It’s been a very busy few days… we’ve been moving as much as possible on our own before the movers come to handle the heavy things, so we’ve been packing boxes and shuttling between this house and the new house. And, I should mention, the new house is two stories – which means many of those boxes have been destined for the second floor. Rick has been trying to get his study (on the second floor) set up, and I’ve carried many a box full of books, CDs, and random computer paraphernalia up the stairs. And it’s funny how much heavier books, CDs, and computer paraphernalia become as each step is climbed…
And I work out pretty regularly – I walk and jog on an incline, lift weights, do Taebo… but over the last few days, it’s become very, very apparent that I have NEVER tried a Stairmaster. I’ve been struggling up the staircase with fully-loaded cardboard boxes, praying my fingers don’t slip right off the corners and send the box (and possibly me) tumbling down the stairs. And all I can think about is how last week I thought I was in pretty good shape… but this week I’m not so sure. (I will NOT let the stairs defeat me! If I have a house with stairs, I shall traverse them, up and down, until they are nothing to me but another architectural detail…)
Happily, we finally have keys that match up with our locks. We spent the weekend moving everything through the garage door, since that was the only door we could actually open and close with the assurance that it was secure. But a locksmith was dispatched to our house this morning, to rescue us from our useless keys. (I always wonder, though – what’s to keep a locksmith from keeping a set of keys for himself? How do I know I can really trust this guy who changed all our locks? Now I’m gonna be thinking about that the whole time I’m living in the new house…)
On Wednesday we’re having some furniture delivered, including a new bed – so we’ll be able to officially move in and stay at the house. Actually, that’s not entirely true – we’re having a new MATTRESS delivered, but the bed is on backorder for a couple weeks. So we get to camp out on the mattress for a while. Rick seemed rather dismayed when we were told the bed wouldn’t be delivered immediately, but I decided to just take things in stride… I mean, so we have to sleep on a mattress on the floor for a few weeks – no big deal. It’s the same mattress… the only difference is that it’ll be propped up off the floor once the bed arrives. It’s kinda like a picture in a frame – the picture is the same whether it’s in or out of the frame… it just looks more “put-together” when it’s framed.
And for some reason, Rick chose THIS particular week to get sick. He has a cold, or maybe a mild case of the flu, complete with low-grade fever and sore throat. I’m hoping I don’t end up with the same affliction, but lately my super-immunity has been letting me down. I guess we’ll see… in the meantime, I’ll just keep lugging boxes up the stairs…
Monday, February 25, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The key issues...
We closed on the house this morning, after a last-minute walk-through to search for imperfections in need of touch-ups. Our builder told us he’d never, in the seven years he’s been working for the home builders, known of any other buyers who were offered the kind of deal that we got. Apparently, the secret to getting a good deal on a house is to back out of the purchase for a while, and wait for some realtor to throw out a much lower number than the original sale price…
At the closing, we were given a set of house keys and garage keys, and then told that we’d have to go by the post office to pick up our mail keys. (We live in a neighborhood with community mailboxes… so instead of each house having its own mailbox, we have to retrieve our mail from a little mailbox kiosk at the end of the street…) So, as soon as we’d signed away all our rights and privileges and possibly any future hypothetical children we might have (I mean, really, does anyone READ all that paperwork??), we headed directly to the post office. We took our closing documents and ID (which we were told we’d need in order to get the keys) and walked up to a window to request our keys. The man behind the counter took all the information, disappeared into the mysterious part of the post office the general public is never privy to (commonly referred to as “the back”… as in, “let me check in the back”), and finally returned with a large book. He set the book down on the counter and pointed to the page that was open. “Your street isn’t in here,” he said. “We don’t own those mailboxes. You’ll have to get the key from your homeowner’s association.”
Okay, well, no big deal. It’s not like the post office was too far out of our way to anywhere. It seemed strange, though, that the homeowner’s association would have our mail keys. So Rick called our home builders first, to see if they knew anything about it. They said something to the effect of, “this happens ALL the time… the post office is wrong… they DO have the keys…” So Rick called the post office to ask someone to double check the assumed non-existence of our keys. Whoever he talked to asked for his cell phone number, so they could search and call back. When they did, they once again insisted that our street did not exist in their magical little post office book, and our homeowner’s association must have our mailbox keys. So the next call, of course, was to the homeowner’s association. And, predictably, they informed us that our mailbox keys WERE, most definitely, at the post office.
So Rick made one more call to the post office, where he demanded to speak to someone who might actually KNOW a thing or two about the inner workings of the post office. And AGAIN they adamantly claimed that our street did not exist on their list (even though there are already about thirty other houses on that street – ours was the LAST one to be built… and apparently it was built in some sort of postal system black hole…). Things were starting to get ridiculous – it was like a post office/homeowner’s association ping pong game, where each player claimed ignorance. Rick, at this point, was about two seconds away from freaking out and going postal on the postal workers… when, lo and behold, a light bulb illuminated somewhere inside that cavernous mail facility and shone brightly upon our missing mailbox keys. Someone FINALLY found them, ending the question of whether or not our street was real or a figment of our overactive imaginations. So we drove BACK down to the post office, and picked up the elusive keys. Our key problems were solved!
At least that’s what we THOUGHT – we had delayed stopping by the house all day, to allow the painters and cleaners time to finish all the touch-up work that needed to be completed. Our house keys are the sort that are supposed to trip certain tumblers in the lock as soon as they’re used, so the keys the builders have been using will no longer work – once we use those keys, the locks will only open with OUR keys. The builders and painters and other workers can no longer enter the house any time they wish. So we put off resetting the locks until later in the day, hoping all the touch-up work would be done. Around 6:30, we finally headed over to our new home with the intention of using our brand new keys for the first time. I took one from the bunch we were given, stuck it in the lock on the back door, and attempted to turn it. Nothing happened. It was stuck. I tried to twist it several times, but it wouldn’t budge. So then I tried the garage door. Couldn’t turn it. And finally the front door. Nope – completely useless. We were given the WRONG KEYS. We now own a home with doors that we CAN’T OPEN.
Fortunately, we have a garage door opener that works just fine… so until we get new keys (or new locks… or new keys AND new locks), we’ll have to leave the door to the house in the garage unlocked, and just go into the house through the garage. Eventually everything will be worked out… but gee, who knew that such little objects could cause so much aggravation? :)
At the closing, we were given a set of house keys and garage keys, and then told that we’d have to go by the post office to pick up our mail keys. (We live in a neighborhood with community mailboxes… so instead of each house having its own mailbox, we have to retrieve our mail from a little mailbox kiosk at the end of the street…) So, as soon as we’d signed away all our rights and privileges and possibly any future hypothetical children we might have (I mean, really, does anyone READ all that paperwork??), we headed directly to the post office. We took our closing documents and ID (which we were told we’d need in order to get the keys) and walked up to a window to request our keys. The man behind the counter took all the information, disappeared into the mysterious part of the post office the general public is never privy to (commonly referred to as “the back”… as in, “let me check in the back”), and finally returned with a large book. He set the book down on the counter and pointed to the page that was open. “Your street isn’t in here,” he said. “We don’t own those mailboxes. You’ll have to get the key from your homeowner’s association.”
Okay, well, no big deal. It’s not like the post office was too far out of our way to anywhere. It seemed strange, though, that the homeowner’s association would have our mail keys. So Rick called our home builders first, to see if they knew anything about it. They said something to the effect of, “this happens ALL the time… the post office is wrong… they DO have the keys…” So Rick called the post office to ask someone to double check the assumed non-existence of our keys. Whoever he talked to asked for his cell phone number, so they could search and call back. When they did, they once again insisted that our street did not exist in their magical little post office book, and our homeowner’s association must have our mailbox keys. So the next call, of course, was to the homeowner’s association. And, predictably, they informed us that our mailbox keys WERE, most definitely, at the post office.
So Rick made one more call to the post office, where he demanded to speak to someone who might actually KNOW a thing or two about the inner workings of the post office. And AGAIN they adamantly claimed that our street did not exist on their list (even though there are already about thirty other houses on that street – ours was the LAST one to be built… and apparently it was built in some sort of postal system black hole…). Things were starting to get ridiculous – it was like a post office/homeowner’s association ping pong game, where each player claimed ignorance. Rick, at this point, was about two seconds away from freaking out and going postal on the postal workers… when, lo and behold, a light bulb illuminated somewhere inside that cavernous mail facility and shone brightly upon our missing mailbox keys. Someone FINALLY found them, ending the question of whether or not our street was real or a figment of our overactive imaginations. So we drove BACK down to the post office, and picked up the elusive keys. Our key problems were solved!
At least that’s what we THOUGHT – we had delayed stopping by the house all day, to allow the painters and cleaners time to finish all the touch-up work that needed to be completed. Our house keys are the sort that are supposed to trip certain tumblers in the lock as soon as they’re used, so the keys the builders have been using will no longer work – once we use those keys, the locks will only open with OUR keys. The builders and painters and other workers can no longer enter the house any time they wish. So we put off resetting the locks until later in the day, hoping all the touch-up work would be done. Around 6:30, we finally headed over to our new home with the intention of using our brand new keys for the first time. I took one from the bunch we were given, stuck it in the lock on the back door, and attempted to turn it. Nothing happened. It was stuck. I tried to twist it several times, but it wouldn’t budge. So then I tried the garage door. Couldn’t turn it. And finally the front door. Nope – completely useless. We were given the WRONG KEYS. We now own a home with doors that we CAN’T OPEN.
Fortunately, we have a garage door opener that works just fine… so until we get new keys (or new locks… or new keys AND new locks), we’ll have to leave the door to the house in the garage unlocked, and just go into the house through the garage. Eventually everything will be worked out… but gee, who knew that such little objects could cause so much aggravation? :)
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Moving on...
So before the whole “we might be moving to Chicago” thing started, we’d decided to have a new house built in another part of the neighborhood. But halfway through the building process, several promising Chicago opportunities popped up, and we decided we’d rather pursue a path to Chicago than a path to a new house across the street. When we told the house builders that we wouldn’t be purchasing the house, they got all horrible-house-market-panicky and continually offered us incentives to buy the house. At first, it was easy to ignore their siren-calls, since we were focused on Chicago. But then Dell started to uh, let’s say “restructure” itself, which has resulted in a significant delay on any Chicago hiring decisions. So we finally gave in to the house-builders, and decided to buy the house at a ridiculously lowered price… they even threw in a couple ceiling fans and some crown molding we didn’t ask for. So tomorrow morning, we will be the owners of TWO houses… Yeah, we THOUGHT we had buyers for this house, but they decided yesterday to go with another house… sigh… (Well, at least we don’t have to rush to get our things moved over to the new house…)
And it’s good that we’re moving into a new house, because I’ve never lived in one house for more than seven years. I have a slight fear that if I ever stay in one place longer than seven years, the house that I’m inhabiting will turn into a pumpkin. Or worse, I’ll turn into a pumpkin. We’re going on six years in this house, so we couldn’t stay here much longer, anyway. You know, just in case…
Here’s the progression – I lived in our first house in Buffalo, New York until I was seven years old. We then moved a few streets over to a larger, upgraded house (not unlike what I’ll be doing this coming week…), and I lived there until I was nine. And then we moved to Texas… we lived in our house in Austin until just before I turned twelve, and then we moved a bit farther north to Georgetown, where we lived for one year. Then we moved to New Jersey, where I got about as “settled” as I would ever be – I didn’t move out of that house with the uneven floors (hey, it added character) for seven years…
Then it was an apartment for about a year with my mentally-unstable roommate, Lori. Then an apartment on my own for another six months or so, until I got married and Rick moved in… we moved to a different apartment soon after, and couldn’t have been there more than a year and a half before we bought our first house in Cedar Park. We lived in Cedar Park for about five or six years, and in 2000 we moved to New Jersey. We lived in a GREAT house in New Jersey for two years (I think it’s still my favorite of all the places I’ve lived… and Eric and Debbie have added all kinds of improvements since they bought it, so it’s even better now…), and then we ended up in this house. So you can see that it’s obviously time for me to move on, right?
And speaking of the new house, we need to head over there to meet the blind lady… uh, I mean, the lady who’ll be measuring our windows for blinds…
And it’s good that we’re moving into a new house, because I’ve never lived in one house for more than seven years. I have a slight fear that if I ever stay in one place longer than seven years, the house that I’m inhabiting will turn into a pumpkin. Or worse, I’ll turn into a pumpkin. We’re going on six years in this house, so we couldn’t stay here much longer, anyway. You know, just in case…
Here’s the progression – I lived in our first house in Buffalo, New York until I was seven years old. We then moved a few streets over to a larger, upgraded house (not unlike what I’ll be doing this coming week…), and I lived there until I was nine. And then we moved to Texas… we lived in our house in Austin until just before I turned twelve, and then we moved a bit farther north to Georgetown, where we lived for one year. Then we moved to New Jersey, where I got about as “settled” as I would ever be – I didn’t move out of that house with the uneven floors (hey, it added character) for seven years…
Then it was an apartment for about a year with my mentally-unstable roommate, Lori. Then an apartment on my own for another six months or so, until I got married and Rick moved in… we moved to a different apartment soon after, and couldn’t have been there more than a year and a half before we bought our first house in Cedar Park. We lived in Cedar Park for about five or six years, and in 2000 we moved to New Jersey. We lived in a GREAT house in New Jersey for two years (I think it’s still my favorite of all the places I’ve lived… and Eric and Debbie have added all kinds of improvements since they bought it, so it’s even better now…), and then we ended up in this house. So you can see that it’s obviously time for me to move on, right?
And speaking of the new house, we need to head over there to meet the blind lady… uh, I mean, the lady who’ll be measuring our windows for blinds…
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Be careful where you park...
“The law, for all its failings, has a noble goal – to make the little bit of life that people can actually control more just. We can’t end disease or natural disasters, but we can devise rules for our dealings with one another that fairly weigh the rights and needs of everyone, and which, therefore, reflect our best vision of ourselves.” That quote (from Scott Turow, who wrote Presumed Innocent and Limitations) was on my Starbucks cup this morning. (Starbucks has apparently taken it upon itself to enlighten us patrons with the wisdom of many random people…) And it’s funny, because we were just talking about legal matters the other day… reminiscing about dad and the infamous Shopping Cart Incident.
The Shopping Cart Incident, for those who are unaware, occurred back in New Jersey several years ago. Mom and dad had met up for a movie, and when dad went out to his car in the parking lot afterwards, there was a note on his windshield. Something about contacting the police, I think. And when he did, he discovered that a woman had filed a complaint against him, claiming that when he parked his car he rammed it into a shopping cart, which then hit the woman’s car and caused untold amounts of damage. Now, we all realize that dad’s mind is often on engineering matters (oh, he of the peculiar cognitive traits…), but it’s pretty difficult to miss a shopping cart in the middle of your parking space. Especially one you’ve hit hard enough to catapult across a parking lot and demolish another car. But thanks to the crafty, devious plotting of the woman who filed the complaint (who, I later found out, went to my high school… yeah, good ol’ Lenape Valley really churned out some real winners…), my dad was forced to hire a lawyer and go to court. Fortunately, Miss Crafty and Devious also turned out to be Miss Really Stupid, and she attempted to represent herself (which would mean she had a fool for a lawyer, or however that saying goes…). And since she had exactly ZERO proof that my dad did ANYTHING beyond go to see a movie that day, the judge angrily dismissed the case with a few choice words for Miss Really Stupid.
And here’s where our legal system needs a bit of tweaking, in my opinion – since the Shopping Cart Incident was so OBVIOUSLY a creation of this woman’s mind, I think the judge should have ordered her to pay my dad’s legal fees. SHE was the one who decided to waste the time of everyone involved in the case, apparently hoping she could make a few bucks off a person who did absolutely nothing wrong. She tried, for all intents and purposes, to steal someone else’s money – she just tried to do it in a “legal” way.
I remember back when I worked at the law firm that I once saw a case where a guy was claiming all kinds of damages and injuries from a car accident. His car had been rear-ended, and to read through the file, you’d think the guy could barely walk anymore. An accident reconstruction specialist looked at the damage to the cars, and determined that this man’s car had been rear-ended at 5 MPH. Five miles per hour. FIVE. Hit at five miles per hour, and all of a sudden his back hurts, his neck hurts, his legs hurt, he’s missing all kinds of work, he can barely smile anymore, he can’t pay his chiropractic bills (because it’s always chiropractic bills, never medical doctor bills), his wife leaves him, his parents disown him, his friends desert him, his life is in shambles… Oh PUUUHLEASE… I used to have a little Honda Civic that was rear-ended at about 5 MPH (heck, maybe even 7 or 8 MPH) by a semi-sized dump truck that hit me FIVE TIMES before it was finally able to come to a stop. There were five separate points of impact on my car – it was banged up quite a bit. And you know what happened to me? NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. My neck was fine, my back was fine… I didn’t so much as get a case of the hiccups…
It’s lawsuits like these that definitely DON’T, as Scott Turow says, “fairly weigh the rights and needs of everyone.” And they certainly don’t “reflect our best vision of ourselves.” If they did, my dad never would’ve had to go to court, and never would’ve had to pay for a lawyer. But at the very LEAST, he should’ve been offered free movie tickets for a few years… :)
The Shopping Cart Incident, for those who are unaware, occurred back in New Jersey several years ago. Mom and dad had met up for a movie, and when dad went out to his car in the parking lot afterwards, there was a note on his windshield. Something about contacting the police, I think. And when he did, he discovered that a woman had filed a complaint against him, claiming that when he parked his car he rammed it into a shopping cart, which then hit the woman’s car and caused untold amounts of damage. Now, we all realize that dad’s mind is often on engineering matters (oh, he of the peculiar cognitive traits…), but it’s pretty difficult to miss a shopping cart in the middle of your parking space. Especially one you’ve hit hard enough to catapult across a parking lot and demolish another car. But thanks to the crafty, devious plotting of the woman who filed the complaint (who, I later found out, went to my high school… yeah, good ol’ Lenape Valley really churned out some real winners…), my dad was forced to hire a lawyer and go to court. Fortunately, Miss Crafty and Devious also turned out to be Miss Really Stupid, and she attempted to represent herself (which would mean she had a fool for a lawyer, or however that saying goes…). And since she had exactly ZERO proof that my dad did ANYTHING beyond go to see a movie that day, the judge angrily dismissed the case with a few choice words for Miss Really Stupid.
And here’s where our legal system needs a bit of tweaking, in my opinion – since the Shopping Cart Incident was so OBVIOUSLY a creation of this woman’s mind, I think the judge should have ordered her to pay my dad’s legal fees. SHE was the one who decided to waste the time of everyone involved in the case, apparently hoping she could make a few bucks off a person who did absolutely nothing wrong. She tried, for all intents and purposes, to steal someone else’s money – she just tried to do it in a “legal” way.
I remember back when I worked at the law firm that I once saw a case where a guy was claiming all kinds of damages and injuries from a car accident. His car had been rear-ended, and to read through the file, you’d think the guy could barely walk anymore. An accident reconstruction specialist looked at the damage to the cars, and determined that this man’s car had been rear-ended at 5 MPH. Five miles per hour. FIVE. Hit at five miles per hour, and all of a sudden his back hurts, his neck hurts, his legs hurt, he’s missing all kinds of work, he can barely smile anymore, he can’t pay his chiropractic bills (because it’s always chiropractic bills, never medical doctor bills), his wife leaves him, his parents disown him, his friends desert him, his life is in shambles… Oh PUUUHLEASE… I used to have a little Honda Civic that was rear-ended at about 5 MPH (heck, maybe even 7 or 8 MPH) by a semi-sized dump truck that hit me FIVE TIMES before it was finally able to come to a stop. There were five separate points of impact on my car – it was banged up quite a bit. And you know what happened to me? NOTHING. Absolutely nothing. My neck was fine, my back was fine… I didn’t so much as get a case of the hiccups…
It’s lawsuits like these that definitely DON’T, as Scott Turow says, “fairly weigh the rights and needs of everyone.” And they certainly don’t “reflect our best vision of ourselves.” If they did, my dad never would’ve had to go to court, and never would’ve had to pay for a lawyer. But at the very LEAST, he should’ve been offered free movie tickets for a few years… :)
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Random stuff...
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Ah yes… Valentine’s Day… the day that Hallmark created to guilt people into purchasing cards and flowers and candy. I’m not complaining about the candy, though – Rick bought me some REALLY good chocolate from a place called Candinas in Wisconsin. I am convinced that the best chocolate comes from the little chocolatiers – the companies that DON’T have giant factories and so much demand for product that their chocolates must be mass-produced. I mean, don’t get me wrong – the mass-produced stuff can be pretty good, too (please see previous post about Ghirardelli). But there’s something extra-special about a truffle that has been created by a person and not a machine. These particular chocolates remind me of a cruise we took several years ago, where we stopped in Belgium and had an opportunity to watch some people make Belgian chocolate truffles. They explained how the fillings in the truffles were made with fresh cream and other perishable ingredients, so the chocolates had to be eaten within a few weeks’ time. And that seems to be the benchmark for how tasty a truffle will be – if it comes with an expiration date, chances are it will be a pretty decent truffle. But if it comes out of a drugstore Russell Stover box, it’ll be slightly less decadent. (Not that I’m above the Russell Stover boxes… if it’s chocolate, I’m always willing to give it a try… :))
So the writer’s strike is finally over. (Get back to work, you slacker Hollywood writers! It’s been an absolute nightmare having to watch television reruns. Thanks to you, I came thisclose to cracking open a book and READING it, you know…) Actually, I think those Hollywood writers should go on strike more often… it helps us to realize that we CAN get along without TV now and then… is it REALLY all that important that I see a new episode of Lost every single week? (Wait – yes… yes it is! Oh, thank goodness the writer’s strike is over!!)
I have decided that whoever invented automatic-flush toilets should be arrested for the proliferation of ickiness. These things are popping up everywhere from airports to interstate rest stops (which happens to be the last place I encountered one – on our way back from Chicago). Now, I’ve heard that these instruments of bathroom anxiety were brought into existence because there are so many disgusting people out there who neglect to flush toilets. And yes, I agree that this is a problem (and I’m not sure I understand why it would ever be such a complicated endeavor… is the handle thingy really THAT hard to figure out?)… but there has to be a better solution than the automatic-flush toilet. I already have a lengthy ritual I must perform before getting anywhere near a public toilet seat – first I have to grab a wad of paper and wipe off the seat, then either use one of those seat covers from the dispenser on the wall or just line the whole seat with more paper. But those stupid automatic-flush toilets have a seriously annoying habit of flushing willy-nilly (yeah, that’s right – willy AND nilly…) for no reason whatsoever. It's like they're possessed or something (where are all the toilet exorcists when you need them?). So I’ll only be halfway through my “wiping down the seat” routine, and the toilet-with-a-mind-of-its-own will do a 360, spit out pea soup, and start flushing. Which means I have to wipe it down AGAIN, because every time a toilet flushes it spews a myriad of germs into its immediate vicinity. Which is why it’s even MORE horrific when the stupid things flush after I’ve already SAT DOWN on them. I just want to jump up and take a shower… except public restrooms very rarely provide showers for their patrons. Perhaps this is where the Europeans get it right – if there were bidets all over the U.S. like there are in Europe, then I could just jump over to the bidet and, uh… do whatever the heck it is you’re supposed to do with a bidet… (Have I mentioned that I HATE automatic-flush toilets???)
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Um, that was written entirely by Piva, who decided to plant herself on top of my computer keyboard. I’m sure she’s trying to tell us something, but I can’t figure out what, exactly…
Okay, I’m off to add a few thousand steps to my pedometer (we ate far too much good food in Chicago… once again, please see previous post about Ghirardelli)…
So the writer’s strike is finally over. (Get back to work, you slacker Hollywood writers! It’s been an absolute nightmare having to watch television reruns. Thanks to you, I came thisclose to cracking open a book and READING it, you know…) Actually, I think those Hollywood writers should go on strike more often… it helps us to realize that we CAN get along without TV now and then… is it REALLY all that important that I see a new episode of Lost every single week? (Wait – yes… yes it is! Oh, thank goodness the writer’s strike is over!!)
I have decided that whoever invented automatic-flush toilets should be arrested for the proliferation of ickiness. These things are popping up everywhere from airports to interstate rest stops (which happens to be the last place I encountered one – on our way back from Chicago). Now, I’ve heard that these instruments of bathroom anxiety were brought into existence because there are so many disgusting people out there who neglect to flush toilets. And yes, I agree that this is a problem (and I’m not sure I understand why it would ever be such a complicated endeavor… is the handle thingy really THAT hard to figure out?)… but there has to be a better solution than the automatic-flush toilet. I already have a lengthy ritual I must perform before getting anywhere near a public toilet seat – first I have to grab a wad of paper and wipe off the seat, then either use one of those seat covers from the dispenser on the wall or just line the whole seat with more paper. But those stupid automatic-flush toilets have a seriously annoying habit of flushing willy-nilly (yeah, that’s right – willy AND nilly…) for no reason whatsoever. It's like they're possessed or something (where are all the toilet exorcists when you need them?). So I’ll only be halfway through my “wiping down the seat” routine, and the toilet-with-a-mind-of-its-own will do a 360, spit out pea soup, and start flushing. Which means I have to wipe it down AGAIN, because every time a toilet flushes it spews a myriad of germs into its immediate vicinity. Which is why it’s even MORE horrific when the stupid things flush after I’ve already SAT DOWN on them. I just want to jump up and take a shower… except public restrooms very rarely provide showers for their patrons. Perhaps this is where the Europeans get it right – if there were bidets all over the U.S. like there are in Europe, then I could just jump over to the bidet and, uh… do whatever the heck it is you’re supposed to do with a bidet… (Have I mentioned that I HATE automatic-flush toilets???)
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Um, that was written entirely by Piva, who decided to plant herself on top of my computer keyboard. I’m sure she’s trying to tell us something, but I can’t figure out what, exactly…
Okay, I’m off to add a few thousand steps to my pedometer (we ate far too much good food in Chicago… once again, please see previous post about Ghirardelli)…
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Winter was nice while it lasted...
We’re back in Austin now… we arrived yesterday to 76-degree weather. I’d dressed rather warmly when we left Tulsa yesterday morning, as it was only about 40 degrees. I should’ve known I’d be roasting in the car by the time we hit the Texas border. Eric sent me a text message this morning to inform me of the temperature in Chicago – negative two. Sigh… and here I am in Texas, where I probably won’t need to wear my wool coat, scarf, and gloves for another ten or twelve months… if then, even…
I have to say I LOVED the weather when we were up there in Chicago. And we never even saw the sun the entire time we were there. Usually the absence of the sun is very depressing to me… when the sun disappears here in Austin it’s always clouds, clouds, clouds, with occasional dreary rain. You walk outside and feel sort of oppressed – like all those clouds with their heavy rain are pressing down on your shoulders, and they only lift away when the sun breaks through to dissipate them. But in Chicago, when you step outside and that first blast of frigid air hits your face, you can’t help but discover a hidden energy and determination to scurry down the sidewalk, anxiously anticipating a warm environment – perhaps a warm environment where hot chocolate or coffee and a fuzzy blanket are awaiting. And when you finally reach your destination, and realize you’ve survived the sub-zero temperatures and your nose has NOT fallen off, you can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment and triumph. (Yes! I have made it through the snow and have earned a delicious cup of hot cocoa! I rule!)
One thing we discovered on our last day in Chicago – the middle of winter is the PERFECT time to visit Ghirardelli. (And yes, ice cream at Ghirardelli is a far cry from a nice cup of hot cocoa – but it’s soooooo worth the shivering…) Ghirardelli was only about a block and a half away from our hotel, so we walked over on Thursday night. And I was surprised (and quite happy) to see that the place was practically deserted. Every single time I’ve been there in the past (which has always either been in the spring/summer or on a weekend) the store has been packed. We’ve always had to stand in a long line to order, and then search around for a table in the much-too-small dining area. Often, this has resulted in four or five of us cramming around a tiny two-person-occupancy table, and carefully balancing ice cream sundaes on the edge of its marble surface. But on Thursday night, there was no line to order and only a handful of patrons were lingering around tables. The entire time we were there, only two more people arrived to eat ice cream in the store. If I’d known it would be so deserted, I think I would’ve walked down there EVERY night we were in Chicago. I must remember this for future reference…
And now I should go make sure to unpack my boots and scarf and hat, because I just noticed it’s about 74 degrees outside… better bundle up…
I have to say I LOVED the weather when we were up there in Chicago. And we never even saw the sun the entire time we were there. Usually the absence of the sun is very depressing to me… when the sun disappears here in Austin it’s always clouds, clouds, clouds, with occasional dreary rain. You walk outside and feel sort of oppressed – like all those clouds with their heavy rain are pressing down on your shoulders, and they only lift away when the sun breaks through to dissipate them. But in Chicago, when you step outside and that first blast of frigid air hits your face, you can’t help but discover a hidden energy and determination to scurry down the sidewalk, anxiously anticipating a warm environment – perhaps a warm environment where hot chocolate or coffee and a fuzzy blanket are awaiting. And when you finally reach your destination, and realize you’ve survived the sub-zero temperatures and your nose has NOT fallen off, you can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment and triumph. (Yes! I have made it through the snow and have earned a delicious cup of hot cocoa! I rule!)
One thing we discovered on our last day in Chicago – the middle of winter is the PERFECT time to visit Ghirardelli. (And yes, ice cream at Ghirardelli is a far cry from a nice cup of hot cocoa – but it’s soooooo worth the shivering…) Ghirardelli was only about a block and a half away from our hotel, so we walked over on Thursday night. And I was surprised (and quite happy) to see that the place was practically deserted. Every single time I’ve been there in the past (which has always either been in the spring/summer or on a weekend) the store has been packed. We’ve always had to stand in a long line to order, and then search around for a table in the much-too-small dining area. Often, this has resulted in four or five of us cramming around a tiny two-person-occupancy table, and carefully balancing ice cream sundaes on the edge of its marble surface. But on Thursday night, there was no line to order and only a handful of patrons were lingering around tables. The entire time we were there, only two more people arrived to eat ice cream in the store. If I’d known it would be so deserted, I think I would’ve walked down there EVERY night we were in Chicago. I must remember this for future reference…
And now I should go make sure to unpack my boots and scarf and hat, because I just noticed it’s about 74 degrees outside… better bundle up…
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Brrrrr...
It was a very snowy day here in Chicago. We ventured out at around noon to meet Eric at the Pancake House (and on a side note -- while we were standing outside waiting for the valet to bring our car around, John Leguizamo walked out of the hotel and stood behind us... I was like, "psst... Rick... check it out... John Leguizamo..." but Rick didn't seem all that interested. When we were in the car, I asked him if he noticed John Leguizamo, and he said, "I thought you were pointing out a guy who looked like John Leguizamo..." and I said, "no, I was pointing out John Leguizamo..."). And then after the Pancake House and a short (but chilly) walk to the Starbucks across the street (which, according to one of the Starbucks baristas, is on "the second windiest corner in Chicago"), we met our realtor to check out a couple more condos. Our realtor is definitely a Chicagoan (Chicagoan? Chicagoite? Chicagan? Ah... it IS Chicagoan... I looked it up... :)). She doesn't let a little thing like a heavy snowfall get in the way of running out to view properties, or illegally parallel parking in the dirty slush, or running through snowbanks in boots with four-inch stilleto heels. None of it seems to faze her in the least... we really like her a lot...
We ate dinner at Mike Ditka's restaurant, which is right down the street from our hotel. It's a very short walk that seemed slightly longer because the wind was blowing huge clumps of snowflakes right into my eyes. By the time we arrived at the restaurant, my contact lenses felt squeaky clean and I was wide awake. I mean, I can think of better ways to wake up (coffee comes to mind...), but snowflakes-in-the-eyes is surprisingly effective...
We all really liked the restaurant, but I think Eric liked it best, as this picture demonstrates:
And here's a picture of some of the snow falling near Eric's place today:
We've actually decided to stay one extra day in Chicago, since we don't HAVE to be back in Austin at any particular time this week. And especially because our hotel is just a couple blocks away from Ghirardelli and we have yet to walk over for a visit... so we'll have to remedy THAT some time tomorrow... :)
We ate dinner at Mike Ditka's restaurant, which is right down the street from our hotel. It's a very short walk that seemed slightly longer because the wind was blowing huge clumps of snowflakes right into my eyes. By the time we arrived at the restaurant, my contact lenses felt squeaky clean and I was wide awake. I mean, I can think of better ways to wake up (coffee comes to mind...), but snowflakes-in-the-eyes is surprisingly effective...
We all really liked the restaurant, but I think Eric liked it best, as this picture demonstrates:
And here's a picture of some of the snow falling near Eric's place today:
We've actually decided to stay one extra day in Chicago, since we don't HAVE to be back in Austin at any particular time this week. And especially because our hotel is just a couple blocks away from Ghirardelli and we have yet to walk over for a visit... so we'll have to remedy THAT some time tomorrow... :)Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Watch out for those puddles...
We're hanging out in our Chicago hotel room for a little while before dinner -- we're meeting Eric at one of his favorite steak places later on. It's been very gray and cloudy and rainy/snowy since we've been here, and they're forecasting more winter weather overnight. It's supposed to start snowing any second now... and it's supposed to KEEP snowing all day tomorrow. Good thing we brought the MDX with the 4-wheel-drive...
We went out looking at condos this afternoon, just in case we do end up moving eventually. We saw a few places we really liked, and we have a couple more appointments set up for tomorrow. I'm really glad I made a last-minute decision to pack a pair of knee-high boots that fit over my jeans -- we've been parking along so many dirty snow-covered curbs and splashing through slushy puddles everywhere we've gone. If I'd only brought the pair of sneakers I was wearing the day we arrived (a day when I accidentally stepped ankle-deep in one of those cold, dirty, slushy puddles), I'd be pretty miserable right now. Actually, I probably would've run out to the nearest department store and bought any pair of boots that fit...
A couple pictures...
This was when we were driving in on Sunday -- it was sunny and clear when we left St. Louis, but it quickly turned into a drive through a seemingly never-ending fog bank...
Our hotel room -- we decided to try a new place this time around, and I think it's our new favorite hotel in Chicago...
Eric's street the other night, when it was snowing... only a few inches fell that night, so I may have to take some more pictures tomorrow if we get as much as the weather forecasters are predicting...
We went out looking at condos this afternoon, just in case we do end up moving eventually. We saw a few places we really liked, and we have a couple more appointments set up for tomorrow. I'm really glad I made a last-minute decision to pack a pair of knee-high boots that fit over my jeans -- we've been parking along so many dirty snow-covered curbs and splashing through slushy puddles everywhere we've gone. If I'd only brought the pair of sneakers I was wearing the day we arrived (a day when I accidentally stepped ankle-deep in one of those cold, dirty, slushy puddles), I'd be pretty miserable right now. Actually, I probably would've run out to the nearest department store and bought any pair of boots that fit...
A couple pictures...
This was when we were driving in on Sunday -- it was sunny and clear when we left St. Louis, but it quickly turned into a drive through a seemingly never-ending fog bank...
Our hotel room -- we decided to try a new place this time around, and I think it's our new favorite hotel in Chicago...
Eric's street the other night, when it was snowing... only a few inches fell that night, so I may have to take some more pictures tomorrow if we get as much as the weather forecasters are predicting... Saturday, February 02, 2008
Hello from St. Louis...
We're in St. Louis tonight, at the remodeled-Union-Station hotel. Normally, we really like this hotel... but as we drove up to it tonight, we noticed it seemed much more crowded than usual, and there seemed to be an awful lot of people milling about outside with plastic beads around their necks and drinks in their hands. Argh! Mardi Gras...
I never thought of St. Louis as much of a draw for the Mardi Gras crowd -- obviously, most people who feel the need to party into the wee hours and gratuitously pose for the "Girls Gone Wild" cameras are down in New Orleans right now. But I guess a few of the stragglers have settled here in St. Louis, and many of said stragglers have checked into the Union Station hotel. I'm just hoping we don't have any loud revelers camped out in the room next door to ours... On the positive side, we're hoping to leave rather early tomorrow morning, and figure we won't have much trouble with traffic -- not only will it be Sunday morning, but everyone else will be sleeping off their hangovers...
Before we left Austin yesterday, we ran over to mom and dad's to check the air pressure in our tires in case they needed to be topped off a bit. As Rick was doing that, I noticed a round metal thingy sticking in the right front tire. "Uh... is this a nail?" I timidly inquired. (I was "timid" because part of me was thinking that if I said nothing, the round metal thingy would disappear and we wouldn't have to worry about it... but if I actually SAID something, then I would have to admit that the metal thingy was REAL, and deal with the possible consequences...) Yep, it was definitely a nail. Or possibly a tack -- it was hard to tell. The tire, however, hadn't lost any air... and the nail/tack seemed to be quite firmly embedded within the rubber. So we've been driving on the tire anyway (because who knows how long that thing has been IN there, anyway? There's so much construction on mom and dad's street, it could've been there for weeks...).
And then tonight, as we neared St. Louis in the dark, we rounded a corner in the interstate and saw a white bag sitting in the middle of the highway. There was a car to the right of us, and the middle concrete divider to the left -- so we really had no choice but the hit the mystery object. It made a sort of "thwump" sound, and then the bag somehow adhered itself to the car. So we pulled over to a gas station, where I was certain we'd discover that we'd run over a bag of nails or a package of butcher knives... but once Rick freed the bag from the side of the car, we discovered it had been a bag of road salt. I'm sure it wasn't full -- if it had been, we would've felt more of a jolt when we hit it. And I was just relieved to know it hadn't been full of sharp objects...
So tomorrow we'll be in Chicago, hopefully in time to watch the Giants win the Super Bowl. Ha! Well, we can hope, anyway... :)
I never thought of St. Louis as much of a draw for the Mardi Gras crowd -- obviously, most people who feel the need to party into the wee hours and gratuitously pose for the "Girls Gone Wild" cameras are down in New Orleans right now. But I guess a few of the stragglers have settled here in St. Louis, and many of said stragglers have checked into the Union Station hotel. I'm just hoping we don't have any loud revelers camped out in the room next door to ours... On the positive side, we're hoping to leave rather early tomorrow morning, and figure we won't have much trouble with traffic -- not only will it be Sunday morning, but everyone else will be sleeping off their hangovers...
Before we left Austin yesterday, we ran over to mom and dad's to check the air pressure in our tires in case they needed to be topped off a bit. As Rick was doing that, I noticed a round metal thingy sticking in the right front tire. "Uh... is this a nail?" I timidly inquired. (I was "timid" because part of me was thinking that if I said nothing, the round metal thingy would disappear and we wouldn't have to worry about it... but if I actually SAID something, then I would have to admit that the metal thingy was REAL, and deal with the possible consequences...) Yep, it was definitely a nail. Or possibly a tack -- it was hard to tell. The tire, however, hadn't lost any air... and the nail/tack seemed to be quite firmly embedded within the rubber. So we've been driving on the tire anyway (because who knows how long that thing has been IN there, anyway? There's so much construction on mom and dad's street, it could've been there for weeks...).
And then tonight, as we neared St. Louis in the dark, we rounded a corner in the interstate and saw a white bag sitting in the middle of the highway. There was a car to the right of us, and the middle concrete divider to the left -- so we really had no choice but the hit the mystery object. It made a sort of "thwump" sound, and then the bag somehow adhered itself to the car. So we pulled over to a gas station, where I was certain we'd discover that we'd run over a bag of nails or a package of butcher knives... but once Rick freed the bag from the side of the car, we discovered it had been a bag of road salt. I'm sure it wasn't full -- if it had been, we would've felt more of a jolt when we hit it. And I was just relieved to know it hadn't been full of sharp objects...
So tomorrow we'll be in Chicago, hopefully in time to watch the Giants win the Super Bowl. Ha! Well, we can hope, anyway... :)
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