Speaking of mush, here’s what has been on my mind of late:

I will post pictures eventually, I swear. We visited friends and family, wandering from Connecticut to New York to D.C., getting rained on, throwing up and having a grand time. The family consensus is that we will never again visit Manhattan, but want to get back to D.C. as soon as possible, assuming we drive there rather than fly. Neither Jennie nor the boy-child will willingly board an airplane again.

Until I get pictures up, here’s the summary of our trip:
Day 1: Flew, Jennie went clammy, couldn’t talk and had to be led off the plane. The boy-child developed awe-inspiring flatulence and dealt with his fear by gassing the rows around him.

Day 2: Spent time with Erik and Deb and their kids, lots of mud, fun. Oh, and the Mark Twain house.

Day 3: Drove to upstate NY to spend time with my aunt, uncle and cousin there. The boy-child decided it was time to start vomiting. We had a wonderful lunch, some conversation and rested, then drove into Manhattan.

Day 4-5: Wandered about Manhattan, getting rained on. Constant haranguing by people trying to sell tours. The boy-child continued being ill for a while. Central Park in the rain is not a pleasure.

Day 6: Walked through more rain, then boarded a bus to D.C.. Not a bad way to travel, although it would have been better if we hadn’t all been soaked. D.C. is sunny, our hotel rooms are large, and we all are much happier. Jennie, Vally and I go walkabout and end up with Greek for dinner, then ice cream. Hopefully the kids found their way to the buffet at the hotel.

Day 7: Vally and I power-walk to the National Mall and check out the monuments from end to end. We make it into three of the Smithsonian buildings before meeting friends and family. Jennie and the kids move at a bit more sedate a pace. Definitely better than N.Y..

Day 8: We hop a train, then a plane, then another plane, and it is plain that it is a pain for the boy-child and Jennie. We’re home. The horses escape twice in our absence, and the house-sitter has left a trail of destruction behind her. And two pizzas. We prefer the pizza to the destruction. And one of the cats is splattered on the side of the road. We’re ready to go back to D.C..

Okay, enough summarization. I need to work.

Oh hey, I’ve found god! It turns out he was busy making podcasts and kind of tuned us all out, which explains why everybody keeps searching so hard for him. His creator, apparently, is a former Mormon. Trippy, man (yes, I am high on stress and lack of sleep).

Okay, that’s it. Hopefully the boy-child will forget to post today and I can pull ahead in the great blogger wars.

So, I’ve found the perfect balance of exercise and gluttony: If I only eat and drink to excess 4 days a week and live well the other three, I continue to get fit. As long as I can exercise heavily for 2 hours every day of the week, I can have my ice cream, scallops and 5 glasses of wine 4 days a week. Yay. I’m really f***ing tired. There’s no way this plan can fail, right?

Actually, it’s kind of fun seeing how hard I can push myself. Being somewhat sparse in the meniscus department thanks to a couple of knee injuries, I haven’t really run in 20 years or so. Now I’m doing 8-9 miles a day, brace-free. Even better, I no longer end up curled up in the fetal position afterwards, holding my knees and moaning. Life is good. As long as we don’t get snowed in.

I look forward to battling mildew and the salt air rather than closed minds. Sure, I’ll have to give up my 30-round magazines and assault-rifle sleekness, but California is where I want to be. Hello Redwoods, goodbye bigotry.

For the past three days, I have been able to make espressos strong enough to double as paint remover, so it has definitely been worth it. I may have to work on my tamping technique, however. Per Seattle Coffee Gear’s instructional video, I should be using 30 pounds of pressure. So far, I have been pressing down on the tamper while jumping up and down, applying the full 250 pounds of me as pressure. The result is an almost pitch-black brew for the first ounce, dark brown for the second ounce, and the equivalent of the first ounce using the pressurized portafilter for the third ounce.

Vally, Jennie and I may have ulcers by the end of the month, but I’m definitely extracting the full flavour of the coffee now.

The only part I’ve had problems with is the knock box. It is small, red and adorable, but it was definitely not designed for six double shots every day. By the time I am finished making espresso, I’ve also made an incredible mess of splashes and puck pieces all around the knock box.

Next week I’ll try frothing.

the girl has it too
which end is exploding now?
working from home sucks

She’s Italian, so far hasn’t complained about the mess, is in no way associated with the mafia and has a high tolerance for bad jokes. I think she’ll go far. Her obsession with Vampires (sparkly Twilight types, that is) may be a bit much, although so far she hasn’t put up any Edward or Bella posters.

I said goodbye to my grandfather on Saturday, my last view of him a handful of ashes riding on the wind. Whatever he may have been to others, he was a wonderful grandfather to me, and I always felt loved. If there were faults in the relationship, I would place them fully with me, falling short as a grandchild as I built my own life and family.

It was my grandfather who taught me the peacefulness of cross-country skiing (although constantly stopping to look for birds did not fit in my teenage schemes), who took me for hikes on the mesa, and got me banned from the Getty. I hope I can be as good a grandparent to any future grandchildren of my own when the time comes as he was a grandfather to me. I may be a bit quieter at the Getty, however.

So, let’s focus on the important stuff, shall we? Birds. It’s hard letting go, but I am trying. I’ve let him loose, he’s come back, and I sent him back into the world yet again. Sure, I have to step out onto the deck every few hours for a feeding, but el birdo is doing quite well outside. Okay, I haven’t a clue how well he’s doing, but he hasn’t been eaten by a cat, so that’s pretty good in my book. Yes, my book is short, and mainly full of pictures.

This:

Has become this:

He still stops by several times a day for some cat food, a mealworm and some seed. Someday he (she?) will realize that I am not a bird, though, and I will finally be free. Sniff!

So, what am I doing now? Working. And listening to Beige Curtains, by Riki Lindhome. And thanking hulu for getting rid of their rtmpe-only streams. Thank you, hulu. Now I can watch an endless stream of crap again. My life is full.

Tomorrow I have to battle the dmv. Apparently, Idaho doesn’t believe in notifying people when their licenses expire. I discovered this while attempting to get past TSA on Friday. They prefer you to have a valid license or some form of current id when you board a plane. Rather an uptight bunch, really. Does having an expired license make you more likely to commit acts of terrorism? Or was it just my muttering of “By Allah’s will, it won’t be a problem much longer” when they pointed out the expired license?

And finally, because I seem to lack a point, here is my explanation of why we have so many Mary Kay Letourneau wannabes these days: Three O’Clock High. More evidence of how us eighties teens fucked up the world. Somehow I missed this movie when it first came out. I think I was doing something stupid like jumping out of airplanes and training to kill Ivan. Poor Ivan, just a faded memory now that we are supposed to hate Muslims rather than Russians. Le sigh . . .