lack of effort

We finally made it home after two extra days stranded in the Vermont wilderness. Well, it wasn’t wilderness, per se, but according to Delta Air Lines it was.

Our Sunday flight was canceled due to the incoming storm – of which they notified us of (the canceled flight) via phone messages at about 8am. Their phones lines couldn’t handle any load (“call back later!”) and the Web site was useless. Once we got through hours later they had already rebooked us on the same flight on Monday. Insert snow/blizzard joke here. They again canceled Monday’s flight (at about 12:30pm on a 6pm departure out of Hartford) but just shuttered up at that point and did nothing. No messages, no e-mails, no phone lines, no Web site. We finally got through about 8pm and were told we were rebooked on Thursday. X told them to give us our money back, which they did in order to probably save their lives, and we rented a car one-way from Hartford to D.C. for yesterday. 14 travel hours. The NJ Turnpike was mayhem, as was the Tappen Zee Bridge, so we had to bail on that route and take the back(er) roads to get home with great help from the Gandolf Positioning System (GPS) and Getting Home Route Assistance Center. If you’re keeping track at home we transited eight states over 515 miles at an average moving speed of 42mph: Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. Tired and rumpled we slept.

Christmas, on the other hand, was wonderful.

Three kids are at home. Two adults are at work.

I’m tired.

More later.

and all i wanted was a BB gun

My holiday story involved my laptop. I know, how spiritual. About two or three months ago the left-side of the my MacBook experienced what we call white wine v. power cord connection-hole-area. The initial symptom was not good: no power at all - dead, dead computer with no battery nor AC operation. After a day or so the juice managed to sort itself out and it finally powered up but only worked via AC power; no battery charging. I took it to the Apple store about a week later; they popped it open, and then called me at work to tell me that it appeared exposure to liquid had occurred and it wasn't covered under the one-year warranty (I'll admit that the wine issue was not revealed at initial drop-off). But, for a one-time fee of $750 they could send it back to the plant and get it repaired. Awesome! A one-time $750 fee. That's really nice...only charging me once. I declined and decided to ride it out a bit longer before finally calling a computer repair place in Arlington that we'd used in the past for X's Vaio. I dropped it off a few weeks ago, alerting him to the liquid and the overall problems, paid the $100 up front for labor, and was told he'd order the module power/battery thingy and see if swapping it out would fix the problem. If that worked I'd pay another $125 and have a laptop with a future. After a week he called and said that, unfortunately, the new module hadn't fixed the issue so I was out the door for $100 in labor which was fine by me. Over the last few days I've been using the MacBook with the power cord and rueing the brilliant/not brilliant magnetic connection that pops right off if the cord or computer gets tugged. It's brilliant in that it would protect your computer crashing to a floor; it's not brilliant when any little nudge immediately powers down the unit. The final bit of this saga is what happened last night. With the boys out of the house we were sitting around doing what we do - X reading a fashion mag, me typing something or other on the computer - when I glanced up to the corner of the screen and instead of seeing an "x" declaring no battery power, charge, or connection, I see a 58% charged number. What the what? After another 20 minutes the battery was fully charged and everything is completely operational now. It's a truly miraculous story; I think I have a regenerative, living, computer. What are the odds? I must have passed along some karma over the last week or so; maybe paying all my local merchants in cash and saving them credit/debit card fees has come back to me full circle. Maybe not.

We've had rain and 40+ degrees over the last 24 hours and it's melted away most of the snow that was piled about the area. I'll push off the remaining slush from the driveway this afternoon.

We're doing roasted chicken, mashed, brussel sprouts (on the panini grill), turnip soup, and gravy for second Christmas tomorrow night. If you're in the neighborhood, stop by.

t

holiday double foot

Prior to - or at the point of conception - of our blizzard, we attended a get together thrown by some parents from H.'s school last evening. I think the primary catch was parents of 8th graders so X was invited, and I, by proxy; I let them know that mine will be there next semester and they were quite grateful to know another girl would be showing up - apparently the gals are horribly outnumbered. The host/hostess house was something to behold. I don't know a spark plug from a Holley double-pumper carb any more than I can tell you square footage of a house but I'll guess this place had to be about 5,332 square ft (okay, I looked it up in the tax assessment). It's a beautiful place full of loads of art, massive rooms, at least three fireplaces that we could see, and a massive kitchen. Based on some Google mapping there's a pool that Michael Phelps could train in out back. As X was saying on the way home, when you find yourself 'hanging' around staffers, lobbyists, and some pretty elite folks you begin to wonder how this all happened. The highlight of the place was the Christmas decorations in the house. I've never in my life - nor have you unless you've been to Winsdor Castle - seen anything like it. There was more moving carousals, massive trees, camels, massive trees, a collection of at least 30 8" diameter snow globes, massive trees, and more decorations than we could even store in our house if we moved out. It was stunning and I so wish I had my camera to run some undercover youtube video. All that any of us could imagine was that there was some massive lazy susan mounted under the house that allowed one holiday/seasonal decoration kit at a time to be out. We then started wondering what would be the empty placeholder after Valentines and before the 4th of July; one guest pondered that maybe it was 'Spring'. I'm still a bit stunned by it all. We did have a wonderful time but it failed my house test which is that if I can't clean it myself then it's too big.

It looks like we'll top off tomorrow morning at about two feet of snow. We scurried out very early this morning - in only 8" of snow - to grab a few things at the store and mail some Christmas items. We got stuck twice: once in the near flat parking lot of the grocery and then as we parked in front of the house; even by Midwest standards this is a humdinger.

Maybe I'll send some pictures in the morning. My camera is in the car and I have no desire to stomp out in 3-4 foot drifts.

We're fine. Lots of food, wine, and coffee and no one's power has gone out yet. Oh, we also have a cord of firewood on the porch.

Love to all.

t

crafty vegetables

The Eleven got up early-ish yesterday and spent Black Friday doing something much more interesting than even contemplating stores and malls: we drove about southern Vermont visiting artist studios around the Putney area. We'd done the tour over Thanksgiving weekend in 2005 and it was high on my list this year. Putney, and the surrounding woods, is surrounded by what must be hundreds of beautiful studios and artists who create every type of art you can imagine. Yesterday we narrowed down our list to six or seven that included pottery, tiles, quilting, Japanese woodworking, bookbinding and prints, and a spinnery. With a loads of rain in the morning the studios weren't overly crowded so we were able to stay warm by diving into studios warmed by wood-burning stoves.

This morning I headed into Brattleboro to gather some root vegetables at the Winter Farmers Market. The holy grail was a Gilfeather turnip that I was clued in on at Thanksgiving dinner at Ellen's. She made an unbelievable turnip soup and discussion rounded back to exactly what type of turnip was the genesis of the dish. This led to some ooh-ing and aah-ing by the locals as they spoke in hushed tones of the heirloom Gilfeather turnips. I have no way of knowing whether it was Ellen or the turnip (that would be a great book name: Ellen or the Turnip) but I'll have some idea when I make soup next week from the five-pound Gilfeather that's safely ensconced in the car. I also grabbed loads of massive parsnips for roasting, what appears to be a five-to-seven-pound bag of organic hardstem garlic, red and golden beets, and three pounds of beautiful Jerusalem artichokes. All will travel well back to Northern Virginia and end their service in soups, gratins, and myriad roasting pans.

There's a short story about Laurel, a small goat, and I from a visit to Vermont a few years back. Maybe I'll jot it down, have Laurel add to and edit it, and then pass it along. Either way, the above is another Vermont picture; it's the barn next door that plays a central role in the Laurel and the Goat tale.

We're loading up the car this afternoon and will drive halfway home this afternoon. We'll be back on The Hilltop pretty early Sunday afternoon.

t

happy day

We've made our way to the North, arriving yesterday evening, after doing half days up from the D.C. area. The clan'll head over to the hostess' digs shortly but we wanted to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving from The Hilltop - on the road. Here are few snaps of southern Vermont on Thanksgiving afternoon.

Love to all.

t

hey, psst

I was heading out of the shops the other night and strolled through the men’s section which had classic holiday gifts for men on display: slippers and dopp kits. (There was also a table full of nail clipper/tweezer/shoe shine kits. I don’t include them on the classic gift avenue – they’re just junky.) A few things to point out; ideas that might clarify the problem with both gifts. Let’s take a look at slippers. Women get cold feet (not wedding cold feet – lack-of-blood cold feet) and for some reason they assume we get cold feet. That doesn’t actually happen unless we’re hanging out at Everest base camp. The slippers generally make our feet hot but we try to wear them, regardless. The dopp kit (feel free to look that up if you aren’t up with the vernacular of youth) doesn’t actually work anymore. We are way to metrosexual to run with a dopp kit, primarily because all our lotions and potions tend to leak if they end up in cargo. You’d be better off giving us a box of Ziploc freezer bags…really. Here’s my take on gifts for guys, and I know this might fly in the face of the slipper discussion, but we like mostly the same stuff you like…if you’re wondering. A cashmere sweater, a nice watch, a good book. I swear, if you give me more slippers or something that isn’t a Ziploc bag…

I’m the midst of compiling my best albums of 2008 list that is due, and required, to my music group by Christmas. I’m torn on a number of entries but only because I was less inquisitive this year than most. For the first time I’m thinking of going with only five nominations – all of which are strong – and not padding the nums to get to the magical ten. Once again, Minneapolis will be well represented.

I think we’ll have a tree by this evening. X and H are working the sales lot and this appears to be the day it finally happens. We’ll get out the crazy Wisconsin-designed tree stand and get it vertical. I’m not much for decorating so I’ll leave it to the wood nymphs.

the road

During our stroll through Portland on Friday we ended up in a two-level, downtown storefront that served as home to five different businesses: a tattoo shop, a comic shop, CD store, video rental, and gelateria. With all those under one roof I have little need to go anywhere else. I spent time in a real, live CD store for the first time in ages and was dreaming about how much I missed actual interaction with CDs and people in real-life shops. I picked up the new Todd Snider, Sigur Ros, and Rose Hill Drive: folk, pop-tronica, and jam music, respectively. Check, check, and check.

Our drive back went well – to Middleton, NY on Saturday and to Falls Church yesterday. The only traffic issues we had over the weekend came up yesterday. The first was an “incident” along I-81 east of Harrisburg, PA that had our flow backed up for about five miles (and the eastbound joining I-78 from Allentown backed up another six miles). X pulled out her handy BlackBerry and we managed to hop off I-81 and backtrack on I-78 a few miles to SR-22 and then run east to Harrisburg. (I’m only adding in the mappy stuff for those that love to trace my life on google maps.) The last bit of fun was the I-95 to I-495 beltway merge northeast of D.C. A couple of renegades had collided whilst changing lanes and pissed off every holiday traveler. Regardless, we made it home in a respectable amount of time and were able to relax for three or four hours before bed.

The cats tried to play hard to get when we walked in the house but only managed to keep up the disgust long enough for the fire to be lit.

We all yanked ourselves out of warm beds this morning and headed off in the cold rain for work and school. I sense a good laundry and an early evening as darkness falls today.

T

american evolution

In the great tradition of American Labor Day we headed out to buy school supplies and rat food. There you have it. I vaguely remember going out with my mother to purchase supplies but it seemed more a matter of some trapper keepers, one binder, and pens and pencils from the Rexall drug down in Rockbrook Village. Actually, as an elementary student I don’t ever remember getting anything – it wasn’t until junior high at Valley View that supplies became necessary. The schools across northern Virginia are hardcore when it comes to “The List”. The kids need very specific stuff like low odor dry erase markers, Kleenex, college-ruled paper, yellow highlighters (yellow!), four 1” white vinyl three-ring binders, two glue sticks, and erasable pens (I hate erasable pens). What I realized at the checkout is that every school is saving about $75 a kid. If nothing else, the college-ruled paper seems fishy; no one uses college-ruled paper until…college. Are they worried about kids writing too large and sneaking less than what they consider a full-page essay entitled "What I Did Over the Summer"  into the homework box? It wasn’t so long ago that I did some research on the whole college-ruled vs. wide-ruled paper. I was overly interested in the term and exactly what started the battle of the ‘ruled. (As an aside, I might also have been some research into pica vs. elite font from my junior high school typing class days.)

The rat food isn’t so interesting; the rat needed some food.

The boys and X have settled back into the house. That basically means the boys can run all about, enjoy their own rooms, and not worry about anything. For X it means I’ll cook her food and give her kisses – what’s a boy to do?

I’m adding an embed of Ricky Gervais doing a bit on evolution. If you don’t know, Gervais created and starred in The Office in England. He’s a consultant on the American version that came years later. I gave the American version a go when it first started but seemed to miss out on the funny. His original version is still, to me, the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.



and this clip from the show about his office doing training...

"go get my guitar..."

my dearest Roisin and Aisling

March is shaping up like something of a something for music. On the 1st we’re off to Baltimore to see Flogging Molly and on the 9th I’ve got (well, I’m hoping to got tomorrow morning) two tickets for the Pogues at the 9:30 Club in D.C. A week later I’ll get an evening of Bob Mould’s music at the 9:30 Club on his tour in support of his new CD. It’ll be a big hunk of Irish and/or punk music.

The Eleven hit the D.C- area Christmas party scene last Saturday night via an appearance at X’s former and future law firm’s shindig. I’d like to say I clean up pretty well but she cleans up much better – of course, she starts off from a much higher level. There was some confusion on whether or not this was an eating party since it didn’t kick-off until 8pm; I’m normally thinking about bed at 8pm. We ate at home around 6:30 (the kiss of death) and then discovered that the party was in fact an eating party. What can you do? Arrived at fancy D.C. hotel just after 8pm for cocktails and mingling before the ballroom doors swung opened for seating at 9pm. The food looked adequate but we mostly sat and gabbed while others ate. (Is this story too long?) This was the first chance I had to meet the high-powered types from her firm. Here’s a shortlist of who I remember meeting: fisheries guy, guy from same high school as X, IT guy, sad guy, tax guy, hedge fund guy, summer associate herding guy, various summer associates – to include X’s Cordelia (Buffy reference), and myriad other eagles. All in all it was a nice evening out of the house with a cute girl.

frozen turkey

The reason I’ve decided to pass along this story is because X forwarded me this article reviewing the annual pig roast (and bluegrass music jamboree, I think) that her cousin Christian is a big part of up north. Plus, at least it’s out there for posterity and I won’t forget all about it when I turn senile. For those that live up in New England it’ll be a repeat – for those that don’t, here we go.

I’d headed out to southern Vermont, more specifically East Dummerston, on the Tuesday night of Thanksgiving week, 2005. My flight schedule took me from Reno to Boston where I’d reserved a rental to drive the 2+ hours across western Massachusetts before shooting north towards Brattleboro. X flew in from D.C. the next morning and I met her at the Hartford airport and we drove back up to Vermont and checked in at the Coloniel Motel and Spa. The Goepp Mansion was crowded that weekend with the siblings, children, cousins and friends visiting so we were ensconced comfortably in our own digs. A good number of us spent Wednesday evening doing a little howdy-do, having some dinner, and a glass of wine before retiring to our respective rooms, floors, wings, and cribs. The Eleven drove down the road to our alp-ish spa in our nicely appointed Hyundai Sonata – radio/CD, cruise control, headlights, and Florida plates.

The next morning we rolled out of bed and noticed a heavy New England snow still falling. There were three or four inches of fluffy flakes blanketing the holiday roads and our Sonata windscreen. How pretty! After a quick shower I walked outside to warm up the car and scrape the windows while X finished getting ready. The storm didn’t seem too much, the temperature was middling and comfortable, and I was looking forward to sitting around a fire before piling around tables with a bunch of folk I’d met either the previous evening or who would be showing up that day.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and got rolling on the virtually empty roads I could tell the roads were slick with the fluffed/packed ice/light snow pack that’s a bit deceiving. With my vast winter driving experience, learned on the snow and ice covered byways and highways of Nebraska, I gave the brakes a quick check to determine slippage and determine my friction circle. Check – nice and slow up the two-lane highway out of town, no hurry, a bit slick. That is nothing but good judgment and I was quietly complimenting myself inside my silly, silly head. I might vaguely remember thinking to myself some crazy junk about eggs and chickens.

After a few miles of climbing out of town on the highway there’s a left turn onto the road that takes you through the hamlet of ‘farm homes’ that indicate the suburbs of East Dummerston. You’ve got your trees and ditches, hidden driveways, and back-and-forth curves, deer, dogs, kids, and other obstacles that present problems to lesser drivers. I’m working the auto-transmission between drive and the two low settings, staying off the gas, coasting through the curves, and generally impressing the hell out of anyone that might be watching. Unfortunately, the only one watching is already spending the weekend with me in a New England motel – I’m getting nothing out of this masterful display. Since I’d been out to the estate on a few visits I knew that I’m was coming down a hill to a stop sign at the ‘Junction’. THE JUNCTION. It might be best to give you some reference to the diabolical area - here’s a map annotated with the pertinent points-of-interest.

I’m coming down E West Rd. to the stop sign at the School House / E West Rd. marriage: down-shift, light on the brakes, checking my speed, and steering deliberately – perfect stop. I look left up the hill to make sure no one is skidding down towards the intersection but, more importantly, to fully assess just how much speed I’ll need to reach over the first hundred feet of road if I have any hope of making it up the hill. I’m pretty good a math, a fantastic winter driver as I’ve already described, but even I know there’s little chance of coming close to the summiting the first crest. Even if I get that far, I’ve still got a hard right to negotiate and a second hill up Miller Road. I try to hold the wheels from too much spin as I turn and start accelerating from the stop sign; the front-wheel drive has very little grip and I know before I start that I’ve got no chance of making it. My mind immediately flips through the checklist and stops on the page titled “Give It Up”. And so I do….give it up. I turn to the date and tell her I’m going to back down to the flat area near the stop sign, park the car, and we can walk up to the house. I’ve once again flexed my supreme logic and patience.

I start creeping slowly backwards down the hill; we are only about 75 feet from the stop sign so we’re in good shape. As I’m pontificating on my decision-making prowess the car starts slipping faster under the pull of gravity; I can’t much brake, I can’t steer, but I can hear a crunch as the right-rear wheel slips into the creek/ditch at the side of road. Kaa-chunk-chunk and we’re stuck, one wheel in the ditch and the left-rear wheel up off the ground. We hop out of the car, assess the situation, and realize there’s no way on God’s green Earth we are driving out of this bucket of syrup. The snow’s really coming down by now and through the curtain of flakes we spy a kid outfitted in hunter orange, as you are, holding a shovel and wondering about the crazies in the ditch. He lives in the house with his stereotypical New England family, “Yuur really stook there in that ditch. Tain’t no way outta there on a day like this. It’s a beautiful snow though.” Great. I’m in a horrible movie and my car with Florida plates is stuck a ditch and I’ve got to deal with this?. I proclaim loudly that I’m from Nebraska, home of the free and land of the Huskers – I CAN drive in winter. I get knowing smirks from the Vermonters.

We realize that we should call up to the house, we can almost yell, and see if anyone has a chain and/or tractor available to yank us out of the ditch. My hopes aren’t high because I’m watching SUVs occasionally slide by, wheels locked, heading down the hill with little control. I’m just hoping we don’t get hit by yucks heading either up (they aren’t making it) or down the devilish climb. The snow is being worn off the road by these loons and it’s now nothing but sheet ice exposed. X hangs up the phone and relays to me and the crazy Simpsons people that Christian is coming down with a chain to ‘save us’. Just to let you know right now, he isn’t saving bupkus on this road, not a chance…no way, no how…but I admire his attitude. We chat with the Sox fans while we wait and watch more nearly out-of-control vehicles passing us every few minutes. I reiterate my Nebraska roots, talk up the Red Sox and Patriots, tell a story about my hunting prowess, and generally try to get the Simpsons family to not, 1. call other families to come watch and laugh at us or, 2. videotape the hi-jinks for YouTube. At some point Superman comes rolling around the left-hand turn at the top of the hill riding his Toyota super-truck and petting his faithful sidekick, Casco the Wonder Dog. The Simpsons father takes one look up the hill, squints his eyes, pushes up the eyeglasses, and decrees thus, “Oh, there’s a driver!”. Driver? I’m a driver. Give me one more chance…just one more. I guess Maine plates and good driving are some kind of ‘sign’ of good inclement driving abilities. Right, we’ll see. Chris comes about halfway down the hill, stops (!), turns around (!), applies the brake, and hops out with chain in hand. I can see this is only going to get more comical. I hook up the chain because I have gloves on…point for me…and Chris then tells me to get in the car and give it just a little gas. Let’s review: SUVs are unable to get up the hill even with running starts, folks can hardly drive down the hill because it’s all ice, my car is one-quarter in a ditch, Christian’s truck is at a dead stop in the middle of the hill, and he actually thinks he can not only get started and go up the hill…but do it while pulling another car? It’s laughable. L-A-U-G-H-A-B-L-E.

The chain tightens slowly and I feel it come taut. I’m watching the small four-wheel Toyota through the windscreen, he’s moving ever so slowly. Tasco is looking out the back watching me…laughing no doubt, because he knows what’s going to happen. Tug. Tug. Tug…I’m out and he’s still pulling the car. I’m shocked and amazed. Christian stops the truck mid-hill, hops out, and tells me to pull my car into the driveway on the right, turn around, and he’ll follow us down to the school where we can park and he’ll bring us up to the house. I decide we’re all better off if Mr. Incredible turns the car around, it’s a driveway after all and I sense a degree or two of slope. The car is immediately turned around as I watch, it’s facing downhill, and I manage to drive down to the school, park it, and we all head back up in the truck. If you must know, and surely you do, we shot right up the hill with Christian driving and X and I in the small cab: Wonder Dog was chuckling in my ear…I swear.

He’s not a bad cook either.

Love to all.

T