February 24th, 8:18AM
Mon dieu! Trop cher
Holy carp! Expedia reports that a round-trip ticket from Frisco to Paris now costs $818!! That's double that of just a week ago! Shoulda went. Shoulda went...
February 24th, 7:24AM
Pig pen, porcine pad, puerco pueblo, porky parlor
Did I mention we have a pig? I think I did, but some regular readers of this space expressed surprise at this fact, so it bears repeating...
Last Friday we began building a new habitat for my porky little pal. The one in which he's been dwelling had gotten smaller around his flappy little ears, and he had grown steadily more rowdy and destructive in the approximately 12' x 12' pen that housed him. My wife actually conceived the entire project. Did I mention she is bad ass? I think that I did.
So last weekend we set, what, seven posts? We nailed up two-by-fours, two-by-twelves and some fenceboards to contain the little beggar, and hung a gate. By Sunday, Mom-in-law watched Brian, and we finished the project. The only thing left to do: move Porkchop into his new digs. Oh, boy...
How to do it? The logistics of transporting a cranky, wary, unwilling and potentially bite-y gob of livestock a hundred yards, over and around a very diverse landscape (not to say "obstacle course") presents some challenges, not the least of which are pig bites and losing next year's ham sandwiches to the Valley Springs countryside. We needed a plan.
I am pretty proud of the plan we came up with, for its creativity and audacity. First, we drugged the little bastard. As ruthlessly dangerous as a pig can be, we hoped to soothe his savage and tasty little heart by slipping him a Mickey; a Soma wrapped in banana. Despite the ingenuity of this idea, it didn't produce the drooling, tongue-lolling unconsciousness we had hoped for. He remained alert and scrappy an hour later, so we moved forward with Plan B. My plan. Characteristically, it involved restraints and mild abuse.
The universe recently provided me with two, inch-thick, 24-inch-long strands of yellow, industrial-strength rope, with tough loops spliced into both ends. I was able to approach Porky calmly and place each of these ropes around his torso - one in front of his shoulders, one behind - and secure them together with baling string. This created an effective harness. As long as no one actually yanked on it, Porkbutt was cool - the sensation of them on his back irritated him, but only a bit. The real fun was about to begin...
With the harness in place, and the last loose-pig marathon firmly in recent memory, I tied about twenty feet of baling string to my round-rumped buddy's harness, so that if he achieves his freedom during transport, I don't have to lay hands on the actual pig, I just have to get within 20 feet or so, and grab the leash. I'm a genius.
On with the show: we tried to coax him out of his rural closet and on his way with a bucket of sweet horse grain. He loved it, but not enough to come out of what has always been his home. After three tries, patience had proven its unworthiness. Instead, we lured him to the entrance with the grain, my wife gave his harness a bold yank, and I booted his ass out the door. I got a little misty-eyed, as it was a perfect metaphorical reminder of my gentle, amicable Utah divorce.
Launched from the portal and fully alarmed, Hamhock screeched and lurched into the open, like a thoroughbred outta the gate. With all gears turning, this runaway truck wheeled and scrambled in a several directions at once, like a malfunctioning hovercraft. All I could do was try to influence the direction somewhere useful. While I hauled him towards his new pen, he was terrified, reeling and bouncing off of the perimeter fencing and in and out of the seasonal creek on our property. He came to rest less than halfway to the destination, panting and at full-tilt on the freakout-meter.
I let him rest to stave off respiratory failure, after which he was much more difficult to motivate. He seemed to have shot his wad on the initial launch, but we eventually got him scurrying again. Shouting "Hi-ho, Porkchop, awaaay!" I was able to guide this wobbly, meaty missile to the open pen gate, and heave him over the 12-inch board that overlaps the bottom of the gate. With a final, confused squeal, our new buddy was in his spacious new home, and nobody got hurt. Mission accomplished.
February 23rd, 6:57AM
Last weekend
Last weekend was a lot of fun, and a bit of stress. The long and short of it: I had fun without getting loaded, and somebody got laid.
My baby's bad ass
Every now and then, my wife surprises me. Those who know me know that I'm psyched about the upcoming Celtic Faire in Angel's Camp. My wife has been unexcited and non-committal about whether she'll attend. The other day, she comes home with two costume patterns - one for me, one for her! She's still unsure about how revved up she'll get about the whole thing, but it's a marked departure from her earlier apathy. She rocks!
February 20th, 11:46AM
Demotivators
These are awesome. You can choose these anti-inspirational products and build a customized calendar. Here are my favorites:
- Agony
- Ambition
- Apathy
- Burnout
- Conformity
- Consistency
- Despair
- Destiny
- Effort
- Fear
- Flattery
- Get to Work
- Goals
- Humiliation
- Indifference
- Incompetence
- Ineptitude
- Irresponsibility
- Laziness
- Leaders
- Meetings
- Mistakes
- Nepotism
- Persistence
- Pressure
- Procrastination
- Retirement
- Stupidity
- Trouble
- Worth
- Underachievement
If you are searching for a birthday or other gift for me, your search has ended. There are almost three years' worth of spiritual declarations there that make my black little heart flutter. See "2007 Build-Your-Own Calendar" for more information.
February 18th, 6:37AM
Paris is calling, but I can't hear
Expedia reports that I can get to Paris and back for an excruciating annual low of $426. We have got to get back to a financial condition that allows such bargains to be swept up. How to get there from here? I hear that people sit down and plan things like this out, set goals, etc. Sounds like something we should do.
Robie lives
Last week my wife ran an errand in Stockton, and the orbit of her round trip apparently took her too close to a friend who is a breeder of cocker spaniels. Somehow the gravity field of the F-250 was too powerful not to pick up a six-week old, black and white puppy, and so she brought it home.
My wife knew I was cool to the idea (as in, "not hot about it"), and so she embraced some elementary psychological warfare in granting me the opportunity/responsibility/honor of naming the mottled, bouncing imp. I think this is meant to impose a sort of bond between us.
Since his markings are stark black and white, I considered names like: "Newsprint" and "My Father's World View," but none really made the grade. I fooled around long enough that my wife decided to move on without me and name the little bastard something, anything. Moments ahead of the cut, I landed on "Robie," short for Robespierre, which is short for Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre, a historical French figure from French Revolutionary history. It doesn't have anything to do with his markings, I just liked it.
Thai House Res'aurant
We went back to the Thai House restaurant last night, and took my daughter this time. Unfortunately, they are still struggling with patron overload, and I'd hoped that management would have bolstered the staff enough to carry the load. It was better than before, but not by much.
Enough of that - the point of this post as to brag on the Red Curry Duck dish that they actually had in stock last night. It is awesome! Lightly spicy, this meal is essentially a bowl of duck soup with vegetables, and it is delicious. A thick broth, the color of mustard, and generous portions of bite-sized duck chunks, along with green beans, red bell peppers and pineapple, this dish was filling and satisfying, and I couldn't even finish it. I'm going back for this one.
One final note - after I paid for the meal, I noticed on the counter the business cards for the establishment. Again, on the second line, the word "Restaurant" was blatantly misspelled, this time missing the 't.' What is the Thai word for "proofreader?"
February 15th, 5:20PM
Thai re'taurant
Two nights ago, my wife and I ventured out to the new Thai restaurant in Valley Springs. The place has been there just about a week, and apparently wasn't prepared for the legion of hungry patrons who flooded the place.
When we got there, on a weeknight, mind you, the place was jumpin'. We were seated right away, but it took more than thirty minutes for someone to slip by to take our drink order. My impatience mounted exponentially, so that the frustration of the 26th minute was double that of the 25th. Having worked in a variety of customer service roles, I know what it takes to provide a good experience, and I am a finicky, persnickety old crank, years ahead of my time. I make no excuses for it.
On the other hand, (I am also ruthlessly wishy-washy) it was apparent that they were shorthanded, and were trying hard to work through it. This bought some sympathy, and I did not challenge any of the scurrying Asians to a martial arts showdown. Still, I was beginning to wonder whether we should walk out in a huff when someone apologetically took our drink order and leapt back into the churning cauldron that is a packed and understaffed restaurant. This turned out to be a beneficial but entirely theatrical exercise, as our drink order never came. We were graced with two glasses of ice water, but that's as far as beverages got.
While waiting for whatever we were waiting for at that given moment (hard to tell, as we spent 90 percent of the meal waiting for something or other), I folded their single-page menu/flier into the four folded sections that its four columns visually implied, and noticed that the word "Restaurant" in the heading was attractively fonted but definitely missing an 's.' I thought about pointing this out to one of the harried servicefolk, but immediately my imagination conjured a scenario where the server, bent to the breaking point, snaps, and launches into a screaming tirade, and incorrectly points out that: "It 'pelled ju't like it tound'!! Thai!! Re'taurant!! What ah you, 'tupid??"
Although such an Elmer Fuddian interchange like that sounded like a rockin' good time and a great story to tell, I have given my wife quite enough to be embarrassed about lately, and we just needed a quiet night out, so I let that sleeping dog lie right where it was.
I was looking forward to some spicy Duck Curry, but they were out of duck. We hoped for Stuffed Prawns for appetizers, but those were cleaned out, too. We settled on some items that we could live with, and finished out meal. My wife had a very pleasant rice dish with almost no flavor in it, which is just how she likes it. I thought it tasted like the color beige, but she dug it, and considers it the saving grace for a meal that offered no reason to return otherwise. I had the Red Curry with Pork - I thought it would be spicy, but I powered thru it with nary a bloodshot eye nor a sniffle, and the whole thing was tasty, but rather tame.
God's mirth would find me soon, though, as we strolled, post supper, to a nearby department store to stock up on last-minute Valentine goodies. Ten minutes after the last bite, I was stricken by a powerful warning of the impending gastric catastrophe skillfully described by John Bizarre as an "alarm bell in doodie town." See the January 29th 2007 entry, "- The Luckiest Day Of My Life -"
I calmly made my way to, and defiled gravely, loudly and with sputtering unrepentance, the Longs Men's Room john, and found that my meal was indeed spicy, but later and in a more southerly region than I had anticipated. So be it.
I hold no ill will against the eatery for what amounts to opening-week jitters. Hopefully on our next trip, the Thai House will have their house in order, and a fair accounting of a prepared establishment can be fairly obtained.
February 13th, 7:17AM
Picking up pieces
I'm looking at getting a Ford Fusion as a replacement vehicle.
My initial interest was with a Ford Ranger, because I thought the smaller, light duty truck would be good on gas and offer the utility of a pickup truck. I was wrong about the gas mileage, and they're pretty cramped for a family of four, so I set my frugal sights a step higher, on the F-150. Offering much more room and more power, but no greater gas mileage, the F-150 proved much spendier, a feature my cheap little soul abhors.
The salesman threw the Fusion in my path, a pretty decent and comfortable sedan, and at first I was not interested. As time goes by, I realize that we already have a pickup, and I can steal that from my wife at almost any time. Also, the Fusion's mileage is nearly double that of the Ranger and F-150, and makes a lot more sense for our needs. Plus, it comes nicely equipped for about a third less of the trucks we reviewed. So, when things shake out, likely this week, I should have a permanent replacement vehicle.
I will miss my Honda, but life goes on.
February 8th, 5:37AM
Dude, where's my car?
My car is dead. I will miss this car, but hey, screw it, the Check Engine light was on anyway...
In truth, there's more to tell, but I don't really want to talk about it.
February 3rd, 6:26AM
Mom
My Mom has been on my mind lately, a little more than usual. I think about her every day, miss her. Several days ago, I threw my wife a micro-birthday party, just for the Hell of it. I threw together some streamer paper, a couple of cheesy gifts I thought she'd like and her favorite ice cream. While she was in the shower I hung up the streamers and hid the wrapped presents, and when she emerged from the bathroom, I told her "Happy Birthday!!" and feigned surprise when she told me it wasn't her birthday.
"Are you sure...?" I said. I know damn well her birthday is as far away on the calendar as it could possibly be, but I spackled together this spontaneous celebration to let her know that I love her, and to bring some unjustified cheer into her life. It was an inexpensive, impulsive, mildly nutty effort, and it was just the kind of thing my Mom was known for. I think she approved.
February 2nd, 9:53AM
My boy, the sweet-talker
Last night my son told his mama that he loved her for the first time. That's my buddy!
Whirlwind
Lotsa stuff going on lately, but so fugacious that it's tough to pin down. Lots of wants, but out on the horizon.
One of which is the Celtic Faire, coming up fast. I am really leaning towards buying two tickets online, and taking my bro for bodice-busting binge-scotching. Screw it, I'll do it.
Company's coming
We've got a few different friends coming over this weekend, both tonight and Sunday, and through horrible event mismanagement, maybe even tomorrow. We'll see how it plays out.
Tangled web we weave
Although my wish has been to let go of website design with one hand and use it to grab hold of Virtual Tours, it hasn't been working out that way. Website design opportunity has been manifesting itself more than anything else lately. Although I'd rather do the other, I'd rather have some opportunity than none at all. Thank you, God/Universe/Nine-headed mystical Hydra.
She's-a no workie
My wife's regular gig ran out of work this week, so she's home with us again. I had thought this would free up my time, with her watching the critter, but it hasn't actually panned out that way. Hmm, I must ponder this dissonance.