Pressing all the right buttons

This came across my Twitter feed, and it was just too good to let pass:

It’s the third tweet that got me.

Out of the gutter

When I went out for my daily complete refilling of my bird feeder (with these cold temperatures, the little guys need to maximize their caloric intake) I noticed this:

You may not think it’s anything to write home about, but I’ve never seen water frozen to the spout of the gutter.

Yes, I’m easily amused.

Yesterday it reached close to 50 degrees, so my anomaly melted. Which I’m perfectly happy about. I’m ready for some weather that doesn’t cut to the bone, even if I have to trade interesting photo ops for it.

Let me 'splain...

There was an inclement weather alert yesterday in the District They Call Columbia, warning of freezing rain and the dreaded wintery mix starting mid-afternoon. This caused a good number of people to bail out of work early so they could get home before the onslaught. I was one of the evacuees, because I know I don’t know how to drive in snow or ice, and I also know that most of the people in Virginia don’t know how to drive in it.

Unfortunately, one of my colleagues, who also goes to the end of the Silver Line, caught up with me, and for the entire 50-minute commute I had to listen to him mansplain the company’s organization, product management, artificial intelligence and his shifting role in various tech departments.

This colleague is not what you would call particularly aware—it never occurs to him to ask about what someone else is doing, except as a springboard for him to return the conversation to him. I know this, so I try to limit my interaction with him. When it’s unavoidable I just ask a few questions, nod and say, “Right” a lot.

But yesterday on the Metro, it was just painful. Yap, yap, yap, organization; yap, yap, yap, product management; yap, yap, yap, managing developers. His understanding of the organization is limited; that of product management non-existent (and, surprisingly, his grasp of AI is tenuous); and I don’t really give a toss about him managing developers. (Interesting, though, that they don’t seem to be overjoyed at the prospect, and it doesn’t seem to occur to him to make any moves to remediate that situation.)

I’ve been particularly disinclined to listen to his claptrap about product management since the time he told me, “We don’t need product management on [communication and collaboration platform that is God-awful precisely because there was no product manager involved in it at any point in its conception, design, building or maintenance] because we’ve got a project manager, a UX designer and I’m the technical director.”

But all the way home yesterday, he expatiated on stuff he knows nothing about, completely confident that I’d have nothing at all to add. It's occasions like these that prove the Theory of Relativity, because that 50 minutes felt like a day and a half.

This reminded me of someone I used to know, a Navy photographer and videographer. I learned a lot from about photography, and I really valued his expertise. But he just could not stick the idea that I, too, might have some understanding of things on my own account. Very often I’d turn around to find him cutting down something I’d said, and explaining how I must be wrong.

For example: I was telling him once about staying at the Rittenhouse Hotel, in Philadelphia, a luxury property by anyone’s standards. And I marveled that it cost $265 a night (which 20 years ago was big bucks). He shook his head and said I couldn’t possibly have paid that much because—and he pointed to the rate notice on the inside door of his Best Western room—“It says this much, but that’s not what I’m paying.”

Great non sequitur, dude, but I think I know what charge appeared on my credit card bill.

Then, he was going to come out to visit me when I lived in Oakton, and I sent him directions. (This was before the Internet, and before mobile phones; primitive, I know.) I told him to go out I-66, exit at Nutley, and follow directions to my place off Jermantown. He told me, “I think you’re wrong. My map doesn’t show I-66 going out that far.”

Dude—your map is from 15 years before the 90s; I-66 has been extended since then. How ‘bout you give me credit for knowing how to get home?

And one more: I told him where I lived in Reston, and that I used to walk around the edge of the golf course. He insisted that I couldn’t live there and walk around the golf course because the golf course was on the other side of the Toll Road.

Right—I regularly hallucinate, don’t I? It couldn’t possibly be that there are two golf courses in this town, and that I actually do know where I’m walking, could it?

That was the point at which I just quit talking with him.

I don’t know what it is about men’s egos, and why they’re so heavily invested in plumping them up, at the expense of their credibility, their dignity and their chances of making the kind of impression I’m guessing they’re hoping for. But I wish we’d get past this lemme-‘splain-that-to-you-little-lady condescending shite—especially when you’re talking out your ass—because I find that as I grow older I just don’t have the bandwidth for putting up with it.

And I hope to God I don’t end up in a Metro car with my colleague again, because I might be tempted to throw myself under the train. Or him.

Gratitude Monday: friendship...and food

Some years ago I wrote about my friend Chris and the many ways knowing her has enriched my life. While I was back on the West Coast, I only saw Chris a couple of times when she came out to visit family in the East Bay. On one memorable occasion, we met with our mutual friend Amy for lunch in Danville.

Since my return to The District They Call Columbia, we weren’t able to get together in person until I moved out to the Greater Reston-Herndon Metroplex. A couple of months ago she came by and we discussed garden possibilities. (Sadly, it seems probable that—even with the southern exposure—my back yard doesn’t get enough sun to grow tomatoes, which is a massive bummer.)

And we started out 2018 on Saturday by catching up on things and me giving her a tutorial in pie pastry. Then we went out to dinner at a Turkish place. (That choice was an homage to Amy, who I suspect factored into her decisions to stop by my place in the South Bay the fact that it was next to an Afghan restaurant.) It was so lovely to go to a place I’ve had my eye on with a good friend—especially one who, like Amy, really enjoys trying new foods.

(The Turkish food was gorgeous. But there are no photos, because we ate it before I thought about taking any.)

We’ve made a kind of resolution to not let so much time elapse between get-togethers. For one thing, I have a garden to plan, and for another, we need to find an Indian restaurant. Plus—I should check on her pie-making efforts. I’m grateful for all these things, and for a friendship that goes back more than 20 years.

No hot time in the old town

As I mentioned yesterday, this area is in the throes of really cold weather. If you want a precise measurement, it’s bloody colder than a landlord’s heart, which scares those of us who rely on Metro to get to and from work.

Especially when snow enters into it, as it did overnight into yesterday morning. Whenever there’s anything less than perfect weather, Metro becomes a crapshoot. Snow moves it to a whole new level.

School districts in the vicinity of The District They Call Columbia shut down for the day (which means supermarket shelves in the area were denuded of milk, bread and disposable diapers) and the federal government was on two-hour delay with liberal “unscheduled leave” and teleworking.

My mile-and-a-half drive to the Metro station was a little dodgy at 0445, but I noticed that highways were clear and plenty of traffic was moving at speed along both the Dulles Access Road and I-66.

However: Metro.

My car, as you can see, had drifts of snow from the doors being open for at least five minutes before departure:

And there was no heat on.

You cannot believe how cold the 40-minute ride is when there’s no heat and the outside temperature is around 25°F.

Man. #WMATA

Forewarned is forearmed

As you might be aware, the eastern part of North America is experiencing positively Arctic weather, which we’re told will hang around for several days.

So you can expect me to be on the lookout for silliness.

Viz:

P.S. From the Twitter thread, apparently the poster logged the danger, but went out for the food anyhow.

  

Up in the air

Here’s another entry from the vanity plate collection:

It was on a vehicle that you’d generally associate with testosterone, although I did not see the occupant(s):

No indication of the aircraft of choice, and no way to tell if the 80 is year of birth, or of active flight status.

Still not as good as one I saw once in the parking lot of Star of the Sea Church in Virginia Beach. That one was SPY NAVY, and the driver turned out to be a rather dishy guy with a gorgeous tenor voice.

Until thrift do us part

The other day I was at a thrift store, browsing through the housewares aisles (sometimes you can find small Corning casserole dishes, which I seem to use at a rate of knots) and my eye was caught by the stemware. I don’t know how this happened, but—while I have an abundance of wine glasses—I’m down to only two Champagne flutes, so I looked a bit closer.

It was too much to hope for actual crystal in this setting, but what made me stop and wonder was this random glass:

It’s hard to see the actual words, but trust me on this:

Ryan & Lindsey

August 12, 2006

(And a seahorse. What do you suppose the seahorse signified?)

That’s nearly twelve years ago. I wonder if Ryan and Lindsey are still together?

  

Gratitude Monday: still here

A brave winter sun presides over the District They Call Columbia. Sixteen degrees with a wind chill taking the perceived temperature down to single digits.

Thus 2018 breaks here.

But I’m in a warm house; my car started without complaint earlier; I’m queuing things up for the workweek ahead; and I’m in good health. I have much to be grateful for, and that’s what I’m concentrating on for this first Gratitude Monday of the New Year.

Peace out.

Waving the old one out

I think this is as good a way as any to see out 2017.

Happy 2018.