bookends

The Power Washtard Weeps

I will weep a little now, for it appears the most recent attempt at making a Watchmen movie may have died. (I'm also a little relieved that I won't have to weep if it came out and sucked.)

Two meetings in a row today and one postponed, the other meeting didn't even call in. I've got two other scheduled... maybe I should not show up and postpone.

I've been on a tear today, up since 4am (likely due to a very rich chocolate cake before bed; the caffeine kicked in around that time). Most of the days work is done except for the damn meetings, all of which revolve around stuff being announced next week during the biggest networking trade show of the year, which I happily do not attend. Sadly, every stupid company on the planet in this space holds their releases for such a week, on the mistaken belief that it somehow gets them more noticed. It does not. They get buried amid all the flotsam on the wires. Tech companies don't grasp the idea of a slow news week and taking advantage of such.

So, I think I've mentioned before in my explanation of how I am a washtard, that few things have almost lead to divorce in this household faster than my destruction of my wife's clothing using just the simple tools that God (if he exists) and the appliance store downtown (which I'm reasonably sure does exist) gave me.

That hasn't stopped me from doing every stitch of laundry in the house today. Every time something is ruined, I take about six months off from doing any of her cloths, but today I put myself out there on the line (so to speak). At first I made sure to not wash anything that looked even remotely like she would wear it to work, then did those anyway, making sure to check each tag individually before the apparel went in the washer, then again before I put anything in the dryer or out on the clothesline.

Yes, the clothesline... that ode to a lack of technology. It makes me feel like a goddamn cave man but without the club or the fur toga. Just purchasing clothes labeled Line Dry Only should be illegal in this day in age... but I suppose I should be happy there was nothing that was Dry Clean Only.

By the way, would it really kill the garment industry to standardize on where the instruction tags are? First look at the collar. That says, look to the side. I go to the right seam, and sometimes it's there, other times it is on the left seam. I spent more time fondling my wife's blouses when she's not in them than otherwise. (Not for lack of trying.)

It doesn't help that the last time I tried to actually do this, Bon started "helping" me and grabbing things that said Line Dry Only and threw them in the dryer anyway. Things like that cause unrest.

So, 25 minutes until my next meeting. I will probably spend it folding her laundry. All of the rest of the clean clothes are haphazardly in a basket in the living room, where they'll wait to be folded while watching TV, as God wanted. If he exists. The more I do the wife's laundry, the more I doubt it.

Wedding Crackers

While my thoughts swirl around the thought of the the Griffith Big Summer Project, now officially scheduled for initial demolition the week of May 9 (rip up old carpet) and construction on weekend of May 14-16 (nail down the wood floor), and as I grapple with the usual disappointment in myself that I haven't worked on my short story in days (6,700 words and holding), I should also mention the interesting family news of the week.

Yesterday morning, my uncle got married. I didn't make it to the wedding as I had to work, but that's no big deal, as 1) we are about as close as I am to the FedEx guy and 2) he didn't really let anyone in the family know it was happening until the night before.

It's either because he's embarrassed because he goes to a major bible-thumping church complete with tambourines, or he thinks the family casts judgment because he's is now married to a black woman. While I can say without equivocation that most Born Agains do tend to be on my ridicule radar (mainly because of there incessant recruitment needs) no one in my immediate family looks down at his marrying this woman, who we've all met, thinks is great, and who makes him happier than I think he's been in probably 20 to 25 years. My brother Paul said as much at the reception, when it came to his turn among the group to say something (he also congratulated our uncle, but wished the bride "good luck").

Maybe my uncle just things it is all no big deal. He was trying to keep the nuptials on the down-low until the congregation heard about it and said they'd throw a reception for them. So, hey, free reception! Why not invite the family?

It was fascinating to hear about the whole thing second hand. I'd been hoping this was a real fire and brimstone gospel group like out of The Blues Brothers -- the scene with James Brown. Turns out they're probably a little less hip, about on par with the snake-pit types we made fun of as kids when they'd broadcast their sermons and "music" on the local cable access channel.

In fact, the minister for that cable-access group I mention above showed up at this wedding. Apparently the two groups are somehow related. This minister is hated and loathed by my mother with the passion of a thousand suns for some crap he pulled 25 years ago against my other uncle, now dead, who this minister talked into moving his family of 6 (at the time) to Florida. The minister left him high and dry. Having her other brother this close to the guy is a gut twister for her. She wanted my brother to go out to the car and get his Glock and take care of him once and for all, but my brother smartly refused.

In the end, it sounds like it was probably overall as boring as most weddings, but a lot less expensive, which I can totally get behind. My blanket advice to anyone I know getting married is always one word: Elope.

My uncle will of course always have some issues over this with the world, and other family members, but I can say without hesitation that my immediate nuclear group is behind him 200%.

The part I really wish I hadn't missed, which my brother and I laughed about on the phone for a good five minutes last night was when, in the middle of the ceremony, my nephew John just blurted out, "I WANT CRACKERS!"

And he got them.

The Boob Tube Makes Brains

Watching TV Makes You Smarter: this is the single greatest article in the history of the NYTimes (registration required to read it).

The headline says it all. Tho it is written to sound like an academic paper, so here's the gist: If you watch modern shows like Sopranos, LOST, 24, Simpsons etc., you're getting an order of magnitude more information, story and character than anyone ever dreamed of even 20 years ago (and another infinity step above that from the 1950s or 60s). He even says, go ahead, watch TV Land for one night and try not to feel stupid. It's all scientifically proven with graphs and big words.

Short Weekend, As Usual

The weekend draws to a close.

Yesterday was fruitless shopping mostly. We're this close to purchasing the materials needed for the Griffith Big Summer Project (GBSP™), the installation of hardwood floors throughout the downstairs of the house. 630+ square foot of space that is now covered by gross wall to wall carpet is going to be removed and replaced with shiny, happy wood. The carpet was gross when we moved in, thanks to the kids that lived in this house before. Dog vomit hasn't made it any better.

No vomit since Saturday AM though. Fingers crossed.

We were ready to buy the wood at a place called Walk on Wood, but panicked when told the stuff we liked might have really, really short pieces in each package. A lot of them. We hemmed, then hawed, then delayed and shipped at Home Depot just to feel better, but still liked nothing better. And what's wrong with short pieces, anyway?

This is a traditional Griffith project, so I've roped my brother and parents into helping with it. At least they have some experience doing it in my parent's kitchen... close as I've come is doing wooden ceilings in my parents house. They have a lot of wooden ceilings (four rooms), and it makes me nervous because one is right below theyr bathroom. We should have installed a trap door in that or something. Anyway, we're shooting for installation of my floor three weeks from now, if we get the wood in time. I'm ordering it tomorrow. Panicked or not.

Since it was summer last week for a while, and then it rained, we've actually be able to hear the grass growing outside. So, I put the mowing deck back on the lawn tractor today. That could have been a 10 minute job, but nothings ever easy when you realize you need to change oil (which I, as usual, spilled everywhere), replace mower blades, buy more oil because you don't have enough, need to lubricate certain parts that need lubricatin', need to power wash the mowing deck to clear all the grass clumps from last year (which are now moldy and solid as stone), plus power wash the tractor to clean off the spilled oil not just from today but from last October when you changed it.

While I was doing that, the wife was watching a DVD (Finding Neverland, which she probably watched in Squanto-Vision!), and when I came in the house, she was up stairs taking a nap. Exhausted from all my hard work.

So I did the dishes, ate some corn nuts, listened to This American Life on my iPod (go to their Web site and listen to the "Backed into a Corner" episode segment about Quiznos, you won't regret it), and read some blogs.

Now I'm going to do some writing. 1000 words before midnight or bust.

A Tale of Two Pukers

The wife spent some time yesterday with one of her co-workers who is apparently not a dog lover. Not her fault I guess, as she was raised that way by parents who had no time for animals, either. The woman is not necessarily anti-dog, she's just personally anti-pet and, sadly, has a fear of dogs because of her inexperience. She apparently screamed in terror when a black lab knocked over a water glass in front of her.

It's hard to believe that I don't agree with her stance against canine's in the household after the last couple of nights. Knocking over a water glass would be a welcome occurrence. Luckily, we still like our mutts more than the carpets in the house, even though we try like hell to protect said carpets from said mutts. To no avail.

On Friday at 3:30am we awoke to the sound of urka gurkas, the universal alarm to all pet owners -- though I think perfect by Labradors -- that a spew of vomit is heading up and out, stat.

This isn't anything new. As I've written about numerous times in the past, our eldest pup Siren has been singing us the ol' wet yodel since she was, well, a pup. The unique part is she usually only yacks on an empty stomach. If too empty, she just lets fly with small piles o' bile. We used to take her for the vet for it, did barium swallows and x-rays and tried antacids and whatever, but it doesn't matter, there's no predicting it. I consider it her warning to us humans that feed her and throw the all important tennis balls that we best not forget she's there, or there will be stains.

Waking from a sound sleep to deal with dog spew is nothing new to me, so I whipped back the sheets and got Siren out the door and headed downstairs, gambling that I can get her out the backdoor in time. Unfortunately, the Pooper (as she's known, for she is brown) has for some reason developed the habit of going to the left at the bottom of the stairs to go outside, instead of right. Even though a right turn is a straighter shot to the door AND would take her over the linoleum landing by our front door, she chooses left. A turn to the left puts her right on the living room's wall to wall carpet, and that is where she made her deposit Friday AM.

After getting her outside and cleaning up the mess, I couldn't get back to sleep for at least an hour. It was frustrating as hell, but once I was out I stayed that way almost right up to 9am when I'm supposed to be working. Thank god my commute is only about 25 stairs.

That should have been it, but a few hours ago, at approximately 2:40am, more urka gurkas. This time, the wife was out of bed before me -- usually she just exclaims and kicks me so I am the only one up, but I made a point of pointing this fact out to her yesterday, so she must have felt guilty. Turns out that our youngest, Kylie, was at the door and ready to retch this time. Bon, having more of her faculties about her, or perhaps just prepared ahead for this eventuality, pointed Ky-Ky toward our bathroom where, arguably, she could chunderspew on the much easier to clean vinyl floor without traveling as far. I got up, helped push the ready to burst dog into the bath, and she let go with some yellow/brown foam of her own. On the throw rug.

Bon took her down stairs to see if she had more solid burps while I cleaned the carpet off. Amidst the bile pile were little bits and pieces of plastic. Sadly, this is no surprise, as Thursday I was kind enough to give the dogs the dregs of my crunchy peanut butter still in the container, and Ky decided (as usual) the only way to reach the bottom was to chew off the edges at the top for easier access. Apparently all the plastic shrapnel I found on the floor after wasn't everything, she had to swallow some of it.

It's so much more fun to find strange thing in their poo than in their puke. Corn, string, cloth, dental floss, berries -- all funny on a scoop in the back yard. Nothing much fun about warm barf, no matter what is in it.

I told Bon all we need tonight is for Caper to hork up a big honking plug of undigested grass (his usual esophageal ejection) tonight and we've hit the ballistic dinner hat trick.

After throwing the rugs in the washing machine, it was back to bed, where I tossed and turned for an hour before finally just getting up a little after 4pm. I've been at the laptop ever since. My sleep patterns seem to be getting stranger this year, with a few nights of normalcy usually followed by complete sleep corruption, which wouldn't be so bad if I could use the time while up to be productive.

If nothing else, these nightly uploads by the idiots may have ensured me a good night's sleep tonight. I'll be keeping a strict eye on Caper to make sure he doesn't eat more crabgrass than is good for him. Which is none.

Personality Clash

So there's this guy I hate.

I've never really met him. I have not had a conversation with him. I don't even know his last name, and he doesn't know who I am at all. He's not a big public figure with terribly polarizing views or background. He's just some local guy. And I can't stand him.

Obviously we've all been there. Someone just rubs you the wrong way for some innocuous silly reason and you're suddenly predisposed to thinking of them only with curses and epithets. It's not a pleasant thing, but its human nature to anyone who isn't saintly or gullible, I'd argue.

This guy set me off at a meeting I attended over a month ago. He was running for an office on the groups first ever executive council, and when he got up to make his one-minute spiel, you could tell right off he was annoyed at having to do so, mainly I think by being limited to a minute (as I've since found out he's a god damn blabbermouth of epic proportions, at last in e-mail, where he can't shut the hell up). He was the only one of seven candidates who decided he was big and loud enough to address the assemblage without a microphone. 40 seconds into whatever he said (I'd already tuned him out, it was that instantaneous), people started yelling that they couldn't hear him, so he wasted another ten seconds getting the microphone, because he also couldn't be bothered to stand behind the podium.

Instant enmity.

So, this meeting progresses so that they group decides the exec council can have seven seats instead of the original five intended, thus everyone who ran was on the council. How nice! More voice to take care of things, everyone comes away a winner, what could be wrong?

Well, Mr. No-Mic apparently had a problem with it, for we found out a less than a week later he quit the council. He screwed up their Web page, too, which took the rubes another three weeks to fix. I thought about volunteering, but couldn't bring myself to get close to the group which was starting to feel... strange.

Over the last week I finally made it onto the overall group's e-mail listservs and got to watch as No-Mic has blathered away at length, taking potshots at most people's proposals and griping passive-aggressively about a self-serving proposal of his own that got canned a while ago (and was, I think, his reason for leaving the exec council). His attitude toward the group and human beings in general feels like a cheese grater running down my spine. I used to dread spam messages, now I dread seeing his e-mail address in my inbox.

Saturday morning, the Wife, who is also on the list, had had enough and she wrote up a long e-mail to send to the list to call No-Mic out on the carpet. As she is wont to do, she had me read it first -- she has learned from my past mistakes of sending e-mail in the heat of the moment. At that point, my take on it was: don't bother. Bon's message would likely have splashed a bucket of gasoline on a few embers, and it didn't seem prudent, and I told her so. She bagged the message.

Now I'm not so sure. I have gathered so much loathing inside toward this single man (and a couple of cronies who seem to follow his lead like lackeys to the super-villain) that I wish she had sent it. Or that I had. The problem is, not all of his ideas are without merit. Some are even border on good, if not reasonable.

His inability to express them in text on the Interwebbing, however, continues to get my goat. If No-Mic's e-mails push my buttons much more, however, I'm likely to send a message myself, and its so tempting to have it be a tanker-truck of gas on a full fledged flame. We'll see.

Spring Straightening

Spring Cleaning! Ah, that right of passage of each year when one throws of the detritus of a winter to become renewed and refreshed for a season of warmth and good cheer.

I'm not sure that I'd call what we achieved this weekend as "spring cleaning" though. It was more a process of take everything out, put everything back, but sometimes in a different place. Maybe the fact that we generated many times the garbage than we'd usually have right now counts.

Saturday we did the walk-in closet we share off the bedroom. This wouldn't seem to indomitable, but we also decided to include all the drawers in both dressers, plus the other closets we use for seasonal storage as well. In all we gathered about eight bags of stuff to take to the Salvation Army (a bigoted group I'm none to enamored with, but they're the only game in town when it comes to clothing donations, and besides, it's not like they only sell to their fellow ilk. Maybe it would be better if they did -- then they'd more than deserve a chance to own my old stained t-shirts.)

The real upside of it all was that my wife (whom I call... Squanto!) found my watch.

When we moved into our house in Hudson MA in 1999, we lost one thing. A camcorder. We didn't even think to look for it until four months after the move, and it was gone, gone, gone. It was assumed that one of the movers got it.

So when we moved to Ithaca in 2002, I made double sure everything was accounted for -- we didn't lose our camcorder then. But I did lose my watch. And not just any watch. It is maybe one of the most expensive items I own next to my house, cars, computers, TV, and dogs. It's a $400 (give or take) Seiko Kinetic my parents got my for Xmas one year after I fell in love with the Kinetic's while on a Caribbean cruise in 1997. I hated myself for not buying one then, and my parent's, sick of hearing my bitch about my stupidity (jewelry is cheap in the Caribbean), took pity on me and got me this self winding beauty.

Which was gone after the move. I had the box, the paper work, just about everything -- but no watch.

Turns out, I'd packed it into a shoebox with a bunch of crap from a junk drawer (things like fragrance balls meant for smelly sneakers... seriously). That box was one of the few to remain unopened since we moved 2.5 years ago. Until Saturday. Gold bless Squanto. Now my self-winding, battery-less Seiko is on my wrist where it belongs.

On Sunday, we went from the closet to the garage. We pulled everything not nailed to a wall out and put it in the drive way. Then we put it all back. This entailed buying some shelves, and I wanted them with casters on them for easier cleanup, and then we got some extra baskets for the closet (no project is ever really done), doing all this shopping while all our belongings were out on the driveway. I kept suggesting to the Wife that someone might think it was a give-away and take it all while we shopped at Target and Lowe's, but she wasn't afraid, and turns out she was right. Whew. I couldn't live if someone took my new impact drill. That thing rawks.

By 7pm we were done (I also took the snow plow and chains off the tractor, to tempt fate, but felt safe since it was 75 degrees out). Sorry, bruised and bloodies (the latter two from struggling with a snow plow while wearing shorts), I showered and spent the rest of the amazed once again at how much one can accomplish in a weekend and still feel like there's so much left to do.

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