Death and boiled eggs

It seems like 2016 has inaugurated a wave of death, both for the famous and infamous. I have touched on this before (oh, Alan!).  This week alone has seen the passing of Supreme Court judge Antonin Scalia, reality show 'star' Big Ang, and novelist and famed hermit Harper Lee.  

Was there some kind of death lottery, and 2016 won?

I just Googled 'who died this week' and wouldn't you know, a website (tributes.com) popped up that tracks all of this stuff, categorizes it, and links to obituaries for each person who is of some prespecified level of notoriety.  It's morbidly amusing, really, to scroll through the week's victims to see who is recognizeable and who is less so.  Punky Brewster's stepdad, for example, fits the latter category for me, while Boutros Boutros Ghali certainly slots into the former.  

Every life has its dash, is what I get out of this.

---

Anyhow, let us not dwell on sadness and the inviolate principles of mortality!  Let us instead turn our attention to one of the biggest personal victories of my recent history, which is this:

I HAVE MADE WELL-PEELING HARD-BOILED EGGS.

See, I have been trying out different methods of cooking 'the perfect HB egg' for a while. Perfect means a firm white, creamy yolk, no green ring around the yolk, and it must peel cleanly without any gross membrane adherence issues.

Certain famous cooks have touted the 'boil then soak' method (start cold, bring to a boil, turn off heat and let the eggs soak for 15 minutes followed by a plunge into an ice bath).  Sounds elegant, but I'm here to tell you that those things don't peel worth a damn.  A DAMN!  Fully half the whites are lost to membrane adherence, and the resulting egg is not smooth and globulously luxurious, but rather pitted and pockmarked and sadly downtrodden.  Who wants to eat a downtrodden egg?  NOBODY, that's who.

Therefore, a little research was done into egg-boiling methods, and the the message is this: 'boil then soak' is the the absolute wrongest way ever invented to make a hard-boiled egg that peels correctly.  This method actually makes the shell stick to the egg!  WHA????  What kind of cruel joke is THAT, Martha?  

If the doyenne of all things domestic has got it wrong, one might ask how on earth SHOULD one cook an egg to hard-boiled delicious perfection?

The answer is to start the eggs warm (low simmer), bring the water to a boil, turn heat back to a simmer, cook for 5 minutes, then turn off the heat and let 'em sit for 5 more minutes (or until you're done cleaning the stove, which was my timing).  Decant thenceforth to a large amount of ice water, and let 'em sit for at least half an hour.  

The result?  Shells that come off as easily as a satin slip on date night, my friends, with a tender white and creamy soft yolk.  Oh yes indeed, quite perfect.  Sweet meaningful success.

Scoff not at my cheer! These are my victories.  These are my triumphs!  I need not conquer lands or peoples - vanquishing the troublesome issues of egg-boiling is enough for me!!

Huzzah!  Huzzah!
---

Tiff out.

Got my Vitamin D

If I win the lotto...

Today was a lovely Saturday, at least thus far.  It might still be ruined by a chunk of airplane ice crashing through the roof and blasting me on the head, but so far I have few complaints.

Started out by going down to the main Lifepointe Church site and slinging (OK, pitchforking) a bunch of heavy wet mulch around to start the effort of covering the whole allotted acre of the new Community Garden with organic material.  I know, right?  Me and pitchforks - the jokes write themselves!  

Anyhowdle, the work needed to be done and because I think this is a fantastic idea and a very positive thing to do, I volunteered to be part of the garden team.  Hey,  I can sling some mulch.  For 90 minutes.  Then  I quit.  I can't slave my whole LIFE for other people, for goodness sake.  Whatever effort I put into it, I know the Good Lord Above knows my heart was in it for at least 3 hours.  Plus which, I wasn't the first one to quit, so HA.

The pitchforking had failed to work up a sweat, so I did the next best thing and convinced Mason to come with me to wash the stank-ass living room rug at the local car washateria.  I bought him lunch at Smithfield's first - ooo, remind me that I need to write a sternly-worded letter about the counter 'help' and how it really wasn't (eg - my half-and-half tea wasn't and the Sprite Mason ordered [loud and clear] didn't make it to the first order so like a dunce I went ahead and PAID for it when really it should have been comped.  C'mon, soda's cheap!) - so there was a nice carrot for him to chew on.  Literally.

The carwash blaster hose was working great on the 'add bubbles!' setting but not so great on 'now, RINSE!' so we had to haul the soapy wet rug home (all 150 pounds of it, at this point) and hang it over the deck rail to rinse it, and EW.  EW EW EW.  Such filth and yuck was embedded in that thing.  Gaggitty.  This thing was in our HOUSE two days ago, until some cat peed on it (that's what it smelled like, anyhow) and the whole house stunk and we chucked it outside until the sun decided to come out (today) so we could wash it then let it dry outdoors after washing.  But wow - the rinse water was opaque to start, and a shade of brown that Mason described as 'burnt ochre' which I think is about right.  Gross, no?  Yes.  But it's over now, and once the sun bakes it tomorrow it should be a-OK to put back in the house.  Fingers crossed!

So, yeah, the Man and I then decided to go visit the airplane and look for some missing documents (any excuse!), which was great because it's been a sunny day and I need my vitamin D plus which there were skydivers galore and a glider/tow plane were doing lots of ups and downs and various were aircraft zipping about (WARBIRD SIGHTING!).  It was a good time, even IF we didn't find what we were looking for, because Gerritt was able to make some fixes to the plane in glorious weather and I was amused by all the shiny things (SUN!) at a place I really like (an airport?  Yup - that one's a pretty good place to hang out on a good day to fly).

Then, once home, I took a long hot shower.  'Twas marvelous, but I'm pretty sure we need to look into getting a tankless water heater, because I could have used another 20 minutes just hanging out in scalding water.  That, or we need a hot tub.  Either / or.  But at least one.

And look - it's only just 6 p.m.  So much more can happen, but you won't read about it here, in this post.  Because I'm just about done, and the future can't tell itself.

Tiff happily out.

FOR NOW.

A swing and three misses.

Just a little more Time, God?  No, Alan.  Well, how 'bout we get get the Cos up here instead?  Alan, he's not coming here; it has to be you.  Dammit!  Quite the opposite, really.

Someone else won the $1.5 BILLION dollar Powerball last night, it appears.

Strike one.

Spent the night in bad dreams, like the following:

• New job
• at FOX NEWS
• have sleep at the office even though home is 30 minutes away
• Skirt and heels, me
• Elevator that doesn't work, to the point where pressure gauges and pulleys push out from the walls as the cab descends, and those aboard know what to do with them
• Finding out there's a Home Depot in 'the returns department' that's staffed by hundreds of people
• Being asked out by a (female) high school classmate
• Thinking I needed to update my banking info so FOX can deposit my check in MY bank, not theirs
• Too many bananas on vacation
• And one attic scene I won't go into except that it involves a stationary bike.
• Oh, and LOTS of stair in the building, to the point that if you THINK you are on level 1.7 you might actually be on Level 6, and finding the right set of stair or elevator to take you to the correct level 2 involves former colleagues, French doctors, a Boy Scout Leader, a terrible rainstorm, and the ability to, as previously mentioned, run in heels and a skirt.

Strike two.

And then, as the acidic black topping on the nightmare pie, frigging Alan Rickman dies.

Yes, my boyfriend Alan Rickman.

That smooth-talking Brit, that strutter of stage, that actor of films, that wig-wearing Snape.  Oh, Alan.

Say 'hey' to Bowie, Lemmy, and (if she's in the same neighborhood) Natalie for us, would you?  They all must be about as confused as you are, though you all had to know you were leaving.

Strike three.

Tiff out.

The Dog ate my glasses

That's an Aston Martin.  His dog ate it.

One of life's lessons about having a dog is that THEY EAT THINGS.

Precious things, garbage, clothing, paper, sticks, anything.  Some dogs eat furniture too, but so far with Wern we've not had that problem.  He stops at 'precious things' and calls it a day.

What is a precious thing, might you ask?

Anything that is on the kitchen table or other 'off limits' (in our minds) area to which he does not have express access.  I know, I know, he's a DOG and as such if a cat happens to knock a precious thing off the table (or other off limits area) the thing then becomes perfectly acceptable to chew on, and, usually, to destroy.

As is what happened to my computer glasses several weeks ago.

Yes, I have glasses to wear when I'm using the computer.  How very middle-aged of me, I know.

See (heh), I don't need glasses to read, because my left eye is nearsighted.   I don't need glasses to drive, because my right eye is farsighted.  I DO need glasses to clearly see my computer, because it sits in the perfect middle-distance at which neither of my eyes sees very well at all.   Left eye is still winning, but Rightie is making a valiant effort to superimpose a fuzzy double-image of the screen, which isn't as helpful as one might imagine, but who am I to tell Rightie to lay off and quit working?

It doesn't help that my eyes see things in slightly different colors, either.  The left one transmits more in the ruddy range, while Rightie is cool blue, in general.

Do you not wish you were me right now, with the wonkiness?  3D movies are out of the question, if you must know.

I've been working at the computer (it's what I do) for the past few weeks without my glasses, and I can't say it's been a terrific experience.  Lots of squinting and embiggening going on, some of which is of course because I am old, but the remainder is because I simply can't see as well as I ought to at that distance.  Curiously, my eyesight is not getting any better from the daily workouts, and the fact must be faced - it's time to get the peepers peeped at and things brought to rights.

I should probably thank Wern for eating the last pair, his ingestion of my fancy polycarbonate no-frame titanium-templed specs was done from a place of LOVE to save me from continued use of the scratched-up lenses.  I know.  Dogs are good like that.  They take care of us.  Even if it means I get to shell out another 400 clams for the exam and glasses.

That money's coming out of his 'treats and toys' budget, but don't tell him that.  It'll be a long and lonely two weeks until that deficit is made up.

Tiff out. 

The little black book

In the time I've spent as a professional person working a responsible job, I have mostly had to rely on lists and whiteboard and things of that nature to ensure I'm covering all the bases to which I've been assigned.  Keeping stuff like that solely in my head simply doesn't work, and the embarrassment of saying 'Oh dear I forgot to do that' when someone's tapping the ol' manila folder on the edge of my desk just isn't a place I want to be or a shame I want to experience any more.

Thus, lists.

Now that I'm not in cublicleland, there's no whiteboard for me to layout my timelines upon, no flexible repository for my progress against goals.  No, there's none of that.  Instead, I am becoming reliant on the little black book, a real page-turner that all too often says the same thing on Page B as it did on Page A, with some small tweak to indicate that progress had been made against goals.

Every day I write down what I understand my daily goals to be, and every NEXT day I review them, rewrite the ones I didn't get to, check my calendar to be doubly sure I'm not missing anything (I usually am), and start all over again.

For the past 3 days I've had the same top 2 tasks to do, so I assigned them a DUE DATE today, and thus they will get done.  Due dates are my self-imposed hell, but they motivate me to perform when I would allow many a thing to languish until somebody hollered for it (my past work-life balanced depended on this).  However, the new job has a much more insidious master: THE DATABASE.

If you are late initiating a task, the DB will let you know. When a date is approaching for action, the DB will tell you, then tell you again if you didn't respond appropriately the first time.  The DB will tell you when a task is coming up and when it's gone screaming past you, only to be viewable in the rear-view mirror of regret.

In other words - the DB rules the calendar.

Thus, my notebook is refreshed every day with things I need to do to keep ahead of the DB, to keep that ol' head above water while learning to swim in the deep end.  The DB is like a terrible coach, pulling a student under to teach them how to float.

But I shall win this, and the DB will not drown me.

My little black notebook says so.

Do you have an organizational system that works for you?  Our household chores are updated daily on a whiteboard, which works for the family as a whole, but these individual work goals must travel with me...and I don't have a smartphone.

OK then, with this dull entry over, it's

Tiff out (to go do items A and B, then C, and possibly D before it's time to pack it all in for the day).

Back to school time!

The younger kiddo had to go back to UNC at Chapel Hill yesterday afternoon, because classes started today and what better time to get back to campus than before classes actually start?

I thought so too.

It's not a bad drive at about 40 miles door to door, which makes it a nice afternoon's jaunt there and back with hardly any stress.  Colin accompanied us, which was great, for there were many things to tote up to the fourth floor and it would have been many multiples of trips with just Mason and me.  Shoot, just the 75 bucks worth of dorm food we'd purchased yesterday afternoon would have been at least 2 trips by itself!

'Twas a gorgeous afternoon to boot, with temps in the mid-50's and a beautiful sunny sky, so after we unloaded we ambled across campus to have a late lunch/early dinner at Spanky's.  On our way there we'd stopped at the school store (massive), and I purchased a car magnet that's a simple representation of The Old Well, 'THE' campus landmark.  I'd toyed with 'Carolina Mom' magnet, but that's just too shouty for me, and I dig simplicity.  It's pretty, and I like it.  

While we were at lunch, I snapped what turns out to be a very very fuzzy pic of the kids, but I'm putting it here because I LOVE their smiles, and it's kind of a celebration to see Mason's teeth after 2+ years in braces.  They've grown up so nicely, and I'm proud of them to absolute bits.

Colin has pretty much adopted the campus as his own too, and visits whenever he can.  I do think he misses not having had the 4-year experience, but his brother is happy to share and Colin will have adventure of his own, perhaps sooner rather than later.  

Even thought they're strapping young men now, I am still amazed at how they grow and develop and change almost daily - it's a miracle to watch them mature and a blessing to be able to do so.  Plus which, they're both seriously funny, so even if they weren't QUITE so awesome, they'd still have that going for them.

One proud mama Tiff, out.

Swinging the boom

Hi guyz!!  I see you!

Hey, let's just get this out of the way, OK?

If anyone has a cure for sudden gushing nosebleeds, I'd sure appreciate it.

Good grief, I sniff too hard and epistaxis happens.  Forget blowing my nose.  I might as well just shove a teaspoon of Vaseline up there to moisturize that left nostril, or get a home wood-burning kit to cauterize whatever stupid little blood vessel is up there that insists on being a delicate flower and bursting forth in freshsets of crimson each time it feels just a lil' put upon.

Because, really.  ONE sniff?

This is the same nostril that just offered up sample of A+ gore at a review meeting 18 months ago or so, when I was so stressed out I looked at a sudden horrific nosebleed as a welcome respite from the stupidity that was happening in the room.  Oh, sure, I had to RUN out of the room with my hand cupped under my nose, hoping I wouldn't stain the conference room carpet, but at that time I was secretly hoping for some moderately-concerning ailment to take me out of that team for....6 months of so, so the nosebleed was a promising start.

Now?  I'm done with it.

Where's the dang Vaseline?

---

I feel like it's important to note that when the first thing your kids want to eat as a snack is kielbasa and sauerkraut, that somehow you've passed the ultimate parenting test and they're going to be fine in the big bad world.

They even passed up hummus.

Watch me pat myself on the back.

---

Oh, and one more thing.  When I came on board at the new job I was asked be a sort of process improvement expert/value adder type person.

As in 'let's go ahead and figure out why the company has you aboard.'

The last few months I've been observing and experiencing and training and figuring out where the chinks and gaps and thick rubbery blankets of onerous busy work are stored, and yesterday I released my findings upon my group.

Glorious day!

I really did kind of go with both barrels about how SUCK this job is and the hundred ways it could be better and had suggestions and drawbacks identified and notes outlined about possible co-groups that would need to be actioned to effect the proposed changes, and I GAVE A TIMELINE by which I thought all the issues noted could be addressed.

Yeah, I gave it to 'em good.

I even wrote a nice 3-paragraph preamble on the history of the effort, why the report was written, my observations about the group as it is and where I think it could go....all in corporate-speak.

An effort of which I am MOST proud.

Aaaaand, my boss wants to talk 1:1 with me about it next week.  I ain't skeered.  I did what she asked, I have my stump speech ready, and I am fully prepared to action the living SHIT out of my plan, beeeeecause....my coworkers agree with my findings and want a way to dig out from under the BS into the glorious light of relevance.

I am, in fact, their beacon in the darkness.  

Feels dang good.

:)

Tiff out.

Everyone has a bad day now and again

Yesterday, I embroiled y'all in a tale of high anxiety and hot tempers.  Oh, it was saucy and vicious, allright, what with all the CATS and death wishes.

I felt pretty good about my righteous indignation, I did.

Until she called back.

And APOLOGIZED.

She was having a bad day, and really likes us as neighbors, and wanted to apologize for being so touchy, etc etc blahblahblah.

NOW where am I going to put all my rage, HUH?

---

It's nearly 7 p.m., and I signed off of work half an hour ago.  My first meeting tomorrow is in 11.5 hours.  Yep - 7 a.m.

I'll be signing off at 3, just you watch me.

---

Question for all you pet owners out there: do you have your furry buddies in bed with you at night, or do they sleep elsewhere?

Wern sleeps on a dog bed next to our bed at night, the cats sleep in the house if they're indoors for the night.

Some folks though are firmly in the crate arena, and others are just as staunchly in the 'let's all crawl in bed together' zone.

Our system works for us, bcs I KNOW the animals aren't fully shed of fleas and dirt, so what makes you welcome them to bed or safely tuck them into their own little dens for the night?

Inquiring minds want to know.

---

Blogger is losing it's mind.  When I start to write a post the font is so small I can barely read it, and that's at the 'normal' setting (about 8-point font, if I'm any guesser).  When I switch it to 'large' font, things BALLOON up to something around 20-point font, and there's no in-between size.

Neither of which has anything to do at all with how the font appears on the post, of course.  Can't have things making sense all willy-nilly.

Are you a fan of the larger font?  I think I am, and if this site was in mobile device layout, I'm sure that's how it would be.  One giant picture at the top, and nothing but big beefy font scrolling allaway down.

---

Tip to the Wise: Keebler 'Flip Sides' Pretzel Cracker are a poor, poor imitation of Pretzel Crisps.

Do not be fooled.

---

Tiff out.

I have some things to work on

For the past few months, we have been working on re-siding the house, choosing to clad in in vinyl by ourselves, with occasional help here and there.

And by 'ourselves,' I mean G is doing 99% of the work.  I just hold stuff.

Because both he and I are employed full-time, and even if I wasn't I would have precious little idea how to put the stuff up if it came to tricky bits (but I'm learning, ever so slowly), it mean that the work is done on nights and weekends.  You know, about the same time as the lawn mower/blower brigade strikes up the band.

One little thing G likes to do when doing outside work is set up the music system to play some tunes while he's banging nails and trimming siding.  The music is not on a boombox, but rather on part of his band's PA system, which CAN put out a mighty voice when called upon, but doesn't in the neighborhood because, well, folks don't always WANT to Andreas Van Vollenweider while they're doing their leaf blowing.

OK, nor might they want to hear 21 Pilots, Gunship, OKGo, worship music, Arthur Lyman, the Sugarcubes, Steve Taylor, Gorrillaz, or anything else he might have on the bulging iPad of musical chairs.

Bottom line, we try to keep the music at a sane level (G's definition, it's HIS job site), and pointed at the work, not the neighbors.

Saturday he worked all day on the house.  It HAS TO BE DONE, y'all.  Cold is coming on. After 3+ months of work (most of it prep work, putting up actual siding is the icing), he's working when there's light, if it's after 9 a.m.  Rock stars need their rest.

Segue to last night - a phone call.

He's out on the deck grilling chicken, so I don't hear any of the conversation.  What I do get is the rundown after, which goes something like this:

Neighbor lady:  Do you hear that music?
G: No, no I don't.
Neighbor: Well it sounds a lot like the music you were blasting all day Saturday when I was trying to sleep because I need to sleep during the day because I'm taking care of CATS all night long and that's when I sleep!  
G:  Well, please call me next time if it's bothering you.
Neighbor: What was that you were playing, RAP?
G: It was all kinds of stuff.
Neighbor: Well you know I'm sick and the daytime is the only time I can sleep because I have all these CATS to take care of at nighttime so the daytime is the only time I can sleep.
G: OK, thanks for letting me know.
Neighbor: you KNOW I have all these CATS to take care of. 
G: OK, thanks for letting me know.

To which I said something REALLY really uncharitable, like 'hurry up and die already, old lady,' and then felt kind of bad, but then didn't, and for that I am a terrible person and remarkably unChristian in my cheek-turning abilities.  BUT LORD HAVE MERCY!  You know why she couldn't call G to ask him to turn down the music so she could rest?

"Well I couldn't get out of bed."

If you're THAT tired....

But I won't say it.  I won't.  I'll think it, and I'll invent a thousand ways one could perish of aural abuse, but I will not SAY it.  Whoops! Just added one - so One thousand and ONE ways to assault a certain Fire Marshall Bill-lookin' neighbor with noise, noise, noise, NOISE!!

Sayyyy, I wonder if her landscapers get the same treatment?  I don't see THEM mowing between dusk and dawn. Maybe she just stuffs another pack of smokes down her neck and puffs aways the offense, until such time as every last blade of grass is (quietly) picked up and they slink off in their electric truck with the fur-covered tires, leaving her to bask in sepulchural splendor, until the horrible neighbors and their Devil RAP MUSIC start up at 10 a.m.!

Forgive me, Lord, for the vivid imagination you blessed me with sometimes is used for evil and not for good.  AND I ENJOY IT.

Until next time,
Tiff out.

PS - but really, am I way off base on this one?  Feel free to tell me how to curb my irrational rage, because I'm all ears.

January. so time for the monthly post.

Actually, I plan to do better than that this year.  Right, OK, it's a refrain heard before, but you know what?  Facebook is getting old and stupid in so many ways, and I can put here what  I wouldn't put there either because it's 1) too boring even for Facebook, b) too boring, even for Facebook, or iii) too boring...you get the idea.

Aren't you looking forward, therefore, to reading this blog in 2016?  I'm all a-shiver with the thought of the thrills and spills and chills yet to be on offer here.

---

Speaking of chills - it snowed for the first time here today.  Minor, tiny-baby flurries, but SNOW, nonetheless.

December was warm and WET, and though that would sound sexy in certain contexts, when you're talking Christmas, you really shouldn't be talking all sexy anyhow so it better be at least COLD.  Santa doesn't care for sexy weather at Christmas, it makes his beard itch and his stomach sweat under that vast swath of belt he's got going on around his midsection.

And as we all know, moist belly-buttons are very sulky belly-buttons.

So yay snow!  I don't even really mind the cold, if it means (and it does!) that the backyard will harden up a little and we won't have dogfoot mud being spread all over the dang house.  And the mosquitoes will go away.  And the spiders will die.

Seriously, y'all.  A week ago we had the dang A/C on.  It was ridiculous.  And wonderful, too, a little.  But mostly ridiculous, on account of all that mud.

---

We celebrated out 7th wedding anniversary yesterday.  To celebrate, we both took naps, then went to see 'The Force Awakens' at the 'we're practically teenagers!' hour of 6:50 p.m.  Woohoo!!

That was after I gave him socks as a gift, which is TOTALLY APPROPRIATE as the traditional gifts for ol' #7 are either made of wool or copper.  His socks are made of wool.  SMARTWool, even, so I expect by summer his toes will be able to do calculus, which would be a real help to me because I never learned it and might someday need to know something along the calculusy line.  He gifted me with a copper mailbin for my desk (hooray!  no more slidey piles of mail!) and some earrings that 'may contain copper' or might not, but they're pretty and I love them.

But not as much as I love him.  It's really easy to do when you like someone too.

---

More soon - I have to go write the 'what's wrong with this job' report for my new boss.  It's just the kind of thing I like to do, and because I'm locked out of all pertinent systems while the trickle-down from my recent NT ID name change occurs, it's about the only thing I CAN do.

My one problem: how to type while rubbing my hands together, all Snidely Whiplash fashion.  Heh-heh-heh.

Tiff out.

Better days ahead!

A couple of months ago I started working at a new place, in a position I'd left YEARS ago and came back to because I was corporate-woo'ed.  Not like "WOO!" but more like, 'come here shugah, we NEED you.'

That bit felt nice not gonna lie.

Concerned, in a sexy way

Then the party started.

As is to be expected, the first several weeks were loaded down like a middle-Eastern donkey cart with training.  Module after module, with scintillating titles like 

"How to apply paint properly so you can thence set about watching it dry (and how to document the process for the later inevitable audit" and 

"You, management, and the company.  A threesome designed to succeed."  

Like many companies, my new/old one offers training in four basic flavors.  They are 

• 1) modules that involve mere reading of SOPs and clicking 'DONE' at the end (my favorite), 

• 2) some with animations and no audio (an OK presentation, but lacks pizzazz), 

• 3) shows with animation and sound with intermittent quizzes to trip you up (I happen to excel at this type of module, having learning long ago that if someone's going to put all that work into the training they're damned sure going to want to you pay attention and not feel complete fool in the midst of it because you can't answer a simple question like 'in what country can you NOT take a contact out to dinner but you can offer them sporting tickets?'), and 

• 4) my most hated type of training: the 'Marci.'

The Marci is a type of training that involves animation, sound, intermittent quizzes, and the ultimate turn-off: stock photos of 'colleagues' in 'conversations' about the driest of the dry materials.  Think compliance, and audit readiness, and document retention.  THAT dry.

((DISCLAIMER!!!  I am of the opinion that compliance, and audit readiness, and records retention are important topics, but they do not need the Marci.  Nobody needs to hear conversations (also captured in speech bubbles on-screen) between two people pretending to be corporate employees but who are really only doing it for 50 bucks a shoot and access to the craft table carrying on this chat (see below) while being featured in a static display of one of four poses:

1. stern
2. curious
3. concerned
4. FULLY AWARE))

The chat goes like this:

---
Marci, curious (dressed in a polyester suit that would make an Eskimo sweat at -20F):  So James, I see you've completed the corporate training for 'How to keep fish from rotting at your desk, SOP-FSHSTNK101.'

James, curious (in Dockers, an Oxford, and a tie): Yes, Marci, I finished it two days ago, as per the requirements in our training system.

Marcie, concerned: I also noticed that you had to take the assessment three times in order to pass.

James, stern: Yes, I did.  Some asshole in marketing kept pinging me on IM wanting those figures you said I'd give him two days before the deadline, and I had to split my attention between the tasks.  At 8 p.m, on a Friday.  DURING my wedding rehearsal.

Marci, stern: Pat of being a good employee, JAMES, is learning to budget your time.  Didn't you take that 3-hour training on organizational systems and using the e-mail janitor like you were supposed to (TRN-IMSKRWD-203)?

James, concerned and stern and curious (now THIS is acting!):  Marci, you know I've been here for only two weeks and that it normally takes the average employee 4 weeks to dive so deep into the prescribed training that they get to those flabby stupid CYA modules that even Satan himself has avoided assigning Hell's occupants.  I simply haven't budgeted the time on a daily basis to get the modules done much faster than I am right now what with the shit-ton of work you're throwing at me and trying to learn all the systems that go along with the crap work I have to do which is NOTHING like you said it would be, BEE TEE DOUBLE-YEW.  I TOOK A ONE-DAY HONEYMOON BECAUSE OF THIS COMPANY AND YOU, YOU HARRIDAN, SO BY GOD IF YOU ASK ME ONE MORE TIME ABOUT FRIKKING TRAINING YOU'RE GETTING MY RESIGNATION AND A CALL TO THE 'ACTION LINE' (which I learned about on Day 1 and haven't yet forgotten about because I figured I'd need it sooner than later).  Back off, 'mentor,' because once I'm DONE with training I am your BOSS and you will have to suck it up so hard your head might juuuuust cave in.

Marci, fully aware: OK James, that sounds like a plan.  Please ask me anything about any other training module in which I appear, as I'm so bland yet flatly passive aggressive in a shiny lip gloss and sensible haircut kind of way I might have fooled you into thinking I'm a powerless automaton in a skin suit but I think I might just be able to TAKE YOU DOWN, PUSSY with my robot powers and THEN who's the boss, HUH?!?!

James, fully aware: Touche, Marci.  But remember, I approve your paychecks.

Marci, concerned: Touche, James.

---

That's the Marci.  

Kind of.  The corporate version involves less swearing, surprisingly.

Next up?  Let's talk about do-it-yourself 'onboarding.'  It's the fun thing none of the kids are doing!

Tiff out.

Been a while

When I log in to Blogger to update this site-lette, if helpfully tells me when I last posted.

This time?  It's been since 30 September.

More than 2 months ago.

Oh, I've had things to say, but so much of that ilk of drivel gets spilled in Facebook, leaving me semi-top(ic)less for any real bloggery.

EXCEPT, I don't put nearly as much on FB as I'd like, because I practice impulse control on occasion.  So, in case you're interested, here are some of the things I WAS going to put on Facebook that I decided not to because I am selective about where I overshare:

---

I don't think I am anybody's best friend at the moment.

I don't think I've been anybody's best friend for many years.

Not having or being a best friend doesn't bother me as much as it probably ought to, but it does get lonely around holiday time.  A nice big circle of friends to celebrate with is great for the holidays.

All too often I have songs from the '70's on the mental jukebox.  Olivia Newton-John, anyone?  No?  How about some Carpenters, or BTO?  Or would you like a slice of 'Afternoon Delight' to quench your hunger?

I too am shocked by all the gun violence, and think owning a semi-automatic weapon is senseless.

I do not believe that quote you've attributed to the Muslim in Chief is accurate.  Perhaps you should do a little fact-checking before posting lies.

Just because I am of a certain political bent does not mean I hate Jesus and want to give all your money away to people who refuse to work.

Just because I'm a Christian doesn't mean I think you have to be too.  I don't even think that some CHRISTIANS should call themselves that.

I love bacon.  Yes, I know it's made from animal flesh.  I like chicken too, and beef.  Lamb, goat, fish, shellfish too!  I do not believe that milk is poison, and cheese is one of my favorite foods.  You have every right to feel proud of yourself if you do not eat those foods, but that is your choice.  Please do not try to convince me on Facebook that  I need to completely overhaul my (delicious) eating style.

Global warming / climate change is a real thing.

It's possible that GMOs are as safe to have in this world as a dachshund, a creature also created by modifying genetics.

---

Do you happen to see a pattern in my holdbacks?  Possibly that they are attention-seeking and/or provocative?  Maybe that they would tick someone off, or come across as self-pitying?  This is not the profile I want on social media like FB, I like most of my FB buddies and want to, at the core, not piss anybody off.

Even when I have something to say.

There's enough trauma in the world.  Nobody needs to get in a shouting match because they disagree with someone else's opinion.

Though I do offer up the occasional Snopes page if I think someone can handle it.  Not everyone wants their assumptions and warm cozy rut to be disturbed.

Even me.

So I will leave these things to my dim and dusty corner of the internet, hoping to expunge my wee rages here instead of fanning any flames on a huge social media site that should be nothing more than shares of cute animal videos and photos of people at parties.  We'd all be so much happier that way, wouldn't we?

Shaking my tiny passive/aggressive fists of rage,
Tiff out.

Fuc- you, Neil Kramer

We still blog.

It's not always nice.

It's not always what you want your mom to see.

Or you pastor.

Or your friends.

We hide stuff here, expecting that those who find it are looking for what in some odd way we crafted to appear.

We do not SEO.

We wrench, sob, filter, wipe, stretch, galvanize, sip, dip, ache, sweat, doubt, grind, celebrate, wonder, curse, pray, believe, accept.

We do this.

No apologies.

No need to kite the message.

(except of course, to my My FB close friends, who I've posted this to, but if you're not then then hello,  I am sometime offensive)

And to Neil, who prompted this.  Thanks  for reminding me why I still do this.

Weird hobbies and one thing I won't do

This is my admission:  I have a couple of weird hobbies.  Can you call 'watching offbeat YouTube videos' a hobby? 

I could help her with this.

If so, then yes, I have some weird hobbies.  I like watching videos of weave installs (I'm getting familiar with the industry lingo and have seen some great and some terrible results), makeup tutorials, and 18-century cooking (both in battlefield situations and in a regular Germanic-style kitchen).  I can make up your face, sew in a closure, and make vermicelli pudding for you if you want!  I'm practically an expert!

One other little thing I like to do is peruse the Wake County arrest photos on the local teevee station's website.  It pays to be able to know who the local miscreants are!  While scrolling through the mugshots, I'll try to guess their age and crime.  It's surprising how often I'm wrong on the age things, esp. for arrestees who are older than about 25.  There are some rough-looking folks out there who, it appears, have been knocked around by life. 

Just a little while ago, I was doing the weekly scroll, and noting that it was mostly drug stuff, or breaking and entering (popular with the under-20 crowd), or DWI stuff.  Then I came upon a mug shot of this slim, sort of sad-looking young man with bleached dreads and I thought 'Oh my goodness, whatever could he have done wrong?  He looks kind of sweet.' which is why I would make a horrible detective, because this kid had one word in his arrest notation: murder.  MURDER!  You just don't see that every day around here. 

I have had some murderous thoughts in my past, I will say that much.  The thought of actually DOING it though would give me much pause.  Crafting a back-story and a good alibi would take a lot of work, don't you think?  By that I mean that if I was going to commit murder, I'd want to be able to get out of it if arrested.  Innocence is a pretty high hurdle to get over if you're going to become homicidal, which is why I've never done so.

Clearly this kid didn't think his cunning plan all the way through.  Murder.  That's pretty harsh, dude.

He should have maybe stuck with 'AWDW' and 'posses SCH1' or something a little less...desperate, maybe.  Get in a little trouble, go away for a while, come out and maybe your problem person would have been 'taken care of' by someone else.  But wow.  Murder.

Perhaps I dwell on this too much, but one can't help but wonder what leads people to such actions.  The father that drowned his children, the person who commits murder then suicide, the person who kills to get into a gang - did they at some point stop to think 'man, this is messed up, I need to get help'?  When does killing someone become the BEST option?

That also goes for the death penalty, BTW.  I really think prisoners who are jailed for terrible crimes should fester away in prison for the rest of their lives, no hope of parole.  Just stick 'em in the can and leave 'em.  With books.  And a job to do.  And one jar of Nutella a year, to show them what they're missing, because on the outside, you can have Nutella pretty much whenever you want.

So, I guess this is to say that even IF you make me really really mad, I probably won't kill you.  I'll probably just get all thoughty and metaphysical and introspective, THEN maybe clang you in the head with a pot to show you how mad I am. 

My gift to you.

Tiff out.

Ayy dee aich dee and why I can't complain too much longer about the cafeteria at work.

Many years ago, and it's nearly twenty years now, I gave birth to a wonderful, healthy, gorgeous, baby boy.

I was overwhelmed with love.

He has been an amazement to me ever since, with an open heart, curious mind, beautiful spirit, and love for all.

As he grew, he became an amazement in many other ways.  Walking into walls, for example.  Or having no regard, really, for his corporeal shell.  Or his curiosity that got in the way of more practical and mundane things.  Inability to turn in homework while simultaneously learning all he could about computer games and objects of interest.

Today, perhaps 14 years too late, we got a reason for his continued struggle with All Things Onerous:  ADHD, of the inattentive type.

Boy scores off the charts in verbal and language skills, is competent in maths and abstract thinking, and jumps off the ledge of average into an abyss of 'oh dear' for organization and task ordering.

That's his brain.  We should have figured it out long ago, but his ability to rally against his shortcomings gave us annual hope that somehow, some way, he'd 'gotten it' and would become as self-motivated as any 'regular' person and not stuggle with generating the 'want to' that both his Dad and I seem to also lack when it comes to Stuff We Don't Want To Do, Necessarily.

Yeah,  we might be smart people, but we're also really really stupid, it seems.  Parental blindness might be a real thing.

So, now he's gotten an ID, has a plan, and in addition to learining more about his condition through education will likely be going on some meds soon (after consult with his physician and using the lovely 16-page testing report as a guide) to attack this issue and therefore ensure that he has the success in his future he deserves.

Breaks my heart to have waited this long.  Some problems don't fix themselves. But now?  Maybe we can help him truly realize the potential in his big beautiful noggin and soul.

Then use those lessons learned to evaluate my issues.  For they are legion.

---

Also, I got a new job.  First day is 12 October. 

I have 2.5 weeks to complain about the foodservice at my current job site.

Today's gripe: pasta salad that looks like it ought to taste good, but instead tastes like soap.  Second time in 2 weeks.  I didn't believe it could happen a second time.  Fooled me!  Haha!

I think I'll just eat boiled eggs and yogurt from this point on.

Until 12 Oct, that is.  Then it's grazing from the 'fridge for me, because my new job takes place at my kitchen table, where I can look at the birdies at the feeder and watch the sun glaze the room in many hues and moods as it traverses the blue arc above.

YASSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Tiff out.

There's no sense quitting now

A couple of nice things have happened to me lately that I'd like to share with you, because now, instead of being a tired-out old crust of a woman with a soul as bitter as a cup of Starbucks extra-dark, I'm all about sweetness and light and scraping the saucy savory bits of life from the bottom of a love-deglazed cast-iron life, baby.

Thing the first:  As every lady of a certain age should do as often as her personal physician tells her to, I recently went for my yearly mammmmmmogrammy.  Oh, yeah, having those cold cold plates of....plastic (not so cold) press the boobage into impressively wide and long extra-large pancakes is an annual rite I would NOT miss, though mostly because the radiology office is relentless in reminding me of the obligation and I'd hate to disappoint them because they are so eager.

I don't mind the squooshing so much, my gals are not so very sensitive that I feel close to crying out in pain at the ultimate smooshery levels, and in fact I like looking at the pics when the schmashing is done.  There's all MANNER of stuff in there, like fat and muscle and fibrous tissue - it's weirdly pretty and fascinating to be able to take a peek into what's below the dermis.

OK, so that's not the 'nice' thing I'm talking about; the nice thing is the letter I got in the mail a few days later, letting me know that there is no sign of breast cancer in either Lefty or Righty.  Hooray!!  Even though there's no history of breast cancer in my family (that I'm aware of), it's still a reason to celebrate.  Any woman can relate to this: you don't really have a reason to worry, but when you're told you don't HAVE to it can take a load off. 

Then there was Thing the Second:  I got a very nice note from a colleague praising me and thanking me for the hard work I put in rewriting a couple of reports in his area of expertise.  Not MY area, mind you, but his.  It was like walking into a dense forest and aiming for the occasional clearings at first, trying to understand what his works take-home messages were, but after a while I was stumbling around in more shade than in shadow, and eventually into the light, which I could then shine on his bottom line (hee!), for which he was much appreciative.

Getting a 'thank you' note at work is really truly meaningful.  I should send more of them.  It made me happy for a whole day.  Especially when the writer includes the target's boss on the message.  It's like sending an extra-special gift, that is.

I've been rather more sunny since those things happened.  Which is good, because I've sort of been in a rut lately, and maybe so overwhelmed with things that I do nearly none of them.  Getting a bit of good news is like handing a kid a kite on a windy day - you can't feel bad about something like that.

Hope your days are looking up as we head into the blessed cooler days of Fall,

Tiff out.

The hazards of working from home, and why I might just be the most boring person ever

My job involves a computer and access to data and templates and sometimes people and a calendar and all the modern trappings of a corporate paper-shuffler's dream.

Read:  I can work at home when I want.

If I have meetings and such, I will go in to the office to put in some 'face time,' and to escape from the loving clutches of the Tiny House, if only so I can return at the end of the day with a sigh of happiness to be free of the world.  I don't MIND going in so much as I LOVE being home.

Isolation isn't necessarily a bad thing, it's just make you much less apt to:

• Change out of PJs until it's either time to go run errands or a family member is due to come home
• Shower
• Want to go, anywhere
• Talk to people

Pretty much a terrific, wouldn't you agree?  Sit around at home stewing in my own juices until I have to go out, at which time I may or may not shower, then put on some of my favorite ratty clothes, venture out for necessaries, then run home quick to the hospitable quiet environs of home.  Wherein I complete whatever tasks I have on hand with a minimum of noise, fuss, or bother.

On days I have to go into the office?  Oh, Lordy.  It's a process.  I have to shower, COMB MY HAIR, put on office- acceptable clothing, brush my dang teeth (OK, I do that anyhow, but sometimes not until after lunch if I'm at home.  I know,  EWW), and then drive 45 minutes to the building in which my cubicle is planted.  Then I have to talk to people, listen to them talk to one another, smell their lunches and coffee, pray the 'good stall' in the bathroom is open when I need to use it, and manage to sit at my desk doing stuff for at least 5 hours until I can spring myself from society and drive the 45 minutes back home, avec happy sigh on pulling into the driveway.

I may have problems with social stuff.  IT'S WHO I AM.  No judging from you.

The question is: is the job (ie, working at home a lot) making me more boring and unsocial, or was I that way already and the tendency is just now manifesting itself like a genie released from a cubicle-shaped bottle?

This, along with the previously mentioned life stage of Not Being Busy People, is causing me to question whether or not I truly AM the most boring person ever, of if I should just embrace my love of all things solitary and recommence trying to memorize all the episodes of Star Trek TOS in order and coming up with new ways to cook with chicken.

Near-future career options have me believing that come the end of this year, I'll be moving on to ground beef and Dr. Who, but more on that later.

Tiff out.

We are not busy people, right now

There are two questions that are asked at the Tiny House nearly every night, lately:


1) What do you want to do with the evening? and


2) What do you want for dinner?


Y'all? Busy people do NOT ask those questions.


For example, parents of young children know PRECISELY what they are going to be doing in the evening, from the moment they wake up in the morning. It rarely varies from:


Person A) get home, dump the kid's stuff, feed them dinner (choices are chicken nuggets, fish sticks, mac n' cheese, or PB&Js), bathe them, read to them, tuck them in, eat dinner, collapse; or


Person B) dig stuff out of daycare bags, wash what needs washing from that bag, empty dishwasher, do general kitchen chores (including maybe starting dinner for the adults), dry kids off, kiss their widdle heads, eat dinner, collapse.


I get tired just thinking about it, and that's the 2-person list! Imagine what single moms of very young children go through!!


As another example, parents of kids on sports teams or similar activities. They're not lounging around at home wondering what to pull out of the freezer to thaw and eat, oh no. They are carting kids to and fro and fro and to, helping to coach or serving on a committee, picking up fast food for dinner because practice ran long (again), researching the best equipment to buy or private teacher to engage, handing out uniforms or riding the bus to the game, raising money and hustling the behind-the-scenes action to ensure that everything goes off without hitch when it's 'go' time.


(Now, I've been these people. Most nights, at least early on, the notion of an idle evening with 'Nothing on the Program' was just a faraway dream. But that is the role of those days. Busy-ness is the norm.)


I must point out that there is another class of Busy People. These folks find busy-ness outside of the kid-intense days of parenting! They are signed up for book clubs and yoga classes and arts and crafts sessions and gym classes and plan out when they're going to entertainment venues and fill their days and nights with action, action, action. These people (confession time!!!) I do NOT understand, but will admit they exist. Like unicorns, or old white convertible VW bugs (the legendary '4 pow!'), they are rare, but enough evidence exists to know they are real. They do not have time to ask the two questions, because they have to be at the gym in 26 minutes so will just grab a smoothie on the way, thanks and let's do lunch.


But we, we former busy people of the Tiny House, have hit a moment of doldrum in life's waters, it would appear. We ask the questions every night and come up, on a regular basis, with the same plan - cook something long and involved and then go watch Star Trek. Now, it's not a BAD plan, mind you, but it is the kind of thing that Not Busy People would do as a fall-back plan. Busy People, on the other hand, grab Chipotle and meet their buds for a Appletini before going home to download four podcasts to listen to on their commute. Start Trek? Please. Busy folks are so over that, unless it's ironic or they are researching a Halloween costume that none of their friends will recognize, which is also kind of ironic.


The point of all this is to say that mentioning this 2-question reiterative lifestyle is not a complaint. It is an observation only, and one I'd like to be reminded of in the near future, because Life is about to git us up and going again. Biff's band is going to start regular practices again, the new site for church is going to need a lot of attention (and, once again, I'm leading a team for the launch and beyond while Biff will be rocking out on stage), we're going to be leading a small group discussion for 'seekers and questioners,' and there is some kind of strange plan to initiate a workout program (that's my idea, I've not yet discussed it with Biff). Rather than moping about our doldrums, then, I am planning to relish them, because as sure as poop goes through a goose, our days are going to start a faster and furious-er pace into which these long evenings of summer will rapidly recede into distant memory. We shall be Busy People once more, but probably with way fewer Appletinis (make mine a bourbon on the rocks!) and way more Star Trek.


And look! It's nearly 6 p.m. as I write this. Better go pull something out of the freezer and find a complicated recipe before it gets too late to work in Start Trek.


Tiff out.

Home for the weekend

Fetch me my tricorn hat!  I need a meal!

I picked up Thing 2 from school today; he's been at UNC for two weeks and needed a laundry trip home.  Naturally, as mentioned, I said yes to this request, as I actually miss the kid. Who'd-a thunk it?

He entertained me nearly the whole ride with a recitation of what he's been up to for those 2 weeks, aided by the journal he's been keeping of his daily activities.  Wonder where he got THAT from? (my Mom, I think.  Seriously.  She writes down a short encapsulation of what goes on day to day on a desktop calendar.  It's a good idea.)  The school handed out some pocket-sized notebooks and it appears that they are just the right size for noting 'things' in during the day and through the night.  So, he read through the book, adding bits and pieces throughout his narrative, until we reached today.

The LONGEST part?

Describing everything you can get to eat in the cafeteria.  Holy  moly!  I thought that my college eating experience was good (and it was! Thanks JMU!), but his is yards and yards better.  SO glad we got the super-sized swiper plan so that I can go try this whole thing out sometime.  Because, hey, when your kid tells you he's eating stuffed flounder of roast beef and mashed potatoes, you KNOW he's eating better than you most times.

Also, there's something about a double-chocolate macademia nut cookie that I hear is to die for.

---

I also like that he took himself for a walk to the Arboreturm, 'just for something to do,'
 and was enthusiastic about it.  That's my boy.

---

 I think it's going to all work out, friends.  I really think it will.

Tiff out.

Well howdy!

I have not posted anything in almost 2 months?   What the heck is going on?  It's not like I've been:

• Travelling the world (the farthest I've gone is Virginia.  No wait!  Michigan!)
• Being all tied up inventing something the whole entire world needs (but I did finalize an SOP)
• Learning a new skill (though does 'renting cars' count?)
• Holed up writing the next great American novel (not even YA stuff)
• Reinvigorating my health with vigorous daily exercise (and why is it spelled that way, 'exercise'?  It should be exersize, right?)

My life has been kind of boring, if you want to know the truth.  I gave up on both the vegetable and flower gardens, even.  I think the only thing I've been doing a real good job on lately is spending money.  Like, to the point that I'm having to move it out of savings (ouch) to pay for the stuff that needs buying.  I suppose when one is purchasing a good deal of items not on the budget (plane tickets, hotel rooms, rental cars, new brakes, anyone?), when one doesn't use credit cards the ol' bank account will be taking a hit.  But hey, tomorrow comes with a paycheck, so that's a silver lining.  AND, all that travel stuff was for a good cause, because it's not every day that a family member gets married AND decides to spend the first week of their honeymoon in little old Raleigh, NC.  It was nice having Biff's daughter and her new husband around for the week - we just don't get to see them all that much (Michigan is kind of far away.  I just looked at the map to confirm).

Dang, the last time I posted we hadn't even gone to Lake Week yet, and now it seems so far away.  Side note regarding the top news of yesterday: I was shocked at the senseless murders of a TV reported and her cameraman by a disgruntled former colleague, even MORE shocked to find out that it happened right at the Lake.  The same lake my family has been gong to for vacation for over 30 years!!  Bridgewater Plaza is as familiar to us as anything, and next year when we are there something will have changed about it, because murder in broad daylight is so horribly sad and such a waste of life that something will, in some way, have necessarily to be different.  It's terrible and wrong and disappointing that those two were killed by someone who subsequently took the coward's way out and shot himself.  Why didn't he just shoot himself first and let those two young people live?  Why did that selfish waste of skin feel like killing someone is just recompense for the slights it seems that he imagined she flung at him?  What kind of lunatic believe that murder is justifies because someone (perhaps) called you a bad word?  Right, a LUNATIC.  Way to ruin their lives, their families lives, and my vacation, you dickhead.

Changing topic now.

Thing 2 has been away at college now for nearly 2 weeks.  He has asked to come home for the weekend tomorrow, which I am happy to have him do.  At first I was going to stand firm that he should hang out there for at least a month, but as soon as he asked to come home I was all like 'ABSOLUTELY!!!' and so I will be picking him up tomorrow at 4:45 and try to not suffocate him with that first hug.  He's in near-constant contact with his brother, but does he call his mother?  Well, yes.  He does.  He also sent his brother a picture of 'The Pit' outside the student union last Saturday, and apparently everyone left campus because what is normally a very bustling area on campus was EMPTY (see picture above of what it looked like on move-in day this year).  Like, nobody there.  Can it be true that kids want to go home after their first WEEK in school?  Seems way too soon to me.  Of course my experience was different, because of Ye Olde Marschiernekapelle, which started a week before school did and kept us occupied many weekends.  I guess everyone needs to find their own way.

I'll leave it there, so as to retain some kind of material for the next time I feel like posting.  Until then, please keep us in your thoughts because we are likely going to be hosting Tiffowe'en this year and that's always a ton of planning and preparation.

Tiff out.

Need a playmate

Hi, I'm a very handsome (so I'm told) young adult male with sleek black hair, a noble nose, good taste in the finer things in life (like snacks and naps), and a love of all living creatures.

I have 2 cats, but only one of them likes me.  The other one gets mad when I'm around, but I've been working on her slowly and she now lets me kiss her, gently, from time to time.  She's touchy though, so I prefer to hang out with the other one, who can sleep anyplace or time, and often does.  He's sort of like a big orange rug, which is a lifestyle I can get behind, totally.

My house is solid and smells good most of the time.  Wednesday nights are the best nights because they're trash night.  However, because most dinners are home-cooked (wink!) pretty much every day there's something new going on that is pleasant and homey.

I am sort of sporty too, if you like that kind of thing.  Not like marathon sporty, more like 'playing catch in the backyard' sporty, or 'taking long walks in the woods' sporty.  I'm not picky, really, as long as there's about 30 minutes a day of running around.  Young males like me need to get their ya-yas out, you know.  I hope that doesn't offend anyone, because it's the truth and I only tell the truth..

ANYHOW, what I'm looking for is a friend.  A buddy to hang out with, you know?  I'm pretty new here and feel like it's time to branch out, maybe, to find some new faces to hang out with.  It's OK if it's just online or whatever, but if you live close by and want to hang out that'd be cool to.

This just feels like the right thing to do, so if you're interested, leave a comment below with your contact info and I'll get back to you.  Or my Mom will.  She's typing this for me, for reasons that will now appear obvious.

My name is Wernstrom, but you can call me Wern.  Or Buddy.  Or Budder.

So, yeah!  Hit me up with the digits ('cuz I ain't got any!  Hee!)!

Wern.