Bottle Shock ?

Only because they could not call it Bottle FAB-U-LOUS !

Robert and I went with a friend of ours last night to see Bottle Shock. It is the true story of the birth of worldwide acceptance of California (Napa Valley) wines.

Neither Robert nor I is an oenophile (sp?), but we both thoroughly enjoyed the movie. It is also one of the few where Bill Pullman "disappears" as an actor within the character that he is playing. There's a mixed bunch as far as the majority of other actors goes, although I think Alan Rickman may have found another role that will be memorable (along, of course, with Snape & Hans Gruber from Die Hard.) His facial expressiveness is remarkable. Dennis Farina is also dryly funny in his secondary role. (Oh. Nearly forgot. Take Kleenex. No, really.)

Anyhow, this is our second "artsy" movie in about three weeks. I also have to recommend Man on Wire, which is a documentary of a tightrope walker who . . . well, let's just say he pulled off a certain feat that will never be duplicated (for more than one reason).

I won't mention Tropic Thunder here except to say -- yes, Kate. We saw it and it was pretty funny. I do have to say, however, that I nearly had to go and get the manager because of the "trailers".

Bring on Oscar season and all the GOOD movies ! Yay !

Thoughts ?

News Flashes

1) Clay Aiken outs himself.

2) I faint and fall over from shock. -- *** Edited to show sarcasm ***

Thoughts ?

A Sign of the Apocalypse ?

Yes, I just saw a rerun of Reba "Parenting with Puppets".

The sign is not that I agree with the puppet idea -- it is that a television show on mainstream media actually showed parenting that I understand.

Short synopsis: bratty kid breaks a lamp with a bat. Touchy-feely daughter-in-law mom gently explains that "next time" he will not get a sticker for good behavior. Reba explains her parenting style, which actually reminds me a great deal of my parents' style. Vealmoor, represent ! It involves actually disciplining the child and explaining the consequences of one's actions.

*shrug* I dunno any more. . .

Thoughts ?

Ves-POO-Vius

Yes. It's EXACTLY what it sounds like.

Guess what ? I know now where my septic tank lid is in relation to my front door. I also know exactly how far down to dig to find it.

What I did NOT know before last night is this: if enough lint goes through the washer at one time, it's possible for it to get stuck between the end of the pipe and the edge of the concrete septic tank. It is also possible at that point for it to prevent . . . anything. . . from flowing down the pipe. It is also possible at that point for NOTHING to flow OUT of the house pipes. And then, when one's DH decides to take a shower. . . well, that water has to go somewhere. Ours chose to go straight up and over. This causes the wife in the house to scream upstairs "WATER OFF ! NOW !" and the husband to run downstairs in a towel. Poor man -- I did a lot of yelling in the next 10 minutes. It is mostly a blur, but I do remember barking orders like a drill sergeant for "more towels", "another damn bucket", "get out of the way", and "FLOWERPOT". There was also something about requiring poor DH to snatch some clothes on.

To spare my dear readers the details, let me just say that I have had a lot of towels to do on the "sanitary" cycle, which involves the hottest water known to man. I also have to figure out how to bleach my wood bathroom floor without ruining the finish. *sigh*

Oh, and if you are in the Pacific Northwest near us, please let me assure you that FloHawks (and Northwest Cascade in particular) were FABULOUS to deal with. The gentleman that they sent by our house was fast, knowledgeable, and thoroughly professional. The fact that this little process began at 8:30pm on Labor Day and did not finish up until about 11:15 last night is a minor blip on the radar, really.

I have now let the Universe know that I am all set on blog posts for a while, thanks.

(And, yes -- the car is allegedly alllll fixed now. That was the other little detail hanging fire from a few days ago.)

Thoughts ?

No Good Deed Goes. . .

without humor, it seems.

So, we're out and about this afternoon, doing some weekly errands -- grocery shopping, hardware store, bookstore, you know -- "normal" things.

It's raining a little up here today (which is to be expected) - a soft, misty Pacific Northwest rain.

What do these two facts have to do with the good deed, you ask ?

Well, therein lies the story. . .

My husband has a very soft heart at times and today was one of those times. We were headed back to our house when we happened to spot a gentleman walking along the side of the road, in the rain. After a quick discussion of "should we pick him up ?", we ended up with this. . . nice. . . gentleman in our car and us having volunteered to take him to a friend's house.

BUT.

Here's the rest of the story: When he got in the back seat, we both immediately realized that he is thoroughly three sheets to the wind. Toasted to the nines. Wow. He tells us his name immediately and he seems to be a pleasant drunk, but a definite drunk, nonetheless. He blathers constantly, EXCEPT to give us the information that we have to have in order to get him to a safe place. He tells us that his wife tossed him out of the house/car this morning, that he did a little drinking at one of the watering holes close to our house this afternoon (Momma -- you KNOW which one that is, btw. It's the one where we saw the OTHER freak show kerfuffle last year.), that he "took a bottle of whiskey into the library (!), dropped it on the floor accidentally (!!), and RAN (emphasis mine, but still . . . R.A.N. ! )", and that we were his "getaway car".

Lord. How do we manage to get in these messes ?

Anyhow, we kept asking questions, mostly related to "where do you live ?", "where is your friend's house ?", etc. He continued to mention that his friend lives "by a school". Well, normally, this wouldn't be nearly this difficult, but we live very close to a bare minimum of three schools. While we are asking these questions, he is TOUCHING everything that we have in the back seat, including my husband's backpack, and asking us what kind of pizza we are taking home. Weeeeird.

To make a long story short, we dropped him off at his friend's house. We have NO idea if his friend knew that he was coming over or if we got him to the right house AT ALL, but we pulled up, he departed the car, no one shot at us, and we got the h-e-double-hockey-sticks outta Dodge.

Thoughts ?

The Wheels On the Bus Go. . .

honestly, folks, I have no idea. The screaming in my head is just now beginning to abate.

Here's how my day started --

I knew that I needed to actually go in to the office today as I had some client-facing meetings. Okay, no big deal. I bounce downstairs this morning all dressed and packed, ready to hop in the car and face my day. I back the car out of my driveway and put it into Drive. This is where it got a little dicey. rrrrrrrr. 2 mph rrrrrrrr. Whut ?

I think I may have accidentally put the car in Neutral and my mashing on the gas is not doing anything. I double-check and make sure it's in Drive. Oh, it is. Okay -- should be all good. rrrrrr.

Um. Hmm.

Mash gas harder. rrrrrr. Try 2nd gear. rrrrr. Try 1st gear. rrrrr. Uh, do what ?

Dagnabbit.

Back the car up my 45 degree uphill driveway - mad. Reverse works JUUUUST fine.

*thinking*

I do what any normal full-grown woman would do when it comes to possible car trouble -- I call my Momma. We toss around several ideas, but. . . here's the thing -- I have to get to WORK.

How difficult can that be ? Well, friends and neighbors, I know EXACTLY how to answer that particular question now. Ride with me. I go back in my house and begin doing a little sleuthing. I check out the bus schedule website and print out some options. Then I find a cab company here in the area. Seems pretty simple.

I call the cab guys and explain who I am, where I live, and what I need. I would have given the dispatcher directions to my house, but -- hey -- they are a CAB company. They should know every freakin' street IN my little town, right ? Seems reasonable. Ha ha ha. Laugh with me. The guy shows up about 20-25 minutes later. AFTER he tried to call me because his "GPS wasn't finding my street". Like it's hidden. =/

I give my boss a call to explain the situation while I wait for the cab to "find me". I pack mule it into the cab when it finally shows up and explain my tiny predicament. All I have to do is go less than 2 miles across the bridge to catch a bus into Downtown. Still filed under "Simple". Oh, nooo.

Long story short - 11 dollars later (plus tip), he lets me know that he "thinks I may have missed the bus". The tip was for him being Sherlock.

I call my boss and let her know where I am and what the deal is because at this point, I have two options: I can wait for the next bus AT the transit stop where I already am OR I can pay ANOTHER 11 dollars to miss both meetings this afternoon. Hmm. Decisions, decisions.

I park myself at my favorite spot in the world. Mmmhmm. It is about 9:15 at this point. I have a conference call scheduled at 10am. During this call, I see a bus come into the Transit Center, but I realize that it is the wrong number, so I do the first intelligent thing all day -- I do NOT get on it. Yay, me ! I stand, instead, exactly underneath the pole with the number from my website trip planner that I was smart enough to print out earlier this morning.

30 minutes into my call, the nice young man from the bus company finally quits sleeping (or whatever the heck he was doing) in his truck and comes to chat with me. To tell me that the bus I am waiting for - underneath the correct pole - does not RUN AT THIS TIME OF THE MORNING. There was some shrieking in my head, so I nearly missed the other good news that he had to pass along to me -- not only was I standing underneath the wrong pole, I was standing underneath the WRONG POLE. THIS side of the Transit Center goes . . . NORTH. Not South. Not to Downtown. Not to anywhere that I need to be. And thus, he points me in the right direction. It is as I am gathering up my belongings that Mr. Good News, as I like to call him, explains that, over THERE, at THAT pole is where the bus actually slowed down and stopped about five minutes ago. Five minutes BEFORE. Like the five minutes before where I would have had a CHANCE TO CATCH IT INSTEAD OF STANDING HERE LIKE AN IDIOT. WITH YOU WATCHING ME FROM YOUR TRUCK, KNOWING that the bus was behind me.

About ten minutes after moving poles, by the way, I had the distinct pleasure of watching one of the town's finest drop off two . . . "ladies". . . at the stop. I will not elaborate. Another HOUR goes by. Of standing. Because, God knows, I do not dare close my eyes or blink or whatever because that is when they send the STEALTH BUS by.

Miracle ! A BUS ! With the correct NUMBER ! At the correct POLE ! Yay !

Do I have the slightest idea what to do next ? Certainly not. BUT. I am the proud owner of three brand spankin. . . um. . . new. . . err. . . well, just fine one-dollar bills. One of the very rare times that I do not have any other type of small money on me, natch. But ! I have three. And three is what is called for. I take "bus lessons" from the driver which include "Okay, how does this work ?" (by which I mean, do I get a ticket ? Is change given ? Does this bus actually go downtown ? Are you going to cut me for not knowing what I am doing ? Is Disneyland on this route ?). His response, and I kid you not, "Uh, just stick those in there", pointing to the bill sucker. I realize that I am a bus rookie, but c'mon, man -- throw me a bone !

Two dollars later, I am the proud owner of a little orange paper thingy with the consistency of bingo card paper and a strange glow about it, almost like a Willie Wonka Golden Ticket. (That may just have been my perception, but. . .w/e) OH, and there is no change.

I throw all my stuff in a seat and think "Thank God, I made it." 30 seconds later, I get a call from my boss -- I need to join another call. . . while I'm on the bus. I ride all the way to the OTHER transfer station with the phone smashed to one ear and my finger jammed in the other.

At the transfer station, I have a momentary (five, possibly ten, minutes) panic attack when it occurs on me that I haven't any earthly idea which bus to get on NOW. (Nor what POLE IT MIGHT BE AT because I know now that THAT IS IMPORTANT) I do the only sensible thing. . . I make sure I am the last person off the bus and I ask Mr. Sunshine the Driver.

He grunts and points at a bus that he determines will get me there "the fastest". I cling to those words like they are the red ones in the New Testament. I run (okay, only in my mind) over to the bus to find. . . no driver. No driver. People are sitting ON the bus. . . without a driver. I pause to mull that over when I spy the gentleman who is walking around, rubbing the gravel top of the trash can, and talking to. . . himself. Okay -- I figure he has a Bluetooth headset, no big deal, although the gravel rubbing does give me pause. It is only when he goes to make a call on the flip-open Star Trek communicator phone that I realize. . . (slow horror dawning) NO HEADSET. I now have another job -- watching him to make sure that he does.not.stab.me.

He very calmly finishes his phone call, hangs up, closes his phone, and CONTINUES TO TALK TO HIMSELF. OUT. LOUD. (I let him enter the bus ahead of me, needless to say).

I have now spotted the driver of the bus. He is the spiffy gentleman hoofing it back to the bus from across the street, where he has apparently placated his caffeine addiction. Phew ! He walks directly to the bus and, instead of GETTING IN IT, goes around to the driver's side window and carefully places his cup of coffee in the holder, turns around, and walks across the asphalt to the small employee's lounge. AFTER he looked in the bus and saw people IN IT. At this point, I do not understand if he actually IS the driver or if he just went and got coffee for the actual INVISIBLE driver.

TEN MINUTES LATER, he emerges from the lounge and settles in to his driver seat. I have to assume that there are some murderous stairs down to a banging club scene because I honestly have no idea what could have been done in that small space for ten minutes. And I DO. NOT. WANT. TO. KNOW. EVER.

I explain again to the driver that I have no idea what I am doing, which is patently obvious, and flash my orange ticket at him, asking "Is this okay ? Do I need to do anything else ?" Two grunts mean "No, get on the bus and quit bugging me." TWO grunts. I think one grunt means that he is lactose-intolerant, but. . . I figured that might be getting a bit personal.

I go to the VERY back of the bus because I figure when I do my much-earned crying, at least no one else can see me. It is when I put all my stuff down that I realize *ping* I just broke a fingernail. Fabulous. But absolutely par for this course.

I settle in and crack open my book to try and relax a little. Three stops later, a smell gets on disguised as a human being. Wow. Does he sit beside me ? No, the universe took a tiny bit of pity on me and only put him in the seat in front of me. Phew. And I mean that. PHEW.

Halfway to work, I realize that one of the other people on the bus, sitting across from me, is READING THE TITLE OF MY BOOK OUT LOUD, LAUGHING, and POINTING AT ME. Welcome to /ignore. Oh, and Larry ? Make DAMN sure you go and get Jean because, you know, SEVEN REMINDERS MIGHT NOT BE ENOUGH. In MY ear. It goes without saying that I remember that you need to pick up Jean, Larry. I just hope that YOU remember.

I get to Downtown and realize I haven't a clue where this route ENDS. I start seeing landmarks and get off at the first one where I am dead sure that I know where I am and can walk to work with no problems. Fortunately for me, the Smell got off at that same stop. So that you know that I do have a heart and do feel bad for being snarky about this, I will share a small tidbit. The first building that the Smell turned into was labeled assistance for mental health, so. . . I take that as a small comfort that he seems to have been getting help. Or a shower. Quite frankly, after the morning I had, I thought long and hard about joining him. At the building, that is -- NOT the shower.

Anticlimax: I walk the rest of the 23854932465.3 blocks in the misty rain without further incident, although I believe thoroughly that I am about 3 inches shorter than yesterday due to hauling around 200 pounds of crap in my bag and purse and laptop case. I am at work at a record time -- 12:45p. Fab.U.Lous. But at least I have learned something about the public transportation system -- which is that I stink at doing this and do not plan to repeat this little adventure any time soon.

I have also learned not to ask the Universe for anything without being VERY specific and here's what I mean: Just yesterday, I mused out loud that I never had anything good to blog about.

Thoughts ?

Sorry, Baby. . .

But I am definitely needing to give smooches to Michael Phelps, aka Supahfish.

Six (update: or more) gold medals may just be the tipping point.

(Oh, and it's a bit surreal to be watching the O's on Canadian television. "Ling Long Pagoda" is. . . well, let's just call that our inside joke.) =D

Thoughts ?