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?
05 July 2005
04 July 2005
Independence Day...
... 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!!!
02 July 2005
Seven
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”.
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”.
30 June 2005
Scrumpets, Butches & Kill-Blocks
RWT is somewhat famous for his made-up words and terms. Some are said purposely, others are inadvertent. One of his most notable: Butches. You know, those vanilla cookies with a cinnamon-sugar coating that are more commonly called Snickerdoodles. They just happen to be RWT’s favorite cookies, but he absolutely refuses to say such a silly word as “Snickerdoodles”. Hence, the term “Butches” was born. And it has become widespread among our family, even though upon hearing it, my niece immediately questioned her uncle’s authority to unilaterally change the name of cookies.
When my aunt visited a few years ago, she made us munker which are regional Norwegian spherical pancakes (similar to Swedish aebleskiver) that she learned to cook from her mother-in-law. Well, RWT didn’t like that name either, so Scrumpets was born, which is a combination of scrumptious and crumpets (not that he’s eaten a crumpet in his life).
Galoop is another RWT-ism. “Don’t be such a big galoop”. He says it just sounds more appropriate than “galoot”. The same goes for Swarmy (aka smarmy).
Not satisfied with the ones out of his own brain, RWT also collects malapropisms. The best two he heard within mere months of each other when we where stationed in Twentynine Palms. He was at a meeting discussing the landscaping options for around the various buildings on the base and someone brought up xeriscaping (using drought-resistant plants and alternate materials to cut down on water usage). But they did not say it as such… the person said “Zero-scaping”. RWT asked “zero?” and the reply was “Yes, it uses almost zero water”. Perhaps it was all Greek to them.
We laugh about the other term from Twentynine Palms quite frequently because it is such a part of life on military bases and around this area. It has to do with the barriers utilized as anti-terrorist protection to prevent car-bombings of buildings, gates and other valuable assets. Unlike the Air Force that can afford the attractive faux-brick-faced concrete barriers or the huge, decorative planters seen around the White House and Capitol, most Navy bases make do with old blocks of concrete that were initially used to keep ships upright while they are in dry dock. The blocks are large & heavy and have a handy-dandy loop built in to the top to facilitate moving them with a crane (but why the Navy seems to have an inexhaustible supply of them is a mystery). What they should be called are “keel-blocks” since they are put under a ship’s keel (the spine along the bottom). What the Marines called them… Kill-Blocks. Obviously, it is all a matter of one’s perspective.
My favorite RWT-ism of all is Invalint. Where he came up with this one is beyond me, but it has become very appropriate since the table saw accident because, for the time being, RWT is an invalint (although others are more apt to say “invalid”). But what makes this one even better is that RWT's injured hand had been in a permanent splint wrapped in beige cotton gauze (and it bears a striking resemblance to Sheri Lewis’ puppet Lambchop). Well, that cotton gauze tends to leave fuzz all over everything. And (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) we decided the best term for that fuzz… yes, invalint.
When my aunt visited a few years ago, she made us munker which are regional Norwegian spherical pancakes (similar to Swedish aebleskiver) that she learned to cook from her mother-in-law. Well, RWT didn’t like that name either, so Scrumpets was born, which is a combination of scrumptious and crumpets (not that he’s eaten a crumpet in his life).
Galoop is another RWT-ism. “Don’t be such a big galoop”. He says it just sounds more appropriate than “galoot”. The same goes for Swarmy (aka smarmy).
Not satisfied with the ones out of his own brain, RWT also collects malapropisms. The best two he heard within mere months of each other when we where stationed in Twentynine Palms. He was at a meeting discussing the landscaping options for around the various buildings on the base and someone brought up xeriscaping (using drought-resistant plants and alternate materials to cut down on water usage). But they did not say it as such… the person said “Zero-scaping”. RWT asked “zero?” and the reply was “Yes, it uses almost zero water”. Perhaps it was all Greek to them.
We laugh about the other term from Twentynine Palms quite frequently because it is such a part of life on military bases and around this area. It has to do with the barriers utilized as anti-terrorist protection to prevent car-bombings of buildings, gates and other valuable assets. Unlike the Air Force that can afford the attractive faux-brick-faced concrete barriers or the huge, decorative planters seen around the White House and Capitol, most Navy bases make do with old blocks of concrete that were initially used to keep ships upright while they are in dry dock. The blocks are large & heavy and have a handy-dandy loop built in to the top to facilitate moving them with a crane (but why the Navy seems to have an inexhaustible supply of them is a mystery). What they should be called are “keel-blocks” since they are put under a ship’s keel (the spine along the bottom). What the Marines called them… Kill-Blocks. Obviously, it is all a matter of one’s perspective.
My favorite RWT-ism of all is Invalint. Where he came up with this one is beyond me, but it has become very appropriate since the table saw accident because, for the time being, RWT is an invalint (although others are more apt to say “invalid”). But what makes this one even better is that RWT's injured hand had been in a permanent splint wrapped in beige cotton gauze (and it bears a striking resemblance to Sheri Lewis’ puppet Lambchop). Well, that cotton gauze tends to leave fuzz all over everything. And (you can see where this is going, can’t you?) we decided the best term for that fuzz… yes, invalint.
28 June 2005
Perspective vs. Provincialism
A poster on my favorite food forum recently got into a debate with a local food critic for his review stating that a couple of local Mexican food places have tacos that “were as good as it gets”. The native southern-California poster argued that while the food she’d had at one of those restaurants was good and certainly better than most Mexican food available around in this area, it was pretty mediocre when compared to the Mexican food she grew up eating in Los Angeles. The exchange then quickly morphed into a discussion on what scale of comparison should be applied in cases such as this.
First off, let me say that I tend to side with the poster on the food forum. I don’t think a critic does anyone any favors by heaping unqualified high praise on a restaurant because it is the best representation of that type of food that can be obtained locally. I would much prefer to see something along the lines of “_________ has the best _______ that can be found within driving distance” or “While not as good as you’ll find in (insert place of food origin here), the __________ at _________ illustrates the potential of this dish.”
Also, when someone has tasted a great version of something, it is very difficult not to compare it to every other take on that dish they eat subsequently. The best salmon I’ve ever had was caught just a couple of hours previous to my eating it and is how salmon should taste to my palate. So whenever I eat salmon, I automatically think back to that meal and use it as a benchmark.
However, in comparing the food of one locality to another, the possibility of rosy memories or loyalty to a home country/state/town coloring one’s judgment cannot be ignored. The whole dining experience… the setting, the dining companions, the occasion… can add to the perceived taste of a particular meal, especially in one’s memory and, even more so, over time. Or having a strong geographical bias such as those expressed in conversations I often had while going to school in Texas:
Texan: “I would never want to live anyplace other than Texas because it is the best.”
Me: “Oh, where else have you lived?”
Texan: “Nowhere else!”
Me: “Then how do you really know Texas is the best?”
Texan: “I just do. How can it not be the best?”
(At this point, I would hurriedly change the subject before start of the second half of this conversation which would inevitably be the “Texas should be a country, not just a state” argument.)
On the other hand, the majority of Mexican food served in restaurants around here is pretty dismal and any bright spots definitely deserve to be noted. I applaud the critic for “discovering” a place to obtain real Mexican food and his encouragement of others to go check it out. Since there is no place to get great Mexican food, I am more than happy with adequate and appreciate not having to waste my time trying out the bad Mexican restaurants that abound.
But the problem I see with the critic's more regional approach is that he risks doing two things… giving people with no previous experience of that type of food an inaccurate impression of what it tastes like at its best (and if they never eat better, they’ll never know). Or, disappointing the folks (such as the poster) who are familiar with that type of food and have their hopes dashed once they taste the food. Unfortunately, I think both issues weaken the critic’s authority.
So while I feel it is the duty of a restaurant critic to encourage the readership to explore and try new things, it is also important to educate and give as complete of a picture as possible. Of course, the bottom line is that taste really is subjective and previous experiences cannot be ignored whether they are representative of reality or not. And a critic's opinion is merely that -- an opinion. It is a place to start, but whether something tastes bad, good or great (and the myriad of other judgments in between) is a decision that is up to each individual.
(And to throw a wrench into the works… RWT’s response to this topic: “Geez, it's just tacos.”)
First off, let me say that I tend to side with the poster on the food forum. I don’t think a critic does anyone any favors by heaping unqualified high praise on a restaurant because it is the best representation of that type of food that can be obtained locally. I would much prefer to see something along the lines of “_________ has the best _______ that can be found within driving distance” or “While not as good as you’ll find in (insert place of food origin here), the __________ at _________ illustrates the potential of this dish.”
Also, when someone has tasted a great version of something, it is very difficult not to compare it to every other take on that dish they eat subsequently. The best salmon I’ve ever had was caught just a couple of hours previous to my eating it and is how salmon should taste to my palate. So whenever I eat salmon, I automatically think back to that meal and use it as a benchmark.
However, in comparing the food of one locality to another, the possibility of rosy memories or loyalty to a home country/state/town coloring one’s judgment cannot be ignored. The whole dining experience… the setting, the dining companions, the occasion… can add to the perceived taste of a particular meal, especially in one’s memory and, even more so, over time. Or having a strong geographical bias such as those expressed in conversations I often had while going to school in Texas:
Texan: “I would never want to live anyplace other than Texas because it is the best.”
Me: “Oh, where else have you lived?”
Texan: “Nowhere else!”
Me: “Then how do you really know Texas is the best?”
Texan: “I just do. How can it not be the best?”
(At this point, I would hurriedly change the subject before start of the second half of this conversation which would inevitably be the “Texas should be a country, not just a state” argument.)
On the other hand, the majority of Mexican food served in restaurants around here is pretty dismal and any bright spots definitely deserve to be noted. I applaud the critic for “discovering” a place to obtain real Mexican food and his encouragement of others to go check it out. Since there is no place to get great Mexican food, I am more than happy with adequate and appreciate not having to waste my time trying out the bad Mexican restaurants that abound.
But the problem I see with the critic's more regional approach is that he risks doing two things… giving people with no previous experience of that type of food an inaccurate impression of what it tastes like at its best (and if they never eat better, they’ll never know). Or, disappointing the folks (such as the poster) who are familiar with that type of food and have their hopes dashed once they taste the food. Unfortunately, I think both issues weaken the critic’s authority.
So while I feel it is the duty of a restaurant critic to encourage the readership to explore and try new things, it is also important to educate and give as complete of a picture as possible. Of course, the bottom line is that taste really is subjective and previous experiences cannot be ignored whether they are representative of reality or not. And a critic's opinion is merely that -- an opinion. It is a place to start, but whether something tastes bad, good or great (and the myriad of other judgments in between) is a decision that is up to each individual.
(And to throw a wrench into the works… RWT’s response to this topic: “Geez, it's just tacos.”)
26 June 2005
It’s Not Just Me
RWT likes to act like I am the only Type-A person in our household. And I freely admit that I can certainly be anal and rather exacting about many things.
Like my "rules" for loading the dishwasher – any loose tupperware-type containers must be weighed down with a bowl so they don’t flip during the wash cycle and fill with water and the lids must be placed parallel to the front of the dishwasher, not along the sides of the rack where only drinking glasses are allowed.
Or how I go ballistic if anyone reads my magazines before I do (I suspect this one is directly related to being the youngest of three sisters and having to share magazines while growing up) and I also need to rip out all the smelly perfume ads and any other heavier-stock tear-outs and pages before I begin reading.
At least I do not alphabetize my pantry contents like my sister or go nutso over water spots in the sink like my dad. And at the age of three, my niece would ride her tricycle around their neighborhood on recycling day, straightening all of the recycling bins so they were in line with the sidewalk. Yes, it certainly runs in the family.
However, as much as RWT likes to think he is as chaotic as his family, it is simply not true. This weekend, we spent a good deal of time determining which of his suits go with which ties and which shirts. Wearing civilian clothes to work is still rather novel for him and he does not want to look like all the other military folk who can be pegged in an instant by their poor fashion taste.
But merely determining what goes together is not where it ended. After the various combinations were recorded, the data was then transferred into a spreadsheet. And he plans on analyzing the distribution to see if any of the suits need more ties to match. He is also toying with the idea of a program to randomly generate acceptable outfits and of course, it must take into account that each suit, the colored shirts, and a general color of tie cannot be worn more than once a week or, at the very least, on subsequent days.
And this is not the first time I’ve witnessed this type of behavior out of him. When we lived in Indian Head and had a vegetable garden, RWT requested that I weigh all of the produce I harvested. He took those numbers, some pricing he researched at the local grocery store and all of the costs to set up the garden and, yes, put them all into a spreadsheet and performed cost analysis on the gardening endeavor (the basil was the big “cash” crop).
So although RWT acts like Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky Guy, deep, deep down he is actually Mr. Let’s-Analyze-This Man. Don’t let him fool you into thinking differently!
Like my "rules" for loading the dishwasher – any loose tupperware-type containers must be weighed down with a bowl so they don’t flip during the wash cycle and fill with water and the lids must be placed parallel to the front of the dishwasher, not along the sides of the rack where only drinking glasses are allowed.
Or how I go ballistic if anyone reads my magazines before I do (I suspect this one is directly related to being the youngest of three sisters and having to share magazines while growing up) and I also need to rip out all the smelly perfume ads and any other heavier-stock tear-outs and pages before I begin reading.
At least I do not alphabetize my pantry contents like my sister or go nutso over water spots in the sink like my dad. And at the age of three, my niece would ride her tricycle around their neighborhood on recycling day, straightening all of the recycling bins so they were in line with the sidewalk. Yes, it certainly runs in the family.
However, as much as RWT likes to think he is as chaotic as his family, it is simply not true. This weekend, we spent a good deal of time determining which of his suits go with which ties and which shirts. Wearing civilian clothes to work is still rather novel for him and he does not want to look like all the other military folk who can be pegged in an instant by their poor fashion taste.
But merely determining what goes together is not where it ended. After the various combinations were recorded, the data was then transferred into a spreadsheet. And he plans on analyzing the distribution to see if any of the suits need more ties to match. He is also toying with the idea of a program to randomly generate acceptable outfits and of course, it must take into account that each suit, the colored shirts, and a general color of tie cannot be worn more than once a week or, at the very least, on subsequent days.
And this is not the first time I’ve witnessed this type of behavior out of him. When we lived in Indian Head and had a vegetable garden, RWT requested that I weigh all of the produce I harvested. He took those numbers, some pricing he researched at the local grocery store and all of the costs to set up the garden and, yes, put them all into a spreadsheet and performed cost analysis on the gardening endeavor (the basil was the big “cash” crop).
So although RWT acts like Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky Guy, deep, deep down he is actually Mr. Let’s-Analyze-This Man. Don’t let him fool you into thinking differently!
25 June 2005
"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?"
... my favorite line from Billy Crystal in the movie Analyze This when his psychiatrist character is confronted by a couple of federal agents from the Organized Crime Division who flip open their badges and say “OCD”.
Unfortunately, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is rarely that funny for those who suffer from it. And while I am lucky that I do not have OCD, the path leading there is very clear in my mind and one I make a conscious effort not go traipsing down.
But I still obsess plenty. And RWT’s accident has really pushed me pretty far into that realm. Instead of sleeping at night, I lay awake and picture the immediate aftermath of when he cut himself on the table saw last Saturday (but I will spare you all the gory details). And this evening, when going to the grocery store that is also the same way we took to get to the hospital emergency room, I even got a bit rattled.
Silly, yes. Unprecedented, no. After one of our more harrowing hikes in Joshua Tree National Park (when we nearly fell to unspeakable doom not once, but twice), I woke up in the middle of the night for weeks reliving that experience. However, I also know that it faded with time and so will this incident.
In the meantime, I fear that my writing here in this blog will suffer for a bit. My mental state tends to oscillate between obsessive worrying about RWT’s fingers and sleep-deprivation-induced blankness (often aided by playing far too much Spider Solitaire on the computer). I hope that after RWT’s surgery on Wednesday I’ll regain full brain function. Until then, please forgive me for lack of wit and creativity.
Unfortunately, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is rarely that funny for those who suffer from it. And while I am lucky that I do not have OCD, the path leading there is very clear in my mind and one I make a conscious effort not go traipsing down.
But I still obsess plenty. And RWT’s accident has really pushed me pretty far into that realm. Instead of sleeping at night, I lay awake and picture the immediate aftermath of when he cut himself on the table saw last Saturday (but I will spare you all the gory details). And this evening, when going to the grocery store that is also the same way we took to get to the hospital emergency room, I even got a bit rattled.
Silly, yes. Unprecedented, no. After one of our more harrowing hikes in Joshua Tree National Park (when we nearly fell to unspeakable doom not once, but twice), I woke up in the middle of the night for weeks reliving that experience. However, I also know that it faded with time and so will this incident.
In the meantime, I fear that my writing here in this blog will suffer for a bit. My mental state tends to oscillate between obsessive worrying about RWT’s fingers and sleep-deprivation-induced blankness (often aided by playing far too much Spider Solitaire on the computer). I hope that after RWT’s surgery on Wednesday I’ll regain full brain function. Until then, please forgive me for lack of wit and creativity.
23 June 2005
But Who Will Pack The Mattresses? Part III
[Wrapping it up with all the unwrapping... the conclusion of the tale of our April 2001 move from Maryland to California.]
Since the household goods arrived, most of my time has been spent unpacking boxes. These days, I often find myself wondering if the packers purposely write cryptic and misleading descriptions of the box contents. For example… six dish packs (large 18"x18"x28" boxes), all marked “Kit Glasses”. Now, I do own a lot of glasses, but not that many.
It took me two and a half days to find my large Tupperware containers full of flour. Were they in any of the three boxes marked “Tupperware”? No. Apparently, in packer lingo, that designation belongs to anything in the general vicinity of the kitchen that is made of unbreakable material. I finally found the flour in one of the “Kit Glasses” boxes, in addition to the body of my KitchenAid mixer and not a single piece of glass…
In unpacking the spices (which were not in the box marked “Spices” of course), I noticed a couple of the bottles were missing the labels. These are little round labels glued to the tops of the bottles so the spices can be easily identified in the spice rack. But the labels were nowhere to be found, not in the paper, not in the box, and I don’t recall seeing them in Indian Head… Hmmm, perhaps one of the packers knows someone named Ginger (they are nice looking labels)… but wait, that does not explain the nutmeg label.
The best box inscription of all goes to the living room box marked “Intendo”. What does that make the next generation machines? “Super Intendo”? “Intendo 64”? Anyone want to come over and play some Intendo? A game of Etris, perhaps?
In the midst of my first day of unpacking frenzy, I got a call from gung-ho Matt from “Moving Company A” about scheduling the delivery of our household goods… “What? They delivered yesterday?” Ooops. I guess Thomas never told them.
I am happy to say the house is finally starting to look like more than a mini-storage unit. It is very nice, very new and much bigger than our old house. Lots of kitchen counter space and the counters are off-white, just the color of unbleached flour – very convenient. And I can hardly wait for the luxury of hanging pictures on flat walls rather than our Dali-esque walls in the Indian Head house.
The weather has been quite variable since we've been here with highs ranging from 50 to 95. However, the one thing that is reliable is the wind. It tends to be calm in the mornings, but then really picks up in the afternoons and evening. At night, the howling wind is reminiscent of that Star Trek: Original Series episode where Harvey Mudd is supplying women to the lonely men on the harsh mining planet. Too bad there is no water for sailing the boat in all this wind.
Although I had heard reports to the contrary (that Navy/Marine Corps rivalry thing), all the neighbors are really nice. We’ve been inundated with welcome gifts of food (mainly sweets) and have been eating them for breakfast. The lady who lives directly behind us, informed me that she made us some chocolate chip cookies, but then ate them all in a fit of depression. I am beginning to see why they call it 29 Pounds instead of 29 Palms.
And I imagine that I’ve really impressed the neighbors with my ability to summon the Fire Department within the first week of arrival. As soon as I finally located the elusive flour, my mixer and some bread pans, I got busy making bread (RWT was actually tiring of cookies for breakfast). I turned on the oven and soon smelled a bit of gas. Not a lot, but the smell of incomplete combustion that happens when the burner needs to be cleaned. So I called RWT, who called housing to let them know the oven needed servicing. A mistake. I then received a phone call from housing telling me not to be alarmed when I heard the sirens. Great. Any mere hint of a gas leak and they are required to call the Fire Department.
The firemen arrived with all the predicted fanfare in full suits with respirators and electronic gas detectors. After determining there were not dangerous levels of gas in the house (my calmly standing there observing them should have been the first clue), they took off their respirators… sniff, sniff… what is that smell? It smells like… bread?!? Yes, I had put the bread in the oven while I was waiting for them to arrive. I suspect they were thinking: "crazy Navy wife."
So here we are, a bit embarrassed but safe and sound with the majority of our possessions intact and unpacked. Gee, I can hardly wait until the next move.
Since the household goods arrived, most of my time has been spent unpacking boxes. These days, I often find myself wondering if the packers purposely write cryptic and misleading descriptions of the box contents. For example… six dish packs (large 18"x18"x28" boxes), all marked “Kit Glasses”. Now, I do own a lot of glasses, but not that many.
It took me two and a half days to find my large Tupperware containers full of flour. Were they in any of the three boxes marked “Tupperware”? No. Apparently, in packer lingo, that designation belongs to anything in the general vicinity of the kitchen that is made of unbreakable material. I finally found the flour in one of the “Kit Glasses” boxes, in addition to the body of my KitchenAid mixer and not a single piece of glass…
In unpacking the spices (which were not in the box marked “Spices” of course), I noticed a couple of the bottles were missing the labels. These are little round labels glued to the tops of the bottles so the spices can be easily identified in the spice rack. But the labels were nowhere to be found, not in the paper, not in the box, and I don’t recall seeing them in Indian Head… Hmmm, perhaps one of the packers knows someone named Ginger (they are nice looking labels)… but wait, that does not explain the nutmeg label.
The best box inscription of all goes to the living room box marked “Intendo”. What does that make the next generation machines? “Super Intendo”? “Intendo 64”? Anyone want to come over and play some Intendo? A game of Etris, perhaps?
In the midst of my first day of unpacking frenzy, I got a call from gung-ho Matt from “Moving Company A” about scheduling the delivery of our household goods… “What? They delivered yesterday?” Ooops. I guess Thomas never told them.
I am happy to say the house is finally starting to look like more than a mini-storage unit. It is very nice, very new and much bigger than our old house. Lots of kitchen counter space and the counters are off-white, just the color of unbleached flour – very convenient. And I can hardly wait for the luxury of hanging pictures on flat walls rather than our Dali-esque walls in the Indian Head house.
The weather has been quite variable since we've been here with highs ranging from 50 to 95. However, the one thing that is reliable is the wind. It tends to be calm in the mornings, but then really picks up in the afternoons and evening. At night, the howling wind is reminiscent of that Star Trek: Original Series episode where Harvey Mudd is supplying women to the lonely men on the harsh mining planet. Too bad there is no water for sailing the boat in all this wind.
Although I had heard reports to the contrary (that Navy/Marine Corps rivalry thing), all the neighbors are really nice. We’ve been inundated with welcome gifts of food (mainly sweets) and have been eating them for breakfast. The lady who lives directly behind us, informed me that she made us some chocolate chip cookies, but then ate them all in a fit of depression. I am beginning to see why they call it 29 Pounds instead of 29 Palms.
And I imagine that I’ve really impressed the neighbors with my ability to summon the Fire Department within the first week of arrival. As soon as I finally located the elusive flour, my mixer and some bread pans, I got busy making bread (RWT was actually tiring of cookies for breakfast). I turned on the oven and soon smelled a bit of gas. Not a lot, but the smell of incomplete combustion that happens when the burner needs to be cleaned. So I called RWT, who called housing to let them know the oven needed servicing. A mistake. I then received a phone call from housing telling me not to be alarmed when I heard the sirens. Great. Any mere hint of a gas leak and they are required to call the Fire Department.
The firemen arrived with all the predicted fanfare in full suits with respirators and electronic gas detectors. After determining there were not dangerous levels of gas in the house (my calmly standing there observing them should have been the first clue), they took off their respirators… sniff, sniff… what is that smell? It smells like… bread?!? Yes, I had put the bread in the oven while I was waiting for them to arrive. I suspect they were thinking: "crazy Navy wife."
So here we are, a bit embarrassed but safe and sound with the majority of our possessions intact and unpacked. Gee, I can hardly wait until the next move.
22 June 2005
But Who Will Pack The Mattresses? Part II
[Continuing the saga of our 2001 move from Maryland to California...]
The first couple of hours of our drive west were a bit rough due to the traffic (it was the Friday before Easter and Spring Break). But as we headed into the wilds of Virginia, things improved. Soon we noticed that the southwestern corner of Virginia is home to many, many road signs… Bristol 27 mi, Bristol 22 mi, Bristol 17 mi, Bristol 12 mi, Bristol 7 mi, Bristol 2 mi. We finally arrived in Bristol (right on the VA/TN border) and our stopping point for the night. I got out.. sniff, sniff… burnt brakes? No, a fuel farm right behind the motel we’d chosen.
The next day, our goal was to get through Tennessee and Arkansas. Apparently Tennessee is the home to many of the “World's Greatest/Biggest/Best __________”. Hmmm. It was also the state of smells – first the oil at the motel, then we stopped at a rest stop to check the tie-downs on the car and the place reeked of urine. And just when that stench finally worked its way out of the Expedition's ventilation system, we drove through a low valley filled with thick fog that smelled like... burnt turkey!?! Odd. There were also numerous road signs in Tennessee pointing out equivalence between miles and kilometers (“Town X – Y miles, Y miles = Z kilometers”)… “Gee, what's a keelo-meter?”
Then we were on to Arkansas. Ugh. One cannot accuse Clinton of funneling federal funds to Arkansas road projects -- the roads were horrendous -- old concrete that had separated and unevenly settled. It was so rough, the vibrations loosened the screws on the license plate on the trailer and we nearly lost the plate. We didn't quite manage to make our goal that day and stopped for the night in Arkadelphia (which is everything the name implies), about 60 miles outside of Little Rock. And it was in the middle of a tornado/thunderstorm warning with reports of 3” hail. We watched the weather channel for a couple of hours and when it looked like death was not impending, went to bed.
Easter Sunday we were up early (luckily no hail damage to our cars) and heading for Texas where we detoured through Austin to visit some friends. Texas pride is really something… can you imagine someone putting a big ol' sticker in the shape of California on the rear window of their SUV? We had a great time in Austin and got back on the road Monday morning (would not want to be late meeting Thomas and the truck) and it turned out to be our most harrowing driving day… In El Paso, we had a very impressive lesson on momentum involving us, a wreck in the middle of the freeway and a semi directly in front of us. Our rig stopped with just a few inches to spare and we were well into New Mexico before all the muscles in my neck relaxed.
And, finally, out of Texas. It really seemed like we were in the west now. We stopped for gas in Las Cruces where we noted that no one used the credit card reader on the gas pumps and wondered why… Do people in New Mexico have bad credit? And were people looking at us strangely? Were we becoming paranoid?
That evening was spent in Deming, NM, a town that is really no more than a truckstop, convenience stores, gas stations and a handful of motels. But the weather… oh, pure heaven. Warmth without humidity. (as a native Californian friend is so found of saying -- it's a dry heat). We got up pretty early on Tuesday – if we got to Twentynine Palms before the housing office closed, we could spend that night in our new house (we'd had it with motels by that point).
Great scenery in Arizona. Lots of cacti and cool rocks, just like a Roadrunner carton. Outside of Phoenix, we spotted a “Really Big Moving Company D” van… was it Thomas? No, but we followed it most of the way to California anyway. California – at last! I've never been so happy to hear the words “Do you have any plants or fruit?”
The last three hours were the longest of the trip. We finally arrived in Twentynine Palms, but not in time to pickup the keys, so we had to be satisfied with peeking in the windows. The neighbors must have thought I was insane when they saw me standing outside the kitchen window jumping up and down excitedly yelling “Gas! Gas! Gas!” Yes, a gas range. Woo-hoo!
We unloaded the car off the trailer (which instantly drew a half dozen neighborhood children – like we needed an audience), dumped the trailer, assured the neighbors we would not be leaving the trailer permanently in front of the house and headed off to the local Motel 6 (one of the few motels in town that accept pets). Not a great choice – it's where all the young marines who live in the barracks stay when their girlfriends come to visit. I swear the guys next door were having party in the shower!
We picked up the house keys 0800 Wednesday morning and Thomas drove up at exactly 0900. Thomas had hired two local desert guys to assist in the unloading and both of them were appropriately scruffy looking (and the one guy repeatedly told us how he did not like to live near other people and of the merits of barbed-wire topped chain link fences). However, when requesting their choice of Subway sandwiches at lunch time, the one with the bad teeth tells Rob to be sure to get his on sourdough bread. Ah yes, we certainly are in California.
To be continued...
21 June 2005
When Good Forums Go Bad (A Cautionary Tale)
No matter what the topic, it appears that with time, most internet discussion forums eventually implode. Is it simply unavoidable? Entropy at work? Are the people in charge in any way to blame? Or is the cause linked to irreconcilable differences between the people who post?
Just about three years ago I joined an up and coming food forum. It was great – there were sub-forums for different types of cooking, regional sub-forums and sub-forums to discuss off-topic items. I was warmly welcomed by one of the big-wigs (for those who are wondering, it was a person who has misplaced the vowels in his last name) and not only did he want to talk about cooking, but also about the merits of the sci-fi series Farscape. Our pets, the best internet browser (at the time it was Mozilla) and one member’s experiences showing chickens were all as popular topics of conversation as the cooking/eating/dining threads. It was great – intelligent, fun, informative discourse with like-minded people.
Fast forward two years and things started to change. What had been a very casual organization, officially became a not-for-profit “society”. The first modification was that the very popular bio forum (where people talked about off-topic things relating to themselves, mostly in a blog-like manner) was removed. Members screamed, the management told them it was a necessary step for the society to been taken seriously. Some people got mad and left to start their own food discussion forums. Life went on.
Then the next step taken by the board of the forum was that impromptu gatherings arranged via the site and get-togethers that had not been approved by the powers that be, were banned. Once again members complained, only to be told that the social aspect was not part of the society and we were there to talk about food, not have personal interactions. Topics were locked to stop further debate and members were bluntly told they had no say in the matter. More people left and some started new forums. And some of the previously most active forums are now languishing.
I was one of those who left and while I occasionally check in on the old one, I now only post on a new food forum. But from experience, I wonder… how long will this one last? I worry because I’ve seen the same thing happen time and time again.
I used to regularly read a health & beauty forum hosted by a beauty products company. It was wonderful. There were some members who were avid product junkies and would post about the latest and greatest face potions, make-up and hair goop. I found some great beauty products through that forum. But then, the management started to crack down on what they perceived as discussing the competition too much. Posts regarding anything other than the sponsoring company’s products were deleted. Then the requisite rescinding of membership status of those who complained a bit too vehemently started. And, yes, people got mad and left to start their own forums. Then there were issues on those forums and people left to start even more forums. After five years. the original beauty forum has still never recovered and none have risen from the ashes to take its place.
The only forum I’ve seen maintain its activity and avoid these problems is a baking forum hosted by a large flour and kitchenware company. Why does it endure? At first I thought it was because of the members – a bit older than on the average forum, certainly more mature and down-to-earth also. It was always a happy place. But then a huge war erupted involving the merits of organic food and I thought to myself, okay, this is where it ends. But it didn’t. Why? With the exception of spammers and crazies, I’ve never seen a post deleted by the forum moderators. Ever. Even during fights between members the moderators have remained mum. People have had name-calling fits and not a single post censored. None. Is that the key?
One thing I've also noticed is that all the forums like to think they are totally unique and nothing else out there is like them. I disagree. While the topics might be unique, the dynamics of the forums tend to remain the same regardless if it is food, bird watching, gardening, dancing, beauty, or whatever is being discussed. In fact, there is a site dedicated to illustrating the various characters that inhabit most discussion forums (Can you guess which one I am? And which are you?).
So while I enjoy my time reading and participating in online discussion forums and I’ve learned so very much from some of them, I try to keep in the back of my mind that we are all posting on borrowed time. Sooner or later… kaboom!
Just about three years ago I joined an up and coming food forum. It was great – there were sub-forums for different types of cooking, regional sub-forums and sub-forums to discuss off-topic items. I was warmly welcomed by one of the big-wigs (for those who are wondering, it was a person who has misplaced the vowels in his last name) and not only did he want to talk about cooking, but also about the merits of the sci-fi series Farscape. Our pets, the best internet browser (at the time it was Mozilla) and one member’s experiences showing chickens were all as popular topics of conversation as the cooking/eating/dining threads. It was great – intelligent, fun, informative discourse with like-minded people.
Fast forward two years and things started to change. What had been a very casual organization, officially became a not-for-profit “society”. The first modification was that the very popular bio forum (where people talked about off-topic things relating to themselves, mostly in a blog-like manner) was removed. Members screamed, the management told them it was a necessary step for the society to been taken seriously. Some people got mad and left to start their own food discussion forums. Life went on.
Then the next step taken by the board of the forum was that impromptu gatherings arranged via the site and get-togethers that had not been approved by the powers that be, were banned. Once again members complained, only to be told that the social aspect was not part of the society and we were there to talk about food, not have personal interactions. Topics were locked to stop further debate and members were bluntly told they had no say in the matter. More people left and some started new forums. And some of the previously most active forums are now languishing.
I was one of those who left and while I occasionally check in on the old one, I now only post on a new food forum. But from experience, I wonder… how long will this one last? I worry because I’ve seen the same thing happen time and time again.
I used to regularly read a health & beauty forum hosted by a beauty products company. It was wonderful. There were some members who were avid product junkies and would post about the latest and greatest face potions, make-up and hair goop. I found some great beauty products through that forum. But then, the management started to crack down on what they perceived as discussing the competition too much. Posts regarding anything other than the sponsoring company’s products were deleted. Then the requisite rescinding of membership status of those who complained a bit too vehemently started. And, yes, people got mad and left to start their own forums. Then there were issues on those forums and people left to start even more forums. After five years. the original beauty forum has still never recovered and none have risen from the ashes to take its place.
The only forum I’ve seen maintain its activity and avoid these problems is a baking forum hosted by a large flour and kitchenware company. Why does it endure? At first I thought it was because of the members – a bit older than on the average forum, certainly more mature and down-to-earth also. It was always a happy place. But then a huge war erupted involving the merits of organic food and I thought to myself, okay, this is where it ends. But it didn’t. Why? With the exception of spammers and crazies, I’ve never seen a post deleted by the forum moderators. Ever. Even during fights between members the moderators have remained mum. People have had name-calling fits and not a single post censored. None. Is that the key?
One thing I've also noticed is that all the forums like to think they are totally unique and nothing else out there is like them. I disagree. While the topics might be unique, the dynamics of the forums tend to remain the same regardless if it is food, bird watching, gardening, dancing, beauty, or whatever is being discussed. In fact, there is a site dedicated to illustrating the various characters that inhabit most discussion forums (Can you guess which one I am? And which are you?).
So while I enjoy my time reading and participating in online discussion forums and I’ve learned so very much from some of them, I try to keep in the back of my mind that we are all posting on borrowed time. Sooner or later… kaboom!
20 June 2005
But Who Will Pack The Mattresses? Part I
[Since the next couple of days will be filled with doctor's appointments for RWT, time is at a premium. So for your reading pleasure, I've dredged up an old account of our move from Maryland to California.]
April, 2001 --
To make things "easier", within the last six months or so, the military has implemented a new (and improved?) system for moving household goods. Someone must have decided there were not enough layers of people involved in the old system. Now you get to talk to even more organizations…
First, there was Cendant (what that stands for still eludes me, or maybe it is not an acronym at all, but one of those touchy-feely, world-class, delight your customer names) Mobility. They are a government contractor that has taken over all the move coordination for military members. Our representative was Karen.
We started talking to Karen in January to try to find out how much extra it would cost to ship RWT's newly built sailboat (which missed the free shipping by 9” and in hindsight, maybe we should have just cut off the end off the bow). Karen gave us a copy of the boat instruction (which was full of bizarre formulas and weight calculations which basically worked out to: the more the boat and your household goods weighs, the less it costs) and told us that someone was working on determining how much extra (if any, we hoped) the shipping of our 200 pound boat would run.
Next, there was “Moving Company A” – the overall moving company. They are out of Florida and our representative was Matt (who, curiously, went to college in the very small town in MA where RWT's brother is living). Matt was very enthusiastic and, I must admit, surprisingly helpful. When they realized (after the pre-move survey) that they'd need more than one day to pack all our junk (duh!), Matt was able to convince the packers that packing Friday and Monday was not an option.
That brings us to the packers. They were from “Moving Company B” out of Woodbridge, VA and are the local representatives of "Moving Company A". Of course, Woodbridge is only local to Indian Head if you have a boat or swim really, really well. While Woodbridge is about 10 miles in actual distance from Indian Head across the Potomac, it is over an hour's drive (without traffic) since you have to drive up to D.C. and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to cross the river.
Now, one cannot confuse the packers with the movers or the driver. The driver was from “Moving Company C”, which is affiliated with “Really Big Moving Company D” and is located in Missouri (although the driver actually lives in Florida). And to help him load up in Indian Head, the driver hired a couple of guys who work for “Really Big Moving Company D” locally (actually out of Fredericksburg, VA, even farther away than Woodbridge). At the Twentynine Palms end of the move, his helpers were from “Moving Company E”. Complicated enough? It is amazing anything got here. On to the actual move…
Two packers arrived Monday (late, they had no idea there was anything in Maryland south of D.C.) and immediately started saying they could never get it all packed in time (a recurring theme from all of our moves). Luckily, they brought a third guy on Tuesday and everything was going well until… ...Thomas.
Tuesday was our first contact with Thomas, the owner and driver of the moving van. Thomas (who's last name has a very high ratio of consonants to vowels that I cannot even attempt to spell) is from Poland. He has been in the U.S. for 15 years, but still has a very heavy accent. And he is the embodiment of a stereotypical northern/eastern European – blunt, disdainful, perfectionist, and his opinion is the only correct one. I would love to get him in a room with RWT's grandmother… it would be a battle of iron wills.
Since we were originally scheduled (before Matt's intervention) for a Monday pack and Tuesday load, Thomas had nothing to do on Tuesday and wanted to come over a day early and get started. He called asked if he could check things out and I said sure. Big mistake. I told the packers that the driver was coming over to start the prep for loading and they immediately got upset. Why? They felt he would be rushing them. Much sighing and huffing. It only went downhill from there…
Thomas arrived. Boat?? Piano??? Boat???? What boat????? One of the myriad of entities handling our move sent the information for Thomas to the packers instead. Thomas was picking up three more loads after ours (our stuff was the first on and first off) and the boat would take up precious space in his truck. Much sighing and huffing.
Then the clash – Thomas wanted to start loading boxes that day. This sent the packers into a tizzy. Mere sighing and huffing turned into grumbling and muttering. Later we realized they were irritated because, by his loading of the boxes, Thomas would not be paying guys like the packers (who also do loading on other jobs) and Thomas would be keeping more money for himself.
Enough tension? No. The subject of boxing the mattresses arose. The packers said they never box mattresses and it is the mover's job. Thomas said the packers always box the mattresses. Rob and I distanced ourselves and let them fight it out. In the end, the packers boxed two of the mattress sets and the mover boxed one.
Wednesday morning started off with rain, but, luckily, it was not pouring too much. Assisting Thomas were two local Virginia boys attired with (I am not making this up) Ducks Unlimited and Bass Fishing hats. They were quite good-natured although Thomas tried his best to put a major dent in their easygoing manner. Thomas was a hard taskmaster and was packing the trailer to a density comparable to lead. I felt bad for the local guys helping him… “More flaut box, more flaut!” Bass-boy says no more flat boxes. Thomas snorts, points and says “Ironink board”.
The boat went in first and was hung against the wall with all the furniture packed around it. The loading was going well (although slowly) when about 2:00 that afternoon (when the boat was no longer even visible behind the wall of furniture and boxes) we got a call from Karen at Cendant: “It will cost you to ship the boat, but we don't know how much…” All along we had planned to simply move the boat on our trailer if it was going to cost too much to move in the truck, so Karen did something very difficult to do – she made RWT mad. It turns out the brainiac who could perform the arcane boat moving cost calculations quit the company (hmm, coincidence?) without coming up for a price for our boat!
After Rob finally threatened to have them take the boat off the truck (which would have taken hours) so we could just trailer it ourselves, they came up with a rather fair and reasonable price for shipping the boat. Then the van was finally loaded and Thomas said he would meet us in Twentynine Palms at 0900 Wednesday morning. Phew. That part was done. We were possessionless and ready to work on being homeless...
Next was checking out of the house in Indian Head. Since they were going to do major renovations to the interior of the house, we decided to clean it ourselves. We figured that we would not have to spend much time cleaning things they were ripping out and throwing away. Well, that turned out to be a hugely incorrect assumption on our part! Housing thought it would be unfair to the other housing residents if we did not thoroughly clean the whole house.
However, after RWT had a heart-to-heart with the housing officer, a reasonable cleaning plan was agreed upon. The final inspection went well, with the only hitch being that we had to wipe out the under the top of stove in case someone wanted to use our 1950's-era range for parts.
After a really nice going away party from our friends in Maryland, we headed out of Indian Head Friday morning. And since it would not cost an arm and a leg to ship the boat, we had our car loaded up on the trailer and were ready to start the cross-country trek.
To be continued...
April, 2001 --
To make things "easier", within the last six months or so, the military has implemented a new (and improved?) system for moving household goods. Someone must have decided there were not enough layers of people involved in the old system. Now you get to talk to even more organizations…
First, there was Cendant (what that stands for still eludes me, or maybe it is not an acronym at all, but one of those touchy-feely, world-class, delight your customer names) Mobility. They are a government contractor that has taken over all the move coordination for military members. Our representative was Karen.
We started talking to Karen in January to try to find out how much extra it would cost to ship RWT's newly built sailboat (which missed the free shipping by 9” and in hindsight, maybe we should have just cut off the end off the bow). Karen gave us a copy of the boat instruction (which was full of bizarre formulas and weight calculations which basically worked out to: the more the boat and your household goods weighs, the less it costs) and told us that someone was working on determining how much extra (if any, we hoped) the shipping of our 200 pound boat would run.
Next, there was “Moving Company A” – the overall moving company. They are out of Florida and our representative was Matt (who, curiously, went to college in the very small town in MA where RWT's brother is living). Matt was very enthusiastic and, I must admit, surprisingly helpful. When they realized (after the pre-move survey) that they'd need more than one day to pack all our junk (duh!), Matt was able to convince the packers that packing Friday and Monday was not an option.
That brings us to the packers. They were from “Moving Company B” out of Woodbridge, VA and are the local representatives of "Moving Company A". Of course, Woodbridge is only local to Indian Head if you have a boat or swim really, really well. While Woodbridge is about 10 miles in actual distance from Indian Head across the Potomac, it is over an hour's drive (without traffic) since you have to drive up to D.C. and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to cross the river.
Now, one cannot confuse the packers with the movers or the driver. The driver was from “Moving Company C”, which is affiliated with “Really Big Moving Company D” and is located in Missouri (although the driver actually lives in Florida). And to help him load up in Indian Head, the driver hired a couple of guys who work for “Really Big Moving Company D” locally (actually out of Fredericksburg, VA, even farther away than Woodbridge). At the Twentynine Palms end of the move, his helpers were from “Moving Company E”. Complicated enough? It is amazing anything got here. On to the actual move…
Two packers arrived Monday (late, they had no idea there was anything in Maryland south of D.C.) and immediately started saying they could never get it all packed in time (a recurring theme from all of our moves). Luckily, they brought a third guy on Tuesday and everything was going well until… ...Thomas.
Tuesday was our first contact with Thomas, the owner and driver of the moving van. Thomas (who's last name has a very high ratio of consonants to vowels that I cannot even attempt to spell) is from Poland. He has been in the U.S. for 15 years, but still has a very heavy accent. And he is the embodiment of a stereotypical northern/eastern European – blunt, disdainful, perfectionist, and his opinion is the only correct one. I would love to get him in a room with RWT's grandmother… it would be a battle of iron wills.
Since we were originally scheduled (before Matt's intervention) for a Monday pack and Tuesday load, Thomas had nothing to do on Tuesday and wanted to come over a day early and get started. He called asked if he could check things out and I said sure. Big mistake. I told the packers that the driver was coming over to start the prep for loading and they immediately got upset. Why? They felt he would be rushing them. Much sighing and huffing. It only went downhill from there…
Thomas arrived. Boat?? Piano??? Boat???? What boat????? One of the myriad of entities handling our move sent the information for Thomas to the packers instead. Thomas was picking up three more loads after ours (our stuff was the first on and first off) and the boat would take up precious space in his truck. Much sighing and huffing.
Then the clash – Thomas wanted to start loading boxes that day. This sent the packers into a tizzy. Mere sighing and huffing turned into grumbling and muttering. Later we realized they were irritated because, by his loading of the boxes, Thomas would not be paying guys like the packers (who also do loading on other jobs) and Thomas would be keeping more money for himself.
Enough tension? No. The subject of boxing the mattresses arose. The packers said they never box mattresses and it is the mover's job. Thomas said the packers always box the mattresses. Rob and I distanced ourselves and let them fight it out. In the end, the packers boxed two of the mattress sets and the mover boxed one.
Wednesday morning started off with rain, but, luckily, it was not pouring too much. Assisting Thomas were two local Virginia boys attired with (I am not making this up) Ducks Unlimited and Bass Fishing hats. They were quite good-natured although Thomas tried his best to put a major dent in their easygoing manner. Thomas was a hard taskmaster and was packing the trailer to a density comparable to lead. I felt bad for the local guys helping him… “More flaut box, more flaut!” Bass-boy says no more flat boxes. Thomas snorts, points and says “Ironink board”.
The boat went in first and was hung against the wall with all the furniture packed around it. The loading was going well (although slowly) when about 2:00 that afternoon (when the boat was no longer even visible behind the wall of furniture and boxes) we got a call from Karen at Cendant: “It will cost you to ship the boat, but we don't know how much…” All along we had planned to simply move the boat on our trailer if it was going to cost too much to move in the truck, so Karen did something very difficult to do – she made RWT mad. It turns out the brainiac who could perform the arcane boat moving cost calculations quit the company (hmm, coincidence?) without coming up for a price for our boat!
After Rob finally threatened to have them take the boat off the truck (which would have taken hours) so we could just trailer it ourselves, they came up with a rather fair and reasonable price for shipping the boat. Then the van was finally loaded and Thomas said he would meet us in Twentynine Palms at 0900 Wednesday morning. Phew. That part was done. We were possessionless and ready to work on being homeless...
Next was checking out of the house in Indian Head. Since they were going to do major renovations to the interior of the house, we decided to clean it ourselves. We figured that we would not have to spend much time cleaning things they were ripping out and throwing away. Well, that turned out to be a hugely incorrect assumption on our part! Housing thought it would be unfair to the other housing residents if we did not thoroughly clean the whole house.
However, after RWT had a heart-to-heart with the housing officer, a reasonable cleaning plan was agreed upon. The final inspection went well, with the only hitch being that we had to wipe out the under the top of stove in case someone wanted to use our 1950's-era range for parts.
After a really nice going away party from our friends in Maryland, we headed out of Indian Head Friday morning. And since it would not cost an arm and a leg to ship the boat, we had our car loaded up on the trailer and were ready to start the cross-country trek.
To be continued...
19 June 2005
Things Could Certainly Be Worse…
Over seven hours later (two full hours of it devoted just to suturing his hand), we finally left the emergency room. Everything is okay for now, but he’ll need hand surgery in the future. And, as usual RWT was the star of the emergency room.
The last time I had to take him to the emergency room was when he got a horrible sinus infection immediately following his laser eye surgery. By the time we arrived at the ER for the second time that day, his face was swollen to the point where he did not even look like himself. After we got past the check-in nurse who insisted she interview him alone because she thought I had been beating him, it was a rather amusing visit. It seems that half of the hospital staff had to drop by to nonchalantly peer into the examination room to see such an unusual manifestation of a sinus infection. And the PA kept repeating how interesting it was, that it was like nothing he’d seen before and he was very excited.
Well, this time was not much different, but instead of his face, everyone wanted to look at his hand x-rays. I could spy doctor after doctor checking them out as we waited for his hand to be stitched up. Then as we were finally leaving, we walked past an office and there was yet another doctor looking at them
Luckily, all five fingers are still attached, it is his left hand and he has the use of at least four of his fingers. When he goes to see the specialist Bethesda tomorrow, I’m sure we’ll see Marines and Sailors back from Iraq who are in much worse shape. We are both very thankful, that in the big scheme of things, this is relatively minor.
17 June 2005
Shall We Dance?
Now you’d think that would not be an issue, but it is. In the social ballroom dancing world, you are generally expected to dance with anyone who asks. The reasoning is that it is good for you to dance with many different partners because it will help you become a better dancer. Also, you hear “it is only for three or four minutes, how bad can it be?” Well, for me, it is three to four minutes that is on par with getting your teeth drilled at the dentist’s office... or giving a speech in front of a room full of people, naked, or worse, totally unprepared… or riding the metro (which is a whole other issue worthy of its own topic).
RWT and I started ballroom dancing because it is something we can do together, regardless of the weather and without having to drive any long distances (which is necessary to get to the good hiking spots in this area). Plus, for the most part, dancing is a lot safer than our other pursuits, such as rock-scrambling and sailing. The “together” is the most important aspect of dancing to me. I don’t dance simply to dance (although it is growing on me), but to spend time with my husband. Not someone else’s husband, not my dance classmates, and certainly not a stranger.
Maybe I’ve never quite gotten over my experiences when going out to bars while I was in college. My friends and I usually frequented the biggest meat market in town because it was the only place with live music and my roommate’s boyfriend was a bouncer there. Not only could I get in (I was underage), but the price was right -- free. The downside to going there… accepting a dance from a stranger gave implicit consent for them hit on you for the rest of the evening (and I won’t even go into what accepting a drink implied). One quickly learned to be very selective in accepting dance invitations.
Also, I dance like an exceptionally uncoordinated giraffe and I’m well known for trampling the cute little feet of our dance teacher whenever she wants me to demonstrate something with her in class. While I don’t mind occasionally stepping on RWT's toes (he reciprocates with regularity), I get quite self-conscious about it when dancing with other people. Hmm, "self-conscious" is probably too mild of a phrase… "totally stressed out" is much more accurate.
Dancing with others would probably improve my dancing, but if I am happy with how I dance with RWT and he is happy with how I dance with him, I don’t see where it makes a difference. I am definitely not going to be competitive dancing anytime in the future (I got my share of that type of craziness when I showed horses) and we are quite content to remain mediocre dancers together.
Or perhaps the biggest reason is that I’ve just reached the age (the crotchety old lady stage) that I don’t quite see the point in pretending something I find totally unpleasant is anything but -- especially in a situation that is supposed to be fun. So I think I’ll just continue to be rude and stay limited in my dancing. And the answer is “no”.
16 June 2005
Swept Away By Emoticons
Emoticons. Smileys. Whatever you call them… little, (generally) yellow, faces inserted into electronic messages to help convey what the author is trying to get across. Or for the text-restricted… sideways faces making the use of parentheses, colons, semi-colons, dashes (if you desire a nose on your emoticon) and various letters. (A compilation and the history of smileys.)
Some people love them and feel they facilitate understanding of the intent of their messages. Others hate emoticons because they see them as something utilized to make up for a weak writing style. I have no problem with their use in many situations because I feel that online communication can use all the help it can get. For me, interacting via a computer is like talking to someone in a pitch-black room while using a voice modulator... potentially very, very frustrating.
But the use of emoticons can also be insidious and addictive and the dance forum I read is an excellent illustration of that. There are some members who punctuate every sentence with a little smiley face (and animated ones at that) and then add a whole string of them dancing along the bottom of the message. This forum is populated with very artsy and emotional folk, so maybe they feel an even greater need for more expression than is provided by mere combinations of letters and spaces.
Personally, I try not to use emoticons here in my blog (as you’ve probably noticed), but will use them in forum replies, personal messages and email (as you’ve probably noticed). Why? Generally, when I post something here, I have the time to write it, think about it, tweak it and make sure the words get the point across as I’ve intended. However, I rarely have the luxury to take the time to do that in my correspondence (or some of you would never get an answer from me and you know how I feel about that subject). Plus, I would rather over-clarify my response then have it taken the wrong way.
I guess I just view emoticons as a substitute for all the waving around of hands and arms, making faces and using different voice inflections that I do when I talk to people in person. And face to face is always my preferred form of communication. I think my own smile wins out over those little yellow faces, whether they are animated or not.
Some people love them and feel they facilitate understanding of the intent of their messages. Others hate emoticons because they see them as something utilized to make up for a weak writing style. I have no problem with their use in many situations because I feel that online communication can use all the help it can get. For me, interacting via a computer is like talking to someone in a pitch-black room while using a voice modulator... potentially very, very frustrating.
But the use of emoticons can also be insidious and addictive and the dance forum I read is an excellent illustration of that. There are some members who punctuate every sentence with a little smiley face (and animated ones at that) and then add a whole string of them dancing along the bottom of the message. This forum is populated with very artsy and emotional folk, so maybe they feel an even greater need for more expression than is provided by mere combinations of letters and spaces.
Personally, I try not to use emoticons here in my blog (as you’ve probably noticed), but will use them in forum replies, personal messages and email (as you’ve probably noticed). Why? Generally, when I post something here, I have the time to write it, think about it, tweak it and make sure the words get the point across as I’ve intended. However, I rarely have the luxury to take the time to do that in my correspondence (or some of you would never get an answer from me and you know how I feel about that subject). Plus, I would rather over-clarify my response then have it taken the wrong way.
I guess I just view emoticons as a substitute for all the waving around of hands and arms, making faces and using different voice inflections that I do when I talk to people in person. And face to face is always my preferred form of communication. I think my own smile wins out over those little yellow faces, whether they are animated or not.
In My Wildest Dreams, Part II
Another installment of the on-going saga of my unconscious thoughts…
The Dream: As the dream started, I was standing by a large brick house, overlooking some rolling California-like hills that were dotted with valley oaks. It was a sunny day with a few big puffy clouds blowing by on a strong wind. Then I noticed that there was something else, a dark object, blowing up and around in the sky. It came down closer to the ground and a woman on distant train trestle caught it – it was her leather jacket.
Since it was so windy, I decided to put my own jacket in the trunk of the car. My mother-in-law and I were going to go someplace on foot and then planned to come back later so she could take me to the airport. As I walked toward the car, a very large, dark metallic maroon roadster (sort of like the BMW M3 my father-in-law drives, only about twice the size and with a very rounded rear-end, like an Audi TT), I noticed there were a bunch of people in woods (and these were deciduous, east coast-type woods) in front of the car. I then saw one of the women in the woods take a picture of me as I was putting away my things in the luggage-filled trunk. I asked her what she was doing, but she just walked off.
At this point, my mother-in-law came out of the house and was standing about ten feet from the passenger side of the car. I turned the key to lock the trunk and the car started up and began to move forward. Aaack. So I turned the key the other way and the car went in reverse as I jumped out of the way.
The car was going to hit the corner of the house (I didn’t recognize the house, but it was the same house from the start of the dream and on a hill like all of my mother-in-law’s various homes over the years). So I jumped on running board (!) of the car, reached through the open window, somehow got the key in the ignition and turned it the other way. The car stopped just inches from ramming the house.
But then the car was started forward toward the woods and I was stuck hanging on the side of the car turning the key back and forth to keep it from hitting things. Then, for some reason, I was thinking that it was exactly like my paper shredder after it jams -- if it goes back and forth enough, it will eventually automatically stop. And with that thought, I woke up.
The Reasons: Okay, this is one of those dreams where I have not a clue as to its meaning or even its origin. I emptied my shredder a couple of days ago and the car was vaguely shaped like the one in all the ads for the new Batman movie, but that is it. Why the California hills, my mother-in-law, wind, trains, furtive photography and so on? Who knows.
I often have dreams that I am in a car I cannot control (although it has always been one of my own cars). Usually it is the brakes that do not work, but other times it is the steering. And I typically have this type of dream when I am stressed out about something. But I cannot even figure out what could be bothering me at the moment. RWT is off on a business trip, so yesterday was and today will be pretty carefree.
Hmm, perhaps it is because of the get-together I am hosting next Tuesday for my Ballroom II class. I’ve not done much planning for it. Maybe, I’d better go make a list of things to do for the party in hopes of having less frenetic dreams tonight.
The Dream: As the dream started, I was standing by a large brick house, overlooking some rolling California-like hills that were dotted with valley oaks. It was a sunny day with a few big puffy clouds blowing by on a strong wind. Then I noticed that there was something else, a dark object, blowing up and around in the sky. It came down closer to the ground and a woman on distant train trestle caught it – it was her leather jacket.
Since it was so windy, I decided to put my own jacket in the trunk of the car. My mother-in-law and I were going to go someplace on foot and then planned to come back later so she could take me to the airport. As I walked toward the car, a very large, dark metallic maroon roadster (sort of like the BMW M3 my father-in-law drives, only about twice the size and with a very rounded rear-end, like an Audi TT), I noticed there were a bunch of people in woods (and these were deciduous, east coast-type woods) in front of the car. I then saw one of the women in the woods take a picture of me as I was putting away my things in the luggage-filled trunk. I asked her what she was doing, but she just walked off.
At this point, my mother-in-law came out of the house and was standing about ten feet from the passenger side of the car. I turned the key to lock the trunk and the car started up and began to move forward. Aaack. So I turned the key the other way and the car went in reverse as I jumped out of the way.
The car was going to hit the corner of the house (I didn’t recognize the house, but it was the same house from the start of the dream and on a hill like all of my mother-in-law’s various homes over the years). So I jumped on running board (!) of the car, reached through the open window, somehow got the key in the ignition and turned it the other way. The car stopped just inches from ramming the house.
But then the car was started forward toward the woods and I was stuck hanging on the side of the car turning the key back and forth to keep it from hitting things. Then, for some reason, I was thinking that it was exactly like my paper shredder after it jams -- if it goes back and forth enough, it will eventually automatically stop. And with that thought, I woke up.
The Reasons: Okay, this is one of those dreams where I have not a clue as to its meaning or even its origin. I emptied my shredder a couple of days ago and the car was vaguely shaped like the one in all the ads for the new Batman movie, but that is it. Why the California hills, my mother-in-law, wind, trains, furtive photography and so on? Who knows.
I often have dreams that I am in a car I cannot control (although it has always been one of my own cars). Usually it is the brakes that do not work, but other times it is the steering. And I typically have this type of dream when I am stressed out about something. But I cannot even figure out what could be bothering me at the moment. RWT is off on a business trip, so yesterday was and today will be pretty carefree.
Hmm, perhaps it is because of the get-together I am hosting next Tuesday for my Ballroom II class. I’ve not done much planning for it. Maybe, I’d better go make a list of things to do for the party in hopes of having less frenetic dreams tonight.
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