Captivity - Day Two

TV is getting interesting. Rather, the commercials are getting interesting. I'll bet you never thought that would happen. Food delivery has expanded and become less expensive. A large hoagie chain offers buy one/get one. A large pizza chain has deals (although they shouldn't be allowed to call that stuff pizza). I feel sorry for the people and businesses who are hurt.

Financial institutions are offering emergency loans. Guitar companies are happy to ship anything you want, and get it on sale. Eastwood is having a sale on lefty guitars only.

Amazon is hiring another 100,000 employees to deal with the expanding volume of orders. Amazon employees are very unhappy because it's business as usual, with no precautions. Perhaps the additional 100,000 are replacements (sshhhhhh). Comcast offers basic service at a basic price for a while. If you're a customer, you're welcome to keep your service at the bargain rate of $265 per month, if you have tv, and $100 if you only have internet.

I can't find breakfast foods, like Raisin Bran. I may have to make some angry calls. If you want yogurt, you had better be mad for raspberry lime, because even starving people won't eat raspberry lime. Don't worry - it's available in great quantities. Until I locate Raisin Bran, I have no choice but to eat my weight in chocolate chip muffins. Fair is far.

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But seriously.

No.

Screw you, Governor, you haven't interrupted my routine. I even got up early for a Sunday, around 11.  And then again at 3. You know you're doing well when your first nap of the day doesn't occur for hours after you get up.

We were getting all sorts of bored, so a grocery trip was planned. It's pretty sad when you're excited about grocery shopping. All I saw was signs talking about social distancing. They recommend 6'. I had a tremendous idea: I'd dress like an antenna, with each of the radials being 6' long, in each direction. Wife would have been impressed, had she been listening. She says it's hearing loss, which is certainly a creative excuse. But 6' is a tremendous idea normally, although I prefer 50' in all directions. Someone told me my way of life has finally been vindicated.

I thought now would be a great time to own a t-shirt company. COVID Collector, COVID Donator, Back Off, Leave me alone - I might have it. You know, the typical antisocial stuff. I don't know why, but I'm often told my 'great ideas' are not appropriate for my age. I'll be making fart jokes as they plant me.

A huge imitation burger chain now offers hands-free drive through. A very popular electronics store with a yellow sign also offers hands-free driveup.

Off to the grocery store, I'm impressed with the amount of food and lack of shoppers. Announcements about social distancing play and there are signs stating that certain items are restricted. It looked good, it felt good, and it was good, right up til we hit the 2nd aisle. It weird to see full shelves with 10' gaps, where stuff used to be. Very little water and toilet paper was pure unobtainium. The bakery section was all there and fresh. Cereal was funny - chocolate covered chocolate bits were there aplenty. I wanted some decaf coffee for later in the day, lest the blog entries get even more frantic. Barely one box.

No bread, no peanut butter, and no soup, unless you like cream of cauliflower. Let's face it - these cans go back 25 years, to when the store opened. Even the rodents in the store won't eat cream of cauliflower. Literally no soup. No pasta, no sauce. Tons of salad dressing, but it would only be good on cream of cauliflower soup because romaine lettuce was ridiculously expensive. They weren't price gouging - apparently this is what lettuce costs. No iceberg lettuce. Most other fruits and veggies were well represented. No frozen pizzas (HORROR!) and only very expensive ice cream. Either they had lots or none.

We left and went in search of frozen hot chocolate at Dunkin Donuts. We heard that they were open, but takeout only. Annnnd they were closed. We hope it was just closed for the day. We'd miss our drinks, plus our friends there aren't in good shape to suffer closure. No one is.

Tomorrow I work, again from home. The traffic was murder on Friday. There was a backup due to dog toys on the steps. My coworkers are all concerned about working from home.... well, what I mean is their wives are all concerned about them working from home. Fighting Hours are from 7am to 11pm, plus they get agitated when their boyfriends can't come by during the day.

Still - throw the governor out.

Perfume. There?

It was a good morning. Both of us (and the pets) were almost awake, getting ready to go to work and other places. Lunch was packed and I was suddenly face-to-face with my wife and her beautiful new purple shirt. What made it more beautiful than other shirts, purple aside, was that it showed more chest than normal (no naughty bits, in spite of this blog's theme). So I gave her a nice, romantic kiss in that general area. We were impressed but the pets went about their business, non-plussed; one appearing starved and the other waiting for the starving one's food.

Fortunately it was time to go to work. When I say fortunately, I am fortunate to have a job. I am, however, still allowed to bitch about being up in the morning. When in the car, the wife ordered me to scrape the windshield. Of course I had to scrape the windshield.. I was already in the car.  This is a metaphor for our relationship.  It's also a direct statement about the weather here.  As we know, Pennsylvania's state bird is the cloud, and this lovely display of weather did nothing to dispel that fact: it was miserable, gray, and had frozen drops all over the car.  We know the sun exists, it's just that we wonder why it doesn't come round to visit now and again.  Anyone following the news will know that the Northeast has been threatened with snow for the past month. Lucky for us the weather forecasters are always wrong and we've barely gotten any snow.  Instead we've gotten frigid temperatures and bits of precipitation, almost constantly.  Last weekend we hit forty degrees and the bikinis were out all around.  Brian Williams saw his shadow and won't be on tv for six weeks.

So as I was finishing up the windshield, I detected a really horrible taste developing in my mouth.  It got worse and worse until I finally realized where it came from: my wife's chest.  Apparently women put perfume there. And I inadvertently ate some of it.  Off we went to Dunkin Donuts, for some coffee to get the taste out of my mouth. Other candidates were soda, windshield cleaner and lye.

I know I'm late to the party but I was/am so sick of the Stupidbowl that I almost can't describe it. But I shall anyway. In an unearthly first, I was invited to attend a party. In an even stranger first, I accepted, largely as this was my best friend and there were likely to be football-free zones.

There were, indeed, football-free zones, sorta, but there were still too many televisions (defined as more than zero or one).  I'm kinda like Charlie Brown and Lucy (or Homer Simpson) with televisions: I look at the motion, realize it's sports, look away, then see the motion again and look....

I don't care who Brady Bellechek is and don't want to hear his name anymore as long as I live.  It's not enough that there is a game.. I have to hear about it until I'm blue in the ears. I hear about it on the news station. I hear about it on the rock station.  I even hear about it on the public radio station, which I had hoped would be free of sports, at least after the first day.  The only thing worse than this is the item, and I use the term loosely, about deflated balls. I have no real idea what's going on here but I have been bombarded by it every moment of every day, no matter whether it's television, radio or the web.  The first time I heard anything of this, it came up on my alarm in the morning. I can be excused from incredulity (and sense) when something starts talking at me before seven in the morning.  As I grew further awake, I heard something about deflated balls and just assumed this was some kind of comedy routine. It became a really popular comedy routine when I noticed that the evening news and even Sunday's edition of Shoot the Press mentioned it.  If they have so much damn trouble with their balls, why don't they ask the cheerleaders to blow them back up and get on with the event? The politicians must be up to something when this is the lead story for days. You'd think that there was a Kardashian involved, for all the press coverage.

Yesterday in England was the first Visit the Mosque day.  This was a hastily conceived bit of press, thrown together after the Charlie Hello attacks, designed to invite outsiders into mosques to prove that Muslims are not all terrorists.  One Muslim lady complained about having to apologize all the time for the actions of the terrorists.  I suspect she should be having that conference with the terrorists, not the press.  The theme of the day was We'll Blow Up that Bridge When We Come to it. Seminars were offered too: Be Nice to Christians Day, Not Murdering Your Neighbors, and Improvised Explosive Devices.  All of the usual British suspects, with all of their comical British accents, ventured out from their quaint little towns to inspect the mosques. They were declared fit and now life can continue in England (at least until something blows up there).

NOTE: be careful reading this blog, as it may be booby-trapped. And boobie-trapped. Furthermore, it may explode.

Where's the Other Half of my Dog?

It was getting to be time. In fact, it was past time. Marshall the Cocker went out for Halloween as JK Rowling's Hairy Cocker.  When you're unemployed, you have to cut things back; things like expensive groomers.

Speaking of Indians, why is it that certain groups grivitate toward certain occupations?  Both recent groomers have been gay Mexicans. No thank you, I don't want his nails painted (I am not making this up).  And all of the dentists in my neighborhood are Indian. And the PITA job recruiters are Indian.

My best job offer ever came in this week: would I like a three month contract in Montreal, Canada? Ummm.. no. I've had some real doozies, but Montreal?  At least stay in the same country, guy. Plus, as we all know, it's not polite to speak French in public, making this offer impolite and rude.

But enough about that topic. Whenever I say job, an angel gets shot out of the sky. Have you ever tried to get blood out of white wings? It's not happening, people.

So Marshall gets back from the groomer, half the dog he used to be. To be honest, he looks silly. And as if that weren't enough, they put a bandana around his neck.  Talk about rude!  My dog needs a bandana like the president needs a dunce cap.  No, wait a minute.. my dog needs a bandana like any dog needs a bandana. I've killed people for less. What's next - a bee costume?

Mind you, my wife thinks he looks cute. My wife also thinks I look cute: there's no acounting for taste.

Cat Food Ballet has gotten even worse at my house.  I think I've figured this out... the cat gets his food behind a door so Marshall doesn't nudge him out of the way and eat all of it himself. Poor Marshall has to stand on the other side of the door, waiting for the Cat Food Gods to open the door so he can lick out the bowl. Sometimes he sits there for ten minutes, cleaning the cat food bowl of every microscopic bit of its former contents.  It turns out that the cat purposely leaves some of his food in the bowl for the dog. We know he was raised with dogs but that doesn't even go halfway towards explaining this behavior. One day my wife watched the cat push a pizza box off the table so both of them could eat it. Everybody loves pizza in this house. So the cat and dog are co-conspirators: the old swatting and barking bit is just for show.

The cat is slowly training the wife and it's not pretty to watch.  Having his claws makes our life a bit more complicated, as he won't play with a cat toy, he prefers to use furniture. My wife used to let him outside when he started this and after a few days, he had her trained to let him out with a scratch. He also trained her to feed him on command. Whenever she goes into the kitchen, he races in there and sits by his bowl. If that doesn't produce food, he head-butts her leg and annoys the crap out of her until she produces the food.  Then, of course, he eats a bit and opens the door for the dog to come in and finish it. Sometimes he walks to the dog bowl and eats some of that, making the circle complete.


MAIL AND STUFF


Relatives are out of town for an event. My job has been to pick up mail and manage trash cans. Unfortunately I've proven pretty good at managing trash cans but I am terribly afraid to look for a job managing them. Plus I never wanted to be in management.  Unfortunately this golden effort has been sabotaged by the real trash guys, who failed to empty one can.  How am I going to tell my family, including She Who Must be Obeyed, that there was a Trash Can Emergency on my watch? It reflects very poorly upon me. What if they go away again and won't let me manage the cans? What about the mail - will I still be allowed to pick it up?

On the way to pick up the mail today, I asked Marshall if perhaps there were anybody who wanted to take a ride, perhaps in the car... he looked at me wide-eyed and ran halfway up the steps. No one knows why. So I asked him again and he got all excited, almost hovering above the step but still not coming off the step. Finally he moved when I picked up his leash.  It's almost as if he's very hopeful but not entirely certain so he wants to be asked a second time.  If my wife's napping and I have to go into the room, he follows and jumps onto the bad, making himself comfortable, usually on my pillow. When I leave, I tell him to follow me. He just sits there. So I have to close the door, at which point he leaps off the bed and I re-open the door so he'll come out. It's like COPS, when the police have to tell everybody twice to PUT YOUR HANDS UP.

After picking up the mail, I put on my seatbelt and took off. Definition of seatbelt: the thing that holds your dead body in the car after a crash. In PA, there is no motorcycle helmet law but there is a seatbelt law. Anyway, it's mighty uncomfortable in the car, largely because there's a leash there. On closer examination it appears that I somehow managed to put the seatbelt on through the leash. I couldn't do that again for a million dollars.

On the way home from the groomer's the other night, we got into the car and I noticed the passenger seatbelt warning light flashing.  Apparently I don't have the smart car, which shows a picture of a dog instead of a person on the flashing light.  Can't it tell the difference between a forty pound cocker spaniel and a... much heavier person? The wife made the mistake of leaving her Dunkin Donuts coffee cup in the console.  In a matter of seconds Marshall had the lid off and was face-down in the cup. I shooed him away, noticed the light turn green and in that second, he was back in the coffee. I yanked him out of the coffee and drove down the block and yanked him out of the coffee again. At this point I put the lid back on. And he took it off.  And I put my hand on the top of the cup, at which point he started trying to nudge my hand out of the way.  Trying to keep both of my hands on the wheel was most difficult, as I had to keep pulling him out of the coffee.

And how is the car, you ask?  [get ready...]
The car is fine, thank you. The house is fine too, thank you.
Why is everything fine?  Sage.
When one gets a house or car, a friend provides sage for something called Smudging. This is where you light the stuff and take it to every room in the house. You also see this is the Ghost Chaser tv shows, where they use it to cleanse the house of certain entities (you can choose to believe any of this or not). So Wifey smudged the house and, on the advice of a friend, did the car too.  And why not? At this point, I'm about ready to call a gypsy to wrap up ten thousand dollars and burn it to ward off the Evil Car Spirits.  When she was done, she put the mostly burned sage into a cat food can in the car, as an ashtray.  Fortunately we haven't been stopped by the police because it looks like a giant blunt.



IT'S IN THE BAG

Did you ever stop to notice how difficult it is to put stuff in bags?  Think really hard about this one, folks. Just try opening a fresh new trash bag, if you can. This is a major effort in itself, moreso if you're already holding something in the other hand. You wind up shaking it like mad and if it inflates, it makes a horrible noise, causing the cat to Go Elsewhere in haste.  If you somehow manage to get the bag open, you will require a phalanx of assistants to get whatever you're trying to get into the bag whilst simultaneously making certain that it's not landing on the floor.  It's veritably impossible, I tell you. Even with one assistant, it's a peach. He or she holds the bag open. You attempt to put the first item in the second bag. And you fail.  The seemingly open bag has now folded back up, in spite of your assistant's valiant work.

Again, the assistant opens the bag.  This time you're trying to put a bag inside a bag, which makes the task exponentially difficult to a degree incomprehensible even to Albert Einstein, which makes things even more difficult as the has the temerity to be dead.  Even if you get half of the bag into the bag, the other half with not fit or will wind up on the floor, taking the second bag (and possibly the assistant) to the floor with it.

One day I thought I won the war.  After a time or six trying to get something into a no-longer-folded bag, I succeeded.  I was joyous and thankful.  And when I turned to wash some dishes, the bag fell down on one side, spreading a disgusting substance all over the floor.  It was almost as if it performed some sort of acrobatic leap or possibly a suicide jump. Much mopping up and lots of screaming later, I had everything in the bag, as it were.

Going back to washing the dishes, I put a washed knife into the silverware drying rack, causing it to take a giant leap (for fork-kind) back into the sink. I carefully inspected the knife, thinking that it might still be dirty but no, it was perfectly clean. This must be related to the box of coffee k-cups we have on the shelf. It keeps hurling itself to the floor. Last time I put it where gravity couldn't get it and I actually heard it go to ground.  One day a friend walked by the dining room table and a glass hurled itself off the table. I had hoped that sage would have cured the leaping bit but apparently it did not.

What the Hell Just Happened?

It's a recent Saturday, on which I've scheduled my exam for the Security+ certificate. For those of you who don't know, Security+ is a certification that one knows Important Stuff<tm> in the IT security realm. It mostly certifies that you test well.  Employers like certifications but I have something better; years of IT experience, which counts for something.  In addition to certifications, I don't have a college degree (because I couldn't pass the drinking exams to get into college).

If you've never tried to get a certification before, it's a very interesting (read: tedious) process. First you have to figure out who gives the test. Then at what location. Then if you have the proper identification (drivers license, something else with your signature and the proper arrangement of blood vessels in your retina).  All of this pales in comparison with Paying for It.  Yes, folks, this cert was going to cost me three hundred dollars, pass or fail.  And this is the cheap cert.

In addition to the rigamarole surrounding signing up, you have an actual Code of Conduct, which largely states that you'll show up, not blow raspberries at other test-takers or make fart noises with your underarm.  Oh yeah, you have to show up at least fifteen minutes early for the test.

For locations, I had the choice of a Korean church and an airport.  Hmmm.... this was going to be tough.  Let's see, a church (I don't go into churches because I always set off the Anti-Christ Detector) or an airport (the classic scenario of the guy with A.D.D. trying to take a test at an airport with planes taking off and landing).  Perhaps because I like a challenge, I chose the airport.  Have I mentioned that I haven't taken a test since.... well... let's call it the eighties.

Stay with me here.... it was my wife's birthday so I told her I'd be getting the certification as a small present.  Off we went, way too early, to the airport.  It was a small airport, which I suppose was a good thing and we watched a few planes land and take off.  It was kind of a nice morning, watching planes. One landed with the insignia of another country on it.  Turns out it belonged to a doctor, who had two.

So it was getting kind of late and the doors were locked.  Another poor slob showed up and we waited together for our test.  Our fifteen minute window came and went.  Then our test time came and went.  We stared quizzically at each other.

Unfortunately,  the test-giver apparently did not have to show up fifteen minutes early.  Or at all.  We didn't entirely know what to do so we did what came naturally; we sat there.  It quickly became an emergency, as my wife was out of coffee (do not pass Dunkin Donuts coffee, do not collect $200).

All of the sudden, we heard a thundering sound.  Looking toward the airfield, we saw nothing.  Then we turned to the parking lot and a humongous vehicle approached, with all the thunder of a 747, and squealed mightily into a parking spot.  If this was Test Guy, he sure knew how to make an entrance. He very slowly got out of the leviathan and it became obvious he had a small problem with one of his legs. I loved that on the back of the truck was a bumper sticker that said, "Don't you feel silly about your Obama sticker now?"

And he was Test Guy.

He let us in, apologized, then started explaining why he was late, what kind of trouble he was having with his leg, which vertebrae were out in his back, how long he has suffered, how he got that way and that one nostril was physically larger than the other.  Not to mention how much of a dick his boss was.

I know this was going to be an interesting test experience.

We all gave up our first-born and blood vessels and marched quietly into the test area.  The test area was replete with some magnificent wood paneling, reminiscent of the 1970's.  In fact, the entire shack looked like my parents' house in 1970.  But it had cable.

There were about six test stations.  The first thing I noticed, superior Security Dood that I am, was that the computers were all running Windows XP.  I decided the better of explaining why this was not a good idea and Test Guy finished logging in.  The other guy taking a test was taking a financial test, which prompted a question from Test Guy about what we should do when the economic system falls in on itself.  The answer, of course, was guns and precious metals (I knew that, securing myself a friend for life).  Unfortunately, finance test-taker just stood there, dumbfounded.

So the test started and informed me I had some ridiculously large amount of time to complete it.  I allowed myself a virtual sneer, as I blew through all of my practice tests in minutes.  In fact, I took practice tests until my eyeballs fell out and threatened to phone the Eyeball Abuse Agency.  There was no way I was not going to pass that test.

Off I went to the first question.  Oddly enough, it was a strange question, both in subject matter and in the fact that I had to 'wire' and complete a wireless system for maximum security.  Also oddly was the fact that neither of these appeared in my study materials.  It was all multiple-choice.

The second question surprised me by also being something that didn't appear in my studies.  It was about this time that I started getting nervous.  Perhaps, I thought, it was just these two questions and I could blast through the other ones quickly.

Nope.

Nervous was the order of the day.  As it turned out, very few, if any of the questions were in my study materials.  It appeared as if they had given me the wrong test (but I was hesitant to argue with Test Guy) and I figured I would see the test through and deal with the results later.

My many years in IT served me well, as there were things on the test of which I've never heard, as well as things I could answer.

I finished nervously but firm.  The test asked me if I wanted to review any of my answers.  Hell no - if I didn't have any idea the first time, what would be the point of proving that I didn't know it a second time?

I have to admit how difficult it was not to make fart noises with my underarms on the way out of the test area.  I may be an experienced IT guy but we're all still children when it comes to farts.

Test guy was very difficult to find.  I looked everywhere, including behind the paneling, yet he was not there.  Spotting an open door, I launched myself through it.  I wound up in a plane hangar and there was Test Guy.   In an accurate metaphor for the entire experience, he was smoking a cigarette under the NO SMOKING sign whilst examining a fire extinguisher for compliance.  I desperately wanted to take a picture but didn't think it was a good time.

I told him that the stuff on the test was not the stuff I studied.  He laughed and told me that nine out of ten test-takers said the same thing to him.

Alrighty then.

Test Guy performed whatever magic necessary to print out forms, make some copies, then complain about the government.  I watched the ancient printer eat up some paper and my heart sank.  Finally he gave me my results.  I wished him the best of health and left.

Wife was sitting there, watching planes and smoking like a chimney.  I was amazed that the airport didn't ask her to stop smoking, as she was violating local pollution ordinances. I walked out with lowered head and slow gait.  She looked concerned.  She asked.  I didn't meet her gaze but handed her the results.

Passing was 750 out of 900.  I got an 810.  I can now refer to myself as leftystrat, Sec+. I couldn't believe it and was numb.  IT Dood still has it after all these years!  Wife screamed and admitted she thought I blew it when she saw me.

I am such a total bastard.


Speaking of people who aren't bastards, Test Guy went outside for a ciggie and started talking to my wife about pain.  Wife gave him her Complete Course on pain control and some valuable tips.  I felt great that she reached out to him and hopefully he took some of it home with him.  It was a good day all around.

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Since it was the wife's birthday, I had a short (and cheap) ride planned.  She knew not where; I just gave her directions.

Halfway there, I got a call from a coworker.  There was a serious problem with one of the systems and it needed to be shut down.  Many calls and emails later, I was no longer needed (thankfully).  I was not relishing having to work on my wife's birthday, although I would have.  We work 24/7/365 on our team. Gotta keep the railways moving.

As we got closer, I had to find ways to block signs advertising our destination.  This consisted of physicallly putting myself between her (she drove) and the signs, as well as distracting her with conversation.  Somehow I succeded.

As we pulled off at the exit and came around the corner, there was much screaming.  There on the left was a Waffle House.

Before you laugh hysterically at me and call me names (other than the normal ones), I beg your indulgence.  We tend to hit a hamfest (electronics flea market for radio) in Maryland a few times per year.  On the way down are three Waffle Houses.  In Philthydelphia, there are no Waffle Houses.  We discovered Waffle House on a trip to Arizona, so it has sentimental value.  It takes about three hours to make it to Waffle House in Maryland.

I went online and discovered a Waffle House about ninety minutes away, which is where I took her.  She was incredibly impressed at my efforts at personalizing her gift. The internal children were screaming WAFFLE HOUSE, WAFFLE HOUSE and everyone was excited.  They love to watch the hustle and bustle of Waffle House operations.

Waffle House has some famous hash browns that you can order with several toppings.  I order ham, onions and cheese but Waffle House has a different designation for this, along the lines of slashed, hashed and mashed (which, coincidentally, is how I like my women).

As things go in large chains, the food was absolutely predictable, whether or not you like it.

Our waitress was a really nice older lady.  The folks sitting next to us, however, were from New Yawk and just a little weird, in that old, retired person way.  Mrs. New Yawk had some meds to take, which started the couple and the waitress talking about people in their families who had died recently from heart attacks.

You're probably wondering how it is that I come upon this Neat Shit every time I leave the house. I can't even begin to explain it to you, largely as I don't understand it myself.  Let it just be my pain and your joy.

Mrs. Yawk was going on about how her relative died at fawty, bless him.  Waitress talked about her uncle, who died at sixty-six; way too young, bless him.  Husband complained that wife spent all of the money, as one would expect.

At this point I can't decide whether to show them my pre-digested breakfast or just laugh.  I decided on the latter, with special consideration as to how I was going to describe it on the blog.  These are the things I do for you, loyal readers.

Eventually the waitress got the Yawkers out of their seats and lavished us with her attention.  As it turned out, there wasn't a single word spoken about death, heart attacks or industrial food.  She was polite, gracious and one of the best waitresses we've ever had.  We tipped generously, as anyone should for this level of service.

People are different outside of Philthydelphia.  On the way out, after our gourmet meal, we noticed a lady starting at us.  Getting into the car, she ran after us and asked if the wife lost a ring.  She figured it was the wife, as the ring was Indian and the wife has rather a large collection of it on her person at all times (she's a lot of fun at airport checkpoints).  I was dumbfounded.

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So it was a beautiful Saturday.  And my timing has to be applauded: when I went to work on Monday, I got laid off.

You Just Can't Get There from Here

I got the snail mail the other day.  The mail that even used car owners detest: the recall notice.  Yes, my five year old car has been recalled.  It went on for a few pages but the best I can pull out of it is that there's something wrong with the suspension, which will result in either nothing or horiffic collision and catastrophic fire if ignored.

I'm going to take it to the dealer, as I'm simply not in the mood for catastrophic fire during the holidays. It probably just hates the weather here, as do I.

Last year, you might remember, our car was almost ruined by one of the local suicidal deer.  Perhaps it's a seasonal thing.

Things Just Ain't What They Used to Be

I may have detailed my rapid exit from Baskin Robbins or I may not have.  We had this lovely Baskin Robbins around the corner from my house, where we'd go to get our favorite ice cream confections.  I could be counted on for roughly the same thing every time: cookie dough ice cream with marshmallow topping.  There was something about their marshmallow topping that really set off the ice cream.

Time went on and Baskin Robbins closed [horrors!].  For whatever reason, Baskin Robbins started sharing space with Dunkin Donuts (my wife's motto: Do Not Pass Dunkin Donuts' coffee, Do Not Collect Two Hundred Dollars).

The first time I went into one of these establishments, I had high hopes for the combination.  That was, right up until I placed my order.  They had the cookie dough ice cream but the did not have the marshmallow topping.  Oh, the humanity!

Have you ever tried to explain marshmallow topping to an Eastern Indian gentleman whose first language is not english?  Suffice it to say that the New and Improved Baskin Robbins does not carry marshmallow topping.  Cross that one off.  I even emailed Corporate (and got no response).

Flash forward many years to my dear nephews wanting an ice cream cake in the shape of a turkey.  Their dear mother promised them one, yet failed to consider how to obtain it.  Even I know that you do NOT promise something to a child that you cannot deliver.

Since my sis-in-law suggested Carvel, I started there.  Much like the Great Marshmallow Crisis of 2013, Carvel presented me with a problem: if I wanted to purchase a turkey cake, I'd have to drive to the next state.  If I wanted to order one online, I only had to drive about fifty miles to pick it up.  So much for Carvel.

Next up was [wait for it...]  Baskin Robbins.  We set off to order a cake at the Baskin Robbins/Dunkin Donuts down the street.  We figured while there, why not get some ice cream (since it was the coldest day of the year anyway).

Halleleujah -we located the turkey cake, which came in many sizes with many ice cream choices.  We went to order it and were told that they only accepted orders in the morning.

In the morning?

Yes, in the morning.

Apparently Universal Alignment somehow dictates whether an employee can take a cake order.  Maybe there was feng shui involved too - it's certainly over my pay grade.  Maybe the only employee capable of filling out an order form works mornings.  Let's face it - you want to disrupt the coffee and donut ordering with cake ordering in the morning, right?

So we got some ice cream anyway.  The lady behind the counter knew what marshmallow was.  She also knew she didn't carry it (it was worth a try).  Off we went to eat our ice cream when we had to get back in line: she had not provided us with spoons.  I don't know if they were extra or we were expected to consume the ice cream like my dog undoubtedly would.

The next morning my wife returned to order the cake.  The same lady who couldn't take our order and didn't believe in spoons took her order.  To make things more interesting, the cake only came in one size (not the one advertised) and with limited ice cream choices.  It was also hideously expensive (we could have bought two Carvel cakes).

I think we've been more than fair to Baskin Robbins.  Not so much the other way.

Why Am I Not Making Anything from MIB 3?

This is gonna seem weird, but if it didn't, you wouldn't be reading ThermionicEmissions.
I don't get a single cent for product placement or even recommendations.  Therefore when I recommend something, I had better like it.  Or be really bored at the moment.

If my wife hasn't been to `our' Dunkin Donuts in a day or two, they send her cards asking if she's feeling well.  I like DD but not quite as much.   As I've outlined, there are certain conditions that must be met before setting foot into a Dunkin; largely that the crew is Asian of any variety.  You want to avoid Indian DD's and stay completely away from any Dunkin with a caucasian at the counter.  In fact, if my wife comes across one of the two minority-hire caucasians at our DD, she will wait in a different line.  It probably hasn't made the official statistics yet, but caucasians can't make coffee.

To be truthful, I could take or leave the donuts.  If my wife takes one, it comes back to haunt her for two days, like some sort of deep-fried Zombie Gastritis.  We like the coffee.

I have tried Wawa coffee.  Several different kinds.  And I consider it swill.  It should be against the law for them to call it coffee, which might explain why they spend so much money advertising it.

Unfortunately lately our Dunkin Donuts' coffee has been going downhill.  I only get one good cup out of a few.  This was right up until the MIB 3 promotion happened.  I wasn't aware of the movie or the promotion but the drink looked pretty good on the ad at the store, so I got one.

Yes indeed, that is a serious coffee chocolate drink.  It's iced because there's no sense in drinking it hot.  You don't need to - it's perfect as it is.  My wife gets mad because she gets hot coffee, tastes mine, then realizes she should have gotten a MIB herself.

In addition to the drink, there are a few donuts.  One is a generic chocolate with chocolate frosting.  The other is shaped like a star and has a positively orgasmic deep, rich chocolate cream filling.  Apparently that was enough of a description to convince my wife to try one so off we went this morning.

The first thing I noticed was that the parking lot at `our' DD looked like it needed a couple of traffic cops because it was mobbed.  While we eventually found a spot, the traffic jam on the way out added thirty minutes to my commute.

My wife came out, looking disappointed.   When she went to order the donuts, she was told that they're so popular that they can't keep them on the shelf.  Oh yeah, and today was Donut Day, where they gave out free donuts.

BLOODY HELL - I don't want free donuts.  I'm the kind of guy who doesn't mind paying for his donut, provided the vendor has the donut available for sale.  We got all excited about those chocolate donuts of death, only to be thwarted by the March of the Great Unwashed toward free donuts.  How disappointing.

Furthermore, DD's are generally corporate, so availability is governed by Corporate.  Since I am unwilling to let the drink or the donut go, I shall be writing to Dunkin and I urge you to try them and write along with me.

Current Events: Ice Cream

Since I packed up and moved to Blogger/Blogspot, I haven't done a single piece on a very important part of life: food.

It is indeed true that everybody likes ice cream.  My tastes vary according to availability.  Way back when, I discovered Baskin Robbins' Cookie Dough ice cream with marshmallow topping.  It served me for years beyond count.  But then something terrible happened: Baskin Robbins closed their stores and merged with Dunkin Donuts to the point where they physically coexist.  Unfortunately that meant the end of marshamallow topping.  To this day, I cannot tell you why.

Unfortunately the owner/operators of the Dunkin Robbins are right with me in terms of not knowing why there's no marshmallow topping.  The first time I walked into one, I asked for marshmallow topping and the nice fellow just looked at me as if I had spoken Swahili.  This is not at all a new expression for me, so it didn't register.  It might be said that I had spoken a different language, in the most cliche sense of the phrase, as the fellow didn't have a clue what a marshmallow was.

Visits to other Baskin Donuts confirmed the sad news.  Being a resourceful little turd, I got right on the Baskin website and emailed them as if my life depended on it.  Rest assured that Baskin Robbins took my request very seriously.  I am going to go ahead and assume that they took it so seriously that they bounced it up the chain.  Several times.  So far and so frequently that it was either deemed a trade secret that could not be divulged or they just plain ignored me.  This is not at all a new result for me.

The old standby is Breyers Vanilla, but only the kind with Real Vanilla Bean Specs<tm>.  A short while back we discovered Edy's, which comes in all sorts of interesting flavors.  The most interesting flavor by far turned out to be Ice Cream Sandwich.  Have you ever had an ice cream sandwich?  Of course you have - everybody loves ice cream sandwiches.  Edy's Ice Cream Sandwich tastes like they took a whole box of ice cream sandwiches and ground them down into an ice cream container.  It's frighteningly realistic.

Naturally it has become near impossible to locate Ice Cream Sandwich so we're left to try out whatever's around.  Yesterday my wife came home with two new Edy's flavors: Triple Chocolate Peanut Butter and Smores.  Historically, peanut butter ice cream has always failed me and this was no exception.  The wife said that triple chocolate would fail her and it did.  I had trouble figuring out what about triple chocolate didn't work but then again, I like chocolate a little too much (or so I hear).

Smores, on the other hand, was a huge hit with everyone.  If you like the Girl Scout Cookies of the same name, you'll love this ice cream (even though they're not made with real girl scouts).  If you don't like smores (or coconut), avoid this ice cream.

I advise you to get out and pick up a container or six now, before someone discovers I really like it and pulls it from the shelves forever.

Welcome to ThermionicEmissions [or Please ask the dog to stop humping the cat]

I didn't start out intending to be a blogger.  I wanted to be a lumberjack.
No, actually I just had a stupid webpage and someone suggested this as a better outlet for my frustrations (and observations).

While I'm new to Blogger.com, I have several years of blogging under my belt.  I hope to bring these to bear in an amusing, thought-provoking, and sometimes alarming way.

The cute little fella in my avatar is my dog, Marshall.   He was named after those huge black amps you see behind all the rock stars.  Marshall is that most dangerous of dogs: a smart cocker.  He will sit there and watch to make sure we're not looking, then blast off to steal something; usually a treat or cat food.  There is nothing in life Marshall enjoys more than cat food.

PET FOOD BALLET

Every morning the wife and I get to participate in or observe Pet Food Ballet. This is a highly skilled maneuver involving Marshall and his sibling Ren (aka Satan) the cat, along with a bowl of dog food and a bowl of cat food.  Ren eats in the kitchen, behind closed louvered doors.  As soon as he's done, Ren opens the doors and heads right for the dog food.  This allows Marshall to get into the kitchen and get at the cat food.  Voila - Pet Food Ballet.

This is somewhat complicated by the fact that Marshall is pushing forty pounds, which is rather large for a cocker, and Ren is pushing twenty (we were told he's part lynx).  Last year we spent well into four figures treating Ren's diabetes and got him completely stabilized.  We were told to keep him out of the dog food because of this.  So Marshall doesn't need the calories and Ren doesn't need the carbohydrates

DON'T ASK ME HOW THEY FIGURE IT OUT

Both of the `children' have figured out how to open the bi-fold doors to the bathroom.  For the life of me, I cannot figure out how they figure this out.  We have had a total of three rescue cockers and two cats, all of whom have figured out how to open the doors to the bathroom.  This wouldn't be worth discussing if we didn't mind being on the loo and having one of two pets bursting through the doors to say hello.

But the bathroom holds other amusements too.  Marshall loves shredding tissues but prefers used ones.  What better place to find used tissues than the bathroom trash can?  If necessary he'll get a fresh one from the dispenser.  Occasionally Marshall enjoys a brief dip in the toilet too, which is usually followed by wet paw prints all over the place.


The one thing we can't figure out is why Marshall humps Ren.  They're both about seven year old fixed males.  I guess it's purely dominance but there is no conversation stopper so grand as Please ask the dog to stop humping the cat.

But don't let me have you believing that Marshall's loves stop at cat food, no sir.  Another favorite of his is coffee.  My wife knows everyone at Dunkin Donuts by name, such is the result of her manic coffee-drinking.  Marshall, being the smart cocker, somehow figured out how to remove the plastic lid from the styrofoam cup.

No, I did not believe this either, until I watched one day.  He gingerly took one nail and went around the lid, prying it up, around and around until the lid popped off.  At that point it was face-first into the cup and drink whatever he could get before Mom decided she wanted some.  From my wife's point of view, she was driving down the street and reached for her coffee.  The lid was in her pocketbook, there was precious little coffee left, and Marshall was licking his lips to get the remaining coffee residue from them.  Sometimes he gets the lid up by licking at it until it comes up.  He tried that tonight. The road noise was perfect camouflage for his coffee-stealing activities.

Today when I came home, Marshall had procured two extra large Dunkin Donuts coffees from up on tables, pried the lids off, and consumed the contents.  And it doesn't affect him at all.

TODAY'S QUESTION

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is all the rage these days.  Monk is a national hero.  Everybody has a `thing' they do or are uncomfortable with that can drive others nuts.

My wife, for example, must watch tv with the volume on an even number.  Since I cannot let anything alone, I will frequently set the volume up or down one so it's an odd number.  This drives my wife through the roof and we spend the next few minutes chasing each other around the couch in the endless quest for the remote control.

I don't have weird stuff like that.   Ok, maybe one thing... I prefer not to drive with things leaning on me.  If my wife's pocketbook lands on me while I'm driving, I get agitated.   Aside from that, I'm perfectly normal.  Heh heh heh.

So what is your weird little thing?  (please don't send pictures)