Musings

Ya know... for an aspiring writer, you'd think that I'd pay more attention to my blog.

What's that? You didn't know that I was an aspiring writer? Well, see... there ya go! Not even the four people that read my blog knew that I had an inclination to write for a living. But I've been thinking about things lately, and I believe that I really need to start putting some thought (and quite possibly, some effort) into just that.

So why am I writing about this now? Simple - because I can. I have the time.

I travel a lot in my business, and I'm getting to the point where I don't really want to travel a lot anymore. It's hard on me, and it's hard on my family. And if Theresa decides to die on me, I'll kind of be up a creek lifewise. Not that I want Theresa to die, but one never knows about these things. (Theresa... if you're reading this, please try not to die. Thank you.)

I literally could not continue to do what I do if anything were to happen to Theresa. That really kind of puts me in a bind, because it's been somewhere around fifteen years since I've had a real job. I don't think that I could go back to that. I mean, seriously... nine to five? Doing the same thing everyday? That really does not sound like much fun.

I am truly one of those people that love my job. I am a car guy. I get paid to talk about cars. I'm fortunate enough to drive somebody else's brand new car for much of the year. Sure, sometimes the car isn't really a car. Sometimes it's a truck, or possibly a minivan. But, hey, it's brand new, usually pretty close to fully loaded with all the latest gadgets, and, did I mention that I don't have to pay for it? That they pay me to drive this new car around? (And, truth be known, they actually pay me reasonably well for doing this for them.) And yes, whomever I happen to be working for takes care of everything else too... travel, gas, insurance. Okay, I've got to buy my own meals, but I mean... c'mon... does this not sound like a good deal?

Well, I guess that there are some drawbacks. I don't get to keep the car. And I don't get any say in what kind of a car (or truck) it's going to be. But, let's face it - I know a lot of people would love to do what I do. But, again, whenever I'm working, I'm traveling because it's the nature of the beast.

But what prompted all of this thought in the first place? I just got another life insurance policy. Not that I'm planning on dying anytime soon, but one never knows about these things. (Theresa, if you're reading this, I am definitely NOT thinking of dying anytime soon.) I just got the notification yesterday that the policy had been approved. It's kind of hard to not think about dying, when you get a notification in the mail that specifically relates to that subject matter.

Speaking of dying, if you've never really given it much thought, you probably should.

So anyway... as I have always enjoyed reading, and (as I have kind of discovered over the years) that I like writing too, I thought, you know... perhaps I could write for a living. (Like that thought hasn't occurred to what... half the population of the civilized world?) I have the time. That is, when I am in between projects. So I have elected to pursue a new career in writing. Not that I'll be giving up my car gig anytime soon (still need to pay the bills). But I have made a commitment to myself to work less this upcoming year to allow me the time to stay home with my family more (less chance of poisoning them that way), and try to get some writing done while between projects.

So I guess you are my guinea pigs. Please don't bite.

It's never good to poison your children

Even if it is not intentional.

As you know, I travel a great deal on business. Last weekend, I got home and on Sunday Theresa had Mattea out at a birthday party. Mattea and the boys were scheduled to go to another party in the afternoon. The boys really needed a nap, but they needed lunch first.

Going into the fridge, I saw a bag of noodles. (We generally use ziploc bags for cooked pasta noodles. They take up little space in the crowded fridge, and it's easy to see what's in it.) They were dark, spiral noodles, so I took them for rice noodles, warmed them up, and both of the boys had a bowl for lunch. (You already see where I'm going with this, don't you?)

Grayson got up from his nap, complaining that he didn't feel good, and felt like he had to throw up. He didn't, but five minutes later threw up on the floor when he didn't quite make it to the commode. Five more minutes pass, and he throws up again.

Yep... whole wheat noodles. Not only gluten - but the extra strength stuff. When I poison my kids, I don't mess around! Grayson has always been the most sensitive of all of the kids to gluten, and his body reacted the way anyone's would to the ingestion of poison - it threw it back out. Noah just felt bad for awhile.

We generally label the bags "GF" for gluten free or "wheat" for T & E pasta. Somehow this one didn't get labeled, and as I didn't even know that T had whole wheat pasta, I erred in preparing it for my children.

Yet another in parenting lessons for parents that travel...

The other side, the other side, the other side of me

This line from a Hannah Montana song (yes, we watch Hannah Montana in the Hernandez household. Almost as much for the boys as for Mattea) applies to my "Moth to a flame" post a couple of posts back.

Not many people see "the other side" of me. I generally keep it well hidden, buried beneath a facade of calm, laid-back, mild-mannered, generally upbeat Ernie. Once upon a time, no one ever saw that side of me. But, over time, I came to realize that everyone has "the other side".

We all release "the other side" in different ways. Some verbally. Some physically. Some in diaries never meant to be seen. I am very fortunate to have an understanding wife that I can talk to and be with and share with and who is as non-judgemental as anyone I have ever known. It is Theresa that I get to unburden myself with when things seem to get too crazy.

But the week before last, when I was 500 miles away and my family was physically displaced and our world was in turmoil, one evening I just had to vent beyond what was capable through a cell phone.

Words have always been important to me. Reading was the one thing that I could do as a child that kept me absorbed, and I think transported me to different worlds. I don't know that I ever really fantasized about living in Sherwood Forest, or sailing the seas with Sinbad, but I loved reading the stories so much that I read them over and over again. So I guess it was natural for the other side of me to come out in words. Words that I would not feel comfortable saying to anyone in person, but words that I knew I could pour out for others to read, and unburden myself to an anonymous world. Words that could help me get through that moment. Thanks for reading my words.

Irish coffee is a wonderful thing

This week I am working in San Mateo, California, just south of the city of San Francisco.

The multi-million population zone of Southern California is burning, with close to a million individuals and their pets being evacuated, including my family with me in absentia. This will ultimately lead to this being referred to as one of the worst natural disasters of all time in California - perhaps in the states. And people are concerned about earthquakes in the land of the setting sun.

All of this led to my previous stream of consciousness posts, as I had to just let those thoughts go last night.

Tonight, with an improved situation at home, some of my friends and I went in to the city for dinner. We had a nice dinner at a place called Cioppino's by Fisherman's Wharf because it was near our ultimate destination of the Buena Vista Cafe. We didn't go into town to have dinner. We went into town to have Irish Coffee.

If you ever go to the city by the bay, you must go to the BV. Irish Coffee was introduced to the United States in this quaint, smallish, friendly bar sitting on the corner where the cable cars are spun by hand to head back down Hyde Street. Don't eat dinner there; eat breakfast if you must eat anything. But whether you choose to eat or no, you can't leave without having their wonderful signature creation.

Watching the preparation is almost as enticing as finding your way to the bottom of the glass.

The glasses are lined up along the bar, sometimes as many as 2 dozen at a time or more. As needed, they are filled with warm water so as not to shatter when the hot coffee is poured in.

Pour out the water, drop in two sugar cubes and add coffee. Stir til the granules dissolve in the developing concoction. Contribute the appropriate amount of Bushmills. (I suppose you could use other Irish Whiskey(and I believe they use their own branded version now), but when I first witnessed the ritual years ago, it had to be Bushmills.) Top with heavy cream, blended to a froth, not peaks, and gently poured over a spoon and floated atop.

To drink this divine creation is to enjoy comfort food in a glass. Meatloaf has nothing on Irish Coffee.

Our bill settled, it appeared that we were about to leave. I commented that it would be a first for me - going to the BV and drinking only one. I can't count the times I've been. The first would have been back in the early 80's in one of my previous lives. My mates took pity on me. They noticed the downcast look; the utter despair on my brow.

The non-imbibers had the sense to leave then, while the rest of us were left to sink into our heavenly, caffeine injected alcohol abuse.

We just had one more, but really, that's all I needed. One just isn't enough. It may be months, perhaps years til I return. How could I possibly be expected to survive on one Irish Coffee for all that time. Patently, unmistakably, I could not.

You know... I think I've got some Bushmills in the pantry at home...

I'm okay

No.

Really.

I am okay.

A moth to a flame...

Must feel a similar compulsion to what I have been experiencing.

I cannot help myself.

Open more tabs in Firefox.

Surf through more television channels.

Needs unfulfilled, demanding additional input, because what I find is not satisfactory.

The information I receive is not nutritious. It leaves me wanting. There must be something, someone, somewhere, that can give me what I need.

Why doesn't anyone know what I want to know? I have simple questions. Why do the questions that I ask lead to more questions? How can this be happening?

..............................................

There is nothing I can do.

What can I do?

Why can't I do anything?

There is nothing I can do.

..............................................

Theresa is exhausted.

I can't help her.

..............................................

Thoughts that can't be contained.

Get your head out of your...

I was driving home last night from the airport. Generally, when I drive home I am somewhat exceeding the speed limit, though not excessively so. Such was the case last evening.

Having transitioned from Interstate 8 to CA-163, I was settled into the number three lane when a car in the number four lane turned on their left turn signal. I suppose different drivers have different ideas about what this means.

To some, it means that they will be moving left when traffic allows.

To others it means that they are moving left immediately.

Apparently this particular driver thought that it meant that she could then move into the number three lane, regardless of the fact that another driver was about to occupy that space, because that is exactly what she did. The fact that I was in the number three lane right behind her and moving probably 15 miles per hour faster than her seemed somehow irrelevant, I would imagine. Also, the fact that there was no one in front of her which necessitated the move at that particular moment, seemed of no particular import. She wanted to be right where I was about to be in a fraction of a second.

I chose not to run into her. I wanted to. But I chose not to.

"Hey lady. Get your head out of your ...!"

Boys are different than girls

Mattea probably didn't climb a tree until she was five or six. And then she climbed until she was about a foot off the ground.

On Sunday, after Theresa had left for the Chargers game, and I was preparing to leave for my next city (Seattle), something made me go outside. Perhaps it was the boys being louder than normal. It may have been the tone of their laughter. I don't really recall right now. But as I went into the back yard, I heard laughter coming from behind the little gazebo-like structure that we have in the back yard. As I walked over, I saw Grayson in the planter (about 2 feet above ground level) looking up at, and laughing with, his brother who was well up into the tree. I went inside to get Theresa's camera to document the infraction. (He was already up in the tree. I saw no use in getting him down before recording the moment in one's and zero's.) When I went back out, Grayson had climbed into the tree and somehow was above Noah. Not quite sure how he did that. Grayson's feet were probably 10 feet above ground level, as the tree is planted in the planter which is already a couple feet above ground level. After getting some photographic documentation, I asked both boys to return to earth.

We had a little talk about tree climbing. I said that they couldn't climb trees unless they asked, and then they couldn't climb all trees, but only those that we deemed climbable.

After leaving for my trip, I learned that they told Miss Trish (their babysitter, who is also a teacher at their school) that they were allowed to climb trees if they asked first. She let them, but only briefly as she didn't really feel comfortable with them up in the tree. (This is the same Miss Trish that, when they were moved up into her room at two years old, they learned that Miss Trish couldn't tell them apart. So they would change their shoes (which is one way that she could tell them apart) to confuse her. Perhaps we should rethink using Miss Trish as a babysitter.

All of this the day after they had found a sewing needle and attempted to stab each other in the arm to give themselves "TB" tests.

Boys.

Clarification

Theresa was actually talking to the dog, not to me, or the kids, in my previous post.

Just thought I'd clear that up...

Telephone conversations with my wife

My phone rings.

Me: Hello!

Other end of the phone: Hi Daddy!

(all of the following accompanied by raucous background noise)

Hi little girl! What are you doing?

followed by a fifteen to twenty minute rambling conversation about her day at school, her brownie field trip last night (making ice cream at Cold Stone) and what I had for lunch today. As they were approaching the mail box (this conversation was going on after Theresa picked up the kids from school and all were on their way home), I asked to talk to the boys.

(without asking the boys) "They don't want to talk to you"

So we talked about what they were going to have for dinner tonight (spaghetti) then

I love you Daddy. Bye.

Mattea ends telephone conversations rather abruptly. I don't know where she gets it.

Theresa (taking the phone from Mattea after they've walked into the house)

What are you doing? No don't do that! Get back here! Where did you get those? Why do you insist on eating my underwear! Hello?

So, what were the boys arguing about?

Clouds.

Clowns?

No... clouds. What color the clouds are. "The clouds are white!" "No the clouds are gray!" "No they're not. They're white and they're hiding the blue sky!" I've got to go! I'll talk to you tomorrow. I love you. Bye.

The world I live in now

You may wish to scroll down to my previous post and read that one first, then come back and read this one.

The world that I live in now, is a much better world than the one that I just wrote about. In the world that I live in now, my daughter plays outside with her friends at recess. She runs in running club on Tuesday or Thursday mornings (I forget which) and has recently become a senior member of her martial arts class, outranking some older children because she has more experience then they do. She has little interest in video games (unless they are on Playhouse Disney), but spends much more time involved in physical activity than inside sitting at the computer.

On Saturday morning, one of the first things she did was to show me her loose tooth. It was not loose, so much as hanging by the thread of a tiny reluctant root. She nearly pushed it out of her mouth as she nudged it with her tongue in my direction. I resisted the urge to reach out and pluck it from her gum, and made some suitable comment.

A few moments ago, when I called home (after my previous blog post) I asked Theresa if any of my children wanted to speak to me. Without telling Mattea who it was, Theresa handed Mattea the phone. When she heard my voice, I sensed the excitement in her response. "Daddy, I swallowed my tooth today!" She was out playing at school today, and while doing a cartwheel (which she has become quite good at) or a handstand, her tooth fell out. She couldn't find it on the ground so she believes that she swallowed it. When I asked her how the tooth fairy would learn of this she said "I wrote her a note!"

The world we live in...

is a much different world than the one that I grew up in.

I get back to my room tonight and pick up this morning's paper. (I never get up early enough to read it before I go to work, so I read it when I get back to the room.) Nintendo, maker of the leading video game on the market (by a 4:3 margin over Microsoft, and a better than 2:1 margin over Sony), has decided to provide "a breadth of games of all story lines and all genres". Translation: they want their game console owners to be able to experience killing someone in more realistic ways than simply pressing buttons on a console. Make slashing motions in the air to cut someone, and lifting your hands as if you are strangling someone.

Oh yeah. That's what I want my kids to learn.

This is entertainment? Not in my house.

Post Script

As I related the previous story to a workmate (who does not read my blog - shame on her) Becky said something about having to separate my laundry into loads, and the time it would take, etc. So I told her the Hernandez family method of laundry sorting. We don't sort by lights, darks and whites. We sort by room. Mattea's laundry. The boys' laundry. And Theresa and my laundry. Towels, napkins, sheets, etc. just get tossed in the mix as they can. Becky asked if we just washed everything in cold water and I said no, we just washed it all together on warm.

That got me thinking. We can't be the only family that do the wash like this... can we? We just don't have time to sort by color, etc. Surely others do as we do. Don't you? Let us know via the comment capability on my blog. I moderate them to prevent spam posters, but I will publish all responses.

Dirty Laundry

Running behind, as usual, I realized this morning that I hadn't done my wash from last week yesterday, so it needed to be done this morning before I left for Orange County this morning. So before I started our now traditional Sunday morning breakfast of gluten-free chocolate chip pancakes for the kids, I went to throw my laundry in the wash.

As I was moving the wet laundry that Theresa had started on Saturday into the dryer, I noticed bits of stuff falling about. I wasn't really sure what it was at first. I thought perhaps it was small bits of paper. But then I realized that it was small pieces of cheese. Seemingly slices of cheese, that had joined the clothing and linens in the laundry. It seems that someone decided that they didn't want to finish their sliced cheese, so they just wrapped it up in the napkin and tossed it in the hamper.

Now don't get me wrong... I've had my share of ball point pens left in pants pockets that have not only redecorated clothing, but have left artwork on the tub of the dryer. But I believe this is the first time that I have ever had to vacuum the inside of the washing machine, as well as the dryer. (I had already started loading the dryer before I noticed this, so there was a significant amount of cheese in the dryer as well. I suppose it was better to catch it before, rather than after it had been melted into a huge, stringy mess...

Hi. Me again.

I know... it's been a while, and you just haven't had your fix in a while, so you had to see what was going on. Well... if you don't have much to say, there's not a lot to write about.

That being said, in my last post I mentioned meeting Monica and Helena. Doug was able to snap a couple photos of Helena and me having pizza, and here's one of them.

Had to quickly mention this about the boys though... not long ago we went to see the circus. Apparently, some of the acts made a relatively longer lasting impression than others. At school Miss Shelly found the boys sliding the teeter-totter around looking for a place where one of the boys could stand on one end while the other jumped on the other end to launch his brother! (She didn't say if they had thought out where he would land...)

The digital world invades real life

Today I had the opportunity to meet two more of Natural Designs in Scrapbooking's far flung community.

Monica was one of the first people to find us and come and hang out with us. The surprising part is that she kept coming back! I was in Portland for work this morning and late last night sent her an email, giving her a very small window of opportunity for us to meet in less than 24 hours (because I am the king of procrastination, and just "hadn't gotten around" to letting her know when I'd be up here). Stunningly, amazingly, she called this morning and agreed to meet me for lunch with her son Thomas. We had a very enjoyable chat and lunch, and I learned that Monica is even nicer in person than she is in the computer!

While having lunch with Monica, my phone buzzed. I let it go to voicemail and checked my message a little later, as I was leaving the Portland area to head up to Seattle. While lunching with Monica, Helena called. Helena lives in the greater Seattle area, which is where I was headed this afternoon. And yes, I had also dropped an email to Helena late last night, offering her the same lame deal I had Monica... I'd like to meet you, but I'm only going to have a small window of opportunity. We traded phone messages about 5 times as the afternoon progressed, finally hooking up real time at about 5:30 via phone. We agreed to meet at a park and have some pizza. We met around 6:30 or so at the park, and if you've ever wondered why anyone would want to live in Seattle with all of its rain, you just need to go to this park for the answer. Right on the Sound, lushly treed, it was absolutely beautiful. I also got to meet Doug (DH) and Kate (DD). We had a relaxing evening, spent in a gorgeous environment.

If this keeps up, pretty soon everyone at NDISB will know that I'm not really green.

A belt and suspenders

A phrase heard periodically when discussing someone who might be just a touch conservative, or security conscious, or perhaps both. Not something one expects to see.

Yesterday, the shuttle driver running me from the airport terminal in Portland to the economy parking lot was an older gentleman. Wearing a belt and suspenders.

Going through life with a buzz on

Yesterday I had an 8:10 AM flight home from Portland. At 8:30 AM the guy next to me ordered a double vodka with a splash of orange juice. Downed before 9:00.

One stop in Sacramento, then continued on to San Diego. The guy across the aisle ordered a beer (probably about 10:00 by now). Pounded another before descent - about a forty minute window.

Is life so bad that it can't be faced without alcohol?

I admit to having my share (more than my share too many times to admit). But when it gets to the point where you start your day with multiple drinks...

Crazy women

That's who I've been hanging out with for the last little while.

Well, not irl (that's "in real life", not "Indy Racing League". If it were Indy Racing League, I probably would have capitalized it...). But in the NDISB forum. There were a bunch of people on line at the same time, which is somewhat unusual for us, as we are still a small (but growing) community. And it was actually very entertaining. For a while, we were using one of the forums as a virtual chat room, with posts and responses being flung about with abandon. And another forum is a "say the first word that comes to your mind" response thread, and it was getting... interesting. Yeah... that's it... interesting.

One of the things that I truly enjoy about Theresa's business is that it brings together individuals that would otherwise never have met, and provides outlets in varying ways. Some creative types design works of art (designers). Other creative types design works of art using those products (creative team members). Customers and community members (forum members) just check in periodically to see what's going on. And we always seem to have some kind of threads going on in the forums just for fun. And naturally, those are always the ones that seem to get the most attention.

But one of the things that I find most amazing is that, though I've never met most of these women in real life, I know that I would feel comfortable with them the first time we meet. We've learned about each other, sometimes in ways that you would never imagine, and have learned that we can count on each other not only for friendship, but support. I have seen it happen time and again where our community members have helped each other, in small ways, and sometimes in large.

And these women live, literally, all over the world. We've just completed a six week long challenge/game based on "The Amazing Race" television show. A recurring theme that I saw at its conclusion (we had almost 200 two person teams enter the "race"), was that many of the team members who didn't even know their partner prior to the race, in six weeks had established a continuing relationship with their partner.

NDISB (and crazy women) helping the world get smaller. A couple of people at a time.

If you don't leave a key in a lock...

they go digging through drawers looking for the keys. I came down yesterday morning (didn't have time to blog yesterday) to find two sets of keys sitting on the table next to the front door. The boys haven't quite figured out how to not get caught. Yet.

Fortunately, the front door keys were on the mantel (safely out of reach), so a repeat performance was avoided. (Also fortunately, referred to neighbors were out of town, which was why there was no answer at the door!)

If you leave a key in a lock...

chances are a little boy will unlock it. And open the front door, of which it is a part.

He will go through the door. At 6:15 AM (or so). With his identical twin brother. Both of whom are carrying pot lids to use as cymbals. At 6:15 AM (or so). In their underwear.

They will have let the dog out of his kennel. The dog will escape through the front door while the boys are escaping out the front door. And go into the neighbors side yard, through their wrought iron gate.

The boys will ring the neighbors doorbell to get their dog back. No one answers. But the dog will run back through the gate all by himself.

The dog will find his way back into the house. Because the front door is still wide open. At 6:15 AM (or so). And make his way upstairs. He'll bark by the bed of the sleeping man until the man wakes up. And goes downstairs. To find the boys standing on the front walk looking at snails. In their underwear. With their cymbals.

The man will invite the boys to come back into the house. And close the front door behind them.

And chances are, when he closes the front door, he locks it. And removes the key.

(With apologies to Laura Joffe Numeroff and Felicia Bond)

"I'm going to kill YOUR boys!"

When answering the phone, and these words tumble out, experience counsels no reply.

I have learned, over time, that these words precede a torrent of emotional release, of which one should never step in the way.

When spent, I learn that the boys have taken crayon not only to walls but to carpet as well. How one writes on carpet with crayon is beyond me.

Life with 4-year-old twin tempests entertains in ways unexpected. (Theresa probably didn't see it that way at the time...)

Do you live here?

A rather ordinary question, although it seems to indicate a lack of critical thinking ability when asked in a hotel elevator.

It's hell to get old

I am, if not much else, a creature of habit. When I find something I like, I keep going back to it. Like the Asian Chicken Salad at Jack in the Box.

When I am traveling, it is a rare week that I don't eat four or five of them from Monday through Friday. Some I have for lunch. Others dinner. So, really, that's only twenty-five or thirty percent of my meals. That's not too bad I suppose.

Sometimes, when I'm in between projects and working at home, I will eat tuna salad for lunch every day. It's easy and I like it. But back to the Asian Chicken Salad.

If you've not had one, it is, to a degree, a build it yourself meal. You get a plastic plate with a plastic lid enclosing a bed of lettuce, 3 raw red onion rings, 4 zuchinni rounds, about 2 ounces of shredded carrots, and a few ounces of mandarin orange slices. In addition, you get sealed packets of wonton noodles (which I always throw away), slivered almonds and Asian Chicken Salad dressing. I always lightly drizzle the salad dressing on the salad, and rarely will use more than half the packet. Served in a separate box are two small grilled chicken pieces to top your salad with. (You can choose crispy chicken strips if you wish, which I have never done, and probably never will.)

Earlier this week, I was eating one for dinner when, having consumed about half, I realized that I had not put my slivered almonds on. The remainder of my salad was almond rich!

Last night, I was almost two thirds of the way through my salad when I realized that I had neglected to add the chicken.

It's hell to get old.

(btw, the one I had for lunch today, I didn't forget to put anything on...)

Hot water

That's not asking for much in a hotel, is it? Yesterday afternoon and evening the hotel had none. After it had gone AWOL for several hours, I decided to call and see when we could expect its return. Apparently the customer service manual says that when there is an ongoing problem, do not answer the phone for any reason. I let the front desk phone ring a good 50 times before I chose to hang up. That's the way to run a business...

Boy parts

Theresa was laughing, or shaking her head, or providing a similar indication of amusement and/or disbelief.

I had to ask.

One of the boys, while getting ready for bed, was discovered standing naked with a firm grasp on his boy parts.

When questioned, his reply was "It feels good."

Theresa had no response...

Writers write. It's what they do.

You didn't expect to see this.

Admit it. It's okay.

After all, I just dropped in yesterday, and here it is only one day later and I'm back.

You're glad, aren't you?

Racing. Hearing the kids call "Daddy!" as I came off the course.

Going to Ikea and not finding a bed.

Changing race tires back to street tires.

Doing laundry.

Assembling a book case for Theresa.

Grilling hot dogs.

Mowing the lawn.

Packing for my trip.

Bathing the kids.

Driving to LA.

Doesn't seem like much, but took from dawn til well past sundown.

That's what I did today.

Hey... it's me...

Admit it.

You kept comin' round.

Nope. Nothing. Again.

But you kept coming back, didn't you?

It's an addiction, really.

Not that that's a bad thing.

Especially since it's my blog that you're addicted to.

Yes, I know that it's been over a month since my last bit of drivel. And I'd apologize, but it's possible it will be another month before I post again (though perhaps not).

I've been very busy of late, but I won't bore you with the details.

Instead I'll bore you with another thought.

I attended a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball game on Thursday night. Although I am not a Dodgers fan, I am a baseball fan. And any opportunity to attend a major league baseball game especially at the expense of another should not be missed.

Somewhere around the fourth inning, a group of three men and one woman twenty-something account executives from a Los Angeles area marketing/public relations/ad agency type business sat behind me. Obviously they were more interested in talking than watching the game. As a foul ball landed among the crowd, one of the men said "Can you sue if the ball hits you in the head? I didn't sign anything when I walked in."

And people wonder why this country is in the mess that it's in...

Yet another weight loss program

But this one actually makes sense.

I was driving down the road, listening to the radio when the host of the talk show started talking to someone about weight loss. I forget who he was, or what his credentials were, but he said something about his weight loss program that I will probably never forget - weight loss is pretty simple... Eat less. Move more.

Duh, I hear you saying. But... how many of us actually do that? Eat less. Move more. I mean, and actually include both of those parameters in our weight loss program?

As with many, many things, weight loss is simple, but not easy.

I've decided to incorporate these parameters with a goal of my neighbors that has worked for him for 13 or 14 years. Lose 1 pound. Once he lost that, his goal was to lose another. He's easily in his 70's, possibly in his 80's. He's lost over 30 pounds in that time. Granted, this rate of weight loss would not be acceptable to some people. But I would say that a significantly higher proportion of the population experienced exactly the opposite experience of my neighbor, gaining 30 pounds over the last 15 years.

Incorporating all of the above ideas, I have lost my first pound over the last month or so. I seem to be keeping it off also, as my weight is now fluctuating about a pound lower than it was a month ago.

If I can lose 10 pounds over the next year, I'll be happy.

Sometimes it pays to be adventurous

I was on my way home. Home, in this instance, being the Holiday Inn Express, Rosemead, when I asked my helpful and practical navigation device to help me find something for dinner. Since the Holiday Inn Express, Rosemead, has no fitness center, I figured I might as well eat dinner before I got home.

You handful of consistent visitors to my blog know that my preference for dinner is a dive taco shop. So when I saw the San Isidro Mexican Restaurant pop up, I knew where I was headed for dinner.

As it turned out, San Isidro (which, by the way, is spelled differently than the city of San Ysidro, south of San Diego, hard on the border of Baja California), was not a dive taco shop, but an honest to goodness sit down Mexican restaurant. All that it needed to lure me inside, was the neon beer sign glowing within its windows.

I had to make a bunch of phone calls before I went in, confirming all of my training sessions for next week. That being done, I prepared myself mentally for a leisurely dinner.

As I walked in, there was a Mariachi group preparing itself for entry into San Isidro.

I was greeted by no one when I walked in. So I looked around a little. I saw someone wiping a table clean, but no other wait staff, or a hostess, so I wandered back over near the door and just waited, taking in the Mexican-style wicker and leather furniture common to places like this. The young woman who had been clearing the table approached and started speaking rapid-fire Spanish to me. I was not thinking quickly enough to reply "No entiendo Espanol" and blurted out something like, "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish". She said "For here, or to go". And when I replied "Here", she said "Anywhere". So I found a table, and as she politely asked if I'd like something to drink, I ordered a Negra Modelo, as they didn't have Dos Equis Amber, my beer of choice, but especially so in this environment.

A small amount of time passed, then the ever-present chips and salsa arrived - a wonderful accompaniment to my beverage. Browsing the menu, it soon became evident that San Isidro specialized in Pescado - Fish. So I decided on a bowl of shrimp soup with vegetables, and awaited the return of my green-bloused server. (The other waitress had a white blouse on). As I waited, the table in the other end of the "L", in the "L" shaped dining room, requested musical accompaniment from the mariachis, which band consisted of a couple of guitarists and a large acoustic bass. The band played several tunes and got me in the mood for a festive evening of music and food, but then left as no one else (myself included) was willing to fund them further.

Green blouse girl came back and asked for my order. I ordered the shrimp soup, and pointed to it on the menu, to be sure that she understood. She nodded, wrote it down and was off to place the order. As my first beer had already been consumed, she kindly brought me another.

While I was waiting for my meal, another mariachi band replaced the first. I couldn't help but think of the animated short about street musicians in one of Mattea's DVD's when I saw them. The band consisted of a bass drum, a snare drum and a tuba. I literally laughed out loud when I saw them. By this time, the table in the corner had been vacated, but the family that had been there was replaced by three young men with closely cropped hair - not the type of audience one would typically associate with a mariachi band. But they ordered up a round of music as well. So the tuba player rushed back toward the door, motioning to someone. It turned out that there were two trumpeters and two saxaphone players still warming up outside!

Let's just say that they were enthusiastic. Each, I believe, tried to play louder than his mate, in a room that was no bigger than a typical downstairs level in a two-level home. What made it particularly interesting was that each one of them seemed to have his favorite key, regardless of what anyone else was playing. They all seemed to be playing the same tune, but nevertheless, it came out as a cacophony of amazingly bad sounding noises. And then they continued for three more of the same. As they played, all I could do was laugh, and look at the faces of the other patrons in the restaurant, who, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion I had.

I took the opportunity to better take in my surroundings, as observation is a weak point of mine. The obligatory neon beer signs were everywhere - Tecate, Sol Cerveza, Negra Medelo, with the occasional Bud Light thrown in for good measure. But mixed in amongst the glowing artwork, were art prints to savor as well. The two faces, facing each other, that when looked at more closely, form a chalice or vase in between. The head of the old woman, who upon closer inspection, was not an old woman at all, but a naked young woman, posed near a waterfall. This was getting better all the time! Then my dinner arrived.

My shrimp soup had large chunks of halibut floating in it. Not what I had in mind at all. Right next to the shrimp soup on the menu, had been a mixed seafood/fish soup, which is what my waitress apparently thought that I had pointed to. When I tried to explain that I wanted shrimp soup, my waitress started speaking Spanish to me again, even though she knew that I did not understand her. I waited until she was done, and then told her that I wanted "Camaron". Shrimp. She told me that it would take 15 minutes, so I ordered another beer, my second seeming to have gone down as quickly as the first.

No sooner had the second mariachi band finished, than a third came in to San Isidro! And again, the three young men at the other end of the "L" ordered up! This third band though was a guitar, acoustic bass and accordian, and they actually played quite a lovely set, with wonderful vocals accompanying their instruments. I must admit that I find mariachi music, when properly presented, to be lively, fun, and very entertaining. This third group was exactly that. (And,no, the beer had not started to impact my appreciation).

My shrimp soup arrived, heavy on the broth, light on the vegetables, but adequately laden in large shrimp, so I enjoyed the rest of my meal thinking back to the three totally distinct musical performances just presented, and relishing the opportunity to have been a participant, rather than eating at some fast food restaurant that would be as cookie-cutter as any in America.

Sometimes it pays to be adventurous.

You never know...

Seattle, Washington. November, 1974.

Actually, to be more precise, it was Bremerton, an hour's ferry ride across the sound. My first real job.

I had enlisted in the Navy in January, 1974 to escape a small town life of pumping gas (which I had never done), or driving tractor (which I had, and didn't much want to do the rest of my life, as many had before). I graduated high school the previous June. I couldn't afford to go to college, and had no real desire to, even if I could. "Join the Navy and see the world!" In my first eleven months I'd been to three corners of the United States. Not bad, for a start.

My first year was taken up with training and schooling and preparing and screening. After all, it isn't everybody who could go to sea in a submarine for months on end.

The USS Nathan Hale (SSBN623). Blue Crew. The first time I saw my boat, it was suspended in the air and had very large holes in the side, through which machinery was being removed and replaced. I was so naive, I don't believe the thought ever occurred to me that those very large holes would need to be repaired for this 425 foot long, 33 foot wide beast to submerge to depths in excess of 400 feet.

It's funny, that. The only thing that we could say regarding our depth capability was that it exceeded 400 feet. But anyone that had access to "Jane's Fighting Ships" could see that we could safely submerge to 1300 feet.

That's where I met Troy.

We shared many things. Coming from small towns: mine in California, Troy's - Pennsylvania. A love of music. Troy got hold of a guitar somewhere, and was (like so many others) torturing all those around him with his never ending quest to learn "Stairway to Heaven". The desire to drink too much and sometimes live life a little more on the edge than we should. Hell, we were 18... we were invincible.

The years passed. We served together for three years. Shared time underwater together for about half that. "Join the Navy and see the World!" We saw the inside of a submarine. Boomers never go anywhere. That's what they call 'em - Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarines - "Boomers" for short. I'll let you conjure your own idea of the conversations that created the nickname. Boomers just take off, disappear, and come back three months later. Our longest patrol was 105 days. Continuously underwater. That gives you a long time to cultivate a friendship.

I remember one summer Troy and some of our buddies lived in a little place outside of Charleston (South Carolina, the new homeport of the Nathan Hale). Troy introduced me to some of the native flora and fauna. Let's just say the little pond by their house was designated "Lake Shroom".

We got out. Went our ways. But Troy always called. Sometimes quite some time would go by between our conversations. But Troy always called.

When he got married, Kim and I went back for the wedding. Anyone that knows me knows that my memory is roughly the equivalent of a burlap sack trying to hold water. Yeah... not much in there. But I do remember Troy being ecstatically happy with his young new bride, Sherry, who was just the sweetest thing.

More time passed. One Saturday morning Troy parked in our driveway, got out of his rented Cadillac (Troy couldn't rent just any old car!) and knocked on our door. Kim came to get me before opening it, because she couldn't really believe Troy would just show up on our doorstep. But he did.

Then Carley came, and he sent me a picture, and she looked just like him. Then a few years later, Corey came. Carley just turned 13, and Corey's 9. Where did all that time go, from when she was just a baby with a scrunched up face that looked just like her dad's?

Only once in all my travels did I manage to work anywhere near him, and stopped by to visit a few years ago. We didn't stay in touch as often as before, but every once in awhile, I'd still get a call when he got a new guitar. Or a new race car. Or another new toy. And we'd talk.

I'm going to miss Troy's calls.

Troy was going to call me. He wanted to tell me about his new motorcycle. But I'd moved since our last conversation, and our new number was listed under Theresa's name and I never gave it to Troy.

Sherry called me on Friday to tell me. Troy was killed when someone pulled out in front of him. He was three months older than me. Fifty two.

You never know.

How many people do you know...

who figure out the day of the week by how many pairs of socks are left in the suitcase? Three pair? Must be Wednesday.

Wouldn't you know it...

As soon as I write about how much I love sleeping with my kids, they run me out of bed.

The night after my last post, actually. There I am sleeping quietly next to Theresa (at least I think I was sleeping quietly next to Theresa) when all of a sudden an acrobatic act broke out on top of me. Well, maybe not, but it sure felt like it. Noah and Grayson had both made their way into the bed (Mattea was still in the blue bed, downstairs) and began doing flying leaps and somersaults and back flips on me. Not really, but it sure conjured up an image, didn't it? They were pushing up against me, and pushing with their feet. Their arms were flailing all about, and Grayson wanted to lay down on me again, but he was moving all over the place this time. Finally, I decided that if I wanted to get any sleep I'd need to move. So I went downstairs and slept with Mattea.

Such is life in Casa Hernandez.

Stuck in the middle with you

Long time readers of my blog must suffer through this yet again.

Newer readers will have had to dig into the archives to uncover this.

For those inclined not to delve into history, this may be new.

I'm going to write about sleeping with the kids again.

I love sleeping with my kids. I love the fact that my kids want to sleep with us. I love the idea that they wake up, scattered around the house, and one by one, wend their way into our bedroom and into our bed. And we end up in a pile in our bed in the morning.

I'm not sure exactly when this particular night was. I've been coming and going a lot lately, as I've been working in Southern California, so I'm home some nights during the week, as well as on the weekends. And sometimes I know when smaller beings have joined us, and other times I don't know until I wake up in the morning.

This particular morning, I remember recognizing that Theresa and I were not alone. Sometimes, at the conclusion of the migration, the children desire to be in a specific place on the bed. "I want to be next to you!" That works if only two such children express such a desire. On this particular morning, all of my kids must have been missing me, because they all wanted to be next to me. The last child to make his way into our sleeping chamber was Grayson. As he was climbing into bed, he said "I want to sleep next to you" and proceeded to squirm his way between Noah and me. This woke Noah up, and he didn't truly appreciate this turn of events. So, to satisfy all of my children, Grayson ended up laying down on top of me, placing his head on my chest, and falling peacefully back to sleep.

I'll probably remember that morning the rest of my life.

Saw Shrek III this morning

Getting a little worn around the edges in my book. The original Shrek was clever and amusing and fun to watch. With Shrek III I kept waiting for it. Oh well... a ton of people made a ton of money. I guess that's all that matters. Oh, and it only cost us a little over $50 for three adults and four children to see it. And that was during the discounted matinee showing!

This afternoon we took the kids to the community pool, with Ann (mom), Emma (Mattea's age) and Elise (Noah and Grayson's age). Emma went to Merry Go Around (MGA) with Mattea, and is in ballet with Mattea, and Elise is currently at MGA with the boys. As the cupboard was bare, I ran to BevMo to get some wine, beer and snacks. (Lawrence (Ann's husband) was here when I left, but gone when I came back. He had some things to take care of at home.) So I only took one bottle of wine and some snacks to the pool.

Theresa drank the wine (I may have had a little tiny sip), the kids ate the chips (okay... maybe I had one or two), and everybody will sleep well tonight!

The kids must have been in the water for a couple of hours straight going from jacuzzi to pool to toddler pool. Amazingly, the only injury was to Noah, when he was reaching for a toy, slipped, and smacked his head on the side of the pool. The pool was fine, and Noah will live to swim again.

Yesterday, we went over to Jim and Judy's (Theresa's folks) for the semi-annual Trageser Bocci Ball tournament. Miss Myrna from MGA watched the kids.

If you've never played Bocci Ball, you must learn how. You sit around and drink Chianti and eat wonderful stuffed and baked portobello mushrooms (Ask T for the recipe) in the beautiful Southern California sun. Personally though, I was crushed. We lost (I believe for the first time ever) a game, and thus could not go on and win the tournament. I don't know if the love of my life will ever forgive me. One can only hope.

Okay, you can go on and live your lives now. :)

I've been tagged. Oh joy...

Bob tagged me. When Theresa tagged me, I could safely avoid playing, because Theresa is my wife and there is a tagger rule that says spouses do not have to play tag when tagged by their spouse. I just made up that rule, as most of these rules seem to be made up.

But I like Bob. She has nice boobs. Yes, Bob is a girl. As I do not wish to upset Bob, I will play her silly little game of tag.

Here are the rules: Each player starts with 7 random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write on their own blog about their seven things, as well as these rules. You need to choose 7 people to get tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them that they have been tagged and to read your blog!

Oh... I just made up another rule. If your name is Ernie, you don't have to tag anyone else...

1. I count steps on stairs. I don't think that I am autistic. But I count steps on stairs.
2. I don't know how many toothpicks are on the floor if a toothpick box is dropped and broken open. I think that probably proves that I am not autistic.
3. I eat a chile verde burrito almost every Friday night for dinner. We go to Cotija taco shop # somethingorother every Friday for takeout for Theresa and me. The kids like Taco Bell, so they get tacos or nachos from Taco Bell. Sometimes I get a fish burrito, or 5 rolled tacos with guacamole. Theresa always gets a chili relleno burrito with no beans. I think Theresa may be autistic.
4. My desk is a mess. Messier than most peoples desks. Sometimes when I clean up my desk I find things that have not been moved in years. Literally.
5. The floor in my office is an extension of my desk. I am afraid to clean up the floor in my office. I think that animals have set up nests and invite relatives to live in the piles of stuff on my office floor with them. (Not really, but it sounds like a really, really good reason to avoid cleaning up my office floor, don't you think?)
6. Almost every time that she visits, my older sister Edwina offers to help me clean up my desk and my office. I always politely refuse.
7. I like my friend Bob, even though I have never met her in real life. Bob lives in Idaho with her husband Greg, and their dog Izzie. I travel a lot, but I never go to Idaho. I don't know if Bob and I will ever meet in person. Bob's daugher Kelsey is currently living in England with her husband Matt. Matt is currently serving in the military. You can read all about Bob, Greg, Izzie, Kelsey and Matt at Bob's Big Blue Blog (2). If I recall correctly, when Blogger went from old blogger to new Blogger, for some reason Bob started a second blog. I don't recall exactly why. I don't think Bob is autistic.

PS: Melly, if you want to, you can play too. And according to Ernie's rules, it's up to you if you want to tag anyone else or not.

PPS: Edwina, if you ever learn how to blog, you can also play. I believe that it is safe to say, Edwina will never set up a blog.

PPPS: Judy, I know you're reading this. (Judy is Theresa's mom). You should make Jim set up a blog for you, so I can change my mind and tag you.

PPPPS: Theresa is probably the only other person on the earth that reads this blog. I already know all there is to know about you. Or if I don't know it by now, I don't know if I want to find out on your blog.

This is exactly why...

I don't watch TV.

All of these commercials! They keep happening!

The HORROR!!!!!!

HELP ME!!!!!!!!!

AGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111

I'm watching "24" on live TV

I don't like watching live TV.

I have to watch commercials.

I don't have to watch commercials on TiVo.

Or I can blog instead.

I think I'll blog.

Okay... the commercials are almost over.

I have to go watch "24" on live TV now.

One of the many things that I don't understand

I am not the sharpest tool in the shed.

That being said, I believe that I have a modicum of bite to my edge.

And whilst some of the things that I don't understand are of great significance (string theory, for instance), this particular instance is less, what shall we say... weighty.

Why is it that some hotel maids feel that they must turn the air conditioner on "cool high" with the thermostat turned all the way down to its coldest position?

I walked into my hotel room this evening to find icicles forming on the bathroom faucet. I swear I could see clouds forming in front of me as I was breathing moist warm air into the room.

Is this experience one that they feel is conducive to the comfort of their guests?

Do they enjoy walking into the icy confines of a meat locker when they get home?

I'm sorry, but I just don't get it.

I rarely pack much in my bag (after all... I never go out, and nobody sees me after work. Who do I have to impress?) But yesterday it was cool so I was wearing a sweatshirt, and I happened to throw in a pair of sweatpants before I left the house. So the first thing I did was to turn off the confounded air conditioner, then put on my sweats. Unfortunately, I left my Ugg slippers (provided lovingly for me by my thoughtful wife, Theresa) in the bedroom at home. Had I had them, I'd have put them on too!

By the way, if you are ever in Colton, California I don't recommend that you get the Kung Po Shrimp provided by Rickshaw Boy on East Valley Road. As near as I can tell, for $11.37 including tax, you might get 11 shrimp amongst a very large mix of celery, onions, peas and carrots. I worked my way through maybe a third of the container this evening (so I guess you know what I'm having for lunch and/or dinner for the next couple days), and I may have had 3 or 4 shrimp. And even though I ordered medium spicy (choices: mild, medium, hot), the chile overpowered any other flavor in the mix.

But, "The star of riches is shining on you" according to my fortune cookie. Yee-ha!

Ten White Trucks

I am easily amused.

I am also among the least observant of individuals to walk the planet. Having been tested for such things (because I was curious), it has been determined that 87 percent of the population is more observant than I am. I would probably not make a very good detective.

But this particular observation was so obvious, that even I was able to pick up on it.

Yesterday as I was driving to Orange County from San Diego on my way to work in my white 2007 Toyota Tundra (which I am currently comparing to the Nissan Titan), cruising through the vast environs of Camp Pendleton along the not so scenic Interstate 5, I noticed that there were some white trucks in front of me. Nothing organized. Not all part of a fleet. Different makes, models, and sizes. And actually one was an SUV. But white trucks nonetheless.

Then I noticed more in my rear view mirror.

So I started counting. Ten white trucks (including my own)!

Actually, statistically, that is probably not all that improbable. White is one of the most common (still) of all vehicle colors selected. And trucks make up a very large segment of all vehicles sold. But still... ya gotta admit... kinda weird.

Speaking of Camp Pendleton... that reminds me of something. Back in a minute...

Click Here Now

Ahhhh... another urban myth brought down.

Recently, a former marine who had been stationed at Camp Pendleton told me that Pendleton was actually privately owned, and leased to the government. I found this rather incredible, but he seemed pretty certain of it. I had been meaning to check it out on my own, and was just reminded of it so I did. This is what I found on the Camp Pendleton Official Website:

In 1841, two brothers by the name of Pio and Andres Pico became the first private owners of Rancho Santa Margarita. More land was later added to the grant, making the name Rancho Santa Margarita y Las Flores, and that name stayed with the ranch until the Marine Corps acquired it in 1942.

I don't really care who owns it. I'm just glad it's there. If it wasn't, urban sprawl would encompass California's coast from San Ysidro to the south to Pacific Palisades to the north - a distance of over 150 miles!

I'll write about other mundane stuff another time...

Wow!

Over a month since my last post! No wonder my blog's talking to me!

I was going to blog this morning, but I did NDISB stuff and now I don't have time. But check back tomorrow. Who knows, maybe you'll see something new!

Of greater concern

We've all seen the Imus thing in the news.

The guy was making 10 million dollars a year. If he's as intelligent as much of the media make him out to be, he'll take a bigger chunk of that money (than he already has) and spend it on his kids ranch and try to benefit even more kids. There is no doubt in my mind that Imus is a good person that made a mistake, but there is a greater concern.

Here is the transcript from that portion of his show that morning:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the April 4 edition of MSNBC's Imus in the Morning:

IMUS: So, I watched the basketball game last night between -- a little bit of Rutgers and Tennessee, the women's final.

ROSENBERG: Yeah, Tennessee won last night -- seventh championship for [Tennessee coach] Pat Summitt, I-Man. They beat Rutgers by 13 points.

IMUS: That's some rough girls from Rutgers. Man, they got tattoos and --

McGUIRK: Some hard-core hos.

IMUS: That's some nappy-headed hos there. I'm gonna tell you that now, man, that's some -- woo. And the girls from Tennessee, they all look cute, you know, so, like -- kinda like -- I don't know.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of greater concern, to my mind, is where is the outrage regarding the show's executive producer, Bernard McGuirk. Without his prompting, the remark likely would never have been uttered. Yet I have seen no media hype regarding his contribution.

Sure, we've seen commentary about rap lyrics, etc. But I don't understand why it is acceptable to call any young women "hos", preceded by any adjectives or not. Why are people not up in arms about McGuirk's leading comments?

Also, after Imus was fired from his radio show, a survey was posted asking if people agreed with his firing. I can't find the survey at the moment ( I saw it in USA Today if anyone wants to try to find it), but more people said he should not be fired, than said he should. In essence, what that tells me, is that the society (at least those polled) has moved in the direction of requiring no consequence for your actions. Use racial slurs? Just say I'm sorry and it's all good. Throw in a little violence? You did say you were sorry, right? Continue on your way. Use a weapon and kill someone. That was a sincere mea culpa, wasn't it?

What I am trying to get to, is this: at what point do you need to be responsible for what you say and do? My contention is that one should always be responsible for what they say and do.

But wait, many have said. What about the reverend Jesse Jackson and his prejudicial comments? What about Bryant Gumbel and his prejudicial comments?

That they were not sanctioned in some way for their actions, did not make them right. That they did not get the same level of attention or focus as this, did not make them right. I'll say it again, my contention is that one should always be responsible for what they say and do.

Is that difficult? Absolutely. Have I said things that I shouldn't have, or done things that I shouldn't have? I don't think anyone can say no to that (truthfully). But if there is no consequence, that level of disrespect becomes the norm, raising the bar for even greater levels of disrespect, until there is no respect for anything nor anyone.

My fear is that we are already well along this path.

So much to blog, So little time.

Man, oh man, oh man. (Big sigh)

Ever feel like there is just not enough time to go around? I've been living in that vortex for the last couple weeks. Inexorably pulling me down the drain with it.

We have all three major components of T's site back up - Forums (wonderful to be able to communicate with our NDISB family again), Store (thank goodness), and Gallery (last, and still possibly working out some bugs). All this while both of us have been working; I've flown home from Texas and back these last two weekends (can't be online while in transit); partially clearing out the garage to accommodate the installation of new garage doors; Easter celebrations (which I missed while traveling) and family assistance (we went over to Liz and Thom's on Friday night to help assemble a co-sleeper and install a child safety seat in Liz's car, for which they fed us a wonderful tri-tip taco dinner).

I was fortunate that my "work" week the last two weeks was short due to scheduling accomodations for Infiniti. Last week, I only trained three days, and the week prior, four days. All of those days that I wasn't "working", I was on the computer, frantically trying to make Theresa's site come back to life. We're finally starting to make some progress. There are still a ton of things to do, but the "big rocks" are in place. Now we can start filling in the gaps with the smaller ones. (I still can't believe we managed to pull this off! Trust me... it's not perfect. We lost a ton of data (possibly some of which might still be recoverable), and I'm still not really confident of my webmastering abilities. I knew this was going to be on-the-job training, but I didn't know I'd be thrown in the briar patch like this). (PS: If you snuck over here from NDISB, please don't tell the others that I don't really know what I'm doing! Thanks!)

Meantime, on one of those flights I lost my PDA. But it wasn't just a PDA. It was also a portable navigation device, which I use to get around the country while doing these programs. I've got a claim in with the airline (dufus that I am, I think I left it in a seatback pocket), but I hold not much hope of it being returned. The BMW X5 I'm driving right now has a nav system, so I'm able to get around, but I don't really care for the system's interface, and it lacks some of the features that my portable nav had. The end of the month I'll be starting another program, and that vehicle won't have a nav, so I'll need to buy something by then. (And for those of you that think a portable nav system is a nicety, just try finding your way to three locations a day, in varying and unfamiliar parts of the country, on road systems that are constantly changing due to construction. We'll see how long you last without one!)

And driving around the South, I've been writing notes on an envelope of things to blog about, but that's for another post - LOL. As it is, as I was waiting for my flight out of San Diego yesterday, I realized that I didn't have a hotel reservation for last night. With everything that I'd been doing last week, I had forgotten to book hotels for this week. So I pulled out my laptop, which has my old PDA's nav system database in it and looked up a hotel near where I worked this morning. I called them up and made a reservation for the night. In my haste (and travel induced haze, I'm sure), I copied the wrong address into my new PDA, (which was really another PDA that I had given to Theresa to use, but she never did, so I reclaimed it this weekend) so when I landed last night at 11:00 PM (because my delayed flight out of San Diego missed my connection in Phoenix to Dallas) (which is why you never, ever book the last flight out for business), I ended up driving to three different Hampton Inns to find the right one. I ended up checking in after midnight and collapsed.

But I only had to work one session this morning, and that gave me the afternoon off, which I took with GLEE! I had started watching a movie (another blog topic) yesterday, so I finished it this afternoon. Then I checked in to make sure that the gallery hadn't gone up in flames yet (sparks and a little smoke, but no backdraft) and I kicked back and watched 24. I'm actually thankful that they do things early in this time zone, 'cause it came on at 8, which allowed me to blog after it was over. But it's a quarter to eleven now, and I still need to make hotel reservations for the rest of this week. I think I'll hold off on next weeks' reservations until tomorrow night. But then I've got to take just one more look into the forums and... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Dinner in San Antonio

I'm amazed that all Texans aren't 300 pounds.

First, it's been a gruelling several days, trying to get T's website back up. We're not even close to being done, but at least we have a functional forum and store, functional being the key word. Her web site blew up, but I'll let her tell you about it on her blog.

But anyway, I flew back to Texas last night to go to work this morning. (Was that only yesterday?) I trained at two stores in Houston today, and then drove to San Antonio to train tomorrow morning. I'll be in Austin in the afternoon. The drive to San Antonio was about 225 miles, made after getting out of my last store a little after 5:00 PM. Fighting through Houston commute traffic, I had about a three hour plus drive ahead of me. When I finally checked into my hotel, it was almost nine, but I hadn't had breakfast (got up late), and just had a Subway meatball sandwich for lunch. I was hungry and tired.

I dislike eating in restaurants on the road for two reasons. I can't be online when I'm eating in a restaurant, and I can eat less expensively if I just do takeout somewhere. (Yes... I'm cheap!) My preferred locales are dive taco shops, where I can get a killer chile verde burrito, or the occasional carne asada burrito for a couple bucks. I don't know what I'm going to do when I get up to Wisconsin in a couple weeks!

So, I check in to my abode for the evening and ask the amiable young man behind the registration desk about the restaurant across the parking lot. I'm too tired to search out the nearest taqueria. He says he eats there, which is good enough for me.

Tonights special is smothered steak. Which is the old standard "chopped steak" smothered in brown gravy. Served with a generous helping of mashed potatoes slathered in cream gravy. (I could have had brown gravy here too, but I wanted to go for the visual interest.) Even the vegetables were unhealthy... okra, battered and deep fried. All accompanied by the ubiquitous Texas toast (a healthy slice of white bread, drizzled with butter and fried on the grill). I did have water to drink though, trying to at least make some attempt at health consciousness.

But then, how could I forgo the peach cobbler? With just one cup of coffee (decaf, since my dinner started well after nine, and it was now approaching ten).

They can't always eat like this. Can they?

Through the eyes of a four-year-old

"Mommy!" "MOMMY! I found a snake!!!"

"GET IN HERE!"

"Ernie!" "ERNIE!" GO SEE WHAT THEY FOUND!"

"Show me what you found"

We walk out to the front walkway, just past the porch and they point out a two inch long earthworm, wriggling along the walk.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

This post title has nothing really to do with the content of the post, but as I was sitting here, it roused itself from the depths of my cerebrum and poured itself onto the page (so to speak) through my fingers. I actually had very little to do with it.

I've turned in my Acura TL and collected a BMW X5 in its stead. Many people would love the opportunity to drive around $34,000 and $56,000 cars, respectively. If they are intuitive, comfortable and offer good performance, I would too. Therein lies the rub.

I picked up the X5 on Sunday afternoon at my hotel airport in Memphis, where the trucking company had delivered it only hours before. It was evening, I had to prepare for my first day of training the next morning, and I did not have much time to get really familiar with the car.

Waitwaitwait I hear you saying. Aren't you supposed to be teaching other people about this vehicle? Well.... Yes. If you put it that way. But it is impossible to learn everything about a vehicle in a short period of time, so I start with the stuff that I'm scripted with, and then I expand my knowledge from there. The first significant expansion of knowledge occurred on Monday, after completing my morning class in Memphis.

If it's Tuesday, it must be Jackson, Mississippi. (I actually just found myself spelling it in my head, as if I were a kid. M I S S I S S I P P I). So on Monday afternoon, I made the 200 mile drive from Memphis to Jackson.

Before I got out of the parking lot, I had a problem. I placed my briefcase on the front passenger seat. I always place my briefcase on the front passenger seat. (You never know when you're going to need that crucial piece of information (or that protein bar) wedged firmly into the bottom of your briefcase.) My X5 didn't want my briefcase to be unsafe, so it kept beeping at me to buckle the seatbelt around my briefcase. I gave it some time. BEEP - BEEP - BEEP. I moved my briefcase onto the floor.

I'll be up front - I dislike German cars. Not so much the cars, as the controls. VW, BMW, Mercedes, Audi. You get in, and you have to think like a German. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But I think like a person.

We'll start simple. Driving down the freeway listening to the radio. (FM, because Serius doesn't give you three free months to get you hooked like XM does, so I have no satellite radio in the car.) I settle on a station and press and hold the "1" button. No beep. I continue to hold the "1" button. On the center dash display a message pops up and says something along the lines of "What do you think you're doing? Why are you continuing to hold that button down while it is clear that this car will not let you program that radio station on that button?"

Okay, so it didn't really say that, but it may as well have. It did say something along the lines of that function not allowed. So I spent the next 10 minutes driving down the freeway sideswiping cars and trucks for miles as I tried to program my radio station into the "1" button. Eventually I figured it out by finding the secret key held within the I-Drive system. I used to think that I-Drive stood for Intelligent Drive. Now I think that it literally means "I-Drive". The car is driving, and whoever sits in the driver's seat is just along for the ride.

Continuing on my journey, I set the cruise control, which I always use when driving on the freeway. I learned many years ago that you can't get speeding tickets when you let the "cruise" do the driving. In the X5, the cruise control is operated by a stalk on the left side of the steering column, just below the stalk for the turn signals. Operation of the cruise control system is as simple as you might imagine it to be in a German car:

To set the cruise control speed, pull the stalk toward you. Or push it away from you.
To disengage the cruise control, move the stalk up. Or move the stalk down.
To increase your speed, push the stalk away from you. To floor the accelerator, push the stalk further away from you, past the detent.
To reduce your speed, pull the stalk toward you. To apply the brakes, pull the stalk further toward you, past the detent.
Oh, and there's a button on the end of the stalk also. I haven't pressed it for fear that I'll start shooting somebody. I suppose I could read the book, but I was able to figure all that stuff out just by driving the car, and moving the stalk. Except the gun thing.

So I'm cruising along in the fast lane, closing on someone moving slower than me. He feels that he's going an appropriate speed and sees no reason to move into the right lane. (see a previous post on my thoughts) So I figure I'll be nice to him and just slow down and see if he'll pull over. I pull toward me on the stalk to slow down, but I got the wrong stalk and I'm flashing my brights at the guy instead, and I continue to close on him rapidly. I'm pulling past a car in the right hand lane, but there is enough room to move over to the right and move past the rolling road block. So I turn on my blinker and pull into the right hand lane, only I didn't turn on my turn signal. I turned off my cruise control. Now I'm slowing down in front of this car I just pulled in front of. You can perhaps sense my dissatisfaction with the situation?

By the way, the button numbers 1 through 6, that one would expect to program preset radio stations are, in fact, multi-function buttons that not only preset radio stations (once you learn how), but also program other functions. I'm not sure what yet, as I haven't read the book.

Two out of three Hernandez children walk in their sleep

At least, that we know of.

Mattea has been walking in her sleep for years. You may recall that I mentioned that we changed the lock on the front door, just so she wouldn't wander outside while we slumbered, unknowing.

Theresa said that the other night, Grayson was wandering around crying. She found him in Mattea's room. When asked if he needed to go potty, he wouldn't answer, but figuring that's what it was, Theresa took him to the toilet. He went, but seemed very confused, still crying.

There is no stool for him to stand on in Mattea's bathroom, so Theresa held him up so he could wash his hands. He kept pressing on the handle of the faucet trying to get soap out of it. Finally, Theresa moved his hands over to the soap dispenser, and put soap on his hands. Thus prepared, he commenced rubbing his hands together ad infinitum. Theresa finally turned the water on for him to rinse the soap off, and when his hands were placed under the running water, he burst out sobbing as never before.

After his hands were clean and dried, Theresa put the poor boy to bed.

When asked the following morning why he was so upset when he went potty in the middle of the night, Grayson responded "I never went potty last night!" He had no recollection of it, at all.

Come to think of it, the last time Mattea wandered around the house somnambulent, she was agitated and walking into various rooms looking for something. Turned out she needed to go also, and couldn't seem to find the right place to take care of her need. Very interesting stuff.

Clarification!

I just wanted to let you know that I do not listen to 10 year old NASCAR races on satellite radio or twenty year old rebroadcasts of "American Top 40" (which has, in today's shorter attention span era, turned into American Top 20). Although, I do know someone who does.

I don't know... watching old movies that you've seen before is one thing. Listening to an old race? I don't really get it.

Speaking of listening to (or watching) racing... I'm not much of a race fan. It's been said that racing is kind of like sex. It's a lot more fun doing it than it is watching it.

Don't get me wrong. A lot of people like watching races. I don't know... maybe they like watching sex too. I'd just much rather race than watch.

You can see why I don't blog that often. When I do, I get myself into potentially problematic thematic ideas with this tangential thinking thing that is hard wired into my brain. I can't help myself. It's in my nature.

But back to the original topic at hand... satellite radio.

I've determined that I do like satellite radio. It's too bad you have to pay for it.

I can listen to the BBC on a daily basis. I can listen to any style of music, any time I want, wherever I am. Bloomberg has a satellite radio station, so I can keep up on the market and financial news without having to wait for the 2 minutes that business gets on a normal radio broadcast. Unfortunately, I always have to return these cars that have all of these cool features when I get done with whatever program I'm working on.

Fortunately, my next program is Infiniti vs. BMW, so I'll be driving around in a new BMW X5. Interestingly enough, being a performance kind of guy, you'd think I'd be all over BMW. My personal experiences with the BMW's I've had for various programs is less than stellar. Are they nice cars? Sure. Do they deserve all of the accolades bestowed upon them. I'll leave that to you when you get your opportunity to spend some time in one.

"Slower traffic keep right"

It doesn't say "Unless you are going the speed limit".

It doesn't say "Unless you are going XX miles per hour over the speed limit"

It doesn't say "Unless you feel compelled to police all other drivers on the road"

It says "Slower traffic keep right"

Yeah... I'll probably be a grumpy old man.

"It puts the lotion on its' back"

I can't help thinking of that line from "Silence of the Lambs" whenever I spend significant time traveling in Arizona or Nevada.

With the extremely low humidity, my skin dries out horribly and my hands look like they belong to an eighty year old. I get out of the shower and slather lotion all over, but by noon I am this sea of dry, wrinkled oldness.

(sigh)

It's the little things...

I'm off today.

I was going to sleep in a little, but I forgot to turn off the alarms in my phone, so they still went off and woke me up early. Oh well.

But I still could take my time reading the paper and waking up before I went downstairs to grab a coffee (yes, I'm still drinking coffee), and breakfast.

I served up some fruit and a cup of coffee and sat down to continue reading the paper, and listen to the news on the television, in my home-away-from-home Hampton Inn. As I was heading back up to my room, walking through the lobby, I glanced at the reception desk in the lobby and was greeted by a friendly smile, and a cheerful and almost sing-song "Good Mor-ning!"

I carried a smile with me up four flights of stairs to my room. What a nice way to start the morning.

I was channel surfing the other night, and stopped on C-Span 2. An elderly, well spoken black gentleman was seated in what looked like a small, living room-like home office setting, speaking to a smallish audience. I was enthralled for the next hour and a half or so, as the author of "To Sir, with Love", E. R. Braithwaite, held forth on his life, and the experiences that led him to write a book.

It would have never happened, had he not a brief conversation with a man in a park. The man suggested that perhaps he should consider teaching. It had never occured to Mr. Braithwaite before, but it changed the course of his life. He never saw the man again.

I don't recall whether I saw the movie, all those years ago. (The book was published in 1959, the movie released in 1967.) Certainly, I'd heard the song of the same name made famous by one of the first one name stars: Lulu.

It seems the book is out of print now, although it is still available via auctions and used book stores. I believe that I'll track down a copy.

A core belief of Mr. Braithwaite, was the idea of respect. A belief that I hope to instill in Mattea, Noah and Grayson. I'd like to read about a black man's experience in London, teaching rebellious, lower socio-economic white teenagers, in an era before the common acceptance of this situation. And I'd like to see how he cultivated and earned their respect. Sure, I could rent the movie, but I want to get it from the horse's mouth, not filtered through some director's interpretation.

A smile, and sing-song "Good Mor-ning!"

A conversation with a stranger in a park.

Channel surfing. (See... channel surfing can be a good thing!)

It's the little things that can change a life.

UA's are everywhere

They go by different names.

Some are much less flattering than UA.

But that's what I call them. The Un-Awares.

Going through life, blissfully unaware of any and all activity going on around them.

Coming off of the jetway from the plane, stopping to adjust their clothing, pull out their cell phone, remove or put on their jacket or sweater, place their briefcase carefully on their carry-on, all three feet past the door of the jetway. Blocking anyone else from getting off of the plane. Because everyone knows, no one else has to do any of those things.

Stopping at the bottom of the escalator to hug every family member and friend that lovingly came to greet them at the airport. Causing a pileup of weary road warriors, rollaboards and backpacks in their wake.

Meeting their neighbor at the grocery store, talking about how green their grass is this week with all this rain we're having, as they are walking out and the neighbor is walking in, thereby preventing anyone else from entering or exiting the store.

One of my favorites happened as I was driving from San Diego to Tucson last week.

Approaching a vehicle stopped by the side of the freeway, well away from the flow of traffic, the elderly gentleman carefully and cautiously and slowly driving the old Ford F150 truck pulled slowly into the left lane, so as to give the stopped vehicle on the side of the road, parked well away from the flow of traffic, a greater margin of safety. Pulling directly into the path of the faster moving vehicle coming up behind him, in said left lane of traffic, going considerably faster than said F150. Said elderly gentleman's eyes grew rather large when he finally looked into his rear view mirror.

And more mundane, but still reflective of the breed, the next morning, as their friend was dropping a vehicle off in the auto dealership service department, patiently waiting for said friend to get done with their dealings with the service writer. Parked in their running vehicle (you can park anywhere as long as your vehicle is still running) right in the middle of the traffic lane that leads to customer parking.

Yes, you can pretty much do whatever you want, as long as you don't have to think about anyone else.

Yesterday

I only had to work at one store, so I had a short 2 hour day.

Unless you count the 6 hours it took to drive to get there, or the two hours that I drove after to get to my next store for today!

I had been working in San Diego, so I had the opportunity to sleep in my own bed, with my own wife, for one more night, or drive part way to Tucson on Tuesday night and drive the rest of the way yesterday. I opted to leave home at 6 AM yesterday to get to Tucson in time for my 2:00 PM training. Good thing I allowed myself some extra time. I forgot about the hour time change. So instead of arriving at noon, I got there at 1:00 PM. Just enough time to wash the bugs off the car and get to the store a half hour early to get things ready.

Then I get to my hotel in Phoenix last night, only to find it wasn't my hotel in Phoenix last night. The internet ate my reservation. And this is snowbird season in Arizona, so after the front desk clerk called about 8 hotels on my behalf, I let her off the hook and called a few more on my own 'til I found a place to call home the next couple of days.

RANDOM THOUGHTS

While driving, and you think of something to write on your blog, but can't write it down because you're driving, you suddenly remember you can use your PDA/Navigation device/digital voice recorder to take audio notes. Very cool!

While driving 422 miles from San Diego to Tucson, when you get out of San Diego in the middle of nowhere, it's not a good time to discover that you are actually addicted to caffeine and you have a headache because you didn't drink any coffee this morning, and your next opportunity won't come for an hour or so.

(Note to self... wean yourself from daily coffee... Sorry Bob)

Shiatsu massage is a good thing. Playing with the boys Sunday night, I tweaked my neck. As luck would have it, I had already scheduled a Shiatsu massage on Monday. By Tuesday afternoon, I had forgotten about my pinched nerve that allowed me little sleep on Sunday night because it had been almost totally relieved by my massage therapist. If you've never tried Shiatsu, I highly recommend it. (Wear loose comfortable clothing, you don't get naked for it.)

Simon Cowell is responsible for the album "A Teletubbies Christmas"

When you have satellite radio you can listen to NASCAR races from ten years ago, and "The American Top 40 with Casey Kasem" (sp) from 1979.

Driving on Arizona Highway 79 from Tucson to Phoenix there is a sign by the road that says "Roadside Table", and sure enough, there by the side of the road, is a table.

Honey... lookit!

Theresa has always called the kids honey. All of them, from when Mattea was little, to the boys even now.

Noah and Grayson have taken to calling each other honey lately as well.

"Honey... lookit!"

What the world doesn't need now

Theresa subscribes to a sometimes useful publication called "Bottom Line Personal". I think it comes once a month or so, and has information in multiple areas of life that may or may not be useful, although often-times the content is interesting. This would have to fall into the "interesting" category.

From the Feb. 1, 2007 issue comes this news:

The VIDSTONE Serenity Panel is the first personal memorial monument product of its kind. Utilizing solar-power technology and a weatherproof LCD panel it provides families the option of viewing a personalized video tribute right at their loved one’s final resting place. The VIDSTONE Serenity panel features a 5-10 minute multimedia memorial detailing the most precious memories of your loved one’s life. Their unique memories are no longer solely relived in your mind , but at your loved one’s place of rest.

I don't know... I just had visions of walking through the cemetary with hundreds of these things blaring videos and music. There goes the peace and serenity of the cemetary...

The arbitrariness of boundaries

I flew to Nashville today and was assigned a window seat. I prefer aisle seats, but windows are better than middles.

Looking out the window over some smallish southwestern city, I was struck by a thought that had occurred to me a couple of years ago, when I was also by a window seat. We had just taken off from San Diego, and I was looking down at the U.S./Mexico border. There was no natural geographical divide. There was just a fence between two countries in the middle of a field. Why there? Why not further North, or further South? Why was there a fence there at all?

Many boundaries are arbitrary. Someone, somewhere made a decision that a boundary needs to be put into place, and that place should be here. Sometimes the boundaries are between countries. Sometimes between states. Sometimes the boundaries are more mental than physical. I believe this, you believe that. I'm right, so you must be wrong.

Sometimes the boundaries are between people of the same race and same religion, but they exist due to differing opinions and positions. Again, I'm right, so you must be wrong.

Most every war ever fought was fought over boundaries. Sometimes physical. Sometimes mental. By mental, I mean all aspects: religious, political, idealogical. Some wars are fought not between countries, but between family and among friends.

Personally, I think that anything anyone can do to eliminate boundaries is a good thing. When I went to Dubai last year (two years ago now?), guess what, they're people too. The less time that we spend trying to defend our rightness, the more time that we have available to eliminate boundaries.

On an individual, personal, visceral level - what can you do to eliminate boundaries?

You don't own your own body... somebody else does

Bits of it, anyway.

"Treating DNA as a chemical, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (PTO) has issued about 1,000 patents on human genes."

That quote was from this article, written back in the year 2000:

The Scientist : Will Genomics Spoil Gene Ownership?

As an avid reader, a constant on all of my wishlists of family and friends is the following:

A book by any author on any topic.

This has led to my reading of a wide variety of books that I wouldn't have bought for myself, but almost always prove interesting, sometimes fascinating, and occasionally thought provoking.

This past Christmas, Theresa got the latest Michael Crichton book "Next" for me. Always a fan, due to his outstanding ability to combine fact and fiction, it turned out to be all of the above.

I won't tell you anything about the book, other than its creating a desire in me to look up some things. The above article is the first thing that comes up when one Googles "gene ownership".

And it doesn't end there. This from an article out of Stanford University back in 1994:

"Operators of more than a dozen international agricultural research centers have assumed that the plant genes they collect and store belong to humanity in general. The governments of countries, however, are beginning to assert that they own living organisms collected within their boundaries ..."

Compromise needed on gene ownership to protect food supply

I don't know where all this is taking us. But I'm not really sure it's a direction in which I wish to be traveling. And, apparently, I'm not the only one confused and concerned about this:

French doctors puzzle over gene ownership

Wow!

November 13th! That's a lonnnnnng time! Is anyone still out there?

Just had to talk about a couple of things... like pirate Santas and broken guitars... you know... the usual.

First, the pirate Santa:



Noah fell in love with the Santa hat as soon as we pulled our Christmas stuff down from the attic. He put the Santa hat on, and kept walking around saying "Yo, Ho, Ho"! We were having so much fun hearing him, we couldn't bring ourselves to correct him.

Speaking of Christmas, last year, as most of you know, Santa brought the boys their first (probably of many) acoustic guitars.

They couldn't put them down for months and over time, Noah and Grayson went in slightly different directions. Grayson became the guitarist and Noah kept the beat on his drums. Both were still attracted to the guitars though, and they have received more than their fair share of strumming and general musical creativeness. But when we were visiting Edwina and Mark over Thanksgiving (yes, we took the guitars with us to Northern California), Grayson's guitar neck was partially broken from the body. We set it aside so I could attempt to meld the two with some glue when we got home. I did, and it held up reasonably well for another couple months. But the kids were playing last night, and someone "played" the guitar just a little too hard, and we ended up with:



So I guess it's time for at least one new guitar. And this time, we'll have to spring for it...