"Not a phone booth"

I was just giving today’s post a once-over edit when suddenly MS Word greyed out everything and announced that the document I was working on was “recovered”. Clicking the SAVE button it forced on me did nothing, and clicking the close X closed the document, which reverted to something from weeks ago.

I don’t know what is up with that—I have Word set to auto-save every 10 minutes, yet I’ve noticed that if I don’t manually save, it just doesn’t do it. (I’ve lost work before, courtesy of Microsoft, both documents and spreadsheets. It pisses me off no end.)

Anyhow, I’ll have to put off what I’d planned to share until I can reconstruct my pithiness. In the meantime, here’s something I saw at one of my favorite places to get lattes:

It’s a bakery owned by a Turkish engineer; been around for more than 20 years. I don’t get over to Vienna that much any more, but when I do, I’ll stop in for a small one.

Anyhow—I admire the sentiment, even though I think he’s kind of whistling in the dark on this one.

Not a tropical heat wave

Summer has struck with a vengeance here in the District They Call Columbia. All this week the combination of temperatures in the 90s and humidity through the roof have given us a heat index north of 100 degrees. We’ve had heat advisories every day since Monday.

Tuesday afternoon when I got into a Metro car I at first thought they had the heat on. It was like a convection oven. I got out at the first stop and moved to another car. That one was marginally better—AC struggled to make headway, but at least I didn’t feel like there was a good possibility I’d be fork-tender by the end of my 50-minute ride.

As I reached my destination, I was struck by this poster:

Apparently professional bull riding is a thing, and it’s coming to the area next month.

Interesting advertising, though. I suppose it appeals to their target demographic.

Dog days

I came across this a while ago on the Twitters-dot-com. I thought it was so funny that I pulled it off and parked it on my desktop so I could fire it up every once in a while to have a laugh.

You’re welcome.

Free ride

Riding Metro comes with a lot of downsides. First, it always seems to be a crapshoot whether you make it to your destination before the End of Times. We actually just went through a two-week period where Blue Line trains were only running from Arlington National Cemetery to somewhere in Springfield, and Orange and Silver Line trains were single-tracking between Smithsonian and McPherson Square for repairs…and running at 20-minute intervals instead of eight. Red Line trains were bollixed for different reasons, but that’s pretty much a standing affair these days.

Basically, they announced at the beginning of August that everyone in the metropolitan DC area should just stay home.

And then WMATA management has the unmitigated gall to moan that they’re losing riders so they’re going to need to raise more revenues. One of their tactics is to increase charges to park at the garages and lots by their stations, and to charge for parking on holidays and the weekends, when it used to be free on those days.

When I lived in Arlington, I could walk to the Pentagon City station, so parking wasn’t an issue. Here in the People’s Republic, I live about a mile from the station. I could walk, although I’m disinclined to do this in the summer. The Metro bus that goes by my house only runs for about three hours in the morning and again in the afternoon, so that’s not an option. I’m ideologically opposed to paying $5 a day to park in addition to the fare to and from the District, and there’s no street parking anywhere near the station.

Back in pre-Metro days, there were park-and-ride lots on either side of the Toll Road, where commuters could leave their cars and take buses into Arlington, Tysons and DC. With the advent of the Silver Line, one of the lots disappeared altogether, but the other is still in use for both bus and rail commuters. As you might imagine, however, it fills up fairly early—by 0730 all the spaces are gone, and it’s a $5 space in the lower reaches of the parking garage under the station for you.

There are parking lots for office buildings, but of course they’re all posted as NO COMMUTER PARKING and TOWING ENFORCED.

Well, the other day, I was on my morning walk, when I noticed this guy coming out of a parking structure for one of those NO COMMUTER PARKING buildings. He did not head toward the building, but toward the station.

It was not quite 0740, and if this guy’s a regular, he should have known he was too late for the parking lot—which indeed looked like this:

But he was also clearly too cheap to pay to park in the garage. I appreciate that cheapness, but dude—you may find that this “free” spot turns out to cost more than $5. Maybe think about getting up earlier…

Gratitude Monday: graces unasked and unlooked for

A friend of mine organizes a novena to Saint Bartholomew via Facebook each August. I’m glad to be included, because for nine days, I have to carve out—oh—five to 15 minutes to say the prayers, examine the art works accompanying the posts and contemplate the significance of that day’s devotion.

Yeah, some days, even five minutes is monumental, as you get wound up in this and that. But I do my best, even if I end up doubling up some days.

(For those unfamiliar with the novena, it’s a ritual of intercessory prayers across nine days, typically culminating on the day a particular saint is recognized in the liturgical calendar. It can be performed alone, or in the company of others. There’s an introduction, a novena prayer constant to all nine days and a prayer specific to each day. Then there are concluding prayers.)

Every year a phrase of the Saint Bart novena catches me up: “May [the saint’s] prayers obtain for us every grace and blessing we need in our lives, and we thank you for the graces you have already granted us through his intercession, especially those which have come unasked and unlooked for.” [Emphasis mine.]

Graces and blessings that come unasked and unlooked for. Huh.

How many of these surround us, filling our lives with joy and comfort? Graces and blessings we didn’t think to ask for, which surprise us every day in ways large and small? What would our lives be like without them? An unexpected call from a friend, watching a puppy squirm and wriggle in a pile of leaves, the first sip of a perfect latte, arriving safely home through urban traffic—I typically don’t think to ask for these things, and while I do try to acknowledge them when I encounter them, I don’t think I could be said to look for them.

I wonder how many of them have slipped past me in my worrisome fugue every day?

Every year this prayer reminds me that I am in fact engulfed by graces and blessings, whether I’ve asked for them or even notice them. Every year I’m stopped cold by this reminder.

But this year I was also struck by a phrase from the prayer for day nine, Saint Bartholomew’s Day: “O Glorious Saint Bartholomew, when you met Jesus you recognized him as the Son of God and the King of Israel. Pray for us that we may always recognize Jesus when we meet him.” [Emphasis mine.]

Well.

Um.

Now—this is only my interpretation, mind, and YMMV—but, I’m thinking that the Jesus we might meet these days could appear in, well, any form, really. If we limit ourselves to just humans, given how he manifested the last time—an itinerant Jew who relied on the kindness of strangers to provide him with food and shelter and did not build mega-churches, get around Galilee on the biblical equivalent of limos and private jets or exchange blessings for credit card details—it seems logical to me that 2018-Jesus might look dark-skinned as well as light; could shine through a woman’s face; may perhaps be found in a refugee camp seeking children forcibly pulled away from parents; possibly suffers from a pre-existing medical condition.

In short—we can’t rely upon the Almighty to publicize the arrival of Jesus (or even on Saint B to give us guidance in this), so we ought to be on the lookout for him or her or non-binary them…well, everywhere, really. In the supermarket, on Metro, at work (although—and this is just me being me—probably not in the boardroom or the executive suite; I could be wrong), in school, along the bike lane, out in the woods. We should be alert and receptive to him/her/them and maybe not get pissed off when they’re in the express lane with more than 15 items, or panhandling at an intersection, or wearing shabby clothes or don’t seem to be able to control their kids—which I recognize is not necessarily easy. At least, it isn’t for me.

However, by looking for Jesus everywhere, by seeking out the good and the godly and inviting these graces and blessings into our lives, I believe we can become a conduit for them to those around us; we can help bring them—unasked and unlooked for—to those around us.

And this is my grace—my gratitude—for today.

Civic duty

Since I’m unable to register to vote in the Old Dominion (can’t get a driver’s license because the name on my Social Security card doesn’t quite match what’s on my passport, so I’m spending a long time considering whether I ever want to vote in this Confederate state), I want to be sure everything’s copacetic with my registration in California. So I called the Santa Clara County Registrar of Voters yesterday to check.

Good thing, since—as I hadn’t voted in June’s primary election—I’d been moved to inactive on the electoral rolls. After a lengthy conversation with someone at the SCC office (their website could use some work), I have the form needed to update my mailing address, so I’ll be good to vote by mail come November.

I’m in a safely Democratic House district in the Valley They Call Silicon (as I am here in the People’s Republic; if I weren’t, I might make a more concerted effort to register here), but this year’s gubernatorial election is dicey, what with the kleptocrat messing in on behalf of whatever crackpot RWNJ is running as a Repugnant. So my vote will matter.

I also messaged a heads-up to one of my colleagues who—like me—has retained his California driver’s license even though he and his wife have been in the Old Dominion for three years. If they haven’t voted since 2016, they also might be moved to inactive, and I wanted to make sure they’re able to get their vote-by-mail ballots.

So, with my civic duty discharged for the moment, I can return to making campaign donations to Dems around the country, because when it comes to those spineless, corrupt, know-nothing Repugnant Ante-Bellum throwbacks currently befouling legislatures, it’s time to #votethemout.

Shaken, not stirred

The Washington Post food section did a story on boozy ice cream drinks last week. The opening gambit was something called the Pink Squirrel, which allegedly hails from Milwaukee. (WaPo never reveals the recipe for this drink, but you can find a flock of them here. Basically—crème de cacao, crème de noyaux, cream and ice, shaken like crazy. I’d be up for trying it except I’ve no doubt that the Confederacy’s liquor stores don’t carry the crème de noyaux.)

Well, when I lived in Milwaukee, I noticed they were big on drinks that involved liqueurs, cream and ice cream. It was practically impossible to end a meal anywhere without a Brandy Alexander (and Wisconsin was the largest consumer of brandy in the country; they regularly substituted brandy for whiskey in drinks like Whiskey Sours and Old Fashioneds). At the time I wasn’t all that enthused by cream-based drinks, although I’m sure I drank way more Drambuie during my years there than was healthy. Drambuie was what I’d have while friends were Brandy Alexandering.

Well, but one night, at some place on the South Side, the barman asked if we’d like a Raggedy Ann, which turned out to be (as I recall) crème de cacao, peppermint schnapps and vanilla ice cream, mixed in a milkshake post mixer. (Aside: I forgot to mention that peppermint schnapps was Wisconsinites’ other go-to beverage. I once went to a Wisconsin-Purdue football game played at Lafayette. At the end of the game, we waded through peppermint schnapps bottles on the Badger side of the stadium.)

Well—this wasn’t bad; not bad at all. I might have had two. (My capacity was greater back then.)

There was also a Raggedy Andy, which I think had crème de cacao and possibly crème de banane with ice cream. I am not fond of bananas in any form (except fried plantains), so I stuck with Raggedy Ann.

I still have my bottle of crème de cacao, with its Wisconsin tax seal intact, which I have schlepped to about five states and a foreign country. The peppermint schnapps appears to have disappeared; I might have used it in baking. I’ll have to see if the Confederate Booze Shop has any.

Okay, I’ve searched the interwebz for both of these drinks, and cannot find them. So, if I want to recreate the boozy ice cream drink of my youth, I-I’ll have to experiment. You know—mix one, taste, adjust, repeat. Hmm.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Restoration work

As reported here, almost two months ago, I experienced a flood of not-quite biblical proportions in my living room. It’s taken all this time of backing and forthing to finally square away a solution, but I am finally on the way to having my living room restored.

First of all we had to determine the cause—it seemed to be way too much water (it seeped up through the boards as you walked on them) to have been caused by my neighbor’s ice maker leak. Eventually the condo management company installed a new drain from the downspout between our two units, and there’s been no recurrence of interior water since then.

So, then I had to arrange for contractors to come out—through the condo management company, of course. Their fault, their contractors. The flooring guy came out, took measurements, and assured me at least six times in 20 minutes that they don’t do subfloors. So someone else needed to come out.

There was a bit of a kerfuffle because the condo people thought someone who turned out to be an architect was the right person to assess the situation. But—after he returned from two weeks holidaying out of the country (lucky him), I finally got the mold remediation people out last week to estimate the work.

Well, to shorten this story, as I write this, the entire ground floor is suffused with the smell of what I imagine are highly toxic chemicals, and industrial-strength dehumidifiers set at wind tunnel strength are making it impossible for me to engage in anything that requires hearing anything.

This will be me until Friday, LHR T3. Then they return to take back their kit, and I can schedule the flooring people.

Yay!

Creepy crawlers

As long as we're discussing insects, I’ve seen a lot of these caterpillars around the People’s Republic. They’re very active—by which I mean, they always seem to be on the move. And they strike me as being a little…menacing.

I have the feeling that they’re not going to turn into butterflies.

Gratitude Monday: wings in the air

Early in the summer—well, maybe around May, early June—I saw a lot of fireflies. From the first stage of dusk up until around 2100, they flitted around the patio.

But they gradually faded—perhaps their season had passed for the year. Now I’m noticing dragonflies on my sojourns out of the air conditioning. They’re too fast for me to capture on video, but I can’t look at one without smiling. There’s something about dragonflies…

However, I’ve been able to capture a few bees going about their business, pollinating flowers and generally doing good.

Bees also fill me with happiness. So today I’m grateful for the insects that light the evening, decorate the air and keep the plant kingdom humming.