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[Between houseguests and the release of the latest Harry Potter book (which, in turn, triggered the rereading of the two previous Harry Potter books), real life and fantasy-book-life overtook blog-life. My apologies to those who’ve missed me!]
If you were to ask me what I though was the most incredible experience of my life, without pause, I would say that it was watching a space shuttle launch from less than two miles away.
When I worked for the Navy as a Paints & Coatings expert, I regularly traveled to Cape Canaveral AFB to observe some paint samples we had located there in racks near the ocean as part of a decades-long exposure experiment. The last time I went to rate the paint samples coincided with a shuttle launch and our Air Force hosts at Canaveral arranged a great viewing location for us to watch the event.
There is a little spit of land just across the water (on the Canaveral side) from the shuttle launch pad at Kennedy Space Center. Some hush-hush group is housed in a large glass-faced modern office building on that bit of land and access is only granted to those with special security clearance. Much to our surprise, our hosts kindly went out of their way to get our group the needed clearance (which explained why they suddenly needed so much background information on us four weeks prior to our trip) so we could observe the shuttle from that ideal location.
The morning of the launch, we had no problems getting through the security checkpoints in our host’s official government vehicle and we proceeded to the far side of the parking lot, the farthest from the imposing “secret” building and the closest to the water. One of my colleagues removed his camera from his bag to get some pictures of the shuttle in the launch structure, when a security guard appeared (seemingly) out of the nearby bushes. After a heated discussion regarding the use of a camera so close to a classified structure (which looked like every other glass-covered office building in the world – rectangular and shiny), it was agreed to that my co-worker would only take pictures facing away from the building (and the guard watched him the whole time we were there to guarantee that fact).
So after the nearly being carted off due to the camera issue, we settled in to wait for the launch. It was a bit odd because we could only hear the birds, the bugs and the lapping of the water against the shore, not any of the announcements that you hear when watching the launch on television. We had to keep an eye on our watches and the shuttle to know when the excitement was to begin. About 10 minutes before the scheduled launch time, I turned around and there were about 50 people standing behind us (which I assume were denizens of the office building, they were certainly sneaky).
Suddenly, someone said “there it goes” and everyone looked to the launch pad. Before I could hear the roar of the engines, I saw the bright orange flames and white smoke from around the base of the shuttle. Then the noise hit. “Loud” is not the right word… the sound was totally encompassing. I could actually feel the sound waves travel through my body as the shuttle gained altitude. That sensation somehow really made me feel I was part of the launch itself. And then, far too soon, the shuttle (and the noise) were gone. It was nothing more than a bright dot up in the sky.
Until that day, people leaving earth and going into space had always been a bit unreal to me. Intellectually, I knew that it happened, but it still always just seemed like another piece of Hollywood (actually Marin County) special effects. But personally witnessing the shuttle launch changed all of that, I could not help but know I was watching (and feeling) something incredible. Truly awesome.
Way back when, when I was a chemist in the QA lab at the Long Beach Naval Shipyard, I worked with lady named Hattie. Hattie was one of the two administrative assistants (but she was of an era that she preferred the term "secretary") in an office staffed with crazy chemists and a couple of slightly-less-insane metallurgists. But everyone there knew that all of our degrees and schooling did not change the fact that Hattie was the ranking person in the lab. She eclipsed us all in both age and number of years working at the shipyard, but her attitude was the real reason for her supremacy.
At that point in time, I often wondered why Hattie had not long since retired. She was a widow and, while not wealthy, was certainly financially secure. But I now realize that she really had a good deal going. Her only official responsibilities were to check in samples brought into the lab for testing and to answer the phone. The rest of her day was split between watching our antics (I’ll save those stories for another day), keeping Sally (the other administrative assistant who always wore pastel-colored, velour sweat suits that were the antithesis of her personality) in line and reading the Bible. With her civil service seniority, Hattie was probably getting paid more than I was as a chemist.
Every morning the sailors from the ships being repaired at the shipyard and those based at the adjacent Naval station, would bring in samples of fuel to be tested in the lab. For decades, Hattie checked in the samples using pen and paper, but “recently” the lab had switched to an all-computerized system (this change occured at least five years prior to my working there, but civil service years are the opposite of dog years with seven solar years being equal to one civil service year) . Hattie would sit down in front of her computer terminal, press some keys, hit "enter" just once and the whole system would crash. Every single time. Then my dear friend and co-worker, ADD, would have to reboot the lab’s server, while Hattie would disdainfully look at us and ask what we did this time to the database to break it.
Luckily, Hattie always fared better with the phone and intercom system. There were about twenty of us working there with only one main phone line into the lab. Of course, being a bunch of scientists we really were not that popular and did not get many calls, but the phone would still ring pretty much all day long. Hattie always answered the line and then, over the intercom, announced who needed to pick up the phone. The senior metallurgist, with the last name of DeVries, received the majority of the phone calls since he did most of the failure analysis for the shipyard. Typically, once an hour, I’d hear Hattie over the intercom announcing: “Devrie, Devrie, line one”. At this, ADD would always yell from his lair in the back lab: “Where is the S?” “What happened to the S?!?” (For you DR.com readers – perhaps this is the source of the S’s that keep appearing on the end of Chef Power’s name?) I never had the nerve to ask Hattie why she consistently mispronounced that name, but I wonder if Mr. DeVries or ADD had somehow incurred her wrath…
And Hattie was a person that you certainly did not want to cross. I found that out one slow afternoon when she started talking to me about her husband. She told me of the months and months of painful suffering her husband had endured before dying of stomach cancer. I opened my mouth to say that I was sorry they both had to go through that, but before I could get the words out, Hattie then added… “and he deserved every minute of that agony because God was punishing him for how he lived his life.” I just stood there with my mouth open, while Hattie nodded to me and walked back to read her Bible at her desk.
Only once did I see Hattie behave in a less than dignified manner. Early one morning, just as I had arrived for the day, I was met with the sight of Hattie running toward me, waving her arms above her head and yelling “the birds, the birds!” She flew right past me without pausing and slammed shut the door to the front office (until that point, I had not even realized there was a door to that office). With great trepidation, I ventured on in the direction of the origin of Hattie’s trajectory – the fuel QA lab. That door was also shut (and was the second door that morning that I was surprised to see actually existed). With Hitchcockian imagery flitting about my mind, I peered through the glass window into the lab and saw… a mourning dove.
On warm days, we’d open the windows in the fuel QA lab to let out some of the ever-present fumes and someone had forgotten to close the windows the evening before. Apparently a dove had ventured into the lab and, when Hattie went to deliver the day’s fuel samples, she startled it and the bird began to fly around. Luckily, our resident environmentalist chemist (a graduate of CSU Humboldt, no less) captured the hapless dove under a lab coat and released it back out the window. However, it took a bit longer to unruffle Hattie’s feathers that day.
But those shipyard days are a long time past for both Hattie and me. It has been fourteen years since I got married, followed my husband to his new duty station and left that job. I don’t know what ever happened to Hattie. She probably finally retired from civil service when the shipyard shut down almost ten years ago, but I suspect she held out for a hefty bonus resulting from her job being eliminated during the closure. And, although she would be easily into her 90’s by now, I like to picture Hattie still keeping order somewhere, making sure everyone is doing their job and imperious to the very end.
I must confess that I am woefully lacking when it comes to wine knowledge.
While I know the rudimentary facts, can tell a bad wine from a good wine from a great wine and can manage basic wine/food pairings, I certainly cannot blind-taste a wine and tell you the region, vintage or even the grape. I’ve read the very best wine books, gone to a few wine-tastings and always listen carefully to the opinions of oenophiles, but I just cannot seem to get motivated to really learn more.
So in my own defense here are the Top Ten Reasons why I’m so uneducated about wines…
10. Vanity. Pure and simple. After a night of drinking, I look my age. And don’t even get me started on the calories.
9. Laziness. When it comes to choosing wines, I typically default to the Blanche DuBois approach ("I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."). Sommeliers and wine merchants certainly know more than I ever will.
8. Procrastination (or the Scarlett O’Hara approach, since I am quoting female fictional characters). “I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”
7. Lack of motivation. Our home wine rack is perpetually full without my buying a single bottle. We entertain enough and drink so little that wine brought as gifts by our guests keeps us very well stocked (until the in-laws come to visit).
6. Ditziness. I cannot memorize numbers to save my life. I frequently assume the “deer in headlights” pose when asked for my phone number or zip code. So that vintage… was it 1959? Or 1995? Or 1895? Or 2005… ???
5. Side effects. I am a lightweight on allergy meds. One glass of wine and I’m rather inert for the rest of the evening.
4. Uptightness. And when I hold off on the prescription meds, I am still a lightweight control-freak. I have much more fun when in command of all my faculties and do not need to worry about the appropriateness of the words coming out of my mouth.
3. Memory overload. My brain seems to have a finite amount of space and, if I cram in factoids about wine, it might crowd out vital sci-fi trivia.
2. Preference. After nearly a score of years of drinking pretty much only water, I’ve lost my taste for drinking anything flavored with food.
1. Likeability. I am tedious enough with my spontaneous spouting off of facts regarding food, plants, birding, baking, baseball, horses, science and so on. I am afraid that if I add wine information (with its considerable pretentiousness potential) to that list, I’ll no longer have any friends.
Last weekend RWT and I walked to a local chain restaurant/”brewery” (although I highly doubt they actually brew any beer there) for a late lunch. We’d had a generous breakfast, so RWT wanted just appetizer-snack-type food and we figured what would be better for bar-food than a bar? Well, it ended up being one of the most unremarkable dining experiences of my life, which, ironically, made it remarkable.
As we were looking at the menu, the waitress brought a basket of soft pretzels and a little container of some type of mustard mixture. Now I’ve eaten enough ballpark pretzels not to get too excited about such things, but these pretzels defied even my paltry expectations. To use words normally only uttered by RWT in describing plain couscous: “it sucks the flavor right out of your mouth”. No discernable taste. None. I had not realized that it was possible to make flour have such little flavor. Heck, eating a spoonful of dry flour would have been a more pleasurable. And the mustard mixture tasted of nothing other than Dijon mustard. Whatever they’d mixed it with to lighten both the texture and color was obviously the same flavorless substance used in the pretzels.
From that inauspicious (and portentous) beginning, we decided to go with some artichoke & spinach dip and then split a fish & chips plate (RWT was hungrier than he thought once we got there). When they brought the dip to the table, RWT asked me if he had imagined reading on the menu that it was supposed to contain spinach or was it artichoke-only dip. The bowl of dip contained all of a half dozen pieces of spinach total and the artichokes were not any better represented. Okay, maybe it will be really garlicy…
No. The dip was amazingly devoid of flavor with just a hint of hot sour cream taste. Now RWT considers sour cream the perfect food (he says it goes with everything), but even he thought this dip lacking. It was so pitiful that the flavor of the stale corn chips threatened to drown out the few sub-atomic particles of taste present in the dip. Then our waitress stopped by the table and asked: “Does the dip taste alright?”
Aack. I never know how to answer in circumstances such as this. And what is the waitress going to do if I say “No, it is totally bereft of spinach, artichokes and flavor”? Should I offer to go back in the kitchen and fix it? Give them a better recipe? So without a better course of action I said: “Yes, it is alright.” “Alright” as in: okay, admissible, average, fair, indifferent, mediocre, not bad, ordinary, passable, so-so, sufficient, tolerable, unexceptional, unobjectionable…
Next was the fish & chips. Well, the fish had flavor and plenty of it. Unfortunately, the taste was merely testament to the days-past-its-prime, over-cooked fish abuse. The accompanying chips must have been basking under a heat lamp since the early lunch rush and the side of coleslaw was in the same category as the (non) spinach & (non) artichoke dip – deficient of any flavor other than a vague impression of dairy (oh, my kingdom for some celery seeds).
Not surprisingly, we passed on dessert since we just wanted to get home as soon as possible to brush our teeth and get the fishy flavor out of our mouths. But I highly doubt we missed anything other than cholesterol and calories since I suspect dessert would have tasted exactly like the pretzels, or the dip, or the chips, or the slaw…
I have had worse meals, with horrible tasting food, and better meals, with epiphanies of flavors, but never a meal that was just so... alright.
[For the grammarians out there (especially the venerable ones): Yes, I realize that “alright” is not an accepted standard usage (“all right” is preferred). But since “already” and “altogether” are acceptable, I don’t see why “alright” is not alright. Hence my mini-crusade in its use.]
When we were stationed in the desert of southern California, I liked to tell people we resided at an exclusive, gated community with great security...
Our house at The Marine Air Ground Task Force Training Command was only a few years old and the nicest military quarters we’ve been assigned, but the very best thing about living on that base was getting to know our Marines Corps neighbors and their families.
As a whole (and, as with any generalization, there are always exceptions), Marines remarkably live up to their stereotypical image of being honest, no-nonsense, loyal, hard-working and dedicated. Exactly the kind of people you want on your side in most any situation. And whether or not you agree with what they are tasked with or where they are deployed, Marines do jobs that I (and most people I know) simply cannot even imagine undertaking.
Since RWT’s accident, we’ve been spending a good deal of time at a military hospital and are once again around a lot of Marines. However, this time is more heartbreaking. The majority of these Marines are at the hospital to be put back together after being injured in Iraq. And most of them are so very, very young.
But the Marines and their families are still as tough and strong as those we met in California. While sitting in the waiting room during RWT’s hand surgery, I spoke at length with a mother of a 22-year-old Marine who had lost a good deal of one leg due to an improvised explosive device. The Marine was in the tenth hour of his sixth surgery in the eight days since the explosion. The docs where doing everything they could to save his leg even though there is a 95% chance of infection that will result in the loss of his leg (at the very least). His mother’s view on the situation: “He is a smart boy who can do a lot regardless of his legs.” Then she told me how her son is determined to get better as soon as possible so he can return to his unit.
Now I imagine there are plenty of Marines who are hurt in Iraq and never, ever want to go back there. No one could ever fault them for feeling that way and it is certainly an easier sentiment to understand. But what is more puzzling to the average person are those Marines who do want to return. From how I understand it (and not being a Marine, I don’t think I can ever really know), they realize how much of a positive effect their actions can have on other people's lives and how what they do is important on a scale much larger than themselves. (And how many people can really say that about their job?)
Regardless of their views on returning to active duty, I hope that some of the young Marines we've seen at the hospital will eventually become leaders of our country. Their bravery and first-hand experiences with combat can provide them with a perspective on war that could be invaluable in determining our nation's role in future conflicts.
But mainly, I wish them all well no matter where they end up. And, as hokey as this sounds, I appreciate their sacrifice of their youth and health in the support of our country. These Marines have certainly earned the right to be proud and I pray the numbers of them that are permanently disabled and killed are few.
After much thought, I have decided to no longer allow just anyone to comment on my blog.
In addition to clearing stuff out of my mind, this blog is mainly written for those who know me well enough to realize when I am joking or being sarcastic. And while it is sort of flattering that my blog can occasionally provoke responses from total strangers, I do not have the time or mental energy to clarify the meaning of my writings for them.
The best option would be to just ignore the negative comments, but, unfortunately, I am simply too thin-skinned for that. And it does not feel right to delete some comments (even if they are little more than personal attacks and name-calling) and not others. So disabling the comment function is the only solution I can see for the time being.
Those of you (and you know who you are) with comments (good or bad) that really matter to me, can always reach me via email (which most of you already do anyway). Everyone else will have to either read contentedly in silence or click on that little "Next Blog" button up in the right top corner of the screen and look for something more to their tastes.
Sorry to be such a wuss about this, but I have enough strife in my life without more being piled on by people I don't even know.
The other night we watched the conclusion of Dancing with the Stars. I normally avoid reality TV as much as possible (I find enough unpleasantness in everyday life without actively seeking out more negativity), but I could not resist watching this show since it involved ballroom dancing. And I even allowed myself to hope for just a bit that it would actually be real…
After the first show where the ABC soap opera star got undeservedly low scores (her dancing was bad, but not any worse than some of the other dancers), I said to RWT that they were setting her up as the underdog and eventual winner. Well, I should have taken the time to wager something on that outcome.
The sixth and final show pitted her against John O’Hurley (best known for playing the character of J. Peterman on Seinfeld) and, by getting perfect scores for their last performance, the soap opera star won by just one point. Gee, what a shock. So close… who could have imagined…
Of course, there was also the requisite audience voting that was rather shrouded in mystery. But what could be more popular than a scantily clad (complete with a wardrobe malfunction), former playboy bunny who is currently playing a good/bad girl on the ever-popular soap General Hospital?
Maybe I should console myself with the fact that ABC recognizes the loyalty of soap opera followers and is willing to cater to them. And it was great exposure for ballroom dancing. However, the obvious manipulation of the outcome left quite the unpleasant aftertaste.
Will I watch the next season? Probably. Will I allow myself to think, if even for a second, that the most deserving person will win? Ha.
Why is setting the thermostat at 76 degrees too cold in the winter, but too warm in the summer?
Is it the humidity making my flour wetter the cause of all of my summer sourdough baking problems and it really has nothing to do with the ambient temperature?
Why do I feel guilty writing in my blog when RWT is at home? And why do I think I need to keep him company in front of the T.V. (and be bored out of my mind) if it does not matter to him if I am there or not?
Did Robert Rodat (and Steven Spielberg) intend for each of the characters in Saving Private Ryan to portray a virtue (or a failing)?
Private Caparzo (Vin Diesel) = Strength
Medic Wade (Giovanni Ribisi) = Compassion
Private Mellish (Adam Goldberg) = Vengeance
Private Jackson, the sniper (Barry Pepper) = Faith
Sergeant Horvath (Tom Sizemore) = Bravery
Capt. Miller (Tom Hanks) = Duty
Private Reiben (Edward Burns) = Logic & Intelligence
Corporal Upham, the translator (Jeremy Davies) = Fear
Private Ryan (Matt Damon) = Hope
And does that mean that to survive you need to be scared, smart and burdened with the expectations of others?
Why do I feel bad squishing fireflies that are in the house, but not other beetles?
Do other people find Sudoku as incredibly addicting?
Is drinking guava juice daily really making my 76-year-old aunt’s hair turn from grey to blond? And is my cousin just being spiteful in refusing to see the change?
Will RWT get a new splint on Thursday that will allow him to tie his own shoes & tie and cut the bread for his sandwiches so he does not have to depend on me to get up at 0615 to assist him?
What should I have for lunch?
... is occuring on the 5th this year in our house. RWT will go back to work after five days of being stuck in the house recovering from his hand surgery and I can get back to my regular routine. Definitely cause for celebration for both of us!!!
RWT’s hand surgery last Wednesday went very well, but our day ended up being much longer than expected. We arrived at the Ambulatory Procedure Unit (APU) at the requested time of 11:30 a.m. and his surgery was scheduled for 1:30. At 1:10, they came in to tell us that his surgery would be delayed for two hours. Okay. More waiting. It turns out the operating rooms were very busy that day with numerous procedures taking hours longer than anticipated and multiple emergency surgeries.
We considered ourselves lucky that RWT had the surgery at all on Wednesday and the only reason he was fit in was because of the obstinate insistence by his doctor. His surgery finally got started at ~6:20 p.m. and finished at 9:45. At that point there was a question if RWT would be able to go home that night or not. I’d already made arrangements for friends to come by to feed the dog her dinner and let her outside for a bit, but there was no way she could wait until morning. Also, RWT really wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed. Unfortunately, he was still a little too drugged up to figure out what he needed to do to get released…
In the post-op recovery room the nurse asked him what his pain level was on a scale of 1 to 10. His reply: “Seven, seven to eight”. Okay. That was expected. He eventually came out of the sedative enough that they were able to send him back to the APU where the nurse there inquired as to RWT’s pain level and his reply: “Seven.” Once again, not a surprise since he still had not taken any additional pain meds. So after finally ingesting some ginger ale and soda crackers, RWT took some medication to relieve the pan about 12:45 a.m.. While waiting for that to kick in, I went about running around the deserted hospital getting leave papers stamped and picking up his prescriptions.
Upon my return to the APU, RWT tells me that his hand is feeling much better and the meds have really started to help. About 1:45 a.m., with everything set for RWT’s departure, the APU nurse asks the last criteria that needs to be met for his release – what is your pain level? “Seven.” Aaack!!! I’m sure I had a totally peeved expression on my face and even the nurse looked surprised. Well, without any decrease in his pain (upon further questioning RWT said it was more of a 6/7 than the previous 7/8, but that was not good enough), he would have to spend the night.
After joking with RWT that he should have lied about his pain level (apparently some readers were confused by my original post and thought I was actually serious about wanting him to lie), I went home to take care of the dog, lie down for 45 minutes, change my clothes, wash my face and then drive the 30 minute return trip to the hospital. I arrived back at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. (where the first thing the APU said to me was “he really should have gone home last night”), the on-call doctor saw RWT at 5:50, we were out of there by 6:30 and home at 7:00. On the drive home, RWT said he had decided that they did not let him leave earlier because of how he answered the pain level question. Hmmm, really?
The moral of the story: If someone asks you your pain level and you really want to go home, say something less than “five” and under no account answer “seven”.
