Up In the Air

Greetings from O’Hare airport, where I have some advice for my fellow airfare travelers who seem to have ZERO prior flying experience (and also where I may have had a few too many Starbuck’s latte’s):

• You probably failed to notice this in your catatonic travel-trance, but there’s only ONE exit outta this bird for you and the 123 passengers behind you. Therefore, the proper way to exit a plane does not involve you drawing up sharp (!) as soon as you cross the threshold at the end of the gangplank. Yes – you need to find your connection…No, they do not generally post that information within the first 5 feet of the gate exit. Seriously, I know this feels like a strange-new-airport-world to you, but let’s go boldly in the direction of….traffic, shall we?
• Ummmm….the preceding advice goes for the ladies’ room exit as well
• Airline connection times do not adequately factor in a handicap for tall girls in pumps. I know I should be able to get from gate E37 to gate B24 in 39 minutes [and on casual Friday’s, I can]. However, when wearing anything higher than ballet slippers, I need at least an extra 20 minutes to accommodate the blister-nursing that must occur. Honestly, instead of asking me whether I need a vegetarian meal option, United should ask me to estimate my transition times and schedule connections accordingly.
• Just because they’re not marked does not mean airports don’t have traffic lanes - please respect them.  I don’t care how inviting Auntie Anne’s pretzel stand looks, do not make a left turn from the recycle bin across the way…especially when the tall girl in pumps is in the passing lane beside you.

 I think I will dial down my caffeine on the next trip.

Garage Sale Post-Mortem

Well, it’s done. The garage sale at my mother’s house that my sister and I were assigned to help with [ http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2010/04/garage-sale.html]  is in the books. And here are a few words of advice for others considering such an event:

• When looking for garage sale assistance, consider someone more capable than me. A five-year-old, for example. Within the first 30 minutes of garage sale prep, I smashed a coffee pot canister, lost the key hanging out of a [locked] filing cabinet and threw away what looked NOT like the critical bracket to the giant awning, but just a piece of plastic. My garage sale contributions were upside down for the remainder of the event.
• The last week of July, also known as heat stroke apogee, is the BEST time to have a garage sale. Deadens the haggling senses.
• As my sister told us, “When you put the ad in the paper, make sure and reference ‘tools’”. McC: But we don’t have any tools. Sis: So what. Including “tools” really packs them in and we’ll just tell them all the tools were sold to the early birds.
• Also in the ad, make sure you put “absolutely no early birds”
• Keep in mind there’s a fine line [a 50¢ sticker, to be exact] between junk and merchandise.
• Do not let the owner of the junk merchandise supervise what gets added to the “sell” (vs. “keep”) stack. Exceptions were granted for too valuable, too new and too old. Why don’t we just call this a used book sale?
• Make sure the proceeds from the garage sale will cover the workers’ wine bill for the week day.

Finally….seriously consider outsourcing.  In my most significant contribution, I convinced my mother that the Goodwill is a “garage sale aggregator”. We may not have earned the $75 we had planned on, but we saved ourselves the knee-slapping good time that accompanies heat stroke. And no early birds.

The Night the Lights Went Out in Socal

Just when I thought I had completely settled into my San Diego digs [it has been 2 years since I moved, afterall] – I have experienced yet another episode of domestic absurdity. A couple of weeks ago, I came home from the gym needing to quickly get ready to go out. It happened to be one of those days here in SoCal where it is 74 degrees outside the house, but 84 degrees inside the house. [as you will recall from my earlier post, we do not have central heat/air. http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2009/09/heat-wave.html]

So I cleverly thought I would create a freon oasis by ratcheting up both of the mobile air conditioners in the bedrooms [did I mention Rita was out of town?] and closing the hallway doors – my own walk-in cooler.

When I stepped outta the shower, I was alarmed not to hear the reverberation of jet engines taking off, which happens to be the oh-so-easy-to-sleep-to sound that the air conditioners make when running. The first thing I thought is “oh great, I blew a fuse.” Or fuse(s). Or the mother-of-all fuses that controls every stinkin room in the house except the kitchen. [sigh] The second thing I thought is “hmmm, I wonder where the hell the fuse box is” [what am I – A Real Housewife of Florida Canyon??? How do I not know where the fuse box is??]. The third thing I thought of was [of course] “call Nic”. [I resisted that last one.] After walking around the house for 30 minutes, however, checking. Every. Single. Vertical. Surface, I still had not found the $%#$@* fuse box. So my next thought was…. “Better hammer-call Rita”. [Because if someone is too busy to answer their phone the first time, they probably just need you to call them 7 more times.]

Unfortunately, my adorable neediness was NOT immediately rewarded with a call back from Rita, so I had to finish getting ready in the sauna-like kitchen...although…to my credit, I did resist the urge to get ready amidst the escaping coolness of the opened refrigerator.

Later that night, when Rita called me back, her first comment was “Honey, you can’t run both of those at the same time”. Hot, frustrated and now…volatile…”ummm thanks for that enlightenment?!? [sarcastic pun intended]…Were you afraid I wouldn’t connect the 200 lb air conditioning dots?” [Just a word of advice…when your lifeline calls you back, you should probably ratchet down the unwarranted surliness.]

The good news? I learned where the fuse box was (on the backside of the garage…how intuitive). The bad news – I couldn’t get the industrial-grade bastard open. [Real housewife indeed.] The even worse news? I had to go to the airport the next morning at 5 am [i.e., before the light-giving sun was up]. I’m a lousy packer anyway, but force me to pack by the light of my blackberry and it just isn’t pretty. [You know what you forget when you pack in the pitch black? Sunglasses, that’s what. I’m sure I won’t need those in Nashville anyway.]

I did feel better the next morning when John the Taxi Driver couldn’t open the fuse box either. But that’s the dog-sitter’s problem, now isn’t it??

Irish Twins

Some of you have heard this story already…

For my sister’s 40th birthday, I decided to put together a scrap book of old photos from when she was a kid. Since my sis is only 11 months older than I am [awk, my wee Irish Twin], most of her kiddie pics inevitably include me somewhere in the shot. Which is only fitting since most of the time we were dressed. Exactly. The. Same. You see, my mother made all of our clothes. As in....measure the kids, cut the fabric, sit in front of the sewing machine…make the clothes. [Are you kidding me? I can barely get my blouse buttoned straight and mom made every single outfit my sister and I wore during the 1970s?? Who’s child am I, anyway?]

Mom would buy one sewing pattern and make two outfits from it [unfortunately, even though I was younger…I always had to have the pattern adjusted out] So starting when I was about 3 years old, all the photos of me and sis include the two of us dressed alike. Except in every picture, Nic always looks cute as a button…blonde little ponytails, ribbons to match her outfit, white bobby socks…adorable. I, on the other hand, would have on the same little gaucho outfit as Nic [remember gauchos??], except my collar would be inside my shirt, my hair would be sticking up over some cut in my forehead and Pony’s had replaced my patent leather shoes. We consistently looked like “before” and “after” models. In one picture I was even wearing shorts under the skirt mom had obviously forced me to wear [I was a skort prodigy].

Then in about 1980, it all comes to a grinding halt. Either I just got too big [not tall] to make outfits for or mom finally figured out she could save herself 14 hours of sewing by spending $1.99 on kids’ clothes at Wal-Mart. Either way, individuality reigned..…unfortunately. So there I am, in the picture from the 1980 neighborhood Christmas party wearing a tan leisure suit and brown paisley shirt collar. The shoes didn’t make the shot, but if I had to guess….Hush Puppies. Are you kidding me??? And some people think gayness is a choice. If so, I was a pretty decisive 9 year-old.

Thank god I didn’t go any further with the pics. I have a terrible memory of a 1981 Halloween costume that involved an FBI outfit that I don’t care to revisit.

Dora the Explorer

For my birthday party a few weeks ago, Rita and I were trying to figure out something different we could do for the festivities….a sort of half-time between margaritas and more margaritas dinner. Rita decided to sponsor a Dora the Explorer piñata. Now…15 white girls swinging at a Spanish-speaking schoolgirl could be considered culturally insensitive. However, this particular Dora the Explorer looked less like a Latina adventurer and more like….well…the birthday girl:

Dora the Explorer bore more rapporta with the birthday senora. [Should you be worried if your birthday party involves an effigy? Ominous.]

The next step was deciding what prizes to use with Dora. [Candy, puh-lease. Know your audience, I say.] After much deliberation [and more expenditures than we had planned for], we complimented the candy filling with lottery tickets, rice krispie treats and little plastic bottles of "airplane" alcohol. We even included a couple of corks that could be redeemed for wine from Rita’s collection.

As the birthday girl, I got to take the first swing. Just a note of advice for those of you contemplating a piñata at your own festivities…when tomboys swinging a stick are involved, you MAY want to install some obstacles to make the game last longer than one batter. I would have thought the plentiful margarita’s would have been a sufficient handicap, but apparently this group I had some experience swinging a bat post-margarita [gotta love those church leagues]. Even with a healthy buzz, I de-legged poor Dora on the first swing. Luckily, the legs were stapled on and didn’t yield any of the good stuff, but poor Dora did NOT survive til the clean-up batter.

It turns out...people’s true colors come out when they are scampering for piñata loot. In fact, I think a black market developed in the driveway alongside the Dora carcass. [It turns out that one alcohol nip is worth 2 lottery tickets, all the rice krispie treats were cornered by the birthday girl and Julie will throw an elbow for a shot at Rita’s wine collection]. And I’m not naming names, but when we got Deb’s coat for her at the end of the evening, it was weighed down with 10 lbs worth of airplane alcohol [that’s right, we wear coats on July 9th – how’s the weather where you are? =)]

We’re STILL finding little bottles of Bailey's amongst the climbing vines down the driveway [Julie really swung for the fences].

One hot party

Rita & I were in Michigan this past weekend for a 40th birthday party. That party was positively….incendiary. And while it was one HOT party, I mean incendiary in terms of…”Did you see Ruth catch her hair on fire last night?”

First of all, no birthday candles were harmed in the making of this blog. Second of all, as far as hair burns go – it really was pretty minor. I’ve done worse myself [granted…I was five years old, but the key thing to remember is it all grows back.] Most importantly, Ruth was laughing about it, so I feel like I can too [plus I don’t know her and I hope no one tells her about this blog]. Out of the experience, I came away with some specific advice that we all could benefit from:

First: For those of you thinking of hosting a party in your home, I recommend that you not ensconce the fireplace mantle in a row of beautiful [but apparently dangerous] burning candles. Either that or you only invite really tall, really short or really bald party goers. Who knew there was a surprising risk that someone will lean their head back, perhaps to get the perfect angle on a picture, and dunk their hair into open flame like they were at the apple-bob at the county fair?

Second: It turns out that when the back of your head catches fire, you may be the last to know. Therefore, friends who begin beating you about the [admittedly on fire] head should probably explain themselves first. Otherwise, the enflamed guest believes herself to be under random attack, which only leads to other, completely unrelated, issues [“I told you if you ever hit me again you crazy bitch…”]
Third: I don’t care how insensitive it was, “the Ruth, the Ruth, the Ruth is on fire” was simply the best line of the night [after it was extinguished, of course!]

My final piece of advice? If you accidentally set your hair on fire at a party [and who hasn’t?] in addition to perhaps paying more attention to your surroundings, you should probably wait until morning [when slightly fewer cocktails have been consumed] to begin cutting out the damage. Turns out that scissors can do WAY more damage than flames.

R I P

Sorry I haven’t blogged in a while….I’ve been in mourning since I quit working. Turns out it’s not the hustle or the bustle that I miss…not the job…or the people – it’s the to-do list.

Those of you who are “listers” know what I’m talking about. When I was working, I had an elaborate listing [and re-listing] system that kept everything on a tightly wound schedule [air traffic control for the counting of beans]. That’s right, I can’t remember to pack my power cord half the time, but I can keep track of what a dozen direct reports are doing every hour of the day…because it is written on a little yellow notecard…in black ink…in size 3 font…prioritized as an A, B or C (in pencil). [I’m revealing too much, aren’t I?]

I’ve tried to keep the to-do list feeling going even while I’m not working, but it just isn’t the same. I only have 11 things on the list right now and one of them is “wish my brother happy birthday”. First of all, his birthday is still two days away. Second of all, it’s the same day as mine…do I really need to write it down to remember it? [but I can’t cross it off if I don’t write it down!].

Rita was working on the plane ride home Monday and I think I was actually getting to-do list envy. There she was, adding item after item, in neat little hand writing.  Dammit. I took out my own to-do list and wrote down “buy black pens”.

Rita keeps trying to give me a to-do list for the house, but me being home not only doesn’t result in anything getting crossed OFF the list, it actually makes the list longer. [“get broken coffee maker fixed; replant tomato plants that McC told the gardener to pull out”].

Oh well, I’ve got to run now or else I won't be able to cross off "Watch World Cup Soccer" from my to-do list.

Dinnertime!

Check out this pic from the trip to Hong Kong:

Now…you’re probably saying to yourself….why were Rita and McC shopping for pets while they were in Hong Kong??? I thought the same thing…until I found out we were shopping for DINNER. Aaahhhhh! The custom here is to eat seafood so fresh that it was alive before you came along. Aaahhhhhh! The workers stand around in galoshes and you point out which fish/shrimps/clams would look better on a plate. [We’ll take Nemo with a side of lemon?]

Where did I think the seafood came from? Costco. I don’t expect to be involved in its execution.

After we imposed our death sentence, we went inside to the full-service restaurant [I’m going to need a beer after that]. Once again our hosts got creative in their ordering and a plate of sliced 1,000 year-old eggs arrived at the table. [I’ll take another beer.] I don’t think it’s really 1,000 years old…but the fact it could pass for it was worrisome enough. This particular delicacy looks like an Easter egg prep gone horribly awry. The egg “white” is actually a gelatinous forest green and the yolk a deep purple. [I think Dr. Seuss made the appetizer. The incredible, indelible egg?] And you top it off by dipping it in sugar. [Just sugar? Do you have any ketchup?]

This is where Rita decided the “you-should-just-try-it” rule had its limits…but failed to let me in on the dispensation before I tried the psychedelic treat. [I got the “good sport” award that day – not worth it.]

Then Nemo got plunked down on the table and our server started scooping out filets of our recently departed fish. Given my 1,000-year-old-egg street cred, our server singled me out for the fish cheek…”the best part of the fish”. Great – I win the fish lottery. Except my fish cheek also came with a bonus…the little fishy’s eye ball! Aaaahhhhhh! I tried to push it to the side, but it just kept rolling around my plate. Aaaahhhhhh!

I am suddenly less judgmental of those Americans who come all the way to Asia and then eat at pizza hut.

And Dim Some

Eating in Hong Kong is [mostly] amazing. The first day we were here, two business contacts of Rita’s took us for authentic, I-can’t-read-the-Chinese-menu Dim Sum. Dim Sum is a lot like tapas…only with a higher frequency of brain, stomach or tongue. And they wrap the protein in a dumpling, so you’re never quite sure what you’re being served [Dim Sum roulette].

At Dim Sum, each dish is a “snack” with about four pieces of whatever has been ordered. I think the boys who hosted us were surprised that the big girls from America could go through 17 courses [I said it was a snack]. But our Dim Sum lunch IS where we had the unfortunate cow’s-stomach-soup incident [see…only sixteen courses when you exclude the not-very-popular soup]. I knew we were in trouble when one of our hosts laughed as they placed it on the table. A good rule of thumb is to avoid any selection that amuses the people that can actually read the menu.

Now…I’m not very fond of soup in the first place…and even less fond of soup with floaty-brown-sponge things in it. I did, however, think we had to be polite and try everything that our hosts provided [watching Rita – I would later find there were limits to that rule] – so I had a few bites of the floaty brown thingys. It tastes like chicken. Actually, I have no idea how it tastes because Hong Kong is where I have learned to eat without chewing.

The REST of the Dim Sum, of course, was harmless and delicious. But barely prepared us for the seafood dinner later that night…

Hong Kong Sighting

Hong Kong is an amazing place.  I'm still getting acclimated here, but already I have some first impressions:

• The average taxi ride here costs HK$25…which is about $3.00 in US dollars. And no tipping. So your taxi fare across the island is HK$25, but the Starbucks you buy when you get there is HK$31.
• I don’t know if it’s my experiences in San Diego or what, but every time I hear another language, I revert to broken Spanish [WTF]. Imagine the confusion when this tall, white American walks into your shop screaming… “Hola”, “Gracias”, “Por Favor”.   Seriously…I have to reach UP to be a tourist.
• If you are non-black-headed here, you stick out like a sore thumb. The constancy of the jet-black hair is startling [the hair color aisle at Walgreen’s is only 3 colors deep]. There are 7 million people in this city, but I only see a brunette/blonde about twice a day. [And for some reason…I always check to see if I know them.]
• People here randomly wear face masks [like the surgical kind]. I had assumed it was virus protection of some sort. [By the way…which pandemic are we on now? Still swine flu?] But someone said that it had more to do with the air quality than tourist repellant. Does breathing the air through a mask make it better? If so, that doesn’t bode well for my workout.
• The humidity is straight out of the movie Platoon. Yesterday it was 83% humidity…but if there was 17% dryness, I didn’t find it. It rains here “from the ground, UP,” as the saying goes.
• With the exchange rate and how cheap things are…you lose track of real money. Today, we almost got mad at a pedi-cabber for the exorbitant charge of HK$100, until we realized he pedaled the biggest woman he’d ever seen across the island for US$12.

…more tomorrow on the discoveries of dim sum.

Flight of Fancy

“Black Friday” was the day Rita discovered she had lost her status with United Airlines. Which means Rita was unable to upgrade to Business Class at the time we booked the tickets for the decades-long flight to Hong Kong. We’ve been scheming on United points every since…but that’s a different blog. When we were checking in, however, one of us thought she had received a mercy-upgrade at the last minute, while the other one remained in coach. [I guess that would make me Leonardo DiCaprio to her Kate Winslet? Where can I find steerage?]. I told her I was fine as long as rolled a Miller Lite down the aisle every once in a while.

Unfortunately, Rita’s upgrade notification was all a big Business Class tease (!) and we both ended up back in coach. [And I do so hate to see Rita cry.] She got an upgraded seat compared to mine, however, in that she had an operational console. Specifically, she…and Every. Other. Passenger on the plane…had an overhead light and TV sound to use in the completely blacked-out cabin…while I had a bum console and 13 hours of silent darkness. My rucksack of entertainment does me no good if I Have. No. #%@$&. Light. I read by the glow of my laptop until the battery went dead [only 10 more hours to go.] If I had been in a window seat, I would have thrown open the shade and burned the retinas of all the lucky people with their working consoles.

Thankfully, my re-coached girlfriend let me reach across the aisle and plug into her console to watch the movie. Which was all good and well until our stretched-out cord clotheslined half the staff. Honest to god, you would have thought word would have spread amongst the hundred flight attendants about the booby trap in row 19…Instead, it was like a bad episode of the A-Team…with one perky waitress after another hurtling down the aisle until forward progress was violently halted at row 19 [“But since you’re here…can I get another Miller Lite?”]. Of course, those were my ears that the cord was connected to when Suzie the Flight Attendant did her sudden faceplant, so I didn’t come out so great in the deal either.

But Hong Kong was worth the trip...more on that later.

In Flight Entertainment

While I have yet to plan one single thing for the time we are in Hong Kong, I have planned EXTENSIVELY for the flight over there. Have I mentioned that the flight is a tad….long? We leave today at noon and factoring in the time change, we arrive…in June. [Don’t worry – you get it back on the flight home.]

I have EASILY packed more books, magazines and blog ideas than clothes [skorts don’t take up much space]. If I were to read everything I brought with me, I would earn a Ph.D. before I land. A Ph.D. in worthless, non-fiction trivia, mind you – but a Ph.D. nonetheless. [At least as valuable as Rita’s Ph.D. in cooking magazines.]

I went ahead and penciled in a schedule of activities for the flight, so I knew I would keep busy:

Noon to 1 pm:         Happy hour
1 pm to 2 pm:          Blogging [always better after happy hour]
2 pm to 3 pm:          Daily dose of Winston Churchill biographies
3 pm to touchdown: Ambien/snoring/drooling. My apologies to my neighbor in seat 26B. [OMG!..I’m the reason people don’t like middle seats!]

But I have 8 books on my Kindle, just in case. And a John Grisham paperback should we reach Code Red boredom.

Then there’s the food we packed. Chex mix/bananas/mini snickers/etc./etc.. [Bet the bananas make it all the way to Hong Kong. Maybe even Ireland.] Usually, these provisions would represent a week’s worth of calories. Apparently, however, calories during air travel are like gravity on the space shuttle…only 1/6th count. I mean, when was the last time you let yourself buy a bag of mini-snickers?! [Unless you “put it in escrow” by asking someone else to hide it from you]

With all the food we’ve packed, Rita and I we could start our own airborne canteen. If United’s food cart goes empty, I’m going to pay for this vacation with a granola bar liquidation.

Get Skorty

What is it about vacationing with Rita that always includes me buying a skirt?? [See post regarding Rio shopping: http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2008/03/shopping-for-rio.html.] Honest to god, other than an unfortunate graduation dress or two and the close-as-she’s-ever-gonna-get-to-the-wedding-dress number for 1st communion, I’ve managed to live a skirt-free life. At least until I started vacationing with Rita.

Hong Kong weather calls for something “cool…to compensate for weather that may remind you of the Surface.  Of.  The.  Sun.”  When I checked the Hong Kong weather in February (i.e., the middle of WINTER), it was 97 degrees (!). That may have been Celsius. Preparing for spontaneous combustion involves packing light. I figured shorts and a t-shirt would make me look too much like a tourist. [Because other than the wardrobe…I am pretty sure I will Blend. Right. In. I expect to be the tallest, whitest woman these people see in a generation.]  Anyway…Rita recommended a skirt…I voted capri’s…we settled on a skort. For those who aren’t familiar with a skort my brother, the skort is shorts masquerading as a skirt by attaching a wrap-around panel [made especially for tomboys?]. Besides…it’s just fun to say. So WHAT if I look like a college women’s basketball coach stomping around in my secret-shorts.

While we were shopping for my skort wardrobe…Rita thought she would go all in and suggest a little black dress to wear to her work dinner. “Honey, I don’t care if we are at R.E.I., I’m not buying a dress.” When I told Lo in Nashville that story, she told me I could just wear sliding shorts under the dress… afterall, sliding shorts ARE the original Spanx. At least for some of us. [And if you have to look up “sliding shorts”, I’m probably not talking about you.]

Where ARE my old softball uniforms?

Networking

Even though I am supposed to be on “sabbatical”…I have been working. Spending time networking, that is, in San Diego. After all, I’ve lived in this town for 18 months and I know 8 people, none of whom are likely to give me a job. I probably need to pick up the pace a little.

I spent much of last week (when not in Vegas, that is), meeting and greeting complete strangers – trying to explain in 35 words or less why I am a kick-ass accountant/finance exec/consultant [the blog goes unmentioned]. I had 3 different coffee dates set up on Thursday…probably should have gone with the decaf. By the 3rd meeting, I may have come across as an overly-enthusiastic accountant/finance exec/consultant.

Some of these things can be excruciating. I’ve figured out that “you’ve got a really great resume” is just another way of saying “she’s a good sport” or “bless her heart”.  [Did I mention I can pivot table the phone book and I come with my own help desk?]

And after a couple of these speed-rating sessions – I just want to put certain answers on my business card so we don’t have to cover them again:

• Rhymes with “Dave”
• Nope, not short for anything…It’s Irish
• Why’d I moved out to San Diego? Umm, it’s an accountant’s mecca – you didn’t know that?
• Not that kind of black belt…Six Sigma Black Belt

I’m going to go back to “networking” about the Titans.

 

Continuing Education

I’m in Vegas for some continuing professional education (“CPE”) for my CPA. [I’m barely able to stay on the right side of these rules, but if I can finagle a trip to Vegas out of it – I at least stand a chance of getting the required hours each year.]

I expect these classes to be anything but controversial. Boring, yes. Controversial, no.

Today’s class [innocuously titled Critical Issues for Industry Accountants] is turning out to be a 7 hour political rally. I think the instructor is Sarah Palin’s grandfather. Don’t let the bowtie fool you…this guy is a first class wingnut. He must have mentioned the Twin Towers a dozen times in the introduction. He said it so often I thought he must be trying to activate a Tea Party sleeper cell or something. And I don’t know how you shoehorn “Islamofascism” into an accounting class…but he did.

Thank god we were out playing craps and drinking mimosas during the part comparing our country today to the Weimar republic [and that makes Obama equal to…] Ummmm, seriously….most of the people in this room are Controllers – aren’t we supposed to be in favor of improved controls?? I don’t REALLY think that the Fraud Protection program is the same thing as “getting a computer chip implanted in your neck like a dog.”

I did run up to my room during the first break and put on my Obama t-shirt [I bring it with me on every trip]. But I am definitely going to need an HRC meeting to recover from THIS class.

Oh WAIT! Rice krispie treats for the break. Nevermind, I take it all back – I love this class!

Sabbatical

I’ve been jobless for a whole week now. Several people have asked, what are you doing with yourself?? To be honest – I have no earthly idea, but I seem very, very busy. Here’s a sample of my activities:  

• Looking for shoes. Ever since I started wearing this damn boot – I’ve lost every single left-footed shoe I own.
• Bugging the crap outta Rita. "What are you doing now?" Working. "How about now?" Working.
• Not one single thing around the house. Sabbatical or no, the streak remains unbroken.
• I am going to need you people to step up your facebook activity since I am now checking it on the 8’s….[9:28, 9:38, 9:48…it makes me feel connected].
• My to-do list has gotten significantly less ambitious. I caught myself adding “Check voicemail” as a to-do item.
• Molly’s already charmed life has gotten about three walks a day better.
• I sent a birthday card on time for the first time in my life.
• I spent one regretful hour participating in an on-line discussion regarding the Titan’s best 3rd round draft pick. [It seemed important at the time.  BTW, it's clearly Zach Piller.]
• I suddenly have the attention span of a 3 year old. One airline reservation took me almost two hours to book yesterday…I looked up car deals and the weather and mapquested the location. These are things I usually do at the airport before the flight takes off (if I do them at all).

Good thing I am going to Vegas (for CPA continuing education) on Monday so I can be productive [if standing around a craps table losing money counts as being productive, that is].

Adams Ave.

I’ve lived here for a year and a half and I still have to use Mapquest to get to the grocery store. It’s high time I learn my neighborhood. So one of my sabbatical goals is to visit every establishment on the main drag that runs along our neighborhood. In a 3 mile stretch of Adams Avenue, you can pretty much go around the world [and in some cases…underworld]. Just for illustration, here are some of the targets on my Tour de Hood:

• Mama’s Roots – Traditional and Urban Magic. [Glad to see we can still go old school on our magic. Paging Harry Potter.]
• The Stuff Store [someone did NOT spend much time on their branding]
• Eritrean Community Center [can you still use the Community Center if you have ZERO idea where Eritria is??  Why do I anticipate problems trying to "pass" for Eritrean?]
• Pilgrimage of the Heart Yoga [someone spent too much time on their branding. This combines ALL my favorite transactional events…pilgrimages of the heart, yoga…can’t wait.]
• The Martial Arts Gym [full contact spin class?]

We won’t even include the tattoo parlors since I visited most of them during the unfortunate belly ring incident>>  http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2008/05/belly-ring.html

Rita already dropped out of this little game right after the trip to the Crown Jewelry and Loan [I LOVE pawn shops]. It’s early in the pursuit, however, and our addiction to $2 popsicles is already paying the rent at Viva Pop [3330 Adams Ave].

One thing I haven’t decided is whether I will just visit these places or do I need to actively engage/purchase/participate? Because while I will be happy to do business with the donut shop or $5 pizza places, it will be tougher to transact with the Philosophy Tree Metaphysical book store or the Cabrillo Academy of the Sword, Theatrical Sword Play [although I WOULD love a school sweatshirt.]

And for the first time ever – I did not make up a single name/location in this whole blog entry - these are all places within 3 miles of our house. My visit to the Cabrillo Academy of the Sword will undoubtedly be its own blog. I wonder if they do birthday parties…

Meanwhile, anyone interested in the AmVets Wednesday night bingo…let me know.

Das Boot

I have been hobbling around with a walking boot since Friday, which happened to be my last day of work. [I lose my job AND my ability to walk unencumbered all on the same day.] Turns out that my use of free time [a/k/a afternoons] over the past month spent training for the SD Half Marathon has resulted in a stress fracture. [Yep – I have been training for a half-marathon. Underemployment is always good for my fitness level. Remember when I had that Sarbanes Oxley “job”? Well…let’s just say it coincided with my marathon training.]

Anyway, despite playing every sport imaginable in my lifetime, I’ve never really had an injury before [primarily because I don’t try very hard], so I’m not sure what went wrong this time [first person that says “you’re getting old” gets a boot to the head]. I’m not even sure it’s a stress fracture cuz I haven’t been to the doctor [lest he tell me to stay off it or some other news I don’t want to hear.] Instead, I have borrowed a walking boot from Rita. [Self diagnosed and now self treated. Who are we kidding…I’ll never take a healthy step again.] My toes hang out a little on Rita’s boot, but I’m sure that’s not messing up any of the important tendons.

And I’m not going to say that Rita is accident prone – but she does have a FINE assortment of orthopedic equipment [elbow sling, left (and right) walking boot, knee brace…I think I will stop now before I have to borrow another one.]

So here I sit on my sabbatical supposed to be staying off my feet, just when I have no need to be at my desk all day. Fabulous.

Molly's Walk-Abouts

It was bound to happen and it did. After almost a year and a half, Molly finally figured out that there is unfettered access between her back yard playground and the front yard of freedom [she’s a blonde]. That there is nothing but her good behavior keeping her from hiking down the driveway and not looking back til she gets her fill of other dogs’ poop. That’s right..she spent 18 well-behaved months tooling around the back yard without ever exploring what lay on the other end of that driveway. Okay, okay, there was that one time she ran around to the front yard & got maced by the postman, but otherwise, she’s never even TRIED it. [Maybe THAT’s been the deterrent all this time?]

Whatever it was, the deterrent has expired – because Molly has recently taken to wee walk-abouts in the neighborhood. The first time she went out for a self-guided walk, she went unnoticed until the phone rang…"Ummm…hi…I have a white dog here with your number on her collar.” Da wha? You mean Molly isn’t in the back yard? [Mother of the year.] The second time we noticed she was gone, we found her collar in the living room while she was out-and-about naked as a jaybird. We spent 20 panicked minutes looking for her before we found her in front of the shitzou-owning neighbor’s big picture window. “Hey neighbor…sorry about your dog scratching the hell out of your window. Our dog doesn’t normally taunt like that.” [Lie]

Rita and I have begun spending part of every day frantically calling out to one another “Have you seen Molly? Where’s Molly? Do you have Molly??” [It’s a good thing her street in California doesn’t have as much traffic as Woodlawn Dr …she’d be a Molly pancake by now. This dog has NOT figured out that in dog vs. car….car wins.]

Which means it’s time for more yard art on Hilldale Road with our very own driveway fence:

[All my crap is keeping Rita from being able to park in the garage anyway…so what the heck.] We could have tried the electronic fence again [see post: http://savemethecall.blogspot.com/2008/11/invisible-fence-part-deux.html, ] but quite frankly, my nerves couldn’t take it. This is probably not the landscaping Rita imagined when she bought the house a couple of years ago, but that precious little white dog is sooooooo worth it, right honey??? Besides, the way I look at it is that it doesn’t keep Molly IN the yard as much as it keeps the skunk OUT of the yard. [Oh dear god, I hope.]

And that baby is secured! We were pretty doggone proud of the job we did bolting that thing into place…until the yard man arrived with his mower to do the back yard, that is.

The Capitol

While in D.C., my absolute favorite tour was the Capitol building. This tour is geared toward getting the maximum number of people through “The Capitol Experience” in the shortest amount of time. Did you know that the number of people touring the Capitol each day exceeds the original population of the 13 colonies? Okay…I made that up. But my tour group (who was totally impressed with this little funfact) doesn’t have to know that.

They maximize the tour by having the world’s best microphone set-up ever. Because every tour guide is given about 2 square feet in which to give their spiel, the tour-ees [that’s us] wear these headphones that are tuned to a frequency for only our tour guide’s microphone – so we could hear our docent Patty and not the other 57 tour guides in the rotunda. The applications for this are ENDLESS. I see Anne Louise standing in front of a whole class of headphone-wearing freshmen..getting in their HEADS. I am pretty sure my mom will be sporting at least the walkie-talkie version for Operation Garage Sale.

The set-up was pretty sophisticated stuff, which is why I was so surprised when the kid behind me lost his before we even got to the first stop on the tour. [Surprised it wasn’t me, that is.] Honest to god, we pull up in front of a bust of Lincoln and some sheepish father has to interrupt the tour guide – “ummmm, we seem to have lost a headset here, can he stand up front?” Old Patty wasn’t happy…"we’ve only walked through ONE room. How do you lose something on your head in less than 20 yards?” [Turns out Patty didn’t particularly like children or crowds…so as a docent in the Capitol, she was livin’ the dream.]

However, if you are going to be a walking transmitter…you need to remember that We. Can. Hear. Every. Word. You. Say. Patty kept forgetting she was mic’d as we walked from one chamber to the next. “Hey Marge – yeah, I don’t think half of em speak a word of English in my group.” “STEVE-O! Meet ya at Hawk & Dove after work for a brewskie?” I just wanted to say “We’re right here Patty, and those of us who can speak English are planning to meet you at the Hawk and Dove.”

Washington DC

The trip to Washington D.C. turned out GREAT. First of all, everything in D.C. is supersized. The Supreme Court building is the same size as my hometown. Honestly, those people on TV must be standing in front of a papier mache model of the Capitol building – because they would look like Honey I Shrunk the Kids in front of the real one.

A few highlights from my trip:

• The ticket thing didn’t turn out so badly after all. Apparently, the key to walking right into a tour in Washington D.C. is not having 35 kids in tow. ["Party of 2, no field trip? Come right in."]
• Visitors to D.C. are either 13 or 73, there is no in-between. Everyone between the ages of 20 and 30 works there (presumably controlling gazillion dollar budgets like twenty-year-olds were born to do).
• Apparently, zoning laws require ALL restaurant/bar/workplace TV’s to be tuned to CNN, MSNBC or Fox. Don’t you people know there is a game on???
• There is a monument every 20 feet in that city.  You have to be vigilant for monument fatigue…"Oh, it’s just the Korean War monument.” [It probably seemed like a pretty significant war to the guys who fought in it.]
• They really do have a museum or a monument to EVERYTHING in D.C.  I was fine to skip a few of the less popular ones:

1. The Summer School Museum [no thanks, once was enough]
2. Hall of Prohibition [sounds like a blast]
3. The Blonde-American Memorial [A hyphen + the word “American” =surefire monument]
4. The Dan Quayle Monumant to the Vice-Presidency [Speaking of Quayle, whatever happened to…]
5. Secret Service Anti-Insurgency Demonstration [oh wait….that wasn’t a re-enactment, that was DADT protestors getting too close to the White House.]

 My FAVORITE was the tour of the Capitol…but more on that tomorrow. 

Garage Sale

If any of you are talking to my mom, will you tell her I went back to work? Said another way, I think I am going to regret telling my mom about this little “sabbatical” that I start in May. I came to this conclusion when I talked to her last week and she told me my summer plans:

“Okay. I thought about it and I think I am going to have you and Anne Louise come down for a week and help me clean out the attic and the basement and have a garage sale.”

Whoooooaaaaaaaaaaa there, little lady….I will fly around the world to meet you in Ireland, but spend a Friday morning filling out a thousand 99 cent sale stickers?? Followed by the graceful schlep of my childhood Pizza Hut oven from the attic to the garage? [EZ Bake ovens weren’t for everyone] Seriously? Have you never met me? I moved my own stuff across the country to save cleaning out the basement. And why now? Stuff doesn’t even fall out of YOUR closets when you open them…what’s the rush?

At least ALL of us with the summer off are roped into invited to the festivities =) [smiley face rule, mom]. My school-teaching sister will be there despite a nagging manual-labor allergy of her own. My mother told her she could “supervise”. Ummmmm, supervise who?? Am I demoted before I even arrive? The Individual Contributor of the Garage Sale hierarchy? THAT sounds like maximum manual labor. And just wait til Rita reads this – I’m going to spend the summer being a garage sale bitch, aren’t I??? Waaaahhh

The Garage Sales pitch [get it] finished with mom’s enthusiastic proclamation that “your nephew can have all the proceeds”. Sorry little man, I am keeping every bit of the $1.75 per hour that I earn.

Itineraries

This sabbatical (which doesn’t officially start until May 1st, for anyone talking to my current employer) comes with quite a learning curve. FIRST lesson – do NOT casually volunteer to meet your mother in a foreign country. Don’t get me wrong – I am looking forward to my upcoming trip to Ireland, I just didn’t expect it to immediately follow my trip to Hong Kong [I know, I know…cry me-and-my-fabulous-life a river.  The trip to HK is for Rita's work (score!), so I could hardly decline...]

And by “immediately follow” I mean “Can I book a one-way ticket from Hong Kong to Belfast, please.” [THAT ought to get me on a few TSA watch lists.] That’s right – this particular trip involves Every. Single. Time. Zone in the world. I am pointing my unemployed ass in a generally westward direction and not stopping until I hit Hilldale Road again. At one sick moment, I was looking at possible Ireland to San Diego itineraries thinking “yeah – but it’s only an 11-hour flight, that’s no biggie”. The half-day mark has become my new definition of long-haul. 11 hours in a single seat. They better park the Miller Lite cart by seat 12D.

At one point, I found myself arguing for a good twenty minutes with the booking agent about my HK to London reservation # HKD3390 before she was able to explain that HKD3390 was the price – $3390 Hong Kong Dollars. [I’m hoping that translates to a buck fifty in US dollars]. That’s when Nicola thought she should step in. It’s a good thing too, because I had almost booked the trip on Air China [free Google service??] whose reward miles can be redeemed for lead-based paint. My platinum level concierge, of course, found me a complete itinerary on airlines I have actually heard of. San Diego to LA. LA to Hong Kong. Hong Kong to London. London to Derry. Derry to Dublin. Dublin to Chicago. Chicago to San Diego. It involves 5 different airlines, mind you – but none are operated by third world countries.

She also found me a $23 flight from London to Ireland. $23! [Should I be worried if the plane leaves from the greyhound terminal?] I have a funny feeling my suitcase is going to cost $175 to check.

That’s right, I am going 47,000 miles, 8 different times zones, 5 trips through customs and not one single destination that doesn’t speak English.   =)

Skype

Seeing as I am going to be unemployed in three two-and-a-half weeks [yikes], I am starting to reach out to recruiters. One of the guys I am working with (from out east), asked if we could meet over Skype.

Great. The first test for potential employment seems to be whether you can install basic computer software [are you smarter than a fifth grader]. I, of course, had to call Nicola [I’m an accountant who comes with her own help desk].

In addition to simple connectivity, there are presentation things to think about with Skype. I thought “Ah – sketchy quality, my PC camera is 4 years old and has god-knows-what stuck to the lens – he’ll barely be able to see me. I will definitely take off the ballcap, but probably just fluff the hair.”

It’s a damn good thing I tested this skype thing beforehand. Not only is it NOT sketchy, but when I sit over the keyboard [like any good accountant does when sitting in front of a computer] – you can actually make out the pores on my face. Ack! I don’t need a resume, I need a facial. Not only did I NOT wear pajama bottoms as originally planned…but I went ahead and put on perfume, just for good measure. I hope this skype thing doesn’t catch on for meetings – I will have to upgrade my all-pajama office attire.

Incidentally, a skype view into my home office is a little unflattering. At least my PC camera was pointed AWAY from most of my desk – much like a camera pointed out the front door of a condemned house. Seriously…it was mainly pointed at my disproportionately large face [I really was too close] and the ceiling. Which is good, because 12 hours after Julieta finished cleaning our house – the ceiling was the only tidy part of my whole room.

[sigh] I better work on my skype skills or I am going to be limited to a super-casual, big-faced workplace.

Washington DC

Apparently, three days before you arrive in Washington D.C. is NOT the time to start planning your D.C. itinerary. [What was I gonna do – try to get fired earlier so I could plan my vacation(s)??]  See – in D.C., you can reserve internet tickets ahead of time for the most popular attractions.  Kind of like FASTPASS at Disney [but the rides aren't as good].  However, every single field-trip-leading school teacher in America [I’m looking at you Anne Louise] must get on-line years in advance of their trip because…as of today…the NEXT ticket available for the Washington Monument is just a tad out-of-date [that would be August 17th and not April 17th. I am not even sure it was August 17th of this year.] I feel like I should get preferential treatment for these historical landmarks because I spent a year of my life reading the Harry Truman biography. I mean…I am ALL for celebrating Democracy, but can’t there be some sort of VIP line to do it?! [I bet I could pass as a docent at Robert E. Lee's house.]

So our itinerary is chock full of things like the Washington Mall, Lincoln Memorial and Arlington National Cemetery. Big, open, ticketless attractions. [Shame about the forecast.]

And my soon-to-be unemployed self is being quite frugal in our planning [see ticketless attractions]. Don’t tell Rita, but we are staying on the Priceline floor of the first hotel before we move to a different [free points] hotel on Saturday.

So just to recap…I have just finished planning for our cheap-as-hell, none-of-the-good-attractions trip to D.C. Am I a vacation dreamboat or WHAT?

More Vegas

More from my weekend trip to Vegas [if you didn’t read the Liberace post – you may want to start there and come back to this post]. Rita couldn’t make it, but my high school friends Melissa & John came up with a killer itinerary (somebody is watching them some Food Network) [Really…when you don’t spend 16 hours standing at a craps table giving money away, you get to see all KINDS of things in Vegas.]

First, our post-Liberace hunger was satisfied by a world-famous Stromboli from the TV show “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.” [Our destination was proudly representing the Dive category, I’m guessing.] After paying for the taxi to and from the [very] off-Strip location, we figured we had just had a $75 Stromboli….but, ummm, fyi….worth it.

Our breakfast the next day featured Snickers flapjacks [You heard me right. It’s a “Man vs. Food” favorite. You may not know the show…but think about a food that is suitable for battle – and you get the picture.] This one was so good that my friend Melissa told her husband they should make it at home for the kids. To which he replied…”that’s right honey, for the kids.”

And I now know a real-live person who has eaten a deep fried Twinkie. And in a rare moment of restraint – it’s not me. The judgment seems to be that the 99 cents is a bargain. Of course, I lost $10 in a slot machine while we were waiting for the oil to heat…so it was really an $11 Twinkie [much more in line with its true value].

But it wasn’t ALL fine food. My off-Strip lodging was just as exciting [did I mention that Rita wasn’t with me?]. I seemingly booked the hotel room right next to the 21-year-old spring-breakers. At least they all went out for the night about the same time I went to bed. Unfortunately, my neighbor “Angela” had the unfortunate habit of passing out each time her boyfriend went down the hall for ice…requiring him to stand at the locked door at 4 a.m. shouting at her like Rocky until another neighbor yelled at him to “shut the fuck up, asshole”. [Obviously – all the Priceline customers got the same floor at my hotel.]

Next trip – I’m only playing craps at the places with deep-fried Twinkies.

Liberace's Musuem

The Liberace museum is billed as the best $15 you will spend in Vegas. I could not agree more. [And consider that this recommendation is coming from someone who last veered from her earth-tone course in 1994.] It was beguiling, bewitching, bedazzling. The overall organizational strategy of the pink, rhinestoned museum seemed geared toward making you say “Oh no, HE’s not gay” at least every 10 feet. Sparkling stars & striped hotpants? Gay. Swaroski crystal bejeweled convertible? Gay. Ruby-encrusted piano ring from his mother? Seriously. [We’re talking Johnny Weir territory.]

Our Docent (Bette) was one of several middle-aged groupies/museum volunteers that had it bad for the big L. We’ll call them the Liberace-ina’s. She used to work as a consultant for IBM before dedicating herself to the spangle and the glitz. She was so enthusiastic about her work at the not-for-profit museum, that I now thought less of those who merely helped the poor. Liberace Docent is JUST a higher calling.

The big draw of the museum was his wardrobe. As our Docent highlighted how he had his outfits made to match his pianos, I felt a little sheepish about my brown loafer/black sweater combo. (I sooooooo could have been Liberace’s Eliza Doolittle.) Liberace even had a full-time furrier. [Apparently, Liberace was the genesis for PETA.] Honestly, no member of the animal kingdom was safe from L’s fur fetish – turkey feathers, chinchilla, llama fur (who the hell knew llama fur made such a stylish lapel?) The best part…as we’re walking away from the “Midnight” ensemble, the Docent casually remarks that it is “made of upside-down monkey furandnow, we’ll move on to this magnificent Easter outfit.” [Why! Is it made out of the Easter bunny himself?!] We were all stunned stupid by the complete throw-away line, trying to figure why the poor monkeys had to be upside down when they were skinned silly.

As Bette worked her Docent magic, however, you actually bought into the concept that Liberace must have been “a terribly strong man because he could perform in a 210 lb pink-ostrich-feathered cape.” [Oh yes, he was Atlas under that chinchilla fur. What ARE the cape-wearing muscles again?]

In the tour-ending documentary, we found out that he even had a spangle-clad protégé that has carried on the Liberace magic [“protégé” apparently being French for “lover”]. And I don’t want to ruin Rita’s birthday surprise, but he IS available for special celebrations.

HRC Dinner

For those of you unfamiliar with HRC (Human Rights Commission), it is a national political action committee for the gays. As one of their major fundraisers, they sponsor chichi dinners across the country where everyone gets all dolled up for equality and listens to hours of big, gay speeches.

Well...a week ago Saturday – I took Rita to her first HRC dinner, Nashville style:

• I will bet you that this is the only silent auction in the South that includes trips to Provincetown, Miami Beach and Fire Island [and oh yeah… a lot of gift certificates for a free cut and color]
• If the women attending Saturday’s dinner are any indication, equality’s army will be clad in a black pantsuit.
• The equality-lovin’ liberal from California sure was an easy fund-raising mark. “But Rita, if you are going to write a check, at least get me a trip to Provincetown, Miami Beach or Fire Island.”
• I know, I know….there are more Nashville City Council Members attending than EVER …but do they all have to sit together? [“I know what your preacher Ted Haggard told you…but we’re not contagious.”]
• It’s a cash bar?! Nothing says equality like a $15 cocktail.
• “Yes, honey – the non-discriminatory ordinance that we are celebrating is from THIS year. You Californians have Berkeley…we have NASCAR. You have to grade on a curve.”
• I had to explain ALL the country music jokes to Rita [When they say…"Taylor Swift can’t hit a note with a bus…”]
• Beware the elegant southern straight ladies…who knew Iris Buehl’s speech would make the gay boys blush?
• From now on, the entertainment at these things is going to be American Idol semi-finalists, isn’t it? There’s like a 1,000 year supply.

What's Cooking

Mom’s visit to San Diego was certainly eventful…because it involved the first ever non-pizza dinner I have ever cooked. [38 years old and those merit badges just keep on coming.]

In light of my success…I thought I would put together a comprehensive how-to program for the similarly untrained who want to attempt this daunting task. So in 12 easy steps, here is my dinner-for-dummies. [Wait just a minute, here…a 12 step program…]

Step 1....Pop in “unexpectedly” to a friend’s house at dinnertime and take copious notes about what she throws together on short notice. [One man’s “college food” is another woman’s most-extensive-meal-ever-made.]

Step 2....Reject any courses involving more than 3 1 ingredient.

Step 3....Take the stolen wrapper from the prototype dinner in order to purchase the…wait a second, here….Trader Joe’s Boneless Beef Tri-Top Roast

Step 4....On appointed evening, set up ambient lighting [i.e., space heater] in mom’s Terrace Bistro & Hookah Lounge

Step 5....Make menu exactly as designed [Except the roasted potatoes became Ore Ida crinkle fries and the spicy green beans became expendable.]

Step 6...Turn on grill. Try to turn on grill. [Damn…this is the part of the process my people are supposed to be good at]

Step 7...Learn how to turn Rita’s restaurant-grade stove on

Step 8...“Delegate” stove operation to Momma sous chef

Step 9...Apologize profusely for roast on the first Friday of Lent [“Of COURSE I’m going to church, mom – why do you ask?”]

Step 10...Make sure your inaugural dinner is for your mother, who is obligated by the rules of nature to say – “Well that was just perfect!”

Day 2 [that's right...Day 2]
Step 11...Refill empty propane tank before Rita gets home
Step 12...Pay Julieta extra to destroy dirty-stove evidence of baby’s first dinner

Repeat as necessary until mom begins to host herself in your house.

Critters

My mom has critters…and we’re not talking dogs and cats. No…my mother has raccoons [plural] in the attic of her house. [I keep telling mom that wild animals do not make good pets, but nonetheless, her house has officially become….Nana Annie’s Raccoon Spa and Nocturnal Feast-aporium]

And how do we discover these little bastards are crawling around up there? Because some daughter takes an exhausting trip home, visits all day and then lays down to sleep in the upstairs bedroom….where she is buffeted by the pitter-patter of a gaggle of coons scurrying above. Did I mention overhead? Aiiiieeeeeeee And the dogs just LOVE it. I had to move downstairs after Molly had a nervous breakdown from hysterically chasing the ceiling from one end of the house to the other.  Not to mention that once embedded, asbestos is easier to remove than those little $^#%@.

Cue…~“the Critter Guy”~

The Critter Guy [these are real jobs, people!] has been out about a dozen times tending to the matter and trying to plug all the places they may be getting in. Turns out that bashing the heads of these little suckers [my suggestion for dealing with them] runs afoul of certain animal welfare laws, so they have to be “resettled”.  As of two weeks ago, the Critter Guy has removed 6 (!) different raccoons from the attic of mom’s house.  Ummmm...for those keeping score at home...that’s 200 lbs of varmint hanging out overhead. After resettling the first 5 raccoons, however, the Critter Guy didn’t charge mom for the last one. Seriously? Buy 5, get 1 free. And I am pretty sure the Critter Guy is my mother’s new BFF. I don’t know if “the Critter Guy” is his real name, but I think that’s how he’s going to show up in the will. He’s even ahead of my brother in the Love Game.  =)

6 raccoons, 1 insulation re-install and a homeowner’s insurance claim later…we THINK they are all gone.

Cannabis Central

I had no idea when I moved out here that it was the Netherlands of the West. That’s right…you can buy pot out here just about any old place you want. [Buying pot is legal, but gay marriage isn’t?? WTF. Gay commitment is below the munchies in the moral hierarchy? Got it.]

Okay – it’s not that you can buy it ANYWHERE, you have to have a prescription, from a whole new breed of doctor that seems to have popped up overnight [Dr. Beingstoned, I presume]. You also have to be a member of a “Cannabis Cooperative” – whose membership standards seem to be slightly below that of Facebook [aliases encouraged].

Cannabis Cooperatives…I am not making this up. And they advertise EVERYWHERE. If you pick up the local newsweekly, there are PAGES of ads desperately trying to attract your pot-buying dollars. The only rule in play seems to be that you must include the words “alternative” or “holistic” in the name of your cooperative. Bill and Ted’s Excellent Holistic Co-op. And from there it gets completely shameless.

Here are honest-to-god, 100%-true excerpts from a single page of adverts this week [with some additional comments added, of course]:

• Free gifts for new members or referrals [I don’t think we’re talking Happy Meal prizes here]
• Senior, military and union discount [Senior discount?! Now I know what we can do during mom’s visit. Seriously though, military and union?? Just the people MOST likely to operate heavy machinery, great.]
• Free joint Sunday [For when church is just too taxing.]
• Free edible for first time patients [ummmm…edible? Nevermind – I don’t wanna know]
• Complementary [sic] coffee, tea & cocoa [Is it true that pot makes you use the wrong word? Or maybe a good cup of cocoa really does complete your cannabis experience.]
• Walk-ins welcome [walk-outs more welcome, at least to those of us sharing the roads]

And it’s all in the name of healthcare! [And here I thought I was being creative with my FSA money. Legal and tax deductible.]

Unofficially Official

Well…it is unofficially official – when my company completes the sale of itself, I will be moving on to greener pastures. [And if I weren’t on the to-be-fired list already, one sure way to end up there is to blog about it.] But don’t cry for me, Argentina…as I am expecting to take a few months off before starting another gig. Right now, I am cruising through a 2 or 3 month wind-down period before retiring my BTB title permanently.

I have high expectations for the upcoming sabbatical – visions of a second language and community involvement and actually answering my phone when it rings. Unfortunately…if this lame-duck interim period (that I like to call my “underemployment” phase) is any indication, I will figure out ways to fill my time with slightly less impressive pursuits:

• Did anyone notice I started blogging again
• After a 2 year hiatus, I am once again caught up on my Law & Order reruns
• I am thoroughly engaged in reward point arbitrage. I now have reward accounts EVERYWHERE…Starbuckies, the grocery store, MyCoke.com. There are spreadsheets involved in the management of this complex network of worthless freebies. [Points for Diet Cokes?? I hope everyone likes them some Coca-Cola shit for Christmas.]
• I am terribly up-to-date on errand-running. Yesterday I made a special trip for pens.
• I am working on a number of techniques for that elusive tan
• I have written 32 letters to the editor of the neighborhood newsletter. “Ill-behaved pets that are not properly leashed may terrorize our mail carriers and neighbors” – indeed!

But at least I haven’t tried that bubble burst game on Facebook…YET

Background Noise

After working from home for so long, I have come to realize that many of my conference calls are accompanied by various forms of odd background noise. It’s bad enough that....thanks to the mailman's daily visits to the front porch....Every. Single. Person. I work with thinks I own a crazed rottweiler. But Molly's hysterical barking is just the start of the suspicious sounding background noise:

• The clinking of the seltzer bottles sounds a lot like a Martini kit in action [No, Boss, but I like the way you think]
• While walking the dog, the sound of neighbors saying hello sounds a lot like somebody new joining the call
• Unloading the dishwasher sounds just like….. unloading the dishwasher [You are all invited to participate in my household chores with me]
• The sound of ice cubes in my afternoon latte sounds like an early start to happy hour [very early, given the time change]
• Julieta’s vacuuming [which seems to ONLY occur when I am on a conference call] sounds like I am calling from the inside of a jet engine
• A game of fetch with Molly and her favorite squeaking toy sounds like I could give a damn about the conference call in progress.

Thank god you can’t hear someone still in their pajama’s at 3 o’clock in the afternoon…

Hand-o-prompter

I honestly thought I was getting over Sarah Palin....but then SP gives a speech in Nashvegas and – in case any of you rely on Fox News for your updates – is caught with crib notes written on the palm of her hand!

Notes on the palm of her hand?? When did Mead notecards get to be so elitist? Listen…I am not so much concerned that she needed some notes for her speech, or even that she thought a nationally broadcast Q&A session was the equivalent of a quiz in Senor Deig’s Spanish class…but I AM concerned by WHAT she needed a cheat sheet to remember:

Energy
Budget Tax cuts
Lift American Spirit

I mean…it wasn’t like she had a cheat sheet to remember critical Supreme Court decisions, the prime minister of Iran or even the Spanish word for shoes. No – she had to have a cheat sheet to remember her basic political tenets. So…What. The. Hell is taking up all the hard drive space that she can’t commit a 3-point outline to memory??? I mean you're at the $%^@ Tea Party convention and you can’t remember “Tax Cuts”? It’s printed on Every.  Single.  T-shirt.  In.  Front of you. My very real fear is that she needs cheat sheets on the big stuff because critical hard drive space is dedicated to Barbie’s first pizza party. The Axis of Evil crowded out by Dora the Explorer.

Look…we all need little notes and reminders sometimes. [Mine personally says “turn out the lights”.] I do NOT however, need a cheat sheet that says “accountant”, “youngest child”, and “fine thank you, and you?”

Oh Sarah….you are still every blogger's muse.

FSA Account

Most of you are probably familiar with an FSA account. It’s an account you fund with deductions from your paycheck, tax-free to spend on healthcare. The drawback is that if you don’t use it by the end of the year, you lose it.

I have no idea how I got this CPA certificate because I am LOUSY with numbers, as evidenced by a slight mis-budgeting of FSA money for 2009.  I must have filled out my FSA registration right after leaving some traumatic dental appointment, because I set aside about $1,100 too much. [If I could have claimed Molly and her 18 tooth extractions, than she wouldn’t be nearly the financial burden she has otherwise become. Oh, KIDDING, people!].

So there I was, at the beginning of December, trying to figure out how to spend $1100 on health care (of all things) in three weeks. [Unfortunately, the healing properties of wine are not government-recognized.]  I started with unusually prompt payments to every dentist, doctor and lab company I have ever visited – without even the THREAT of collection agency involvement [extraordinary times, clearly].

Next up was a trip….wait for it… to COSTCO for reimburseable over-the-counter drugs. We now have 3,000 ibuprofen, a first-aid kit suitable for a M*A*S*H unit and every member of my family’s 2010 Christmas present [who doesn’t want contact solution under the Christmas tree??]. I even bought those Breathe Right strips. Let me tell you why those little suckers make you snore less…because the NASA-grade adhesive pulls your nostrils apart like a nightly nostril-ectomy. It’s so painful you can’t sleep…ergo, no snoring. [And if you do sleep, you dream all night about wearing a scuba mask. Trust me.]

It took some work, but I finally spent the whole FSA nut and I LOVE my new prescription sunglasses. [I didn’t know I wore a prescription either.] Actually, I do have an eyeglass prescription – but it’s for night driving….which doesn’t exactly overlap with sunglasses, but reimburseable nonetheless.

I am sure my normal pace of root canals will resume in 2010 and I won’t have these FSA issues.

Costco

When...exactly...did I super-size my life? Rita and I go to Costco at LEAST twice a month. At last count there was TWO of us in this house – WHY do we need 37 rolls of paper towels?? One trip to Costco and we have enough toothpaste for Obama’s first term. Honestly, I have a hard time reconciling certain aspects of my life…I spend Monday through Friday reducing, reusing and recycling. On SATURDAY I buy a book of stamps wrapped in 3 lbs of cardboard.

During our trips to Costco, Rita’s primary objective is market research [read: wine shopping], while I gravitate to the free samples. [The fact that they sell Diet Cokes by the pallet doesn’t hurt either.] The free samples are where it is AT, though. I don’t even like corned beef (served community style, no less), but I will throw an elbow to keep a little old lady from beating me to it. There’s nothing worse, however, than trampling poor shoppers  working your way to the front of the line only to find a free sample of fruit. Rita has learned to take over grocery-cart duty once we spy free samples, since I will think NOTHING of abandoning our purse-laden cart for a Totina pizza roll (pizza products = the jackpot of samples).

Maybe if they gave food samples at the landscaping store, Rita could get me to go there more often (...but I bet it would be fruit).

McSisters Weekend

For the uninitiated…McSisters’ Weekend occurs on Martin Luther King weekend of each year [celebrating not only our affinity for civil rights, but the first 3-day weekend of the year]. It’s a four-year-old tradition where Anne Louise, Nic and I pick a new, never-before visited town in which to find an ESPNZone and sit and watch the NFL playoffs. [The plan is usually much grander.]

This year, the McSisters visited Walt Disney World [No….NOT the one an hour up the road from me….the other one]. And I have to say, aside from all those annoying children running around – it was awesome. Here are some highlights from The World [as those in the know like to call it]:

• You know what is a Disney buzzkill to an 8 year old “princess”? Going to Lion King the Musical and drawing the seat behind the 5’ 12” “mouseketeer” in the front row. I bet there wasn’t a kid for 8 rows who could see around me. [“it’s MY vacation too, ya little brat”]
• It must suck to be an accountant at WDW – “Do we really need 3 acrobatic monkeys in the 1st Act? Can we not downsize to 2?”
• The Magic Kingdom doesn’t sell beer?? As Nicola said – and they call this the happiest place on earth?! Ha-rumph. Anne Louise lost all 4 cans of beer she was assigned to smuggle in and Nicola managed to get a whole BOTTLE of Sauvignon Blanc in. That’s it – Nicola’s assigned to bring the shampoo through all future TSA checkpoints.
• I have bad news for Rita – we went to Vietnam-land in Epcot and I can’t see what else we could POSSIBLY get from a vacation to Vietnam.
• There is apparently a well-known rule that if you travel together to Disney, you must all wear matching t-shirts. In the most obnoxious neon color possible.  (So as to mitigate the risk of losing Aunt Gladys?) Should I worry that the McSisters dressed me in my earth tones and sent me on my way?
• WDW refers to EVERY employee as a “cast member” and dresses them in costumes, no matter their job. While I applaud the effort, I think your 1776 Liberty Café lost its claim on authenticity when it hired its all-minority cashier staff. I don’t think there were many Asians manning the taverns in 1776. [So do you really need to subject cast members Malcolm & Soon Yi to a uniform of knickers and bonnets?]
• If you are good at stilt-walking, WDW is the promised land for you.
• Nicola didn’t enjoy the “It’s a Small World” ride nearly as much as she did in 1977 when she made my mom ride it endlessly. The ride DID manage to offend Every. Single. Culture I can think of. And there absolutely must have been a surplus of hula girls at the “prop-house” because even the Icelandic portion of “It’s a Small World” featured a grass-skirt-wearin’ hula girl.

Next year’s McSisters’ Weekend is New Orleans…if it survives the riots after the Super Bowl loss.