...who has worked retail hasn't wanted to? You know what I mean? I think you do.
Radio Shack employee punches customer
April 29, 2009
...who has worked retail hasn't wanted to? You know what I mean? I think you do.
Sure, the swine flu is wacky, but THIS story (sent to me by The Good Man) really skeeves me OUT!
Against Insect Plague, Nevadans Wield Ultimate Weapon: Hard Rock
Mormon crickets, in droves. Relentless. : itch, scratch, itch, twitch... :
No raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens.
No, I'm all kinds of cranky today and need to, you know, just vent.
You know how it goes, you have other friends like me. You are having a perfectly nice day, then they come along and dump their misery. They feel great and you feel bad.
That's me today.
Here we go.
I'm not cranky about anything in particular, just all the little things are wearing down my last nerve until it's just a slick spot. I have, what The Good Man calls "bent whiskers."
So here we go, a few of my most annoying things.
- People who pour the top couple fingers of coffee out into the trash can at the local coffee place. Yes, I know they need room for cream, and there is nowhere else to deposit the excess java, but for some reason this seriously bugs me. I always think "that will melt the can liner and *can't* be fun for the employee that has to come clean that out." I dunno, maybe my former S'bucks friend (that's you, Nat) can assure me this is not such a bad thing?
- People who drive itty bitty cars and STILL can't manage to make it between the white lines in the parking lot. Especially when they are using up a full sized space (versus a compact spot). I always want to door ding the %$#@ out of them, but refrain because...
- ...I also really hate people who door ding other cars. Are you NOT in command of your own car door?
- Microsoft Excel. It's totally user error, but like most folks, I choose to point the finger outward for my own personal inadequacies. : shrug :
- That my manicure lasted less than a week. Grr. I want the heavy-duty shellac put on there! The kind they lay on thick like on a basketball court, with all the gleam. It should be super nuclear attached to my nails! One week!!?!?
- That my frappin' iPhone can't seem to hold a battery charge for more than a day. Remember when mobile phones were only used for making calls? I could make a battery charge last a week on those things. Now with phone, text, email, twitter, web surfing, etc, etc, I wear out that stupid battery in the blink of an eye. Damn you Apple for bringing all of my life onto one tiny energy sucking device!!!!
- That they only buy the cheapest possible pens at work, but will spring for $400 worth of food for a lunchtime meeting, leaving scads of leftovers. Money down the drain as I scribble with a crap pen. Whatever.
- That I'm turning forty in a week.
Ok, that last one may be the main perturber...not sure. Either way, I'm massively cranky....
April 28, 2009
I'm not one of those politically correct, over sensitive, freak out kind of folks.
But the photo in this screenshot seems...not ok.
What do you think?
Found this morning on Yahoo with their swine flu lead stories.
April 27, 2009
Setting a good example in tough economic times, Governor Richardson has managed to pay off all of his campaign debt.
Good on ya, Bill!
There is a big change coming.
It's a good change.
But...it's just...difficult for someone like me.
Okay, men, here's the part where you can go ahead and tune out.
May I suggest a click here (how 'bout that NFL draft?) or here (how about that swine flu?)?
Okay ladies....now that it's just us girls.........
See, this weekend, I bought a new purse.
Sure, for you ladies who swap around purse-to-purse depending on mood or outfit, this isn't a big deal.
For a steady, stubborn Taurus like me...I like to buy a *nice* all occasion purse. And then I Wear. It. The Heck. Out.
Seriously. I am carrying a Kenneth Cole black leather hobo bag right now (smoking sale at Macy's) and have been for a while. That thing is scuffed to death!
It is time to let it rest.
But it's *so* hard for me to switch purses. The pockets won't be in the same spots. The cute little side zippy place for my keys will go away!
Will I know intuitively how to go in there to get my phone when it rings? No! Not for a while.
And my old wallet doesn't match...so I need a new one. UGH! More change!
Then there is the inevitable clean out of the old purse as the switch is made. I have to let go of the used chewing gum crammed into the mangled business card from my doctor's office with an old appointment on there.
I'll have to trash the tired mints rattling around in the bottom.
And I'll have to actually go through all the stuff I'm carrying around and determine if it is worthy of the new purse!
This is just so difficult for a girl like me!
I have anxiety!
Thanks for listening.
April 24, 2009
Oh Fair New Mexico...you may serve some of the finest food in the world, but damnit, you have no taste.
I can't even be surprised. I want to be, but I'm not.
(btw, if you don't know Las Cruces, Telshor and Lohman is a really prime location)
From the Las Cruces Sun News:
Olive Garden? Really?
...that Arizona Iced Tea is made in New York.
"New York City!?!?!"
"Get a rope."
I've now hopelessly dated myself with that reference.
In case you are youthful and have NO idea of what I speak:
April 23, 2009
I know, I know. Heresy to say such a thing the day after Earth Day, but I'm saying it.
Ok, let me be a bit more specific.
Water and electric conservation is poppycock.
I'm mad. Can you tell?
I'll tell you why in two stories.
One from several years back. One from a couple days ago that got my ire all up again.
First story. Electricity.
You may recall in the early 2000's, California was going through a power crisis during the hot summer months.
We were subject to brownouts and rolling blackouts. Which is just a nice way of saying, "oooops, your power is out, we did it on purpose."
Then-Governor Gray Davis challenged all of us to conserve power with the threat of increased power rates. It was a rallying cry. Stores turned off half or more of their lights. The Bay Bridge and Golden Gate went dark (turned off the accent lights, kept the roadway lights on), and I personally worked really hard to use less energy.
The state of California conserved 11% energy. ELEVEN PERCENT!! That is a HUGE number.
We were then rewarded by the news that the power companies were corrupt, our overuse was never the issue, and rates went up, by a lot, to offset the crisis.
Conserving power meant nothing. Nothing. We paid more anyway.
Second story. Water.
It's been noted in the news recently that California is having an especially dry year. Our reservoirs are a bit low. We didn't get the snow pack that those that know would like to see.
So in Santa Clara County, they have enacted conservation...with the threat of raising rates.
And the people and businesses are doing it. They are conserving.
On the radio Tuesday, I heard a report that conservation has worked SO well that the water company hasn't been bringing in enough billing revenue to sustain their beleaguered business model.
So they are going to raise rates, anyway.
Working so hard to conserve water meant NOTHING.
This concept of voluntary conservationism is useless and a bunch of bullhockey! Don't threaten or coerce me. If you are just going to raise my rates then go ahead and raise my rates. That will get me to use less, I promise!
Any first year business student can draw for you the chart showing supply and demand. And price is a factor in demand. A BIG factor.
You raise rates, people will want to pay less, they will use less and conservation of resources happens.
This jimmy-jacking around, blaming the victim, telling me I'm a bad consumer and must use less or bad things will happen...so then I use less and bad things happen anyway?
By the by...I already use so little water and so little power as to be laughable. I turn off lights, I unplug appliances, I use Energy Star. My bills stay pretty low.
So no. I'm done. I'm done trying really hard to conserve even more, only to be rewarded by higher rates anyway.
April 22, 2009
But I guess being from where I come from, this kind of revelation doesn't surprise me.
You know that fabulous marker that shows the four corners where New Mexico, Arizona, Utah and Colorado meet?
Turns out it's uh...a little off course.
In fact, potentially as much as two and a half miles off course.
The geological folks in Colorado say they think it's just fine where it is.
Other surveyors using GPS technology say nope.
"...the accurate location would be downhill to the east of U.S. 160 in Colorado and northeast of the San Juan River as it flows into New Mexico."
Per NewMexiKen's fabulous blog (welcome back, Ken!): " It turns out that in 1878, when they surveyed the boundaries of Utah-Colorado-New Mexico and Arizona, they adjusted the spot where the four territories met (unique in the U.S.) so that the location would be easier to get to."
Fair enough. I wonder why this is making news this week?
April 21, 2009
(Written last night, posted today)
The universe is yanking my chain. Messing with my head. Freaking me out, man.
Because tonight, I might actually kinda sorta believe in the goodness of humanity.
That's so not me. No, I think people are mean, and mean people suck. But tonight...I have a softer spot in my heart for the world.
I was on my way to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I waited in a left turn bay for the light to go my way. Out of the corner of my eye in the rearview mirror, I saw a small white pickup stomp to a halt at an odd diagonal to the left turn bay. Then the driver was out of the car and weaving around on foot in the opposite-side lane.
"Oh crap," I thought, eyeing him in my rearview, "this guy's messed up." I immediately reached for my phone to call the police, and as I did I turned to look out my window to see what the guy was doing. Was he going to hurt himself?
Then I realized why he was making a weaving wavy line in the oncoming lane. Leading the parade was a Mama Duck and three little chicks tailing her every move, the guy madly following behind, making classic herding motions with his hands.
Obviously, the duck and young 'uns had wandered into traffic and this guy was chasing them, trying to get them to safety, and waving off oncoming traffic at the same time.
Finally, Mama D got over to the curb and she hopped up. Three babies hopped and jumped in vain, unable to make the distance. The guy reached down, cupped his hands, and gently scooped up each baby and placed them on the sidewalk. When all were safe, he trotted to his truck and jumped back in.
This wasn't a Teva wearing, hola granola, tree hugging guy, either. He was a tradesman, driving a worktruck and clearly had put in a hard day's work on a freaking hot day.
And at the end of that day, he saved four lives.
I was stunned, and my heart felt warmth.
Then, while in the grocery, I went over to the bakery to pick up a few of my favorite cookies. They are baked on site and tantalize behind a glass case. A bakery employee has to help you get to the good stuff.
I stood by the glass and waited. The bakery employee was alone back there, on the phone, taking an intricate cake order. No worry, I got time. I can wait for delicious almond horns.
So I waited. I didn't even feel impatient. It allowed me the chance to oogle all the other tasty cookies on display.
Finally, she hung up the phone and turned to me. She said, "Thank you so much for waiting, I'm so sorry!"
"No problem," I said and ordered the horns.
She put a couple in a box then added one more. "One extra for having to wait," she said, smiled, and sealed up the box.
I was stunned. I got rewarded for patience? Me, the least patient person I know?
Then on the way home, I arrived at a four way stop at the same time as another car. I was the car on the right, and thus supposed to be the first to go. That never happens according to the law in California, so as usual, I paused. The other driver, a teenage girl, gave me the wave. I smiled and waved back and turned left through the intersection.
At the next intersection, I arrived the same time as a huge SUV. I was on the left this time. I paid it forward, gave him the wave, got a smile and wave in return.
With a goofy grin on my face, I then made my way the final few blocks to home.
Sure, it's a Monday, hotter than the hinges of hell, The Good Man is violently sick (Norovirus is the main suspect), Mom-in-Law got roughed up at her doctor, and the cat is hot and lethargic. By all accounts, it's a sad day where I live.
But right now I feel...dare I say...optimistic about my fellow man.
April 20, 2009
So. It's expected to be about 90 degrees here today.
I know, I know. I hear my New Mexico peeps saying, "pish posh, 90 degrees is a walk in the park!" and you are right.
90 degrees in Albuquerque is a fine day for a walk/run/jog/picnic/bike ride/what have you.
90 degrees here is intolerable. Because of one thing...
See, the human body was made to be an evaporative cooling device. Just like a swamp cooler, really.
From the Wikipedia entry: "Evaporative cooling is a physical phenomenon in which evaporation of a liquid, typically into surrounding air, cools an object or a liquid in contact with it."
Right. I sweat. The dry air evaporates it. I feel fresh as a daisy. A sweaty daisy, but a daisy, nonetheless.
In the Bay Area, due to this large body of water, the uh, you know, Bay, we have a bit of humidity. Not much, mind you. Not Georgia on a hot summer night or Singapore all year round. But enough.
Enough that my finely tuned machine, calibrated to the New Mexico climate, can't properly obtain "fresh as a sweaty daisy" and I just obtain sweaty.
But that's not the point of my discussion.
The point is...it's due to be pretty hot today. "Pretty hot" is something of a rarity around here. We get maybe two weeks, when all totaled up each year, of "good lord it's hot" days.
The rest of the time, the weather is temperate and mild.
Because of this, few homes and businesses have any sort of air conditioning. I know, right? I almost passed out when I first moved here. "You want to rent me an apartment WITHOUT air conditioning? Do you want me to *die*?!?!?"
So in order to stay cool, people go to their drawers and the back of their closets to withdraw their "warm weather" clothes.
Herein lies the problem. In New Mexico, it gets hot a lot. Everyone has at least ONE pair of serviceable shorts, usually two or more. Something that people wouldn't be upset at being seen in public with you while you were wearing them.
Not so in the area where it doesn't often get that hot.
Yes, the first "damn it's hot" day of the year means seeing shorts that are a bit tight and frightfully short.
I don't mean on a cute girl, I mean on the overweight middle aged dad-man whose legs haven't seen the outside of pants legs in decades wearing the shorts he bought for Spring Break back in college, thirty years ago.
This morning I saw a woman walking down the street in a purple bathing suit with the elastic about shot, thus hardly supporting her ample upper parts. This was paired with some lycra bike shorts, scarcely concealing her ample lower parts. She also carried a pack of Kools and smoked profusely. But that's a whole other blog post.
Unless you are actually ON a bike, I'd like not to see the bike shorts, please.
Look, not all of my stuff is great to look at, but I have the decency toward my fellow mankind to wear a pair of shorts that don't crawl up my heiney as I walk. My skin is pale from too many days under office florescent lights, but I make an effort to keep cool and keep my dignity at the same time.
For the good of all mankind.
Stay cool out there, ya'll.
April 17, 2009
Went to have my teeth cleaned and checked yesterday. Been going to the same dentist for twelve years, so I've gotten to be somewhat friendly with my hygienist.
She is amazing. A force to be reckoned with. Very handy and kind with a dental tool.
Over the years, she and I have been through a lot together. For example, I recently got married, she recently got divorced.
She's has been seeing a new guy for about a year now. The first blush of love has worn off, and they have hit a rough patch.
Yesterday as she scraped at my teeth and gums with a metal pointy object, she caught me up on the latest.
"I'm not even staying over at his place anymore, I've been back at my apartment," she said, angrily.
"I do things for him! I know what he needs and I give it to him. Why can't he do the same for me!" she huffed. : scrape, scrape :
"He just makes me so MAD" she said, while jabbing the beejeezus out of my gums.
When she gave me a moment to rinse the blood out of my mouth, I said, "you know, my husband has told me that often enough men really appreciate it if you'll just *tell* them what you need. Give him a little guidance and I bet he'll be happy to provide what you want. He just wants to make you happy."
"But why doesn’t he just *know*?!?" she wailed.
"Because he doesn't. Don't be afraid to ask for what you need," I said, gently.
She thought about what I said, muttering aloud to herself with one foot on my forehead and both hands shoved in my face, jabbing at my teeth unmercifully.
"Maybe you are right, maybe I need to be willing to say what I need more. Maybe I'll go over to his place tonight to watch the hockey game and we can talk."
For some reason, people like to use me for therapy.
Did I mention?
My hygienist is 60 years old.
Never, NEVER too late!
April 16, 2009
The wayback machine, that is.
After my post yesterday, I got an email from my best good friend. Turns out she was in the wayback machine yesterday too, but for a whole different reason.
Still a resident of Las Cruces, over the years, she's given me an on site report on all the things changing in that sleepy college town. Yesterday she saw a sight that made her incredibly sad and she had to tell me about it in email.
Remember how I talked about NMSU being a land grant college?
What that meant to a business major such as me, is that if you walked down the hill toward the Ag College, you would find a big open pasture in which actual cows roamed around, grazing on the actual college campus.
With the wind from the right direction, you were reminded, frequently enough, that you did, in fact, attend an agricultural college.
Personally, I always liked that. Tied us to our roots. Kept us humble.
Once upon a time I even had to help round up a truckload of calves that were being moved to a different pasture. Those buggars had managed to break free. Tiny criminals. If you know anything about calves, you know they don't naturally have that herding instinct yet.
It was like herding jello. Or the Tasmanian devil. Or some combo therein.
Sadly, the cows haven’t roamed the campus of NMSU for several years, and that open land went pretty much unused.
Until former university president, Michael Martin, agreed to annex that pastureland to the City of Las Cruces for the purpose of building a convention center. In exchange, the university gets money back from events hosted there.
I'd heard this was coming. My friend and I talked at length about it when I visited in February.
As of yesterday, ground has been broken. Construction is underway.
They made my best friend cry. That makes me cry.
There is some quote about not going quietly into that good night. But anymore, I'm not sure it's worth the calorie expenditure to holler into a hurricane.
Change must happen. At the end of the day, it's not about the memories, it's about the dollars. As an NMSU trained businesswoman, I should know better.
Photo by Clay Mathis of NMSU. Source.
April 15, 2009
It was Fall, had to be. Slight crispness to the evening air. Anticipation thick as the fog of Aqua Net in the Chi Omega house.
It was 1989, probably. Or somewhere close to that. The campus of New Mexico State University. I was a sophomore, maybe a junior, I can't remember. Doesn't matter.
What does matter is that I was getting ready to go to a dance at Corbett Center.
The woman who would become my best friend for what is now over twenty years was the driving force that night, and many just like it. Her parents had met at a Corbett Center dance, so she was especially incentivized to go scoot a boot and see what's doing. Family history.
I nervously pulled on my too shiny, too new, gray goatskin round toe ropers and jeans that didn't really go with the boots, but were at least long enough to be acceptable. "You should buy some Rockies," I was told, and they were right. I would, later, in quantity. But then I had neither the money nor the courage. I wasn't sure what I was going to get into, I just knew I was going to be there come hell or high water.
It wasn't my first Corbett dance. It wouldn’t be my last. This story isn't about one actual night, more an amalgam of a lot of great nights.
The gaggle of high-haired women walked out the back door of our home, a sorority house containing twenty-eight women of different backgrounds, and one understanding house mom. What bound us together was our choice of educational institution. A land grant institution. To the uninformed, that means an agricultural college.
It was a short shuffle over to Corbett, up the stairs to the third floor where they had the ballrooms. Pay the entrance fee. Five dollars I think? Maybe less back then. Get a stamp on your hand. Look around, see who is there already. Talk about who you hope shows up.
Hear the opening strains of music. Usually The Delk Band. A group of musicians, brothers, and their dad on fiddle. I went to school with most of the boys. I remember one of the Delks was cute. I remember one of the Delks was the drummer and back then had a tendency to speed up the tempo as a song wore on. Hard to dance to a wildly varying tempo. But we did it.
They were our people, and we embraced them. And we danced. Oh did we dance.
The two-step. Not the Texas double up kind, no. The slow kind, keeping time to the music.
And a waltz. My favorite, how I love to waltz. The rhythm of waltz-timed music still beats my heart a little differently.
The polka. If done right with the right boy (he had to be tall because I'm tall and otherwise we'd just bump knees) you felt like you were flying, feet hardly touching the ground.
Then of course the Cotton-Eyed Joe (stepped in what?) and the Schottische, played back to back, often enough. Linking six or eight of us, arm in arm, facing forward, laughing our fool heads off.
The ladies, my friends and I, would stand on the sidelines and take a look at the scene. My best friend would always get asked to dance first. She's beautiful and a great dancer. Who could blame the boys for flocking to her blue-eyed, dark haired gorgeousness? Not me, for sure.
As I got better at dancing, I got asked often enough, too. The boys liked the girls who could dance, who liked to dance, who didn't turn up their nose at dirty fingernails and cow sh*t on their boots.
There is something special about dancing with a boy who knows how to dance, a strong lead, who looked you in the eyes while we danced. The boys who had the right fold in their hat and smelled faintly of Copenhagen and beer and Polo cologne.
I got to know those folks. All of them, the boys, the girls, the dancers, the musicians, the laughers, the people who liked to swing each other around the dance floor.
They became my family. We traveled in packs, dancing until we were sweaty, then heading outside into the cool air to take a breath, drink a beer, laugh a lot and occasionally find someone to spend a little time with.
Well not me, not then. I was still too awkward and mixed up to attract much in the way of boys at that point. I was more "one of the guys" than one of the girls the guys would chase. Don't feel bad for me though, I eventually figured it out. (cover your eyes, mom)
Over time, we all aged a little, got to be over 21 and started to migrate from dancing at Corbett center to dancing at the local country bar. It was fun but seemed a little more complicated. Add more than a couple beers to the night and weird things happen.
But still we danced. By that time, I'd moved off campus and lived with my friend from TorC. She was crazy and fun and taught me a lot (cover your eyes, mom), and she loved to dance as much as I did. She coined the phrase "big bar hair" and learned me how to get it, and keep it, despite dancing so hard sweat ran down your face.
Then we all aged a bit more, and we graduated and found respectable jobs. My best friend, her husband (a fine dancer, I must say) and I are all actually employed in the same area that's listed on our diplomas. One might scoff at country folks, but all three of us hold a Master's degree in our chosen fields.
Now, on the verge of turning forty, I find I still miss those days, mightily. I wished I'd enjoyed them more at the time. The stress of school and classes and "what do I want to be when I grow up" cast a pall on my days.
My own fault. A worrier by nature, a tendency I fight tooth and nail every single day I take a breath.
When I'm having a bad day, when I doubt myself, when I realize I don't fit in at my new place of employment, when I don't feel heard or understood or very well liked, I can always go back to those days in my mind and smile.
I can't get together with my best friend and her husband and NOT talk about those days. Magical. I'm blessed to have been able to have them. Once upon a time, I knew where I belonged.
(photo found via Google. That is, in fact, Mark Delk and if I'm right, that photo was taken at Dickerson's Auction Barn...another location for a lot of good nights of dancing....)
This historic journey brought to you by the song "On A Good Night" by Wade Hayes. The song popped up on my iPod set to shuffle during the morning commute. The song itself was burned off a CD while visiting my best good friend in the world just a couple months ago. Damn you Wade for putting me in the wayback machine!
April 14, 2009
Why do we do this? Why do *I* do this?
A Singapore counterpart from work gave me a set of reeeeally nice hand lotions on her last visit to the US. I went through and sniffed them all, picked my favorites, then put them in order, thus allowing myself to use the least faves *first* before using the ones I like.
Why? Why would I do that? Why not use the ones I like best first? Life is short!
Today, my admin was kind enough to bring me a sample plate of desserts from a conference room downstairs. I ate the yucky ones first and the nicest one last. Why didn't I just eat the good ones and leave the yucky ones? Nope. Ate 'em all.
I'm not proud of it, either.
Suppose this is a hazard of being born to Depression Era parents? The propensity to "save" things for later was strong with them both.
Or is it a hazard of my severe obsessive, overly anal personality?
Or could it be just a facet of human nature? Especially as a woman. "Oh no," : hand to head : "I'll take the burned toast...."
I just pulled out the jar of *good* lotion and slathered it on. I smell pretty!
Life is too short to dance with short men. Life is too short to drink cheap
beer wine. Life is too important to be taken seriously. And life is too dull to not use the "good soap" in the guest bath.
April 13, 2009
Technologically speaking, I seem to be regressing.
Been using my high end Canon camera with all the whizz bang features and fancy lenses for a while.
And then I go and buy some cheapie plastic cameras and start having fun with 35mm film again.
This weekend I went one step farther back to luddite-ville. I went to Cyanotype. Known to the real world as Sunlight Prints.
Billed as a toy for kids, I'm having a heck of a lot of fun. I bought a kit off a sale table at Barnes & Noble a while back and used up (and ruined most of) the paper. Then I bought a paper refill at a toy store and kept trying. My technique is improving.
The whole thing is a chemical process kicked off by ultraviolet light from the sun.
So you get this light blue piece of paper with the right stuff chemical on it, compose your arrangement of items (in the shade), expose to the sun, then rinse it off with water and voila!
This is the same stuff that original blueprints were made from.
I guess Cyanotype isn't so out of style, though, because in one of the buildings where I work, they have a huge art installation of sunlight prints on slabs of wood showing a variety of ferns. It's gorgeous! Maybe I should peddle my prints for a buck to the powers that be at work, eh? *grin*
Anyhow, here I am, rocking it 1842 style! With a little help from a blooming rose bush in my front yard and a sunny April Saturday afternoon.
(These scans don't do the Prussian blue any sort of justice. Also, where you see a double image, that's because the wind was blowing my compositions around....)
April 10, 2009
And so, the 2009 baseball season is underway.
The major leaguers started early in the week.
But that's not where I'm at.
I'm talkin' about one lowly Single A.
The San Jose Giants kicked off their 142 game season in the Pacific Coast League with their home opener last night.
It was, perhaps, one of the strangest baseball encounters I've ever experienced.
And I've seen some weird sh*t.
To start with, the weather was was, what the indelicate call "pissing rain". The not quite raining, not quite not. Just...dribbling.
For my home-squirrels in the 505/575 who come from a place where, when it rains, it means it, this phenomenon may not make sense to you.
Imagine those misters they have at Hooters. Only as big as the sky, unrelenting, and without the desert dryness to evaporate that water.
So it was Hooters misting all night long...and cold...and not very baseball-y weather.
Pretty much, the not really capacity crowd thinned out over the course of the game, leaving only the die hards to carry it to the end.
Which would be both me and The Good Man.
We stepped under cover for the third and fourth innings to indulge in bbq-sauce-up-to-your-ears tasty ribs and came out of there recharged and ready.
When you've endured several hours of cold soaking rain, it does something to your brain.
So as most people left, and us weirdos starting losing our minds, it got really fun.
Best moment will take some backstory.
Every game, the San Jose announcer designates a player on the opposing team as the "beer batter". If the San Jose pitcher strikes out that batter, then beer is half price for the next half inning.
Needless to say, people cheer pretty damn hard for a strikeout.
Usually, they end the beer batter promotion in the sixth inning.
So, round about the seventh inning last night...we, the looneys in the crowd decided to dub that same opposing batter the hot chocolate batter (it was freaking cold!). Cheering went up. Someone yelled, "C'mon, daddy needs marshmallows!"
beer hot chocolate batter would NOT just take a swing. Poor sport.
And then, for some reason, in the eighth inning, the announcer played the usual beer batter song and dubbed the guy the 'apple juice batter of the game, as sponsored by Martinelli's'. I don't know if that was a legit promotion, but then all of us started hollering for our apple juice.
As the beer batter stood at the plate, we screamed "aaaaaaaple juuuuuice!" Damnit if that guy just wouldn't strike out for us! No, he kept foulin' 'em off! So I yelled "I'll share mine with you!" No, he wasn't to be swayed. I even offered to *give* him my apple juice. Considering I was sitting in the third row behind the plate in a nearly empty stadium, I KNOW he heard my offer.
But no, instead of sipping my apple juice, b--tard hit a rope out to center.
A cold soaked to the bone crowd couldn't even get an apple juice. That ain't right.
But damn did we have fun!
And yes, the Albuquerque Dukes pennant is still painted on the wall at Muni Stadium and I touched it for luck, like usual! Worked too! We won 7-1!
Tonight, I think I'll stick to the couch and a blanket and my feline (who I've finally forgiven) and baseball on the television.
But I may be prompted to yell "aaaaaaapple juuuuuuuice" at a hitter who needs to strike out. : shrug :
In response to reports that Lindsay Lohan wants to buy the rights to her life and play her in a movie, Stevie Nicks replies:
"Over my dead body...She needs to stop doing drugs and get a grip. Then maybe we'll talk."
Oh hooo heee hooo har har har Ms. Nicks! YOU saying that someone needs to get off drugs and get a grip?
Do you, perhaps, recall the seventies and your time with Fleetwood Mac?
No...I suppose you don't.
Been acting all healthy lately (past couple months). Eating good. Exercising too. Had a visit to my doctor early this week and she wants to get a full blood panel (haven't done that in a few years).
This week I exercised super hard. Ate pretty good. Feeling good. Blood pressure low. Blood sugar great.
I'm expecting knockout low cholesterol numbers.
Then I went in this morning around 9:30 and gave the blood.
Taking care of me.
So what did I have for lunch today?
: shakes head :
You can make a person almost 40, but you can't make 'em be a grownup! At least not for very long.
April 8, 2009
Behold the face of the unrepentant criminal!
Last night, after giving kibble to the rabble rouser, I took a glass from the cabinet where we keep dishes, poured some soy milk, and went to the other room to enjoy the cold glass. I suppose I didn't firmly close the cabinet door...fine.
Several minutes later, I heard some clanking noises from the kitchen and said to The Good Man, "what's she into now?"
He said, "we didn't leave any dishes on the counter, so I can't imagine..."
I got up and went into the kitchen.
The Feline had made her way into the cabinet where the dishes are kept and was prowling around in there. When I barked, "get down!" as I do when she's somewhere she ought not to be, she wigged out.
And in her haste to comply and quickly extricate her anything-but-lithe form from the shelves, she managed to shove the stack of bowls out of the cabinet and crashing, shattering to the floor.
She then scampered off a good distance, then stopped to lick her paw as though to say, "what?"
I found myself...mad. Really mad. Not kick the cat mad (in no way at all), but mad.
The Good Man rightfully reminded me that she's a pet, you can't reason with her like a child, that being mad is fine but really comes to no good end, that this is just what this particular feline does.
Sure. Didn't help. I was still mad.
Not mad enough I didn't let her sleep on top of me, like usual, but still, this morning...I'm peeved.
I'm probably more peeved at myself for leaving the door open than anything.
I once had a therapist say that being mad was more about yourself that it is about the person (feline) you are mad at.
So. Breathe in. Breathe out.
*sigh* So I guess this weekend we'll set out into the world to buy a new set of bowls. Ain't gonna be no soup in our house for a while!
April 6, 2009
I have this friend. One of my best friends, actually, who is this little tiny bit of nuthin'. 90lbs soaking wet. She's the sort of golden retrieverish person that will get up in the morning and go to spin class before breakfast, take an intense yoga lesson at lunch, and then go wind surfing for dinner.
She fancies ten hours bike rides. Yeah. That kind of gal.
But recently, at age 43, she's found herself (happily) pregnant for the first time, and is very superstitious about this baby, so is, in her words, taking it easy.
Over dinner a few weeks back, my friend told me about this place she has been going hiking. "Oh, it's great. They have a paved walking path, and it only has a few rolling hills. It's great! I've been walking it a few times a week!"
Well, hey! To me, her elephantine friend who has been hitting the treadmill with vigor lately, "a few rolling hills" didn't sound so bad!
Sunday I set out for The Dish, the landmark walking path on the campus of Stanford University.
Ok, fabulous. I got a much coveted parking spot, strapped on my shoes and off I went. The Good Man was up in SF with friends, so I was alone in this 3.7 mile mission.
I stopped by the ranger's shack and he gave me a map, talked me through the path and off I went. Just to get to the trail, you have to walk up a large hill. Neato.
And so I get to the top of that first hill. Once there, you have to choose if you want to go clockwise or counterclockwise.
I looked to my left (to go clockwise). There was another steep hill. I looked to the right (to go counterclockwise) and there was a gradual decline. Hmm. So I decided I wanted to take the big hill at the first part of the walk while I still had energy, so I turned to the left and started walking.
And began gasping, sweating, became good friends with my heart beating out of my chest. I had to stop and put hands on knees multiple times (an elderly hunched backed woman strolled past me) and my lungs burned. Oh how they burned.
This was not a rolling hill. Neither was the next one. Or the next. Or the next several, actually.
Ok, fair enough, it was a beautiful walk. I saw deer, many ground squirrels, and a red tail hawk.
I did manage to actually complete the walk. I scaled the last uphill before leaving and had worked myself into quite a sweaty, panting froth.
So, of course, I rewarded myself for a job well done by eating a pint of Ben & Jerry's.
Oh well. I'm less golden retriever and more couch hound.
Isn't that a pretty flower? I took a photo of it while lying on the ground crying out for dear mercy and sweet mother oxygen.
April 4, 2009
April 2, 2009
You know...it's been a while.
A good long while. Since back in the I-40 and I-25 days.
Many years past.
Yes, today I had a moment of cellular memory.
We had an especially windy day in the Bay Area.
Sure, people talk about it being windy here, but they don't know from wind. They don't know about that gap between the Sandias and Manzanos channeling the wind, giving it force, and knocking you down in the parking lot.
They don't know about tumbleweeds the size of a small house bouncing joyfully across the road with a velocity relatively equal to an overloaded Mack Truck coming out of the Glorieta Pass, air brakes screaming.
No, they don't know.
But today came close.
As I drove home down 280 in the howling wind, my hands and arms moved without me. Took up the familiar position of about a 27 and a half degree angle turn on the steering wheel.
Turning into the wind in order to keep the car between the white lines.
And then...that moment when going under the overpass and wooop, for half a second you get a wind break and steer, steer, steer to keep from broadsiding the person next to you then you are out of the wind break and steer, steer, steer to keep from sliding off in the other direction.
My hands and arms didn't need my brain to tell them what to do. They knew.
Honed and skilled by the unforgiving winds of the New Mexico desert. They knew.
The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind. (aw man! I can't believe I *went there*!)
April 1, 2009
The government cares. No really, they do. And so with their help, I've taken a good look at myself today. I mean, a real good look.
How are YOU feeling? Maybe you could check in too?
Getting Through Tough Economic Times from the Department of Health and Human Services.
"It is important to be aware of signs that financial problems may be adversely affecting your emotional or mental well being --or that of someone you care about."
In other words....Did Mr. Jones take all your cash? Does that tick you off?
Let's check in, shall we?
Only when I look at my bank account.
Only when I look at my bank account.
Lack of Sleep/Constant Fatigue
Yes. But I can't really blame the economy for the fact that we are having cold windy nights, and since my personal internal thermometer tends to run hot, the cat and The Good Man sleep on top of me to stay warm.
Only at 3:00 in the morning when I'm burning up hot and can’t get fourteen pounds of cat or six feet two inches of husband off of me.
Yeah, a little. The Good Man, his friend and me did have two bottles of wine on Sunday (at a bar-b-que). Did you know that Lambrusco is really tasty and drinks awfully easily? Did you know that with enough fizzy red wine in your gullet, you kinda feel a lot better about a whole lot of things in your life? Well, that and the red meat. And the smoked fish from Alaska. Damn...that was a fine dinner.....
Illicit drug use, including misuse of medications
Does Claritin count? Because with this wind, my eyes and nose are like faucets. I may be abusing the stuff...not sure.
Difficulty paying attention or staying focused
What's that over there? I think I'm hungry. What's the square root of 686?
Apathy - not caring about things that are usually important to you
Not being able to function as well at work, school or home
Let's see...after a marathon two days of writing a presentation in which I basically justified my job to our new austere European owners, today I'm at work with nothing to do and writing on my blog.
Not sure I could be less value added if I tried. Or should that be value subtracted? Not sure how the absolute values work in relation to lazyosity.
Hmm. Ok. So I'm not sure I can draw any conclusions from that exercise.
And I think they may have left a few off the list. My additions:
Do you check your online money accounts more than three times a day?
Do you find yourself in the lunchroom with your coworkers discussing tax rates?
Do you cut coupons where you rarely did before?
Do you and your spouse look for "free" events, samples, activities and services?
Do you calculate how much gas it would take to get to a destination as a "go/no go" decision on running an errand?
Do you watch too much CNBC and then find yourself yelling at Jim Cramer and blaming him for a lot of things that aren't actually his fault? (this one applies to Jon Stewart only)
Do you have fantasies about how good it used to be...in 2006?
If so...seek help.
Ok, ok, I kid, I kid, but the online resource is actually pretty serious.
Link thanks to Bruce Daniels over at the ABQjournal.
"I'm certain I have no idea what you are blathering on about, human. Now feed me.
Source (emphasis added)
The Food and Drug Administration is currently warning people not to eat any food containing pistachios because of possible contamination by salmonella. No New Mexico pistachios have been implicated in the FDA's recall of 2 million pounds...