Clear sailing? *updated*
We’re on an Alaska Airlines 737, waiting to taxi out. The skies are clear. We’re flying into Portland, not icy Salt Lake City. Everything should go off without a hitch.
We shall see . . .
… We’re in Portland. They canceled our scheduled flight and put us on one departing 25 minutes later. Supposedly, we should preboard in 5 minutes.
***
We preboarded 20 minutes later, then spent at least another half hour in the aircraft cabin waiting for them to de-ice the wings. I sat next to a big man who wanted to use his cell phone. He reeeally wanted to use that cell phone. They made him shut it, of course, but the longer we waited for that de-ice job, the more agitated he became. He was one of these loud, angry, polite guys. You know, the kind that hollers, “MAY I PLEASE ASK A QUESTION?” and you’re wondering if he’s packing a glass knife. He and the steward went back and forth arguing about the cell phone, until finally the steward said, “We can arrange for you to be able to use your cell phone, sir.”
“And leave me behind?”
I was shocked. What insight! Up to that point, I’d thought if IQ points were sticks, this guy wouldn’t have been able to make a fire.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fergit it, then.”
Uh, yeah.
But we’re here. In Medford. We made it. With all our luggage. We’re back at the Rogue Regency and we have 8:30 reservation for their restaurant. That’s how good their restaurant is — amazing, huh?
I suppose we could have driven back home tonight, three hours in the dark on winding, icy roads, but crashing here seemed the wiser option.
Oh, if I haven’t said it yet,
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
D.
Isn’t that special?
Jake had to share the Pork song with me. While listening to it, I kept thinking: Why does this sound so familiar?
Then I remembered: Oh. This song.
Enjoy.
D.
Kneel before me and do my laundry, bitch!
Bet that title woke y’all up.
Amanda Marcotte at Pandagon has a sweet hit piece on MSN’s June Cleaver-esque article, 5 Doable Resolutions:
Cook More Often
Revamp Your Wardrobes
Book a Do-Nothing Vacation
Stop Having Sex in Your Bed
Support His Guys’ Nights Out
I can’t top Ms. Marcotte’s rapier-sharp snark . . . but in the interest of those women* trapped in one-sided relationships, how about an alternate list of resolutions?
Let Him Discover He Does, Indeed, Know How to Cook
You know that new Persian place across town, the one you’ve wanted to try for months, but he says Persian gives him heartburn? Go. Take a girlfriend or two. Take the kids, if you like, because they’re more open to new things anyway. Leave your man a six-pack of Quaker Instant Oatmeal if he’s that much of a loser in the kitchen.
When he learns he can satisfy his own caloric needs, think what an empowering experience it will be for him. He’ll thank you for it.
Let His Dirty Underwear Pile Up
He’ll pretend not to notice . . . until the day when he begins smelling himself in the car. And in the office. And in bed.
Which won’t bother you at all, not one bit, because you’re going to:
Book a Do-Nothing Vacation . . . For Yourself
Think of all those friends you’d like to visit, the ones he doesn’t like, and so in the interest of marital harmony, you’ve been phoning and emailing them all these years. But, you know what? There’s no substitute for simply being with a friend.
Think of all those places he has declared too hot, too cold, too expensive, too boring — places you wanted to see.
Tell him, “Hon, I know I’ve been a great big stone around your neck lately, a genuine pain in the ass; I’ve been whining for so long, it’s almost like I’ve lost the ability to communicate with you in any other way. I thought you would like a few days free of my bullshit. You work hard; you deserve it.”
It’s called projection. He’ll never figure it out.
Make Him Watch
Guy’s like to watch, after all. Afterwards, when he points to his groin and makes unintelligible noises which translate as, “My turn,” roll over and start snoring.
Even the score, baby!
And if you do nothing else this year,
Grow a Spine
Spines come in handy. They help you to stand taller, so that you can see things you’ve never seen before, breathe easier, eat with less pressure on your chest, look eye-to-eye with your less downtrodden friends. And who knows, your man may discover he likes a woman with a spine; and he might like himself a little more, too.
D.
*None of my readers, of course. I’m directing this at women who eat up that MSN article like candy.
Anime without sound
Some acquaintances* send out annual holiday mailers containing all the funny things the people in their family have said in the last twelve months. I read these things with close attention; I’m convinced that if I ever laugh at one of their family jokes, my universe will shatter.
I told Jake, “Maybe we should start saving up the funny things we say and send it to [our acquaintances] to show them how it’s done.”
But is this stuff any funnier, coming from us?
While Jake’s watching soundless anime on TV.
“Hey, Daddy, you really ought to try watching anime without the sound on.”
“Jacob, for that to be fun, I think I would have to smoke an enormous joint.”
Later.
“Hey Jake. Ever notice how if you run it all together, the name of the program is Dragonballz?”
In the mall.
“Look, Jake. Really cold mannequin.”
“Hey Daddy. Do they ever make mannequins with camel toes?”
That’s all I have so far. Grateful, aren’t you?
***
I need to take pictures of the interior of this hotel room. The bathroom is huge. It’s all huge. I wasn’t tempted to take pictures of our big family get-together (oy, we’re all getting older, every one of us, even though in my mind I’m still six — does it show? — my brother’s an obnoxious 13-year-old, my sis is getting ready to go off to college, and my parents are still young) but here in this hotel room I want to take pictures of a shower stall. What’s wrong with my priorities?
***
Why we’re in a hotel when my parents have two unused bedrooms at their place:
We told them we would stay with them for the four nights. Then we learned that my brother, his wife, his daughter and her husband and their toddler — were ALL going to be staying there for Saturday and Sunday night.
Uninterested in playing sardines, we made reservations for a hotel. My brother, apparently thinking the same thing, made reservations for a hotel. We only found this out today, so of course we can’t cancel our rezzies. And here we are. We’re all staying in hotel rooms and my parents have an empty house rather than family around for their 60th anniversary. Don’t we communicate well?
But I’m loving this hotel room, just the same.
***
We had some yummy dim sum today at a place called Chang’s (on Decatur, near Tropicana, if you’re interested). You always know you’re in for a treat if none of the help speaks English and you can count the gweilo patrons on one hand. We ate: jellyfish salad, shrimp balls (shrimpballz?), these itty bitty ribs, barbecued pork bao, those fat noodle things with shrimp inside, pork shiu mai, lotus seed-sesame seed ball things, and a Chinese donut. Only after I had stuffed myself did they trot out one of my favorite things in the world: little fried fishies. Smelt, I guess. I felt like begging the waitress, “ONE. Just one inch of one, oh just a taste, pleeeease.”
Which was, incidentally, the opening of a Rona Barrett memoir. Jeez. The things I remember from childhood.
***
We had our big dinner at Cheesecake Factory. This was fine, actually, and could have been far worse (Olive Garden, anyone?) My brother made a toast: To another sixty years. Earlier, my dad was talking about his WWII medals. “I wonder who will get these when I’m gone.” They mean a lot to him, those medals, but it’s a funny thing what people value. Yeah, I’ve talked about this before. What do I value? Photos. No — stories. If my dad can give me the stories behind the medals, I’ll keep the stories and my brother can keep the medals.
My sis did make that photo scrapbook for my parents, by the way. Really cool gift, and I think my mom appreciated it. I even heard her say, “Thank you,” followed shortly thereafter by, “Wow. You could really make money doing this for people.”
Family.
D.
*Remember, I have a few local readers. Wouldn’t take many clues for them to figure out whom I’m talking about.
Friday Flickr Babe: No Nonsense
Self Portrait, originally uploaded by Katrijn Michiels Photography.
Pity us: we’re in Las Vegas.
Open thread, everyone. Chit chat!
D.
Snow is overrated
But who am I to complain? Karen did all the driving, while I sat in the back seat thinking, go slower go slower go slower, expecting us to spin out at any moment, slide down the hillside, and have to use up all those survival supplies Karen so neatly packed away.
We’re not in Vegas, by the way. We’re in Medford. With luck, we’ll make it to Vegas only a day late. We had a choice between staying the night in Medford and having an excellent chance of getting to Vegas tomorrow, versus flying to Salt Lake City tonight and having an excellent chance of being stuck in Salt Lake City for the duration. We chose Medford.
United Airlines (“Ted,” in case you haven’t flown United lately; and you know what? It’s a lot easier to get pissed off at Ted than some faceless corporation) truly ticked me off with their bungling, but then they offered to set us up at the Rogue Regency, and my anger is fading fast. The bottles of Pyramid Apricot Weizen and Big Sky Moose Drool may have something to do with my improving mood. Also, after trekking across the 199 through all that snow and sleet, I wasn’t all that excited by the idea of flying for four hours, then taking a taxi to my parent’s house, and getting in, I dunno, around 10 PM. This is a more civilized way to travel.
We fly out of Medford at 3 PM tomorrow. Our connection is in San Francisco. ONE of Jake’s grandmother’s will get to see him tomorrow, that much is certain.
Meanwhile, I’m liking this hotel. The restaurant food is great! Karen had a seared salmon — essentially sashimi — I had a burger and crab cakes, Jake had a Philly cheese steak sandwich. Jake didn’t like his dinner, but Karen and I are happy.
Wish us luck tomorrow.
D.
Thirteen Resolutions for 2008
Amazing: I have never done a Thirteen for New Year’s resolutions. Back in ’05, I managed to think up six resolutions. How did I do?
1. Lose five pounds. I gained five. On the other hand, I think I converted about twenty pounds of fat into muscle.
2. Sign up at another gym (my favorite one closed) and, um, like, actually use the place. Success! See #1.
3. Lose my temper with my son 25% less. You’ll have to ask Jake about this, but I suspect I’ve been successful here, too.
4. Finish editing TBC and send out queries. Well, I never said how many queries I would send out . . .
5. Write my congressmen (yeah, they’re all guys) every time I think my head might explode. Ah, the joys of email.
And because I really really hate living in a warehouse . . .
6. Get flooring and counter tops! Counter tops: check. Flooring: I resolve never to make resolutions which depend upon the cooperation of contractors.
Below the cut: Thirteen New Year’s Resolutions.
Valdis pwnd
I’ve spent the past month with an arrogant elf, a dryad with PMS, and a half-giant with fewer IQ points than toes. We’ve been teleporting back and forth across Aranna, searching for bits of a legendary shield. There was this Azunite scholar who kept showing up after every big fight. These academic types are such wusses. So me (I was a dryad chick named Chloe) and my droogs would clobber some big-assed monster with about a billion hit points, then the scholar would show up, say, “Good job! Carry on,” and refuse to answer my questions. THEN the bastard turns evil in the end and steals my rebuilt magical shield!
Always knew that asshole was up to no good. He showed his true colors when it came time to defeat the primo baddie, Validis.
Frankly, I’m not sure what happened. Every so often this big, booming voice in the sky would provide my party with backstory; I’m pretty sure the uppity elf would pay attention, but as for me, my eyes glazed over. If you’ve seen one magical sword clash with a magical shield leading to the devastation of the Age, you’ve seen them all. And what’s the point, anyway, when every bloody time I defeat one Great Evil, a New Great Evil arises? It’s like trying to kill Freddy Krueger: as long as heroes like me are willing to travel great distances, murdering hordes of malignant beasts and undead along the way, there’s always some quintessential villain ready to step up to the plate. And then it’s kill Valdis, or kill son-of-Valdis, or kill Valdis’s underling who has been plotting Valdis’s destruction all along, and we’re all pawns, I tell you, pawns! and then the stars rearrange themselves (I kid you not) and it’s time to either (A) replay the whole damned game at a more brutal difficulty level, or (B) take the plunge and kill the New Great Evil.
I could wish for a lot of things, though, like the ability to look up. Is that asking so much? Three Dungeon Siege games I’ve played (four, since I just bought “Broken World”) and my character still can’t look up. A chick likes to look at the sky sometimes, you know? And sex. Chloe was so desperate by the end of her journey, even the half-idiot half-giant was beginning to look good. Every town had a magic shop, an enchanter, and providers of weapons and armor, but try and find a rent boy, just try. I finished the game with over a million gold pieces. Chloe should have been able to go reverse cowgirl on Johnny Depp for half that much.
A better story would have been nice, too. Chloe wouldn’t give a damn, but I do.
D.
Survivorgal
The lack of Federal response to Hurricane Katrina’s victims first put the idea into my wife’s head: you had to be able to survive a week, maybe more, without any assistance whatsoever. You couldn’t count on having power or running water. You would have to rough it. And while we don’t get hurricanes in the Northwest, we do get tsunamis. Tsunami warnings, anyway — lots of them.
Then, last year, the tragic story of the Kim family got a great deal of local airtime. They were trying to make it from I-5 to the Oregon Coast, and when snow made for poor road conditions, James Kim decided to take a logging road. He thought it would lead to the coast, but it dead-ended. By then, they had run out of gas. Hiking out for help, James Kim died of hypothermia, but thankfully his wife and kids survived.
But I think it was Survivorman (Les Stroud) who finally convinced my wife that she should send me out to buy hundreds of dollars of survival gear. Below the cut: the end product of my efforts.
Christmas Eve
Things are always so slow this time of year, comment-wise. You would think people were doing stuff with their families or something. (But I thought most of my readers were agnostics or atheists. What gives?)
Truly, though, the hit counter is as lively as ever. And what are most people searching for on Christmas Eve? What inspires them to Christ-like feats of love for their fellow man? A busty, luscious Rachel Weisz (Kosher for Christmas!) Clinical proof that Jennifer Lopez got back. The ever popular Real or Fake? boobs contest. Sex, in other words.
Well, Jew or not, far be it from me to show callous disregard for the giving spirit of Christmas. Here’s Salma Hayek’s reaction to me coming out of the shower:
Thanks, Salma. Couldn’t have done it without ya, babe.
What was I doing a year ago? Not posting, apparently. On Dec. 23, 2006, I posted a recipe for involtini. Year before that, I posted a question on ending the first book of my trilogy with a cliffhanger. I’d say Salma is an improvement.
***
What are we watching on Christmas Eve? A Christmas Story, naturally. It never gets old. We saw it when it first came out and we must have seen it a dozen or more times since. My favorite part? Ralphie feeling up the leg-lamp. Or maybe Ralphie’s little brother singing, “Meatloaf, meatloaf, double beet-loaf. I HATE meatloaf.” I used to use that wav file for error messages on my old 486.
My reading material for Christmas Eve: Christopher Moore’s Lamb. Loving it. I’m amazed how Moore makes it funny and loving and reverential, all in one. I can tell he’s building toward a tragic ending. Do believing Christians see their Messiah as a tragic figure? I suspect not. Christ’s death, if I remember correctly, is supposed to be a good thing.
But I’m still too much a Jew, or a doctor, or I don’t know what, but to me, death is never a good thing*.
And that’s all he wrote, Christmas Eve, 2007. Merry Christmas to all my goyim, tribe, and heathen friends! Time for me to light a fire in the fireplace; Santa’s toes are bound to be cold.
D.
*Except as an end to suffering — I’ll grant that. It’s a bitch, though, don’t you think? Saying death is “good” for that reason, it’s like the old joke: Why are you banging your head against the wall? Because it feels so good when I stop.