No wonder the airlines are in such trouble. The flight from Portland to Palm Springs last night was less than full. In fact, it was virtually empty. We all probably could have fit in a large Suburban, rather than needing a 737 for the trip. There were 14 passengers on the plane.
As a passenger, it was bliss. I had an entire row to myself, and no one sitting in front of me or behind me for several rows. It would have been a great opportunity to put the seat back and snooze, but instead I buried my head in a magazine I picked up at the airport and read all the way home.
It was good to be home and sleeping in a bed again. I hadn't slept in a read bed since Monday night, and that was a motel bed in a downtown Seattle motel that featured a noisy heater that seemed to wake me up every time it kicked on. I think I had a chill the entire time I was in the Northwest. When I opened the door to my apartment the thermostate said it was about 76 degrees in here. I actually opened the patio door and the bedroom window for some fresh, non-rain soaked air. It was heavenly.
Not that there isn't a downside to being back home. I miss my family already. We had Easter dinner at my daughter's mother's house Sunday, and two of her sisters were their with their significant others. It was tough to leave for the airport with everyone still there laughing and talking and having a great time. So, the apartment seems a little empty after spending the bulk of the week with two adult women, a teenage girl, 4 cats and 2 dogs. My suitcase and entire vacation wardrobe were covered in pet hair.
Fortunately I don't have to go to work until Wednesday, so I'm off to work on some chores. I've already spend way too much of the day trying to get caught up on blog reading at some of my favorite sites I haven't been able to monitor while I was on vacation.
I love my family. And I love my current home. It is just so unfortunate that they have to be so far apart on the map.
Travel
Vacation
Family
Monday, March 28, 2005
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Good Friday? Says who?
I guess I never paid enough attention in Sunday school when I was a kid. Why would Christians refer to the day their messiah was executed as Good Friday? That just doesn't seem to make much sense.
This Friday I shall dub Odd Friday. It was just an odd day. My daughter and I went to the video store to return some DVDs rented a couple of days ago when one of her friends spent the night. On the way back to my daughter's house, we got into a very odd conversation. At least it seemed odd for me, as an absentee father, to be having this chat with my not yet 14 year-old female daughter.
First let me preface this by saying this was a follow-up to a something that happened the night before. My daughter was chatting online and her mother watched in to the room where the computer was. The word blowjob was on the screen, and her mother, appropriately I thought, put an end to her chat session and may prohibit her from chatting for some as yet undefined period of time. Now, this word was in the message sent to my daughter, not in the message she sent out. But still, it is a bit inflammatory to see a word like that on a young teenage girl's IM message.
So, Friday my daughter brought up how her mom was "pissed" at her and didn't want to push her luck by asking to hang out with a guy friend on Friday. So I asked, "You understand why your mother was so pissed don't you?" To which daughter replied, in a typically defensive teen manner: "I didn't do anything wrong."
OK, I was a master at the I didn't do anything wrong, so I didn't let the conversation end there. Secondly, that was not an answer to my question. But the stunner to me was, in the ongoing conversation the word blowjob came out of my daughter's mouth, not once, but twice.
Perhaps this was so unsettling to me because I never talked about blowjobs with either of my parents, an I lived with them full time until I went to college. That word never came up in conversation in our home. It was a typical Midwest family upbringing (or what I imagine as such, and I am certain that other people experienced the same thing). We never talked about sex. We never had "the talk." I somehow managed to lose my virginity, and get a woman pregnant by the time I was 26 due to the instruction imparted in locker rooms, school buses, adult magazines and some one-on-one lab experimentation that started in college under the apprenticeship of some more experienced female instructors.
Anyway, I don't know if I accomplished anything in the conversation with my daughter. I was trying to tell her that she needs to be able to talk to her mother about stuff like that. I am pretty sure my point was entirely missed because of the defensive wall daughter threw up. And I was doing what I could to not walk away from a touch conversation if for no other reason than to show that I don't just come to town to take her shopping. Being involved means more than being a credit card. But all I probably accomplished was pissing her off. When I left the house that afternoon, I ended up saying goodbye to her through a closed bedroom door. There was no response from the other side. Her mother's words of wisdom to me when that happened was "She's 13."
Yes, she is.
So, I left Portland and headed east several hours to the place where my parents, brothers and grandmother live. To the house where I grew up. In the land of tumbleweeds, farm fields and country living, otherwise known as dial-up Internet computing hell. The oddities continued there. OK, so I have been in the state for several days and am just now getting to my parents' house, but there was no big reception waiting for me. No small one either for that matter, even though I had called and gave them 3 hours notice that I was on the road and on my way.
When I got here, the only person around was my mom. She didn't even get out of her chair when I walked in. Dad, who is fighting a cold and is still recuperating from knee surgery was in bed, as was my grandmother. And who wouldn't be in bed at 5:30 in the afternoon. Grandmother finally came out about 8, and then went back to bed about a half hour later. Dad emerged briefly at one point in his underwear (not an attractive sight) and then went back to bed. He reemerged about 9:30 or so, for less than an hour. Both brothers showed up, one obviously tipsy but trying not to let it show, and he passed out early. And the other brother, the one who I rarely see when I'm home anyway, headed back to town.
The funny thing is, I don't expect much from my family. We are not good conversationalists together (unless you count verbal disagreements) and we aren't touchy-feely emotional with one another either. I've been trying to learn to cast off that upbringing, that part of my nature forced in that family furnace for all of my daughter's life. I find I have to make an effort to tell her I love her. I have to work at conversation with her. And fortunately, her family is very expressive. They are huggy people. I was once very uncomfortable with that, but I've grown to appreciate it and even like it. I also was fortunate to have a relationship not too long ago with a woman who was also very outgoing like that, and I worked diligently at expressing my emotions with hugs and words in that relationship, which has helped with my daughter. All those years of work, however, have done little if anything for the relations with my own family. I don't doubt that we love each other, but we do not express. And sometimes, in spite of the love, we don't like each other very much.
So, it was definitely an Odd Friday. I'll spend much of Saturday here in rural Oregon, with my family, then return to Portland to spend the last remaining hours of my time in the state with my daughter before returning to California on Sunday.
As is often the case, it has been a rather bittersweet visit. Perhaps this whole bachelor living thing isn't so bad after all.
Family
Parenthood
Travel
Religion
This Friday I shall dub Odd Friday. It was just an odd day. My daughter and I went to the video store to return some DVDs rented a couple of days ago when one of her friends spent the night. On the way back to my daughter's house, we got into a very odd conversation. At least it seemed odd for me, as an absentee father, to be having this chat with my not yet 14 year-old female daughter.
First let me preface this by saying this was a follow-up to a something that happened the night before. My daughter was chatting online and her mother watched in to the room where the computer was. The word blowjob was on the screen, and her mother, appropriately I thought, put an end to her chat session and may prohibit her from chatting for some as yet undefined period of time. Now, this word was in the message sent to my daughter, not in the message she sent out. But still, it is a bit inflammatory to see a word like that on a young teenage girl's IM message.
So, Friday my daughter brought up how her mom was "pissed" at her and didn't want to push her luck by asking to hang out with a guy friend on Friday. So I asked, "You understand why your mother was so pissed don't you?" To which daughter replied, in a typically defensive teen manner: "I didn't do anything wrong."
OK, I was a master at the I didn't do anything wrong, so I didn't let the conversation end there. Secondly, that was not an answer to my question. But the stunner to me was, in the ongoing conversation the word blowjob came out of my daughter's mouth, not once, but twice.
Perhaps this was so unsettling to me because I never talked about blowjobs with either of my parents, an I lived with them full time until I went to college. That word never came up in conversation in our home. It was a typical Midwest family upbringing (or what I imagine as such, and I am certain that other people experienced the same thing). We never talked about sex. We never had "the talk." I somehow managed to lose my virginity, and get a woman pregnant by the time I was 26 due to the instruction imparted in locker rooms, school buses, adult magazines and some one-on-one lab experimentation that started in college under the apprenticeship of some more experienced female instructors.
Anyway, I don't know if I accomplished anything in the conversation with my daughter. I was trying to tell her that she needs to be able to talk to her mother about stuff like that. I am pretty sure my point was entirely missed because of the defensive wall daughter threw up. And I was doing what I could to not walk away from a touch conversation if for no other reason than to show that I don't just come to town to take her shopping. Being involved means more than being a credit card. But all I probably accomplished was pissing her off. When I left the house that afternoon, I ended up saying goodbye to her through a closed bedroom door. There was no response from the other side. Her mother's words of wisdom to me when that happened was "She's 13."
Yes, she is.
So, I left Portland and headed east several hours to the place where my parents, brothers and grandmother live. To the house where I grew up. In the land of tumbleweeds, farm fields and country living, otherwise known as dial-up Internet computing hell. The oddities continued there. OK, so I have been in the state for several days and am just now getting to my parents' house, but there was no big reception waiting for me. No small one either for that matter, even though I had called and gave them 3 hours notice that I was on the road and on my way.
When I got here, the only person around was my mom. She didn't even get out of her chair when I walked in. Dad, who is fighting a cold and is still recuperating from knee surgery was in bed, as was my grandmother. And who wouldn't be in bed at 5:30 in the afternoon. Grandmother finally came out about 8, and then went back to bed about a half hour later. Dad emerged briefly at one point in his underwear (not an attractive sight) and then went back to bed. He reemerged about 9:30 or so, for less than an hour. Both brothers showed up, one obviously tipsy but trying not to let it show, and he passed out early. And the other brother, the one who I rarely see when I'm home anyway, headed back to town.
The funny thing is, I don't expect much from my family. We are not good conversationalists together (unless you count verbal disagreements) and we aren't touchy-feely emotional with one another either. I've been trying to learn to cast off that upbringing, that part of my nature forced in that family furnace for all of my daughter's life. I find I have to make an effort to tell her I love her. I have to work at conversation with her. And fortunately, her family is very expressive. They are huggy people. I was once very uncomfortable with that, but I've grown to appreciate it and even like it. I also was fortunate to have a relationship not too long ago with a woman who was also very outgoing like that, and I worked diligently at expressing my emotions with hugs and words in that relationship, which has helped with my daughter. All those years of work, however, have done little if anything for the relations with my own family. I don't doubt that we love each other, but we do not express. And sometimes, in spite of the love, we don't like each other very much.
So, it was definitely an Odd Friday. I'll spend much of Saturday here in rural Oregon, with my family, then return to Portland to spend the last remaining hours of my time in the state with my daughter before returning to California on Sunday.
As is often the case, it has been a rather bittersweet visit. Perhaps this whole bachelor living thing isn't so bad after all.
Family
Parenthood
Travel
Religion
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Back from the Emerald City
We're back in Portland after a little more than two days in Seattle. I swear we walked all over downtown Seattle, and if that wasn't enough, we also hiked all over Westfield Shoppingtown Southcenter in Tukwila and then all through Ikea in Renton. I've never been to an Ikea store before. My feet, and my credit card, are killing me.
I bought two things for myself, a new pair of sneakers and one of those LiveStrong/Lance Armstrong cancer support bracelets. Most of the money went to supplement my daughter's wardrobe. It's all stuff she needed, and I was certainly happy and proud to do it. But the best part for me was getting to spend so much time with her. I can't believe she will be 14 here in a couple of weeks. So many special, small moments. I loved it. But the highlight may have been when I learned that she had been telling her friends that her "biological father" was coming to visit. That seems so huge to me, I'm not sure if I can explain why satisfactorily.
I have always been around throughout my daughter's life. I saw her the first time in the hospital the day she was born. But we have never lived under the same roof. Her family has know the whole story from the beginning, as has mine. But she has always known another man as dad. She has only known that I am her biological father for about 4 years now. I've met several of her friends over the years, but I had never know what she had told them about who I am when I came to visit. So, I was thrilled that she now tells, at least her close friends, what relationship we have. That's a big step. But I guess in her life, I'm just another wrinkle. Perhaps it is no harder to explain me than the relationship between her mother and her partner. I'm just one of the many colors of this rainbow family.
I guess Dorothy was right. Visiting the Emerald City is a wonderful experience, but their is no place like home. And home is where the heart -- and the family -- is, no matter how unconventional the family may be. I wouldn't trade my family for the world.
One other note on the day, and it is certainly not the least of things because it has certainly been at the top of my mind today, and that is that a very dear friend went into the hospital this morning for some surgery. I have not yet heard how that has gone, and I suppose I will not rest easy until I do. Sometimes it really sucks to be so far away from those who are important to us. It is an ironic feeling to have that realization now when I am with my daughter, who I ordinarily am so far away from. My thoughts and prayers are with you D.
And so goes life along the Yellow Brick Road.
Family
Travel
Friends
I bought two things for myself, a new pair of sneakers and one of those LiveStrong/Lance Armstrong cancer support bracelets. Most of the money went to supplement my daughter's wardrobe. It's all stuff she needed, and I was certainly happy and proud to do it. But the best part for me was getting to spend so much time with her. I can't believe she will be 14 here in a couple of weeks. So many special, small moments. I loved it. But the highlight may have been when I learned that she had been telling her friends that her "biological father" was coming to visit. That seems so huge to me, I'm not sure if I can explain why satisfactorily.
I have always been around throughout my daughter's life. I saw her the first time in the hospital the day she was born. But we have never lived under the same roof. Her family has know the whole story from the beginning, as has mine. But she has always known another man as dad. She has only known that I am her biological father for about 4 years now. I've met several of her friends over the years, but I had never know what she had told them about who I am when I came to visit. So, I was thrilled that she now tells, at least her close friends, what relationship we have. That's a big step. But I guess in her life, I'm just another wrinkle. Perhaps it is no harder to explain me than the relationship between her mother and her partner. I'm just one of the many colors of this rainbow family.
I guess Dorothy was right. Visiting the Emerald City is a wonderful experience, but their is no place like home. And home is where the heart -- and the family -- is, no matter how unconventional the family may be. I wouldn't trade my family for the world.
One other note on the day, and it is certainly not the least of things because it has certainly been at the top of my mind today, and that is that a very dear friend went into the hospital this morning for some surgery. I have not yet heard how that has gone, and I suppose I will not rest easy until I do. Sometimes it really sucks to be so far away from those who are important to us. It is an ironic feeling to have that realization now when I am with my daughter, who I ordinarily am so far away from. My thoughts and prayers are with you D.
And so goes life along the Yellow Brick Road.
Family
Travel
Friends
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Living in a safer world and a teenager high on Red Bull
In the post 9/11 world, airline passengers practically have to disrobe to get on a commercial airplane anymore. The latest things the federal watchers have banned from possessing in the cabin of an airliner is cigarette lighters. And all sharp objects, like a fingernail file, are expressly forbidden.
So consequently I was surprise and amused several hours ago when flying on an Alaska Airlines MD-80 from Palm Springs to Portland when I saw this little gem in the lavatory of the aircraft. They had a little slot in there marked specifically for the purpose of disposing razor blades.
Maybe it for those panicked folks who realized they had inadvertently gone past the TSA checkpoint with a "weapon" and go into the in-flight john to quell their panic attack. Maybe the slot is an attempt at last-minute amnesty for people who mistakenly violate federal safety procedures.
Or perhaps it is intended for perspective hijackers who get cold feet prior to attempting to take over the plane.
Nervous hijacker: If only there was a way I could back out of this fiendish plan to hijack this plane. But I've gone to all this trouble to smuggle an old-fashion double sided razor blade on board. Which was no small trick. I mean I have to find a pickle just the right size and firmness so when I inserted the blade in there the sharp edges didn't stick out. And then there was the added stress and discomfort of inserting the pickle shank up my rectum. It's not easy to walk with a pickle up the pooper! And then, there was the whole removal process in the can. But, I don't want to hurt these nice people. If only I could get rid of my weapon somehow... Oh, look, a sharps disposal slot for blades. Now, isn't that handy.
So, I went back to my seat in the nearly empty plane and had a little quiet chuckle about the razor disposal slot. But by the time the plane touched down at PDX I was wishing I had a razor blade. I'd rather slit my wrists than go through another landing like that.
Portland, which has shipped all of its rain and storm weather south to Palm Springs most of the winter, was in the midst of a squall. The wind was obviously kicking up pretty good, because that MD-80 was tossed around like a vibrator during multiple orgasms. We were bucking and bouncing and slipping and banging all the way through the final approach.
The passengers seemed to handle it pretty well, but you know the turbulence is bad when you are sitting in the back of the plane and you can see the front of the cabin bouncing and gyrating around.
After we reached the terminal, when everyone was in the rush to hurry up and wait in the aisle, I asked one of the flight attendants one of those stupid "Here's your sign" sort of questions.
Me: So, is it windy here?
Blonde flight attendant: Yea, there's quite a storm out there. It's been like that all day.
Me: I thought that landing seemed a little rougher than normal.
Flight attendant: Yea, it thought I was going to get sick there for a minute.
It does not bode well when your flight attendant admits queasiness on landing.
But, obviously, my fellow passengers and I made it, safe and sound, and fortunately no one left their lunch on the cabin upholstery. Although, I was seriously questioning the wisdom of the two beers I had at the airport bar in Palm Springs. The 11 o'clock news was reporting wind gusts on the nearby Oregon Coast ranging from 50-plus to nearly 80 mph. I think they were all aimed at our plane. But we got here, and life goes on.
After getting to Portland and picking up a rental car, I met up with my daughter's mom, and we went together to pick up our daughter from a party she was attending with some of her friends from school. Apparently that party was designed to end at 10 p.m., because as we got there, a parade of cars started pulling up at the same house. They were sure a punctual bunch of parents, I'll give them that.
Apparently the drink of choice at this party was the energy drink Red Bull. My daughter admitted to having two of them. And a Coke. Apparently caffeine getter her motor revving and she gets quite chatty. I've been told I can be the same way when I've had a few beers. I don't, however, thing those two things are related, nor do I think there is an inherited connection. And I choose not to believe the Red Bull was a chaser for something else. Anyway, the last visit when I was here, I felt light an inquisitor trying to get her to say anything in a complete sentence. Tonight she was rambling on about her boyfriend, and her friends hooking up with each other, and freak dancing at Catholic school dances, and, on and on. And yes, I had to have her define freak dancing, and GOD I hope I never witness her doing such a thing.
I'm not sure which is worse, having a teenage daughter who doesn't talk, or one that tells you about all the drama of 8th grade in a metropolitan city. I guess it is cool that she felt comfortable enough to say those things to me and fill me in on her life, but it was verging on too much information for my aging ticker.
I'm leaning toward the silence is golden thing at the moment.
Flying
Vacation
Teenagers
Parenthood
So consequently I was surprise and amused several hours ago when flying on an Alaska Airlines MD-80 from Palm Springs to Portland when I saw this little gem in the lavatory of the aircraft. They had a little slot in there marked specifically for the purpose of disposing razor blades.
Maybe it for those panicked folks who realized they had inadvertently gone past the TSA checkpoint with a "weapon" and go into the in-flight john to quell their panic attack. Maybe the slot is an attempt at last-minute amnesty for people who mistakenly violate federal safety procedures.
Or perhaps it is intended for perspective hijackers who get cold feet prior to attempting to take over the plane.
Nervous hijacker: If only there was a way I could back out of this fiendish plan to hijack this plane. But I've gone to all this trouble to smuggle an old-fashion double sided razor blade on board. Which was no small trick. I mean I have to find a pickle just the right size and firmness so when I inserted the blade in there the sharp edges didn't stick out. And then there was the added stress and discomfort of inserting the pickle shank up my rectum. It's not easy to walk with a pickle up the pooper! And then, there was the whole removal process in the can. But, I don't want to hurt these nice people. If only I could get rid of my weapon somehow... Oh, look, a sharps disposal slot for blades. Now, isn't that handy.
So, I went back to my seat in the nearly empty plane and had a little quiet chuckle about the razor disposal slot. But by the time the plane touched down at PDX I was wishing I had a razor blade. I'd rather slit my wrists than go through another landing like that.
Portland, which has shipped all of its rain and storm weather south to Palm Springs most of the winter, was in the midst of a squall. The wind was obviously kicking up pretty good, because that MD-80 was tossed around like a vibrator during multiple orgasms. We were bucking and bouncing and slipping and banging all the way through the final approach.
The passengers seemed to handle it pretty well, but you know the turbulence is bad when you are sitting in the back of the plane and you can see the front of the cabin bouncing and gyrating around.
After we reached the terminal, when everyone was in the rush to hurry up and wait in the aisle, I asked one of the flight attendants one of those stupid "Here's your sign" sort of questions.
Me: So, is it windy here?
Blonde flight attendant: Yea, there's quite a storm out there. It's been like that all day.
Me: I thought that landing seemed a little rougher than normal.
Flight attendant: Yea, it thought I was going to get sick there for a minute.
It does not bode well when your flight attendant admits queasiness on landing.
But, obviously, my fellow passengers and I made it, safe and sound, and fortunately no one left their lunch on the cabin upholstery. Although, I was seriously questioning the wisdom of the two beers I had at the airport bar in Palm Springs. The 11 o'clock news was reporting wind gusts on the nearby Oregon Coast ranging from 50-plus to nearly 80 mph. I think they were all aimed at our plane. But we got here, and life goes on.
After getting to Portland and picking up a rental car, I met up with my daughter's mom, and we went together to pick up our daughter from a party she was attending with some of her friends from school. Apparently that party was designed to end at 10 p.m., because as we got there, a parade of cars started pulling up at the same house. They were sure a punctual bunch of parents, I'll give them that.
Apparently the drink of choice at this party was the energy drink Red Bull. My daughter admitted to having two of them. And a Coke. Apparently caffeine getter her motor revving and she gets quite chatty. I've been told I can be the same way when I've had a few beers. I don't, however, thing those two things are related, nor do I think there is an inherited connection. And I choose not to believe the Red Bull was a chaser for something else. Anyway, the last visit when I was here, I felt light an inquisitor trying to get her to say anything in a complete sentence. Tonight she was rambling on about her boyfriend, and her friends hooking up with each other, and freak dancing at Catholic school dances, and, on and on. And yes, I had to have her define freak dancing, and GOD I hope I never witness her doing such a thing.
I'm not sure which is worse, having a teenage daughter who doesn't talk, or one that tells you about all the drama of 8th grade in a metropolitan city. I guess it is cool that she felt comfortable enough to say those things to me and fill me in on her life, but it was verging on too much information for my aging ticker.
I'm leaning toward the silence is golden thing at the moment.
Flying
Vacation
Teenagers
Parenthood
Saturday, March 19, 2005
We interrupt this program...
Rain is in the forecast again.
Unbelievable.
This is supposed to be a desert.
Well, the weather here isn't of much concern, unless it gets so bad they close the airport, because I'm getting out of Dodge for a bit.
Something must be in the air right now, beyond the clouds I mean. It seems that several of the blogs I read are on some sort of hiatus because the blog writers are taking a break or traveling. What? Is it spring break or something? Oh, yea, I guess it is. If I stumble across any girls going wild, I'll let you know. It's unlikely, but a guy can dream can't he?
I may try to make a post or two from the road, but I'm making no guarantees. I've added a few more blogs to the Blogroll list so you can amuse yourselves while I'm away.
In the meantime, enjoy yourselves and try to stay out of trouble. And if you can't stay out of trouble, write about it in a blog and point me there so I have some interesting reading on my return.
The G-Man
Weather
Palm Springs
Vacation
Blogging
Unbelievable.
This is supposed to be a desert.
Well, the weather here isn't of much concern, unless it gets so bad they close the airport, because I'm getting out of Dodge for a bit.
Something must be in the air right now, beyond the clouds I mean. It seems that several of the blogs I read are on some sort of hiatus because the blog writers are taking a break or traveling. What? Is it spring break or something? Oh, yea, I guess it is. If I stumble across any girls going wild, I'll let you know. It's unlikely, but a guy can dream can't he?
I may try to make a post or two from the road, but I'm making no guarantees. I've added a few more blogs to the Blogroll list so you can amuse yourselves while I'm away.
In the meantime, enjoy yourselves and try to stay out of trouble. And if you can't stay out of trouble, write about it in a blog and point me there so I have some interesting reading on my return.
The G-Man
Weather
Palm Springs
Vacation
Blogging
Thursday, March 17, 2005
OK, that didn't work
Last week, eight days ago to be exact, I tried making a blog post while I was away from home by e-mail. It didn't work. So when I got home I tried it again.
A few days later, when comments weren't working on here I did some checking around at the help page of Blogger and learned that the e-mail post function sometimes gets backed up and there is a delay.
I didn't think anymore about it. Until today.
About an hour ago that post I sent 8 days ago popped up at the top of my blog.
Yea, 8 days is certainly a delay.
Oh well. It gave me an excuse to post today. I wasn't going to. Didn't feel inspired. Or is that motivated? Sometimes it's hard to tell.
Anyway, Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Blogging
A few days later, when comments weren't working on here I did some checking around at the help page of Blogger and learned that the e-mail post function sometimes gets backed up and there is a delay.
I didn't think anymore about it. Until today.
About an hour ago that post I sent 8 days ago popped up at the top of my blog.
Yea, 8 days is certainly a delay.
Oh well. It gave me an excuse to post today. I wasn't going to. Didn't feel inspired. Or is that motivated? Sometimes it's hard to tell.
Anyway, Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Blogging
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Girls, Girls, Girls!
OK, so there were a grand total of three girls, but they were all wearing bikinis and I was in their midst. Now this is what living in California was supposed to be about! Sunshine, swimming pools and lots of exposed skin.
Of course, I mostly sat on my lounge chair reading a newspaper and trying to be cool about the fact that I was hanging out on the pool deck with three woman in bikinis. And it was important to be very cool, because two of the women in question were with guys who were more than capable of pummeling the crap out of me or holding my head underwater until I had not choice but to find out whether I have gills.
Oh yea, I was cool.
OK, I am not cool. I'm a dweeb. I would say dork, but Heather B. Armstrong has turned the use of that word into a high art. So, I was too dorky to even be a dork. I was dweebie. And the dweebiest part of all is I'm still all smiley about it.
I went out to the pool Sunday afternoon to catch some sun and just enjoy the day. Now, ordinarily, I am not the type of person to use the pool area if other people are there. I'm just far too self conscious for that. But yesterday was different somehow. Maybe it was the after effects of the tequila from Saturday, but I was feeling BOLD! Translation: The G-man's bold is only slightly less timid than a lamb at a coyote convention.
There were two young couples at the pool. Or I assumed they were couples. There was this whole boy-girl, boy-girl thing going on, but the guys were totally not drooling over the ladies in their skimpy swimwear. So maybe they weren't couples. Either that, or they were married. Sometimes it's tough to tell when people virtually ignore each other.
Anyway, I sat up camp in a lounge chair a good ways away on the pool deck and proceeded to read the newspaper.
Now, who the fuck reads a newspaper at a swimming pool? Well, a dweeb does, that's who. I just cannot lay out in the sun. I go stark raving mad in about 5 minutes. I need something to read, I need my portable CD player. I need something to keep my mind off the fact that I'm just laying out in the sun.
So anyway, I'm reading my paper and a short time later a young woman -- a third woman who materialized out of nowhere -- walks up to me and asks if anyone is using the chair next to me. But my mind did not actually register the words. I am not used to women walking up to me and starting a conversation, at least not unless they have to, like in the workplace. At work, I can talk to the fairer sex. Out in the wild, I mostly drool on my shoes. I said something brilliant I'm sure like "Huh?"
So the young lady repeated her queary, and I was able to somehow reply that the chair was hers if she wanted it. Hell she could have my chair too if she wanted it. Don't say no to a woman in a bathing suit, that's my motto!
Women eat that shit up, people!
The two young couples left after a while, and then I got really bold! I took my tanktop off outdoors, in broad daylight, in a public place to climb into the hot tub. OK, so I made sure the brunette who had talked to me earlier was in the pool and looking 180 degrees in the opposite direction. But still, that's risky behavior for me!
Of course, I mostly sat on my lounge chair reading a newspaper and trying to be cool about the fact that I was hanging out on the pool deck with three woman in bikinis. And it was important to be very cool, because two of the women in question were with guys who were more than capable of pummeling the crap out of me or holding my head underwater until I had not choice but to find out whether I have gills.
Oh yea, I was cool.
OK, I am not cool. I'm a dweeb. I would say dork, but Heather B. Armstrong has turned the use of that word into a high art. So, I was too dorky to even be a dork. I was dweebie. And the dweebiest part of all is I'm still all smiley about it.
I went out to the pool Sunday afternoon to catch some sun and just enjoy the day. Now, ordinarily, I am not the type of person to use the pool area if other people are there. I'm just far too self conscious for that. But yesterday was different somehow. Maybe it was the after effects of the tequila from Saturday, but I was feeling BOLD! Translation: The G-man's bold is only slightly less timid than a lamb at a coyote convention.
There were two young couples at the pool. Or I assumed they were couples. There was this whole boy-girl, boy-girl thing going on, but the guys were totally not drooling over the ladies in their skimpy swimwear. So maybe they weren't couples. Either that, or they were married. Sometimes it's tough to tell when people virtually ignore each other.
Anyway, I sat up camp in a lounge chair a good ways away on the pool deck and proceeded to read the newspaper.
Now, who the fuck reads a newspaper at a swimming pool? Well, a dweeb does, that's who. I just cannot lay out in the sun. I go stark raving mad in about 5 minutes. I need something to read, I need my portable CD player. I need something to keep my mind off the fact that I'm just laying out in the sun.
So anyway, I'm reading my paper and a short time later a young woman -- a third woman who materialized out of nowhere -- walks up to me and asks if anyone is using the chair next to me. But my mind did not actually register the words. I am not used to women walking up to me and starting a conversation, at least not unless they have to, like in the workplace. At work, I can talk to the fairer sex. Out in the wild, I mostly drool on my shoes. I said something brilliant I'm sure like "Huh?"
So the young lady repeated her queary, and I was able to somehow reply that the chair was hers if she wanted it. Hell she could have my chair too if she wanted it. Don't say no to a woman in a bathing suit, that's my motto!
I was actually a little relieved when she started to move the chair away from it's position right next to my chair. The relief was further magnified when she removed her cover up to reveal that she too was wearing a bikini. So it was a good thing she didn't sit too close, because there was a real risk I might burst into flame if a woman in a bikini were sitting next to me. Yes, there was a pool a mere 6 feet away, but I would be reduced to ash long before I could reach the water.
To further reveal my dweebiness, serveral times I ended up picking up my cell phone to return text messages to my good friend Brat and my daughter. Brat was really impressed that I was telling her about the women in the bikinis. And I'm sure the bikini clad women were impressed that I could read, text message and grown hair on my shoulders but not on the top of my head.Women eat that shit up, people!
The two young couples left after a while, and then I got really bold! I took my tanktop off outdoors, in broad daylight, in a public place to climb into the hot tub. OK, so I made sure the brunette who had talked to me earlier was in the pool and looking 180 degrees in the opposite direction. But still, that's risky behavior for me!
I think I need to drink tequila more often! I get down right rowdy for days on tequila!
There's no big payoff here folks, no big move on my part, or the brunette's part. We chatted a little for a while. Some near flirtation if you will. You see, I never really learned how to flirt. Apparently these was this whole thing in grade school about pulling pigtails that I someone missed the initiation on, and I've been behind ever since. SunGroove Theory has been trying to explain it too me, but I'm a dweeb and the learning is not easy.
Just ask Brat. We've known each other for seven years, and I've almost worked up the nerve to ask her out on a date! OK, so we live several thousand miles apart, which has been a bit of an impediment. But that whole fear of rejection is a bitch. So I'm taking it slow. But, any day now I might break down and tell her I think she's neat!
Or is that too over the top?
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Tennis and tequila
Andy Roddick hits a return during Saturday's Pacific Life Open in Indian Wells, Calif. Roddick won the match on a tiebreaker after three sets. Photo by The G-man
Yea, yea, I know. I didn't post anything yesterday. I'm a bad blogger. But I feel no guilt about that whatsoever. I spent my afternoon with a friend at the Pacific Life Open in Indian Wells. We watched some tennis (Andy Roddick came damn close to losing his match, but mounted an amazing comeback to survive), watched some people (some women should not wear belly shirts, and some men should not walk around without shirts) got some sun.
I've gone to at least one opening weekend match of this tournament every year I've been here. I think I have anyway. I'm getting old, the memory fades. But this year I was at least smart enough to put on the sunscreen before I left. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I for once do not look like a lobster after an afternoon at the tennis stadium.
After the tennis match, I returned home for a shower so I could meet another friend for dinner. I have to say, something must be out of whack with the cosmos or something. Two social engagements in one day? What the fuck? Never happens people.
It was a great day. Very fun, spent with two of my favorite people, and several large margaritas. By the way, if you are ever in the Palm Springs area, I highly recommend the Cadillac margarita, on the rocks, at Las Casuelas Nuevas in Rancho Mirage. The shrimp fajitas were good too, but after I couple of those margaritas I might not have known or cared if they weren't good.
All it all, it was a good day NOT to get married! Tennis, talk and tequila! Too much fun.
It's another nice day, and I'm determined to enjoy more of this weekend before I have to settle into my chores.
Where'd I put that bottle of tequila?
Tennis
Friends
Coachella Valley
Friday, March 11, 2005
Forced silence
Don't like what I have to say on an issue? Well, tough! Because it appears that it is currently impossible to post comments on Blogger and has been for several hours.
They say silence in golden, but in the blogoshere it is torture.
Fine, I didn't want to hear your worthless opinion anyway! But I was looking forward to leaving my worthless opinion on a few blogs today!
Bastards!
Blogging
They say silence in golden, but in the blogoshere it is torture.
Fine, I didn't want to hear your worthless opinion anyway! But I was looking forward to leaving my worthless opinion on a few blogs today!
Bastards!
Blogging
For love or money?
It is amazing how quickly the last few months have passed. The time has literally, and mercifully, flown by.
I say mercifully because about nine months ago, I wasn’t sure I could make it through the summer, let alone make it to 2005. My world came unraveled in June. The previous year-plus had been probably one of the happiest and most personally satisfying periods of my life. I had started dating a woman in March 2003, moved in with her in July of that year, and by December we were engaged. It had taken me until my late 30s to find a woman I wanted to ask to marry me, and was thrilled when she said yes.
The thrill ended in June of last year, when she gave back the ring. I won’t bore you with the details, but if curious, there is more about that here and here. Somehow, the heart – the one that I thought was so thoroughly shattered I would have sworn pieces had been vaporized – began to reassemble. That heart, the emotional heart, rebuilt and started beating again. The life, also shattered, knitted itself back together. I moved out long before I moved on, but somewhere along the way I moved on as well. A new apartment, a new outlook and a new beginning.
I have no regrets about the apartment I chose to move into. At the time, it was the only place I found were I could actually start to see myself living again. But the rent was more than I had been paying as the live-in guy, or even before that as the single guy. The new place was brand new, never lived in. I wasn’t following in anyone else’s footsteps here, I was blazing my own trail.
But, now I’m finding that the cost of just living, and paying for the living I’ve done previously (those damned credit cards) is more than I take home each month. So, the time has come to sell the ring.
Sometime over the last period of months, the ring has transformed from a diamond and gold symbol of love, to just a piece of unwanted and unneeded jewelry. And hopefully, into a source of some urgently needed cash. Now I just have to figure out how to go about the logistics of selling a piece of jewelry. And I think I can do that. I figured out how to buy an engagement ring with no previous experience, I supposed I can figure out how to sell one as well.
And don’t go suggesting ebay, because I have no interest in the hassle of setting up an auction and then shipping this thing off, nor the risk of not actually getting paid. I ain’t going there. But fortunately I live in a place where jewelry stores that specialize in, or sell to some extent or another, estate jewelry. Not that one ring qualifies as an estate, but these people have to buy the jewelry from someone, why not buy a diamond ring from me?
So, that’s going on the to-do list, and ASAP. I have rent to pay again in a few weeks, and a vacation coming up, for which I am as broke as I was in college. You know that broke? The one where you can’t even go to the ATM because you don’t even have $20 left in your account to be able to make a withdrawal? I’m about there.
As I was thinking about this business transaction prompted by financial need, I found myself looking starting to put this post together and looked at the calendar. And the irony was, and I’m a big fan of irony, I realized that I was supposed to be getting married this month. This weekend as a matter of fact. Saturday, March 12, 2005 was supposed to be the big day. The date was chosen because it would have almost been the 2-year anniversary of our first date, which was March 13, 2003.
That made me pause for a moment or three. Wow.
If things had gone according to the original plan I would be in another city on the other side of the country preparing to say I do right about now. A few months ago, I was really dreading March 12, 2005. But in the here-and-now, it almost snuck up on me without even noticing.
How did that happen?
I don’t know. But I’m glad it did. I’m glad I’m not in Tennessee. I’m glad March 12 is just another day.
OK, so I’m not glad that my ass is so broke, but it is definitely better to be broke than broken. That I know for sure.
Life
Love
Money
I say mercifully because about nine months ago, I wasn’t sure I could make it through the summer, let alone make it to 2005. My world came unraveled in June. The previous year-plus had been probably one of the happiest and most personally satisfying periods of my life. I had started dating a woman in March 2003, moved in with her in July of that year, and by December we were engaged. It had taken me until my late 30s to find a woman I wanted to ask to marry me, and was thrilled when she said yes.
The thrill ended in June of last year, when she gave back the ring. I won’t bore you with the details, but if curious, there is more about that here and here. Somehow, the heart – the one that I thought was so thoroughly shattered I would have sworn pieces had been vaporized – began to reassemble. That heart, the emotional heart, rebuilt and started beating again. The life, also shattered, knitted itself back together. I moved out long before I moved on, but somewhere along the way I moved on as well. A new apartment, a new outlook and a new beginning.
I have no regrets about the apartment I chose to move into. At the time, it was the only place I found were I could actually start to see myself living again. But the rent was more than I had been paying as the live-in guy, or even before that as the single guy. The new place was brand new, never lived in. I wasn’t following in anyone else’s footsteps here, I was blazing my own trail.
But, now I’m finding that the cost of just living, and paying for the living I’ve done previously (those damned credit cards) is more than I take home each month. So, the time has come to sell the ring.
Sometime over the last period of months, the ring has transformed from a diamond and gold symbol of love, to just a piece of unwanted and unneeded jewelry. And hopefully, into a source of some urgently needed cash. Now I just have to figure out how to go about the logistics of selling a piece of jewelry. And I think I can do that. I figured out how to buy an engagement ring with no previous experience, I supposed I can figure out how to sell one as well.
And don’t go suggesting ebay, because I have no interest in the hassle of setting up an auction and then shipping this thing off, nor the risk of not actually getting paid. I ain’t going there. But fortunately I live in a place where jewelry stores that specialize in, or sell to some extent or another, estate jewelry. Not that one ring qualifies as an estate, but these people have to buy the jewelry from someone, why not buy a diamond ring from me?
So, that’s going on the to-do list, and ASAP. I have rent to pay again in a few weeks, and a vacation coming up, for which I am as broke as I was in college. You know that broke? The one where you can’t even go to the ATM because you don’t even have $20 left in your account to be able to make a withdrawal? I’m about there.
As I was thinking about this business transaction prompted by financial need, I found myself looking starting to put this post together and looked at the calendar. And the irony was, and I’m a big fan of irony, I realized that I was supposed to be getting married this month. This weekend as a matter of fact. Saturday, March 12, 2005 was supposed to be the big day. The date was chosen because it would have almost been the 2-year anniversary of our first date, which was March 13, 2003.
That made me pause for a moment or three. Wow.
If things had gone according to the original plan I would be in another city on the other side of the country preparing to say I do right about now. A few months ago, I was really dreading March 12, 2005. But in the here-and-now, it almost snuck up on me without even noticing.
How did that happen?
I don’t know. But I’m glad it did. I’m glad I’m not in Tennessee. I’m glad March 12 is just another day.
OK, so I’m not glad that my ass is so broke, but it is definitely better to be broke than broken. That I know for sure.
Life
Love
Money
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Even cowboys get the blues
“… a worn out tape of Chris LeDoux, lonely women and bad booze seem to be the only friends I’ve left at all”
Much Too Young (To Feel This Damn Old) by Garth Brooks
And I’m feeling older today. Championship cowboy and country music singer Chris LeDoux died today in Casper, Wyo., according to the Associated Press. He was 56.
Rest in peace Chris. And thanks for the ride.
Chris LeDoux
Country music
Memorial
Much Too Young (To Feel This Damn Old) by Garth Brooks
And I’m feeling older today. Championship cowboy and country music singer Chris LeDoux died today in Casper, Wyo., according to the Associated Press. He was 56.
Rest in peace Chris. And thanks for the ride.
Chris LeDoux
Country music
Memorial
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Spring Fever
OK, maybe it was hanging out with alums from my former university last night that has me reminiscing about college days, but I can't escape the feeling today that I really want to skip class. Um, I mean work.
I just got back from voting in Palm Springs' special election and then grabbed some lunch. I called the office to find out that my normal Tuesday afternoon staff meeting has been canceled, so I have a short reprieve before having to report to work. But more than anything else, I really don't want to go to work at all.
Call it spring fever. The clouds and rain have cleared, and it's really starting to warm up. It's already in the mid to high 80s. No long sleeved-shirt and tie today, no sir. I was reading another of my regular blog reads today from someone who live in New York, and read that they are being hit by snow. It honor of the East Coasters suffering winter weather, it seems only right to have a skip day.
I remember back in college on those nice spring days, after a winter of rainy dreary days, it was just so hard to waste the precious sunshine by sitting in class. And there were really no consequences to skipping class, at least none that matter now all these years later, but the memories of those few days soaking up the sunshine and breathing the warm air still bring back a smile.
If only skipping work were as easy as skipping class in a large lecture hall.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Are you sleeping Brother John?
Something is wrong.
Insomnia
Weather
Palm Springs
It's barely 11 p.m. and I am tired. Ready to go to bed and crash tired. OK, maybe that's because I was up at an ungodly early hour from me and at work by about 9 a.m., when I normally don't go to work until 2 p.m.
My body is a bit out of wack. I tried going to bed early last night. My mind knew I had to be up early today. But my body was having none of it?
Body: Hey, what's this going to bed at midnight stuff? We never go to bed at midnight. Sure, lie down if you want to but we aren't sleepy.
(an hour later)
Body: Yep, it's 1 a.m, but still not tired. Don't tell us you have to be up in 7 hours. It's not bedtime yet. Bedtime is later. Much later
(another hour later)
Body: Neener, neener, neener, we're not tired. It's the shank of the evening. It's time to be doing something. Just to show you, see us toss, see us turn. Fluff the pillows, flip the TV channels. See, there is stuff to do. This is not sleep time asshole, so you might as well get up.
(2 hours later)
Ah, now this is more like it. Now maybe we will go to sleep. Maybe. We aren't convinced we are tired yet, but hey, give it a short.
When the alarm went off at 8 a.m. it felt like I had just closed my eyes. God I hate that. But fortunately it was a beautiful morning and I was up and going before my body could convince my head that it wasn't quite awake yet.
The reason for the early shift was so I could attend a dinner reception for my alma mater. They do these alumni gatherings once a year to try to tap into all the money from my home state in the Pacific Northwest that has fled to sunnier and warmer Southern California. Apparently, the alumni association hasn't realized that just because I have a Palm Springs address doesn't mean I have money to give them. Well, I gave them a few buck to have dinner and drinks and hang out with some people from my home state for a few hours.
My friend M went with me and we had fun, or she said she did, and I know I did. I sat next to a professor who was one of the guest speakers. He teaches creative writing. I resisted the urge to mention that I have a blog. I'm not sure this counts as creative writing. I'm not even sure it qualifies as writing.
Bad typing maybe.
It's like that old question/joke: Would an infinite number of monkeys typing at random eventually produce the entire works of Shakespeare?
I don't know, but this monkey manages to string a few word together from time to time.
Well, enough monkeying around for now. Tomorrow another sunny spring day is forecast for the Coachella Valley. And if my body is as tired as it thinks it is, I may even be able to fall asleep early enough to get out and play a little before work tomorrow.
BloggingInsomnia
Weather
Palm Springs
A good good morning
I am not a morning person. But here I am, up and almost awake, and getting ready for work early on a Monday morning. Yuck. But at least I get to work a day shift today, and will be getting off early to attend an event this evening. So I am telling myself it will be worth it.
Weather
Palm Springs
And, I suppose it will. After all the sun is shining, and the forecast calls for a high of 82 degrees today.
Oh yes, and it's March people!
It almost makes the morning worthwhile, even though I couldn't fall asleep at a decent hour last night to save my life.
Oh well, the warm sunlight heals all.
MorningWeather
Palm Springs
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Mysterious visitors
I have this little counter that measures how many visitors come to this site. I like to joke that I have 5 readers, which isn't too far from the truth. On average somewhere between 20 and 30 people visit this page per day. A few days have been higher, reaching into the 40s, but the weirdest thing happened Friday.
Friday was the highest traffic day ever on this humble little blog with 80 visitors. With a little more research, I learned that many of those visitors were coming from a site called Doc Searls Weblog.
So, for all of you stumbling in here from Doc Searls' site, welcome. Doc's site features a lot of photos of landscapes and such, and he makes mention of the picture at the top of this page. So for Doc's readers' information, the photo is of the San Bernardino Mountains, which have been covered with snow for several months now as Southern California has been getting most of the moisture that normally goes to the Pacific Northwest in the winter. The photos shows the mountain range, which is north of Palm Springs, and runs east to west. The picture is taken from the south looking north from Palm Springs.
So, that's what the photo is all about. And thanks to Doc for the mention, but I don't think this blog is turning out to be his readers' cup of tea. So, maybe the info about the photo will fit their interests more.
We will now return to our regularly scheduled nonsense.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Women! Can't live with 'em...
So, my favorite late night playmate is off doing God-knows-what in a big Midwestern city, so I haven't had anyone around to be a bad influence on me this week, and I'm going stir crazy.
Just don't tell her that, she'll get a big head, and then I'll spend a lot of time trying to bring her back down to earth.
So, it's the middle of the night, and I have no real inspiration, but I have a good beer buzz, so I can't let that go to waste. So I thought I would check in and say howdy.
I've been debating on whether to add a bunch of blogs to my Blogroll list, but I haven't yet. I'm noticing a couple of themes in the blogs I frequent. Many of them are written by women, and those that aren't have a heavy sexual component to them. I'm not sure I want those on my list. Who knows what people may think of me!
OK, so I'm a bit of a pervert. I can't help it. Being single for a lot of my adult life has an effect, ya know? So I read a lot of blogs written by women. The female mind is much more interesting than the male mind, mainly because I don't understand how the female mind works.
Apparently, women like sex, but they don't want men to know that, at least not without some sacrifice or major investment on the part of the man. I don't think women and men are that much different really, but they look at the world differently.
It strikes me as odd that women will tell their girlfriends "everything" about their man, but won't tell their man much in a straightforward way. Men always seem to have to guess what their mate is thinking. And God forbid you guess wrong!
I can't help it, women fascinate and befuddle me. They are amazing creatures. The more time I spend with them and trying to figure out how their heads' work, the less I seem to know.
I obviously didn't learn enough about how to flirt and taunt and tease the opposite sex when I was on the playgrounds of my youth. But I refuse to look at this whole intergender interaction as a "game." It's far too serious for that.
Oh, I should just shut up, enjoy the beer buzz, and call it a night.
And I will. After a toast. To the fairer sex.
Cheers ladies.
WomenThursday, March 03, 2005
Inspiration is where you find it
"You will be showered with good luck."
So said the little strip of paper in my fortune cookie I received with my dinner.
I can't say I'm a big believer in fortune cookie sayings, or other superstitions. But I still find myself tucking those little strips of paper into my pocket or wallet. I just can't seem to throw out those little nuggets of miniature bumper sticker-type philosophy once I come across them.
I've been showered with rain this year, which was certainly unexpected living in a desert. I certainly won't pull out an umbrella to deflect any sprinkles of luck that come my way. I'll happily let it soak into my skin.
Fortune cookies
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