To Dream the Impossible Dream

Hey, kids!  Difficult to believe I haven't posted in over two weeks. 

Okay, difficult for me, perhaps.  I know, however, that I've had these gaps before.  You've heard me mention before that I have no concept of the passage of time, and oh, how it's flying.  Of course, the last two point five weeks have held lots of excitement and little miracles.  I became an uncle on St. Patrick's Day.  Sure, I had nieces, my brother-in-law's children, but this is my sister's first and she's adorable.

Last weekend?  Our daughter gave went into labor and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in less time than it takes us to drive from here to Wisconsin.  Three hours less, to be exact.  He was so brand-spankin'-new when I held him for the first time, and he's perfect.  I'm a proud grampa, can you tell?

This is not why you're here, though, dear reader.  I'm just making excuses to lengthen the post.  Think I ever had problems meeting those word-count requirements in school?

I had a dream the other night where I was working. This isn't unusual for me, for my job to creep into my REM-time. (Or when I'm sleeping, exhausted from my interpretive dance of 'Shiny Happy People'.)


But this was different, as it wasn't MY job, but instead a fabulous new opportunity. I was working at Waffle House.

I love the Waffle House. I take unabashed pride in my adoration for La Casa de Waffles. Breakfast, 24 hours a day. Seven days a week. Fifty-two weeks a year. Several years back, Lori and I celebrated Christmas Eve at the Waffle House. We took friends and family there, like it was some unholy mecca for all things waffled and delicious.

My dream gave me unlimited access to the biggest Waffle House I'd ever seen, or at least unlimited access to the parts I've already seen as a customer. Giant griddles, kettles of grits and gravy, waffle makers, it just makes me want to call out: "Mark: drop two, scattered, smothered covered, three scrambled raisin. Plate." I don't know just what I'm saying, I'm probably getting cheese and onions on my waffle and a raisin omelette, but hey, it's my dream and I'm ordering properly.



 Strange the pleasure I was able to take in wiping tiny fingerprints from the glass doors, in washing dishes and scraping grills, simply to be a part of the grand Waffle House experience (which I envision like the Jimi Hendrix Experience, with more carbs and less acid.)

Sure, it's an odd 'dream' job.  And I don't think I have the ability to learn a brand new vocabulary at this point in my life.  But I can dream.

We are bereft of waffle-y convenience here in the O-Hi-O, they exist but they're not at impulse distance anymore.  In my quest to make dreams a reality, I found that one cannot purchase a Waffle House franchise.  Every Waffle House in the world is still owned by the family of the original founders.  And there's no indication that they might consider changing that.  Good for them.

How about you, dear reader?  Dream job?  Amusing waffle-related anecdote?  Discuss.

Where the days are longer, the nights are stronger

***I have been asked to place a disclaimer on posts where I might be a downer. This might be one of those posts.***

It is refreshing to see the faintest glimmer of daylight when I wake now. It doesn't help my already poor sleep patterns, but at least it doesn't feel like we've been plunged into eternal night. It's funny how that mid-Winter malaise can creep in, even when we don't have feet of snow blanketing our home. It's genuinely nice out, for February. My grass is starting to turn green again after our week of sub-freezing temps a month ago.

With all deference to Shakespeare, this hardly means that the winter of my discontent has been made summer by anything. Perhaps early spring, but not summer. I'm still adapting to working at home, and despite the fact that I'm working on central time, I keep waking up as though I still need to drive 40 minutes in traffic to arrive by 8, instead of walking fifteen feet to start at 9.

This does prove a benefit to you, cherished readers, since it means you get more consistency of posts. Of course saying it's a benefit is a wee bit biased, since it assumes that more Elliott is a good thing.

Speaking of which, I think I should start walking The Dammit in the mornings, I tore one of the few pairs of jeans which fit comfortably while Lori and I were climbing about an abandoned warehouse the other day, scoping out a new shooting location. It was very cool, like a modern version of the Colosseum, rows of columns and beautiful play of afternoon light. But the crux of things is that I've become even more of the Nerdy Fat Guy you've known and loved. And it's not more 'Nerdy' or 'Guy', I can assure you.

Of course, this means I'm down to one pair of jeans that are publicly acceptable, and I will not resort to either the public wearing sweat pants which is NEVER acceptable for a male in a non-athletic context, or the use of this. The Perfect Fit button is for when you've moved past the anger, denial and bargaining phases of your weight problem. I like how they suggest that you can also use it to reduce the waist size of your pants, as though that's going to happen.

As a completely inappropriate segue, I thought I'd post a picture of my pizza from Sunday. Mmm, pizza. I love that my grocery store sells fresh dough in the bakery, because while making dough isn't difficult, it is a bit messy and I'd rather not deal with that. I'm already messy enough without adding flour to the mix.
Strangely, though I have always known myself to have jars of sauce about the pantry, rely on it when time calls for a quick and easy dinner, there was none to be had. As such, I spread the crust with pesto, covered it with arugula (or raquette, if you prefer), cremini mushrooms, red peppers, Italian sausage and pancetta. Because everything is better with bacon.And I discovered a great site yesterday, had a little fun. My mood is starting to reveal itself though, and spring can't get here quickly enough.

Alligator lizards or not.

It's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care.

So I promised everyone over at Bev's place that I'd show you my official workspace, where I do the stuff that goes with that whole employment thing I have going on (and sometimes things like this that don't).


So here goes.

Yes, there are two cups on my desk. What you can't see behind the monitor are two water bottles and another cup. I'm down to one stress ball on the desk, the rest have been safely hidden away in one of the drawers. To the right is my perpetually-knotted headset. Mustn't forget the blatant product placement hanging on the wall! You can't see the second stapler, the black mark at the very left of the desk, which is my Milton-tribute Swingline. For looks only. The plastic fork is for jump-starting my little desk fan when it decides not to spin. And yes, I'm one of those ergonomic keyboard nerds.


Like you're surprised.

And then there's my Get Fuzzy collection, things that make me chuckle when I'm feeling blue. And a business-card-sized piece of Velcro. If I knew why, I'd tell you.

And I think I may have mentioned the leaky ceiling. Maybe.

Because this is my workplace, I don't have copies of my unfinished novels lying about, those are in the other office. My desk used to be far worse clutter-wise, but since I travel as much as I do, I try to keep it tidy(er). We also have a new 'clean desk' policy, requiring anything potentially secure to be locked away at night. In my case, if I put something in a drawer, it ceases to be useful, and will eventually go into the locked shred bin.

Because that's how I roll, yo.

Sick days aren't all they're cracked up to be

At least when you're actually sick.

(no, not THAT kind of fever)

I'm in a fog, a malaise, a brain-cloud of sorts. At least the stabbing, doubled-over-in-abdominal-pain thing is gone, so there's that, but the fever is overrated as a symptom. Sure, it makes watching any television a surreal experience. However, the fever also means that every fleeting thought I have is gone before I can remember to write it down. Again, not a bad thing, since it's likely they're psychadelic, creepy and altogether incoherent thoughts.

So I guess this means you win today!

Or so you'd think, but this means my brain does random things and I try too hard.

For example, there's this video. It runs the line between cool and dangerous, and I really REALLY want one of these things.

Prometheus device

Then there's these little gems. The first one is courtesy of That Kind of Girl. Samsmama, the second one is just. For. You.

Paper Towels

The WTF Blanket

Sorry, I'll do better tomorrow to dazzle and amaze you. Meanwhile, you can go back and try your hand at the Random Acts of Thursday quiz from a few weeks ago.

Have to go now though, I just spilled soy sauce all over the carpet.

Cleveland...um...Rocks!

Regular readers know I travel for work. I travel a lot. Sadly, I rarely get to actually spend quality time in the cities I visit, instead spending all day at a client and all night in my hotel, driving back to the airport on my last day.

However, because I'm here to visit two clients on opposite ends of the city, I get to see a lot in my drive every day. Oh, and what a drive.

They were going to make me drive something called a Kia Rondo. Rondo is apparently Korean for 'unbelievably homely mini-minivan'.
However, because one of my clients is a national union, and I respect American labor, I couldn't show up in a Kia, so I begged for an American car. Can you say free upgrade? Hertz did...
Sure, the Sable is slightly stodgy-looking, but so far, my only complaint is that the turn signal branch is too high up. Apparently I should be clutching my steering wheel at 11 and 1 in fear of the unexpected. I'm a solid 8:00 driver, one-handing it like I'm cool like that.

Because I am.

The car is also fully-loaded, with XM radio, leather seats, auto-headlamps and a sunroof. A-, thanks, Hertz!


Now of course, getting here meant flying, and we all know how much I enjoy that. Of course, I got special treatment in security. Apparently Mr. TSA liked me in the bad way, since I got felt up. Either that or he was just rubbing my belly for luck. What the hell? I don't even own this shirt:
Oh, and I had to go through behind a girl that looked like this:
...only with frizzy hair in place of the bucket. And enough metal jewelry to take down ALL the metal detectors in the place, not just ours.

Late out of Tampa, later into Atlanta, all the while hearing Brook Benton during a bad-weather landing. I had eight whole minutes to travel the three timezones from concourse C to concourse D...until I got there to find that flight was delayed as well. At least that gave my luggage a chance to catch up.
And I got a very nice hotel room, so there's that going for me. (Yes, that's it right there.) I might even have to walk the two blocks down to dance on the steps of the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame.

Take a little trip, take a little trip with me

All my friends know the low rider.

Okay, not all of them, but maybe most.

Well, some.

Okay, fine, I was just dropping names, I don't even know anyone who knows anyone who knows the low rider. I'm just deliberately wasting your time. Monday when I was leaving for the office, there was a car club loading up their rides for the trip back home. I don't understand, exactly, but apparently one does not drive these cars long distances, even when you've spent the money to buy the vintage window fan.

I guess I understand that, because damn, they're beautiful, and it would kill me to get a stone chip in my hand-striped, silver-leaf-encrusted 64. And note the chubby guy in the blue shirt reflected in the bumper on the first photo. It was almost like I planned to coordinate with my subject. I love the engraving, always so many new ideas, I'd love to have Ruby outfitted as such.

And speaking of taking little trips, I leave in two weeks for the greater Cleveland area to train clients for five days, then I'm home again for a week, and it seems more likely than not that I'll be back in Germantown, MD again.

I'm really racking up those frequent flier miles.

That's all I ask man, just two hours to sleep

Travel takes its toll on me. As it stands, I've been up since 4 am. My body think's it was 7, but even that's way too early to be up, or it would be if I were home. I'm working in my company's Henderson office this week, and it will be a slight adjustment.

Last night, eating dinner outside with Ron and Kathy, in the 'hot Nevada desert', it was 87 degrees and I was freezing my ass off until I got a beer in me. What do you know? It really IS the humidity.

I always thought that was just a line, small talk to keep people from talking about the things that really matter in life.

Am I getting deep here? I don't mean to, but I'm sleep-deprived, last night's wine is still muddling around in my dehydrated brain, and I could really use a Diet Coke. I like that my hotel room is at the back of the casino, I don't have to walk through the din of people slowly spending their childrens' inheritance. (Not that I'm opposed to that, my children stand to inherit 200 Hot Wheels and some old Architectural Digests from the '70's. Aren't they lucky?)

I'm onto the scam already, though. Beautiful hotel, but not what I'm accustomed to. No desk. No coffee maker. 10 channels on TV, and two of them are about the hotel. However, great view. Even now, as I look out to the east, the first glimmers of dawn are breaking, just the bare outlines of the mountains are visible. Here's my view:

And true to form, I've already found the Sonic. It's tradition. It's a disorder, actually, but hey, potayto, potahto.
Enterprise really came through for me, too.
Economy class, my buttocks. I love free upgrades, it's good to be the king.

Great road presence, good pickup and I really feel like I belong in it.

What? You don't think they'd actually upgrade me to a Camaro from whatever econobox piece of excrement the company booked for me? Well...In fact, they did not. Because rental cars being what they are, I always have to get out-of-state plates when I travel. This time, it's an Envoy with Arizona plates. And I do feel like I belong in it, since it's the GMC version of our TrailBlazer. But still, it was a free upgrade, and I'll take it.

And in case there was any question about what a talented driver I am, note this photo from my hotel room of my park job after checking in.
You think that's bad? You should see me color!

More later, skies are pink and full of wispy clouds, have to watch the sunrise before I go to work.

It's charming how alarming I feel

Our office building is at DefCon2. In an effort to keep better track of us (and to keep the smokers from leaving the back door open for the homeless guy who overnights behind the dumpster), they have added full-time alarms to two of the external doors and our back stairwell. We also have little signs as reminders that klaxons will sound if we so much as touch them.
The signs say ‘Door is alarmed’. Funny, I would have figured they’d seen everything by now. Did someone flash the door? Did someone just tell the door how much it costs to raise a child to age 18 in this country? It is, after all, nearly $300,000, and doors don’t really earn much.
In other news, I’ve been Captain Sunburn since Saturday, thanks to five hours in the Florida sun on the back of Ruby, complete with goggles and bandanna. My face looks like an inverse red panda, white-red-white-red stripes top to bottom. Plus I’m furry and cuddly, so that helps. Sunburn rocks, except for that whole peeling thing. I hate the peeling thing.

On our ride we encountered a mammoth hairy hulk at the side of the road, and both Lori and I had the independent WTF moment (no, not the Wisconsin Tourism Foundation, the other one…). We’ve never seen deer this far south, but it was too dark to be a cow, and too big to be any other land mammal stumbling into the path of oncoming traffic. As we got closer, we saw. It was the front end of a very large wild boar, the back end having been obliterated by what must have been either a monster truck or space aliens.
That’s enough keep me off the country roads at night, even in the car, let alone on the bike. This is why I am encouraging every man, woman and child once again to consume more pork. Wild boar should be showing up on menus. Wild boar bacon, Hogzilla ham. King-size pork porterhouses.
Yum. That's the stuff.

When Darwins, we all win.

They've been doing some work on our office, building walls, tearing walls down, moving the buckets around for the new leaks in the roof, the usual. By they, I refer to Frick and Frack, and while the quality of their finished work is generally impressive, sometimes I must question their means.

I don't have a camera phone, so you'll have to bear with me. One of the walls they removed contained several electrical boxes and outlets. The conduit to these boxes is firmly and permanently ensconced in concrete. However, since they need to come out, our fearless crew is using a sawsall.

Plugged into one of the outlets they're cutting out.

On the up-side, if they fry the building electricals, I can go work from home for the rest of the day.

Is it really a mid-life crisis if I don't have a Corvette?

The walls are closing in. My new boss started work today, and when I walked in, there's a brand-new office where Lori's cubicle used to be. This means, that instead of walking into a wide-open space every morning, where there's light and some semblance of space, my claustrophobic self has to walk into another hallway. Because they had to move the neighboring cubicle out three feet to finish the drywall work, I turn the corner into another narrowing walkway.

Of course, I relocated my desk several months ago, out of the dark corner with a full window, into this brighter space. Thanks to that choice, I have a window, but I can't look out of it, since there's a cubicle wall in front of it. I feel like I should be in an Albert Camus novel (or a Cure video), today it suddenly dawns on my that I chose my own prison cell.In other news, I did, in fact, go car shopping over the weekend. The Buick is sick, quite sick, and throwing money at something that may not be worth it is painful. However, being the economics major that I was, opportunity cost says that I'll be sacrificing a lot just to get a new(er) car. Dr. Giesber rings through my head, asking me how many cheeseburgers I can eat before it becomes more worthwhile to buy an order of fries? How many vacations, motorcycle mods, fancy dinners, fine whisky and new patio doors would I be giving up for one pre-owned German sport sedan? And if, despite warning, you read all the way through Saturday's post, you know we need new patio doors, patio doors that DON'T have large gaps at the top and bottom where daylight and OTHER THINGS can pass right through.
But after a heartfelt discussion with Lori Friday night, after another miserable, soul-crushing week working under fluorescent lights and feeling my brain cloud grow larger and larger, it is obvious to all that I am suffering a mid-life crisis. The time has come, gone, and come back again to look at other potential career options, and since I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, the options are fairly open.

Further bulletins as events warrant.