Free basing television

Let me start by explaining that until recently I had not seen an entire episode of Lost.

Occasionally, I avoid television with its cold glow and its insidious companion the ass enlarging sofa. I have a love hate relationship with my television and recliner, and I list them as co-dependent relationships. Generally, I don't like what's airing, and I avoid spending any cycles trying to find anything that I'll like for fear of becoming a couch potato. I have honed a television force field that keeps me in the dark about potentially entertaining programs for fear that I will otherwise find myself unable to not watch. I've been slowly dismantling my entertainment machinery first by letting go of cable, then the Tivo service, and reducing video game play.

Why no TV? I know plenty of people who can talk about TV very entertainingly. In fact there are times when I enjoy listening or reading these descriptions more than I enjoy consuming the actual medium. I myself do not share this talent. I tend to swallow shows whole without actually chewing, and come out at the other end a little dazed and without comment. What this left me with was a lot of time devoted to an occupation from which I got little social mileage. In short: it made me boring.

But I like television shows. I especially like "good television" and at the risk of flinging about a subjective term like its gospel I think I can point to some safe nominations. I appreciate a well crafted, character driven story line, good use of sound track, and a gripping drama. If a writing team adds suspense or mystery of any sort then I'm helplessly hooked. I love that "what's going to happen next?" feeling. I gobbled up shows like Six Feet Under and The Sopranos. There's nothing wrong specifically with television programs. What I find difficult is my preferred method of ingesting them, a method I believe I can point to The Sopranos for popularizing.

I freebase TV whenever possible. I will pull out a season or two of a show on DVD, plop down on my recliner in my jammies, and watch television until there's nothing left to watch. I think it's the best way to consume television: all at once. I watched the final two seasons of the Sopranos in a matter of days while I was laid up at home on antibiotics. This is similar to how I caught up to the Sopranos years ago. The feeling of staying on the couch and watching images on a screen for hours on end eventually made me feel sluggish and altogether unhealthy, but I enjoyed it all the same. So when I got together with my friends around the holidays this year, and they presented me with a plan to get caught up with the last three seasons of Lost by January 31st, I was reluctant to answer the call.

I went over to H's house Friday after work. Well, I kinda skived off work deciding that working between Christmas and New Year's is not for me. I went over to his place to knit. I was well on my way to finishing the hat I started on circular needles, and I missed our last knitting session. While I was there he threw Lost into the DVD player and that was pretty much it for me. Smart man. I think H knew there was a strong possibility that I might not get cracking on my mission so just like a good dealer he gave me a taste. Lost has all the elements of programming against which I am defenseless and concentrates them into a powerful elixir. In short this show is like crack, and I am clearly on the rock. H lent me season one Friday night, and I finished it before I went to bed Saturday night... Technically Sunday morning. I was at his doorstep Sunday for season two. Initially I was concerned that I did not have enough time to watch approximately 60 hours of television before January 31st. Now my concern is getting through the inevitable withdrawal while I'm waiting for season four to air. I'm comforted that I'll be forced to watch the show on a weekly basis. I'll be using that as a methadone program until the season ends this Summer.

Back from the holidays

I've returned to work after five glorious days full of family togetherness. Surprisingly, I arrived at the office earlier than usual which made me feel virtuous enough to blog the day away while everything is running on a holiday skeleton crew. This suits me fine: I can get my body back in the rhythm of waking up before dawn and spend some time recollecting my holiday cheer. About which...

My siblings travel from far flung cities in the US and sometimes Mexico once a year to central Indiana in order to celebrate Christmas together, and with the exception of fifth born everyone was here. Fifth born was sorely missed, but we rallied with Christmas cheer all the same. Sunday I picked up second born and his wife, Pipi, at the airport. Second born and I spent Sunday playing video games. I introduced him to Guitar Hero and Tony Hawk Project 8. It went over well. Sunday night was spent shoveling H's fabulous confections in my maw and knitting with Saraswati while trying to ignore Lost. I've made a loose verbal commitment to catch up on three seasons of the show by the opener on January 31st. I fear I may have overextended myself. I am a television camel. I will avoid television for weeks, but put a series of DVDs in front of me and I'll devour them until my muscles atrophy and I need assistance to rise up from the couch. Regardless, this may just be too much for me.

Monday, third born and his adorable clan arrived from the Rockies. These are healthy people. They eat healthy organic, low-sugar foods, and it's always humorous to watch them adapt to a house that's chock full of junk food with children and good natured but otherwise negligent adults who think it's perfectly fine to "watch" a child by parking it on the couch in front of a television set, a bag of corn chips, and a bowl of guacamole. Come sit with Grampa, we're watching the News Hour. Inexplicably, the kids' focus moves away from the sharp and oh so hunky Jim Lehrer to a bowl full of tasty green mash. Second born bopped back and forth between the kitchen and the family room attempting to persuade his two-year-old to "break the chip for a single dip". The child dutifully paused and looked up at his father with his face smeared green, and when daddy left he returned to using his tortilla chip as a spoon to ladle guacamole into his mouth. I was sitting in an easy chair watching the whole thing. Honestly, I was aghast that second born was putting the kabash on double dipping. I find people who insist on single dipping to be a bit germ phobic. Unless a person is sick I find it a strange practice. I don't have any cooties. Martha, their mother, doesn't agree with this laissez-fair method of child rearing, and there are times when I believe she gets a little frustrated with our 'village'. But she has mellowed to the point of accepting that this is how the holidays look and resigned herself to smolder in silence.

Monday night, second born and I bonded over video games. As is tradition in my parents' house someone was awake at all times leading up to Christmas morning. We are a family of night owls, and Christmas exacerbates the whole situation. We played in shifts until four in the morning. I took this time to finish a hat to match my grey scarf. It's a beanie style hat, and it's left me of the opinion that seaming is not my favorite. I'll be avoiding straight needles for some time I believe. Five am rolled around and the kids who went to bed early were up. I removed myself from the couch and crashed in their room until just before ten. I would have slept longer, but the clock was wrong and I was fooled into thinking it was nearly eleven. I felt out of sorts for the rest of the day.

First born arrived Christmas day around one in the afternoon with her on again off again Mans. Since "family togetherness" is shoved into a few conscious hours everyday, three people were sent to the airport to pick up two. Really, if there was a passenger van available we probably would have stuffed the whole family in it. Seats in the car were sought after, and I'm glad I got a spot. Second born, Pipi, and I went to the airport sporting reindeer antlers purchased on impulse at the only store open at half past eight on Christmas Eve. Naturally, we had antlers for First born and Mans.

Christmas night was spent at Saraswati's parents' house, as is tradition. We rocked out to Guitar Hero, knitted a bunch, played a couple kick ass rounds of Taboo, and tied it up with Soul Calibur 2.

I'll be honest, this blow by blow description of Christmas is getting boring. It went really well, and was the first Christmas I can think of where I didn't find myself wanting to strangle anyone. Everyone seemed to get along really well, and I had a great time. That's really the bottom line for me.

All in soup and Internet cooking

On Saturday I halved an acorn squash that I had picked up in my better-get-all-the-shopping-in trip to Meijers before the snow hit, roasted it in the oven with cardamom and garam masala and then set aside the other half for making soup. I finally got around to doing that tonight, and I think this was the single most important activity to pulling myself out of an otherwise dreary evening. Also, someone at the office decided to bring in an assortment of baking soda cookies, today. They were ghastly. I suppose my fellow co-workers who had sampled the baked goods had better manners than to leave some sort of warning label on the festive tins. "Caution: contents are not as tasty as they appear!" But who is served by such silence? Not the poor cook who isn't going to receive any peer review, and most importantly, it didn't not help me out at all. Yech. Serves me right for grazing in the afternoon.

Anyhow, I figured it would be a fine thing to take the time out and make something good for myself. None of the recipes I lazily looked through online looked appealing as they had apple in them so I took a road trip in my kitchen. It felt like I was taking a Sunday drive through soup. I read how to actually make the hard cubes of squash soupy and this was invaluable. Boil half an acorn squash with chicken stock, then let it simmer all said a total of twenty minutes. Throw that in the blender. I imagine that boiling up the squash with water would be just fine for the vegetarians. Might even work better to keep the savory flavors at bay. Since I only had half a squash I added a can of garbanzo beans after considering their mega nutritious properties. This had the effect of cooking myself in a corner. The lovely flavor of the squash was totally overpowered by the earthy chick peas. However, it did open up some doors. This is the rest of it:

1 shallot chopped coarsely
1 clove of garlic copped coarsely
1 1" piece of ginger chopped coarsely (I don't like to take the time to mince)
2 sticks of cinnamon broken up coarsely
1 teaspoon ground fennel
2 teaspoons corriander
13 dried dates

Simmer until the dates get tender and plump up a bit. Garnish with red chili flakes to taste and a dollop of sour cream.

The end result was tasty, and I'm glad I gave it a spin, but ultimately I created a chick pea soup recipe. I think the next go around I'll have more onion, and enough squash to fore go the chickpeas entirely. But if I don't put in chickpeas then I'll probably change the spices around a bit probably go nuts with lemon grass and cardamom. I suspect this garbanzo version would be delightful with chives or leeks or more onion. I'm excited to see how the leftovers turn out. I think soup tastes better on day two. Tell me what you do with it if you tinker with this recipe.

I had a blast cooking as I went. I've been looking online quite a bit as a source for recipes and when I do I've been following all the dosages for every ingredient, and this has served me well. I've even watched YouTube how-to videos setting up my computer in the kitchen for little reminders of how to handle little nuances. I've only encountered one dud recipe, and I'm willing to chalk that up to my inexperience. The instructions are all well and good, but I enjoyed just making it up as I went. Well, it also meant that I could just throw in whatever ingredients I had handy. I was about to add in tofu, but I thought - nah - that's just too much.

Simon says Go Snow!

Friday night I took in a show with a friend for whom I have no blog name. Originally, I was going to stay in on Friday and get some knitting done, then go out on Saturday night, but the forecast looked grim. I decided I should get out while the getting was good. We saw four bands at Radio Radio, two of which were really good. Well technically three were good. The last band lost points for starting their first song out of tune, being last, and having terrible hygiene. The first band was Dan Glenzig. They were a lot of fun to listen to. They played punkish rock and covered some good songs. They were borrowing a guitarist from the next band to perform, and I think that may have led to the cover selections like AC/DC's Rosie, and some Kiss song that escapes me. We arrived towards the end of their set. They are in the "reasons to go see a show" column for me. The next band was Creepin' Charley and the Boneyard Orchestra, and if the four piece band doesn't warrant the title of Orchestra they are certainly helped out by a stage chock full of props including enormous skull caricatures of the band, 9" TVs lining the front of the stage set to snow, and a fog machine. They were performers, and they gave us a show. The front man took his job seriously coming out on stage in a red tuxedo with flames on the sleeves and an Army MP helmet covered in mini-mirrors like a disco ball adorned with red horns. They had a tight set. The guitarist was exceptional. The band played well together. In short I'd like to see them again.

I'm not going to mention the next act by name. He was a one man -ahem- "band" who probably should have moved out of his Mom's house fifteen years ago. He increased speed as he increased volume. He played three chords. He plied the crowd for drugs. When he had finished up for the night he was drinking alone. The whole experience evoked pity.

By the time the next band was up we were ready to hit the road. We rolled over to the Murphy, and hung out with some artist friends of hers who live there. I got to see a couple studios. I felt really honored to see one in particular. It felt like I was walking into a shrine dedicated to beauty. I want some of this guy's art. I just don't know how to work that into my budget at the moment. After the art tour and hearing some good discs it was time to get on home.

I dropped off no-blog-name friend and headed to Meijer's. The reports of bad weather had me concerned and I wasn't going to leave myself snowed in without activities. I bought some chunky maroon yarn, big knitting needles, a frozen pizza, and toilet paper among other things. My fridge and pantry are stocked well enough, and it's not like I'll be stuck for more than a day, but I saw that the quality of the ginger root was good, and one thing led to another. Really, I saw this as an excuse to not leave the house, and I went to bed late Saturday morning excited to wake up in a Winter wonderland.

I spent all day knitting in my pajamas watching Miss Marple murder mysteries and drinking tea. There were a million things I wanted to do yesterday, but I stayed focused and finished my scarf. This is my first wearable knitting project, and I'm pleased. It's pictured here, warts and all. This piece is also the first knitting I've done that involved more than one ball of yarn. I I think the best knitting advice I've received is from Saraswati who told me that all knitting has mistakes and knitters know that. So when my eyes travel immediately to the flaws in my work I remind myself that it's just a part of the work.

Snidely Knitlash!

So Maestro and I are getting the knit out and starting a knitting circle. Right now it's just a knitting line since there's only two of us, but Mom may be joining us for the next event. Yay! Our first session was really fun, knitting and chatting by the fire with Bazbeaux's Pizza. Pepperoni, garlic, and ricotta cheese pizza is obscenely good. The garlic sweetens up, the pepperoni has kick, and the ricotta is mellow creamy goodness.

I'm off to my mandatory office bowling party.

Too musical for commercial success

I went to a show last night at Music Mill to see the musical stylings of Over the Rhine, and I do mean musical stylings. The band is a 6 piece from Cincinnati, and you can tell they're from a river community. There's something about river music that's delicious. Very bluesy, jazzy, Old Time, and mish mashed, the lead singer croons in a sultry voice so drippy it could put out the torch she's singing over. Watch where you're aiming that! Singer was backed up by electric piano and a moogish looking thing, cello, violin, upright bass, electric bass, electric guitar, acoustic guitar, and drum kit which included washboard and compact rain stick in the form of many 6 inch rain sticks strapped together. Since there were only six people on stage the instruments were constantly changing as you can imagine. The stage manager was able to work up a sweat handing out guitars in between every song.

To give you an idea of the band's musicality, I think that this was the best performance, most musically sensitive performance I've seen in a set drummer. Period. He let loose and went insane during an extended solo, but it was welcome. Quite necessarily where the drummer goes the band does follow, and so when I say this guy may have been the strongest musician on the stage I think I'm really giving mad props to the band as a whole. The violinist/cellist performs with the Cincinnati Orchestra. He had a brilliant violin solo, so I'm betting the violin is his principle instrument. The upright bassist played electric bass and guitar and sang baritone. The electric guitarist played electric bass and acoustic guitar, and apparently produced the band's last two albums. The pianist was excellent, and he offered up all the between song chatter. He dead panned some beautiful stories, and he made me think of a Eastern Midwestern version of Garrison Keiller. (I consider GK to be Northern Midwestern.) In short he was both hilarious and touching which I find an admirable combination. Played a little stiff though. That's my only complaint about the show. The technically brilliant and smoking hot piano was a tidge stiff.

The show ruled, and I bought their latest non-Christmas album. At the end of the show I just felt happy and a little sad. It's a preposterous notion, but one I haven't been able to shake: this group is too musical for commercial success. I've heard plenty of torchy songbirds released in the last couple years with thin accompaniment in the background, but they can't hold a candle to this lady, and the band is so strong. So where's their radio play? Where's their hit album? They have had a couple songs played on network television shows. Maybe I'm just impatient for what I think what should be. I don't know all the particulars. I don't know the ins and outs of the music industry. I just know good music, and they are good. To me it's simple. Make 'em millionaires and play their music everywhere.

Is anyone else freaked out by that guy?

Every time I log into blogger I am greeted by this YouTube frame of a freaky looking guy. He's a swarthy, meaty looking man sitting on a funky beige couch wearing a bright yellow polo. His eyes are drawn to slits and his hands clasped in front of him as if this picture was taken at the exact moment when he figured out how he wanted to torture and kill his daughter's boyfriend or perhaps a snitch in his organized criminal venture. Either way it doesn't look good, and I see it every time I login to Blogger. I'm assuming that most of you have seen this as most of you post on Blogger, but here's a picture for those of you not graced with such a pleasure. I can't wait till Blogger changes the dash page. The purpose of the photo is to demonstrate a sharing feature on YouTube. I'm just saying this picture sets back the cause of the vlog. Come on, Blogger. Come up with a new feature! Maybe exploit another Google asset like posting directly from the desktop. Make something up. I don't care. Just get rid of that picture.

Today, I thought perhaps this is just a really terrible moment taken out of context and he's really in the middle of a perfectly legitimate maneuver. Perhaps he's about to sneeze. I should investigate. Clicking on the picture doesn't actually link to the YouTube video in question. I may never know what this guy is all about.

In other news I ate the Blue Cookie. I broke down during a 9 hour troubleshooting session held yesterday. That cookie monster colored cookie may have been the straw that broke the camel's back because today I feel like my jeans are too tight. I can't stand it. I've been slightly uncomfortable all day. I have finally accepted that I actually need to *gasp* diet. So no more holiday cookies. I may just start carrying dish soap after all. Dish soap and a spray bottle so when I'm done destroying the festive food I can spray the bakers with water. Bad kitty!


That's it. Chunky out.

Nobody wants the blue cookie

I talk about my office in general terms. When I think of my place of work I realize it's rather large from the outside, and "office" is misleading. I work in a large building consisting of two almost wings sitting askew slightly pointing to the East and West. Looking at it from that perspective I work in the West wing, but I haven't run into any decision makers working and walking at the same time with a pack of sweating decision executers in tow huffing and puffing to catch every command. I can't imagine a lot of work gets accomplished that way. To make sure we're all on the same page I'm alluding to Aaron Sorkin's West Wing and, well, really anything Aaron Sorkin ever put on the air involved people working while walking quickly. I don't believe many places get things done in that fashion especially not the White House. I'll bet no one does anything without an e-mail trail, and those who do work that specifically preclude the use of e-mail as a transmission medium most certainly don't follow someone around in a pack while he or she is barking orders. Can you imagine Cheney barking at his staff while tearing through his offices on the way to some important meeting? Can he even do that without risking "national security" or whatever it is that covers his movements? But I digress.

This all started when I was referring to my place of work, a large building consisting of roughly three floors broken into five segments per floor creating 15 "pods". When I think of my office I think of my pod which contains something in the ball park of 100 cubicles. So when I say something like we had an office pitch-in I'm referring to a segment of my building which the Mars company would refer to as "Fun Size".

My office is constantly alerting us to the starting and stopping of a never ending stream of activities. Something is *always* happening that is not work related. I could devote a blog site entirely to these goings on, and with Christmas in full swing it's reaching a fever pitch. I received an e-mail the other day informing me that the Twelve days of Christmas would be starting inexplicably on the 6th, and people are invited to bring in food. And what is the number one choice of food among my geeky brothers and sisters? Cookies. I'm OK with cookies being around, especially if I'm hungry on that particular day, but we're stacked to the drop ceiling in cookies. People are running out of places to stow them. There are cookies in break room, near the supply cabinet, on top of various metal cabinet outposts near the copy machines, piled next to the battery recycling jar...

I ate some lovely cookies today, a bunch of chocolate chip cookies baked into what had to originally be snickerdoodles - they might actually have been better than you are currently imagining them to be at this moment - and some oatmeal golden raisin and craisin cookies. Fancy pants! Very tasty. Somebody brought in store bought peanut butter cookies with chocolate chips. Impossible to resist.

But this is too much of a good thing. I'm already trying to work off my I-quit-a-bunch-of-habits weight that I put on when I - well - quit a bunch of bad habits. I work out, but I don't really eat well. Now I'm surrounded by sugary, buttery, chocolaty goodness. This morning I was welcoming the cookies with open arms. By 1pm I was beginning to think twice. By 2pm I was crashing from the sugar when I noticed that a vendor had left an enormous 15 layer tin of cookies in the network team's area. Aargh! I started toying with the idea of covering all the cookies I encountered with dish soap. It's not just for me, you understand. I work in a rather sedentary industry, and Indiana is a fatty fat state. I'd be carrying out some sort of good deed. I'd practically be a vigilante super hero. I could run around in a cape quickly turning corners surprising purveyors of pastries, and soap up their baked goods only to vanish as quickly as I'd appeared. Naturally, I'd report back to my boss and mentor Richard Simmons. We'd reconnoiter with Susan Powter, have a good cry about all the hefty people who were saved by our heroic destruction of snack food, and then reward ourselves with double chocolate ice cream.


And that's how it could go down. But I think I have the antidote that could stop the insanity: The Colts Cookie. Lordy, I'm glad we have such a successful sports team wearing a color that no one would eat, and yet people try to bake the Colts into Christmas. Witness exhibit a to the right here. Now who is going to eat that cookie? Clearly no one I work with. Even the Post-It note asking all of us to "Help yourself" could not entice a taker. That tupperware dish was full of cookies, including the chocolate chip snickerdoodles, but all
that remained today was this sad little dye job. Believe me cookies is cookies is cookies where I work, and still no takers for this one. I mean, if I was really hungry I would eat a blue cookie, and then I bet it wouldn't taste any different. So really the blue cookie is just a hunger litmus test. "Are you sure you want that snack? Well alright then." So in the future I'm going to ask that all office bakers try a little tenderness and a whole lotta food coloring.

I said Gahlic

I have been cooking a lot of Indian dishes recently. Mostly I'm perfecting my palak paneer entree with rice which I cooked last night. The long and the short of it is that I'm cooking with a lot of onions, chillies, and garrrlic. I love the flavors, and I love that something as boring as spinach can kick the taste buds so strongly with the help of some spices. It's healthier than the perogies and bratwurst I've been eating, too. However, there's a little problem:

I'm now sweating garlic.

I work out at lunch, and afterwards I hit the shower. While I was soaping down, I detected a strong odor of garlic. I thought I smelled it on my gym bag earlier, and I chalked that up to it being in the kitchen while I'd been cooking all weekend. Um. Maybe. Or maybe it's because the bag contains my sweaty gym clothes, and my flesh reeks undeniably of odoriferous allium.

In high school there was a popular Latin teacher named Barcio. Strange that a Latin teacher should be popular, but I hear that's fairly common. I imagine young Latin enthusiasts would have to hone serious humor oriented verbal survival skills not unlike young homosexuals. Thankfully, their passion actually strengthens linguistic skills and sharpens the sword they carry. That's my theory. - Anyway, this Barcio guy was popular - as in referred to without title popular. Barcio said this crazy shit in class. No one had anything bad to say about him save one issue. He sweat garlic. Apparently, the man consumed (most likely still does) large quantities of garlic, and if any of his students were distressed about him they'd undoubtedly bring this up. Reportedly, his pores oozed garlic oil, and if he worked himself up in class woe was it to those seated in the front row.

Sure the guy was cool, but I don't want to be garlic girl. That's not hot. Although, I refuse to change my eating habits. I love garlic. It's healthy and tasty and makes otherwise bland food (pasta, rice, spinach, chicken - anything) fabulous.

I've recently developed a taste for onions as well. My future looks smelly.

Working for the weekend

It's Monday which means I can come down off my oncall cross and hand my pager (yes they still make them) to a co-worker. Fabulous. The weekend was fairly uneventful - I mean, I went out and bought socks uneventful - but good all the same. I did get someone to babysit the pager Friday night so I could go out to the First Friday art festivities happening all over town. I went with a friend whom I've hung out with here and there for the last year. I'm glad I took the time. I got to see a lot of new art, and the one artist who really stood out was my activity buddy's favorite, Emma Overman. I think of her work as a much softer and gentler Edward Gorey. It's hard to really put my finger on it, but she paints adorable pictures of impossibly cute young people (mostly girls) which are both cartoonish and totally authentic. I don't do her justice so here's a sample from her website:


Check her out. She also has some children's books out that would be perfect for nieces and nephews this Christmas.

Saturday was errand running day when I bought the aforementioned socks. Sunday, after a week of little activity, my normally silent sentry decided to get loud. The oncall pager blew up with some bad issues. Typical. I made a point of setting up my change window an hour earlier than usual so I could watch Blanche and Romeo work the mic for their drag debut, but the network god Geekorus saw my attempts at having a social life while "on the clock" as impudent and he grew jealous that I had friends so he sent down a monkey wrench in the form of not fully baked configurations for new equipment through which I was supposed to send production traffic. His aim was true, and what should have been a simple twenty minute conference call turned into a two hour slog. I don't know why I'm surprised. The rule: if it isn't in production then it isn't actually working. The corollary: If it isn't working then all installation estimates are useless. I was only able to get away after my fellow trouble-shooters succumbed to my jedi mind tricks, begged off for the night and suggested we pick it up in the morning with some more input from the people who set up this equipment from the start. Woohoo! I flew off to Talbott's to catch the tail end of the show. I just managed to catch Blanche in her second costume and to see Romeo's last number. They both sizzled. All the ladies were smokin' and I was glad to fork over some money for a good cause. I'm glad I went, and it looked like B and R were having a good time. I hope they managed to soak up the royal goodness from the event. Meeyow, my babies.

During the show I realized I still have a drawer full of "girl stuff": nail polish, eye liner, mascara, lipsticks. I can't seem to throw them out even though I haven't exposed them to oxygen in well over a year. I tell myself it may come in handy. You know, in case I have to hot foot it out of town in disguise I suppose. I was always terrible about refreshing makeup keeping mascara for years (but there's still some in there. How can I throw it out?) I like the blue nail polish. I won't get rid of that. I think the rest of it can go if for no other reason than hygiene. I'm not poking eight-year-old eye liner in my eyes even if I do have to dodge someone.

Bowling for bonuses and booby traps

Today, the first of two required holiday bowling parties is being held for a segment of the IT division of my company. Since someone has to be available to work on each production system in the event of an outage the division is split in two with half the group going on one Friday and the other half the following. Managers go to both, and attendance is mandatory. Management rents a bunch of lanes at a local bowling alley and give us two drink tickets per person. People generally drink, bowl a couple games, have a white elephant gift exchange, and call it a day around 5ish. Attendance is mandatory, and I think that casts a shadow over the proceedings. I enjoy getting out of work early. I enjoy bullshitting with co-workers, but when I'm told I must it feels a little strained. Last year I went through my two drink tickets before I had bowled my fifth frame... on a team with my boss who doesn't drink all that much. And the bar was most assuredly taking my money.

I'm attending next week as I'm oncall this week, and I'm actually looking forward to it. Last year I got drunk, played pool with a couple guys - one of whom asked me out even though I thought I was pretty clear I wasn't interested - and drove home drunkish during rush hour traffic on a Friday during the holidays on the North side. 'Tis the season, Officer Friendly! This year I'm not drinking so I think it will be pretty easy to maintain focus while I'm in the presence of the higher ups. Last year it was a little touch and go. Also I actually know people so I won't be spending a lot of time on the outside looking in. At least that's the plan.

I'd say I get along well with my co-workers, but we don't make plans together or anything. There was a time when I went out drinking with the guys some Fridays until everyone went home for dinner, but that time is gone. It's for the best. Once a co-worker lobbied heavily to attend the lingerie show at a nearby bar and I actually felt my resolve slipping. I have a simple personal rule: I shall engage in no salacious activities with co-workers even if we are eyeing the same candy. The lines blur too quickly. Furthermore, I've been to titty bars where I was pulled into the show against my will. Quite unexpectedly a stripper pulled my shirt up over my head. Believe me, if I had known that was a part of the deal I would have worn a different bra. And furthermore I didn't get a cut of the tips. Shenanigans, O'Flannigan!

Lullaby

Listening to Brahms' 2nd Symphony and feeling uneasy, I decided to ditch anxiety and start knitting. I picked up an old scarf that I started eighteen months ago. Yes, I knit a little. I'm not accomplished at it or anything, but I do enjoy it. My trip out to Persephone and Bunyan's place reminded me and since I couldn't decide what to do with my Monday evening I picked up the needles and yarn.


Last night I finished the tag team crossword puzzle Persephone sent me along with the myriad toiletries and night clothes I left over Thanksgiving. Crossword puzzles seem to pick up steam for me. The first ten minutes I spend staring at the squares wondering how anyone completes these things then little by little I find clues that could be for me. Chipping away the puzzle eventually fills in like a reverse sculpture; the whittled away bits are what's interesting not the stone left behind, and I can't believe that I got through what was once seemingly impossible. Crosswords are kinda weird that way. Persephone is write: it is easier when someone starts it.

Crosswords and knitting. Sheesh! Winter is a part of the life/death/life cycle, and that's all fine and good, but do I have to turn into an eighty-year-old grandma during December?

Seasonings

As far as I'm concerned winter is here. Christmas has been expressed at my company and our corporate halls are decked with boughs of plastic holly. As an atheist I used to get distressed by such displays, but this looks really festive. It cheers our entrance up. I am a pagan sympathizer though, so perhaps I'd be outraged if I was involved with a monotheistic religion. Along with any emotional responses to red ornaments and enormous ever greens these items also send signals to my seasonal sensors. A wreath signals winter. I'm expecting snow any day.

I don't see Fall and Spring as full blown seasons. They are the atmosphere through which we travel before we land at our destination season. Perhaps I'm too goal oriented or centered on the future, but to me Fall and Spring mostly hold the characteristics of their respective target seasons Winter and Summer. Fall fell once the leaves left the trees.

Since it's getting colder I don't want to putter around in my garage so the Honda project is getting put on hold until I get a wild hair again. I wonder how this is going to effect my exposed carburetor. I'll cover it in oiled rags today. To fill that need to putter around and assemble things I've started cooking. I love working in my kitchen when it's cold out. Something about cold weather and runny noses gets me cooking. It's all warm and cozy in my kitchen, although the food I cook isn't necessarily comfortable. The timing is perfect: I've decided to pay off my credit card and get my general finances whipped into shape which means I'm going to start dumping my money in the bank rather than on a restaurant table where I normally leave it.

My favorite foods right now are Indian and Thai - really anything creamy and spicy - so I decided I'd learn how to cook dishes I'd normally eat at a restaurant. I never thought I'd be cooking Palak Paneer, but there I was last night pureeing spinach and sauteeing cheese that doesn't melt in ghee. Ghee is clarified butter in a solid form, looks like yellow shortening, and smells a little gross. I'm not sold on using it as a cooking fat just yet, but I'm sticking with it at least until I get to know it better. The moral of the story is that it's actually pretty easy to cook this stuff. The recipe I used for Palak Paneer is old skool having the cook use fresh spinach rather than frozen, roast fresh cashews to make a powder, and boil a tomato rather than use canned. I never realized how much I like tomatoes. Since it took so long to get all these things accomplished I think next time I'll be taking the short cuts; at least on a weeknight. I was cooking for 90 minutes. The result was really good especially considering it was the first time I'd made it. I believe the hardest thing about Indian cooking is getting all the ingredients. The greatest obstacle is finding a good recipe that translates what the spices are. I had no clue what dhania-jeera is, but coriander and cumin is no mystery. Thankfully, I live and work near two Indian groceries so picking up that wild no-melt cheese wasn't too difficult.

This weekend I'm returning to my cooking roots and tackling my favorite Indian bread product, na'an.

Tag team back again

I've been out of the blogging picture for some time now. I had some nasty sinus infection that had me out of work for nearly a week, and I didn't really want to give updates as to what I was up to. -Today, I slept fo fourteen hours and my snot is green! - That sort of thing. Then I just fell out of the habit. My convalescence didn't afford any interesting tales.

I had a fabulous Thanksgiving. Aych and I drove out to Iowa in his darling new car to spend the holiday with Persephone, Paul Bunyon, Saraswati, and I really can't think of a name for Saraswati's husband. As soon as I do I'll update this blog. In any case, we all either went to school together or married someone who did. And a college prof showed up as well. It was a wonderful weekend. Persephone and Paul are warm hosts, and everyone in attendance helped out with things here and there. It felt really good to see old friends and for all of us to be gathered in one location without any family stress. Everyone brought something or cooked a dish. I brought Sweet Satan's Seed. I got the recipe out of an ultra lounge how to guide on party throwing, hence the risque name of the dish. Sweet and spicy mixed nuts. Here's the recipe:

1/4 cup honey
2 dried Ancho chili peppers sliced into fine flakes (I used a ~1.5 tbsp of crushed red pepper)
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon kosher sea salt
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper (don't be afraid to shake in more)
3 cups mixed raw nuts

I've tried this recipe with roasted nuts, and it's no good. Go raw. Preheat the oven to 275 degrees. Through all the ingredients sans the nuts into a microwave safe bowl and heat in the microwave until it gets to the consistency of pancake syrup. Stir it all well and add the nuts into the mix stirring again coating all the nuts. Spread the mix in an even layer on an oiled baking sheet and shove in the oven for ~25 minutes, stirring about every 7-8 minutes. Keep an eye on it for the last eight minutes or they'll burn and it will suck.

I've been doing some cooking recently. I decided to learn how to cook Indian and Thai food as part of my money saving plans, and I started last night with a coconut cashew chicken dish which required around a hundred ingredients. It really wasn't that bad. Prep time was minimal, and I was totally done - with time to clean during cooking - in about an hour. I found the end result a little disappointing as it's not very coconutty or cashewey, but I'm chalking that up to vague directions on what is no doubt a complicated concoction. It's not to say that the meal was bad. It just didn't come out as expected. That's one Thai Indian fusion recipe that I'll just let go. Too bad. My next selections are palak paneer most likely subbing tofu for the paneer and chicken tikka masala.

Pumpkin products

I'm currently in front of my keyboard at my desk in my cube cubby at work scarfing down the dessert portion of the pitch-in lunch we throw every year for Thanksgiving. I can't recall why we're having it so early this year, but there you have it. What I find so strange about it is we have approximately 200 people line up, grab a ton of food and then retreat to our individual, walled up cubicles where we eat alone. Yeah. It's a little bit of a dirge. I was hoping my single opportunity for social time which manifests itself by waiting in line would be fruitful. This pitch-in reminds me of when I was in elementary school and we all had to sit next to the people we were in line with waiting for food in the cafeteria. Only no cafeteria. I've a cup of coffee to compliment my slices of pumpkin pie and oh-so-rich pumpkin cheesecake. I'm glad I hit the gym beforehand.

This season, I've been introduced to the pumpkin cookie - exquisite - and a little number called a pumpkin roll which was sitting unopened on the pitch-in table. I'd like to try it, but I fear it will create a human structural integrity fault. I'm not yet at full-on holiday gorge shape yet, and I don't want to blow a gasket early in the season. There are many future opportunities for pumpkin roll.

I personally don't have much of a knack for nicknaming people, but fitnessnerd, aka Alain, (secretly aka Bea [Arthur] aka Dorothy) just nailed it when he called Harley Momma, of Shut Up, Phil! fame, Banshee. That's gonna stick. Dorothy, you have mad nicknaming skillz.

It's been pretty quiet for me recently. Monday, my company installed a new firewall on my laptop along with Anti-virus software. It certainly does the job. I can't resolve DNS from my home network anymore. What this means in normal speak is that I can't browse the web, or get my mail or even connect to the company network which is the reason why I was issued a laptop in the first place. So if you don't hear from me in a timely fashion that's why.

Also, on the boring news front I just installed the invisible shield on my iPhone. The phone is definitely protected right now, but I see to have something trapped under the film on the front screen. Agony!!! I can't stand this little imperfection in my otherwise crystal clear screen, and the worst part is I'm not certain I can even remove the screen. It's practically hermetically sealed on there now. Bummer. I'll just have to learn to live with it... or scrape the hell out of the thing trying to remove the screen protector. At what point is a pyrrhic victory simply a loss?

Time to go before I start outlining my chores for the day.

Relief. I love it on Monday when I'm finally free from my home detention device commonly known as my oncall pager. My mood improves ten times over. After a weekend wondering how to switch careers and idly wondering about a management track at Starbucks I found myself this morning sitting in my weekly staff meeting thinking that this job really isn't so bad. I don't know what kind of crazy I've got to allow myself to forget so quickly how much I do not enjoy a thing. I guess this is how I managed to marry Jaba the Hut. "Oh, really the slave outfit isn't so bad once you learn how to sling the chains just so."

Seriously, I enjoy Mondays. It's my favorite day of the work week. I walk in rested and refreshed from the weekend ready to tackle projects, and seek out solutions. Monday is by far my most productive day. I am able to focus for pretty much the entire day without needing much in the way of a break. Tuesday isn't bad, but I can start to feel myself wain. Wednesday is rough although generally things are hopping on Wednesday. Thursday is probably my worst work day. It's not yet Friday, but I'm going on day four in the work week, and the end just isn't nigh enough. By Friday I'm lucky to stick with it long enough so I can coast through my afternoon occasionally coming up to attend to this or that problem that has been brought to my attention. The thing is the more work I can focus on the faster the day goes by, however, after a while of working full bore I get tired and want to take some time away. I think I would do best with a four day work week. Although I'm sure ten hour days would get old fast.

My favorite day of the week is Sunday. Blanche recently sent out a personality poll with an Eastern flair today and one of the questions involved favorite days of the week.

Yesterday was not my favorite although I got to spend it with one of my longest running (I didn't want to say oldest) friends. H came by to pick me up in his brand new chariot and we headed out for brunch. We ate well at the Original House of (goodness in the form of) Pancakes where we had the eggs benedict and this enormous apple pancake. Biting into the apple pancake sent me to a place where state fairs make delicious apple dumplings with eggs. It was intensely good. The eggs benedict were good too; eggs perfectly poached and complimented with potato pancakes. Absolutely fabulous.

After gorging on brunch items we hit the Half Price books where I picked up "Heroic and Outrageous Women", a chubby little coffee table book full of wild stories of mold-breaking women throughout history from the Warrior Queen Boadicea who took up arms against the Romans when they invaded her lands now in England to Madonna the material girl. The title is appropriate as they are heroic and outrageous. Each entry is only a few pages long so it's suitable for quick light reading times. There's a whole chapter dedicated to women in the military, and I'm excited to find out more about these ancient and modern ass kickers.

After some more shopping and coffee we went to stake a claim at Ollie's in the face of the onslaught of people certain to arrive to watch the game of the season. Our efforts proved to be overkill as, strangely enough, the bar did not actually fill up. I've seen it busier on Friday nights. And I'm surprised. Perhaps people don't come out until the play-offs. We met up with Blanche, Alain, Romeo, Mom, and my buddy Harley-momma (who rides a Honda, but that's really not the point for 95% of the people who read this.) Harley-momma was a hoot bellowing at Phil Simms. At first she screamed when he had something negative to say about the Colts, but it just turned into a yell fest whenever he opened his mouth. It was so regular a drinking game was created. The regularity with which the yells could be heard forced participants to slurp beer. Well, that and some cocktails prior to the game.

I had my first O'Doul's while eating some hot wings. Not bad. Not beer though. It tasted like beer as long as I was eating something spicy but once my mouth got back to normal temperature I could taste the water.

There was quite a spectrum of personalities who appeared. One couple showed up after having drank a few somewhere else and managed to squeeze into our table. Friendly folk. One had an incredible, as in not to be believed, laugh. Think Uncle Albert from Mary Poppins. At one point I half expected him to rise up from the table and bounce along the ceiling at Ollie's having to avoid the Smokeeter.

As you know, the Colts lost. boo. It was a close game, and really they could have had it. If they had a fully healthy team there's no doubt in my mind that game would have had a different ending. But all that amounts to coulda woulda shoulda, and afterall it is only a game. It was fun getting worked up over it, though.

Technophilia

This week marks the final leg of my Fall marathon for work. As of Sunday at 6 am I return to my regular oncall rotation of one week on and four off. Also, things should generally slow down. Of course, the timing was awful since I missed Skareeoke, and apparently it was quite a spectacle. I actually got to College and Mass before my pager blew up and I had to head back home. Bummer.

All this work had me feeling a little blue, and after my weekend of hockey and overnight data center upgrades I decided to treat myself. Well, honestly, gravity scored an assist. I've had a standard clamshell cell phone with, shall I say, minimal functionality. It performed all the necessary functions of a cell phone: dial in, accept calls, text, voice mail, caller id. It even had a camera, but there was no way to get the pictures off the camera without paying for a picture text and my inner miser couldn't handle that. This phone has also withstood some heavy beatings, lots of drops, and general misuse. I actually had it long enough to necessitate replacing the battery as it could no longer hold enough charge to facilitate a fifteen minute phone call. I'm used to it. It's familiar.

Witness exhibit A to the right here. Saturday, in between hockey games some teammates and I went to lunch at the Ram. When I got up to leave I hastily put on my jacket. Out popped my cell phone and as it tumbled out of my pocket it flipped open. In this open position it slammed into a wooden chair and that was all she wrote for this little number. Or was it? I was in quite a bit of denial after it broke cleanly snapped in two, the flexible data board sheared off at both ends. I took it to a mall kiosk and asked if they could repair it. No such luck. I asked if they could retrieve the numbers off of it. My kind but useless sales associate decked out in blue face paint didn't even try to hook it up. He did try to sell me a new phone though, but if I wanted a new phone I'd have to sign up for 2 years of service. Otherwise the cheapest phone was 200 dollars. Yikes!

I found that I could use the phone with it attached to a headset with mic boom. I spent the next couple days walking around with a wire in my phone holding "stumpy" and dialing out to people who had numbers I remembered. And then I got the hook up.

Romeo helped me out with some discount action on a brand new iPhone. Quite a leap from stumpy clamshell. The interface is excellent although it's taken a little work to get familiar with the touch screen. I've experienced one glitch in operating it so far, but I'll spare you the details. The moral of that side story is that I couldn't be bothered to get upset with the error. In fact this product is so cool I found myself being quite patient in wanting to figure out what the matter was. Anyone who has ever seen me in front of a fussy electronic device has been treated to a colorful spew of expletives. I've spent the last couple days consoling my over worked self with the colorful glow illuminating the crystal clear images on this incredible toy.

Major toy purchases always make me a little elated and edgy followed by some sort of techno-purchase afterglow crash. When I first heard of technology addiction I dismissed the notion as absurd alarmism from a group of sanctimonious busy bodies. What's wrong with being connected at all times? What's wrong with having a device that makes that experience better? What's wrong with pursuing better? Of course, it's that pursuit of better and a search for the external that rests at the core of addiction. I've read that a person is considered to have a technology problem if one spends more time with the technology than with people. I find that to be a facile explanation. People drive technology. We haven't figured out a way to create self-replicating data boards yet. So at the end of every interaction with a piece of technology there is a person who created it.

To me a problem exists when an individual has trouble connecting with oneself, and that is hard for an external observer to quantify. I'd like to sit with a corporate psychologist and ask her how that makes her feel.

I'm going to let that be the end of my rambling. I think working all these hours is making me a tidge punchy.

Are *you* ready for some football?

If you've been following along I had a bad weekend. I worked approximately 14 high stress hours and broke many things. During all this time I had but one thing to keep me going forward: Monday Night Football. My sister's boyfriend gets a lot of great comp tickets to various events through work, and he got a couple of comp tickets to see the Indianapolis Colts take on the Jacksonville Jaguars. He couldn't make it because of some work function, and when I heard that I offered to take one for the team and come on down to see the game. I had been looking forward to this game ever since I heard about it. Sis just moved to Jacksonville with her beau and I've been keen to see their new place. Also, I've never seen a Monday night football game. Something changes when the crowd knows they are at the only game in the nation at that hour of that week. The energy gets cranked way up. Every town brings it to Monday Night Football.

Jacksonville was no exception. Every Jag home game has been blacked out due to lagging ticket sales. Now, I think black outs are a terrible way to get meat in the seats as it were. If the locals don't get to see their team on TV how are they expected to want to buy a ticket? In any case, the Monday night game was sold out. Sis, Beau, the co-worker and I arrived to a full house crackling with electricity. It was insanity! For the most part the Jacksonville fans were alright. There were some isolated almost altercations and some frustrated idiot threw a styrofoam stick at me after the Colts scored a touchdown. Whatever. I just let the scoreboard do the talking.

Our seats were exceptional. We sat at the end zone in the belly of the enemy. Sis and I sat apart from the group forming a small island of five Colts fans donning blue jerseys. And I had the faux hawk done up in cheap blue hair paint. It didn't look so great, but it got the message across. We slapped fives every time a touch down was scored, after every sack, and pretty much most first downs. It was great. There was a lot of booing from the crowd, but overall they weren't so bad. Well apart from the styrofoam tosser

I'm going to keep this short. I had a blast at the game. It was great to see Sis in Jacksonville. The game was great. I loved watching the Colts drive the ball through the end zone. It was fab staring Manning in the face as he was looking for a receiver.

Techno zombies!

It's been non-stop action for me recently. When we left off, gentle reader I was just coming back from my Chicago trip. I had managed to trade my first three days of oncall to go to training, but now it was time to return to the office and a mountain of work not least of which involved tending to a pager. Thursday was a blur of non-stop go go go from the time I got settled in to the time I went to bed. There is a kind of rhythm to IT calamity; an organic element to technological failure. I'll put it like so avoiding technical jargon: If one thing breaks chances are good at least five people will tell you to fix it. Also, due to the dependency each thing has on another thing when one thing breaks it generally causes a chain reaction of breakage. This creates a notification|work multiplier. The good news is troubleshooting problems is much like slaying zombies: kill the head zombie and they all die. So if you weed out and correct the problem the rest of the world can start moving again. The only issue is that the more things that held dependencies with the core thing that broke means more people will notice the breakage which means more people tell you to fix it and the more people telling you to fix the problem means the more "paperwork" after the fact. It's a nasty cycle. I'm grateful that I actually had a chance to get settled in and check my mail over my coffee and a pop tart prior to the flood gate opening.

I say paperwork, but there's no such thing as paper based communication for me anymore. All notification and updates are done electronically through a web based ticketing system. Things like web based trouble ticketing systems are touted as helpful tools that management magnamimously offers to their technical staffs as a generous aid in the never-ending struggle of zombie slaying commonly known as troubleshooting. In practice this all looks like a different animal. Something breaks: the oncall engineer receives electronic notification which needs to be acknowledged. The oncall engineer then starts furiously typing an e-mail in a desperate attempt at playing beat the panic. Before the second sentence can be typed out three people run by the oncall engineer’s cubicle explaining something has happened. These people are in turn acknowledged. Then the oncall engineer receives at least one instant message requesting to join a troubleshooting chat room to give updates on the issue. It’s around this time that the oncall engineer’s boss is now in play asking what has happened and when will it be fixed. A page goes off requesting the oncall engineer join a telephone bridge call to give an update.

Remember how troubleshooting is like slaying zombies? Well, in a way when a thing breaks it almost instantly starts eating the brains of the people who support things that have those dependencies which effectively increases the zombie horde. Eventually, people start asking when the service will be restored so their particular thing will start working again. At this point the OE manages to ignore everything else and start troubleshooting the issue. A good boss will morph into an offensive linesman and start blocking the newly created zombies, and eventually functionality is restored and all questions are answered.

We have a weekend event called "Fall Release". I have no clue what it is we're releasing, I think it's software, but I know that it takes a huge amount of personnel and other resources to accomplish. In any case, this past weekend there was a lot of movement among the developers and the server teams which resulted in a lot of work in the form of tying loose ends on the network side. My side.

It’s Saturday afternoon when my weekend becomes cataclysmic. I perform a change for someone and it won’t work. Between the two of us we fiddle with all kinds of knobs and nothing seems to make the light turn green. For an hour and a half we work, and then out of frustration and desperation and sheer idiocy I try a command that isn’t even supposed to help the situation. One minute later I lose connectivity to the machine that received the command. It’s at this time that the guy I’m working with loses connectivity to his server. I try to re-establish connectivity. Nothing doing. I try to establish connectivity to the hot standby device (an understudy that can leap out on stage the moment the lead collapses). I can’t get to it. It won't even respond to the most basic call - the simple ping. This is a crucial thing. This is a thing with many many dependencies.

To cut to the chase: I removed my company’s web presence from the Internet for over an hour.

I was working from home so I flew to the office receiving an electronic onslaught of notification all the way. When I got in to the data center a manager (not mine) was there waiting and then standing behind me offering assistance. My manager did hit the scene pretty quickly, though and we worked the issue along with another engineer. Service was restored and now it was time to face the music. I had to sit there and say I broke it.

My boss took it really well. I imagine if our roles were reversed I would be angry in a way that would hearken to the animal kingdom. I’d be baboon-screaming-poo-flinging-jumping-up-and-down-on-my-desk mad. He didn’t even raise his voice. Perhaps he could see how sick I felt about the whole thing. Perhaps, he was terrified of making me cry, a fear that would at one time offend me very deeply, but now I completely endorse if it means I don’t get yelled at. Sincerely though, I appreciate not being cut to shreds.

Regardless, I had a terrible Saturday. Remembering it puts my stomach in knots. I tried to surround myself with friendly faces at a gathering after that terrible outage, but work and technology just wouldn’t cooperate, and I trudged home armed with exceptional chili. My brief time out was restorative. The worst and best part was I had to go home and start working on that problem where I shit the bed to begin with. It felt terrible getting back on that horse, but it was well worth it. I eventually found the problem and fixed it, and nothing blew up. That felt pretty good.

I ended up working much of Saturday night and most of Sunday, and the world kept turning. I did find an hour to go for a lovely motorcycle ride around Eagle Creek. There's a narrow road that feels like a country lane lined with trees, and on Sunday the sun shone down through the golden, orange, fiery red leaves as they lazily drifted over me onto the street like warm, paper snow. It was so warm. The last warm day I believe, and it felt so good. It was centering in a way that I desperately needed.

The next installment: From wind-stealing lows to dizzying highs. My first Monday Night Football game.

Shopping, showing, skiving, skyscraping

Yesterday, I had a chance to go shopping along the Miracle Mile. I always check out the Marshall's first since the Marshall's in Chicago has items I'm far more likely to purchase than the one in Indy. The last time I dropped in I purchased a pair of shoes that became my everyday-in-every-way brown shoes. I walked those things into the ground until they actually increased a half size through use. No such luck on this trip. Actually, my shopping time was brief due to dinner plans so I hit the Levi's store - which didn't have any standout items. I then went to my holy ground, Gap. My wardrobe is composed almost exclusively by Gap. The cuts and the styles just fit right. I finally broke down and accepted a Gap credit card. There's no point in buying all these clothes all the time and not get a little back. I tell myself that as long as I stay on top of it and never ever ever carry a balance I'll be able to reap the rewards of the card and not feel violated by the jaw dropping percentage rate. It's usury plain and simple.

Indy has a good Gap at the Fashion Mall, but this lovely locale on what is truly a Miracle Mile boasts three whole floors. Granted the basement is a kids/baby Gap, but whatever! It's enormous and it has so many clothes! I didn't even bother looking at Ralph Lauren or elsewhere so out of my price range. I hunted through my favorite store on steroids and came up with a hot outfit for my night out. My first ever pair of navy trousers - dark navy cut curvy with pinstripes. Yow! Also a pair of trousers colored in heather with brown criss-cross - not quite plaid and not quite checked. They're a looser fit. Both pants work with the white button up shirt with thin blue stripes. If I were a guy I'd look like a Republican, but I think there's something hot about a woman in mannish clothes cut for ladies - if not bordering on subversive which will always turn my crank at least a quarter revolution.

Today, my training class wrapped up, but not soon enough for me. Somewhere through the instructor's nervousness and his sudden inability to answer my questions satisfactorily I decided to skive off during a brief lunch break and go check out the Sears Tower. I thought this was going to be a twenty minute side trip. I imagined I'd stroll into the tower, get pointed to the appropriate elevator and check out Chicago from the clouds. Not so. I walked into the business side of the building. I figured I was in the wrong place since I didn't have a swipe card and getting to the elevators required one. I was pointed to the right direction, a separate entrance entirely, and was on my way. This skydeck only portion of the Sears tower has a long series of people herding maneuvers. I was ushered to an elevator going down to a basement where I was ushered through a security checkpoint - brief metal detector walk through - then moved along to a ticket counter. Getting to the skydeck costs moolah: $12.95 for the non-tour version. Nineteen for the tour. I opted for the general admission, given a ticket, and was informed there was a movie. OK. I was then greeted by ticket takers who sent me along a corridor where I came to a stop. Up until this point I was moving along at a good clip. I guess things aren't so busy on a Wednesday after lunch. Along each point of my journey I thought, well, I'll pop up to the sky deck around this corner, check it out, and head back to the training. I even told myself that I was willing to part with thirteen dollars for a brief visit to the top of Chicago especially if it meant getting out of class for half an hour. Silly Scrawler. This was not to be. I turned the corner the open doors to a small theater. I thought, oh well I'll skip that and head to the elevators after using the can. Well, when I got out of the restroom I looked around for the elevators up. No such luck. I walked around the theater and saw that the only possible way to proceed to where I thought the elevator was would be through doors towards the front of the theater. As I realized this the doors to said theater closed, and I noticed they had no handles on them. Once they were closed they were closed. No way to just slide in late.

I stood trying not to fume waiting and waiting (I hate to wait). After what seemed like a looong time, but what was really only fifteen minutes I was able to get into the theater that was totally emptied of people and had no visible exit. The way out had the same handle-less door system and there was no skipping this informative film brought to us by the History Channel.

Finally, I got up up up and away. I'm glad I waited through all of that. I took only a couple pictures and of the two I like this one most:


The skyscraper: penis on the outside vagina on the inside! It's a forest of sex organs. How delightful.

Greetings from Chi-town

Good evening from the windy city. The time to blog is upon me which is sensible seeing as how I have approximately a pound of dead cow in my stomach and I'm not much use for anything else at the moment. I didn't start my day this way, and I'm happy to tell you how my current state came to pass - well, will eventually pass but I'm using a phrase.

I'm up here for no particularly fancy reason. It's work related. My company sent me for a two day training class on a product we recently purchased. The quality of instruction has me pleasantly surprised. Generally, two day training means a rush job through the product fraught with sales pitches. I'm tickled to report I've received cogent information from day one. I don't think it's a coincidence this product is really good as well. Good follows good and a company that produces worthwhile software will likely have good people explaining how to use it I suppose.

I drove up last night with a co-worker who I'll call papa sweet grump. He's a nice older gentleman - recently a grandfather - pretty cool in just about every way, but he's a nay sayer - a trait he pulls off fairly well. He and I hit a Bennigan's on the way up (they still exist!) and made it to our hotel a little after nine pm. Thankfully PSG stepped away while I was checking in since the desk clerk asked if he had his own registration or if he was staying with me. I calmly stated he had his own, but I was surprised that it was a question. The picture the two of us pose is incongruous at best; thirty-year-old woman with spiked hair who reportedly looks like a complete lesbian and a mountainous white haired man in Dockers. What surprised me more: that he thought we were together or that he thought I was straight? I'm unsure. I suppose people make platonic shared hotel arrangements all the time and it was simply be a question.

I spent some time walking up and down Michigan after checking in. I heard a volley of When Johnny Comes Marching Home passed back and forth from street side sax players punching the march into a slurry yet punctuated jazz number. I walked quickly and saw the river. I ended up going to Borders and buying a book and a three-pack of Moleskine journals. I say yes to Moleskine. They make a quality product although the marketing turns me off just a hair. Buy this notebook because creative people did nearly a hundred years ago. But the paper, smart binding, and excellent size are exceptional. I know of no better pocket journal.

Today, PSG and I walked to our training facility from our hotel, mostly along Wacker, a street name which illicits the same response that I first had from it at ten. We ended up spitting distance from the Sears Tower, pictured at top. I like skyscrapers. People say they're phallic, and I did too until I heard the best counter to it from a good friend of mine. He says, yeah, but if you enter the skyscraper and look up it's like an enormous vagina. I'm down with that. The building our training is in is also a skyscraper, and for the first time I've been confronted with a restroom that's controlled by a five button keypad. This is on the fourth floor of the building. What kind of crowd control does one need? The restroom is also exceptionally grey. Since I was wearing my grey fleece jacket today I had to take pictures. Which now that I review them are kinda lame. Moving on.

So how did I end up with this bovine bounty in my tummy? The one good thing about traveling for the company is being able to treat oneself on someone else's dime. I like to eat that which I cannot in Nap-town. I asked the concierge what our best bet was for authentic Chicago cuisine and
he said without batting an eye it was the Chop House. It was within walking distance to our hotel which was a major selling point. I know you can get a great steak for that kind of money in any city with an international airport, but this place had style and panache and an incredibly intense bone in prime rib so popular it's the every night special. We were seated on the second floor in a window table overlooking Ontario. There were pictures of meat packers and "Builders of Chicago" on the wood paneled walls. After a wonderful filet with asparagus and hollandaise I made a point to go to the bathroom partially to take a look at the place and - I'm not gonna lie - a little bill dodging. I didn't want to deal with the expense report. When I arrived at the bathroom and entered a stall I was exposed to something unique - thank goodness. Nothing sexual - no. This was the strangest sanitary device I've ever encountered. I was so floored I took a picture. Let's take a look:

OK. My complimentary internet connectivity is acting funny and giving me fits. I'll have to be content describing this for now. I open the stall door and see a toilet seat covered in a plastic bag. The hinge is enormous and I'm thinking this is some sort of take on the paper seat covers. I'm not much for the hysterics of bathroom hygiene. An old school toilet seat just isn't the kind of place that can support bacteria, germs or whatever else has women hovering and pissing all over a perfectly good resting place. If I had open wounds on my ass cheeks that might be a different story, but as long as my butt remains lesion free I'm just not giving these concerns any cycles. The baggied toilet seat isn't just a simple cover. Oh no. The hinge that holds the seat to the commode is enormous, about four inches high, and it comes with a red button on the left and instructions. "Press once before use. Button resets after in 20 seconds." So, completely floored I push the button. This is what happened:

Now this is just about the craziest, nastiest, saddest thing I've seen in a bathroom. It's like those terribly unhygienic towel rolls one only sees at Illusions as reported by Fitness Nerd only for your ass! Really? For real? Is this what people want? For the first time ever I really didn't want to sit down. That plastic just looks flimsy and full of creases and crevices where nastiness could hide. Ugh.

That wraps it up for tonight (hah!) I'm going to roll quite literally into bed and get ready for day two of my whirlwind Chicago trip. I'll be heading back to Indy tomorrow during rush hour. We'll see how that goes.

slap shot and coffee

This weekend has been both sedate and rewarding. I'm the kind of person who doesn't clean unless company is coming. I mean, I keep the tumbleweeds from taking up residence, but it gets a little nesty in my family room from time to time. I like to walk in from work, kick off my shoes wherever I happen to be when I don't want to wear them further, plop down in the recliner, and eventually articles of clothing get removed and exchanged for pajamas. The result turns my small condo into an enormous dressing room. So when I had surprise company Friday I found myself motivated to get my clean on.

Humorously, I decided to invite more people over on Saturday when I knew I wouldn't have time to clean up. It was all a little awkward. I invited Reichy (formerly DeeDee) and a friend and her brother over to watch that classic 70s sports flick, Slap Shot starring Paul Newman and introducing the Hanson Brothers. Reichy asked me during our last practice how it is one actually commits a foul in hockey, and I could think of no better way to explain it other than Slap Shot. The -eh- film has a fairly high incidence of gay bashing, although I contend its overall attitude towards homosexuality is open and tolerant. In a way it boldly highlights certain homosexual issues, Lesbians After Marriage for instance. But it's crowded by a frenetic plot. No scene off the ice is longer than thirty seconds and there are plenty in short succession. According to wikipedia Gene Siskel says that it was his greatest regret as a critic to have given Slap Shot mediocre reviews. Apparently he enjoyed it much more after multiple viewings. I believe that has to do with how fast the movie moves. It's hard to follow. I wonder if the director was trying to mimic the pace of a hockey game.

So here I was with a filthy home inviting people over some of whom had never seen the place before to watch a movie that by most accounts isn't great on the first viewing. I felt slightly awkward, but really I could have spared myself. My guests were gracious, and took it all with good nature.

Today, I woke up with the cleaning bug. Sometimes I pop out of bed with a burning desire to jog, or go to the mall, or grab some brunch, but today it was all about cleaning. I like how the place feels now. It's incredible how much dust and cat hair can collect in certain nooks and crannies. Now I'm breathing a little easier in my super comfy home.

I went shopping for a list of household items at Bed Bath and Beyond: a coffee maker, sheets, light bulbs of various sizes and nothing met my specifications. B,B &B is leaving much to be desired these days. I did come home with a Mukka express cappuccino maker though for much less than what I'm seeing them on the web. It's a stove top espresso maker on steroids. It's larger than the average espresso maker. At the top of the "percolator" in the coffee carafe section there's an extra valve that is used to froth milk that you've added into the carafe section. It's actually rather clever. All you have to do is put water in the reservoir, coffee in the filter, milk in the carafe, set the valve, and put the whole assembly on the stove top et voila! Cappuccino. I've decided to try it out as my replacement for my daily coffee ritual. My trips to Starbucks have become more frequent, and I'm sick of spending time and money on a product that - while oh so tasty - gets to be an expensive drag in the morning. I've gone through and created cappuccino, latte and espresso as part of the initial throw away runs of the product. So far so good. I need to get real espresso roasted coffee beans though. Regular beans work, but the method begs for a bean with a bolder flavor. The only problem is going to be the additional maintenance required. I actually have to clean that valve out and rinse the pot rather than just let it stand in all its milky glory while I'm away at work.

Gambling

I had a busy weekend jam packed full of events. It was a little too cramped for my taste, and I've spent some time processing it. I rode the motorcycle down to Louisville for a Celebration event honoring the weekend work I and thirty other women did with Woman Within. I rode with a group of women who were headed for New Albany, specifically Cesar's Casino. Somehow they got rooms comped for the night and we were going to take advantage. We avoided the interstate, and the ride down was goregeous once we got south of Franklin. We eventually hit 135 and snaked through Nashville twisting through forests and winding around cornfields. Lots of beans and corn this year. For some reason the bean fields smelled like onion. Maybe there were onions out there, too. I had to break off from the group when we hit 60 so I could get to my event on time. I threw on my helmet, kicked it into 6th and peeled off towards I-65 at 100 mph.

I was feeling shakey and rushed when I arrived. I had to change; the shirt I had packed for the event somehow got ruined while in my bag and that really pissed me off. I wanted to look cool, and instead I was wearing a slick pair of grey trousers with a light pinstripe with a brown on beige striped t-shirt. Ugh. But I did it, and it was fine. I managed to get centered and get into the moment.

After the cermony I invited a woman to hang out with me and the group of women I rode down with to Connections. At least that was the idea. I got back late; most of the ladies were ready for a nightcap and bed. Lesbians are in bed by 11pm. Sheesh. That's when the party is just kicking off. I had never been to a casino before, and I was determined to spend some dough. The lady I invited, I'll call her Virginia, was definitely down for some gambling. She's primarily a slots gal which is the way to go odds-wise as far as best return on "investment". I personally find the slots dismal. I like holding on to the myth that I am somehow in control in a game of chance so it's no wonder that craps appealed the most to me.

I didn't have a good time gambling for two major reasons. The cheapest tables had 15 dollar minimums, and I was the only one I knew playing them. I started the evening with blackjack. Boom boom boom boom. Ninety seconds later and sixty dollars down I decided to end that train wreck. That's when I wandered over to the craps table. I had no idea what I was doing and only picked it up by watching for about 20 minutes so I was missing a lot of information. I actually won some dough playing craps, but really it was just enough to cover the losses incurred at the end of a run, and eventually - inevitably - the house got my money. I was only able to slow my roll with the craps table (hah!) and I really enjoyed throwing the dice. All in all I lost $140, and I experienced gambling, an activity of which I've had my fill. I felt like I was throwing my money away surrounded by fish-eyed slot zombies. At least in a strip bar I get to see naked people.

The next day I split off from the group again this time to get back to town to do some work. I took the long way back until I hit Nashville. Again, totally beautiful ride. Just enough clouds in the sky to make it pretty. In Nashville there was some bad accident where someone took out a transformer and the entire town was dark. No gas. So I ended up turning around and headed to Columbus. I burned up I-65 until I hit my exit home.

I took this trip thinking I could get my work done on Sunday whenever I wanted as long as it went well. Well, this upgrade I had to do - that was tested in our lab - didn't go well. In fact it broke things in a very bizarre way. After 8 hours of troubleshooting to get a good idea of what had happened I rolled it back. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to do, and my decision to make the change six hours after I said I would was called into question. Erp. I feel a little miffed about the whole thing. Yes, I didn't do something when I said I was going to do it, but that would not have mitigated the impact. Monday was rough.

Tonight, I'm playing a hockey scrimmage breaking a drought of over a year. I'm psyched to get back on the ice in earnest. Hockey is one of the most exhilirating sports I've ever played, and I could use a little good competition vibe.

Friday blah

I knew that Friday was going to end up lackluster. My dreams were incredible this morning, and I semi-consciously chose to sleep in rather than get up and get in to work. I was in the car about 5 minutes into my commute and stuck behind a chucklehead moving 20 miles per hour. I didn't want to stay stuck so I passed her on the right in a shoulder turn lane. Unfortunately, I executed this maneuver in a school zone in front of Officer Friendly. At least I had the presence of mind to throw on my seat belt when I saw him whip out of his hidey hole. That kept an additional 25 dollars off a ticket that already amounted to 150. Good morning.

After that I decided to go to Starbucks to get some coffee. Fuck being late. I wanted a latte.

Work wasn't too bad. I've been working on installing and learning this enormous software based network toolset, and it's been slow going. The documentation shows you what to do for very specific scenarios, not how the whole thing works. My boss rolled up to my cube wanting to see the beast in action, and I couldn't get it to work. I found another problem I had to open a support case on to solve.

All this in the back of my mind. I was meeting up with this young lady tonight who has me more or less captivated. I left work twenty minutes early, got home, ate some grub, and hopped on the bike to go check out the First Friday Art shows in Fountain Square. The ride over there was fun. I'd shaken off the slow downs from the ticket I received this morning and zipped along 65 South at a good clip. I even had a brief chase with some dude on a sport bike.

I found a motorcycle sized parking spot (which I always love to utilize) in front of Penumbria Gallery. There were some beautiful paintings there. I've only recently started to appreciate abstract pieces, but now I prefer them. I take in the painting and see how I respond. The showcased artist was Gwyneth Sutherlin. She had several pieces I enjoyed, but the one that gripped me was called "Depth". I don't think it was her strongest painting, but it definitely had the strongest affect on me.

I walked up and down Virginia Ave checking out the galleries. I eventually came to find out that Aganippe wasn't going to make it out. So I packed it in and went out for a ride. I sent out messages to a few people seeing what's doing. Not much was the response. So I eventually went home.

Now here's where I turn my blah into something incredible, dangerous, and quite possibly addictive. I wanted a bowl of cereal when I got home, but I was out of milk, and I wanted something junkier than Raisin Bran so I rolled out to the grocery store. As I was struggling between Choco Cap'n Crunch and Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch I turned my head and saw a beautiful sight there beyond the cereal aisle on the far wall: Trader's Point Creamery Chocolate Milk. My choice was made for me. I grabbed the PB Cap'n Crunch, the chocolate milk, and some skim which I normally drink and went on home. This combination is heavenly. I initially pulled off the plastic top and took a swig from the bottle, and my world was rocked. The chocolate and cream together are so rich it's almost overpowering. To use this with cereal is enough to stop hearts. It really is decadent.

So I'm glad I'm seeing the end of this particular Friday. It's rather pleasant now.

Filler Musing

I find it distracting and interesting that the three major topics covered by media - sports, business, and politics - are games with increasingly higher stakes.

Discuss
(Because I haven't gotten around to writing up a blog entry after my super weekend with the women).

Motorcycle repair continued: the saga of the frozen screw

It's been quite an experience working on the motorcycle. The process is so enjoyable. I generally work on it for about two hours a night when I hit some seemingly insurmountable snag. Then I come to it the next day with new information, or a recently purchased tool, or maybe just fresh eyes and that problem gets worked out. I've never worked on a carburetor before so this is all new. I'm figuring it out as I go. It's very rewarding that way. It took a lot of doing, but I pulled the carb off the frame.

Prior to carb removal

The tops of the released carbs

The carb came off fairly easily once I figured out how to create slack on the throttle and choke cables connecting it to the bike. I took it over to my work bench, a converted coffee stand in a previous life, and took off the air covers. I think that's what they're called. Whatever isn't the float bowl. I got a chance to crank up ye olde air compressor to push air through the jets. What a joy. Of all the tools available pneumatic tools are the coolest looking. They're made of shiny stainless steel and generally need to be oiled daily so they look cool for a long time. I only have a 3/8" ratchet and an air gun (ffft ffft!) but they're a lot of fun. The hilarious, ridiculous thing is that I have a whopping 15 gallon 150 PSI air compressor. It's overkill, but hey that's fine. If you ever need air in your tires and you're in the neighborhood you know what to do. But I digress.



The jets were cleared, the top of the carburetor isn't very compelling. It's the floats that gets all the action so it was time to crack those puppies open. I got through one screw. All the rest were frozen solid. The head on one screw was stripped out. This was definitely one of those stopping points. I asked around the office and got advice on how to drill out a stripped screw. Yep, drill out, whereby I would take a drill with a super strong bit and push it through the screw. Then I'd get my tap/die kit and tear out the rest of it hoping I didn't totally re-thread anything the wrong way. No problem right? ugh. I was nervous about this procedure so I went online and looked up alternatives. Apparently, there's this magical device called an impact driver which is like a special screw or bolt driver. Essentially you put the tool in the screw and smack the other end with a hammer. There's a spring and a revolving cylinder in between the bit and the impact area that turns as a result of the downward force. Further screw stripping is much less likely. This sounded much better to me than drilling into a delicate mechanical device so I rolled into Auto Zone and got myself one of these gadgets.

Behold the exposed float chamber!

It took a bit of doing, and I thought I wouldn't be able to get it at first, but eventually all the screws turned for the impact driver. The result is the picture here to the right. Look, Ma, no bowls. I'd like to take this time to point out that I love the vocab here what with all this talk about bowls, carbs, jets, and the like. Makes me feel like I'm in a head shop. I'm surprised by how clean the actual float bowls are though. They need to be de-gunked, but not by much. The seals need to be replaced, too. They were crusty when I gingerly pulled them out. I thought they'd snap on me. The relative good health of the carburetor concerns me a bit. If that's not what's been causing the bike starting issues, then what, pray tell could it be? Idunno. I guess I'll have to figure that out when I come to it.
In the meantime I need to figure out what kind of large, open mouthed glass container I'm going to dump this metal thing in along with highly combustible and toxic chemicals to remove the lacquer on ol' girl's respiratory/digestive system.