January 13, 2008
French Names
The two men approaching the customer service desk were a classic odd couple. The one in the lead was of slightly short stature, round in shape. He wore a rumpled button down shirt under one of those well worn raincoats that might be brown or might be gray. Balding wisps of hair extended from his head in most directions.
His partner was a full head taller, a feature accentuated by the red and black plaid wool hunter’s cap, complete with earflaps, which topped his frame. His face was long and thin, matching the rest of his body. His raincoat matched his partner’s.
“We’re looking for a book on how to pronounce French names”, the first stated as he reached the desk. This was a request both broad and narrow. “Pronounce French names” was typed into the computer but the search came up empty. The two appeared crestfallen.
“How about I try looking for a book on using French names for a new baby?” the bookseller suggested. The pair brightened with hope. Sure enough, the result listed two books on French names for expectant parents. Neither was in stock but both could be ordered and in the store within a few days.
“That’s great”, number one said with obvious relief. “You see, we’re getting a pair of French Poodles puppies next week and want them to have real French names. Let’s order them both”. Number two smiled with joy.
A smile crept across the bookseller’s face. “I’m sure these will be very helpful.”
Now the tall partner chimed in. “Yup, and want to be sure that we pronounce the names right so that they’ll know when we’re speaking to them!”
The order was placed and the two left the store smiling and chatting with each other in anticipation.
The bookseller was left with the image of two middle aged men earnestly calling “Jack! Jack!” to a slumbering dog who doesn’t respond until one snaps his fingers in realization, elbows his partner, and with a knowing look on his face now yells ”Jacques! Jacques!” - at which point the hound leaps to his feet and bounds happily toward the proud, beaming couple.
| Comments (1)February 10, 2007
myTunes
I grew up in a home where show tunes were played quite often. My mother would glom on to the latest Broadway hit, buy the cast album, and then play it ad nauseum until we all were humming it in our sleep. That is why, to his day, I’ll find myself bursting forth with lyrics like this every once in a while:
Some enchanted evening
You may see a stranger,
you may see a stranger
Across a crowded room…
I’m not quite sure why this one from South Pacific stuck in my mind and I don’t remember all the words. Often, the lines after “Across crowded room” become:
Duh blah blah blah blah
Duh blah blah blah blah...
To compensate I’ve invented my own lyrics over the years for those times when I feel compelled to sing past the “Across a crowded room…” part or when I’m in a particularly (peculiarly?) creative mood.
Keep in mind that I don’t have a good singing voice. I don’t have ANY singing voice. At best, you might describe my voice as similar to the noise made by constipated geese. Thus Nancy has to be given a lot of credit for putting up with my spontaneous renditions of this song when the lyrics go something like this:
Sam and Janet Evening
They couldn’t be much stranger,
They couldn’t be much stranger
Than Spiderman’s costume…
Duh blah blah blah blah
Duh blah blah blah blah...
or
Convoluted meaning
Can be a source of danger,
And that source of danger
Can lead to an early tomb…
Duh blah blah blah blah
Duh blah blah blah blah...
Still, I’m happy to carry on the family musical tradition. I know my mother would be proud.
PS – Here’s a link to the real lyrics. How about giving me some of your own? Leave them in your comments.
| Comments (1)January 10, 2007
Clean Eggs
During the year after Nancy moved to the new job in Vermont and I stayed behind on Long Island to sell the house and finish off my last year at work, I became by necessity, somewhat anal about cleaning up after myself. It’s a big no-no that have that pile of dirty dishes crawling with vermin in the sink when the real estate agent walks in with the prim young couple looking for their dream house. Four pair of used underwear flung haphazardly about the bedroom leaves a similarly bad impression to some, I’ve been told.
Once done with the house I was in a little apartment where I spent weekdays working and weekends in Vermont. Here again, leaving crap on the counter only resulted in bad smells and the thought that the landlords were going to soak me for every dime of my deposit if they had to so much as wipe some dust from the floor after I left kept me channeling Felix Unger for the better part of six months.
This has, to a large extent, carried over to the present day. I clean up my dishes immediately after each meal, almost always throw my dirty socks in the hamper, and by and large lead a much more virtuous life than in my profligate youth - which leads me to this morning. On the mornings when Nancy goes to work I get up and make coffee and read the newspaper. Nancy arrives in the kitchen a little later and prepares her breakfast. After my coffee I go downstairs to work out. Before I go, I clean my mug and most anything else that is lying around the sink.
But the spirit of Felix waxed strong in me this morning. Not only did I clean my mug but I also washed the frying pan, spatula, and mixing bowl Nancy had used to prepare her eggs. Then, rapt in this possession, with a smug, self satisfied smile on my face, I wiped and arranged the pan, spatula, and bowl back on the stove and counter so that they would be exactly where they should be when I came back upstairs to make my own breakfast.
I climbed the stairs after my workout beaming with haughty conceit. I was an efficiency god. I’d crank up the espresso machine and scramble up those eggs. Everything would taste just a bit better this morning. Everything would taste, hmm - virtuously good. Nancy however, had been more in the “gotta make the doughnuts” mode. In the 30 minutes she has allotted, she ate her eggs, drank her coffee, and completely on morning autopilot, grabbed the pan, the spatula, and the bowl and dutifully washed them. And so I found them, stacked to dry next to the sink, double washed, sparkling clean. I made my eggs and ate my breakfast. The spirit of Felix Unger, now disengaged, once again floats free in the netherworld. I finished eating 45 minutes ago and the pan, spatula, and bowl lie dirty on the counter. I’ll get up soon and wash everything, but it’s not the same. My eggs tasted okay, maybe good, certainly not virtuous – more, I’d have to say – clean.
| Comments (6)March 18, 2005
Mom's St. Patrick's Day
Transcript of my phone call to my mother yesterday to wish her a happy St. Patrick’s Day:
Phone rings and is answered by my mother:
Mom: Erin Go Bragh!
Me: (in really bad Irish accent for most of the rest of this conversation) Top ‘o the mornin’ to ya! Will I be speakin’ to Janey Trancho?
Mom: (warily) Yes…?
Me: Janey this is Cardinal O’Connor callin’ to wish you a happy St. Patrick’s day! You know, because of the time difference here in heaven, we started tippin’ a few back several hours ago and we’ve been sitting around and decided to give you a call to bring a smile to your face this glorious day.
Mom: Even though you’re dead?
Me: Ha - ha! Ya know, here in heaven it don’t make much difference. We figured that a woman who has popped out more piglets than the parson’s sow could use a little uplift on this glorious day. Fulton J. Sheen and I (Fulton - get off that skateboard! you’ll be killin’ yerself if yer not careful. - What am I sayin’ - he’s dead already too! - go ahead and enjoy yerself Fulton, but hike up the damned cape will ya!…).
Mom: (nervous laughter) So your having a good time are you?
Me: Gosh and begora Janey, yes! And we’re hopin’ that the day is as glorious for you as it is for us!
Mom: (warily) I’m sure it will be…
Me: (slipping back into my normal voice) So, how are you, Mom?
Mom: OH ROBERT!!! I didn’t know that was you! The accent was so real!
Me: (thinking to myself) Jeez - how often does Cardinal O’Connor actually call her?
February 16, 2005
On Webstats and Fan Mail
I've got one of those nifty web statistics utilities going that gives me all sorts of useful/less information about who and how many are visiting my blog. Statistics is a rather absurd term for single and occassional double-digit numbers, but the geek gene runs strong in these veins and so I check the stats every few days anyway.
Recently there has been a major shift in the traffic to the site. In the past, most of my discerning readers came to me via Google searches for Bride of Chucky or ring-o-fire graphics and a disturbing number of these were from France. What French Bride of Chucky fans might look like (close your eyes and imagine a cross between Beavis and Charles DeGaulle with a Black Sabbath t-shirt and pierced eyebrow...) is something that causes me great trouble falling to sleep at night, but I was grateful for their readership in spite of the fact that the stats showed they spent an average of 12 whole seconds poking around.
Recently however, there has been a decided shift to referrals from Callalillie.com, where I have been known to post comments from time to time. Though sometimes these are positive, helpful little tidbits of knowing advice, more often they are snide/snarky attempts at humor. This is, of course, completely allowable in that I contributed exactly half the genes that Callalillie currently calls her own. That she should now be helping to inflate this blog into double-digit stats is the least that she might do until the time comes when she has to shovel babyfood into my slack jaw.
An unintended consequence of this situation is that I have actually developed a FAN, no TWO fans! - and they are women! The first wrote a piece about me on her blog where she called me a "cool dad", a species that is apparently endangered these days. Now a second has emerged, writing an email to callalillie asking her to urge bobtrancho to post more frequent entries because he is "SO witty" and makes her "laugh out loud" (not a good idea while working at that law office, Maura, they'll think your laughing at them - you know how sensitive lawyers are about lawyer jokes...)
I am, of course, flattered by this tidal wave of celebrity. I've started wearing sunglasses on my trips down to the Price Chopper and am trying to decide which agency should represent me.
But I may not be ready for this leap into notoriety. What do I do when screaming women tear at my clothes while I'm at the post office. How do I explain the panties tossed at me in the library? What if that site visitor from Holland sends me pictures wearing nothing but a tulip or two?
I'll just have to try to take it as it comes...
| Comments (6)December 3, 2004
Nancy’s “Appendix”
Nancy’s appendix ruptured last Saturday night. I was there but I didn’t know it happened. I was asleep. You’d think that a rupturing appendix would make some noise - something along the lines of a “pluuush!”, or a “pfffit!”, or a “splursh!” - but it didn’t. If it had, I’d have awakened and realized that Nancy was in a shitload of pain. But she didn’t wake me up because I had to get up early to take Corie to the train station and she thought that she was simply suffering from over indulgence from the Thanksgiving engorging festival. So she suffered through the night and was half asleep when I got up at 5:15 and went off with our darling daughter to the train station in Albany.All that is not the point of this story. You see, it turns out that Nancy didn’t have a normal appendix. And this, I insist, is why I never heard it rupture.
We need to digress here a minute to talk about why and how appendices (appendixes, appendi, appendula?) rupture. Nancy’s surgeon went to in excruciating detail about how poop fills the little bugger over time and calcifies into a hard mass that effectively plugs the opening to the intestines. When the appendix finally decides to host billions of noxious, festering bacteria they have limited room to party. With the opening plugged, the appendix swells with noxious, festering goop that has nowhere to go. Eventually it just bursts, spewing billions of noxious, festering bacteria into the abdomen where they are delighted to find all sorts of tasty human tissue to munch on. This causes tremendous pain (and, I suspect, a loud “pluuush” noise).
Ah, but Nancy’s appendix was different. It was not over on the right side as in normal American humans. It was toward the center and pushed inward, nestled in a pocket of fatty tissue near the arteries that nourish the intestines. This faked everyone out. The pain was across the front of her belly, not where good American appendix pain is supposed to be. The billions of noxious, festering bacteria spewed forth into fatty tissue which had far fewer nerves than other abdominal tissue, causing less pain than would be expected from a good old American ruptured appendix. And, most importantly, IT MUFFLED THE NOISE FROM THE EXPLODING ORGAN!!!!.
We take comfort from the fact that this can’t happen again. You only get one appendix and once it is removed, it doesn’t grow back. But I’ve been having this nagging doubt over the past few days. Maybe they didn’t really remove the appendix. Maybe it really wasn’t the appendix. Maybe it was the addendum, or the index, or some other such non-appendix organ. Maybe THAT’S why I didn’t hear it rupture.
I’m not going to be sleeping deeply for a while… | Comments (3)
June 11, 2004
Stair Master Syndrome
I have never visited Corie in any of her apartments without carrying something up the multiple flights of stairs. I�ve helped her move in; I�ve carried air conditioners up six flights; and I�ve humped dining room tables up the same six flights. Even when it�s just a regular visit, there is always something in my arms. I can�t escape it.I installed a couple of cabinets in Corie�s apartment on Tuesday. This apartment is only a fourth floor walk-up. I only had to carry two 55 pound boxes, four 10 pound boxes, a sheet of plywood, a bundle of trim lumber, a toolbox, a saber saw, an electric drill, and my overnight bag up the stairs. It took a little while for me to stop gasping and let my blood pressure drop to the point where my shirt front stopped throbbing. As soon as my bodily functions returned to normal I went back down to get something for lunch. That required climbing back up once again.
Immediately after got started on the cabinets I realized that I had left a tool bag in the car, which was now parked a block away. Down I went and up I came. The head spinning was now beginning to remind me of my college days.
Three hours later I was done with the cabinets. I showered and was ready for a cold drink. Yes, you guessed it, another trip down and up.
Corie got home and we went out to dinner. Another trip down and up.
We had to drop the left-over pizza off before we back over to Home Depot to buy cabinet handles. Another up and down.
At HD we bought a nice small bag of hardware and a giant box holding a double rollout waste basket. (Guess who carried it up the stairs.)
I drove home the next day. When I woke up on Thursday my legs wouldn�t work right. I�d say �Right leg, step forward.� It would ignore me. I�d say �Okay, left leg, YOU step forward.� It would smirk and say �Yeah, sure.� The muscles were knotted tighter than Nancy Reagan�s ass. I was in trouble.
I got mobile but looked like Groucho Marx on Quaaludes. The day was spent gingerly flexing and then resting. I massaged. I soaked in the tub. I laid on the couch. I stretched. Eventually I drank.
My legs are talking to me again, but it�s going to take a while to restore our former relationship. I can�t mention Corie�s apartment out loud in front of them. The next time we go I�ll have to lie and say were headed for the Metropolitan Museum. I wonder if they understand pig latin?
I have to return in a few weeks and install the stainless steel counter top we're having made. It should weigh about 80 pounds. We'll be bringing it to orie-Cay's place. | Comments (8)
May 31, 2004
The Pen is Mightier�
I really like Pilot Precise V5 rolling ball pens. I use the extra fine point in black. There is nothing that I haven�t liked about this pen - until today.I left one in my shirt pocket yesterday and it went through the laundry today. Out came a whole load of clothes with blue/black ink splotches. That is understandable. We didn�t notice it until the clothes came from the dryer so most of the stains have been baked in. It was my error and I can�t fault anyone else. We�ll have to replace some clothes and maybe some sheets.
We thought that the ink got on all the stuff by direct contact with the pen. What we didn�t notice was that the pen had spewed its ink all over the inside of the dryer - great big globs of ink that adhered to the sides of the drum and dried there. At least we thought that they dried there. It turns out that each time the dryer heats up the ink globs soften enough to smear blue/black schmutz over everything in the load.
We tried alcohol. We tried Windex. We tried Fantastic. We tried every chemical in the kitchen arsenal. The damned blobs won�t come out. Short of crawling into the dryer while it�s running at full heat with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels (something that Nancy probably thinks I deserve), we now own a laundry/Rorschach version of the venerable mimeograph machine.
The dryer was on its last legs, maybe 17 years old, but we thought we�d wring a few more months to a year out of it. No luck. This pen was mightier than the dryer. First thing tomorrow morning I�ll be standing at the door to Sears, waiting for them to open. Better that than twirling at 300� with a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels.
May 20, 2004
Listening to the Ball Game
When I was a kid and REALLY into baseball, not all of the games were televised as they are today. Most games were played during daylight hours (which gives you an idea why so many of those guys in the stands in old film clips of baseball games are wearing white shirts and ties - they were playing hooky from work) and the networks didn’t see much value in televising games when most men weren’t around to watch them. That meant that you listened to the game on the radio. It was a completely different experience from what we are used to today. 
You’d sit near the tabletop radio or hold the transistor to your ear. You’d hear the crack of the bat or the roar of the crowd but you focused on the announcer and his skill at describing what was happening. Yankee fans were blessed. They had Mel Allen and Red Barber. Red Barber practically invented modern sports announcing. With his southern drawl and encyclopedic knowledge of the game, he breathed true baseball life into every pitch.
I can’t get my Yankees on cable here in Vermont without subscribing to one of those services that let you watch every single game being played every day on 8 channels all at the same time. It’s a mere $40 a month or so - the cost of a nice meal out at a local restaurant. I’ll take the meal. Who is dying to see the Milwaukee vs. Montreal? Not even the folks in Montreal want to watch their own team. So I try to listen on the radio.
The Yankees are carried on WCBS 880 AM in New York, a 50,000 watt station whose signal reaches almost 200 miles. Unfortunately, I’m about 250 miles from their tower. If I get in the car and drive to a high spot, the game might come through in a fade-in/fade-out comedy that almost always times the fade-out with the action. After a bit of searching, I discovered that there are three stations within 100 miles that are part of the Yankees Radio Network. One is in Albany, another in Pittsfield Massachusetts, and the last in Burlington.
Reception for all is pretty dismal. AM stations have to drop their transmitting power at night because of ionospheric conditions that cause signals to bounce off and land all over the place, causing interference with stations outside their licensed area. These stations are not 50,000 watt behemoths like WCBS. They are either 5,000 or 1,000 watt punies. At night their signal strength drops by 50% or more. They’re lucky if anyone can hear them. But through the static I can just make out my Yankees.
So I sit next to my radio with my special AM antenna plugged in. One hand is on the antenna tuning dial. One ear is cocked near the speaker. I hear the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. I can almost hear Red and Mel. I’m 10 years old again and somehow the games seem better.
April 23, 2004
I Lost More Than My Camera
Yesterday was a great day to take photographs here in Vermont. Just a few passing clouds scudded by allowing bright, clear light to bounce off all the pale yellows, greens and reds that are announcing buds on all the trees and shrubs. I took a drive down River Road and caught a nice shot of an elderly couple sitting together under a tree next to the Battenkill River. Framed by the wispy yellows of the willow, they sat reading books as the stream rolled by. The belted cows were out too� they get a snap or two every time I have the camera with me.
I stopped to pick up some milk at the Price Chopper on the way home. When I returned to the car and put the container down on the passenger seat, I immediately realized that the Nikon was gone.
I've gotten used to not locking the car around town when I go into a store or to a doctor's appointment. The exception is when I have packages or something of value in the car with me. In my travels yesterday I stopped and locked the car in four other locations and I thought I had locked it at the Price Chopper. In retrospect, I probably clicked the �unlock� rather than the �lock� button.
So the passenger door was slightly open and the Nikon was gone. It could have been anyone � the skater kids who should have been in school, the guy in the pickup who had been parked next to me, or housewife passing the car on her way into the market. It doesn't matter, I want to strangle whoever it was. Not so much for the loss of my camera, but for the loss of my innocence.
People who know me well would describe me as a tad cynical. Okay, maybe more than a tad. So you'd think that there wasn't much innocence left to lose at my age. But in all the years that I've been visiting and now living in Vermont I had come to know a real difference in the general attitude and behavior of the people here. Sure, I know that crime exists and crap happens here just like in other places, but it seemed more distant and rare.
People here tend to know each other more if for no other reason than there are many fewer people to know � if not personally, then by sight. There are a whole cadre of people who I think of as my supermarket acquaintances. We see each other all the time, say hello, talk about purchases and the weather. Must of us don't know each other's names, but that doesn't diminish the smiles of hello when we see each other again near the dairy aisle. So there is a real downside to stealing something � there is a decent chance you know the person from whom you are stealing. They may be the person who stopped their car to let you cross the street, who moved aside at the bookstore to let you get to a shelf, or who bought a raffle ticket for your high school team fund-raiser.
So here's a message to the bastard who stole my camera. I hope you realize that each time you lift it to your eye to snap a photo it will suck a bit of the soul out of your body. Each picture you print will be stained with an ugliness that Photoshop can't edit out. Every click of the shutter will snip a little more of your humanity away.
I'll buy another camera and will be out shooting in a week or so. But now, each time I compose a shot, I'll be paying a little less attention to the light and a bit more to the shadow and that makes me sad - and a bit more cynical.
April 18, 2004
Southern Cailfornia Trip
Nancy and I just got back from a week in and around San Diego. I only took pictures on the day that we (after years of avoiding it) went to Sea World.Sea World tries to mix theme park and science/environmental center with mixed results. It is much more theme park than the other - it's really a stretch to have a huanted house that is tied to marine life and a roller coaster has about as much to do with the sea as a hounted house - but there are many exhibits and displays that are worthwhile.
Here are a few pictures.
It appears that they feed human arms to the young dolphins
each day around 11 a.m.
I'd do the same if thousands of people just stared at me all day long.
In the ten minutes I spent watching this guy all he did was swim
in the same pattern in the 30 foot tank - very sad...
No these aren't freshly butchered baby seals.
They are gift shop stuffed baby ploar bears.
Peguins have to be the closest
living relatives to Muppets.
There were MANY people walking around Sea World who would have
made bigger splashes if they had been able to hoist
them over the water.
We got home to find the cats had (mostly) behaved themselves and
been fine without us. The girls are now sisters.
February 27, 2004
Thirteen Channels
My current cable television service gives me over 200 channels. There was a time when all televisions only got thirteen channels. This was before UHF; before cable; before satellite. There was a rotary dial that clicked twelve times to the right and back twelve times to the left. Rarely did anyone actually get stations on all thirteen channels; a few were empty in large metropolitan areas and most were empty in rural parts of the nation. You got the big three networks and a few local stations that showed second tier syndicated shows, reruns, and old movies.This came to me yesterday as I was reading an article in this week’s New Yorker magazine entitled “Select All - Can you have too many choices?” by Christopher Caldwell. The gist of the article is that humans, when faced with a plethora of options, are lousy choosers. In addition, all those choices can produce anxiety and regret, even when we’ve made the “right” choice. Psychologists have done many studies that show that the more options we are given, the less likely we are to make any decision at all and that those decisions that are made aren't always based on rational thought processes.
We try to cope in two ways. Some of us wade through the morass of choices (for a life partner, a DVD player, the best olive oil, a new car, etc.) searching for the absolute best; putting aside those options that are good, but not perfect. These folks tend to either never make any final choice at all, or to choose and then have remorse, and then choose again. The second group consciously limits their options or the standards by which they choose. This group contents itself with limiting the range of choices and being happy with choices that are “good enough” - that make them feel the choice resulted in a better than average result.
I checked my cable remote this morning and counted the number of channels I had programmed into the favorites button. There were thirteen.
February 9, 2004
Email Catch-up
I get so much email that it is very hard to keep up with getting back to everyone who writes. The surprising thing is the amount of email I get from complete strangers who are kind enough to offer me all sorts of solutions to my problems and opportunities to improve my situation. Maybe there are many more people reading this blog than I had thought. No matter, I just can�t keep up with individual responses. So in the hope that all of those kind folks are visiting this site regularly, I�m going to try to answer some of their email en masse here today.
Dear Ngomi, Mohit, and Princeleo Molberny,Boy, it must be tough getting money out of the bank in Nigeria. Between your disgraced royal families and the fortunes stashed away by ruthless dictators, it seems like half the funds in Nigerian banks are all tied up. You�d think that ruthless dictators would stash that money in Swiss banks, but then, if they were that smart they wouldn�t have ended up strung up by their heels after the coup, would they! Ha-ha! Unfortunately, I really don�t have the $100,000 or more that you require so I can�t be of much help. However, I see lots of ads on U.S, television for places like Ditech and The Money Store. Maybe they could help you out? Email me and I�ll send you their U.S. phone numbers.
Best wishes, Bob
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Dear Candy, Heather, Trixie, Tina, and all the rest of you nice ladies,How nice of you to worry about my social life! I had no idea that support organizations such as yours were so common. I�m sure there are many men who would like to meet a coed or a suburban mom or a shy Asian woman. I am happily married to Nancy, however, and don�t really need your kind assistance. But I think I have a solution for you. I also seem to get a lot of email from organizations of men who are looking for companionship. Maybe I could hook you guys up. Wouldn�t that be cool? Boy, it would make my day if a few of you found Mr. Right. Just let me know.
ps - One personal question - How do you ever get your shoulder harnesses on in the car? I mean, I�m just s regular guy and it sometimes I find it tough to swing across my chest. But you probably worked that problem out about the same time you resolved the issue of the horn constantly being pushed, right?
Sincerely, Bob
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Dear Aida, Herbert, Marlin, and Dr. Thornton,I guess that stuff for making your penis grow is something they leave out of the Burpee catalog and you are just trying to help out. The problem is that, if I were to taking advantage of all your offers, I�d end up having to purchase a specially made right sock. It�s uncomfortable enough dealing with crotch creep during long drives and plane rides; if I were to use all your wonderful creams and pills, it would be agony. I think that I know a good customer for you, though. Try our President! He seems to have issues that are crying out for some enhancement.
Take care, Bob
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Hi Cameroiinbarnhart and eyoa@seyss.com,| Comments (3)Wow, I didn�t know that Botox came in a bottle already! That�s faster than it took Claritin to reach the Rite-Aid. I figure it�s because Cher, Joan Rivers, and John Kerry scarfed up so much of the supply that they are making it up on volume now. I can�t take advantage of your kind offer, however. You see, I looked at the before and after pictures you sent and realized that the secret ingredient in your product is the PhotoShop Blur filter. I did a little experimenting and there is just no way that I can fit my head in my scanner and operate the mouse accurately at the same time. (I did get a very nice, clear scan up my nose that I may use on Christmas cards next year - looks like a pine forest up there - who knew!). Anyway, thanks for the offer.
Yours, Bob
January 23, 2004
Enough for Today
I've spent too much time already today on this redesign and it's time to quit. Most of the pages are okay now. The logo graphics need work and some of the layouts need tweaking, but I'm happy about how it looks at this point in the process.
Please leave a comment if you find any problems or have any suggestions.
Good night...
Rebuilding
As you can see, I'm in the middle of redesigning the site. Certain screens will look funny for a while as I get to the archive and comments templates and make them match the main screen.
| Comments (4)January 15, 2004
Muriel Recovering Nicely
As you can see from the accompanying photo, Murial is recovering nicely from her "snip and tuck" today at Green Mountain Veterinary Hospital. Though a bit weak from the 8 hours of fasting that preceded her "spay-job", as she calls it, her spriits are high and she looks forward to resuming her normal, active lifestyle tomorrow when she returns home.
"Please thank all my well-wishers and blog fans for the beautiful flowers and cards," she asked. "They were delicious."
January 11, 2004
Help. I Have Static In My Pants
It�s been well below freezing for a few days now. That is a bit of an understatement. It has been friggin cold here for a few days now with lows in the -12� range and highs around 3�. I�ve come to realize, though, that I�m one of those people with high metabolisms who can handle cold weather pretty well. It�s not really bad as long as you don�t decide to stroll down to the bookstore first thing in the morning.
But this extreme cold is accompanied by dry high pressure systems and the house, which was at a relatively tropical 35% humidity until the humidifier fan broke last week, (not what you�d expect from a humidifier made by the Hunter Fan Company, now would you?) is down to 19%. The Sahara Desert is usually around 25%.
Everything in the house has static now. Nancy & I exchange a good jolt whenever we kiss. The cat gets 3500 volts when I go to pet her. I wrap my hand in my sleeve before I touch a doorknob.
This morning I got up, slid out of bed (making it worse), and pulled on my favorite hanging-out pants - a pair of polyester gym pants with those pass� stripes down the side and the zippers near the ankles that make them easy to pull off over my track shoes at the Olympics every four years. Instantaneously they looked as though I had shrink wrapped them on. I swear you could see my leg hair through the fabric. And, not wearing and underwear, (yes, I sleep in the buff - close your eyes and imagine it now�) it looked like the pants had a codpiece. It was when I tried to move that the first shock came.
Static shocks start at 1000 volts and a good zap can be 21,000 volts or more. Every step I took gave me a good zap. Right leg - bzzzzt, left leg bzzzt, right leg bzzzzzzt, left leg bzzzzzt. By the time I made it downstairs my eyebrows were sticking straight out and I could feel the aura around me. The cats sensed it and ran.
I managed to get to my trusty Zerostat gun just in time. Zapping up and down my legs, the static fell away in just a few seconds. I felt confident that I could touch the electric coffee maker without causing an explosion. The coffee was set up and started to brew. I walked over to the refrigerator to get the milk. 15,000 volts hit my ass.
The gym pants have been retired for the time being. Maybe the humidifier will return from the service department soon. Maybe we�ll have a January thaw and a bit of rain. Most likely not. The pants will have to stay on their shelf. A man can�t live for long with static in his pants.
| Comments (9)January 5, 2004
Fresh Snow
Our snow was freshened again last night. About 2 inches coated everything when we rose this morning.
The snow doesn�t have much of a chance to get grey and brown here. It�s almost as though Vermont orders up a batch every few days just to keep up appearances. It causes no inconvenience. It simply assures that you see the ground snow through the spindles of the tree trunks when you look up at the mountains. It guarantees that the evening sun turns all the pastel shades as it bounces off the frosted hillside branches and steep-pitched rooftops. The sunrise is that much brighter and the earth seems more comfortable under its blanket.
We�ll probably have snow on the ground until March or April. By that time we will all be aching for warmth and rooting for the buds and shoots to push past the last mounds and start to turn Vermont back into the Green Mountain State. But for now it�s just fine.
With a few more inches we can put on the snowshoes and walk to where you no longer hear the roads, only the crunching of your feet and the sound of your own breathing.
| Comments (8)December 16, 2003
The Season
Christmas music drifts through the house and there is a foot of snow outside, making each window into a Christmas card. The stockings ARE hung by the chimney with care. The cookbooks and magazines have been bookmarked for their holiday recipes that will feed the visiting friends and family.
Walking through town you are greeted by people bustling along with shopping bags and smiles. Evergreens are tied to the tops of passing cars on their way home to spread the smell of the holiday throughout the house. All the stores twinkle with lights.
We are all closer at this time of year, even if thousands of miles separate us.
‘Tis the season.
| Comments (3)September 3, 2003
Suddenly Into Long Sleeves
It happened literally overnight. Last Friday was warm and steamy. I took a short hike in Merck Forest with my brother and his wife and kids wearing shorts and a tee-shirt. We woke the next morning to 46 degrees.
Every day since has felt like fall. The mornings are cool and the afternoons are just nipping at 70. The air has that feel. It touches your skin differently and carries the unmistakable waft of changing season. I can see color creeping into some trees.
So I get up each morning now and put on long pants and long sleeves. They feel right. I sit on the deck with a cup of coffee and a book and long sleeves and it feels right.
After Labor Day it quiets down in Manchester. Summer vacationers are gone and weekend people are fewer. Without the distractions of the added traffic and lots of people walking around, you can pay more attention to the mountains. The color has shifted from bright green to a deeper, darker shade.
I think it’s the mountains putting on long sleeves.
| Comments (2)July 25, 2003
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
This summer we went on vacation to Maine. It was lots of fun. We stayed near a town called Boothbay Harbor. It had lots of t-shirt shops and fat tourists. It had lots of seafood restaurants with names like McSeagull’s. There was a lot there to amuse me.
You could buy lobster everything - lobster coasters, lobster slippers, lobster perfume, and lobster paintings. Most of the food was lobster food - lobster rolls, lobster stew, lobster bisque, lobster gazpacho, and lobster puffs. For a change of pace, you could eat crab.
I saw lots of really interesting people.
- There was a couple who had obviously been eating lobster rolls for quite some time. They were shaped like cannon balls. The guy was carrying a little schnauzer-type dog in a baby sling. The dog was wearing a sailor hat. They fit right in.
- There was a huge SUV that pulled to the curb in Freeport, ME, just opposite L.L. Beans. It was like a clown car for fat women. One fat lady after another popped out. Each one had to adjust her pants after she hit the sidewalk. They all walked right past the store entrance and went into Ben & Jerry’s. It was 10 a.m.
- I saw a yuppie man in a Banana Republic outlet. He had to go find his wife each time he tried on a shirt. She would tell him if it was okay to buy. When it came time to buy pants, he crumbled. She sent him off to look at fleece in the Patagonia outlet. She bought the pants in this family. He probably makes $150,000 a year but can’t buy his own pants.
- There were lots of people walking around with sweatshirts with lobsters on the front, but most looked like whales from the back. There were boats that charged $30 to go on a whale watch. I saw mine for free.
The weather was fog. Fog rolled in and fog rolled out. There was thick fog and thin fog. Once the sun came out but it was still foggy. The local people would all say, “Yup, it’s foggy”.
I saw a house right on the water at Linekin Bay. It had badly weathered shingles. It had a leaky roof. It had no heat. It cost $2,499,000.00
We took a ride 30 miles down the coast to the Harpswell Peninsula. There were no t-shirt shops. There were no giant lobster sculptures outside of the restaurants. The sun came out. That’s where I want to go on vacation next summer.
| Comments (5)July 18, 2003
The Maine Course
Now that we�ve put all this time, sweat and money into the house and it is done exactly as we dreamed it would be, it is time to leave. Nancy and I will be away on a short vacation next week at the Five Gables Inn in East Boothbay, Maine. I think that it is named after the famous movie actor and his four dwarfs - Clark, Lumpy, Pimples, Fetid, and AnnofGreen, but I'll know better once we arrive. It looks to be a very lovely place.
You are not allowed to vacation in Maine without eating copious amounts of seafood - lobster in particular. I�m told that they pump your stomach at a mandatory stop on I-95 South as you are leaving the state. If partially digested seafood is not located in the sample, you have to suck down a clam in order to pass. Actually, no one has told me any such thing, but I had a nightmare along those lines the other night. The reason for the nightmare is relatively simple - I don�t much like seafood. Give me crab cakes or broiled scallops and I�ve reached my limit. An occasional tuna steak can hit the spot. But bake some haddock, broil some mackerel, or serve me a raw clam and you might as well me feeding me grubs and worms. I�ve tried lobster and can�t understand the attraction. To me, crustaceans are just a teensy evolutionary step away from giant insects and that�s too close for comfort.
All of the restaurants and inns we have investigated on the Web display menus chock full of the red monsters. You can slide by with plain old billed/broiled/steamed lobster, but you get added points for the more esoteric menu items. This is my chance to break out of my seafood phobia. I�m going to try the lobster oatmeal for breakfast and I�m drooling over one of those cod smoothies. I didn�t see any whale blubber or coelacanth burgers, but if they have �em, I�ll be game. (Oh wait, we only watch whales now).
When I hit that stop on I-95 next Thursday, they�ll be proud of me.
| Comments (2)