Grabbing his attention

To celebrate the first anniversary of the shithole president's inauguration, millions of mostly women, together with many good men, took to the streets around the country and the world to protest virtually every wrong, misguided policy and decision the liar-in-chief has made since day one.

Which if you're keeping count would be all of them.

The beauty of these protests is we can be assured that he's watching, because chowing down Big Macs in front of the TV for hours on end seems to be what he does most days.

What I love about the march, besides the fact it's happening and so many millions are participating, are the signs. They're creative, heartfelt and on point. Or points. Whimsical to serious, humorous to straightforward, every one of them is a unifying message we all should be behind.

The energy of it all gives me, dare I say it, hope.

I took to the Google to show a few of the signs from today's marches. Some of them didn't have a date, so a few might be from last year's event. No matter. The message is the same.

I think the important thing is now that women have grabbed his attention, it's important not to let go. We all have to keep our energy and enthusiasm up because backing down is simply not an option. Not when it's our country, democracy and standing in the world—not to mention compassion and decency—at stake.

And besides, November will be here before you know it.

Thunder Road

You didn't really think I was going to get through the week without a Bruce post did you?

Anyone who knows me—as much as anyone can know anyone—would tell you Thunder Road is not just my favorite Springsteen song. It's my favorite song ever. I was trying to think about why that is. It's not the first time.

As you'd imagine, I get asked about my Boss obsession a lot, and I've pondered it for hours, months, years trying to figure it all out.

I was reading through the comments on this Thunder Road video, and I read this one from Jimmy Braum.

The second I did, it felt right.

So thank you Jimmy for putting in a line the feeling I probably would've rambled on for paragraphs about, without getting anywhere near as clear and succinct as you have.

As I write this I'm getting ready to leave work and head home.

I bet you can guess what I'll be listening to on the drive.

My hat's off

I suppose it'd be easy to think this is another post about Breaking Bad, what with the picture of Walter White, er, Heisenberg. That and the fact I'm the one writing it.

But it's not. It's actually about the hat.

On one of my Breaking Bad binges, I've lost count (9), I started falling in love with his Pork pie hat and wondering how it'd look on me. It was a rhetorical question, because the truth of the matter is no hat looks good on me.

For starters, there's the problem of finding hats that even fit me given the rather large noggin I use as a carrying case for my oversized brain.

Then there's the douche factor: I think 99.9% of guys in Pork pie hats—unless they're Justin Timberlake, Bryan Cranston, Buster Keaton or Gene Hackman in The French Connection—look like they go to eleven on the Douche-O-Meter.

My infatuation with the hat I'll never wear comes from my desire to have a style to call my own. Any style, I'm not particular. But I don't have one, and whichever one I eventually land on may not require a hat. Also, the "style to call my own" part wouldn't really apply since so many hats are being worn by guys in their own little fantasy world, where the Douche-O-Meter doesn't exist.

I think baseball caps are an exception. For starters, one size fits all. Even me. And it's considered, you know, a baseball cap—not a fashion statement (usually). Almost anyone can pull off wearing a baseball cap.

The point of all this is I've come to the realization, begrudgingly, that I'm going to have to put the Pork pie hat on my long list of things I wish I could do, but know I can't.

Of course I might have to binge Breaking Bad a tenth time to make sure.

Nice rack

One of the great joys remodeling the kitchen is paying the thousands of dollars in bills that seem like they'll be coming in for years after I'm dead. No, wait, that's not how I wanted to start this.

One of the great joys of remodeling is I get to pick out new appliances. There we go. And one of my best choices was our brand spanking new Bosch dishwasher.

Just to give you a little background, because I know you were hoping I would, our dishwasher is what started the entire kitchen remodel project. I won't get into all the gory details, because I already did that here. Suffice it to say eleven months and $20K over budget later, it was the right choice.

The Bosch is the third dishwasher we've had. The first that came with the house was a Westinghouse with a black door that clashed with the cabinets and counters. It sounded like a 747 taking off when it was running. So we replaced it with a snow white Maytag dishwasher, that was much quieter, went with the kitchen decor (such as it was) and worked fine for years.

Then one day, the handle broke when we tried to open it. We called a repair guy, who told us we could spend the money to get a new handle/door on it, or we could just use a dinner knife to unlock it by wedging it in and pushing down. Since we already had the knife, we decided to save the money. Besides, it felt a little McGyver-y and it was fun. At the beginning.

Soon after, we were unloading it again and the top rack broke its railings, almost crashing all the glassware in it to the linoleum floor. We could've had a nice down payment on a new dishwasher for what it would've cost to fix it, so for years we adapted to holding up the top rack with one hand, after we opened the door with the knife, and loading it with the other.

The McGyver-y part was starting to wear off.

Fast forward to the remodel. Now keep in mind it'd been years since I'd been appliance shopping, so it was a whole new world of dishwasher technology for me. I'm standing in the vast showroom at Friedman's Appliances, and our salesman—ask for Johnny—shows me the Bosch. I believe the sound I heard in that moment was the angels singing.

First of all, the Bosch is whisper quiet. So quiet in fact, if it weren't for that little red light I'd never know it's on.

Next, the controls are on the top of the door instead of the front. So whether it's running or not, it's just a slab of uncluttered, shiny, stainless steel sitting there looking beautiful (a skill I happen to know a little something about).

While those features were important, the final one that sealed the deal was when Johnny (ask for Johnny) showed me the third rack. I didn't know whether to cry or faint with happiness. After years of trying to figure out how to put soft plastic lid tops and smaller items in a place they wouldn't melt or fall through to the bottom, this opened up a whole new world for me.

I just read the last couple sentences and I'm thinking the same thing you are about my getting a life. But I digress.

The third rack could've been part of my immensely popular and often read What Took So Long series of posts. But because of the impact it continues to have on me, I thought it needed a post of its own.

If you've followed me on here for any length of time—and if you have you really should pay more attention to what's going on in the world around you, because it's not pretty—then you know I'm somewhat of a dishwasher savant. I look at the pile of disorganized dirty dishes, and in my head I see them all placed perfectly in the dishwasher. I've never used the "there isn't anymore room" excuse. There's always enough room if you do it right.

Judgmental much?

The third rack makes my life easier. Ask anyone that knows me—I'm all about easy. While it brings me joy every time I open the door, there's now an entirely new strategy to employ when I'm loading the dishes. The third rack has a spray spinner attached to the bottom of it, which means the items in the second rack have to be low enough to clear it. It's dishwasher Tetris figuring it out.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I've spent enough time rambling on about this.

Don't even get me started on the front-loading, full-size, stacked washer and dryer. That's for another day.

The 12th of never

As I've said many times here, I'm the least disciplined writer you know. I'm not proud, but I am consistent. To that end, you'll be glad to know that finely honed, well practiced lack of discipline carries over into many other areas of my life as well.

Here's the thing: I had big plans coming into 2018. A whole new me in almost every aspect. Extreme makeover, Jeff edition. While I didn't voice my ambitious plans to a lot of people, I did make a list for myself. Reviewing that list now, it really begs the question— is it really breaking a resolution if you never started it?

In what seems like a nanosecond, I suddenly find myself halfway through January, and I'm already checking things off my evil twin list.

Not walking every day. Check.

Not working out. Check.

Not riding my bike. Check.

Still carrying on a torrid love affair with bread. Check.

Still cheating on bread with sugar. Check.

But it's not just the personal improvement goals and deadlines I'm not accomplishing. I'm not accomplishing so much more than that. In fact, I can not accomplish more in a day than most people can't do in a month.

Simple things like reorganizing my dresser drawers so they're not all "that drawer."

Making the bed every day, although the 90 lb. German Shepherd laying on it doesn't make it any easier.

Cleaning out the garage.

Emptying the boxes from the remodel still in the garage.

Reorganizing shelf space in the garage.

Putting a window in the garage.

Putting up the wi-fi extender in the garage.

Clearly the garage is a thorn in my side, and perhaps my inability to get to it and put it in order represents a more significant issue that needs to be dealt with.

Which begs a different question: Who asked you?

Anyway, it doesn't take a stable genius to see the pattern of avoidance and denial, two qualities I'm far more comfortable with than I should be.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea, although it may be too late for that. This may ruin my underachiever reputation, but since the new year I actually did manage to get two new pair of glasses, a haircut and the flu. So there's that.

But when it comes to my New Year's list, I'm going to file it all under better late than never, and not wait another year before I think about addressing all those chores and promises. I'm going to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, if I can find them in the garage, and take care of them in the most timely way I know how.

Tomorrow.

A no-day work week

Last week was a four-day work week for me. I took a paid day off on Friday because I wanted to catch up on a few things I didn't have time to get to over the holidays.

And because I could.

My timing was impeccable as always. Friday was the day I came down with the flu. This is Wednesday night, and for those of you keeping count, I've been down and out with this misery for six days.

However, in a bold gesture of generosity and consideration for others, I decided not to force the issue and drag myself into work and risk giving this cold/flu-ey thing to everyone who has managed to dodge it so far. It's the kind of thoughtfulness I wish the person who gave it to me had exercised. I'm not naming names, but you know who you are.

Anyway, I'm at the point of being bored and restless out of my mind, yet not well enough to drag myself back into the office yet. Even the dogs are ready for me to be out of the house. I think the coughing is keeping them awake during the day.

So, as if I had any other choice, I'll just ride it out.

And to my colleagues who are the picture of health, working hard, exercising at lunch on the beach and taking the stairs up to the office without having to nap for three hours after, I just have two words for you.

You're welcome.

The goodbye girl

Here's the thing about having a daughter who goes to an out-of-state college. It is a constant, seemingly never-ending series of goodbyes.

And I'm not going to lie to you. I hate it.

I first wrote about this when my son decided to go to UT Austin for his freshman year. As anyone who ships their kids away to school knows, it's heartbreak on a schedule.

I moved her in to her dorm in Iowa and then said goodbye as I left my baby girl behind. She was a mess. Fortunately I was the tower of strength my children have always known me to be. In other words I managed not to start crying like a baby until we were in the car and heading towards the airport—in South Dakota. Don't get me started.

I fly her home for a quick Thanksgiving, then a short four days later we're saying goodbye. She comes back for Christmas break. We have a great three and a half weeks, celebrate the new year and then we're saying goodbye again.

The next goodbye is scheduled for Easter break in March. Maybe I'll be able to ramp up for it.

I suppose the goodbyes would be easier if she were going to school in state. She'd be away from home, far enough away from us, but not sixteen-hundred miles, two plane rides and a three-hour drive away.

What can I tell you? I love my girly. And while I love that she's growing into an independent, educated, wickedly funny young woman who can belch for forty-five seconds straight (it's a skill), I hate that she's doing it in Iowa.

So until March, we'll be burning up Facetime, which is the next best thing to being with her.

It'd be unfair, selfish and manipulative for me to try to sway her into coming back by playing on her emotions and trying to bribe her.

That's why I'm not saying anything about how much her grandmother and her dogs miss her. How she'd have her car here, you know, the one we'll be painting for her. And how'd she'd probably have a big increase in her allowance and credit card spending.

It wouldn't be fair. So let me just say, have fun back at school baby. Make the most of every minute—this will be one of the big adventures of your life. And take full advantage of all the variety, options and diversity that Iowa has to offer.

Corn on the cob. Corn chowder. Corn muffins. Corn casserole. Corn pudding. Corn salsa.