I Fought The Law, and the Law Won

So it’s 4:30 in the morning and I’m awake and working. At my job. At 4:30 in the morning. It’s dark and all hell is breaking loose, business wise, in several of the major Asian countries I’m working with.

The problem isn’t entirely my fault, but it’s my team, and I manage them, so I take the fall because that’s what a manager should do.

The time zones are right, mostly, for talking to my folks already working through the end of what is their Thursday, pesky time zones being what they are. It’s really right timing for talking to my boss. Four thirty means noon-thirty in London and the meaty part of his day.

He asks me why the hell I’m up so early. Well, for one thing, I can’t sleep. For two things, there are emails scorching the inside of my email inbox. Someone’s gotta do something about it, and that’s someone’s gotta be me.

So we’re talking. My voice is still creaky from lack of sleep as I make my case. “I’m in over my head here,” I tell him, and he agrees to help.

I’m keyed up on adrenaline and buzzing like a pot of coffee and two five hour energy drinks dancing a polka across a vat of 1970’s diet pills.

The boss and I are puzzling through the problems. We’re working on solutions. I’m trying to answer as best I can and agree to find out answers to questions I don’t know.

So the boss is talking, going on a long riff as he’s wont to do. It’s good stuff and I’m listening hard. While I listen, I lean my chair back on two legs, perched there for a moment.

I say “two legs” but perhaps I should say “two wheels” because that’s really the case. I’m nestled into my worn but comfy home office chair. I do this all the time, go up on two wheels, while I’m thinking or listening or just because.

I’m listening. I’m “um hmming” and I’m very into the conversation when I guess the gods that rule gravity decide that it’s time they had a say in this situation.

With nary a wobble or early warning, I go from being semi-upright, let’s say a nice 10 degree angle, to staring at the ceiling, knees in the air, I’m-an-astronaut-strapped-to-a-solid-rocket-booster-and-ready-to-light-this-candle position.

This descent of Karenkind does not occur without some noise. And by noise I mean a bone-jarring rattle that travels in waves through my seventy year old domicile. I can hear the plumbing pipes rattling below the floor.

The boys who follow earthquakes over in their center in Palo Alto might have noticed a barely imperceptible blip on the screen while taking another sip of stale government coffee. Meanwhile, seismic waves are going off in my home.

The curious cat, a moment ago fast asleep, comes galloping down the hall to find out what’s the deal. The Good Man turns on the bedside light. I see the yellow glow at the other end of the house.

Over there in London, either my boss hasn’t heard or doesn’t care. He keeps talking. I lay there, knees up, and listen. And reply. I continue the conversation, because the last thing I want to hear right now is “what was that?” because I have no good answer. “I just fell over in my chair” doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in my capacity as either employee or human.

I half expect The Good Man to come check in on me, and am glad he doesn’t. I assume he hears me still talking and believes me to be all right.

Slowly, making the least amount of noise possible, over a period of several minutes, I slide out of the chair and slither into an Indian-style sitting position on the floor.

I finish my call. I hang up. I put my chair back upright and I pat its fake leather back as if to say, “we’re all right, big fella.”

I walk down the hall to go back to bed. The Good Man is snoozing with the light on. I place my iPhone on my bedside table, and as I do, I knock a stack of hardcover library books onto the floor. They make a sizable crash.

Apparently gravity and me are gonna tussle today. Being as how he has the law on his side, I think gravity is going to win.

I plan to give it a good fight.





Image found from Alex Huges Cartoons and Caricatures, a really fun site. I recommend a visit.


Oddly enough, this post actually sorta fits with this week’s Theme Thursday, which is book, so we’ll call it good.


Spring? Soon.

Had a chance to visit Filoli Gardens today in celebration of my amazing and talented mom-in-law and the occasion of her birth.

She produced and nurtured The Good Man, and thus a celebration of her is *always* in order.

Filoli Gardens is one of those magical destinations where it’s almost impossible to take a bad photo. The grounds are carefully tended and the springtime brings a riot of colors to life.

It’s only just recently reopened for the season, and the grounds are simply gorgeous, so I thought I’d share a few photos.

I dedicate these lovely flowers to to the folks who are still stuck in the cold and snow who might be wondering just when in the heck Spring will arrive.

Each of these little flowers whispers to you softly, “soon…”

Enjoy!

(click any photo to see big size)



Amazing purple hyacinth, just had to capture them quickly so I could see them again and again.






I am a big fan of tulips. So hearty yet so delicate.





And daffodils hold a special place in my heart. They signal a beginning. Their yellow sunshine in the midst of dreary winter is a promise to be kept by April.



What’s The Point?

It’s a cold rainy day in the Bay Area today and the ubiquitous “they” seem to think we’re going to have snow today, maybe even in the middle of San Francisco.

Snow? Here? Gah! The Bay Area will lose its ever loving mind.

But that’s not the point.

Today I’m angry, pissy, hostile and downright grumpy. My right wrist still hurts so much it wakes me up at night. I took my gimp to the doctor lady and she fitted me into a wrist brace. This @$%#ing thing limits my movement (doing its job, I suppose) and it is frustrating!

When I rip the thing off then my wrist hurts double. And I get angrier.

I don’t like being weak and showing my weakness. I’m the gazelle that the lions will go for first! The limping one!

But really, neither my gimpy wrist nor my offbeat psychosis are the point.

Apparently I’m a brute when I write. I love using felt tip pens but mush them to nothingness within a week or two. All of my Sharpies are not a bit sharp. I just threw out a whole handful.

I am anal about only using pencils that have a very sharp point, but they either break or go nubby within a few sentences. And mechanical pencils! Sheesh. Anything less than a sturdy .5 size and I’m snapping the lead off left and right!

My kingdom for a good sturdy point!

But the point isn’t really the point either.

I’ve been watching the complete Boston Legal series lately. The Good Man got the set for Christmas and we both adore the show.

I love when Alan Shore goes on a riff and a judge cuts him off with a “you’ve made your point, counselor.”

Once, in the middle of a somewhat terse discussion with The Good Man, when he was Alan Shore-ing me, I dropped that phrase on him. In a snotty tone.

Needless to say, that didn’t go well.

I’ve not used it since.

My “you’ve made your point” isn’t really the point, either.

“It’s rude to point” you hear, ad nauseum, when you are a kid. I mean, when you are pre-verbal isn’t pointing sort of the only way you can get your meaning across?

Besides, is there anything cuter than a little baby exploring the world and pointing one chubby hand at something fascinating and looking to you for your response?

I think not. So I think it should be amended to “it’s rude to point, unless you are under two and awfully adorable, then it’s all good.”

Rules: made to be flexed!

But talking about pointing isn’t really the point.

So, what exactly IS the point?

Today’s Theme Thursday is point, and while I’ve got a lot of quick thoughts, none of them are very coherent.

I guess my point is…this is an entire blog post that doesn’t really have a point.

Cheers to my pointlessness! For the vague shall inherit the Earth.






Photo found several places on the net but unable to find attribution. Will include attribution or remove at the request of the owner.


An Ode To The Shortest Month

Yesterday, in the midst of the weirdness and woe, there was also something magical to note.

After severe rainstorms and plenty of freezing weather, Monday was this clear, sunny, warm, beautiful day.

It was, I think, a hint of what’s to come: February.

Yes, I said February.

The second month of the year. The shortest month of the year. February is a beautiful month.

In February, winter is not quite over, but spring is not quite here. In February we start to see the brilliant yellow of blooming daffodils against the monochrome hue of stormy skies. Daffodils are the harbinger of warm sunny days to come. They gives the cold body hope.

I believe the daffodils and tulips and the snowfall of Cherry Blossoms in February are meant to keep us going like the carrot at the end of the stick. The “something wonderful just around the bend” that help the human soul stay willing to endure the cold and damp days that are yet to be endured.

In February, Punxsutawney Phil pokes his burrowing animal’s head out of the ground and lets us know the score. The planning can begin.

The ground begins to thaw. Birds start to think about coming back this way. There is hope.

Heck, February is also the birth month of at least three of my favorite people (wait, four! Just thought of another).

I appreciate we’re still a good two weeks away from February, but I’m looking toward the second month of the year with a secret anticipation.

In other words…I’m flat tired of winter.

But it’s more poetic to speak of daffodils and warm days.






**Footnote: I purposefully ignored the “holiday” in February. I’m grateful to celebrate every day with my beloved, I don’t need a certain day set aside.


Photo by Andrea Kratzenberg and used royalty free from stock.xchng.


Haaaowww, Might As Well Jump!

Oh hell, I did NOT just reference Van Halen for today’s Theme Thursday topic of jump, did I?

Oh wait. Yes I did.

Ahem. Let’s move on. Quickly.

The topic of jumping has been on my mind lately. The Good Man and I have been discussing this in hushed and worried tones.

You might remember this post from back in May where I described the miracle of my betta fish named Benito. Bubba almost died on us, but he was miraculously saved by The Good Man.

After that rough spot, our little Benito thrived but was fairly timid. The Good Man did some reading up and found that a male betta will become more aggressive as he becomes comfortable with his surroundings.

Well, we’ve had Benito for nine months now and Mr Fish has become VERY comfy in his own little fish house.

So comfy that he’s become a very naughty fish.

When we feed him, he loves to make sport of it. He’ll leap at the food nuggets like he’s got Jaws-like delusions of grandeur.

He’ll hide back behind his heater, and when I drop a pellet and then point to it with my finger, he’ll come charging out ignoring the food pellet and leap to bite my finger.

I swear I hear a tiny “rowrrrr” every time he nips my finger.

Feeding him has become a chore because he’s too busy trying to bite me or do a flying leap onto the food pellet that he misses the damn thing and has to chase it around the bowl.

The Good Man thinks this is funny and encourages him, making his own “rowrr” sounds. Must be a guy thing….

Anyhow, the other day, The Good Man was on feeding duty and he had the packet of pellets in his hand. TGM turned to say something to me, and when he turned back, Benito had jumped clean out of the water and landed on the table.

He’d seen the pellet pack and his buddy TGM and it was ON!

We scooped Benito up and put him back in his bowl and he’s no worse for the wear, and no less ready to leap for his food pellets.

We have to keep his water level a bit low and keep the lid down so we can contain his exuberance. I knew that bettas were notorious jumpers, but come oooon.

An aside for you fish folks who might question: yes, we tested to be sure he wasn’t leaping because his water was ammoniated. Nope, he was just being naughty.

This morning I decided to try to take a photo of my little fish. Having the camera near the bowl stresses him out, so I try not to do it very often or for a very long at a time. Plus, he’s a fast little bugger and hard to photograph.

But here is my little bubba fish (terrible angle, makes him look huge!). Don’t be fooled by the cute eyes…he’s ready to jump. He’d already flared at the camera and leapt at my fingers by this point.

Boys can be so rude! Our other little fish Margaret is such a sweet little girl and easy to feed.

Not so with this troublemaker: