Feedbag

I was up all night again last night. Can anyone tell my why microwaved pizza rolls are so very gross, all leathery and oozing molten mystery goo that tastes vaguely freezerpizzalike, but after the 3rd one you get a craving for the rest of the box? I'm sure they'd be reasonably tasty if toasted properly in a real heat oven, but I was at once disgusted and enthralled by these highly nutrutious lil' suckers. And no, it was not a case of the munchies, simply lunch. Real dinner last night was something I'd never concocted before, but boy oh boy was it some kind of spot-hitting good. I had a pair of round steaks defrosted, and had to cook 'em up. I'd planned on grilling or broiling, but got no grill and I've no experience broiling. No proper veggies for a stir-fry. Rooting around in the larder, I found some bleu cheese, potatoes, onions, and yon steaks. Sliced a pocket in the steaks, stuffed in some cheese (a very carnal experience, that), and set it all to fry... 15 minutes later, the yummiest of quickdishes. Leftovers will be just as good. I watched someone dump 15 (fifteen!) liquid creamers into a 16 ounce coffee this morning. Then added a shot of 'cappuccino' (the powdered machine-made fake sugary stuff) to the mix, and a small handful of ice. In my first office job (a draftsman for a church architecture outfit), I started having coffee every day. It'd be doctored up very precisely, with 1 1/2 sugars and a splash of cream. It HAD to be the right color, or t'were no good. Several years later, I started to realize there were just to many variables to manage, and more hassle than enjoyment. It's crap like that which taught me to drink my coffee black. That way, I'm in & out, no waiting, nobody making faces at me, no mess to clean up - and the bonus is that I can actually tell if the coffee's any good. Turns out I like good coffee. Any particular way you have to have your coffee (or tea)?

Whatever You Were Planning, Fahgeddaboutddit

Came in to work this morning to see this. I'm just glad it wasn't on my desk. Poor guy's gonna have some thumbs to twiddle while the IT guy works his magics. The power goes out here a few times a year, and every time the office stands around chatting about baseball or kids or anything.but.work. The longest we've stayed open without power is one hour - because we are utterly dependent on these little machines. Even the phones are part of a computer system, so there is no contact with the business world unless the juice is flowing. In my first office job, I worked for a design-build firm specializing in churches. The accountants and secretaries had computers, but nobody else. If the power went out (which happened often), we kept drawing. We'd have to erase by hand instead of using the nifty little power erasers, but pencils don't care whether the lights or AC were on. At this office, there isn't a drawing board on site. It's not even a practical backup anymore, since we need our engineering software to work before there's anything to draw. Once we were downtown at a swanky restaurant for cocktails. I asked for the check, and the young waitress said the credit card machine was down. So they weren't collecting any money. We were free to go. I asked if we could stay and get a few more, but got the stinkeye and decided it was time to make our exit. Nobody on staff had any idea how to work a manual credit card transaction, even though I could see the kerchunking machine under the register. I wasn't about to explain it to her. Lately, I'm busier than a chameleon in a blender full of crayons, so my time is up. Any stories of total computer dependence? Won't you share in yonder Comments? Have a nice day.

Tuesdays are for

Good morning Surf Reporters (you know who you are). Nothin' to see here, move along. So why post, you ask? Good question. It's because a) it's what I do and 2) I have some questions. I've been told that after meeting my mortality nose to stump, I can expect to freak out at some point in the future, since it hasn't happened yet. As I regained consciousness, I assessed reality pretty quickly, recognized where I was and knew what had happened based on the evidence around me. It was a fairly matter-of-fact affair. There are also interpretations and meanings being assigned to the accident and the fact that I'm not dead or smushed like a frog on the pavement. The question, in two parts: Have you had a delayed reaction to a big event? If it were a message, what do you think it's saying? Would you be s'kind as to tell me about it?

Happy Pi Day

That's pronounced "Pie Day," not piday (as in bidet). Just thought you should know. Ahem. Well, on to more sophisticated things. Boy is my job shadow today, so he'll learn why Dilbert is so popular in the office. I was thinking t'udderday how miraculous it is that I made it to adulthood. Specifically because of a long and storied history with bikes. I never thought at the time of my youth that bicycles hated me, but as I review the pattern, one could get the distinct feeling that they really thought I should be dead. Malicious little weasels, all of 'em. My first memory of myself on a two-wheeler has me zooming down the sidewalk, Dad holding the back of my seat to make sure he didn't have to explain howcome I came home all bloody. We went back and forth down the sidewalk a dozen times, and finally I could keep the thing upright. Until I got to a heave in the sidewalk, which I could have navigated except for a brief moment of panic. And a tree, which jumped out in front of me. Luckily, I was going slow enough to cause very minimal damage. Little did I know, this was only the beginning of the Cold War between my bikes and me. My friends and I would terrorize the neighborhood, being as cool as little Christian Reformed Dutch kids can be. We weren't allowed to ride bikes on Sundays, but we made up for it the rest of the week. Clothespins and playing cards in the spokes, homebuilt ramps and obstacle courses, and reenactments of Emergency 51 made up my neighbors' soundtrack. We'd ride up to the Gene Meyer Pharmacy and spend our meager allowances on candy and "fireworks" - smoke bombs, snakes, snap-pops, and ladyfingers. Back at the ranch, we'd wreak whatever havoc could be wrought and invent ways to play with fire. A favorite trick was to stick a smoke bomb in the frame by the back wheel, light it, and cruise up and down the street like a motorcycle gang, belching macho exhaust. Once my aunt came back from Kentucky and handed me a sack of fireworks she got from a roadside stand. I don't think my dad knew she did this. I reached in and grabbed a smoke bomb, installed it in the frame, lit it and waited for the fuse to burn down. Next thing I knew, I couldn't hear, my tire was flat, a buncha spokes bent and twisted, and I was on the ground. That was my first experience with an M-80. In Little League, there was a kid named Ernie who had an amazing BMX-style dirt bike. It was Hulk Green and had knobby tires, a bottle holder, and motorcycle grips. I broke the 10th Commandment all over that thing. Ernie let me touch it once, but he'd never let me ride it. Then, one early May morning, I came downstairs. It was my birthday, and Mom had made breakfast (which was special, we lived on cold cereal most days). There, in the living room, was the Green Monster. I was an odd little kid, because my first thought was, "We're not supposed to have bikes in the living room," and my second was, "Dad stole Ernie's bike! Sweet!!" The truth was that Ernie was getting a new bike, and our dads worked a deal that got me his old one. I was ecstatic, and immediately took it out for a test drive. It was heavy and hard to pedal, but I looked like Evel Knievel on the thing, except for the tight white jumpsuit and broken bones. For now. As I practiced coasting downhill on my new bike, I hit a bump in the road. I remember watching the pavement come closer to my face, and then nothing. I heard some kid crying, and began to realize it was me, as I was standing in my doorway with the neighbor who had scooped me up to bring me home. The first thing my mom saw was, I'm sure, not a pretty sight. Where her boy's face should be was a gooey mess of hamburger and gravel. I had skidded to a stop on the right side of my face, and remember showing up to church unable to open one eye for 2 weeks. That bike and I never got along too well after that. Different bike, different time, same hill. I was cruising on my purple sparkly chopper with the banana seat and a 3-speed gear shifter on the crossbar. It was a total badass 70's bike, and I would ride around like one of Heck's own angels. On the way home from school one day, enjoying a long downhill coast toward a normally busy intersection. There was no traffic, and I really didn't feel like stopping. I picked up speed through the intersection, certain there were no cars approaching. Suddenly, my chopper and I were airborne, but in different directions. The bike was launched half a block to the north, while I rocketed south - into the windshield of a magically appearing car. I slid off the hood and onto the pavement. I crawled to the side of the road, thinking it was a bad idea to lie in the street because you could get hit by a car like that. Another memorable event for my mom. I got out of it with a nasty bump on the head and a gash on my leg. At the time, they weren't able to detect any brain damage; it must have been present before the accident. There are many, many more stories. Fortunately I had a little more brains and skill by the time I found myself riding through mountains and next to logging trucks and sheer cliff faces, and the rest of the stories seem pretty tame. Remind me to tell ya some slow news day in the future. ============= Sometimes I think about things, and this is one of those times: Is there a Chinese restaurant anywhere that has hot water at the sink?

Various Things

Happy Friday! A few things to report, then it's time to apply my snotlocker to the archaic spinning implement-sharpening device. Er, something. Last night I made Beef Strogatiff, and holey freaking cow was it good. Never had it with a) ground beef and b) rice instead of noodles, but it was deeeeligh. How do I know it was a hit? No leftovers again. Crap. I wanted some for lunch today, but it's the price you pay for cooking something good. I used the white wine AND red pepper (1/4 tsp - probably a pinch hotter than needbe), and savory doesn't come close. Creamy, rich, and extrayum. I used cream of celery soup too, because every time I try mushrooms, they taste like mushrooms - and that just doesn't work for me. However, I did get a comment that 'this dish needs mushrooms,' so if that floats your boat, so be it. (In case you're wondering, no those aren't my boobies in the picture. Not my kitchen either.) =============== Mrs. Spiffy and Girl returned safely late Wednesday night from their week at Disneyworld. They didn't want to come home. I can't say I blame 'em, since it's freaking Disneyworld - and it was 80 degrees there, compared to 12 here. They're both tannish-pink and full of tales to tell. Girl dumped about 500 photos onto the computer last night, I'll hopefully get to see them tonight. =============== Rhetorical question: Can you be a pirate if you're from Boston? Maybe it's a silly question, but practice the Boston accent: "I pahk my cah in hahvahd yahd..." Now try and roll off a hearty "AAARRRRRGH!!" with that affectation. =============== Last night I found myself locked both in and out of work. Our lunchroom/ restrooms are part of the shop's keying and security system, while the office is separate. I ducked into the echo chamber toward the end of the day, and when I washed up and came out, discovered that I was the last one in the building. Fred, a coworker, thought HE was the last one in the building. Alarms set and doors locked. My keys, naturally, were in the office. Fortunately, I have experience with breaking and entering. I've "had to" break into my own house, churches, offices, and friends' houses before, and can do amazing tricks with a butter knife and coat hanger. The biggest lifesaver is that I had the occasion to know the shop's alarm code; that would have been harder to explain. After about 20 minutes of fiddling, and calling to bail out on Boy's Parent Teacher Conferences (way to go, Boy! He's the art teacher's favorite student, and all-around good kid), I shivered out to Esme The Jeep. Rooting around in the little compartment between the seats, I found an old keyring. Sometimes it's possible through creative wiggling to get another key to work, so I brought it along. The first key I tried turned the lock effortlessly. Forgot all about that spare. Yep, I'm still as smart as ever.

Down In Flames

This story problem had me overheating my few precious brain cells. You're in a car, going a constant speed. To your left, there is a 2' dropoff. To your right, there is a fire truck, going the same speed as you. In front of you, there is a galloping horse. You cannot overtake the horse. Behind you, there is another horse, also going the same speed. How do you get out of this situation? (you may need a pencil) Get your drunk ass off the merry go round. Shamelessly ripped off from Bob and Tom this morning =============== Go check out the Shrinking Piggies site, if only for the cool diminshing mascot. Show your support, we shrinkers are chugging along! =============== A discussion th'other day about fired people generated some very interesting tales. Anyone who has been in the workplace any length of time knows of someone who either quit or was sacked. Sometimes it's exceedingly sad, and sometimes it's spectacular. Now, I've been reassigned/ downsized/ upsized/ recruited/ laid off/ fired/ rehired many times in my long and storied career. I've never gone 2 weeks in a row without working since I was 17. Ever. It was a milestone to reach a point where I get two weeks' paid vacation; to date I've never put 'em together in one clump. I like to sprinkle short trips on long weekends throughout the year. But that's beside the point, which I think is this: I don't tend to panic, for there is always work to do. I know how to exit a company somewhat gracefully, because burning bridges is generally bad for one's career path, especially if you have a lot of water to cross. Before I put more metaphors in a blender and hit 'puree,' let me get to the stories. One employer is rich with stories of tumultuous turnover. As an industry leader, it has been growing steadily since the company was founded. You would think in a high-unemployment state like Michigan, one would be able to find high quality, highly qualified people. You'd be wrong, because the good ones are usually taken. We had one guy that came from a lifetime of field construction to work in the office. He used the first 6 months as 'learning curve' time, as he barely knew how to work a computer and keep track of things. He'd come in, prop his feet on his desk, have the office assistant fetch files and coffee, run back and forth making single copies, and make an occasional phone call. Sometimes he'd just stare out the window for hours. When the 6 months were up, he began becoming belligerent, and it seemed he would try to piss off the boss. He'd get into shouting matches, march around trying to create alliances in the cube farm, and go to the president to complain about the VP. The office pool had him being fired a full 3 months before it actually happened. On the way out, he hugged everyone. Even me. It was hella weird, as he and I were cordial coworkers, but not hugbuddies. Ever. Soon after the door clicked shut behind him, I began to realize some of his files were missing. No, wait. All of them. He had deleted his entire network file system. It took 3 days to recover most of the information, and months for his projects to quit swirling around the bowl and settle down. The VP he had locked horns with was a brilliant accountant, great with numbers and analysis, but a bit awkward with people. He was promoted from Controller to VP of Operations after several successful years with the company. One time we were chatting in the common area of the cube farm and I commented that the place ran far better while he was out on vacation, and when would he be leaving again? The gasps from adjacent offices were audible. His face scrolled through various expressions like a slot machine, trying out which reaction to choose. I suddenly realized I may have started my own Doomsday Clock. He laughed insincerely and went back to his corner office, I'm sure to draft my pink slip. In a grand and surprising twist, it turns out he was sacked soon after that (much to my relief). We had a guy in management who was there for years, but one day he simply wasn't. Normally there would be a staff meeting to announce personnel changes and plans to keep projects flowing. Not so this time; there was a vacuum of mysterious silence. The only explanation anyone could get was, 'He did something we couldn't tolerate.' Months later at a project managers conference in Florida, the boss and a buncha guys were at a bar into the wee hours. He had been gulping wine all night, and was decidedly more animated than usual. A few of us sidled up to him and asked, "Whatever happened to old Harry?" He did a spit take, spewing red wine across the bar. As soon as he recovered, he recounted the tale. "One day I was checking on why the mail server was bogging down. I noticed his account had lots of massive files, so I opened one. Let's just say (he said in a loud, conspiratorial drunk-whisper), he was emailing his girlfriend. I saw his wiener." He was mortified, and immediately escorted Harry out the door. Harry's explanation? He was bored. The most spectacular stomping-off-the-job I've ever witnessed came from a guy I replaced as an estimator. He was with the company for years, and frequently complained that his pay was too low. The boss would tell him that he was being paid all the company could afford, and the guy would grudgingly accept the answer and go back to work. One day, he walked by the fax machine and, as was custom at this office, picked up the faxes to deliver them. Right on top was a statement from the company's IRA manager. It listed each employee's salary, including the boss. Now, I have no problem with the boss making lots of money - it's the reward for starting and keeping a successful company. But this poor schmuck found that not only was he at the bottom of the pay heap, but the boss was taking in more than the combined payroll of the entire staff every year. Suddenly, the 'we can't afford to give you a raise' argument seemed, well, a little weak. In his bitter rage, he went to his office and crashed the hard drive on his computer. He then made 50 copies of the document, and distributed it to all the employees, and even faxed it to vendors and customers. He stormed off in a huff, never to be heard from again. When I was running a new network cable in his former/ my new office, I discovered all sorts of treasures. Turns out the boss had his reasons for keeping him at a humble salary; I found dozens of empty liquor bottles in the drop ceiling, as well as virtual stacks of porn on the recovered hard drive. How about you? Any juicy meltdown stories?

Quick! Read This!

According to Kristi Lee this morning, it's National Compliment Day. I'll start by saying I'm thrilled to have you here and you sure do smell nice, and what a wonderful comment you left for me the other day. Oh, and nice scarf. I think this is a PERFECT occasion to get you to turn in your homework from last week, and tell us of an encounter of kindness you had with someone. It's not bragging, it's sharing, which according to experts, is different. Who knows, we might get some ideas from you. Oh, and the bunny? Do NOT say that to people. It's not kind. ========================= I'll be traveling for work again today, maybe there will be more posting from me at day's end. Maybe not. I never know with me. Have a wonderful day.

On Cruelty and Kindness

The young, beautiful blonde walked up to an awkward, gangly kid in the school hallway. She had short bobbed hair, deep brown eyes, and a gorgeous figure. She stood very close to him, touching him on the hand and looking into his eyes. She said, "I want you to know that I care about you, and I hope you have a wonderful day." His eyes widened, his heart raced, his entire mood transformed from shyness to exuberance. She jotted something in her notebook. She took a step back, and asked if he was okay. He stammered that he felt wonderful, and that was a very nice thing to say. "This is just part of my psychology class, it's an experiment to see how you would react," she said, walking away. Devastated, deceived, and let down, the young man shuffled to his next class. One of the players in this true story is related to me. I thought of it this morning while realizing how much influence people have on each other. I know that a kind word, whether in person or email, has the power to make my day. Consistent kindness builds friendship. The opposite is true, as mean people also make a difference in mood and activities; I tend to avoid those who are toxic with negativity and unkind things to say about others. Unless they're really funny, and have some sort of soft chewy center under all the crunchy cynicism. It's been said, anyone who is nice to you but mean to the waitress is NOT a nice person. I thought it was highly unnecessary, even cruel, for her to include the disclaimer that the interchange was only for a grade, not the person. It took a potentially lovely moment and transformed it into manipulation, using another person's good will for selfish reasons. For this post, I'd like to make a request of you, dear reader. Two requests, actually: First, tell a story of someone who made your day with just a word. Second, an assignment: go into your world, and find someone to give an encouraging word, a nice thought, a blessing. Tell us about it in the comments when you're done, won't you? (Oh, and don't tell your target of kindness that 'this is only an assignment.' It'll be our little secret.)

Woochie Chugger

Wordnerd gets inspiration credit for this story. Send her your $10 today, c/o Spiffytown, USA. Several years ago, when Boy was a youngster, we somehow found an intriguing pet through a science supply catalog. We placed our order, and received a very small box in the mail a few days later. Inside was a tiny, pale green claw frog. You may ask, what the henry is a claw frog? You may, because I did. It turns out, this little guy (I think it was a guy) was fascinating. He came with a little shaker of frog food, and a half-page of instructions (which is more than you get with a new baby). We kept fish for a little while, but they kept dying. It might have been from the thorough scrubbing they got with a toothbrush, but they were good and dead at any rate. A 15-gallon tank remained, so we outfitted it with some nice rocks, gravel, branches, and a lily pad. Boy, who had limited experience with naming things, decided he would be called Woochie Chugger, and poured him into his new home. Claw frogs like to stay mostly underwater. They can hold their breath a long time, and WC would normally float mid-depth, his enormous hind legs dangling behind, his bulging little beady eyes barely breaking the surface. He was a great swimmer, not so great at hopping. He would flop more than hop. He was about the size of a nickel when we installed him in the aquarium. The instructions said they would grow to their environment, so we (ok, some of us) were excited at the prospect of steaming, tender frog legs someday. Eventually the frogfood ran out. I had it on my grocery list, when I heard an excited hoot from Boy's room. "Dad! Come check this out!" I raced down the hallway and found Boy and Girl hovering over the aquarium. A bug had fallen into the tank, and was scrambling for its pathetic buggy life against the approaching doom. Woochie clomped its wide mouth over the bug, chewed once, and it was gone. Sweet. We all began looking for more bugs. Soon, a Japanese beetle was found and tossed to the water. WC watched it struggle disinterestedly, and finally ate it out of irritation at having his peaceful water disturbed. Sure enough, the frog grew. It was never without an appetite, as I'm sure 24 hours a day in a small glass tank was incredibly boring. But, to a little frogbrain, the moments of bug-filled excitement must have made up for the boring bits. At least, that's what I tell myself so I can sleep at night. There was no bug too big, too strong, or too wiley for Woochie Chugger. He devoured flies, junebugs, spiders, and even a cicaida without batting a lidless eye. One time we dropped a big, hairy wolf spider into the drink (the fast kind, that you have to throw shoes at before they slip into the woodwork to terrorize you later. Eew). Woochie was pretty excited; he stalked it like an alligator, the spider skating on the water's surface, unable to get any traction (duh, it's water). The frog clomped. Or, attempted to clomp. The spider was not interested in a tour of a frog's innards, and sprawled across his face, legs grippng eyes, nose, and throat. WC had to figure something out here, and used his ridiculously stunted arms to turn the spider around, trying to get a good chomp on it without the legs interfering. Around and around they went, nobody sure who would win. It was grand entertainment, all four of us plus two neighbor kids enthralled. Finally, frog had spider in its tiny hands, and looked at me for approval. I gave the thumbs down, and the spider disappeared in one satisfied bite. We fed it whole goldfish (sometimes WC would save half for later), crickets, and any legged or winged critter we could find. Bugs became cheap fun instead of creepy nuisances, and Woochie had reached the size of a baseball. One day, I found a long, winding caterpillar. I carried it back to WC's lair, expecting a short game of Centipede (but without needing to spend my quarters). The tank was empty; Woochie was missing. I held the bug while I searched the floor, the closet, under the bed, in the laundry - nothing. Woochie Chugger had flown the coop. It remains a mystery to this day, but Misty Meowzers, the cat, had a suspiciously satisfied look on her face. What was your coolest/ weirdest/ most horribly named pet?

On Kissing

It is a dark and chill morning. The Smackdown is raging across the silent miles. I am determined to beat my demons and shed pounds like they’re clumps of steaming manure clinging to my rock-hard physique. I run around the neighborhood, enjoying the quiet and dark. I’m walking less and running more. I like it. Grace, the shedding white mutt (SWM) is jogging next to me. The cold stings but I grasp for breath hungrily. I tell myself this is way better than running in the heat, which, I’m told, can be like breathing a milkshake (which is cold, but really really thick).

I return to my driveway, slowing to a walk. Grace is happy to be home; She’s happy everywhere. I tell her to wipe her paws on the scrap of carpet, and we enter. I trot downstairs to continue my workout with the ultra douchey but surprisingly fun Exerball. I roll it under my feet to do pushups, completing 45 with ease. I noticed that it took much effort to do this last month. I roll over and begin combo-crunches, where I lift my legs and arms together, touching the ball to my knees and raising my shoulders as high as I can off the floor. A shadow falls across my face, then the light touch of Mrs. Spiffy’s long auburn hair. I receive a light kiss, with a little tongue. From the side. Jealous dog had included herself in the brief romantic interlude, completely altering the mood.

Anyway, it got me to thinking about kissing. Bad kissing, in particular. Which is something I try studiously to avoid.

I got married young at 20 years old. We both moved from our parents’ homes into our own. We had both our kids (one of whom is now pretending to be a dolphin) by 23. Between the ages of 16 and 19, there was much dating that went on for me. Not so much as some people, but still, enough to know that some girls could really kiss, and others were born to breed cattle. Or something, anything not remotely romantic.

When I take an inventory, it seems I have a penchant for girls with names starting with the letter ‘K’. Kathy (a girl of many ‘firsts’), Kelly (broke my heart), Kim (my crush from across the street with the killer perfume), Kristin (saving herself for her true love, but amusing herself with me), and Kerry (so much potential). There were also girls such as Cheryl, my first real girlfriend, and Sherri, one of my grade-school sweethearts who turned me down as her homecoming date. I never asked a girl out again after that (at least, not directly). There was Becky, the perky redheaded stalker (we smooched a few times and I was soon hearing from her friends that we were to be married after high school). But my sweet, affectionate doggy reminded me of a particular young lady I’ll call Agnes.

Agnes was a preacher’s daughter. We were the same age, and shared interests in music and movies. Plus, we happened to live in the same city. We began spending time together, watching videos and talking on the phone. After several weeks of friendly hanging out and conversation, we found ourselves alone in her parents’ basement watching a video. We were sitting dangerously close. She looked at me with her big brown eyes and smiled nervously. I nervously smiled back. There were several minutes of this nervous nonsense while the movie droned on (you may have noticed by now, I am an idiot, and immune to subtlety). She said, “You wanna make out?” Finally. I thought she’d never ask.

I leaned in, aiming for her lips. She leaned back, making it hard to reach. I steadied myself on the arm of the couch across from her and stretched my lips. Agnes nearly closed her eyes. Squinted, really. At last our lips met. I kissed. She did her best to mimic a landed trout (but without the thrashing). I tried again. This time it was like mashing my lips against a head of wet cabbage. I persisted, assuring myself it won’t be that bad once we warm up to each other. However, I was steadily losing any appetite and fearing the loss of my lunch. It became clear that she was not skilled in working the muscles on her face, and I mumbled something about having to change the air in my tires. I bounded up the stairs, out into the harsh sunlight, and roared out of the driveway in my soon-to-be-sexy muscle car. I frantically searched the glove box for some sandpaper to get the crawling sensation off my lips.

Her mother began calling me that night. “What did you DO to my daughter?” she demanded. Twice, sometimes thrice a day she called for about two weeks. Poor Agnes didn’t know why I stopped calling or visiting, and was apparently upset. I felt horrible, but the Soviet army couldn’t have gotten me into that basement ever again.

What about you? Any worst-kiss-ever stories?

Let It Snow

I love trains. Normally, they fascinate me. Except for when they stand between me and where I'd like to be. This morning, as I tooled along the country road to work in the dark (another joyous feature of Winter in Michigan), I joined the stack of cars waiting for a train. No big deal, they usually zip along pretty quickly at that crossing. As I drew closer, however, I realized the train was stopped. This might be a while. No problem, Heywood Banks was on the radio singing about Big Butter Jesus on I-75 in Ohio. I learned the words to the chorus and sang along. The reflective tape on the locomotives started to move. Yay! Then they stopped. Then they went the other direction a few feet, and stopped again. It dawned on me: This guy is rocking it to get unstuck from a snow bank. No effing way. I love my Jeep. It's been locked into 4WD since the day after Thanksgiving (except when I took the kids out for donuts in the parking lot), and boy I've needed it. =============================== Ok, I caved in to peer pressure (again) and signed up for Firefox. So far it's, "Omg! Where have you been all my life, and why didn't I find you sooner?!?" I have a friend like that. I still can't get HaloScan to stick to my brand new site. All the cool kids have it. Maybe it's the beta-ness of it all. Anyone know how to get under the hood and fix my hyper-drive here? =============================== I came to work this morning in the aforementioned dark, as I often do. A couple of us early risers enjoy getting a few things done before the phones start ringing and pesky coworkers start their pesking. When that happens, SOP is to turn on only half of the fluorescent mood lighting; it may save energy, but it's more about atmosphere. Well, when the masses start trickling in, some gung-ho morning-type cube-dwelling hyphenated-person will inevitably jam on the high beams and shout, "Good morning!" at the top of his Neanderthal lungs. Normally, I'm cheerful and friendly to all. Today, he earned an inarticulate growl. He came over, slapped me on the back, and said, "I didn't know you were nocturnal!" This led to a discussion. If you're right handed, but can write with your left as well, that's ambidextrous. If you eat veggies, but also meat, you're omnivorous. Well, what if you're up at night AND during the day? C'mon, one of you purveyors of carnal word knowledge must know. The comments button was just MADE for you.