Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax

Memorial Day

I love a three-day weekend as much as the next person, but I do agree with those who are promoting a return to observing Memorial Day on May 30.

Don't anger the plumbing gods

I would have thought that sacrificing a dishwasher would be a good offering to the plumbing gods, but instead we must have offended them.

I'm too tired to type the whole story, and it isn't very funny anyway.

But a couple of years ago when I picked out my dream kitchen, I picked a floor tile that I thought would hide dirt well.

And you know what? It does. Because even after spending an hour scrubbing that sucker to make sure the toxic chemical spill is completely remediated, the floor looks just the same as it did before.

Day is done

My day began at 2:50 this morning, when I woke up to a helicopter shining a search light in my back yard.

(No, I don't know why. Don't think I haven't been trying to find out.)

I was in the middle of a dream where I was painting pictures with some pre-school children of friends of mine who are pretty religious. One of the kids asked "Nic, what happens when we die?" Not wanting to say something outside the parents' theology, I stalled with "Do you mean ontologically, or physiologically?"

Then, bam, I was awake with the UFO hovering over my house. Except, of course, it was a helicopter, but I needed to put my glasses on to see that.

So I'm not sure if today just tilted toward the surreal, or if the lack of sleep made it seem that way.

The rest of the stuff involved zombies and coffee and magic tricks and a fire drill. (And the Department of Homeland Security. I can't believe I left that out.)

I was really ready to leave the office this afternoon. The ride home, this being the Friday before a holiday, took 25 minutes longer than it should have, but I'd come prepared with my iPod. I had the windows down, enjoying the weather, and enjoying singing along with Johnnie Taylor.

Who's making love to your old lady
While you were out making love

That was not part of my surreal day, but it might have been a surreal point for the guy at the bus stop who witnessed my act.

Great American Ballpark

(Y'know, they aren't trying to be grandiose. The stadium is sponsored by the Great American Insurance Group.)

But every time I hear it, I still think "What's so great about it?"

Frankly, I think it'd get boring, watching all those home runs game after game after game.

Be true to your school

I can not even remember the chain of hyperlinks that lead me here, but not too long ago I found a new way to spend money on cool stuff I didn't need: Prep Sportswear's School Stores.

I can recreate the high school gym uniform I never had. (I pretty much weasled out of high school gym.)

I can get a Dragons t-shirt like I had from my elementry school, c. 1974.

Or I could totally make something up and pretend I was on the Bronx High School of Science Whiffle Ball team.

Best intentions

Some nights, I have time to kill, but I just look at the MT screen and think Nobody cares what I had for dinner*.

Some nights, I want to write about the Food Stamp Challenge and the Floyd Landis hearing and maybe the National's bullpen...but I have time for maybe 55 words.

*Kind of a mezze, with vegetables and hummus, pita, stuffed grape leaves, and Insalata Caprese. It's all Mediterranean, right?

I gotta go to Kansas

Normally I'm a homebody, but you know what's happening right now?

Swarms of cicadas emerging in Midwest

I am so so so so so so so so so so soooooo jealous.

Horse racing wins; hockey doesn't show

We were already down at RFK by the end of the hockey game yesterday...any lingering "why do I pay for radio" feeling were erased when we were able to listen to the game on either the Buffalo or Ottawa feed on XM.

Boy, the parking lot attendants thought we were nuts when Victor, Mom, and I all jumped up from our tailgate table and cheered when Alfredsson scored.*

I imagine that most of America probably shared the "What the hell?" attitude of the parking lot attendants, so there probably won't be a huge outcry of horror about the way NBC switched off an overtime playoff game in favor of the pre-race Preakness coverage...

...but does this show yet again what a crappy job the league is doing with marketing its product?

* See previous post re: Buffalo, hatred of.
Plus, I have family in Ottawa and many fond memories of Bryan Murray.

I don't hate losing

Really, I don't. Winning is better, of course, but I can watch my team lose and generally take it philosophically.

I have had, after all, my whole life to practice this.

When my team loses, I can look at something besides the final score...the improvement of a young player, a particularly beautiful play...something with hope for the future. That's why I don't hate to lose.

And I may be fiercely loyal to my teams, but I am realistic about what I see. I accept flaws and shortcomings, as long as the players and coaches admit to them too, and try to fix them. I can't hate imperfection. Everyone is imperfect.

But one thing is wearing me down: the noise from the visiting team's fans. Buffalo, New York, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Baltimore...it isn't the cheering so much as the taunting and the derision, the in-your-face obnoxiousness.

That, I hate.

Dish wash blues

Since replacing the dishwasher has become a production worthy of Andrew Lloyd Weber, I am washing dishes by hand. It's actually a nice job, soothing, and somewhat satisfying.

I'm probably using three times the hot water that the dishwasher uses, though, so it's not terribly ecological.

Did you know that dishwashers can cost $1500? I had no idea. These are "wash systems," which apparently use some kind of NASA technology.

Since replacing the dishwasher isn't the quick trip to Sears I was hoping for, I decided I should actually do some research and come up with a list of what I want in a wash system. I have it narrowed down to 12 important features:

1. Won't burn my house down.
2. Won't burn my house down.
3. Won't burn my house down.
4. Won't burn my house down.
5. Won't burn my house down.
6. Won't burn my house down.
7. Won't burn my house down.
8. Won't burn my house down.
9. Won't burn my house down.
10. Won't burn my house down.
11. Not stainless steel, black, almond, biscuit, bisque, avocado green, or any other color that isn't white.
12. A flip-down lid thingy on a basket on one of the racks to keep the little Tupperware container tops from ending up on the bottom of the dishwasher, where they eventually end up getting melted by the heating element, making me think the house is burning down.

More worthy of Twitter

Victor called this afternoon to report "I just saw an Elvis impersonator on Eye Street."

Our dishwasher was recalled. This may explain that nasty burning smell we've been getting when we do dishes.

The Nats took three of four against the Braves. I don't care if we are the worst team in baseball history, it's still worth listening every night.

I got my CPR recertification, so feel free to have a cardiac arrest in my presence. I did have some trouble with the rescue breathing practical, but it turned out my mannequin was missing a critical part of the dummy lungs. "It was a congenital defect; there was nothing we could do," I said sadly when my partner pronounced the mannequin dead.

Happy Mother's Day

Or is it Mothers' Day?

Whichever, I don't get a card from the dog or the rats, and I have to make dinner for my sister, mom, and grandmother. That's what I get for not procreating.

Actually, they went pretty easy on me this year, so I'm able to do everything ahead except actually grill the chicken. I am playing with a baked beans recipe. I am not a fan of syrupy beans, and I found some interesting bean recipes, but my grandmother is from Boston, so I didn't want to screw too much with tradition. (You never know, sweet & sour teriyaki beans might get you tossed out of the will.)

I did go back to my copy of the original Boston Cooking School, and in 1896, Boston Baked Beans were beans, a tremendous amount of salt pork, molasses, and sugar. My next cooking history project will be to find out who started adding tomato, when, and why.

If Nic's 452 Miles from Boston Beans turn out well, I'll post the recipe later.

I hit three different organic grocers yesterday in my shopping for this dinner, but at the other end of the spectrum, I pulled off one of those wacky internet chemistry experiments for dessert. Diet Dr. Pepper and a box of devil's food cake mix makes remarkably good cupcakes. Really.

UPDATE:

Ok, nobody puts tomato (or ketchup) in Boston Baked Beans except on the Internet. I started checking my real cookbooks...the most recent Fannie Farmer (since it is the direct descendent of the Boston Cooking School), the Joy of Cooking, even Betty Crocker. Tomato only shows up in Internet recipes, so shame on me for using that as a starting point.

On the other hand, I'm not joking about the Diet Dr. Pepper cupcakes. They are seriously good.

Damn paparazzi!

Yes, that goose *is* hissing, and yes, Nic *is* beating a hasty retreat.

Feelin' near as faded as my jeans

My "vacation" is over. Judging by what I see in my work e-mail in-box, tomorrow will not be a joyful return to the office. I am not feeling tan, rested, and ready.

But I still have a few hours to play with macro focus.

If I were in Canada, each of those dollars would only be ninty cents

My parents are in Canada for the weekend. I was going to go, but I wasn't invited to the wedding they are attending. At first, I was going to go anyway, just to get the ride up...but then I realized it might look like I was trying to crash the wedding. Plus, with all my relatives involved in the festivities, I'd be on my own for a hotel, meals, entertainment, and adding in a pet sitter, well, suddenly the free ride to Canada was looking like an expensive vacation.

So instead I decided to use the weekend to get some stuff done:

Car to shop...$220
Pick up dog's prescriptions...$55
A trip to Let's Dish...$215
Plant sale at church...$100
Trip to Ikea for shelves for the basement...$280
New loveseat for the living room...$400

And since I was at home to take the phone call, the University of Maryland got $110 out of me for the scholarship fund.

I'd have been better off on vacation.

In my fantasy world...

"Oh, hi, neighbor. Say, is that your car parked in the space in front of my house, the one marked RESERVED? Yeah, I accidentally let the air out of one of the tires, so you might want to take it up to the gas station and refill it. And while you are at it, how about parking it someplace other than my fucking space next time? Because, you know, I might accidently let loose with this crow bar into your windshield."

Yeah, I could use some anger management right about now.

The next door neighbors (the ones who poached my space) are having a terrorist cell meeting right now, and the neighbors across the street are taking up twenty spaces for some kind of backyard tent revival, and the people who live here who left to go to the grocery store are randomly parked in the fire lanes because their spaces are full of the guests. And up the street, where one might reasonably put overflow parking, there's a flea market today.

I'd love to go out and run some errands myself, but if I lost my space, I might end up with a burst blood vessle from the completely out-of-proportion fury that would cause.

I understand the meaning of the term "hounded"

I am dog-sitting my parents' Labrador retriever this weekend. She is a very good dog, but I think the change of venue to my house has her a little confused. She can't seem to let me get more than 10 inches away from her.

Normally my dog will spend 22.5 hours of the day asleep on my bed, but apparently not with a strange dog following me around.

Having a lab and a beagle constantly underfoot is making it tricky (and occasionally dangerous) to get anything useful done around here today.