For you… dear reader

No doubt you have noticed the calvin avitars I’ve begun adding to each post. I got the idea from Dave at Blogography. He adds a little image of himself to each of his posts. I have neither the time or the inclination to take a dozen pictures of myself so I chose the Calvin image because he resembles my pic on this page.

Along these same lines… I think I’m going to add another dimentions to this blog: sound. It was such a hoot finding the wav file for the previous post, I thought I’d try to add one or two sound files to my posts.

So… Beginning with this post, I’ll add a random sound file to the calvin avitar. Perhaps one that fits my mood, or a favorite clip from a movie. Also, I’ll to add sound clips to emphasize some of the content.

Please, let me know if these sound files slow your computer, or boggs your browser down. Also, I’d like the feedback.

WTF!?!

It’s 8:10 in the morning. I’m in my underwear, sipping coffee, watching the Today Show and writing the post that will follow this. I hear the front door open…

Some Dude: “Knock, knock… Sundance.”

E2: [mustering my angry voice] “Hello”?!?!

SD: “I’m here to service your furnace.”

E2: [now standing in the hall… still in my underwear] “The furnace is in the garage, why are you in here”?!

SD: “Your Mom said I could use the bathroom.”

I feel an artery poke out of my neck, and my eye starts to twitch. I should have sent him up to use “mom’s” bathroom… but I wasn’t thinking…

E2: “Go ahead.”

The furnace repair guy, who thinks Old Crow is my mom, went number-two in my bathroom.

When I calm down, OC and I are going to have a come-to-jesus meeting.

Happy to hear from you…

When I can’t avoid initiating a conversation with Old Crow, I am always struck by the enthusiasm with which she greets me. For instance, I am picking up the mail (that she insists on bringing in from the mail box) from a shelf in the garage. She is doing whatever she occupies her time with. For this example, she’ll be going through our garbage to make sure we have recycled all the recycling. No, I’m not making that up.

eSquared: “Hi [Old Crow].”

OC: “Oh… hi.”

Its as if seeing me is the biggest disapointment of her day. She uses the same pitch, timber and tone of Roz from Monsters, Inc. It always puts a smile on my face… always.

What Fresh Hell is This?

The other day, the lovely & tallented Mrs. eSquared and I were sitting on the couch watching some insipid television show when the phone rang. As always, I looked the the caller ID… “**OLDCROW**”

Reflexivly, I rolled my eyes and groaned, “What fresh hell is this”?

• Another three-day reminder that thursday is garbage day?
• She bought another squeegie for the shower that I won’t use?
• More help pulling her car out of the garage?
• A reminder to change the dri-aire thingies in the closet?
• I left water on the bathroom floor again?
• The garage needs to be swept?

What could it be?

Against my better judgement, I answered the phone. She began the conversation by calling me Mrs. E2. I’m sure you can imagine how that went over with me.

Then she asked me, to ask Mrs. E2 if we had some of the lazy-susans that she left here when we moved in. I told her I remembered we had a couple, and she was welcome to them. “No,” she says “I had six or seven of them.” She continues, “And only if Mrs. E2 isnt using them.”

I’m ashamed to say, that I saw this as an opportunity to pass this off on Mrs. E2. No go. She wouldnt have it. I was in this one for the long haul. Old Crow was still praddling on about re-doing her kitchen cabnets.

Six or seven lazy susans. What the hell? I thought that she was finally losing it. Her memory was beginning to fail her. There is nofrickenway we have six or seven lazy susans in our kitchen.

I decide to give her the one we are using for our spices. As I think about it now, I think we brought that with us when we moved in. Crap. Anyway, I root through some of the cupboards. Low and behold… I found five more. Right where I put them when we moved in. I took all six up to Old Crow and assured her that Mrs. E2 was not using them.

Looks like it’s my memory that’s failing me.

What, Coupons?!?

There are some who eat, before eating: appetizers. Some sleep before bed: napping. Today, I went to the store before going to the store: I call that silly. As the unemployed one in our household the responsibility of grocery shopping falls on me. Normally I don’t mind, but depending on my mood, it can be an exercise in patience and anger management.

The lovely & talented Mrs. eSquared was feeling sick this evening so I went to get some fizzy water, other soda and something for her lunch tomorrow. My cart is loaded with carbonated beverages by the two-liter bottle, and I am rounding the corner heading for the U-check isle. I can taste freedom.

Earlier, I noticed an older lady interrogating one of Fred Meyer’s worker-bees about why he was moving a cart full of Wheaties boxes. I didn’t hear what she said, but his reply was something like, “…we have to move this isle because we’re putting another freezer unit where this one is.” He continues to stack boxes from the cart. “Well ma’am, I don’t know what they will put in there… I was told to move these boxes.” For a moment, he had my sympathy. A cold, crowian chill crept down my spine as I continued my search for things fizzy.

So… the taste of freedom. I round the corner, and there she is; the Wheaties inquisitor. She stops me cold. Before I realize its her, she says to me, “What kind of coupon deals are there”?

I am not a coupon shopper. I’m not even a comparison buyer. I grab the closest, and most visible items along my pre-planned route through the store. All the while whispering to myself, “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.” or “Move that cart to one side of the isle, and no one will get hurt.”

This lady could have said anything to me…
“You dropped a fifty.”
“What a wonderful day it is.”
“How about a quickie, young man”?

… and I would have responded the same.

“What”?

The gears in my head recover, and I recognize her as the Wheaties lady. My eyes narrow when I notice her unchanged focus to the bottom of my cart.

“What kind of coupon deals are there”? … still focused on the bottles of soda.

“I’m sorry… I don’t understand.”

“Your coupons.” she says, pointing to the coupon flier UNDER six bottles of pop.

Without averting her gaze, she REACHES into my cart, shoves the bottles aside and retrieves the flier. “Do you mind if I take a look…”?

“It’s yours.” I reply, and speed my way to the self-check line.

I never seem to learn. When I get in the line, there are no other people waiting, and there’s one station that APPEARS open. Of course its not. The other three stations are occupied with the very reason there are professional checkers. Not only do professional checkers KNOW HOW to operate the scanners, buttons, scales and bags, but they are PHYSICALLY AND MENTALLY competent to do so.

Meanwhile… the ONE checker-supervisor person that oversees the u-check-train-wreck is running her ass off between the three other monkeys trying to scan produce.

I just roll my eyes and curse myself for not going to another line.

Serving up Crow…

My latest dish of Old Crow was served up earlier today, but its been stewing since yesterday evening.

I was driving in after two hours in the dentist’s chair. I had a tooth filled and a frenectomy. Although two hours of Nitrous Oxide was glorious, I had a bit of a headache from the gas. Also, the lidocaine was wearing off and I was starting to feel pain. Now, the table is set.

I opened the garage door to see that OC had the backdoor to the garage open. Because it was Tuesday, I figured OC was putting out the garbage for Thursday. Yes, she puts the garbage out two days early. But that’s another story. Here’s a silly little illustration.

So… Simple enough, the door was open. No problem. I didn’t pull in quite as far as I usually do. Grabbed the stuff from the car and went inside. Later, Mrs. E2 parked behind me, and came in.

Fastforward to this afternoon. I’m loading the car with a bunch of electronic stuff to recycle (fifty bucks worth of recycling). Of course, OC waits until I pull out of the garage and start fiddling with my cell phone to stand by my window.

When I notice her, I roll the window down:

OC: “I had to close your door last night.”
[in the three years we’ve lived here, she’s had to close it twice. She leaves her door open constantly.]
E2: “Oh”?
OC: “You’ll need to pull in further, the door hit your car last night.”
E2: “When I came in yesterday, the [other] door was open.”
[silly of me to think I can reason with her.]
OC: “There was plenty of room…”
E2: [cutting her off] “Ok, my bad. See ya later.”

My point in this whole thing you ask? To me its evident that she feels the need to bring to my attention EVERY LITTLE THING that we do that falls outside of her small world management plan. Nevermind the time she needed to change something with the electricity and just turned the jumper off FOR THE ENTIRE HOUSE! No warning, no up-yours, no nothing. Mrs. E2 was working on a paper at the time. Luckily, I have installed a universal power supply with a battery backup.

Look at that… its a two-fer Old Crow post… and a bargain at twice the price.

Chronicles of Old Crow

In June, both Mrs. eSquared and I had many important things going.  She was finishing a collaborative project for one of her doctoral classes, and I was working until the wee hours of the morning editing the UWB Policy Journal.  Incidentally the Policy Journal deadline had passed and it needed to be done. 

So… about 10 am one morning – I believe it was a Saturday, I was sleeping and Mrs. eSquared was on the phone with her teammate discussing multivariate statistics.  I had been asleep for about two hours.  The first thing I heard as I was rousted from my sound sleep was an aggressive knock on the door; followed my Old Crow cawing my name.

At that moment, Mrs. eSquared came into the bedroom (looking annoyed) and asked me to Move my car for Old Crow.  I was confused; I didn’t know where I was and in my underwear.  Mrs. eSquared had to repeat the instructions three times before I understood. 

Some explanation:  There are four of us living in the house and each of us have a vehicle.  We have a two-car garage (with clean floors) and a two-car driveway.  Old Crow parks in the garage, and Magpie parks behind her.  This works because Old crow never drives anywhere.  Mrs. eSquared and I share the other garage/driveway slot.  For us, whoever gets home first, parks in the garage.  If that person has to leave first, I generally move the car; whoever’s’ it is.  Because of the summer schedule, the Mrs. and I are coming and going at odd times.  Therefore, I am moving frequently.

So… back to the situation.  Mrs. eSquared was parked in the garage and I was behind her in the driveway.  Magpie was gone, and OC wanted to pull her car out of the garage.  I find myself standing in the garage thinking that I am moving one of our cars.  When cognition starts to return to me, I realize that OC has somehow turned her car about 45 degrees in less than a half-car length.  OC went from this…  to this…

I ended up straightening out her car rather than move mine.  As I write this entry, it occurs to me that this was a better story in my head than on my blog.  Oh well.

Really Simple Syndication

While spelunking the depths of my geekdom, I found a new passage that takes me to a new low: RSS feeds.

I’d always thought they were something for the hardcore technophile or news junkie. Perhaps they are and I really am such an animal. I don’t think so… I’m still hanging on the last shreds of my faux-coolness. What I’m about to write will tear those shreds away.

Simply… ATOM, or RSS feeds bring the content you choose from anywhere on the internet to one, convenient place. You read online papers, e-zines, blocs, boards or whatever… All post to one place. If you ask me, it’s pretty darn cool. “How”? You ask. Who knows. Little internet fairies; one overworked web designer? I don’t care.

All you need is a reader. Something to travel around the net like a little postal carrier and pick up all your subscriptions. Because I have become a Googlian, I use Google’s reader. This way, when someone on my subscription list updates, it shows up on my Google personalized home page.

I’ll make this easy for you. Once you have a reader, either click on this icon: on the right of the address bar in your browser, or click on this link: at the bottom of my right sidebar. Then accept the feed. Simple.

Scars…

I was thinking of the emotional bumps and bruises that we all carry as adults. Someone who said something once, heartache or perhaps an indiscretion that haunts us. These are little dings on the luster of our psychic apparatus that no amount of polish and buffing can transpare.

Uninterrupted, these musings turned to physical scars. Physical scars are funny things. Well, mostly funny things. For some, they are painful reminders of serious trauma that happened without fault. Some are more ominous, and are the result of another’s malice. Most of my scars are the result the complete lack of forethought and consequences; either of my part of that of another.

Some of my scars were created just after exclamations such as: “Watch this”! or “Ohmygod”! Famous last words.

There’s the scar on my forehead above my right eyebrow. Though I don’t remember, the story has me about three years-old. I was jumping on the couch before dinner. Just as my Mom warned me… I DID lose my balance, and I DID crack my head open on the corner of the coffee table.

I have a BB sized dent in my left foot, just below my ankle. Steve Grau wanted to prove to me that his BB gun wasn’t powerful enough to break the skin. He was right… it wasn’t. But it sure as hell hurt.

I have a scar on my left arm that I tell everyone I got from an oven. That’s a lie. I don’t talk about that one.

The scar on my right palm is the result of a genius move to separate two cans of Chung-King chicken-something-or-other and the can of crunchy noodles with a big kitchen knife. Mrs. eSquared warned me, watched as I did it, then lovingly bandaged the wound.

Years earlier… right forefinger, first knuckle… I was prying the lid of a concentrated grapejuice can the knife got away from me. No, I didn’t learn

Left palm… whittling. Need I say more?

I have various blemishes that are the result of someone telling me, “Don’t pick at that”! or, “Leave it alone or it will make a mark”! I didn’t, and they did.

One of my best ones is in my right armpit. I was pretty young and playing on the woodpile. Yes, your read that right. Every year, many of our neighbors would contribute and purchase several cords of wood to split up. I mean split figuratively and literally. So… I was PLAYING on the woodpile. This was a good idea only because I was warned against it. If I were given carte blanche… I wouldn’t have been interested.

So I’m standing on top of this woodpile… and I am overcome by the impulse to dance to the song “Hey, hey, we’re the Monkeys.” To know me, is to know that I don’t have a coordinated bone in my body… especially at this age. To my awkward body, dancing meant each limb and appendage, including my neck and head, is to convulse independently of each other in twitching and gyrating motions. Reason and balance left me.

I fell on a branch that punctured my armpit. Oh… I was completely alone. We had a neighbor who was a nurse. She was kind enough to stitch me up and come over every evening for a week to change the dressings. She was nice. I hope I thanked her. From then to now… I’ve never liked that word in that context. Dressing.

Then there is the gunshot scar on my ass. I probably shouldn’t post this one on the Internet send me an email and I’ll send you the gory details. Well… not that gory… but sure as hell stupid.

There are scars that should be, but aren’t. Every year, around the Fourth of July I am shocked and amazed that I still have all of my fingers and toes. My friend Chris and I would do things daily that I see people locked up for on the news today.

I’m sure I’ve inflicted many scars both physical and emotional. To Chris… I am sorry for shooting you in the pinky finger with a BB gun. It must’ve hurt like hell. I’m not sorry for laughing myself sick. I’ll never forgive you for telling me to go get your fingers after that firecracker had a short fuse. That really freaked me out. Yes you were kidding… I don’t blame you for laughing yourself sick.