An Open Letter To My iPod

Dear Shuffle Function on my iPod Shuffle:

Today, after a really long day at work that started WAY too early this morning and ended WAY too late, I climbed my large and rather tired behind up onto my treadmill and fired up the big machine.

Normally I can rely on you, my long suffering iPod, veteran of many miles, to get me through the agony of exercise.

Not today.

Here's a hint, little musical device: when I need a little inspiration, how 'bout we avoid every single four bar blues available on the playlist, huh?

Minor chords don't really scream "get that heartrate up!" Albert King and John Lee Hooker are really better suited to competitive whiskey drinking, not sweating for my health.

And that John Denver song? Yer killin' me! (yes, I have John Denver on my iPod. No, I'm not ashamed)

Workout time is also not time for Colbie Callat, John Legend, or Coltraine.

Damn, iPod Shuffle, that skip function got more of a workout today than I did!

That said, dropping a "Stayin' Alive" on me near the end of the hour? That was inspired.

Occasionally, you still got it, Shuffle.

Sad iPod cross stitch from benjibot's Flickr photostream.

Warfare On The Not-Really-All-That-High Seas

Back in August, I mentioned that I work in office buildings located right next to a public park and marshy baylands that are home to quite a few birds.

Back in August, it was all about the Canada Geese. Lots and lots of geese.

I'm endlessly fascinated by all the wildlife, so I try to find the time during my work days to take a break and use the beautiful walking trails in the area. I love to stroll by the lagoons, all teeming with wildlife.

Among others species, we have flounder, bat rays, ducks, herons and egrets. The more I sashay around the lagoon, the more I've come to recognize many of the animals.

For example, there is this handsome fella (at least I think it's a fella). This is, I believe, a great white heron:

This heron is always found camped out in one corner of the lagoon. It is where the water flows into the lagoon from an underwater pipe, so the bird stands there gazing into the water and picking off small fish.

For comparison, here's a snowy egret. They are a bit smaller than the herons.

As the weather has turned cold, I've noticed more and more numbers and species of birds have come to call our little baylands area their home.

Mostly, these birds all live together in harmony. There is plenty of fish to eat and lots of room to roam.

But a few weeks ago, some new thugs hit town, and they're messing up the harmony in my lagoon.

Dun-dun-duuuuuuuun

Pelicans.

The pelicans have brought a weird vibe to the whole area.

Today, I went for a walk and took my camera along hoping for some inspiration. After a long week at work, I had little left in the tank. A photowalk seemed like a good idea.

So while taking a few snaps of my friend the heron, I noticed something odd happening.

About eight pelicans were swimming in fast, full speed ahead. I suppose you could call it ramming speed, and they were headed toward the subject of my photographs.

In other words, they were charging the heron.

Suddenly, every heron and egret in the large lagoon came flying and squawking their way over. There was dive bombing and vocalizing and tense moments.

After a few minutes, the pelicans turned and swam off.

Wild! I'd never seen anything like it! Shaking my head, I began walking again.

A while later, in the next corner of the lagoon, it happened again.

Water splashed, birds squawked. This one was a doozy. It was a well-executed, well-choreographed battle.

After a lengthy tussle, the herons and egrets prevailed again and the pelicans were chased off.

Now every heron and egret was on high alert. They were positioned strategically around the lagoon, each surveying a different direction, eyes sharp for another attack by the pelican insurgents.

Soon, in yet a new section, it all started up again. The splashing, the squawking, the fighting.

From the rear, a large battalion of little black ducks (I believe they are called American Coots) got in the game. They swam over in formation and clumped up, creating an obstacle to prevent the pelican progress.

This is a few minutes after the battle was won. Here, they rest, conserving energy to prepare for the next battle.

A heron soon made his way over to address the soldiers.

"Excellent work, troops. Today, we'll endure this pelican insurgence. Historians shall speak of this day. Children will learn our names. Our women will weep at our graves.

Coots! Ready your snackies and eat hearty... For tonight, we dine in hell!"

Sure enough, it was only a few minutes later when this gent sailed by.

And OH IT WAS BACK ON!!

This time the herons took a different approach and lined up. They all stood guard, and as the pelicans swam by, each heron in turn would yell and flap at the pelicans until they moved on, then the next would pick up the fight. It was an amazing bit of coordinated defense.

Not sure if this photo can even capture it all, but bear in mind that while you can see about fourteen herons in this photo, there are more around the bend, waiting their turn.

By this time, I'd made my way around the loop and it was time to head back to the office. As I left the scene, I wondered how long the battle would rage on.

Crazy, mixed up, wild maritime fighting. My peaceful lagoon is now a war zone!

And the geese don't care.

Don't let the vicious battle happening just a few feet away get in the way of your gorging yourself there, big guy.

All photos by Karen Fayeth

Game 1 - Game On!

It may be time for Primal Scream therapy.

As a long-suffering San Francisco Giants fan, it's hard to wrap my tiny mind around my Giants being back in the post season.

The last time I watched my team in the post season, it was 2003 and Pudge Rodriguez (then with the Marlins) was counting coup over the body of JT Snow, laid flat across home plate, the last out of the fifth game of the first round.

It aches.

The year before that, in 2002, I watched my team go to the seventh game of the World Series...and lose.

That's more of a soul searing pain.

So while I'm very happy my lowly Giants have made it to the postseason once more, it's not without some trepidation on my part.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me three times? Welcome to Giants fandom. Here's your orange gear and your Costco pack of Prilosec.

This one is going to burn.

Last night was Game 1 against the Atlanta Braves, our old nemesis. The Giants history with the Braves is deep. Bobby Cox, in his retirement year, still has plenty in the tank and a good bullpen. Even plagued by injuries, the Braves are a team to be taken seriously.

At 6:37pm, The Good Man and I turned on the radio, dug into our positions on the couch, and held on for dear life while Tim Lincecum (nicknamed The Freak) blithely struck out 14 hitters and the Giants won the game 1-0.

Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!

Whew. Good. Ok. Got that pent up energy out.

Now. On to Game 2.

May this delicious agony last a very long time.

AP Photo by Ben Margot, from ESPN.com

This post is not only about fandom, it also fulfills a Theme Thursday challenge.

Keep Feeling Fascination

This morning, the idea generator prompted me to "Name something that fascinates you."

Let's see...

Right now, the thing that fascinates me the most is: Peanut Butter M&M's

Oh man, I tried these for the first time during my recent travel. My sweet tooth dragged me to an airport shop where I bought a bag, and ever since I can't stop thinking about and yearning for the peanut buttery goodness!

Oh wait. That's an obsession. Not a fascination.

Let me try again.

Ok, I got it. I’m fascinated by that frapping tree growing in my side yard. The one that grows about six feet a month, drapes over the neighbor's fence, scrapes at the side of the house and blocks the nice view out of my home office window.

Oh no, got it wrong again. That's aggravation.

Hmm. Fascinated by the endless lines of tiny black ants invading my kitchen?

Nope, more aggravation.

How about this! I got it. I'm fascinated by the process I go through every morning to park in my favorite spot in the parking garage. There is a pinched-faced lady in a gray BMW who thinks she owns the spot. I parked there uncontested for a whole month and beginning last week, missy miss BMW thinks it's her spot?

Oh I don't THINK so.

No, every day I'm all about making sure that I get that spot, mine mine mine!!

Nice try, Karen. That would probably be best labeled under compulsion.

Maybe I'm fascinated by my ongoing observations about the sheer quantity of Canada Geese poop at the park near my office?

No, compulsion and aggravation together, I think.

How about my fascination with the recent over 90-degree heatwave in the Bay Area.

Nope. Perspiration.

I got it! Night photography! I'm fascinated by that.

But that's also education. As in, I'm totally all about learning night photography but yet, I'm also fascinated with the art.

Yes. That's it. I think I've resolved it.

That was a lot harder that I thought it would be.

Daily Agenda

Sleep.

Wake to alarm.

Curse.

Rise. Eat. Dress. Leave.

Work.

Meeting.

Work.

Meeting.

Meeting.

"Karen, take the action to..."

Meeting.

Work.

Email. Lots of email.

Work.

Late Lunch (if lucky).

Manage someone's complaint.

Work.

Meeting.

Deal with someone's mess up.

Work.

Sleepy. Yawn.

Two hours left.

Email.

Meeting.

Work.

Leave work.

Home. Food. Scritch chins of boy and Feline.

Sleep.

And then.....

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

These are the days they never told you about when you were twelve and wanted nothing more than to be a grownup.

That is SO Old School!

My sister likes to give me hell about my inability to get rid of stuff.

She *might* be right, but I'm not admitting to it here.

I do, however, have a very strong "cheap" streak running through me.

I can't help it, roots of my raising.

So this cheap streak means that when I have a possession that has served me well and works easily, I tend to keep it. And use it. Use it WELL past its prime.

Behold, one such object for which I feel great affection.

My old school adding machine.

This item was procured for me back in the year of nineteen and ninety-seven.

It was a purchase made by the admin assistant to the Director of Procurement at the Lockheed facility where I was employed.

I had to prove to the admin assistant that the adding machine on my desk was truly broken.

She didn't believe me.

It was quite a negotiation.

Finally, my wit and charm prevailed, and this little baby was ordered, fresh from our office supply vendor.

A brand new out of the box adding machine was unheard of at that Lockheed location!

My new possession featured typical ten key navigation. The choice of accountants and those who wear eye shades alike.

Oh yes.

I love this adding machine.

It's been with me, my trusted friend, for THIRTEEN YEARS!

I loffs it.

I used to work at a hip, hot IT company. One of my employees who is cooler in her pinky toe than I'll ever be in my whole rig used to give me an endless stream of grief about my "old school" adding machine.

"Your iPhone has a calculator!" she'd remind me about once a day.

Yes, it does. But it's not the same.

The tactile pleasure from the machine and that little raised nub on the 5 button, so you know where you are without looking? Delicious!

And look! If I want to, I can even print out my column of numbers!!! Check and double check!

I choose to keep the tape roll off the machine. Why waste the paper, right?

Oh my sweet glorious adding machine. It's now found a new home, a place of honor, on my new desk at my new hip, hot IT employer.

As I drew the beast out of my backpack and lovingly cleaned it up with alcohol wipes, my new boss declared "what is that?!?!"

But then one of my new employees said, "oh, I love adding machines. I still have mine too. I love using the tape to check my number input."

I almost wept.

We may have found a home here...me and my not-so-sleek, not-so-luxurious adding machine.

In case you were wondering, yes...I took my adding machine with me when I left Lockheed. They considered it my going away present. It was so thoughtful!

The Great Dr. Pepper Incident

One of the perks of my new gig is that they make a large selection of soft drinks available for free to employees.

Now, this would be nice, except....

Several years ago, I gave up all soft drinks, both regular and diet.

They're just not good fer the ol' rig, ya know? Bad stuff, lots of chemicals, extra calories and such.

So except for a splash of ginger ale now and again to float a shot of Maker's Mark, I don't drink sodas.

But I have to say, free is pretty tempting, right?

I noted in the cooler, there were some chilled to perfection Dr. Peppers looking at me like the last puppy in the pet store.

When I was a kid, I adored Dr. Pepper. To me, it was nectar of the gods.

So yesterday, day two of the new job, I decided to cave and have myself a free Dr. Pepper.

Well.

Yuck.

I mean, p'tooie, bleah, barf, YUCK!

I took two sips and poured the rest out.

It didn't taste good. I'm sure some of that is due to the fact I just don't drink sodas anymore.

But you know what? I think A LOT of my reaction was that stuff from my childhood just doesn't taste the same or even good anymore.

Over this past weekend, I tried a Little Debbie Star Crunch.

That also tasted not at all like I'd wanted it to.

You know what I blame?

Corn syrup.

Ok, this isn't going to be a rant about corn syrup and how bad it is for you. It could be, but it isn't.

I’m just going to say this. Good ol' fashioned delicious cane sugar and corn syrup are NOT the same thing. The taste, the texture, the consistency, NOT THE SAME.

I blame corn syrup, which is in EVERYTHING these days, for the fact that none of the foods and beverages that I so loved in my youth taste like they should.

One could argue that as I have aged, my taste buds have changed, and there is some validity to that.

But that doesn't let pesky corn syrup off the hook.

Nope.

Then, just to add insult to injury, after I took two drinks of a Dr. Pepper and threw it out, I had heartburn for the rest of the day.

It just ain't right.

Flash Fiction - Day Two

Today's word from the random word generator is: disgust

Owen's First Hunt

by Karen Fayeth

Owen squinted his left eye in a perfect imitation of his father, and with his right eye, he looked down the sights of his brand new .30-30 Winchester rifle. He didn't see anything yet, but he wanted to be ready, just in case.

Holding the butt of the rifle to his shoulder then squinting down the scope didn't feel natural yet, and so he kept practicing the move.

He absolutely didn't want to mess this up.

His dad was lecturing him on how to spot deer, how to stay hidden, how to stay downwind and Owen was listening, but also practicing. He knew that his chance to shoot his first deer would come quick and he needed to be ready. His dad was counting on him and he was counting on himself to be that kind of guy. The man who can confidently get a shot off in a hurried situation.

At twelve, this was a key day in his life and he knew it.

Owen turned his head and looked at his dad, decked out from head to toe in camouflage, smelling of the doe urine he'd applied to cover up his human scent, breath reeking of Budweiser.

There was no one in the world Owen looked up to more than his dad. He wanted to be just like him when he grew up, from the day old stubble to the low rough voice.

Owen wasn't the only one who looked up to Hal who was a born leader and natural teacher. Hal was that guy everybody either wanted to be or be friends with.

"Ok, now, stay quiet and don't move," Hal instructed in a low voice. "We got what looks like a three-point buck headed into this meadow. Get ready, ok?"

Eyes wide, Owen looked where his dad pointed. Sure enough a tawny deer came into the clearing, foraging in the grass, oblivious to the fate that awaited him behind the brush.

"Real easy, son, make sure you look careful down that scope. What you are looking to do is drop that buck with one shot. Do you think you can do that?"

Owen nodded, yes.

His insides wobbled, no.

He couldn't stop his hands from shaking as they held his rifle, which now seemed impossibly heavy in his hands.

He braced the wooden butt of the gun up against his shoulder. Immediately his muscles tensed in anticipation of the kick that rifle would deliver when the trigger was pulled.

Owen took in a long quiet breath, willing his muscles to relax.

"You see it, son?" Hal asked quietly.

Owen nodded.

"Ok, now, you get it in your sights, right behind that front leg. You're aiming for the heart, got it?"

Owen whispered, "yeah."

He carefully found the area on that deer that he was pretty sure his dad was talking about. He tried desperately to keep his hands still and to focus.

"When you're ready," Hal whispered, "Just do it like we practiced. Take a breath in and then let it out slowly. Stay calm and squeeze that trigger."

Owen gave a small nod and focused. He drew in a breath and exhaled. About halfway through the out breath, he put his finger on the trigger, giving up a silent prayer that he did this right.

He imagined his dad congratulating him on his first deer. It was a rite of passage. Today he would go from little kid to a man.

Owen was ready. He couldn't be a man fast enough for his tastes.

The buck moved a little bit, turning his side more toward where Owen and Hal were well hidden. It was a perfect shot and both man and boy knew it.

Owen changed his aim to the left just a little bit, tried to relax, took in another quiet breath and began to let it out.

"Go Owen or he's gonna get away!" Hal said in a sharp whisper.

Startled, Owen pulled.

Then he pulled again, because nothing happened the first time.

The only sound was the click of an empty chamber.

"What the hell, son?" Hal whisper-shouted.

With knitted brows, Owen looked at his rifle. Suddenly he was scared to death the shell got caught in the chamber. That could be very dangerous.

"I don't know dad!" Owen wailed, holding out his rifle. The sounds of running hoof beats echoed down the canyon.

"Goddamnit!" Hal now shouted, a look of disgust washing over his face. He snatched the gun from his son's hands and pulled back the bolt to peek inside.

"Owen, why isn't there a shell in this rifle?" Hal asked not keeping the sarcastic tone out of the question.

The boy's face turned a hot red.

"Well ok, then give me one out of your pocket, let's get this loaded and try again."

Owen reached into the pocket of his Carhartt and found a used kleenix and a rock. His face turned even redder. The blush washed from down at the bottom of his feet up through his scalp.

He'd woken up early, before anyone else, and was so excited to go on his first hunt that he secured everything in the truck so they could head out. He packed everything carefully, including his box of shells, but completely forgot to put any in his gun. Or his pockets.

"So let me get this right, you left camp with a gun but no shells? What the hell were you thinking, boy?"

Owen paused. Then burst into tears.

The look of disgust quickly drained from Hal's face at the sight of his young son in complete meltdown.

"It's ok, Owen," he said, and wrapped his giant arms around the boy. "We'll get one tomorrow, ok? Let's get back to camp. Wanna go into town for an ice cream?"

Owen stopped crying and nodded.

The boy was not yet a man, but the man still remembered what it was like to be a boy.

"Owen's First Hunt" by Karen Fayeth is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.

Awkward Fan Girl Alert!

I have a crush.

Ok, to be fair, I have the biggest crush of all on my husband. He makes my tummy go all googley.

But I also have another, less powerful, crush.

A crush that I've been open and honest about with my spouse. He is ok with it. Or, while maybe not ok with it, tolerates my geek girl crush because that's just the sort of kind and understanding way he has with me.

You see, my crush is not about the usual sort of person you'd think.

No Robert Pattinson nor Johnny Depp. Nope.

Not even someone who you might call a celebrity. But someone who is a known figure...at least in the UK and to watchers of the BBC.

Oh, ok, I'll be out with it.

I have a crush on Mike Embley, lead presenter on BBC World News.

In my post-cable rabbit-ears-and-a-digital-box joy, I've discovered the very serious yet truly wonderful BBC World News show.

It's informative and not inflammatory. It's not televised drama, it's actual news from around the world. I've learned a LOT from this show and I chalk much of that up to Mr. Embley who presents the news in a professional and calm manner with a slight tinge of a sense of humor burbling just below the surface.

Plus, he cuts a stunning figure in a pink shirt and tie with a dark grey suit.

Truth be told, I find him rather irresistible. Brains and humor reel me in every time (just ask The Good Man who has both in spades, and might I mention, cuts a rather fabulous visage in a suit, himself).

Anyhow, yesterday, I was taking in the world news from the pleasing voice of Mr. Embley, and at the end of the show, he said, "You can follow me on Twitter at @bbcmikeembley."

Well that was that.

I looked him up and began following him straight away.

In reading his Tweet stream, I saw that he seems to be rather responsive to his followers. In many cases, he thanked people for the follow and answered their questions.

So...I took a chance.

Here's the transcript:

From me:

karenfayeth @bbcmikeembley I'm pleased to find you on Twitter. I very much enjoy your BBC World News broadcasts!!

A couple hours later came the reply:

bbcmikeembley @karenfayeth Happy to be Twting. Don't as much as I'd like but that mostly cos busy with the brdcasting. Or kids. Or dog. Or v bad guitar.

Oh swoon!

I appreciate he left out vowels to get to an economy of characters, and still managed to be very well spoken.

I am simply all a flutter to receive a reply!

When I showed it to my husband, he replied, "Oh my, you're a news fan geek. Who would have thought?"

He says this because I'm pretty steadfast in that I don't watch the news.

I really, really don't watch American broadcast news. It sets my teeth on edge.

Nope, no news...

But for one show. The one presented by my new Twitter friend...Mr. Embley.

: geek out!!! :

And so it came to pass....

....that living in the Land of Schwarzenegger, in the area of the Bay, there came to be a fish. A small fish. A fish who was filled with faith and hope.

A fish purchased under the accursed impulse-purchase vexation.

The fish was of the Betta clan, and was given the name of Benito, meaning "blessing" or "blessed one" in the Spanish culture (and meaning tiny little dictator in the Italian tradition).

And so it was that Benito came to live in the house of The Good Man and true to his name, blessed us all.

Benito swam and ate of the bloodworm. And it was good.

Until it wasn't good.

And forsooth, Benito ceased to eat, and lay on the floor of the tank, flat on his side, and took on a gray pallor.

Which only raised memories of Frank, also of the Betta clan, who came before Benito and expired so painfully.

And so it was that The Girl wept, felt necessary to rend her garments, gnashed her teeth and howled to the heavens, "Why! Why must I have the curse of killing helpless fish?"

Then The Girl resigned herself to the knowledge gained that she was not meant for fish ownership.

Another matchbox coffin was prepared, and sadness befell the house of The Good Man.

In the last, desperate hours, The Good Man proclaimed, "he who believeth in the bettas shall never die."

Thusly, The Good Man brought his mighty hand down and created freshly treated water and added the miracle of the antibiotic powder.

The limp body of Benito of the Betta clan was deposited into the fresh, medicated water and hope was not held out.

In the break of the morn, The Good Man, in his grace, went to the tankside of Benito of Betta, and proclaimed, "Yea, tho I believe this crazy fish is hungry!"

And chopped up pieces of bloodworm were deposited in the tank, and verily Benito of Betta did eat.

"No %$&#ing way!" came the cry from The Girl, who stared in disbelief at the miracle The Good Man had wrought.

"Yeah, don't get your hopes up," The Good Man admonished, but despite his downplaying the whole thing, The Girl did ignore him and did in fact get her hopes up.

And forsooth! Benito of Betta did continue to eat. And became more upright, and began to flap his fins in a normal manner.

And Benito of Betta was thusly nicknamed the Lazarus Fish, having risen from the dead.

So it is that some two weeks from coming to the house of The Good Man, Benito of Betta continues to live and eat and could almost be described as thriving.

And with the focus on a new, recovering fish, The Girl finds the sadness over the loss of Frank is beginning to ease.

With the help of The Good Man, guardian of the broken pets, The Girl may in fact learn to be a suitable owner of small helpless fish.

And for the moment, it was good again.

But don't get your hopes up.

P.S. Margaret, female of the Betta clan, and The Good Man's fish, continues to thrive quite nicely, thankyouverymuch.

Literal girl takes things literally

Ok, so there we were on a day of running errands, The Good Man and me.

We pull into a crowded parking lot behind the store where we've taken our bicycles to get tuned up.

Fabulous. All good.

TGM parks the car and heads inside while I get out change to go see about the meter.

Muliti-tasking couple, that's us. Efficiency!

Ok, so we parked in one of those lots where you have to "note your space number and pay at the machine."

Sure. Ok. I'm in!

So I note "space number 6" and then I swivel my head around to find the pay'er machine.

I see a sign that says, "pay here" and I go toward it like a moth after a 60-watt bulb on a hot summer's night.

I literally walk right to the "pay here" sign. Seeing ONLY the "pay here sign."

I arrive at the "pay here" sign to find that there is ONLY a "pay here" sign and no sort of payin' machine.

What. The. Heck?

Ok. A photo will probably explain this better.

It actually took me several moments to turn around and actually figure out how to get my parking fare paid.

The sign says, "pay here." It DOES NOT say, "pay over there, like eight feet away."

Pay here with an arrow means pay there! At the end of the arrow.

Very, very literal girl was really perturbed by this whole setup.

So perturbed I took a dang photo of it!

I totally need to take up yoga.

Or meditation.

Or something with plinky-plunky music that will help lower my blood pressure.

Literal girl is *tense* sometimes.....

Romeo, Romeo, I’m calling 911

So there you are, at home alone in your second story apartment doing whatever it is single ladies do at home at night. (I'm thinking eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough, but that's just me.)

You hear a rattle, rattle outside on your fire escape and realize someone is climbing onto your balcony.

What do you do?

Well you call the damn police, that's what.

And that's what a German woman did in this situation.

Problem was, the assumed burglar was her boyfriend, bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine in hand, trying to do something romantic.

Ah, ok, no harm no foul, right?

The police all have a good laugh and let the young lovers have their peace.

Whoops, seems the boyfriend had an outstanding warrant.

So when the police arrived, he jumped down from the balcony and tried to flee, only to be tackled by the officers on the scene.

Star crossed lovers, or something....

Bonus points to the guy for giving the arresting officers the bottle of wine.

Hopefully his Juliet has a good sense of humor.

I'm thinking chocolate chip cookie dough and a Netflix movie is one heck of a lot nicer way to spend the night than bailing your boyfriend out of jail...but that's just me.

Source.

All for the love of sump pump

Today, an ode to a small, slimy, oft overlooked device that is a cornerstone of storm survival.

The Sump Pump

ALL HAIL THE SUMP PUMP!

As has been plenty reported in the news, the American west is getting one hell of a series of storms.

And as I've mentioned here on the blog plenty times, I live near the bottom of a hill.

What that means is the rainwater doesn't stop here, but it all has to pass me by on the way down.

Occasionally it can get trapped on its journey wending downward toward storm drains and ultimately, the Bay.

The evening of the first big storm, I said to The Good Man, "you know, I want to get under the house to check to be sure we're not getting water."

See? My spidey senses were going off. Something told me something wasn't right.

But I thought, "nah, it's probably fine" and went on about my life. The thought of strapping on the wellies and going outside didn't sound as good as a nice hot cuppa in the warm house.

So another day rolled by, and then another. Yesterday I was out bringing in the garbage cans when I said to myself, "well, the wellies are already strapped on and I'm half damp. Let's check under the house."

Well, sure enough, there was water. Not so much as to cause damage, but it was getting there.

If left alone, it surely would have risen enough to cause harm to my carefully curated collection of bridesmaids dresses (I believe there are ten, at last count) and my can't quite part with it Ikea furniture that didn't make the cut after The Good Man and I shacked up together.

Ok, fine, I don't have much in the way of treasures stored, but it's *my* junk and I'd like to keep it dry!

I looked at the sump pump wondered, "why isn't this doing the job it was hired to do?"

Then I noticed. It wasn't plugged in.

Well there you have it.

I remembered sometime during the summer the landlord and his son were over here working. They'd unplugged the pump because they needed the outlet for the power tools they were using to re-do the unit next door (duplex house, dontchaknow).

And hell, back in July, there was no real rush to plug it back in.

In January, I leapt upon the cord and shoved it in the socket but quick.

And....

Nothing.

What? Nothing? Is the pump broken? Holy crap, this is chaos! Whatever am I going to do!?!?!

Then my brain, finely hewn by my land grant education, got around to mentioning to me that I might wish to take the pump off the concrete and place it ever so gently into the pool of water.

So I did.

Oh sweet mystery of sump pumping at laaaaast I found you!

That little pump worked non-stop to get all of that water out. Oh sigh of contentment.

Now my heart warms as I hear it kick on every ten to fifteen minutes to remove more water.

Oh happy slimy sump pump, how my satin and sequined and overly bowed dresses love you so.

Here it is, my actual fabulous device! I heart it!

Set My Mascot Free!

Source: Pistol Pete holstered for Utah game

Ugh! They are making the NMSU mascot sit a game.

For what they are calling "a mustache-ripping incident"

Um, oh...

*chuckle, giggle, snort*

Ahem.

The incident occurred with Utah's State's mascot, "Big Blue" the bull.

I'm wondering why Pistol Pete didn't up and rip something off the bull, eh? We *are* and Agricultural college after all! We know how to do such things.

*giggle, snort, wipe eyes*

Yes, well. This is all very serious and, *guffaw*, ahem, disciplinary.

The bull has already served his sentence, the same one game suspension.

And I suppose after all of this, Pistol Pete will have learned his lesson.

Despite the mustache violence, we've still come a long way since my days at NMSU where, when the opposing team made a basket, we'd shout "nice shot, assh--e!"

Hee!

Go NMSU!

Style tips you can use!

Today, I learned something about how to conduct my life from a most unlikely source.

Real, powerful lessons I look forward to applying as soon as possible.

So this afternoon, I had the honor privilege task of taking The Feline to the vet. She's having ongoing ear troubles, so back we went to see the same guy who cut the tumor off her little nose last year.

Needless to say, not really her most favorite person.

But our vet is the owner of nine (yes, nine) of his own cats. He's got a real firm but friendly touch with my cat who prefers it if you'd never actually *touch* her.

As I wrassled that pet down so the good doctor could examine her, I watched how the feline worked.

First, she simply tried to walk away. Vigorously.

When that didn't work, she began this low-in-the-throat growl. Very menacing. In fact, I've never heard her use this growl on anyone BUT the vet. He's a very kind man, really, and no one else can cause my normally bulletproof pet to make that sound.

So with the long growls and face-finger* looks, we were put on notice.

Next step was to use her paw to push the vet's hand away. Firmly. No claws, no biting, just firmly shoving with her paw flat against the palm of his hand with all she had.

Finally, when the doctor persisted in looking in her ears, and after trying walking away, growling, and pushing, The Feline went to code red.

Meaning: The cat freaked the f-word out.

The vet, not a petite man by any account, threw hands up in the air, backed right off, and looked a little skeered, actually.

Twelve point one pounds of fury.

Oh yes.

She never had to get violent. No blood was drawn. I think she might have peed the tiniest bit, but not enough to make a mess.

But let me tell you, that animal was no longer messed with. Nope. We both let her be.

In fact, the meaner she got, the kinder the vet became. He started out calling her "big girl" in reference to her heft. (As a "big girl" myself, I was sort of offended on behalf of my pet!)

By the end of the visit, he was calling her "little one" and practically cooing to her in Peruvian.

See, this is good. The smallest, most vulnerable one in the room got her way.

I can learn from this!

First, if you don't like it, walk away.

If that doesn't work, get vocal. Make your displeasure known in a firm but not offensive way.

It that doesn't work, be firmer. Don't be afraid to physically push the trouble away. No need to be violent, just be direct.

And if you really, truly have to, freak out! Including a little pee, but only if really necessary.

Once the trouble is over, give everyone a face-finger, walk away with tail held high, and loudly demand food the moment you set paws in safe territory.

I can't wait to try this at my next mammo visit!

Look at her now...all sweetness and light....hmph!

*i.e. a dirty look. As in, giving the finger, but using your face.

Oh so much happier!

Ok, confessional time. Yes, I'm owning it here, publicly, on my blog.

Here we go

Due to the immense amount of food they provide here at my job, cookies, cakes, lots of candy, full lunches, parties, celebrations, the whole nine yards....

I *might* have maybe, sort of, kind of....gained some weight.

I know. *gasp*

Not a lot. But enough to make most of the clothes in my closet feel tight.

So, I do that thing that women do, "Oh, I'll lose this. I don't need to buy new clothes! I'd just buy them and have to give them away, what a waste of money!"

What do I do? I wear the few items that fit over and over. And wear the tight things and sit at my desk with a wince as I get marks on my body from the clothes.

So, I just...I don't know...gave up. I started dressing like crap. If you know me, you know clothes and style matter to me. So this is REALLY giving up.

I'm not proud of it.

Well, as fate will do, I had a *very* important meeting today, one where I needed to be on my game. And I needed to dress in a businesslike way.

In preparation, I tried on all my current dress pants. Yeah. No luck. Ok, I could get them on and zipped, but they were tight and immediately began pressing into my waist.

This isn't humorous.

With fear in my heart, a couple days ago, I took to the mall, shopping discount outlets looking for *something* I could make work. Something I could wear and look professional and still be comfortable.

Guys, you have to know. To a woman...shopping for pants is the seventh level of hell. I don't know why, it just is. Only slightly more appealing than shopping for a swimsuit.

The mall I visited is all broke down and busted (like many malls are these days) and it was a very hot day in the Bay Area. The entire mall had NO air conditioning, so shopping for pants (ugh!) with a sheen of sweat on your brow is not amusing. May I reiterate: NOT!

And being the cheap ass that I am, I wanted something at a low cost.

So. I found a couple things. The quality was only so-so. I wasn't overjoyed with the items, but ok. I'd have something to wear.

I was depressed.

Then, yesterday I had an inspired idea. There is a store I used to shop at quite a bit, but then drifted away from. Their stuff is good, stylish, but often a little pricey. Their last couple of lines were not attractive at all, so I had moved on.

But I remembered that they usually stock a good range of sizes.

Yesterday after work, I went to this store. And I almost cried. In addition to air conditioning, they had gotten in all their new Fall line and much of it was TOTALLY my style. And sizes! Oh the size choices. I tried on some stuff that was too big! Some too small, but they had the next size.

And their prices were not that bad, actually. Reasonable. They've clearly made a shift to help with the economy.

So I stocked UP. I mean, I went a little nuts. I bought good quality clothes that fit and make me feel *good*. I bought a whole new wardrobe!

I walked out smiling. Today I'm wearing one of the new outfits and I am walking so much taller. My pants fit! They don't bind. My waistline has been spared for the day. My whole outlook has vastly improved.

Ladies! Don't give in to stuff that cuts and binds! Wear clothes that fit and feel good!

(and yes, I'm cutting back on the feed rations and exercising. Lifelong battle.)

Things that they don't teach in manager training

I've been a manager at my job for quite some time now. I think seven years at last count. So I've been through a lot. And yet, sometimes, I'm still a bit thrown by the curveballs lobbed by the folks who have the grand misfortune to report to me.

On Friday, one of my employees, a very hardworking and rather quiet girl came tearing into my office. I swear, if she was a car, she would have left black marks on my industrial carpet.

The employee looked at me with wide eyes.

"Is it ok if I go home?" she said, and paused...then tacked on..."I don't want to barf here at work."

I happen to know she's three months pregnant and having a rough time of it, so I said, quickly, "Go. Now."

She turned and peeled out of the building.

This got me thinking about back when I was first made a manager, and the anemic training course they sent me to.

They discussed "things you shouldn't say" and "things you should say" and "what to do if you have to fire someone." But never, never did they discuss "when it's ok to let someone go home early because they are gonna blow chunks."

I guess that's where you have to rely on that ol' manager gut instinct, hey?

Other oddball things I have experienced and was never properly prepared for:

Male employee spent all of our one-on-one session telling me, in detail, that he and his wife were trying to get pregnant and, to their dismay, had ended up having to resort to IVF. TMI. But wait, there's more. We haven't begun to TMI yet.

About a week later, he comes running into my office..."My wife just called, she's at the doctor, she's fertile right now, so I have to go give a...um....sample. I'll be back in about an hour."

Ugh.

"Just go!" I said, and to his retreating back, tacked on, "If this happens again, please just tell me you have to go to the dentist!"

Or the really, really good employee, like top notch worker, who felt the need to tell me that the only way she could deal with the stress of her job was that she and her husband would smoke a bowl as they commuted home from work every day.

"I'm thinking about smoking one at lunch too, this job is crazy."

Well. Ok. *Technically* she's doing this on her own time and off company property. And my employer at the time was pretty lenient about such things.

But still. Things I don't need to know. Especially as the manager!

Also important to mention that managing isn't just about direct reports, it's about managing your own manager too.

So, in that same vein, at that same employer, I had a boss who delighted in telling me how much cocaine she did at her wedding. "It was the only way to get through it, I never really loved my husband. Still don't."

Oooohkaaaay. She only lasted a year at the job. Freak.

And the best was, not long after starting this newest gig, one of the ladies on my team had been out sick for a few days. I assumed the flu, a migraine, tummy upset. Whatever. I didn't need to know. Upon her return, I simply inquired, "hey, are you feeling better?"

What followed was a long, detailed and gory description. Let's just say...you can have a colon polyp burst and leave it there, mmkay?

You can't unhear something, no matter how hard you try.

But, when all is said and done, I haven't had to have the granddaddy of all uncomfortable manager situations. My dear brother-in-law has been subjected to this more than once. Poor guy.

We call it...the Stinky Conversation.

The one where you have to ask your employee to please shower...and use soap...because their coworkers are complaining.

Double ugh!

I'm telling ya, those fancy politically correct manager's training classes do nuthin' to prepare you for the real world!

Stages: Circling the Drain

If you've worked in a corporate environment, you've no doubt had the opportunity to watch one of your coworkers go through the progress of becoming ever more disenchanted and eventually leaving.

Things are pretty wacky around my own employer these days. Times are strange since the merger, so we're seeing a lot of bad behavior.

There is the coworker who, on Friday, was in the employee directory, and on Monday, wasn't. No one knows what happened. After sixteen years at this company, he was just...gone.

There was also the senior manager guy with a whole set of direct reports who suddenly no longer has direct reports. He is listed as a peer to the people he once managed.

Weird.

Right now, I have a good friend, mentor and coworker who is going through the "stages"...he's on the path toward "I've had enough!"

So with that in mind, here's my unofficial, opinion oriented, based on experience, stages of the descent of a corporate minion.

Stage One: Grumbling.

"This place is so strange, I don't understand why (boss) has to manage like that." This stage is characterized by a slight uptick in the complaining about the job. I mean, we ALL complain about the job, but this is taking it to a new, higher level, with some unconvincing, "I should find a new job" statements thrown in.

Basically, the disenchanted is still in the game, still meeting deadlines, still doing the work, but is starting to think about doing something different. This is like picking at the edge of a scab, really. Just picking and picking but not serious about it. The grumbling stage includes a lot of thinking, "Can I make this work?" and "I've been here a long time" and "Maybe things will improve."

Stage Two: Misbehaving.

If the grumbling progress continues, things ratchet up and become tinged with a bit more emotion. Anger, frustration and acting out become obvious. Could be an, "I can't believe he said that" comment from a meeting where the disgruntled shot their mouth off on something, could be missing a "mandatory" all hands event, could be missing a deadline. Enough to get noticed, but not enough to get fired.

At this stage, the disgruntled begins thinking seriously about looking for another job. They usually start by looking at other open jobs within the same company. May even go so far as to navigate over to Monster.com and Craig's List to see if there is even anything interesting outside the company.

At this stage, the disgruntled usually stops just short of actually updating their resume and, usually, aren’t happy with job opportunities found elsewhere, so they decide to hang in there a bit longer to see if things improve.

Stage Three: Actively acting out.

Characterized by coming in late consistently, leaving early, disappearing for large parts of the day, distracted in meetings, more impassioned discussion of looking for another job, and complaints about "this place," followed by mentions of actual job openings at other companies.

Resume has been pulled up in Word, updates are being made, daily searching the job sites. Asking friends for leads. Making rumblings among close coworkers that he's looking. Trying to find allies that are also looking, or trying to convince others to join him in the job search.

Pretty serious, but yet, could be convinced to stay with a little management intervention, a little love, a little promise of something more.

This is usually where the disgruntled invites a trusted friend to lunch offsite and runs down a list of grievances and confesses they have had it. They are looking for a job. The case is laid out, discussed, asked "do you think it will get better?" Lots of "this is ridiculous" statements issued.

Sometimes, this is where the disgruntled will receive a surprise bonus or promotion or similar, and this puts them back at state one or less...at least for a while.

So this is the stage where my friend is hovering. Actively looking, actively disgruntled, been to several offsite lunches, discussing the merits of job opportunities at other companies. Then again, we are actually due for a mid-year review and bonus, so we'll see.....

Stage Four: Stealth.

The disgruntled is not only actively looking, he's got a few leads. Maybe even calling in sick here and so they can go interview. Something may be happening, so it's time to pipe down. Many people (especially boss-type people) often confuse stealth with a move back to stage one. Easily confused, certainly.

The disenchanted person may be coming in on time again, but if you look close, they aren't really working that hard, aren't volunteering to take on new projects, may be handing off work to coworkers. They want to leave on a good note and are feeling optimistic that something is about to change. Mood has improved. Complaining a bit less. Laughing at all the boss' jokes.

Stage Five: Poking the Tiger.

Not everyone gets to stage five. Many people get to stage four, find another job, and leave. They leave on good terms, shake hands with the boss and go off to a new gig with a fresh look of optimism in their eyes.

Those that can't find another job or aren't motivated enough to find another job move into the phase where they start stirring the sh*t. Oh yes, they are too timid to actually *do* something themselves, they want someone to do it for them. Passive aggressive.

So they start actively missing deadlines and meetings and coming in late and not even pretending like they care about the work. They may even speak insultingly or say stuff that's not cool. They openly challenge people to say something. They aren't just picking away at the scab, they are making new wounds.

At this point, the boss may actually realize they have a performance problem on their hands, and put the disgruntled on a performance action plan. This either spurs the disgruntled to find another job...or, bad attitude continues until the end of the performance plan and the inevitable happens.

Or, some powerless bosses still won't take action, and they let the employee keep flailing away.

Often the employee will finally just up and quit. Sometimes in a blaze of glory "this is part of company folklore" kind of way.

Sometimes, the disgruntled poking-the-tiger guy gets weary, still lacking any self-starting behavior, becomes stuck in place, and they just pipe down and keep doing the job. These people become the "retired in place" completely useless employee, the guy who just can't get fired and just won't quit, so he sucks down company resources until retirement.

We've all known one of those, haven't we?

Keep it to yourself, sister

The weather outside yesterday was what they call "low cloud cover". Low ceiling, gray clouds, occasional sprinkling rain.

This makes most people think, "brr, cold" and toss on all matter of arctic gear.

This is not true for me. Low cloud cover means the heat is held in and the drizzly rain means humidity.

See, I was brought up in New Mexico and my body has been attuned to be a convection cooled device. Or, more accurately, an evaporative cooled device. I sweat. The dry desert air slurps that up, thus cooling my rig and allowing me to continue on.

I'm attuned to this and it suits me just fine.

When it's warmish and humid, I cannot effectively evaporative cool my hard working human mo-chine.

You can ask anyone who knows me, my internal temp tends to run a little hot anyway. The frosty pawed feline doesn't favor me as a sleeping device because she thinks I'm nice, ok?

So what all this means is, even on a cloudy drizzly day like today, I don't want anything to do with a jacket.

This tends to make the biddies and would-be work moms crazy.

"Aren't you cold!?!" they shriek.

"Where is your jacket?!?!" they demand in harpy voices.

Look, I have a mother. She's a fine, upstanding lady. She taught me to be self-sufficient. If you are cold, put on a jacket. If you aren't cold, don’t. If you are cold and don't put on a jacket, it's your own damn fault.

Mom and I have been in agreement on this for years.

Yesterday, I was wearing a sweater dress with a long sleeved sweater over, tights and knee-high black boots. That is practically Nanook of the North for me, and yet, one of my menopausal coworkers eyed me up and down and screeched "Aren't you cold!?!" because I was sans jacket.

It was close to sixty frapping degrees outside, but it was drizzly, so that must mean everyone should wear an overcoat.

An overcoat? Hell. No. I was hot in what I was wearing!

But if I had said to her, "Hey, you look a little hot, why don't you take some clothes off" I would have been reported to HR.

It's a bizarre up world out there, and I’m but a passenger on this carnival ride.

Image via FreeFoto.com

Do not mess with a Blues Queen

Especially a cranky Blues Queen.

I think most Americans either tuned in or saw coverage of Inauguration Day, right? There was that tender moment in the evening where the President and First Lady took to the floor to dance the first dance. (if you were under a rock January 20th, click here for video).

The song the first couple swayed to was "At Last", performed by, much to my dismay, Beyonce.

Now, I like Beyonce enough for who she is. The lady who brought the phrase "I don't think you're ready for this jelly" into the world. Oh yeah, and popularized the word "bootylicious". Sure, she's a bard for our times. Or something. She wearies me, but I have a few of her tunes on my iPod. I can't hate on a lady who writes so much of her own music.

On that special day, however, I personally winced when the camera panned to B and she began warbling the Etta James classic.

I haven't voiced this much because everyone I seem to talk with was like "OH! That Beyonce was SO wonderful!"

No she wasn't. It was a special moment, but it was made special not by the singer (no way) but mainly by the sentiments of a kick ass song written by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren.

Given the exhaustion of our country with the previous administration, the notion of "at last" really resonated. It was the perfect song performed by the wrong singer.

I wondered why, on that day, it wasn't Miss Etta up there. She's still got the pipes and she's still out there performing.

In fact, on January 28th, she was performing in Seattle at the Paramount Theater.

Where she said: "But I tell you that woman he had singing for him, singing my song — she's going to get her a-- whipped."

Oooh, it's ON now! And I believe the 71 year old lady could do it too, with one bejeweled hand tied behind her tiny back.

She went on to say: "She has no business up there, singing up there on a big ol' president day, gonna be singing my song that I've been singing forever."

Not sure what set Miss Etta off since Beyonce has been slinging her crappy rendition of "At Last" all over the place, including at least once in the presence of Miss Etta.

I think what galled *me* the most about Beyonce getting up there, was that it was a publicity stunt! Seems Beyonce is working on a movie called "Cadillac Records" in which she portrays Etta James. What a great marketing chance on the national stage.

Opportunism. Great. Makes me like Beyonce even less.

: rolling of eyes :

Personally, though, I think Miss Etta is just ticked that Aretha Franklin got a shot on inauguration day and she didn't. Just my two cents.

Speaking of Aretha, remember when Beyonce got into hot water with her too?

Doh!

__________________

By the by, Miss Etta who has notoriously struggled with her weight is looking HOT right now thanks to gastric bypass surgery a couple years ago!

Go Etta!! Look at her tiny self!

Source and Source.