for San Francisco.
At that point I thought I was going to make it back home early enough to take the object of my coffee affection to Costco to get some pictures printed. But as I was cruising down HWY 29 a guy in an orange vest a blue-tinted Jon Lennon glasses shut me down. Placed sideways on a stand beside him was a sign which said "Chains Required." (I don't think there is any significance to the orientation of the sign, he may have just been dumb.)
"How can I get to San Francisco from here with 29 closed?" I asked.
"I have no freaking idea, dude." He replied. "I'm not from around here. I think you can go up that road there [pointing to my left] and you'll come out in St. Helena."
"Ok, thanks." And I turned down the road.
It was an entrance to a trailer park.
After extricating myself from the trailer park I found a corner store and the helpful man behind the counter told me I could best get to San Francisco via 29. He was even more helpful when confronted with my road closure information and clued me in to Butts Canyon Rd. It meanders through Lake County and finally into Napa County where Howell Mountain Rd heads toward home, where the grapes grow strong, and where the snow ceases to annoy me.
Lo and behold it was snowing on Howell Mountain Rd. In Napa. On the grapes. It shouldn't snow in Napa. The universe was out to get me.
The proof is in the pictures.
The following day I got the call informing me that I probably have the job. I excitedly exited my van, strode into a facility to pick up a mattress, and promptly slipped in a puddle of pee.
To paraphrase Lajos Kossuth: The time draws near when a radical change must take place for the whole world in the management of mattresses by me.
I may have a new job on the horizon, I'm not sure and I don't want to jinx it. Suffice it to say that if the new job comes to fruition I'll be seeing significantly less of the aged and nude.
Things are looking good, I think. The universe is on my side, or at least its trying to tell me that my current job has run its course.
Last Tuesday I made a delivery up to Clearlake, CA. For those of you who have never been to Clearlake, it's tucked inside a mountain roughly 40 miles from the middle of nowhere. Clearlake needed a bed frame which required stopping in Manteca. Manteca, for those who have never been there, is quite a bit south and east from that same middle of nowhere. My schedule went as follows:
10am Leave San Francisco.
11:30am Arrive in Manteca.
11:55am McDonald's drive through.
12:25pm Regret McDonald's drive through.
4pm Arrive in Clearlake.
4:30pm Leave Clearlake for San Francisco.
At that point I thought I was going to make it back home early enough to take the object of my coffee affection to Costco to get some pictures printed. But as I was cruising down HWY 29 a guy in an orange vest a blue-tinted Jon Lennon glasses shut me down. Placed sideways on a stand beside him was a sign which said "Chains Required." (I don't think there is any significance to the orientation of the sign, he may have just been dumb.)
"How can I get to San Francisco from here with 29 closed?" I asked.
"I have no freaking idea, dude." He replied. "I'm not from around here. I think you can go up that road there [pointing to my left] and you'll come out in St. Helena."
"Ok, thanks." And I turned down the road.
It was an entrance to a trailer park.
After extricating myself from the trailer park I found a corner store and the helpful man behind the counter told me I could best get to San Francisco via 29. He was even more helpful when confronted with my road closure information and clued me in to Butts Canyon Rd. It meanders through Lake County and finally into Napa County where Howell Mountain Rd heads toward home, where the grapes grow strong, and where the snow ceases to annoy me.
Lo and behold it was snowing on Howell Mountain Rd. In Napa. On the grapes. It shouldn't snow in Napa. The universe was out to get me.
The proof is in the pictures.
The following day I got the call informing me that I probably have the job. I excitedly exited my van, strode into a facility to pick up a mattress, and promptly slipped in a puddle of pee.
To paraphrase Lajos Kossuth: The time draws near when a radical change must take place for the whole world in the management of mattresses by me.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Long Time No See
Goodness, it has been a while hasn't it. Things have been busy and I've been falling behind on everything from blogging, to sweeping, to putting my old high school German class video onto DVD. (Subtitles are a frustrating and time consuming endeavor.)
Part of the reason I've been away so long is that I'm finally dating somebody. She's exceptionally cool, and I'm therefor doing my best to demonstrate the fact that I'd make a swell boyfriend. Case in point: making the morning coffee.
To many people (mostly coffee drinking people) making a morning cup of coffee is no big deal. But I don't drink coffee and therefor had no idea how to go about making a cup. Luckily I had the following things at my disposal: a coffee maker, a box of filters, and the knowledge that she usually gets her beans from Peet's.
First stop: Peet's coffee to get some freshly ground coffee beans. I entered the coffee shop and walked over to the coffee bean counter where a girl walked over and asked, eyebrows raised, if I wanted coffee beans. I think she thought I was trying to subvert the drink line.
Me: Yes.
Her: Ok. What kind?
Me: Oh, well, this isn't for me. What are your most popular beans?
Her: Most people like the rocaprincesshouseblend.
Me: Right. I'll have that one.
Her: ...
Her: That was two different kinds.
Me: Oh. I'll have the second one.
Her: Ok, the house blend. How much to do you want?
Me: Enough for two cups.
Her: [A long and pained sigh.]
Her: Um, no. I'm going to sell you a quarter pound. It's more than you want, but that's how much I'm going to sell you.
Me: Ok.
Her: Which grind do you want? Oh, right, not for you. [Sigh] I'm going to go with the universal grind.
Me: Ok.
Her: There are instructions on the side of the bag on how to make the perfect cup of coffee.
Me: Oh good. I need that.
Her: [Eye roll] Yeah. Do you want a complimentary cup of coffee or tea? [Obviously really hoping I would say no and leave.]
Me: No thanks.
Her: [Looking relieved] Thanks. Goodbye.
With coffee obtained and Barista torture behind me I was ready to make my first cup of coffee.
When that fateful morning came I quietly sneaked out of bed and readied my implements. I got the coffee maker out of the cupboard, which was unfortunately behind some pots and pans which made its extraction a little less quiet than I was hoping for.
With the coffee maker freed I carried it over the stove to the toaster oven where there was a free plug. Unfortunately I didn't have the plug quite contained and it dragged across all my gas burner covers. Clinky, clinky, clinky, clinky. Again, not quite as stealthy as I had planned.
Electricity flowing free, I measured out the coffee. According to the side of the bag the perfect cup of coffee requires two tablespoons of coffee per 6 oz of water. Because I don't have anything with oz lines on it, I had to use my 1/4 cup measuring cup. (6oz = 3/4 cup.) I figured 9oz of water would just about do it, so I measured out 3 table spoons of coffee. I realized, at this point, that 12 trips to the sink with my 1/4 cup would probably result in a lot of water on the floor and a skewed measurement, so I unplugged the coffee maker and moved it over to the sink. Unfortunately I didn't have the plug quite contained and it dragged across all my gas burner covers. Clinky, clinky, clinky, clinky. Again.
The final transport of the coffee maker back to the plug was whisper quiet, and the coffee started percolating. I inquired into the use of cream (1% milk) and sugar and mixed in what I hoped were the desired amounts. I presented the cup and a sip was taken. Her eyebrows went up and she said, "Oooh. It's strong."
I now make coffee with 2.5-3 cups of water per 1/4 cup of beans. And I get nearly twice the coffee. I think the "Peet's Perfect Cup of Coffee" recipe allows for each drop of water to have its own coffee ground to seep through. As a result not many drops of water make it down to the coffee pot.
It's a good thing that it's the thought that counts.
Goodness, it has been a while hasn't it. Things have been busy and I've been falling behind on everything from blogging, to sweeping, to putting my old high school German class video onto DVD. (Subtitles are a frustrating and time consuming endeavor.)
Part of the reason I've been away so long is that I'm finally dating somebody. She's exceptionally cool, and I'm therefor doing my best to demonstrate the fact that I'd make a swell boyfriend. Case in point: making the morning coffee.
To many people (mostly coffee drinking people) making a morning cup of coffee is no big deal. But I don't drink coffee and therefor had no idea how to go about making a cup. Luckily I had the following things at my disposal: a coffee maker, a box of filters, and the knowledge that she usually gets her beans from Peet's.
First stop: Peet's coffee to get some freshly ground coffee beans. I entered the coffee shop and walked over to the coffee bean counter where a girl walked over and asked, eyebrows raised, if I wanted coffee beans. I think she thought I was trying to subvert the drink line.
Me: Yes.
Her: Ok. What kind?
Me: Oh, well, this isn't for me. What are your most popular beans?
Her: Most people like the rocaprincesshouseblend.
Me: Right. I'll have that one.
Her: ...
Her: That was two different kinds.
Me: Oh. I'll have the second one.
Her: Ok, the house blend. How much to do you want?
Me: Enough for two cups.
Her: [A long and pained sigh.]
Her: Um, no. I'm going to sell you a quarter pound. It's more than you want, but that's how much I'm going to sell you.
Me: Ok.
Her: Which grind do you want? Oh, right, not for you. [Sigh] I'm going to go with the universal grind.
Me: Ok.
Her: There are instructions on the side of the bag on how to make the perfect cup of coffee.
Me: Oh good. I need that.
Her: [Eye roll] Yeah. Do you want a complimentary cup of coffee or tea? [Obviously really hoping I would say no and leave.]
Me: No thanks.
Her: [Looking relieved] Thanks. Goodbye.
With coffee obtained and Barista torture behind me I was ready to make my first cup of coffee.
When that fateful morning came I quietly sneaked out of bed and readied my implements. I got the coffee maker out of the cupboard, which was unfortunately behind some pots and pans which made its extraction a little less quiet than I was hoping for.
With the coffee maker freed I carried it over the stove to the toaster oven where there was a free plug. Unfortunately I didn't have the plug quite contained and it dragged across all my gas burner covers. Clinky, clinky, clinky, clinky. Again, not quite as stealthy as I had planned.
Electricity flowing free, I measured out the coffee. According to the side of the bag the perfect cup of coffee requires two tablespoons of coffee per 6 oz of water. Because I don't have anything with oz lines on it, I had to use my 1/4 cup measuring cup. (6oz = 3/4 cup.) I figured 9oz of water would just about do it, so I measured out 3 table spoons of coffee. I realized, at this point, that 12 trips to the sink with my 1/4 cup would probably result in a lot of water on the floor and a skewed measurement, so I unplugged the coffee maker and moved it over to the sink. Unfortunately I didn't have the plug quite contained and it dragged across all my gas burner covers. Clinky, clinky, clinky, clinky. Again.
The final transport of the coffee maker back to the plug was whisper quiet, and the coffee started percolating. I inquired into the use of cream (1% milk) and sugar and mixed in what I hoped were the desired amounts. I presented the cup and a sip was taken. Her eyebrows went up and she said, "Oooh. It's strong."
I now make coffee with 2.5-3 cups of water per 1/4 cup of beans. And I get nearly twice the coffee. I think the "Peet's Perfect Cup of Coffee" recipe allows for each drop of water to have its own coffee ground to seep through. As a result not many drops of water make it down to the coffee pot.
It's a good thing that it's the thought that counts.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Passing
Today was a little sad. One of our patients died after being on one of our beds for years. She was a little tiny German woman who had been renting from my company for longer than I've been working there.
I deliver a lot of mattresses to hospice patients, and they die all the time - often within a week of the delivery date. (Sometimes before we can even arrive with the mattress.) And over all it doesn't bother me. My friend Kristin maintains that I'm dead inside. In my opinion death is a fact of life, and the fact that I delivered a bed to a person doesn't usually give me enough contact with them to form much of a relationship. Very often the patient in question will be unconscious the whole time I'm in the room.
This was not the case with the lady whose mattress I picked up today. She was a home care patient, which means she was reasonably healthy but couldn't move around much and needed a prescription mattress to keep her skin healthy. Unfortunately she'd grown accustomed to the sole product line we have which is more than 10 years old. And as a result her equipment would break down a lot.
On one such occasion she called us up to say that her mattress was trying to push her out of bed to the left. I was steadfast in my belief that our mattresses don't run around trying to roll little old ladies out of bed and I tried to blame the crooked bed frame. Well, the bed frame company came and fixed their frame, and the mattress persisted in slowly rolling her to the left. After a week or so of back and forth it turned out she was right. She happened to have some oddball one-off prototype mattress which was designed such that if it got a hole it would slope to the left.
I came by her house fairly regularly for a number of reasons: A noisy pump, a sloping mattress, a "boinging" noise, and our monthly status checkup. Each time I stopped by the process was the same:
1) Call to make an appointment. One of her various caregivers would invariably answer the phone and conduct the appointment making process in some indeterminate version of English.
2) I would show up for the appointment. If it was something which involved changing the mattress she'd always still be in bed. She was always hopeful that I could somehow fix a leak or switch out the mattress without her having to get up. As this isn't ever possible, she was often disappointed. She was always apologetic for having a problem in the first place, and also for making me come back later. I'd make a second appointment.
3) On my way out the door she always offered me a piece of hard candy from a solid and sticky mass in a crystal candy dish in the kitchen. I politely took some the first couple times, but it eventually became so hard to pry a piece loose that the caregiver and I would share a knowing glance and I could thank her without actually taking some. This clever rouse only worked because she couldn't see into the kitchen.
As near as I could tell she spent 95% of her time in bed in a little room in the back of her enormous, beautiful house in San Francisco. And while it's sad to see her go, it's nice to think she's finally made it out of that little room. According to her grandson she died the day before her birthday. I'm sure not anyone else thinks so, but to me it's kind of satisfying to die without a decimal point on your age. I didn't know her that well, but I can say that she lived her years to the fullest, at least chronologically speaking.
Today was a little sad. One of our patients died after being on one of our beds for years. She was a little tiny German woman who had been renting from my company for longer than I've been working there.
I deliver a lot of mattresses to hospice patients, and they die all the time - often within a week of the delivery date. (Sometimes before we can even arrive with the mattress.) And over all it doesn't bother me. My friend Kristin maintains that I'm dead inside. In my opinion death is a fact of life, and the fact that I delivered a bed to a person doesn't usually give me enough contact with them to form much of a relationship. Very often the patient in question will be unconscious the whole time I'm in the room.
This was not the case with the lady whose mattress I picked up today. She was a home care patient, which means she was reasonably healthy but couldn't move around much and needed a prescription mattress to keep her skin healthy. Unfortunately she'd grown accustomed to the sole product line we have which is more than 10 years old. And as a result her equipment would break down a lot.
On one such occasion she called us up to say that her mattress was trying to push her out of bed to the left. I was steadfast in my belief that our mattresses don't run around trying to roll little old ladies out of bed and I tried to blame the crooked bed frame. Well, the bed frame company came and fixed their frame, and the mattress persisted in slowly rolling her to the left. After a week or so of back and forth it turned out she was right. She happened to have some oddball one-off prototype mattress which was designed such that if it got a hole it would slope to the left.
I came by her house fairly regularly for a number of reasons: A noisy pump, a sloping mattress, a "boinging" noise, and our monthly status checkup. Each time I stopped by the process was the same:
1) Call to make an appointment. One of her various caregivers would invariably answer the phone and conduct the appointment making process in some indeterminate version of English.
2) I would show up for the appointment. If it was something which involved changing the mattress she'd always still be in bed. She was always hopeful that I could somehow fix a leak or switch out the mattress without her having to get up. As this isn't ever possible, she was often disappointed. She was always apologetic for having a problem in the first place, and also for making me come back later. I'd make a second appointment.
3) On my way out the door she always offered me a piece of hard candy from a solid and sticky mass in a crystal candy dish in the kitchen. I politely took some the first couple times, but it eventually became so hard to pry a piece loose that the caregiver and I would share a knowing glance and I could thank her without actually taking some. This clever rouse only worked because she couldn't see into the kitchen.
As near as I could tell she spent 95% of her time in bed in a little room in the back of her enormous, beautiful house in San Francisco. And while it's sad to see her go, it's nice to think she's finally made it out of that little room. According to her grandson she died the day before her birthday. I'm sure not anyone else thinks so, but to me it's kind of satisfying to die without a decimal point on your age. I didn't know her that well, but I can say that she lived her years to the fullest, at least chronologically speaking.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Dear Yahoo! Mail
Damn you, Yahoo! mail. Your upbeat, confident help service makes it seem as if you'll be springing into action to help me read my email, but in reality I've been without access for more than 12 hours. I've heard of people dieing in as little as 6.
And now your ad revenue will suffer because of your negligence. I've forwarded my Yahoo! mail to my Gmail account, which has yet to let me down. My emails have begun to arrive in Gmail land, so now you are only hurting yourself!
When you resolve these problems for people in the future, I highly recommend not sending them an email telling them the problem has been fixed when it hasn't. Especially if you send said email to the account in question, THE ONE TO WHICH I DO NOT HAVE ACCESS. Jerks.
I'd also like to point out that I pay for your email service. In fact, I have two accounts. One costs me money, and one is free. Guess which one broke.
Yahoo!, Google is kicking your ass for a reason.
Love,
Mike
Damn you, Yahoo! mail. Your upbeat, confident help service makes it seem as if you'll be springing into action to help me read my email, but in reality I've been without access for more than 12 hours. I've heard of people dieing in as little as 6.
And now your ad revenue will suffer because of your negligence. I've forwarded my Yahoo! mail to my Gmail account, which has yet to let me down. My emails have begun to arrive in Gmail land, so now you are only hurting yourself!
When you resolve these problems for people in the future, I highly recommend not sending them an email telling them the problem has been fixed when it hasn't. Especially if you send said email to the account in question, THE ONE TO WHICH I DO NOT HAVE ACCESS. Jerks.
I'd also like to point out that I pay for your email service. In fact, I have two accounts. One costs me money, and one is free. Guess which one broke.
Yahoo!, Google is kicking your ass for a reason.
Love,
Mike
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Peep
I'm making some hard boiled eggs. When I covered the eggs with water and put them on the stove, some air started to escape from the shells. As the bubbles popped they made little peeping noises. There's nothing like the feeling that you might be boiling tiny chicks alive to make breakfast more appetizing.
I'm making some hard boiled eggs. When I covered the eggs with water and put them on the stove, some air started to escape from the shells. As the bubbles popped they made little peeping noises. There's nothing like the feeling that you might be boiling tiny chicks alive to make breakfast more appetizing.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Limericks
Pool of Seats
There were some people at school
Who like to throw chairs in the pool
On the last day of class
They thought of their ass
And asked me to lend them a stool
To Which I replied
I knew some people who came
To ask me for something in shame
They asked "Would you care,
"If we borrowed a chair?"
And I said "hey no way you're too lame."
I don't believe you
A girl with last name Fredoth
Only liked me for my small pet sloth
When I asked if she'd mind
If I grabbed her behind
She said it had just fallen off
Pickle
There once was a pickle from mars,
Who put ugly people in jars.
He'd wait till they'd die,
Then the dead he would fry,
And sell them as snacks in the bars.
Job Market 2002
Nomadic employment ensues
From lame jobs that give me the blues
So I mourn the trees
That died to make these
My huge stack of W2s
Pool of Seats
There were some people at school
Who like to throw chairs in the pool
On the last day of class
They thought of their ass
And asked me to lend them a stool
To Which I replied
I knew some people who came
To ask me for something in shame
They asked "Would you care,
"If we borrowed a chair?"
And I said "hey no way you're too lame."
I don't believe you
A girl with last name Fredoth
Only liked me for my small pet sloth
When I asked if she'd mind
If I grabbed her behind
She said it had just fallen off
Pickle
There once was a pickle from mars,
Who put ugly people in jars.
He'd wait till they'd die,
Then the dead he would fry,
And sell them as snacks in the bars.
Job Market 2002
Nomadic employment ensues
From lame jobs that give me the blues
So I mourn the trees
That died to make these
My huge stack of W2s
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Today
I was worried about today. It started out with our weekly corporate compliance course conference call, which isn't terrible, but I can't say I look forward to it.
After the call I tried to make delivery arrangements. Of the 3 deliveries I got in the morning, 1 had the wrong phone number, 1 had no phone number, and one was missing an area code. A little research cleared those problems right up.
So off I went to delivery number 1, ignoring the phone omens and hoping for the best. However, when I arrived I discovered the patient didn't have a bed frame. I'm not allowed to install stuff on the floor. Oh well, I'll come back later.
Time for delivery #2. I dialed the number:
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Them: Bueno.
Crap.
Me: [I have a mattress blah blah blah.]
Them: Um.... [Then in perfect, accent-free English,] Sorry, I do not speak any English.
Me: Ok. Well ... Ok.
I called two other numbers for the patient's family and waded through two Spanish language voice mail menus until I got what I hope was the leave a message beep. I left an English message.
Off to delivery #3. When I arrived the patient was out of bed already. Amazing. I took off their old mattress, put mine on, and got my paperwork signed. 'Hot Damn,' I thought. 'This day is looking up.' Then I knelt down to pick up my quick pump and put my knee in a puddle of cat pee.
During lunch my sandwich place had been replaced by a Panda Express, so I went to a Burger King with the dual distinctions of being the slowest location on earth, and one of the few with pay toilets. You gotta love paying 25c to pee someplace where your eyes water from the smell. I guess the quarter helps keep the riffraff out.
To bring my day full circle I went back to delivery #1 at 4 o'clock just as the bed frame guy arrived. I went to the woman's room and set up my mattress while I waited for the frame guy to unload. As I blew up my mattress I heard a running water noise coming through the open door to the bathroom. I was just about to wonder what it was when I heard an accompanying, satisfied "Oh? ... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." After he was finished and put away he wandered out and asked a nurse when breakfast would be ready.
But I did get home early, and in a little while I'm having pie. Today hasn't beaten me yet.
I was worried about today. It started out with our weekly corporate compliance course conference call, which isn't terrible, but I can't say I look forward to it.
After the call I tried to make delivery arrangements. Of the 3 deliveries I got in the morning, 1 had the wrong phone number, 1 had no phone number, and one was missing an area code. A little research cleared those problems right up.
So off I went to delivery number 1, ignoring the phone omens and hoping for the best. However, when I arrived I discovered the patient didn't have a bed frame. I'm not allowed to install stuff on the floor. Oh well, I'll come back later.
Time for delivery #2. I dialed the number:
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Them: Bueno.
Crap.
Me: [I have a mattress blah blah blah.]
Them: Um.... [Then in perfect, accent-free English,] Sorry, I do not speak any English.
Me: Ok. Well ... Ok.
I called two other numbers for the patient's family and waded through two Spanish language voice mail menus until I got what I hope was the leave a message beep. I left an English message.
Off to delivery #3. When I arrived the patient was out of bed already. Amazing. I took off their old mattress, put mine on, and got my paperwork signed. 'Hot Damn,' I thought. 'This day is looking up.' Then I knelt down to pick up my quick pump and put my knee in a puddle of cat pee.
During lunch my sandwich place had been replaced by a Panda Express, so I went to a Burger King with the dual distinctions of being the slowest location on earth, and one of the few with pay toilets. You gotta love paying 25c to pee someplace where your eyes water from the smell. I guess the quarter helps keep the riffraff out.
To bring my day full circle I went back to delivery #1 at 4 o'clock just as the bed frame guy arrived. I went to the woman's room and set up my mattress while I waited for the frame guy to unload. As I blew up my mattress I heard a running water noise coming through the open door to the bathroom. I was just about to wonder what it was when I heard an accompanying, satisfied "Oh? ... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." After he was finished and put away he wandered out and asked a nurse when breakfast would be ready.
But I did get home early, and in a little while I'm having pie. Today hasn't beaten me yet.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Figuring Things Out
Two things, in fact.
The first thing, or things in this case, were two separate gas wall heaters. One wasn't working on Saturday, so I did a little trouble shooting, and found a loose connection. The second, on Sunday, needed its pilot light lit, so I figured out how to do that and got it running. How can I fix a gas wall heater? I don't know anything about gas heaters. I think I may be using somebody else's knowledge without their permission. Tomorrow I may uninstall a gps tracking unit from a company van. I don't know how to do that either.
I also don't know how to cut hair. Really. But after looking at my head in the mirror for 15 minutes tonight, I know how to not cut hair.
During my last haircut, before which I specifically asked that she not cut the sides too short, she cut the sides too short. The reason I got a haircut was that I was going to go out on a date, and on New Years Eve no less. And just before said date a friend told me it looked like I was wearing a wig. I decided I needed to make a hair change.
I asked for the top to be left a little long so it might cover my rather spacious forehead. A #3 on the sides and a long top can work, I think, if you know what you're doing. But this lady's blending technique involved making all my hair stick out sideways, then cutting a straight line from my ear on up. This would be fine if my hair stuck out sideways all day, but it doesn't. The top lays down and the sides, which are too short, stick out. The result, I'm happy to report, looks like I'm wearing a toupee*. At least I'm decreasing area of my hair that looks fake.
*Because of my spelling deficiencies I had to Google toupee to find out how it's spelled. If you Google toupee, the second site on the list is www.babytoupee.com, which is awesome.
Two things, in fact.
The first thing, or things in this case, were two separate gas wall heaters. One wasn't working on Saturday, so I did a little trouble shooting, and found a loose connection. The second, on Sunday, needed its pilot light lit, so I figured out how to do that and got it running. How can I fix a gas wall heater? I don't know anything about gas heaters. I think I may be using somebody else's knowledge without their permission. Tomorrow I may uninstall a gps tracking unit from a company van. I don't know how to do that either.
I also don't know how to cut hair. Really. But after looking at my head in the mirror for 15 minutes tonight, I know how to not cut hair.
During my last haircut, before which I specifically asked that she not cut the sides too short, she cut the sides too short. The reason I got a haircut was that I was going to go out on a date, and on New Years Eve no less. And just before said date a friend told me it looked like I was wearing a wig. I decided I needed to make a hair change.
I asked for the top to be left a little long so it might cover my rather spacious forehead. A #3 on the sides and a long top can work, I think, if you know what you're doing. But this lady's blending technique involved making all my hair stick out sideways, then cutting a straight line from my ear on up. This would be fine if my hair stuck out sideways all day, but it doesn't. The top lays down and the sides, which are too short, stick out. The result, I'm happy to report, looks like I'm wearing a toupee*. At least I'm decreasing area of my hair that looks fake.
*Because of my spelling deficiencies I had to Google toupee to find out how it's spelled. If you Google toupee, the second site on the list is www.babytoupee.com, which is awesome.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Insert Foot A into Mouth B
Most of the time I deliver our hospital beds to old people. They have arthritis, or replacement hips which are going out again, or maybe they've just recently broken a hip, or ankle, or toe. Any way you slice it these people have trouble getting in and out of a regular bed. But depending on the health issue, they may not need it forever.
I delivered one such bed on Friday to Berkeley. The family let me in and showed me where to install the bed. The patient would be arriving later.
As I was putting the bed together the following conversation took place:
Wife: How long will he get the bed?
Me: As long as he needs it.
Mother: So we're buying it?
Me: No, it works like this: If he likes it and continues to need it for 13 months Medicare has paid for it and it becomes his forever. If he gets up and dances around before the 13 months is up, and he'd like to go back to his regular bed, we'll come pick this one up.
Mother: Oh, he ain't never going to get up and dance around.
As I finished building the bed in came the patient - He's a 40ish paraplegic in an electric wheelchair.
In the future I may use the phrase "if his mobility improves" in place of "if he gets up and dances around."
Most of the time I deliver our hospital beds to old people. They have arthritis, or replacement hips which are going out again, or maybe they've just recently broken a hip, or ankle, or toe. Any way you slice it these people have trouble getting in and out of a regular bed. But depending on the health issue, they may not need it forever.
I delivered one such bed on Friday to Berkeley. The family let me in and showed me where to install the bed. The patient would be arriving later.
As I was putting the bed together the following conversation took place:
Wife: How long will he get the bed?
Me: As long as he needs it.
Mother: So we're buying it?
Me: No, it works like this: If he likes it and continues to need it for 13 months Medicare has paid for it and it becomes his forever. If he gets up and dances around before the 13 months is up, and he'd like to go back to his regular bed, we'll come pick this one up.
Mother: Oh, he ain't never going to get up and dance around.
As I finished building the bed in came the patient - He's a 40ish paraplegic in an electric wheelchair.
In the future I may use the phrase "if his mobility improves" in place of "if he gets up and dances around."
Friday, January 12, 2007
Eep
For most of the day I view the world as if I'm spectator. I'm watching through movie screen eyes and riding around in my body as it does stuff. This goes for all activities, from writing a post to driving down the freeway.
Once in a while I pop into the foreground. I did so on the way home today while driving along in my gargantuan work van. It occurred to me that I was in charge of piloting 2.5 tones of crap down the road at 60 mph while my customers tootle around in the lanes surrounding me. These are the same people who ask me to come look at a bed because it's unplugged. The people who unscrew the knobs on the side rails that blatantly say pull. When something says "pull," do not unscrew it. Pull it.
Why don't more people die in fiery crashes? I may have to stay indoors tomorrow.
For most of the day I view the world as if I'm spectator. I'm watching through movie screen eyes and riding around in my body as it does stuff. This goes for all activities, from writing a post to driving down the freeway.
Once in a while I pop into the foreground. I did so on the way home today while driving along in my gargantuan work van. It occurred to me that I was in charge of piloting 2.5 tones of crap down the road at 60 mph while my customers tootle around in the lanes surrounding me. These are the same people who ask me to come look at a bed because it's unplugged. The people who unscrew the knobs on the side rails that blatantly say pull. When something says "pull," do not unscrew it. Pull it.
Why don't more people die in fiery crashes? I may have to stay indoors tomorrow.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Some Day
I'm going to come up with something to write about. But until that happens, here's another mostly pasted post.
I recently got a Flat Stanley in the mail from my friend Jeremy. He got it from our friend Tim's wife, who teaches the 3rd grade in Texas.
For those of you who don't click on the Flat Stanley link and you don't know what a Flat Stanley is, here's a brief primer: A class cuts out a line drawing of Stanley, pastes it to a picture somebody has drawn, sticks it in an envelope with a location log, and send the who business off to somebody reliable enough to keep the process going. After each person receives Stanley in the mail they are supposed to sign the travel log, mail it on to somebody else, and then send the class a postcard to let them know how Stanley has been getting along. Hence the 3rd grades learn about geography for a while, then about how people are flaky and/or distrustful of chain letters.
I happen to be one of those people who are distrustful of chain letters, but I recognized the name of the teacher, so I mailed it on and set out to send back a postcard. Except I didn't have a postcard, I had a box of thank you cards. Had I had a postcard, I would have just written an update, but I thought it would seem strange to receive a thank you card without the words "thank you" included.
And without further ado, here's what the inside of the card said:
January 6, 2007
Dear Ruttan Clan,
Thanks for sending Flat Stanley out to see the country. We’ve had a great time the past few days in San Francisco.
While he was out here Stanley has seen the Golden Gate Bridge, the beginnings of the new Bay Bridge, the Transamerica Building, San Francisco’s China Town, and we even went to a New Years party hosted by somebody who works for Google.* Stanley would love to buy a house out here, but if you don’t work for Google it’s too expensive. Also, he’s not sure how he feels about earthquakes.
On Monday Stanley will head South and East to Albuquerque. He’s hoping that if he goes there to see the sites he’ll come away with a better understanding of how to spell Albuquerque.** I wish him the best of luck.
Sincerely,
Mike
* This sentence is a blatant lie. Stanley saw the inside of an inlaw apartment in the significantly less appealing than it sounds Ocean View neighborhood, then sat on my desk while I saw all those places. Eventually Stanley got off my desk and climbed back in an envelope to go visit Albuquerque, thereby never actually being outdoors in San Francisco.
**Thank god for spell check.
I'm going to come up with something to write about. But until that happens, here's another mostly pasted post.
I recently got a Flat Stanley in the mail from my friend Jeremy. He got it from our friend Tim's wife, who teaches the 3rd grade in Texas.
For those of you who don't click on the Flat Stanley link and you don't know what a Flat Stanley is, here's a brief primer: A class cuts out a line drawing of Stanley, pastes it to a picture somebody has drawn, sticks it in an envelope with a location log, and send the who business off to somebody reliable enough to keep the process going. After each person receives Stanley in the mail they are supposed to sign the travel log, mail it on to somebody else, and then send the class a postcard to let them know how Stanley has been getting along. Hence the 3rd grades learn about geography for a while, then about how people are flaky and/or distrustful of chain letters.
I happen to be one of those people who are distrustful of chain letters, but I recognized the name of the teacher, so I mailed it on and set out to send back a postcard. Except I didn't have a postcard, I had a box of thank you cards. Had I had a postcard, I would have just written an update, but I thought it would seem strange to receive a thank you card without the words "thank you" included.
And without further ado, here's what the inside of the card said:
January 6, 2007
Dear Ruttan Clan,
Thanks for sending Flat Stanley out to see the country. We’ve had a great time the past few days in San Francisco.
While he was out here Stanley has seen the Golden Gate Bridge, the beginnings of the new Bay Bridge, the Transamerica Building, San Francisco’s China Town, and we even went to a New Years party hosted by somebody who works for Google.* Stanley would love to buy a house out here, but if you don’t work for Google it’s too expensive. Also, he’s not sure how he feels about earthquakes.
On Monday Stanley will head South and East to Albuquerque. He’s hoping that if he goes there to see the sites he’ll come away with a better understanding of how to spell Albuquerque.** I wish him the best of luck.
Sincerely,
Mike
* This sentence is a blatant lie. Stanley saw the inside of an inlaw apartment in the significantly less appealing than it sounds Ocean View neighborhood, then sat on my desk while I saw all those places. Eventually Stanley got off my desk and climbed back in an envelope to go visit Albuquerque, thereby never actually being outdoors in San Francisco.
**Thank god for spell check.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
August 6, 2000
Circuit Court
807 Main Street, Room 104
Oregon City, OR 97045
Your Honor,
I was going way too fast,
When the officer I passed.
Flashing lights, I had to stop,
For the speed enforcing cop.
Now the money that I owe,
I send to you so I can show
Up at work and earn some more,
To spend at school (the learning store).
This starving student sure could use
Money for books, tuition, and shoes.
I know the fault’s completely mine,
And so enclosed is One-Oh-Nine.
But if in your heart perchance you see,
A snippet there of leniency,
To reduce the fine I pay,
Would make this one a happy day.
I am sorry for my speed,
Excessive, yes, I see the need,
To keep streets safe from speeds like mine,
Repentant me, pays you the fine.
Sincerely,
Michael Kadel
Summons #37281
Circuit Court
807 Main Street, Room 104
Oregon City, OR 97045
Your Honor,
I was going way too fast,
When the officer I passed.
Flashing lights, I had to stop,
For the speed enforcing cop.
Now the money that I owe,
I send to you so I can show
Up at work and earn some more,
To spend at school (the learning store).
This starving student sure could use
Money for books, tuition, and shoes.
I know the fault’s completely mine,
And so enclosed is One-Oh-Nine.
But if in your heart perchance you see,
A snippet there of leniency,
To reduce the fine I pay,
Would make this one a happy day.
I am sorry for my speed,
Excessive, yes, I see the need,
To keep streets safe from speeds like mine,
Repentant me, pays you the fine.
Sincerely,
Michael Kadel
Summons #37281
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Teriyaki Girl
by Michael Kadel
It has never been said that I am good at dating. Every time I’ve had a relationship it’s happened after I had been expressly told that the girl wanted to date me. Starting these things without knowing the other person’s thoughts on the subject has never worked out.
Even so, I find myself in the teriyaki place next to work yet again. I’ve had an engineering internship in the building across the street for more than two months now, and ever since about the first week I’ve been eating here almost every day. The girl who works behind the counter is just so cute. Sandy blond, curly hair and blue eyes. Conventional beauty, but striking all the same. I would love to ask her out, and that’s been my goal since first setting foot in the restaurant. I have yet to execute.
Here’s the scenario: I walk in and wait in line to get the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink. As the line creeps forward, I try to figure out if I’ve placed myself right to go to her register. Any little bit of contact helps. It’s not like I ever strike up much of a conversation, but perhaps I can build up a relationship of repetitiveness, recognized by my frequent visits and consistent order.
Today was no different. I have my little bowl of rice and chicken, and my small drink, which I will refill a time or two while I read my book and try to smile her way. It drives me nuts that I can’t scrounge up the courage to even mention the weather, or ask her for her name, but such is my life. I’m cursed by mental paralysis brought on by the attractive and unfamiliar. However, I only have two more weeks before I’m going back to California for school, so if I want to avoid kicking myself all next year for not even trying, I suppose I need to get a move on and say something to her.
* * *
Today I’ve brought my lunch -- an egg salad sandwich, some chips, a few cookies in a baggie, and a can of Coke. Not being a huge fan of coffee, my Coke has filled the role of my morning pick-me-up. I’m going to need something to drink with my lunch.
As I walk across the street and through the parking lot, I steel myself to my upcoming task. I need to have enough time to actually go on a couple dates if this is going to work at all, which means the time is nigh. I need to ask her for her number today, before the weekend.
Inside the store, I take my place in line, much like the line that winds out from heaven’s pearly gates, I’m sure. I’m either going to get her number, let in to experience heavenly bliss, have all my fears put to rest, God loves me, or I shall be denied, cast into the fire and brimstone of rejected suitors everywhere. It may seem melodramatic to you, but I’m not really one to approach anyone for anything.
The few times I’ve asked a girl for her number, it has been the regular guy’s equivalent of asking an entire auditorium full of beautiful women for their numbers while wearing only tightie-whities on a very cold day. Mortifying to say the least.
And now it’s my turn, and it’s her turn to take the next order. Fate smiles. It was meant to be. I approach the register. I arrive and it’s time to speak. “Hi. I’d like a small Coke and your phone number. I’m Mike by the way.” My mouth has engaged before my brain! I’m not smooth. What was I thinking? What will she say?
Then comes her reply, “I’m Christy, and I have a boyfriend.” Simple and to the point. A rejection whose reasons lie outside my realm of control. No consolation to my current state of mortified, incoherent thought, but later I’m sure it will seem better than some alternative rejections.
”Oh, just a small drink then,” comes my retort. And the unaided mouth comes through in the clutch! I pay for my Coke, and leave.
For want of a little sanctuary, I sit outside, and eat my lunch, and drink my small drink, and wait for the blood to drain from my ears, face and neck. It’s over. I did my best, even if my best was a little socially retarded, devoid of the niceties of introductions first, questions later. I guess doing things in order is not my cup of tea.
Never again will I be able to eat teriyaki. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment of the whole experience, or the simple fact that I had the same thing for lunch almost every day for 2-1/2 months. The fact remains, I can only eat a couple of bites before I lose my appetite.
Even so, I do take a little happiness from the thought that I flustered her too, if not as much as she flustered me, still enough to throw her off kilter.
On the way back to work I counted my change from the ten dollar bill I used to buy the small drink. Five fifty was my change -- the same change I would have received had I ordered a the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink.
by Michael Kadel
It has never been said that I am good at dating. Every time I’ve had a relationship it’s happened after I had been expressly told that the girl wanted to date me. Starting these things without knowing the other person’s thoughts on the subject has never worked out.
Even so, I find myself in the teriyaki place next to work yet again. I’ve had an engineering internship in the building across the street for more than two months now, and ever since about the first week I’ve been eating here almost every day. The girl who works behind the counter is just so cute. Sandy blond, curly hair and blue eyes. Conventional beauty, but striking all the same. I would love to ask her out, and that’s been my goal since first setting foot in the restaurant. I have yet to execute.
Here’s the scenario: I walk in and wait in line to get the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink. As the line creeps forward, I try to figure out if I’ve placed myself right to go to her register. Any little bit of contact helps. It’s not like I ever strike up much of a conversation, but perhaps I can build up a relationship of repetitiveness, recognized by my frequent visits and consistent order.
Today was no different. I have my little bowl of rice and chicken, and my small drink, which I will refill a time or two while I read my book and try to smile her way. It drives me nuts that I can’t scrounge up the courage to even mention the weather, or ask her for her name, but such is my life. I’m cursed by mental paralysis brought on by the attractive and unfamiliar. However, I only have two more weeks before I’m going back to California for school, so if I want to avoid kicking myself all next year for not even trying, I suppose I need to get a move on and say something to her.
* * *
Today I’ve brought my lunch -- an egg salad sandwich, some chips, a few cookies in a baggie, and a can of Coke. Not being a huge fan of coffee, my Coke has filled the role of my morning pick-me-up. I’m going to need something to drink with my lunch.
As I walk across the street and through the parking lot, I steel myself to my upcoming task. I need to have enough time to actually go on a couple dates if this is going to work at all, which means the time is nigh. I need to ask her for her number today, before the weekend.
Inside the store, I take my place in line, much like the line that winds out from heaven’s pearly gates, I’m sure. I’m either going to get her number, let in to experience heavenly bliss, have all my fears put to rest, God loves me, or I shall be denied, cast into the fire and brimstone of rejected suitors everywhere. It may seem melodramatic to you, but I’m not really one to approach anyone for anything.
The few times I’ve asked a girl for her number, it has been the regular guy’s equivalent of asking an entire auditorium full of beautiful women for their numbers while wearing only tightie-whities on a very cold day. Mortifying to say the least.
And now it’s my turn, and it’s her turn to take the next order. Fate smiles. It was meant to be. I approach the register. I arrive and it’s time to speak. “Hi. I’d like a small Coke and your phone number. I’m Mike by the way.” My mouth has engaged before my brain! I’m not smooth. What was I thinking? What will she say?
Then comes her reply, “I’m Christy, and I have a boyfriend.” Simple and to the point. A rejection whose reasons lie outside my realm of control. No consolation to my current state of mortified, incoherent thought, but later I’m sure it will seem better than some alternative rejections.
”Oh, just a small drink then,” comes my retort. And the unaided mouth comes through in the clutch! I pay for my Coke, and leave.
For want of a little sanctuary, I sit outside, and eat my lunch, and drink my small drink, and wait for the blood to drain from my ears, face and neck. It’s over. I did my best, even if my best was a little socially retarded, devoid of the niceties of introductions first, questions later. I guess doing things in order is not my cup of tea.
Never again will I be able to eat teriyaki. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment of the whole experience, or the simple fact that I had the same thing for lunch almost every day for 2-1/2 months. The fact remains, I can only eat a couple of bites before I lose my appetite.
Even so, I do take a little happiness from the thought that I flustered her too, if not as much as she flustered me, still enough to throw her off kilter.
On the way back to work I counted my change from the ten dollar bill I used to buy the small drink. Five fifty was my change -- the same change I would have received had I ordered a the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink.
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