Kim bought a Tempur-Pedic neck pillow a couple of weeks ago. She loves it: her back no longer hurts in the morning and she's sleeping straight through the night. The bottom line is that she's thrilled. I'm not quite there yet.
If you've never seen a Tempur-Pedic neck pillow before, let me describe it for you. It's 24 inches wide, 12 inches deep, and 4 inches high. Unlike a traditional pillow, which is soft, fluffy, and malleable, a Tempur-Pedic neck pillow is a solid hard foam mass. It's not flexible. It maintains its size and shape. It's designed to support you and support you it does.
Given Kim's enthusiastic feedback so far, I'm certain that the Tempur-Pedic neck pillow really works for the person who's sleeping on it. My problem is that I'm not sleeping on it -- I'm sleeping next to it.
My nighttime sleep ritual is pretty well established. Like a little kid who needs to hear the same story, be tucked in with the same stuffed animal, and have one more glass of water each night before they fall asleep, I have my own pattern. I can't fall asleep without a little spooning. Trust me -- the Tempur-Pedic neck pillow was not built for spooning.
Last night, there I was, preparing for my nightly ritual. I slid my pillow over towards Kim and tried to get into position. Unfortunately, it felt like I was down in the basement while Kim was up in the penthouse. So, I decided to regroup. I squished my pillow together and puffed it up as high as I could. I pushed it over toward Kim and put my head down again. It didn't matter. It still felt like I was sleeping directly next to a solid cliff wall. Finally, I gave up, rolled over, and told myself that I was a grown man and could fall asleep on my own.
I eventually did fall asleep. But, I'm not sure I'm liking this new system too much. I may be asking for my own Tempur-Pedic neck pillow come Father's Day.
This is where the magic happens.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Pit Stops
I had a lunch meeting in DC today. The meeting was at Noon. Because you never know what traffic will be like, I decided to leave at 10:30AM.
The decision to leave at 10:30AM set in motion a very important component of the meeting preparation process. That preparation had nothing to do with researching my lunch companion's customers or preparing for the key topics I wanted to discuss with him. I was all set on those fronts. Instead, I needed to get ready for something much more important -- planning my bathroom breaks.
From experience, I know that, if I'm leaving at 10:30AM for a noon meeting, I should empty my bladder at least twice in the hour before I leave. I never used to have to think about this sort of thing but it's now my reality. Just before 9:30AM, as I finished up a conference call, I went to the executive washroom in my basement office. Then, it was back to work for another hour before making a final pit stop and heading down to DC. After taking care of business, I figured I was all set.
Luckily for me, the traffic on the way down to DC was light. But, as I headed down the BW Parkway just after 11AM, I knew that I had a slight problem. Despite my planning, I needed to go to the bathroom again. No need to panic, though. In the last few years, I've learned how to handle just this sort of occasion.
At about 11:30AM, I found a parking spot on the street about 3 blocks from my lunch meeting. I'd purposely driven a bit beyond the restaurant so that I could visit one of my favorite spots in DC -- the Embassy Suites on 21st Street. I've never stayed there overnight but their bathroom has become one of my primary go-to spots in the past few years. I'd just been there the week before, in fact.
It was a couple of years ago that I came to the realization that anyone in business attire can walk into any hotel and use their bathrooms. This came as a great relief to me as my need for public bathrooms has grown substantially. I guess it's just part of growing older.
After visiting the bathroom, I headed off to my lunch appointment. The discussion over lunch was good. I must have been talking a lot because my first Arnold Palmer disappeared pretty quickly. Before I knew it, the waitress had brought me a fresh glass. I drank that one, too. Of course, that meant that -- once again -- I needed to go to the bathroom. When it's just you and one other person at lunch, though, you can't get up and go to the bathroom. So, I sat there. I think it's also bad form to say your good-bye's at the table and have your guest leave on their own while you visit the restroom before heading home. Instead, I paid the bill and we walked out together. Then, we parted ways on the sidewalk.
There I stood, an hour from home with yet another full bladder. No worries. The St. Gregory Hotel was just 2 blocks away. It's a nice hotel. They have a doorman. And, I know where the bathroom is there, too.
The decision to leave at 10:30AM set in motion a very important component of the meeting preparation process. That preparation had nothing to do with researching my lunch companion's customers or preparing for the key topics I wanted to discuss with him. I was all set on those fronts. Instead, I needed to get ready for something much more important -- planning my bathroom breaks.
From experience, I know that, if I'm leaving at 10:30AM for a noon meeting, I should empty my bladder at least twice in the hour before I leave. I never used to have to think about this sort of thing but it's now my reality. Just before 9:30AM, as I finished up a conference call, I went to the executive washroom in my basement office. Then, it was back to work for another hour before making a final pit stop and heading down to DC. After taking care of business, I figured I was all set.
Luckily for me, the traffic on the way down to DC was light. But, as I headed down the BW Parkway just after 11AM, I knew that I had a slight problem. Despite my planning, I needed to go to the bathroom again. No need to panic, though. In the last few years, I've learned how to handle just this sort of occasion.
At about 11:30AM, I found a parking spot on the street about 3 blocks from my lunch meeting. I'd purposely driven a bit beyond the restaurant so that I could visit one of my favorite spots in DC -- the Embassy Suites on 21st Street. I've never stayed there overnight but their bathroom has become one of my primary go-to spots in the past few years. I'd just been there the week before, in fact.
It was a couple of years ago that I came to the realization that anyone in business attire can walk into any hotel and use their bathrooms. This came as a great relief to me as my need for public bathrooms has grown substantially. I guess it's just part of growing older.
After visiting the bathroom, I headed off to my lunch appointment. The discussion over lunch was good. I must have been talking a lot because my first Arnold Palmer disappeared pretty quickly. Before I knew it, the waitress had brought me a fresh glass. I drank that one, too. Of course, that meant that -- once again -- I needed to go to the bathroom. When it's just you and one other person at lunch, though, you can't get up and go to the bathroom. So, I sat there. I think it's also bad form to say your good-bye's at the table and have your guest leave on their own while you visit the restroom before heading home. Instead, I paid the bill and we walked out together. Then, we parted ways on the sidewalk.
There I stood, an hour from home with yet another full bladder. No worries. The St. Gregory Hotel was just 2 blocks away. It's a nice hotel. They have a doorman. And, I know where the bathroom is there, too.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
The Sweet Smell of Distress
Just a few days ago, Jay and I were talking about how it’s
been a while since Ke$ha has had a new song.
We both would like her to put out something new since we miss her unique
brand of silly, trashy, mindless music.
It’s a guilty pleasure.
While I was out in Las Vegas for the past few days, I didn’t
hear any new Ke$ha music. But, no matter
where I was – the airport, my hotel, a cab, or even out on the street – there
was always a particular smell. This
morning I realized what that smell was.
It was the smell of Ke$ha.
In case you’re wondering, here’s what Ke$ha smells like:
- Two parts stale cigarette smoke. By stale cigarette smoke, I mean the smell you used to find on your clothes as they lay in the hamper the morning after going out to a bar back in the day when people were still allowed to smoke in bars on the east coast. In Las Vegas, they still let you smoke inside. But, no matter how "fresh" the cigarette smoke is that's stinging your eyes, it still smells stale.
- One part day-old sweat. It’s important to note that this isn’t the smell of sweat from working out. No, it's the sweat of anticipation from someone who thinks they're just about to win that big payout on the casino floor.
- One part baby powder. This one confused me. I think it came from the babies and toddlers that I saw several gamblers toting about as good luck charms.
- Two parts alcohol. This isn’t the stale beer scent you get in a fraternity basement. It’s the smell of a fruity drink like a margarita or a daiquiri. At the Monte Carlo, they carry these drinks around in one-foot long plastic glasses.
- Three parts cheap perfume, the kind that makes
your nose wrinkle in disgust as you wonder “Who would actually wear that?” Looking around in Las Vegas, I got my answer.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
The Classics
Jay is reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" for school right now. Like Hannah, he loves it. It's particularly good to see him reading something other than "The Hunger Games" trilogy. I love "The Hunger Games," too, but seeing him read the three books over and over and over these past few weeks has been a bit much.
Watching Jay read "To Kill a Mockingbird" got me thinking back to my own high school English classes. Between British Lit and American Lit, we read quite a few of the classics. Ensuring that I fully understood and appreciated each one of them was the world's greatest teacher of all time -- Mr. Barry Swan. I did my best to follow all of his careful instruction. Getting kicked out of class (or, more specifically, being told to go stand outside in the hall) on a pretty regular basis made that a little more difficult than it should have been.
Anyway, I've pulled together my top 3 from all the Great Books we read back at EFA. Here they are:
Watching Jay read "To Kill a Mockingbird" got me thinking back to my own high school English classes. Between British Lit and American Lit, we read quite a few of the classics. Ensuring that I fully understood and appreciated each one of them was the world's greatest teacher of all time -- Mr. Barry Swan. I did my best to follow all of his careful instruction. Getting kicked out of class (or, more specifically, being told to go stand outside in the hall) on a pretty regular basis made that a little more difficult than it should have been.
Anyway, I've pulled together my top 3 from all the Great Books we read back at EFA. Here they are:
- Silas Marner. This is in the top 3 not because it was good but because it was so gosh-darn awful. I tried to care about poor Silas' ongoing travails, his misery, and his attempts to rehabilitate his life. No matter how hard I tried, nothing worked. As bad as this book was, it's almost always the first one that comes to mind when I think back about the books we had to read in high school. I may actually force myself to go back and read it again to try and understand what it is that made this a "classic."
- The Scarlet Letter. I remember most of my fellow classmates complaining about this one almost as much as they did about Silas Marner. Hester Prynne's life was as miserable at times as Silas Marner's had been. But, Hester had a great combination of resiliency, pride, and stubborness. She took everything that the townspeople threw at her and just kept on going. She had an attitude. As a teenager, I liked that.
- The Last of the Mohicans. Growing up in upstate New York, we got to read quite a bit of James Fennimore Cooper. I loved everything of his that we read. I remember reading The Pioneers, The Last of the Mohicans, and The Deerslayer. I don't remember much of The Pioneers and The Deerslayer. But, The Last of the Mohicans really stuck with me. It had everything -- warring Indian tribes and Frenchmen, kidnappings and bold rescues, star-crossed lovers and untimely deaths. It was the pure definition of a page-turner. Even the movie that they made of this one with Daniel Day-Lewis was good. I know that Mr. Swan is retired but I hope his successor is still teaching this one. And, if there's a kid standing outside that new teacher's room, cooling off for a while after a heated "discussion" with that teacher, I hope he (or she) still has a chance to read this one.
Friday, April 20, 2012
I'm Speechless
My family isn't always real happy that I have a blog. There have been plenty of times over the past 15 months where Kim or one of the kids has been telling a story about something going on in their lives and I've said "I'm going to blog about that" only to be asked (or told) to reconsider. There have been other times when I've been reminded that I shouldn't name names, places, or anything else that could positively identify the innocent.
I've tried pretty hard to comply with their requests and I think I've done a pretty good job. I get that they didn't sign up to have their lives on display. I also get that they may not want to be identified with my ramblings. Tonight, though, I don't think I'm going to be able to meet their expectations.
Based on the experiences that my kids have relayed to me during dinner table conversations over the past 15 years, the Howard County Public School System appears to have two primary objectives:
I can't really argue that these two goals are inherently bad. But, I'm not sure they should be the primary objectives of the school system. Creativity, independent thinking, eating right, and exercising regularly seem like more reasonable goals to me. There have to be some good curriculum's for those things.
This all leads me to tonight's dinner table revelation. Each year, River Hill has a "Day of Silence." This has been going on since Hannah was a freshman. On this day, students can opt to go the entire day without speaking. By doing this, they're showing their support for gay and lesbian teens, who often feel compelled to remain silent about their status. Today was the "Day of Silence" for 2012.
As usual, the "Day of Silence" led to some pretty good stories at dinner. I heard about the kid who, on the way to class, said "We've got a debate scheduled for this period. I'll do the "Day of Silence" thing so I can get out of it." I also heard about the kid who contributed absolutely nothing to his three classmates during group work that the four of them were assigned to do.
I can't say that I was really surprised by either of those two examples. Kids are kids. Give them an opening and they'll take it. If I were one of them at River Hill today, I'd probably have done the same thing. But, I almost fell out of my chair when I heard about the substitute teacher in one of Nick's classes. He walked into the room to find that she'd written a note on the blackboard. On it, she said that, in honor of the "Day of Silence," she wouldn't be teaching the class. They were on their own.
OK, I know that substitutes get paid a pittance. It's a thankless job. But, using the "Day of Silence" as a reason to refuse to teach? That's acceptable? Apparently so at River Hill.
I've tried pretty hard to comply with their requests and I think I've done a pretty good job. I get that they didn't sign up to have their lives on display. I also get that they may not want to be identified with my ramblings. Tonight, though, I don't think I'm going to be able to meet their expectations.
Based on the experiences that my kids have relayed to me during dinner table conversations over the past 15 years, the Howard County Public School System appears to have two primary objectives:
- Get as many kids as possible to take AP exams
- Eliminate bullying.
I can't really argue that these two goals are inherently bad. But, I'm not sure they should be the primary objectives of the school system. Creativity, independent thinking, eating right, and exercising regularly seem like more reasonable goals to me. There have to be some good curriculum's for those things.
This all leads me to tonight's dinner table revelation. Each year, River Hill has a "Day of Silence." This has been going on since Hannah was a freshman. On this day, students can opt to go the entire day without speaking. By doing this, they're showing their support for gay and lesbian teens, who often feel compelled to remain silent about their status. Today was the "Day of Silence" for 2012.
As usual, the "Day of Silence" led to some pretty good stories at dinner. I heard about the kid who, on the way to class, said "We've got a debate scheduled for this period. I'll do the "Day of Silence" thing so I can get out of it." I also heard about the kid who contributed absolutely nothing to his three classmates during group work that the four of them were assigned to do.
I can't say that I was really surprised by either of those two examples. Kids are kids. Give them an opening and they'll take it. If I were one of them at River Hill today, I'd probably have done the same thing. But, I almost fell out of my chair when I heard about the substitute teacher in one of Nick's classes. He walked into the room to find that she'd written a note on the blackboard. On it, she said that, in honor of the "Day of Silence," she wouldn't be teaching the class. They were on their own.
OK, I know that substitutes get paid a pittance. It's a thankless job. But, using the "Day of Silence" as a reason to refuse to teach? That's acceptable? Apparently so at River Hill.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Scott Henson is the Man
While it's lost a good deal of its initial magic, I'm still watching "Glee." I miss the good old days of Terri's fake pregnancy, Mr. Schuester and the Acafellas, and Howard Bamboo's adventures at Sheets-and-Things. I long for more screen time for Puck and Tina. I miss the simple story lines about cliques, loneliness, and fitting in that we used to get before Ryan Murphy got all caught up in trying to make every episode into his own version of "A Very Special Blossom."
Last night, though, I got my reward for hanging in with the series all this time. About half-way through the episode, Rachel launched into "How Deep Is Your Love" as she had yet another touching moment with Finn. She was backed by the Glee band (which somehow is always is always there whenever they're needed). As Rachel hit the chorus for the first time, the camera cut to my favorite member of the band -- the bass player. I've always loved him. That haircut. That smile. The fact that he has no name. He's perfect. I so want to be him.
The camera hung with the bass player for all of two seconds. That's a lot for him. Something was different. Instead of just standing there, swaying back and forth in a bass groove, he was actually singing. I swear that's never happened before. As Rachel's first "How deep is your love?" faded away, he followed up with the refrain "... is your love, how deep is your love." I burst out laughing, I was so happy.
It was over pretty quickly. As soon as the line was over, the camera faded away and the bass player was gone. It was enough for me, though. Ryan Murphy had heard and granted my prayer. Scott Henson had been given camera time and a lyric. All is perfect in the "Glee" world and I'm locked in for at least one more season. Sad, but true.
Last night, though, I got my reward for hanging in with the series all this time. About half-way through the episode, Rachel launched into "How Deep Is Your Love" as she had yet another touching moment with Finn. She was backed by the Glee band (which somehow is always is always there whenever they're needed). As Rachel hit the chorus for the first time, the camera cut to my favorite member of the band -- the bass player. I've always loved him. That haircut. That smile. The fact that he has no name. He's perfect. I so want to be him.
The camera hung with the bass player for all of two seconds. That's a lot for him. Something was different. Instead of just standing there, swaying back and forth in a bass groove, he was actually singing. I swear that's never happened before. As Rachel's first "How deep is your love?" faded away, he followed up with the refrain "... is your love, how deep is your love." I burst out laughing, I was so happy.
It was over pretty quickly. As soon as the line was over, the camera faded away and the bass player was gone. It was enough for me, though. Ryan Murphy had heard and granted my prayer. Scott Henson had been given camera time and a lyric. All is perfect in the "Glee" world and I'm locked in for at least one more season. Sad, but true.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Splat!
On Friday, we drove 200 miles to State College to see Hannah. On Sunday, we drove 200 miles back home. Yesterday, I drove 300 miles back and forth to Richmond for a meeting. What does that all mean? It means I have an awful lot of dead bug remnants on my windshield.
Normally, at this time of the year, my car is covered with pollen. It's not that big of a deal. I let it build up and pray for rain. Then, I let the car sit outside and have Mother Nature wash all the pollen away.
This year, the pollen is bad. It's nothing like the bugs, though.
On the ride to State College on Friday, things weren't that bad at first. Kim took the first shift as I had a couple calls I needed to make. As we drove on I-70 and the Pennsylvania Turnpike, she managed to hit a few nice juicy ones. I gave her a hard time, accusing her of purposely swerving into them. She ignored me, as she should have.
We switched places at the rest stop on the Turnpike just after Breezewood. For a while, as a I drove, I forgot about the bugs. But, that became impossible on I-99. From Bedford to Tyrone, it almost sounded like we were in a microwave making popcorn. "Pop." "Pop-pop." "Pop-pop-pop-pop."
If the noises weren't bad enough, the mess on the windshield was something else altogether. You know how you're driving sometimes, heading towards a thunderstorm, just on the fringes of the rain? You start to get some intermittent big drops on the windshield, each one about the size of a quarter. As you hurtle along the road, the speed of your car causes each rain drop to spread out irregularly. That's the way it was with these monsters. They'd hit your car and leave you with a greenish-yellow, somewhat thick, runny mess. It was pointless to try to use the wiper fluid to clean the windshield. The bugs were just coming too fast.
Yesterday, on the drive back and forth to Richmond, things were just as bad. On the way home, it was like I was on I-99 all over again. But these were Virginia bugs. They were bigger, greener, juicier. It was almost too much.
Right now, my poor car is sitting in the garage. As much as I hate to pay for a car wash, I think I'm going to have to break down rather than wait for the weekend. I'll admit it -- I'm afraid to touch all that crusty goop on my car.
Normally, at this time of the year, my car is covered with pollen. It's not that big of a deal. I let it build up and pray for rain. Then, I let the car sit outside and have Mother Nature wash all the pollen away.
This year, the pollen is bad. It's nothing like the bugs, though.
On the ride to State College on Friday, things weren't that bad at first. Kim took the first shift as I had a couple calls I needed to make. As we drove on I-70 and the Pennsylvania Turnpike, she managed to hit a few nice juicy ones. I gave her a hard time, accusing her of purposely swerving into them. She ignored me, as she should have.
We switched places at the rest stop on the Turnpike just after Breezewood. For a while, as a I drove, I forgot about the bugs. But, that became impossible on I-99. From Bedford to Tyrone, it almost sounded like we were in a microwave making popcorn. "Pop." "Pop-pop." "Pop-pop-pop-pop."
If the noises weren't bad enough, the mess on the windshield was something else altogether. You know how you're driving sometimes, heading towards a thunderstorm, just on the fringes of the rain? You start to get some intermittent big drops on the windshield, each one about the size of a quarter. As you hurtle along the road, the speed of your car causes each rain drop to spread out irregularly. That's the way it was with these monsters. They'd hit your car and leave you with a greenish-yellow, somewhat thick, runny mess. It was pointless to try to use the wiper fluid to clean the windshield. The bugs were just coming too fast.
Yesterday, on the drive back and forth to Richmond, things were just as bad. On the way home, it was like I was on I-99 all over again. But these were Virginia bugs. They were bigger, greener, juicier. It was almost too much.
Right now, my poor car is sitting in the garage. As much as I hate to pay for a car wash, I think I'm going to have to break down rather than wait for the weekend. I'll admit it -- I'm afraid to touch all that crusty goop on my car.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Check, Please
Tonight, we got dinner from Subway. I've never been a fan of Subway hoagies. But, the boys like them and I recently discovered that, by putting sweet peppers on a turkey hoagie from Subway, you actually get a somewhat passable meal. Another reason that we went to Subway is that it's one of the few places around here that seems able to figure out how to process a rebate card.
I am so tired of rebate cards. Every time one of us needs a new cell phone, we end up with a rebate card. With five cell phones in the family and contracts that expire every two years, we always have our fair share of Verizon rebate cards. Even better, each year my employer tells Kim and me to update our health risk assessments. When we do that, we get two more rebate cards. So, needless to say, we always have several rebate cards on hand. Seems like a good thing, right? Wrong.
There are two major problems with rebate cards. First, I forget that we have them. Whenever we get a new one, I stick it on the pile on the little shelf above our key rack. Then, I invariably forget that they're there. Right now, we have three separate rebate cards sitting in that pile. Two of them expire in 6 weeks.
The second problem with rebate cards is that retail stores appear to have joined together in a conspiracy to not actually accept them. If you don't believe me, try it yourself. Here's how the conversation will likely go:
Shortly after 6PM, Kim ran up to the circle to pick up our hoagies at Subway. With her, she took two of our nearly expired rebate cards. Twenty minutes later, she came home with 4 hoagies and the same two rebate cards -- each with the exact same balance on them that they'd had when she left a short while before. "They said 'denied' each time they ran them," she reported. So, back on the shelf they went. We have 6 more weeks to find someone to accept them. If not, we're out of luck.
I think that's the real reason for the explosion in the use of rebate cards. The Verizons of the world know that, if they sent you a rebate check, you'd cash it. You'd have the money as soon as you cashed the check. With these god-awful rebate cards, the Verizons of the world are expecting that you'll lose patience trying to use them. They're planning on those cards sitting on your shelf or in your desk drawer until you notice they're expired and toss them in the trash. Once you do that, Verizon (and all of its brethren) win. It's sad but I think it's working for them.
It's not a bad little scheme. Maybe we should all give it a whirl on tax day this Tuesday. Do you think the government would accept a rebate card as payment? I think they just might.
I am so tired of rebate cards. Every time one of us needs a new cell phone, we end up with a rebate card. With five cell phones in the family and contracts that expire every two years, we always have our fair share of Verizon rebate cards. Even better, each year my employer tells Kim and me to update our health risk assessments. When we do that, we get two more rebate cards. So, needless to say, we always have several rebate cards on hand. Seems like a good thing, right? Wrong.
There are two major problems with rebate cards. First, I forget that we have them. Whenever we get a new one, I stick it on the pile on the little shelf above our key rack. Then, I invariably forget that they're there. Right now, we have three separate rebate cards sitting in that pile. Two of them expire in 6 weeks.
The second problem with rebate cards is that retail stores appear to have joined together in a conspiracy to not actually accept them. If you don't believe me, try it yourself. Here's how the conversation will likely go:
- Clerk: "Oh, I'm sorry. Your card wasn't accepted."
- You: "Did you run it as a 'credit' transaction?"
- Clerk: "No. It says 'debit' on it."
- You: "I know but you have to run it as a 'credit' transaction for it to work."
- Clerk: "Let me try it again. I'm sorry. It's still not working."
- You (after letting out a disgusted sigh and pulling out your personal credit card): "OK. Just use this one."
Shortly after 6PM, Kim ran up to the circle to pick up our hoagies at Subway. With her, she took two of our nearly expired rebate cards. Twenty minutes later, she came home with 4 hoagies and the same two rebate cards -- each with the exact same balance on them that they'd had when she left a short while before. "They said 'denied' each time they ran them," she reported. So, back on the shelf they went. We have 6 more weeks to find someone to accept them. If not, we're out of luck.
I think that's the real reason for the explosion in the use of rebate cards. The Verizons of the world know that, if they sent you a rebate check, you'd cash it. You'd have the money as soon as you cashed the check. With these god-awful rebate cards, the Verizons of the world are expecting that you'll lose patience trying to use them. They're planning on those cards sitting on your shelf or in your desk drawer until you notice they're expired and toss them in the trash. Once you do that, Verizon (and all of its brethren) win. It's sad but I think it's working for them.
It's not a bad little scheme. Maybe we should all give it a whirl on tax day this Tuesday. Do you think the government would accept a rebate card as payment? I think they just might.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Fear of Forearms
Back during my "early retirement" phase, when I was working a full-time job that felt quite a bit like a part-time job, I'll admit that I had quite a few opportunities to enjoy a leisurely lunch at home. I'd leisurely make my lunch, put it on a plate, and sit down at the kitchen island to enjoy it. Sometimes, I'd even turn on the TV. Most of the time, I'd tune in to HGTV, hoping to get lucky and find an episode of House Hunters International.
Now that I've got a real job again, I don't have that luxury. That's actually a good thing. Today, though, I was working from home. I headed downstairs to the basement before 7AM. Before I knew it, it was Noon and I didn't have a call scheduled. I decided that I needed a break. So, I went upstairs, heated up some leftover carbonara and decided to actually switch on the TV while eating it.
As old habits die hard, I headed straight for channel 170 and HGTV. They were showing an episode of House Hunters (not quite the big leagues like House Hunters International). I watched it for 30 seconds, but quickly decided I didn't like the couple (call me a snob but they were very unkempt) or the location (somewhere in rural Connecticut). So, I headed over to CNN.
I was just in time to see a news story covering a Mitt Romney campaign appearance. There was Mitt. His hair, as always, was perfect. He had on suit pants and nice shoes. He was wearing a starched white shirt and tie. And, of course, his shirt sleeves were rolled up.
Whenever I see a politician with his shirt sleeves rolled up, it sends one very clear signal to me -- he's about to give me a load of crap. Not just a small load, either. He's going to back a dump truck up to my driveway and drop off a steaming pile. Then he's going to drive away, leaving me with the mess.
I know what they're trying to do. They're trying to say "Look at me. I get it. I'm a regular guy. I feel your pain." Really? I see your shirtsleeves rolled up and, somehow, I'm going to buy alll the nonsense your spewing? That's all it takes? I don't think so.
I don't just want to pick on Romney, though. Obama does it all the time, as well. They all do. Just watch the news. It's ridiculous. Who decided that the secret to convincing the American public that you're the man for the job is to show us your forearms? Why not just wear a short sleeve shirt, for God's sake?
This is one time I'd ask people to learn something from Nancy Pelosi and Michele Bachmann. Somehow, they got elected without rolling up their shirt sleeves. I don't know how they did it. But, I wish they'd share their secret.
Now that I've got a real job again, I don't have that luxury. That's actually a good thing. Today, though, I was working from home. I headed downstairs to the basement before 7AM. Before I knew it, it was Noon and I didn't have a call scheduled. I decided that I needed a break. So, I went upstairs, heated up some leftover carbonara and decided to actually switch on the TV while eating it.
As old habits die hard, I headed straight for channel 170 and HGTV. They were showing an episode of House Hunters (not quite the big leagues like House Hunters International). I watched it for 30 seconds, but quickly decided I didn't like the couple (call me a snob but they were very unkempt) or the location (somewhere in rural Connecticut). So, I headed over to CNN.
I was just in time to see a news story covering a Mitt Romney campaign appearance. There was Mitt. His hair, as always, was perfect. He had on suit pants and nice shoes. He was wearing a starched white shirt and tie. And, of course, his shirt sleeves were rolled up.
Whenever I see a politician with his shirt sleeves rolled up, it sends one very clear signal to me -- he's about to give me a load of crap. Not just a small load, either. He's going to back a dump truck up to my driveway and drop off a steaming pile. Then he's going to drive away, leaving me with the mess.
I know what they're trying to do. They're trying to say "Look at me. I get it. I'm a regular guy. I feel your pain." Really? I see your shirtsleeves rolled up and, somehow, I'm going to buy alll the nonsense your spewing? That's all it takes? I don't think so.
I don't just want to pick on Romney, though. Obama does it all the time, as well. They all do. Just watch the news. It's ridiculous. Who decided that the secret to convincing the American public that you're the man for the job is to show us your forearms? Why not just wear a short sleeve shirt, for God's sake?
This is one time I'd ask people to learn something from Nancy Pelosi and Michele Bachmann. Somehow, they got elected without rolling up their shirt sleeves. I don't know how they did it. But, I wish they'd share their secret.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Who Knew?
I've posted almost 200 entries since starting this thing last January. It's always fun to see what posts get the most attention. In the past, big winners have been my thoughts on Pippa Middleton, anything Swansea, and (of course) Michele Kleier. By the way, since my last Swansea post, they've managed to lose 4 games in a row, including today's shellacking by QPR. That's right -- QPR! The Swans are starting to make me a bit nervous about relegation. They really should only need 5 or 6 more points to be completely safe. We'll see how that turns out.
Back to the topic of my most popular posts, everything pales in comparison to the response I'm getting about "Million Dollar Listing." It's pretty crazy. I'm not sure if readers are checking in to see my thoughts on Michael, Fredrik, and Ryan or if they're just ending up here after running a Google search for Harsh and Purvi Padia.
My guess is it's the Padia's. Go back and watch the show. There's just something about them. Harsh was so intense, with those eyes and that bobbing head as he explained how he determined his market price for the apartment. And then there's Purvi, so alluringly dismissive of Fredrik. I loved how she smiled and slightly raised her eyebrows when he expressed surprise that she and Harsh only needed a minute or two to make a $17 million decision. It was like she was saying "Seriously Fredrik? $17 million? Do you really think we need to think about that?" Oh, to be her.
Back to the topic of my most popular posts, everything pales in comparison to the response I'm getting about "Million Dollar Listing." It's pretty crazy. I'm not sure if readers are checking in to see my thoughts on Michael, Fredrik, and Ryan or if they're just ending up here after running a Google search for Harsh and Purvi Padia.
My guess is it's the Padia's. Go back and watch the show. There's just something about them. Harsh was so intense, with those eyes and that bobbing head as he explained how he determined his market price for the apartment. And then there's Purvi, so alluringly dismissive of Fredrik. I loved how she smiled and slightly raised her eyebrows when he expressed surprise that she and Harsh only needed a minute or two to make a $17 million decision. It was like she was saying "Seriously Fredrik? $17 million? Do you really think we need to think about that?" Oh, to be her.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sweating the Sweet Stuff
I've been sitting at the island in the kitchen for the past hour doing e-mails for work. It seems like it never stops some times. I got home from work, dropped my bag just inside the door, washed my hands, sat down, ate some dinner, got up from the table, put away the leftovers, and then grabbed my laptop. In no time at all, it seemed like I'd never even left the office.
For dessert, I had leftover raspberry cake that Kim had made for Easter brunch. That meant I passed over the lemon bars and Georgetown Cupcakes that were also leftovers from Easter brunch. The raspberry cake was awesome. But, so were the lemon bars. And, the cupcakes were also pretty good. But, tonight didn't really seem like a three dessert night (I had one of those last night) so I decided to settle just for the raspberry cake.
As I sat at the island typing away, I kept glancing up at the cupcakes and the lemon bars. It wasn't that I was still hungry. I'd had plenty for dinner and my belly was full. But, the desserts were just sitting there, staring at me. The lemon bars were in a clear plastic sandwich bag. I could see that there were only two little bite-sized squares left. Who would even miss them? I couldn't do it, though.
Proud of my self-control, I went back to e-mails. More time went by. I kept wondering how many cupcakes were left in the pretty pink box. After a few more minutes, I had to look. "Hmmm -- five and one-half cupcakes. One-half of a cupcake isn't going to kill me, is it?" I decided that it actually might. I slowly headed back to my stool and started tapping away again.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I got back up from my stool, walked over to the counter, and picked up the lemon bar bag. Then I set it back down. I re-opened the box of cupcakes. Then I forced myself to close it.
This was getting ridiculous. Then, I got a bright idea. I got out my lunch bag, made a sandwich, threw in some chips, and then popped in the lemon bars.
That's all it took. Now that I knew that I had stashed away some more dessert for myself, I could concentrate. I felt just like a squirrel, hiding nuts in anticipation of winter. Now, tomorrow morning I just have to remember where I hid my lunch bag.
For dessert, I had leftover raspberry cake that Kim had made for Easter brunch. That meant I passed over the lemon bars and Georgetown Cupcakes that were also leftovers from Easter brunch. The raspberry cake was awesome. But, so were the lemon bars. And, the cupcakes were also pretty good. But, tonight didn't really seem like a three dessert night (I had one of those last night) so I decided to settle just for the raspberry cake.
As I sat at the island typing away, I kept glancing up at the cupcakes and the lemon bars. It wasn't that I was still hungry. I'd had plenty for dinner and my belly was full. But, the desserts were just sitting there, staring at me. The lemon bars were in a clear plastic sandwich bag. I could see that there were only two little bite-sized squares left. Who would even miss them? I couldn't do it, though.
Proud of my self-control, I went back to e-mails. More time went by. I kept wondering how many cupcakes were left in the pretty pink box. After a few more minutes, I had to look. "Hmmm -- five and one-half cupcakes. One-half of a cupcake isn't going to kill me, is it?" I decided that it actually might. I slowly headed back to my stool and started tapping away again.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I got back up from my stool, walked over to the counter, and picked up the lemon bar bag. Then I set it back down. I re-opened the box of cupcakes. Then I forced myself to close it.
This was getting ridiculous. Then, I got a bright idea. I got out my lunch bag, made a sandwich, threw in some chips, and then popped in the lemon bars.
That's all it took. Now that I knew that I had stashed away some more dessert for myself, I could concentrate. I felt just like a squirrel, hiding nuts in anticipation of winter. Now, tomorrow morning I just have to remember where I hid my lunch bag.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
My New Addiction
Hannah came home for the weekend. That was a bit of a surprise as she's never come home for a weekend before. I think there were three reasons she came home. First, it's Easter. Second, she didn't get any quality time with us over Spring Break since she was off with her friends. Third, her sorority is on social probation. That last reason is probably the biggest factor in her being here but, even so, I'm OK with that.
At lunch time today, I fixed a plate and headed into the family room where Hannah was watching TV. She had on "Million Dollar Listing - New York." I'd never seen it before. Now, after watching two episodes, I can't believe I've not been watching it. All I can think about is that I need answers to the following questions:
At lunch time today, I fixed a plate and headed into the family room where Hannah was watching TV. She had on "Million Dollar Listing - New York." I'd never seen it before. Now, after watching two episodes, I can't believe I've not been watching it. All I can think about is that I need answers to the following questions:
- How did Harsh and Purvi Padia get all that money to buy the top 5 floors (!) of the new condo property that Fredrik was showing? Believe it or not, I found myself googling Harsh Padia so that I could find out exactly what he does. No surpise, it's something esoteric in finance.
- Will Fredrik and Michael be able to get along as they jointly list 949 Park? I'm putting my money on "no." And, why would a Mexican fiesta theme party really be that big of a draw for real estate brokers in New York? Don't they have anything better to do?
- Is it possible for anyone (other than Fredrik, of course) to be more annoying than Ryan? I can't imagine that it is. But, I think I'll keep watching to find out.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Life in the Sardine Can
Have you ever played limbo on an airplane? I just did 5 minutes ago. I needed to get up to go to the bathroom four hours into our transatlantic flight home. The idiot seated in front of me (just like the idiot sitting next to him), has his seat reclined all the way back while he snoozes away. That means that his seat back is just 15 inches from my forehead as I type this. No matter how disgusted I am with his lack of proper airplane etiquette, I purposely didn’t grab his seat back as I got myself out of my seat. I didn’t want to stoop to his level. Doesn’t he know that you’re really never supposed to put your seat all the way back? Trust me – Miss Manners even says so.
I don’t think anyone likes it when the person in front of them on an airplane puts his seat all the way back. Why, then, do some people think it’s OK for them to do just that? I think it’s one of two reasons:
- They’re from the “Everyone else is doing it, so why shouldn’t I?” school. I don’t get this one at all. We all had mothers. All of our mothers taught us the fallacy of this line of thinking when they countered our requests for a later curfew, a chance to hang out at a friend’s when no parents were home, or an expensive pair of sneakers with their “And if everyone else was going to jump off of a bridge, would you do it, too?” argument. As much as I hated that argument, I have to admit that it’s hard to beat it.
- They’re from the school that believes in the mantra “The only thing that matters in this world is me.” I have an even harder time with these people. Can you really not be at all concerned about what others think? Are you that callous that it doesn’t cross your mind?
That bought us an hour of comfort (as best as it can be described when you're sitting in economy class on Aer Lingus). But, then, I guess my inconsiderate traveling companions felt that they’d done enough penance. “Whoop” went their seats again. I shook my head, reached down to grab the computer (bumping my head in the process, or course), and started to type this missive.
Earlier, I wrote that I didn’t want to stoop to the level of the guys in front of me. OK, I lied. The guy on the aisle (that would be the one in front of me) got on the flight late and had to store his luggage in the over head bin a couple rows back. He’s smoking crack if he thinks I’m going to let him go back there to retrieve it before I deplane. And, if the guy sitting inside him on the window has to wait as well, so be it. They look awfully comfortable in their seats. I’m sure they won’t mind sitting in them just a bit longer.
P.S. I wrote this on the plane. Unfortunately, twenty minutes before we landed at Dulles, the guy who was sitting in front of me jumped up, went to the back, retrieved his bag, and then found a spot for it up in the front of the plane. Once he had his bag safely stowed up front, he came back to his seat, moved it back to the straight upright position (yes, he left it fully reclined while he retrieved his bag!), and sat there til we landed. As soon as we were at the gate, he hopped up and quickly moved forward. I was not a happy camper. For hours, I'd planned my revenge. I never got a chance to execute that plan. What a disappointment.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
What I Miss About America
Spain is great. But, after being away for a while (OK, it's only been 6 days but it seems like a while), I find that I'm missing a couple things:
- My electric toothbrush. Trust me on this one.
- SportsCenter. Even 5 minutes while eating my breakfast croissant would be fine.
- Clean air. I've breathed in more second-hand smoke in the past 6 days then I did in my first 44 years.
- Hannah. Next time, she's coming with us.
- Fruits and vegetables. You can find them in a market but, when you're out to eat, they're in scarce supply.
- Restaurants with chairs. Like fruits and vegetables, you can find them but it takes some work.
- Hot water tanks big enough for four hot showers in succession. In Sevilla, we had to actually schedule our shower time.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Stuck In The Middle With You
The biggest event each year in Sevilla is Holy Week. Throughout Holy Week, the churches of Sevilla conduct processions through the streets of the city. Each procession features dozens of altar boys with crosses and incense, hundreds of nazarenos wearing their distinctive capes with pointed hoods and carrying huge wooden candles, a massive float carrying a life-like (and life-sized) rendition of a scene from the Passion, and a large marching band. A single church's procession can last for up to 12 hours, depending on its size and the course it takes through the city's streets.
In our Rick Steves travel bible, he told us that Holy Week in Sevilla is a big deal, with multiple processions each day, tens of thousands of visitors in the city, and the likelihood that a walk that normally takes only 5 minutes can be delayed by hours if you find yourself cut off by a procession or two. I read his warning but it didn't really register.
Yesterday, we took a tour of the Alhambra in Granada. We went with a small tour group of 14 people. It was a full day trip. We left Sevilla at 7AM and arrived back in the city shortly after 7PM. As we got closer to our drop-off point, we began to notice large numbers of people on the street, all dressed in their Sunday best. I figured it was just a somewhat larger than normal paseo with the fancy clothes simply a holdover from Palm Sunday services earlier that day. However, the closer we got to our drop-off point, the larger the crowds became. Soon, we saw that streets were closed. Finally, our driver pulled over and said "This is the closest I can get you. The streets are too full. Good-bye, travelers." He opened the door and out we went.
I stepped off the bus, nimbly jumped out of the way of a bicyclist, and pulled out my trusty Sevilla street map. After looking at the street names around me and pondering the map for 2 or 3 minutes, I figured out that we were at Plaza San Agustin. I guessed it would be about a 10 minute walk to our apartment. "Follow me," I called out to the family and off we went.
We literally went around two turns and came to a dead stop. We needed to cross the street to get to the other side of Santa Catalina. That was not going to happen. We'd run into a procession. "This will be fun," I said. "Let's just stand here for a few minutes and watch it." Lo and behold, this wasn't just any procession. It was the Weeping Virgin, perhaps the most famous float of all the processions. As the navarones shuffled by, carrying her 3,000 pound weight, the crowds watched with delight. Our timing was perfect and, after about 5 minutes, the float had passed.
Even though the Weeping Virgin had moved on, the crowds were still massive. "Stay with me," I told Kim and the boys, "We have to get to the other side of Santa Catalina. From there, it's a pretty straight shot down Calle Gerona and Calle San Juan de la Palma." We kept pushing our way through but the crowds just kept growing.
It had been a long day. I was tired and hungry. I wanted to get back to our apartment. Despite the ever-larger numbers of people, I pushed my way down Calle Gerona. Every few moments, I looked backwards to make certain that the family was still following. Getting closer with every step, I was determined not to stop. But, eventually, there was nowhere else to go. We were stuck in a square, surrounded by thousands of people literally packed together. You couldn't move forwards, backwards, or to the side.
That's when I realized what I'd done. We were now on a small park on Calle San Juan de la Palma, directly across from a church. The Spanish-to-English dictionary in my head slowly did the translation for me. I turned my head as much as I could and said to Kim "I've taken us to St. John of the Palms -- on Palm Sunday, of course. There couldn't be a worse place in all of Sevilla to be right now." I'm pretty sure I lost some votes for Husband of the Year right there.
It was 7:40PM. All we could do now was wait. At precisely 8PM, a hush fell over the crowd. The iron doors to the church opened up and a short cheer went up, quickly followed by "shushing" noises from the rest of the crowd. Out came the cross-bearer. There was just one of those. Then came literally 20 minutes of navarones, each carrying a lighted candle. During this time, I cast a few glances backwards at Kim, Nick, and Jay. You could see the tiredness and frustration on their faces but they were quiet. I'd led them here but they knew not to remind me of that.
Finally, the float began to emerge. The carved wooden statues depicted Jesus, with a crown of thorns, surrounded by Roman soldiers. In the back of the float sat Pilate sat on his throne, pronouncing his judgment. It took a full 10 minutes to get the float out of the door and execute the 90-degree turn down the narrow street. During this time, a band of trumpeters played a dramatic song. The Sevillans watched in rapt silence. I thought to myself, "This is actually pretty darn cool." Despite how tired I was, I was smart enough not to share that with my traveling companions.
At last, the final members of the procession left the square. Slowly, the crowd began to move. We decided to back-track and, thank the Lord, made it to our apartment. Our 10-minute walk had turned into a 100-minute adventure.
Once we got home, we dropped off our backpacks, threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, and realized that we were going to have to go out again and get something for dinner. Knowing that the boys weren't going to have any interest in heading back out into the madness, Kim and I decided to head out to get something to bring back to them.
We had a place in mind and set off to reach it. Five minutes into our walk, we saw a crowd ahead. What do you know? Another procession! Having already learned our lesson, we turned around and began a new search for dinner. Welcome to Holy Week in Sevilla.
In our Rick Steves travel bible, he told us that Holy Week in Sevilla is a big deal, with multiple processions each day, tens of thousands of visitors in the city, and the likelihood that a walk that normally takes only 5 minutes can be delayed by hours if you find yourself cut off by a procession or two. I read his warning but it didn't really register.
Yesterday, we took a tour of the Alhambra in Granada. We went with a small tour group of 14 people. It was a full day trip. We left Sevilla at 7AM and arrived back in the city shortly after 7PM. As we got closer to our drop-off point, we began to notice large numbers of people on the street, all dressed in their Sunday best. I figured it was just a somewhat larger than normal paseo with the fancy clothes simply a holdover from Palm Sunday services earlier that day. However, the closer we got to our drop-off point, the larger the crowds became. Soon, we saw that streets were closed. Finally, our driver pulled over and said "This is the closest I can get you. The streets are too full. Good-bye, travelers." He opened the door and out we went.
I stepped off the bus, nimbly jumped out of the way of a bicyclist, and pulled out my trusty Sevilla street map. After looking at the street names around me and pondering the map for 2 or 3 minutes, I figured out that we were at Plaza San Agustin. I guessed it would be about a 10 minute walk to our apartment. "Follow me," I called out to the family and off we went.
We literally went around two turns and came to a dead stop. We needed to cross the street to get to the other side of Santa Catalina. That was not going to happen. We'd run into a procession. "This will be fun," I said. "Let's just stand here for a few minutes and watch it." Lo and behold, this wasn't just any procession. It was the Weeping Virgin, perhaps the most famous float of all the processions. As the navarones shuffled by, carrying her 3,000 pound weight, the crowds watched with delight. Our timing was perfect and, after about 5 minutes, the float had passed.
Even though the Weeping Virgin had moved on, the crowds were still massive. "Stay with me," I told Kim and the boys, "We have to get to the other side of Santa Catalina. From there, it's a pretty straight shot down Calle Gerona and Calle San Juan de la Palma." We kept pushing our way through but the crowds just kept growing.
It had been a long day. I was tired and hungry. I wanted to get back to our apartment. Despite the ever-larger numbers of people, I pushed my way down Calle Gerona. Every few moments, I looked backwards to make certain that the family was still following. Getting closer with every step, I was determined not to stop. But, eventually, there was nowhere else to go. We were stuck in a square, surrounded by thousands of people literally packed together. You couldn't move forwards, backwards, or to the side.
That's when I realized what I'd done. We were now on a small park on Calle San Juan de la Palma, directly across from a church. The Spanish-to-English dictionary in my head slowly did the translation for me. I turned my head as much as I could and said to Kim "I've taken us to St. John of the Palms -- on Palm Sunday, of course. There couldn't be a worse place in all of Sevilla to be right now." I'm pretty sure I lost some votes for Husband of the Year right there.
It was 7:40PM. All we could do now was wait. At precisely 8PM, a hush fell over the crowd. The iron doors to the church opened up and a short cheer went up, quickly followed by "shushing" noises from the rest of the crowd. Out came the cross-bearer. There was just one of those. Then came literally 20 minutes of navarones, each carrying a lighted candle. During this time, I cast a few glances backwards at Kim, Nick, and Jay. You could see the tiredness and frustration on their faces but they were quiet. I'd led them here but they knew not to remind me of that.
Finally, the float began to emerge. The carved wooden statues depicted Jesus, with a crown of thorns, surrounded by Roman soldiers. In the back of the float sat Pilate sat on his throne, pronouncing his judgment. It took a full 10 minutes to get the float out of the door and execute the 90-degree turn down the narrow street. During this time, a band of trumpeters played a dramatic song. The Sevillans watched in rapt silence. I thought to myself, "This is actually pretty darn cool." Despite how tired I was, I was smart enough not to share that with my traveling companions.
At last, the final members of the procession left the square. Slowly, the crowd began to move. We decided to back-track and, thank the Lord, made it to our apartment. Our 10-minute walk had turned into a 100-minute adventure.
Once we got home, we dropped off our backpacks, threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, and realized that we were going to have to go out again and get something for dinner. Knowing that the boys weren't going to have any interest in heading back out into the madness, Kim and I decided to head out to get something to bring back to them.
We had a place in mind and set off to reach it. Five minutes into our walk, we saw a crowd ahead. What do you know? Another procession! Having already learned our lesson, we turned around and began a new search for dinner. Welcome to Holy Week in Sevilla.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
(Not) Hoping For the Best For All of You
I'm one of those people who scoff at the chance to win "only" $25M, $50M, $75M, or $100M in the lottery. Those amounts just aren't quite big enough for me. So, I only buy tickets when the payoff gets really big and, usually, my purchase is part of an office pool. I figure an office pool is the best way to increase your chances of actually ending up with a winning ticket.
In all the last minute commotion of trying to get things at work done before heading over here to Spain, I completely missed all the MegaMillions hoopla last week. I had absolutelly no idea that the jackpot had grown so large. It wasn't until I got here and was stuck in my dingy hotel room waiting for a train to Sevilla that I saw a news story on France 24 talking about the size of the potential payout. (In case you're wondering, no, I don't know how to speak French; I was watching the English-language version of the network. "Great," I thought. "It's just my luck to be stuck here in Spain, with no chance to buy the winning ticket." I felt a bit disappointed but told myself that it was probably for the best as I would have just been throwing my money away if I'd bought a couple tickets.
Then I found out that a winning ticket was purchased in Maryland. Hearing that news for the first time, I got a queasy feeling inside. My co-workers are nice enough people but do I really want them to have that winning ticket?
I've been on-line a couple times since I heard the news, trying to find out all that I can about the Maryland winner. The winner has not yet come forward but I know that the winning ticket was purchased in Baltimore County. "That's good," I thought to myself, "That's probably not my office since we're based in Anne Arundel County." I even interrupted vacation for an hour or so last night to check work e-mails. I told myself (and the family) that I was catching up on things I missed while out but the truth is that I was also looking for any clues that my office mates were a bit too pleased with themselves. It doesn't look that way -- unless they're all extremely good poker players, they all seem focused on the same old work stuff. No one's tone seems particularly flippant. I'm not seeing any messages that seem dangerously close to telling all of us to go pound sand.
After my intercontinental detective work, I'm pretty sure that everyone I know at work is still going to be there when I get back. But, it's got me thinking. If my co-workers really did win the lottery without me, shouldn't I be happy for them? I know that I should. But, I can't lie -- if I can't be part of the party, then I don't want there to be one. Count me in on the next pool.
In all the last minute commotion of trying to get things at work done before heading over here to Spain, I completely missed all the MegaMillions hoopla last week. I had absolutelly no idea that the jackpot had grown so large. It wasn't until I got here and was stuck in my dingy hotel room waiting for a train to Sevilla that I saw a news story on France 24 talking about the size of the potential payout. (In case you're wondering, no, I don't know how to speak French; I was watching the English-language version of the network. "Great," I thought. "It's just my luck to be stuck here in Spain, with no chance to buy the winning ticket." I felt a bit disappointed but told myself that it was probably for the best as I would have just been throwing my money away if I'd bought a couple tickets.
Then I found out that a winning ticket was purchased in Maryland. Hearing that news for the first time, I got a queasy feeling inside. My co-workers are nice enough people but do I really want them to have that winning ticket?
I've been on-line a couple times since I heard the news, trying to find out all that I can about the Maryland winner. The winner has not yet come forward but I know that the winning ticket was purchased in Baltimore County. "That's good," I thought to myself, "That's probably not my office since we're based in Anne Arundel County." I even interrupted vacation for an hour or so last night to check work e-mails. I told myself (and the family) that I was catching up on things I missed while out but the truth is that I was also looking for any clues that my office mates were a bit too pleased with themselves. It doesn't look that way -- unless they're all extremely good poker players, they all seem focused on the same old work stuff. No one's tone seems particularly flippant. I'm not seeing any messages that seem dangerously close to telling all of us to go pound sand.
After my intercontinental detective work, I'm pretty sure that everyone I know at work is still going to be there when I get back. But, it's got me thinking. If my co-workers really did win the lottery without me, shouldn't I be happy for them? I know that I should. But, I can't lie -- if I can't be part of the party, then I don't want there to be one. Count me in on the next pool.
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