On the spectrum

One of the Readership....

In spite of the absence of writing, I do still have readers....

...encouraged my to explain this spectrum, just as I explained it to her.

It is high-art movie season -- prime time to explain another chart that exists in my brain, which I discovered I could easily describe without realizing it.  Unless I was.

This is the spectrum of Tolerable Fantasy Genres, complete with exceptions that prove the rule.  I can not effective illustrate it here, 1) because blogs are limited in their graphical capability and 2) because I am always better at text than with words and 3) my flight takes off in 9 hours, which means I really ought to be sleeping right now.

It is a simple number line: on the left is Absolutely Not; on the right is Hell Yes, and More than Once.

You can live a lot of life on a spectrum like that.

Bored to Tears - by all things outer space/sci-fi.  Or, as I said to The Boss when she asked if I knew the Syfy Channel, I said, "I am aware it is misspelled."  Outer space science fiction is the extreme left of my tolerable fantasy. I do not care. And I believe you that Firefly or BSG or even Avatar is an exciting thrill ride... for you.  I.  Do.  Not Care.  

Exceptions that prove the rule?  Star Wars, naturally.  Because I am not dead inside, and because I am, after all, culturally a Gen X, mo matter what the census says. 

Apollo 13  - because that is not fantasy; that is real.

Star Trek TOS - for kitsch.  And I only called it TOS just now to appeal to those of you who reside on this end of the spectrum, and who are my friends, though I am sure begrudgingly on your part.

Completely Irritated by Middle Earth, Narnia, and all Universes where people have names with too many consonants and not enough shampoo.  File Clan of the Cave Bear under here also. 
Exception...?  I really don't know.   I can't imagine what

Draw a fat dotted line at this point.   The left of this line is pretty non-negotiable.  I don't judge you for playing on that side of the fence.  I'm not going to talk you out of it.  Just... do it some other weekend, a'iight? 

In this middle ground, you'll find a mix that might surprise you.  I believe they move to the right in this order:

Aliens are on the other side of the fence from crews of people emphasizing exposition in actual outer space.  I don't know why.  maybe because the rules vary more.

Is Sigourney's jaw bigger than the Aliens?   It's debatable.
District 9 - yes.
War of the Worlds - no
Close Encounters is much more boring than you remember, and is mostly a haunted child story.

Monsters - Vampires moved to the other side of the wall in the past few years, just by over-exposure.  I am interested in reboots, though, so I'll give the film-maker a listen when there is something new to say.

not that new.

Pan's Labyrinth - brilliant.


Superheroes.  DC universe has been especially good at this, but maybe I am just more DC than Marvel.  I have now started a comic nerd's favorite debate.  But I will not participate in it.  I can't hold my own in such a discussion.  If I am honest with myself, Superman is actually an alien.  And Batman is a vigilante.
Dark Knight is a great one; I liked Batman Begins even better.
Spiderman made me change the channels.

Time Travel.  Did I really put time travel to the right of superheroes?  I can't explain it myself.  This genre is full of the most irritating tropes and cliches.  But sometimes it's a fun era.  And this is dead zero on the spectrum, where it can really go either way.

Somewhere in Time can not be beaten, but it takes an Edwardian to say so.
Midnight in Paris -  shut up.  Stop talking.  Your mother's calling.  Go away.

(I haven't actually seen Kate & Leopold.  It looked like it would make me want to smack them.  or myself)

Magical Realism - when magical things happen in real life, I am actually much more interested than when entire universes are created on other planets. 

Big, for example.  delightful.
Barton Fink I didn't understand for 1 second, but I couldn't look  away.

Greek Mythology - see, now we are talking.  I won't abide the elves and the hobbits, but Minotaurs and Gorgons?    bring them on.
And ancient Rome?  more please.  because now we are in the realm of...

Biblical Epics - I love a bloated Biblical Epic.  The bloatier, the better.
Even when it's bad, it's good.
I won't make you site through them.  Because payback on that is a bitch.

A typical story

stamps for fun and profit

In my workplace, we frequently send Thank You gifts to customers for various reasons -- mostly variations on Thanks for Not Dropping Us Like a Bad Marriage.  For Sarbannes-Oxley/industry history reasons, these gifts are not of substantial value.  They are not of any value, really,  but they are what we have to offer, so we make do.

I try to gussy them up a bit to hide their schlockiness by wrapping them, or attaching the gushy Thank You Note for which I have always been famous.

That pile of corporate swag has been sitting on the corner for my desk for an extra week for one reason only:  I don't have enough Thank You Notes for the full package.  Someone said this was a fairly typical dilemma than would occur in my life... but not theirs.

It's not a simple case of buying more notes -- They have them at the CVS and I know right where they are.  I can not expense them; they have to come out of my own conscious, so no I don't spend a lot on them.

Not everyone who gets a gift gets thank you note.  These things are hand crafted, and I don't have all day.

They are truly handwritten, but I have some stock text that I use -- one for the project manager, one for the customer, for her boss, for her staff, for the IT boy who grudgingly came to every status call and 10 minutes in would say, "Do you still need me?"  I realized that I was in danger of sending the same notes to people a couple of times a year if I didn't keep track of them, of course.  So I made a library of them.

So first I have to get the cards, them pull from the library, make sure I am not repeating myself (though I don't mind switching off within the same customer, with just a little tweaking), make sure I am not sending them a gift I have already sent and... that it is appropriate to the rank of the recipient and their role in this effort we are quote-quote celebrating.  And those do not always correlate.

This is how to complicate a task beyond reason, and to the point where you can say you don't have time to do it.    It's really not as hard as it sounds.







Hope you're enjoying National Blogpost Month.
Here's another NaBloPoMo participant for you to enjoy.
http://www.kimbanelson.com

Less ambition than Bronson Alcott

I am no Alcott scholar.  But I have, of late, been spending some time with him.  I never thought even he could make me look like a slacker.

The shadow of a family of Alcotts falls across my path on a regular basis.  Very near where I live is the home they filled with their daughters, the school they filled with their pupils, and the commune they filled with their misguided ambitions.

Here to the hills above Shirley, where they could literally look down upon Shakers, trooped the Transcendentalists, prepared to live off the fat of the land, but failing to remember they did not know how to do that.  Or that it was not planting season.  Make no mistake, we would define them as hippies.  We would define Thoreau as a drop-out.  One man’s “innovative risk” is another man’s misguided folly.

I think we are not using “folly” enough.  (These are the small ambitions I embrace in a day.)

I’ve certainly done the big changes: I’ve moved halfway across country.  I’ve moved back.  I’ve walked away from a career.  I’ve bought the house.  All rather accidental, I have to admit, even though I plowed through them with purpose.  But I am not much of a risk-taker. I am not going to start a seminary for children – then integrate it. I am not going to pack my family off to the wilderness, then convince them we can run a farm without animals.

You know that feeling you get that you just need to change your life?  I’ve read about it.  I mean, I’ve heard people talk about it.  I’ve heard people change their haircut.  That sounds like madness.

I’m full of ideas – ideas are easy.  But moments pass.  And one of the comforts of busy-ness is that you never have the opportunity to actually do anything.  Oh, I’m onto me all right.  When I say I can’t get out of my own way, that’s a fair summation.  I am not even sure where this essay goes, much less where it ends.  It was just an another idea that occurred to me.  I might only be typing now to fill a respectable sized post, and to fulfill another obligation that is only a marginal accomplishment.

I probably shouldn’t try to write on weekdays.
See how easy rationalizing is?

Alcott may very well have been irrational.  He may have been bipolar.  Certainly delusional.  But apparently never afraid.

Sound financial backing probably didn’t hurt either.


Hope you're enjoying National Blogpost Month.
Here's another NaBloPoMo participant for you to enjoy.
http://thespinsterchronicles-jamila.blogspot.com/

Plants as pets for people who would kill theirs

 

  I made myself a promise (threat) that the next remotely nice day (not hot or cold, but ok it could be raining) that I was not doing anything (couldn’t make up an excuse) I would repot the plants.

 

The only thing label I deserve less than plant-owner (or maybe homeowner.  Employee.  Pet-owner.  parent… what were we talking about….?  close parentheses

I have 3 plants.  All over the house.  2 I inherited from a former roommate and the 3rd I bought on a whim to prove I was the kind of person who could adorn her home and her sphere of care-giving with plants.  That one is usually completely dead, but I can’t bring myself to throw out the 2 pots of it.  The other I did rescue from dead about a dozen years ago where it had been left to make the best of it on the back porch.

It is one of these – whatever they are --  

but it looks like this

“This tree needs you indeed.”  This tree needed the compassion of the Oregon state legislature.

It has grown to several versions of itself, spindly trunk and all, in pots that sit on the floor around the house because I can’t figure out how plants are supposed to work.  When they look like they are dying, I water them.  In exchange, they probably exhale sulfur dioxide.

The 3rd plant is a tree of unknown quality that I took off this same roommate when she downsized/upscaled into the city.  It was so unhappy in my house, it required raking after.  And this recent weekend I decided to cut it back, an effort which quickly turned into “oh the hell with it.”  I chopped it to smithereens and put it on the curb.  I kept the pot.  Why throw out the bathwater with the baby?   

Yes, I want to be writing

Yes, I have a list of topics I have been thinking about (LISTS!).  It's right over there.  I can only reach this far.

It is Friday and I have the day off today.  You would think it would be a grand opportunity to catch up on the list -- on this the first cold day of the season (too early by a mile) and the house (fairly) clean for a moment -- not because of anything I've done, but because I haven't done anything.  Including hand up the unmentionables drying on the landing.

The neighbor just came by, all full of home-owner zeal about putting gutters on the back roof to stop the cascading that is growing mushrooms on her deck, but not mine --- and frankly, she would like to know why.  But I agreed that I would partner with her on mold if she will partner with me on mice, and damned if she didn't get the maintenance team to agree they could occlude the foundation.

So that might have been worth getting out of bed for, where I was lying like Amanda K Plummer (look it up) and wondering how long I could linger there before I need to leave for the annual visit to a fully lab-coated medical professional whose best advice tends to be "you need to fu**in' relax."  I have missed another opportunity to lose 30 pounds before this appointment.

It is a to be a gorgeous fall weekend; unfortunately, I have summer events planned.  But a day in Fenway is a day in Fenway, and that's why baseball players wear 2 shirts.

These diversions should keep me from working, but be advised that the next 30 days will bury me Parents' Weekend style after being stabbed in the back by 2 co-shirkers (which I can't write about either) and I have to pick up their mess of Legos and make a theme park out of it.

If you have come here looking for my rant about why  plain Ruffles are never in the vending machine, a pondering of why I bother to own plants, a retrospective of the 1970s Margarine Wars, or an expose on the game Heroica -- which a 7 year old can play, but not me... you'll have to come back.  Something may happen in this space; something may not.  But I think I can't use my few off hours to sit in front of another computer.

The kindness of strangers

How modern technology, old friends,  and the car repair community turned Thursday night into this blogpost.  Settle in.  I just may tell this in real time.

The Groupon always sounds good when you are buying it.  That's how they make their money.   $20 for $50 dollars off your bill (small print: alcohol not included) at the Millenium Hotel Bar, Boston, MA.  And it's good for a year!  And I'm in Boston "all the time."   As the deadline loomed,  I looked for dates to burn through it, and the Tarletons were spontaneously available on a Thursday night.  How adult.

I pulled into a prime metered space with only 30 mins left to pay, around the corner from their place, and... the car won't shut off.  Blink and read that again.  Because that's me trying to move the key from its familiar "on" position to its even more familiar Off position.  It will not move and the key will not come out.  I can switch gears; I can drive.  I can not stop.  It's like something you would dream, isn't it?  Or something I would dream, where I have a recurring scene that I am trying to steer a very fast moving car on a busy street from the passenger's seat.  Jesus, take the wheel, already.

But this is no dream, this is real.  Nick comes out to help, and I am sure this is one of my moments of crazy, where I can't remember what the word "lettuce" means or I look for my glasses for an hour only to find them on my head.  He'll snap it off and say in his gentle voice, "what's your problem?" and we'll go have $50 worth of bar snacks.  But he doesn't.  Instead he finally says, "can we move this to a safer spot?" and we drive around the corner to the Boston MWRA Pump Station.  This will be important later, as it is an absolute landmark of the neighborhood, but nobody knows what it is.

The miracle, though, is that it is an open parking lot, one block from their house, 2 blocks off the highway, and it is the most gorgeous night in a year.  We hammer at everything in reach, and read the manual.  Because I am a big one for reading the manual.    Alyssa thought I was holding an ultrasound.  I think we are all glad to know I am not -- even if sponsored by Chevy.  The manual claims there is a "plunger" under the steering wheel to release the key in such a situation.  We find the panel it lives behind, but not the thing itself.  We predict that the airbag will deploy and kill us both.  Then we catch up on each other's news.

Jay comes home on his walking commute from his job, and tries his hand at it, with no more luck than we have had, and before long, we are just 3 people sitting in a running car like it's Modesto in 1962.  He says, "You know this is a f***ing Known issue.  And it sounds expensive."

When you call AAA in Boston at 5pm on a weeknight, you are in for a long wait, but you have some leverage if a) you are in an accident, b) you are literally roadside, or c) the car is running.  Which I only mentioned because I suggested he could bring a can of gas too if they wanted a two-fer.  And we wait.

  Minus the cocktails, this is the same night we would have been having anyway, so we relax and hang out.  When Perry from AAA arrives (after being unable to find Malden St), he has been told by dispatch that we need a jump (because who would voluntary take this crazy call).  "Quite the opposite," we say.  Perry takes his turn at finding the plunger, slamming the gear shift, jiggling the key, and viewing things through the help of Jay's iPhone flashlight.  It's a Smartphone, but not a Genius phone.  It did what it could.

Perry admits defeat.  He offers to disconnect the battery to stop the car. He's got nothing, but he'll call a locksmith and see what that can do.  What else do I have?

And I start to remember that there is a Chevy roadside assistance... USACHEVY, or CHEVYUSA, or HAHASCREWU,.... hours later I will discover the number is written on my keychain.  Jay works the Smartphone, and Nick finds it in the manual.  "Look at you, all Old School," Jay says with affection.   Locksmith recommends that I drive home and he meet me there, just to save the cost of the tow and I say I live 40 miles from here, and I only earn money to throw it at my problems.  So bring it on.   I try to explain Malden St.

Jay suggests that I drive it to my dealer and have the locksmith meet me there, and I remind him I am nearly out of gas.  He says there's a station on Albany St and I remind him priggishly that you can't pump gas into a running car.  "You're a rule-follower, aren't you?" he says tenderly, a hand on my skirted knee.

Chevy Roadside says, "we can pinpoint your location from your phone.  Is that all right?"  If you would not use the word "pinpoint" it would be less disturbing, but sure, go ahead.  And answer my emails while you are in there, would you? 

Chris the Locksmith.
Enter in slow motion...with big smile, tan hands, muscular legs.... his own flashlight.  We open the door for him.  We offer him Sun Chips.  We are never, never, letting him go.

He says he's seen this before, with GM cars.  (you bastards, I was there for you!) Though usually, the car turns off and only the key is stuck.  He slams the gear shift into Park: "See how I did that real ha'd like that?"  "Oh yes," I say, "We've enjoyed doing that ourselves.  Don't get cocky." I flirt badly.

We re-visit the battery idea, and stare under the hood for the while.  Nick, never far from the manual, advises that the battery is in the trunk.  "Like a BMW," says Chris.   "In so many ways," I agree.  Everything out of the trunk and onto the street, battery unhooked, exhaust still burning holes in our legs.  We all recall at the same moment that batteries start cars.  Alternators keep them running.  Oh.... riiiight.  Rehook, refill trunk.

Casey's towing arrives, and though that is not Casey driving, I do not catch his name.  He moves us aside, and becomes the sixth person to show us how it's done.  He says he can tow me whereever - Chevy pays the first 20 miles and I pay the rest.  I remind him the car is still running.  "I can tow it anyway," he says.  He does not put his hand on my knee.  But it feels like he did.   Chris is very concerned that I am going to leave a running car, with keys in ignition, in a car dealership overnight, and insists (in a deep throated tone I rather like) that I have "a better plan"

Towman suggests the battery; he pops the hood before we can stop him.  What he finds there instead  is the fuse box and yanks one out.  The car stops immediately. "What did you pull?!" cries Chris in consternation.  TowMan squints at it.  "Start."

So he wenches up.    I have also by now called my friends The Troys, who live near my dealership, and are considered "A List" friends.  You may remember them from such disasters as the 2008 ice storm.  The plan now that the car if off is to tow to the dealer, have Kit pick me up there.

"Ever ridden in a tow truck before?"  he says.  On the long drive to the suburbs, I learn a lot about the Towman, a young dreamer and hustler with tow truck stories to tell, and a life history you can tell in a 20 mile ride, but still seems like a life fully lived.  We share tells of life in Chelsea, where I lvied the year he was born.  {sigh} Thanks to the all-powerful Net, Chevy already knows we are coming, and Casey's Towing already knows where to park it.

My ride comes.  She is already expecting I will stay the night with them, and ride in to work with her in the morning, but offers to take me home first for a change of clothes.  And this is where I know we really are A-List friends -- because she offers this, and I can say without shame, "No, because if we go there, something else will be wrong -- like it burned down, or something.  And I can't take one more thing tonight."  We go to the house.  These people form one of the nicest healthiest families I know.  (she is expecting me to add here, "but the dog has to go."  So I will.  love you )

Lesson One: Membership has its privileges.
Locksmith - $35
Tow overage - $25
Car repair is covered under extended warranty with a $50 deductible.
They replaced the lock cylinder, and acted unsurprised by the whole thing, which may be explained by your Internet search of "key stuck in ignition."  Chris was not kidding.  This does happen all the time.  And if it really does happen all the time...it could likely happen again.  But try arguing with your service team when they are charging you deductible.  They have never heard of any "plunger" under the steering wheel, but I noticed their mechanic replaced the panel we had removed to find it.

I could consider trading it in to them, as long as they are denying it exists.  But I want an exchange - not to buy another car, so I will hold my faith that it is fixed and that Robert and Jeff, whose jobs were saved by the loyalty of customers like me, would not lie to my face.
maybe.

Lesson Two: Friendship has its rewards.
My friends do not want to hear my Witness of the powerful love I hold for them and our bond.  It makes them a little squeamish for me to go Christian on them, especially when I am dressed in white blouse and black skirt.  They say "that's what friends do," and they are right, of course.  They know I would do the same for them, and that it takes years of therapy and all my effort to ask it of them.  Thanks be to God for the humility to do so, and the serenity to find humor and fellowship in what could have been a miserable experience, but instead is an entertaining gift I give to you.

August 2012
An update:  for people search the google-webs for this issue.  From Chevy themselves.

2009 chevrolet cobalt recall

Item affected: power train:automatic transmission:lever and linkage:column shift
date announced: 3/6/2009

description of recall:
general motors is recalling 276,729 my 2009 buick enclave, chevrolet cobalt, hhr, malibu, traverse, gmc acadia, pontiac g5, g6 and saturn aura and outlook passenger vehicles. These vehicles fail to comply with federal motor vehicles safety standard 102, "transmission shift position sequence, starter interlock, and transmission braking effect", and fmvss 114, "theft protection and rollaway prevention". On some of these vehicles, the transmission shift cable adjustment clip may not be fully engaged. If the clip is not fully engaged, the shift lever and the actual position of the transmission gear may not match. With this condition, the drive could move the shifter to "park" and remove the ignition key, but the transmission gear may not be in "park".

Action needed to fix it:
dealers will inspect and ensure that the shift cable adjustment clip is fully engaged. In the event that the clip does not engage, the shift cable will be replaced free of charge. The recall is expected to begin on or before march 24, 2009. Owners may contact buick at 1-866-608-8080, chevrolet at 1-800-630-2438, gmc at 1-866-996-9463, pontiac at 1-800-620-7668 and saturn at 1-800-972-8876 or at www.gmownercenter.com.

And...scene.

They call it Security Theatre. (who does?  this guy.  You would screen him too.) 

I have gotten quite savvy about the jetway baggage check.  After all, the bag I bought says it fits in the overhead.  And before we de-regulated everything into Teeny Weeny Airlines, it did.  And the airlines insist on charging for baggage claim, so to hell with them.  I am happy to check at the jetway.

Until.

 

Until your booking agent does not realize that she has you transferring from one TERMINAL to another (and another airline) in an airport where the terminals are not connected.  In 60 minutes.  The real drama is me unable to find my destination on the Departure board at all and trying to find a gate agent who could help me.  By the way, USAirways, if you give me a boarding pass that says USAirways on it, and the flight is abbreviated as UA###, how would I know that is United Airlines?  I started this journey at 5am; I can't be held responsible.

More like Security Grand Opera.

I run - from Terminal 1 to the "Air Train," (so you know it's already over), but I make it to Terminal 3 with 15 minutes to spare, except.

Except that at this airport you have to go through security again.  Do you hear me, America?  And I now know I will miss this connection.  Long-time readers (of this blog and my life) know that I have learned to call the customer service line while standing in the customer service line.  (robots are replacing you all) So I get rebooked for 2 hours later and begin to wonder... where is my suitcase going to go?

No one in America has a job, but there are always 15 TSA agents at any given security line.  1st one says, it's OK to go through on my missed boarding pass, since I am getting the new one at the gate, and as long as the pass is for today, it's OK.  so put that in your information bank for your next heist.  Write a screenplay around it.  2nd agent says that the line is breaking into 3 lines, and I am in the longest one, but I am free to choose any one.

What kind of walk-on line is this?  "You are free to choose any one."

Agent 3 is having trouble with his spy flashlight that makes a hologram on your license.  He is waiting for batteries, so in the meantime, he is asking people to confirm their last names (because that is totally the same thing).  Agent 4 is getting the batteries.

Agent 5 is screening my bag -- which contains one half full (half empty?) bottle of WATER.  I wish I could display that in spooky font.  My home computer would do that.

"Whose is this?" asks Miss Marple, and delicately draws out my suspicious article with a 2-fingered grip.
I immediately say (still wearing the belt I also forgot to remove), "Oh right -- I didn't expect to go through security between terminals.  Just take it."

And she says, "I'll just pour it out here."
"Can I keep the bottle at least?"  I say... looking like a harried business traveller in jeans that don't fit and NOT my attention-getting new bra.

Suddenly, even TSA Marple realizes that her "just pouring it out" does not justify her existence, so she says, "I am going to bring it over here and test it, then pour out the liquid and you can have the bottle."

Whatever, Trixie Belden.  I have 2 hours now.   (I call this one "Trixie scores some weed.")

We step aside and she stands back, and asks me to open the bottle, please.  Then she swabs it with something I probably shouldn't drink behind, pours out the water (still 2 fingered, so careful.  She would have done it with her pencil if the thing had only had a trigger) and invited me to replace the cap.

The day is not over.  I have another hour to wait -- another hour for my bag (which has fallen out of my possession) to find a new friend in Eugene.  My biggest worry then is what I will wear tomorrow.  But we'll panic about that when we have to.  I don't mind making a concierge find something appropriate in a college town on a Monday night.

They have theatre of their own.  

More Security Theatre from the archives:

Early security theatre at Guilt-Ridden Logan Airport
My personal TSA story, which ends here, but tags back to the beginning
Airports respond to new standards

Strategic Petroleum Reserve

A "barrel" of crude oil is 42 gallons.   The US produces about 9M barrels a day.  Every day.  What freaks me out, though, is that we store 727M barrels  inside caverns of salt.  

And I can't stop thinking about it.
 
Bayou Choctaw....is actually leaching, which means the salt is...melting, or something I might have learned in Earth Science but no longer understand. 76 million barrels' worth are supposed to live there, but they need to be moved, says the Secretary of Energy, or maybe just sold.  Or how 'bout this idea: "Congress has authorized the Energy Department to spend $33.5 million for a replacement, and officials are buying a privately owned cavern - also in the Bayou Choctaw salt dome - with a 10-million-barrel capacity."

A privately owned salt cavern .

West Hackberry: the other reserve in Louisiana.  Pleasantly located near the Hackberry Recreation Area and Lake Charles.  227 Million barrels here.   If you are trying to visualize 227 million of something, there are 300 M people in the United States.  Picture them as squat metal cans.  Hell, just picture that New York street in Tootsie as Dustin Hoffman walking between squat metal cans.  That's freaky enough.

And it's not even the biggest.  254 Million barrels are tucked into Bryan Mound, TX.  Perhaps because it is the biggest, it has the best press.  "... a young mining engineer by the name of Bernard Baruch discovered a salt dome..."  We have a salt dome in  Massachusetts -- but it is not naturally occurring.  (we don't think)

That's actually a sale pile, not a dome.  We wouldn't be able to store our oil barrels in it.
After Bryan passed his last cloud of sulfur, it seemed only fitting that we would turn it into the mattress we stash our mad oil in.

It isn't really stored in barrels, like a nation of hoarders might do.  It's in there loose and oozy -- all the better to "draw down."  This is the best FAQ I found about that.

My favorite Strategic Petroleum Reserve has to be Big Hill - Winnie, Texas.  Not just because its name simultaneously evokes Texas pomposity and aw-shucksiness, but because the Big Hill got B Roll!  Lots of it.  But I still can't get my mind around what the devil a salt cavern is.  I didn't have the bandwidth to launch any of the videos (or the CIA needed more time to capture my IP address).

SPRs are born..and they die.  Competing for an oil reserve is not quite like applying for the Olympic Games.  You have to have the primary requirement of having a salt dome, or knowing how to make one -- which Richton, MS does.  Weeks Island was retired, in 1999, due to sinkhole-related disorders. It reads exactly like the kind of lurking problem on your own job that you might menrion to management and they would say "what do you want me to do," and you would again be grateful that nothing truly important hinges on the response of your management team.

I loved this uniquely American sentence:  "This facility was a conventional room and pillar near-surface salt mine, formerly owned by Morton Salt."  I was determined to find an image of the Weeks Island sinkhole -- it was 36 feet wide in 1995!  I was not successful, but here is some seismic velocity tomography, whatever that is.

related freakouts:
Centralia, PA
Yucca Mountain
The Granite Mountain Record Vault
That hole in Guatemala

Harness your compulsion.

When people comment on my efficiency, I say, "It's just laziness that I make look good."
When they speak about my structured life, I say, "Habit is just disciplined compulsion."

I don't know whether I made either of those up, or if they came out of some German fortune cookie, but to illustrate the compulsiveness of compulsion... I'll tell this story. 

15 years ago when I quit working, and tried one last ditch at earning anything by writing, I went through every little notebook and scrap-store device you think all writers have and pulled out whatever was left there to try to kick-start the juice.  In 1996, the best one could hope for was a column in the local rag, which were already starting to be taken over by Community News.  Self-publishing was expensive, unless you wanted to stand outside the BPL, and it is awfully windy there.

My problem is that I was trained (and let's put that in quotes) in 2 styles - the self-reflective (read: indulgent) novel and the critical essay.  I was so far ahead of my time....

What kept me from writing often was how long it took to do it, and how much I had overdone it in the years leading up to then.  I went back to the fundamentals you learn as a teenaged novelist who subscribes to Writer's Digest and tries everything Lawrence Block recommends -- not because you would ever read what he writes, but because he has published 70 books,  and you have published zero. 

He might advise that Miss Bender tends to write too long an intro.  He has no idea what I throw away.

There are all kinds of writing prompt exercises to get you started.  Writing is writing.  That's the trick.  Get something down.  One of our instructors at the Valley Union Seminary for Bookish Ladies enjoyed giving a phrase to start and a phrase to end, and made us find 3 pages in between.  "And make it take palce in Port-au-Prince," he would toss over his shoulder as he left us there in a circle.

I took these idea snippets I found among the ruins of my artistic life and I wrote them onto strips of paper, which I folded very small, as tightly as I could so they all looked alike, and tossed them into a gift box whose origin I no longer recall, but it says "Lenox" on it and is a pleasing shade of green.

I did nothing with that box.
I did crank out a few stories in the 6 months I was out of work.  Nothing came of them.  Root cause - mine.

You've been following this spot for some time now.  You might have expected I would run out of ideas, or begin to repeat myself.  I don't change very much, and I only have a few channels.  It's been kind of a struggle this year to believe that the world needs any more content.

But the other night, while chasing the mice across the ceiling, which chase included a ladder to the crawl space above the guest room, and moving things from the closet shelf, I found the little green Lenox box.

I knew what it was immediately -- this isn't a mind that forgets what things are or where she put them.  I put it there.  When I moved in 7 years ago.  So why not give it a shot.  What else have you got going on?

There must be rules, of course.  Why go through life blithely stepping on cracks?  I did not require that something must be written every day.  (Or any day.)  Or that ideas had to come out of the box.  If I had an idea on my own, well Glory Be.  I should go ahead and explore it, but if there was a  need of an idea... a need to go to the box....

The rule is, though, if you draw from the box, you must write what you drew.  No knives out of scabbards without drawing blood. No throwing it back, or away.  And since the papers contain complete nonsense to me after 15 years, it might take days to get an essay out of one.

Or, I might just draw this:  "Habit is just disciplined compulsion."

Great moments in home ownership: How a bachelor buys an oven

In 15 minutes.

One of my married friends recently sighed, "It must be so nice to handle your money however you want." 

It really is.  What's even better is that I never spend longer in the appliance store than I really want to.  (Hardware is a completely different story, as I have already confessed... here and here.)

Don't worry that I am impulsive.  I had my oven shopping lesson with Dr A and JB -- who actually COOK.  And once you have narrowed down gas or electric, then self-cleaning or not... and you are standing in Sears, there is this aisle (affordable) and that aisle (hahahahaha).

Another friend once said, "I get how a $20 bottle of wine is better than a $12 bottle of wine, but how much better can a $200 bottle be?"

So it went like this: electric/self-cleaning/this aisle/stainless/when can you bring it?  Here's my money.
It's not a new car, for heaven's sake.  If you're bringing it, plugging it in (and more importantly, taking the other one with you), let's sign the paperwork right now.

It was the heating element that went finally, in a spectacular display of molten color -- like so: 
So common... it's on the Internet.

So I have embraced the raw food movement for the next few days, which is not a substantial change over my usual cuisine, I guess.  But I do have all this asparagus I need to....freeze.  yeh, I should just freeze it.  And throw the eggs at the neighbors.  The rest will keep.

And that's what the tax refund is for, after all.

Great moments in home ownership: taking all day to not fix the sink

and how to take longer to write about it. 

I am perfectly happy to throw money at problems.  I believe it is money's best thing.  Most problems don't require money -- they are easily ignored or otherwise plastered.  So when you need it, it's there. But I can also recognize when problems are too small for money, and I'll do things the old-fashioned way.

I didn't really think that fixing the sink would make me feel any more competent as a homeowner or self-sufficient as a w-o-m-a-n.  I just thought that if was going to fail completely, it would probably be soon and 9:30pm on a Sunday.

I also thought that if I was going to have to brave the Depot to ask someone what part I needed and where do I find it, I might also tackle the kitchen shelves, which spectacularly snapped their cheap-ass brackets onto the dishes and me, and which have been sitting bowed and shamed in the corner of the already-small kitchen, for probably a year.  A year?  Maybe not that long.  I don't know.  What was the weather like -- I was barefoot when it happened; I do remember that.

That's (2) neglected household duties now.  The azalea is revealed to be crushed by snow, but I don't have the slightest idea what to do about that.  Del Boca Vista has announced they are establishing "Ground Stewards" (already informally installed as Grass Police) and I'll give you 2 guesses which member of our cell-block will volunteer for that one.  The azalea will have to wait.  The roof-rakes might be in, now that they are no longer needed -- so are the rules of supply and demand -- so I'll look into that, and I'll need a flashlight once I'm under that sink.  And a plumber.

A co-worker tells me that she is surprised I know how to do such a thing.  I don't, I say.  I am very good at following directions.  If I have directions, I can get a thing done.  It may take me hours, and I may have to do it multiple times, and I may forget to pay attention to the pieces after they come apart, and therefore think to take pictures of them with the cell phone the 2nd time.

I have a lot of tools.  You know how this goes -- you need a staple gun once, for 3 staples, and then you own a staple gun.   The main thing that might have intimidated me (finding the world's smallest Allen wrench to take the first step in dismantling) is already solved because the Fellas gave me a bottomless tool kit that never fails to produce results like a genie from a lamp.  In this case TWO RINGS of Allen wrenches I could wear as jewelry.  My smug home repair book clues me in that the "sink repair kit" will include all the piece of my faucet but I might not need them all, so I should just get what I need.

The other reason we bring home all these things from the Depot is because they package them in kits that are priced too low to refuse, so you're gold-diggin right I bought the little kit.  It is my right, as my own spouse, to have as many mysterious pieces of hardware in tiny ziploc bags as the next guy.  I mean, I stared at everything, I read everything, I talked to people in aprons -- I would have had a hot dog and ridden around on a pallet if I were a Seinfeld bit -- but in the end, I got the kit.

I've mentioned before I have a knack for buying the wrong size of thing -- and never better than when I am arrogantly pretending to know anything about home repair.  I had measured the length of the ruined shelves several times, and written it down on my little list.  I even write notes for myself beside the note, because later I will wonder if I meant on-or-off the bracket, inside or outside the window frame, to the carpet or to the molding  ...  (Incidentally, I do not have curtain rods or floor molding.  And now you know why.)

I also meant to buy light bulbs for the bathroom mirrors (which, can I tell you, I haaaate but will never do anything about) which are another thing I have dozens of the wrong size of.  Fortunately, I forgot to write that down or bring one with me, so I could just skip it.  Once I brought a bulb with me, stopped short, it fell to the floormat, cell phone fell after it and broke it.  Each bathroom has about 50 of them, so I don't have to do this often.

Sink kit in hand, and a couple of goofy energy-efficient bulbs for the night stand (because I ought to get on that bandwagon sooner or later), I go looking for the shelves and brackets.  The brackets are on one of those greeting card carousels, in all manner of styles and sizes, and are fortunately so cheap I can get them all.  This seems much easier than learning the metric system. 

  The main reason I didn't respond to the shelf crisis earlier is that the husband in me thinks we should just get all the cabinets redone because the kitchen is dopey, and the wife in me knows that is never going to happen, because which one of us is going to take the day off to baby sit that job, and neither of us wants to file the forms with the condo association.  And the wife thinks we have too many dishes anyway, and the husband will eat off a napkin.

What I forgot to measure was the width of the shelves, so we don't need to spend anymore time here.

Let's see if we can wander our way to the flashlights.  I have a good  "my but it is dark in this VT cabin" flashlight, but what I want was the handled lantern with the mashy pop-o-matic on/off switch so I can just set it down and get light.  I expect these will be in the "Emergency" aisle with detectors and rope ladders, but like the Yellow Pages, you can never anticipate the categorization of The Home Depot (sidebar:  I teach my GPS to say "the" in front of things, like an Old Time New Englander and it just cracks me up.  "Arriving at The JC Penney.  On left...")  No, flashlights are in Aisle 10, but the lantern  they have is for hurricanes, and comes with a car battery attached to it, but look at this.....

My husband begged for it.  I actually saved that image just now as "dork."

I make it all the way down to the Lumber Zone (woodywoodywoody) unable to find furnace filters, where Daryl and Daryl tell me they are back in Aisle 10.

Explain to me how the price range in air filters is 89 cents to $17.  And like at (the) Staples, you have to buy them in a pack.  I get a 4-pack for $6, knowing there is plenty of room to store them next to the wrong size 3 pack of 20x20x1 I bought last year.

The hot dog place is closed, so it is time to leave.  Stop for hot dog buns.  And, ooo, bottle of wine.  Oscar Night, honey.

Smug Book of Home Repair and the kit box itself are consulted, water is turned off (you were waiting for that, weren't you?  I'm not Laverne and Shirley... I'm just lazy) and I begin to disassemble.  I have this brilliant idea to lay the old parts on a towel in the order they were removed, with the new parts in a row below them.  I get the thing apart, but nothing appears to be damaged.  The old parts look exactly like the new parts, and I decide to pretend that what I really meant to do was wash everything because g-e-e-e-ross have I been drinking out of this???  The very moment on the calendar when you can no longer live in squalor is the same moment when you can not stomach resolving that.

And you don't have to got under the sink to fix the washerless faucet, so I didn't need the flashlight -- which is good, because I couldn't get the battery door open.

Now my sink parts are cleaner, and reassembled (not replaced -- I had lost interest) and the faucet still shuts down more slowly than I like, but maybe it always did.  Maybe that's how they work.  Maybe I should see what's on TV.

And I have 4 air filters that are 5 inches too short if anyone needs one.