This and that

I haven't been Mysterious Traveler much this week because I've been so busy being myself elsewhere.

After five very slow months at work, I now have as much contract work as I can handle for the month of February. Wow. And it's a nice variety of work, no "dreaded" projects.

Monday I paid my annual visit to the dermatologist and came away with little burn marks on one side of my face. Nothing like the year I left looking like I'd been attacked by a vampire.

Tuesday morning I had coffee with Laura and her mom at Fiore on Leary. There's something very comforting about hanging out with other people's parents! Tuesday night I worked out with the CompFit group on Capitol Hill. I'm still not thrilled about the rush-hour drive from Ballard to Capitol Hill and tried a different route; I somehow ended up by the Philly Cheese Steak place on 23rd. The workout was great, but I wasn't very happy to hear there was a fatal shooting at the Cheese Steak place the following night!

Wednesday the folks from Northwest Modular delivered the second-hand lateral file for Zorg's office. It's a sturdy, office-quality piece with just couple of small scratches, and the price was half of what a new lateral file would cost. I'd been impressed with how nice they were when I called and ordered over the phone, and I was even more impressed with the fellow who delivered the cabinet. He had me come out to the truck to make sure the cabinet met my expectations before he loaded it onto the dolly, and once it was in the office he helped me adjust it so that it sat evenly on our slightly tilted floor. Then he made some quick adjustments to the Ethos cubicle in my office. If you need any second-hand office furniture, these are the people to call!

Wednesday night a blogging colleague and I spoke about blogging for a class of students in the PR certificate program at UW. I'd spoken a few years ago at a community college class and it hadn't been a good experience. But either I've improved or this was a very engaged bunch of students. There were tons of good, tough questions.

Thursday was "dining out" day. I had lunch with Nicole, who I met through...hmmm....blogging? Twitter? Flickr? Can't remember. Anyway, the two of us do all that stuff, and have tech-related small businesses. We had a delightful lunch at the Hi-Life in Ballard.

In the evening I went out with Carrie from my original yoga group. Her son is a chef, and she wanted to try the new restaurant he's working at, Quinn's on Capitol Hill. (This put me on Capitol Hill for the fourth time in seven days. I can even find parking now.) Quinn's looks like a pub for 30-somethings but it turns out to be a Euro-inspired restaurant. I had the "duck! duck! mousse" appetizer and the a pear salad, plus some of the fabulous braised lamb on polenta Carrie ordered. Unfortunately, I was driving so couldn't indulge in one of the amazing house signature cocktails. I will be back!

Today was the 10th anniversary of the Fremont networking group I belong to and we met for lunch at a new venue that is managed by the fellow who owned the original venue the group started at. Great party. From there I headed down to Pioneer Square for a client meeting, and finally managed to pick up the replacement light fixtures Zorg and I needed for our offices at the Seattle Lighting Outlet down by the port. The fellows who filled the order were...hilarious. While the main store is fairly sedate, the outlet has a popcorn cart and a rather amazing assortment of deeply discounted fixtures. There's a pottery outlet just across the street on South Hanford; I think I need to get back down there some afternoon.

My mom called from Florida to report that my aunt (her late brother's widow) had died after a short illness. Now all my aunts and uncles are gone, and my mom, who's 89, is the last one of her generation in the family. My mom, who is very healthy, is still having difficulty with the idea that perhaps she won't live forever. It's understandable...she has more energy than most people half her age.

Edit globally, groan locally

I have taken on an assignment for an e-learning site that involves editing contributed articles from business people from all over the world. It turns out that entrepreneurs from India are very interested in being published on a U.S. site.

They love to write in English, but their English is fluid rather than fluent. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Indian business people write in a dialect of English. However, for a non-Indian website, this dialect sounds odd and isn't very clear. Editing it is a challenge.

The Indian writers keep injecting the phrase "One tight slap!" which, I've discovered, means "Wake up!" Or "Take notice!" I rather like it, and hope it will catch on here.

They favor phrases that we'd consider notorious cliches, like "the bigger the better" and like to put them in quotes with initial caps and a concluding exclamation mark ("The Bigger the Better!"). And they love closing their articles with energetic exhortations to success. Like this inscrutable paragraph:

"Patience, Persistence and Handwork -- These three words are self explanatory, and beside above stated qualities, you must love your work and self driven. Also, remember one more thing – sitting idol doesn’t mean you are doing, noting at all; this time has its own importance. Taking time off from work is Good. On the flip side; you have to check all the closed doors and no stone should be left unturned…..Success is Just few steps away!!"

Yes! Yes! Er, no. No. Toning this stuff down is not all that difficult, but doing it leaves me feeling rather like a wet blanket. Or perhaps "A Wet Blanket!"

Better than a Google search

When I'm feeling lost, I don't think even this could help. But on the other hand, I don't stray far from civilization...

It's warm in San Francisco

Yes, those are rhodies in bloom.

Sling bag

Bags and blossoms

I saw about half of the Macworld Expo today, focusing on computer bags. The preceding entry gives you a peek at a new model of sling bag Brenthaven will begin offering in May; many, many more photos and product reviews to come in a day or two.

Went to a lovely dinner party with a bunch of technology journalists at Roots last night. The place specializes in organic, locally grown food. I had a smoked-trout salad with horseradish dressing and a dish of spicy shrimp on a bed of grits with bits of bacon. Wow. Oh, and we all shared the most amazing french fries sprinkled with herbs and parmesan. Everyone at the table raved about the entrees, particularly the flatiron steak. Next time.

Getting up early for the keynote has me a bit grouchy. It's always interesting to hear Steve speak, but the drama of last year's iPhone introduction must have spoiled me a bit. After the keynote I did the Expo and then went to Long Life Noodles in the Sony Metreon food court for some steamed shu mai and edamame. Then I walked up Powell Street to the top of Nob Hill and halfway back down the hill to my hotel at Union Square. The Chancellor is a well kept-up old place, very comfy and quiet -- now that I've gotten used to the streetcar bells beneath my window.

I ran into a couple of former iTunes colleagues today at the Expo, and tomorrow am hoping to have coffee with another former colleague. Tomorrow evening two friends from Seattle will be at Macworld and I'm wondering if I can talk them into trying out a classic San Francisco French restaurant, Le Central. San Francisco has such a wonderful 1950s vibe.

Kitchen prima donna

What's a tutu doing in the window at Williams Sonoma on Union Square? Turns out there are tutus in shop windows all over San Francisco, commemorating the 75th anniversary of the San Francisco ballet.

[photo sent from iPhone]

Off to California

I'm off to Macworld tomorrow. Back late Friday night, and then spending Saturday (with Zorg!) at the various activities for the English (country dance) Ball. So I might not blog until next Sunday, or, on the other hand, if it's particularly hilarious in San Francisco, I might have a lot to say. The airport antics often inspire me.

Stay tuned. And be sure to check out all the wonderful bloggers listed in the sidebar. (My New) Life Out Here has been hilarious recently. And The Zorg has the legal perspective on the Gizmodo flap; you'll find out what a "tortfeasor" is.

No cold snaps

January. Seattle. Snapdragons.

I was out looking at the buds on the pear tree, the maples, and the clematis when I realized there are still sages, snapdragons, chrysanthemums, bellflowers and a few other summer/fall plants blooming.

Ups and downs

Nothing lasts forever, and last night my beloved yoga/resistance training classes came to an end. After 15 months of just having to turn up at our little make-shift studio two or three times a week and have an incredible workout with a wonderful group of women...it's time to move on.

We've sort of suspected this was coming, so I've used the past few months to research other classes. The problem is that a physically challenging workout is hard work and not something I enjoy unless the teacher is gifted and the other participants are full of good energy. (For those of you who are contra dancers, it's just like dances: A dynamic caller and a spirited group of dancers will make all the difference.)

I've gotten discouraged when I've encountered instructors who were sanctimonious, touchy-feely, or condescending. And I've felt like I was wasting precious time and money when the workout wasn't sufficiently varied or challenging. And it's been difficult but necessary for me to accept that some of the African dance classes I find so energizing and inspiring are too dangerous for someone my age (lots of leaping, running, jumping, and twisting).

Fortunately, I've found two promising programs. One is a belly dance studio. They kicked off a new series of classes this evening, with a delightful teacher and a wonderful class of women (and one man)! The other program, yoga and aerobics with live African drumming, is, unfortunately, up on Capitol Hill. That's certainly not my favorite place to drive to during the tail end of rush hour. But the class, led by an extremely dynamic exercise physiologist and dancer, is worth it.

Oddly, the components of the yoga program I haven't figured out how to replace are the yoga and weight training. However, after 15 months I know the routines well enough that I can do one of them at home for 90 minutes, once a week. If that doesn't work, it may be time to sign up for the classes at the local Vinyasa yoga studio...

Damn it, I just want my old yoga classes back.

Cat on the keyboard

(more lolcat pictures)

A friend sent me a link today to PawSense, a software product for detecting a cat on your keyboard and shooing it away before it can do any damage.

PawSense is a digital variant of the battery-powered Cat Scram. The Cat Scram emits a beam that, if the cat walks through it, triggers a high-pitched noise humans can't hear but which is unpleasant to cats.

Both devices would probably work well with young kittens that roam around climbing onto anything. But I'm dubious of their efficacy with older cats. Cats aren't on your keyboard for entertainment. They're on your keyboard because they want your attention.

If a cat walks on the keyboard to get your attention, and you give it negative reinforcement, the ignored or rejected cat will simply move over one inch to the next item on your desk and go to work there. We have one cat that removes pushpins from the bulletin board, another that pats the screens with its paws, and a third one that shoves mugs of tea, staplers, pens and anything else movable onto the floor. It has no problem moving a full mug of tea across the desk and over the edge.

Zorg takes a very hard line with cats on his desk, but does that help? Not really. In his case, the cats cannily leave the room and sit (out of squirt gun range) in the hall, yowling until the paint peels. Then Zorg puts on earphones and turns up the volume. Now, who is really winning?

(Note: And PawSense and Cat Scram don't work with deaf cats like Sheba.)

As an amateur cat psychologist, I recommend a long-range, big-picture approach. If I had at cat on my keyboard, I'd stop everything I was doing, figure out what the cat wanted, give it the food, open the door, play "Mousie," or whatever it took for five minutes, and then go back to work. If you treat your cats this way, they won't be driven to get on your keyboard or destroy your desk to get your attention. Mine just sit by my chair and tap my leg politely with one paw.

Doesn't this just make you want to run over to PAWS and pick up a few cats?

Social networking: Infested with "parasites"

A number of my clients do work that's involved with or affected by online social networking. I have a basic familiarity with social networking sites for professional reasons, and also for my own business and personal networking purposes.

For many years, "social networking" online meant subscribing to mailing lists or perhaps using a bulletin board site with a graphic interface that allowed members to post comments (in threads), post pictures, and attach or post files that others could download. A good example of this would be Yahoo Groups.

It was only about six or so years ago that more robust social networking sites came into being. The best-known is (the now rather outdated and ad-infested) Classmates.com. It pre-populated its databases with the names of schools and companies, set up biographical templates that made it easy for individuals to post profile information, and enabled individuals to contact each other via the site without having to divulge personal contact information (such as email address or telephone number). For quite a while, Classmates.com and various online dating websites were the major companies in the social networking space; then LinkedIn set up a widely admired business networking site where members' privacy is protected because the only way to reach someone you don't already know is through a mutual contact. (If I'm applying for a job at Company X, I can see who in my network is linked to someone at Company X, and I can ask for an introduction.)

Meanwhile, MySpace and Facebook had jazzed up this concept for teens and 20-somethings, with much less emphasis on privacy and much more on playfulness. Facebook recently caught on with grownups, and even more recently Twitter stepped in with its charmingly quirky interface for viewing short updates from friends. Meanwhile, Biznik ("business networking that doesn't suck") has made a bid to mix online social networking with marketing and live "indie" business events in major cities, offering seminars, happy hours, and even conferences.

All seemed well and good.

Until recently, when a whole new crop of sites and applications turned up and wanted to be "extensions" of my LinkedIn or Facebook experience: I tried out a few of them because friends suggested it. Big mistake. Once you sign up, you just can't get these people out of your (email) hair.

What I find fascinating about these sites—which I've come to think of as "parasites"—is that no matter how much email they send me, I still can't figure out what on earth it is that they do that is not almost the same as what is already being done for me perfectly adequately by LinkedIn or Facebook.

They seem to fill absolutely no need whatsoever—except to invite me to interactions that are at best benign online Tupperware parties and at worst annoying pyramid schemes involving any data I've placed on Facebook. Facebook is coming dangerously close to "jumping the shark" as more and more of these creepy little data suckers (often in the guise of amusing diversions) try to cozy up to it; I was cheered to hear that Facebook swatted the wrist of a well-known blogger for violating the site's terms of use when he gave a company called Plaxo access to his account to test a beta of theirs that can "scrape" (harvest) the data of people in someone's Facebook network and move it to the Plaxo site.

I remain a huge fan of Twitter, but suspect that the day is soon coming when I will find myself forced to read Tweets from people (or businesses) I don't want to follow, or get stuck reading ads in order to use Twitter. And today I got email via Biznik sent by an illiterate teenager from a third-world country looking for a, er, date. Lovely. (I reported it to Biznik, but I don't intend to spend my time flagging kinky member profiles for them.)

If this keeps up, I'm going to retreat back to LinkedIn, pull up the drawbridge, and order a cauldron of boiling oil.

New year, new calendars

I like a good calendar. That's why I often give calendars for Christmas gifts. There are two types of calendar I like so much that it just isn't the new year until I've posted one above my desk and one in the kitchen. The one above the desk is the Dilbert calendar. Having worked for so many years in massively dysfunctional organizations, I find the Dilbert humor still resonates (and probably always will).

The calendar in the kitchen is the Kliban cat calendar (pictured at right.) I guess I like Kliban cats because all of them are classic tabbies—what my mom used to call "alley cats"—and because they are so entitled.

[Pause while I go into the kitchen to feed the neighbor's cat; yes, the neighbor's cat eats dinner in our kitchen. Long story.]

The Kliban cat on the cover of the calendar looks just like our Zoe—big, good-natured, and a bit goofy.

Zoe has taken to vocalizing quite a bit recently; I'm wondering if it's because the neighbor's cat is a very accomplished meower who "sings" to get our attention, and Zoe is trying to compete.

Inventions

Would someone in the electronic gaming community please invent a signal beacon that can be placed outside the room so anyone approaching the game player's computer can tell if the player is in an uninterruptable, life-threatening place in the game? 

It's no fun to be greeted with "OK, now I'm dead. What did you want?"

And, for those of you in the auto industry, how about running the A/C system under the cupholders so you'd have the option to keep hot drinks hot in winter and iced drinks cold in summer?

Thanks!

Christmas Day at the Shady Rest West

I like to celebrate Solstice/Christmas; Zorg's not wild about it. But he received a book he's very enthusiastic about, I got some treats from my Amazon wish list, we had scrambled eggs with ham and toasted pannetone for brunch, and there's a light dusting of fresh snow on the roof of the garden shed. So, yes, we're having a nice Christmas and will be headed out for our traditional Szechuan dinner this evening, weather permitting.

Merry Christmas to you!

Eggnog disclaimer

Wow! Our friend Captain John whipped up a large batch of my father's Virginia eggnog for us this year. ("Virginia eggnog" is characterized by lots of eggs and heavy cream, plus a 2:1 ratio of whisky to rum; while it's certainly got plenty of sugar in it, it tastes far, far less sweet than commercial eggnogs.)

Our original intention was to share it with a few of the neighbors, but when we realized that friends from further afield were driving cars to come over to check it out, I decided we needed to warn them that while the eggnog may taste like tiramisu, it's extremely high in alcohol content. The Zorg drafted up the following advisory, which we then posted on the table next to the punch bowl:

HIGHLY INTOXICATING EGGNOG

By dipping a ladle or cup or other nog-containing device, the imbiber hereof hereby acknowledges and accepts that that he, she, it or they will possibly become inebriated, intoxicated, drunk or "three sheets to the wind."

The management accepts no responsibility or liability for any accidents that may occur whilst blinded by wearing a lampshade, or driving Under the Influence. Management recommends that all imbibers hereof arrange for a designated lampshade wearer who has not been nogged. Having someone else drive post-nog would also be a Good Idea.

We would list the intoxicants that constitute the aforementioned Nog of the Egg, but fear that doing so would lead to a visit by the Fire Marshal, who would order that all open flames within 50 feet of the Nog be extinguished. Thus, we leave the exact contents of this Nog to your imagination, as supplement by your taste buds.

A Christmas present from my dad

Today I got a Christmas present from my (late) father: A clean kitchen floor.

After several months of trying to get the housecleaners we use to scrub (not dab at with a damp mop) the damn Marmoleum, I scrubbed the floor myself.

I put on workout clothes, got down on my hands and knees with a Dobie pad, and scrubbed. And I used the special Marmoleum cleaner, not the housecleaners' favorite pseudo-environmental solution that is the same thing as traditional cleansers, but packaged in a sensitive new-age white-and-green bottle with a eucalyptus scent and a high price. Scrubbing only took a few minutes (it's a small kitchen) but what a mess! I guess I'm partially to blame, because I selected a Marmoleum pattern in terracotta that just doesn't show the dirt. But oh, the dirt was down there. Every sticky thing we've spilled for the past few months that our cleaning crews have blithely skimmed over with their cute little damp mops. And, while I was down there, with my eyes at floor level, I got a good look at the recessed kickboards under the cabinets. Well, "good" is hardly the word — I'll spare you any further description. But cleaning them took only a minute or two. Then I took the plastic grill off the bottom of the our (unmovable) fridge, and used the crevice tool on the dustbuster to fish out a what looked like a prehistoric dust bunny.

(Just in case you wonder if I'm not communicating my desires clearly to the cleaners — one of the more memorable discussions began with me saying the kitchen floor wasn't clean enough, and could they do something to get it cleaner. They looked puzzled and said they had no idea how to get it cleaner. I suggested they use a Dobie pad, or other non-abrasive pad, and scrub it. They pointed out they use a dry sponge mop with a little damp cloth wrapped around it. Exasperated, I said "why do you use a damp cloth instead of a wet mop soaked in cleaning solution?" The woman looked at me like I was a dim bulb and spelled it out for me. "Oh, but the cloth on the mop is so much easier." I did not scream "But it doesn't f*cking clean anything!" I just fired that team. And hired a new one that is more reliable — but still of the dust-and-dab-with-eucalyptus school of cleaning.)

So here I sit, post scrubbing. My pants have wet knees, the shoulders of my shirt are grimy, and I suspect I have cleaning liquid in my hair. I look like I've been cleaning — not like I'm on my way out to the grocery store. Yet my cleaners come every week in cute little sweat clothes that  look just as cute and dry and neat when they leave — since all they do is pat at things with soft cloths, avoiding looking at or touching anything below knee level.

My father's hobby was maintaining things: woodwork, appliances, gutters, lawnmowers, cars, electronics. He cleaned and oiled and did all those things that were in the manual. As a result, things looked lovely and functioned well — he generally spotted problems during maintenance and we were able to schedule repairs (or buy replacement items) rather than have exciting household emergencies.

I had my share of emergencies when I bought my first house, so with our second one I've been much more vigilant about maintenance. Like my dad, I have manuals and all the cleaning instructions posted next to our furnace, our generator, and our hot water heater, in plastic zip lock bags, attached to the wall with push pins. Maintenance reminders for major appliances appear as alarms in iCal.

And, thanks to my dad, I have a clean kitchen floor (which I'm now about to glaze with four layers of Marmoleum glaze). And tomorrow morning I plan to cook Christmas breakfast while barefoot!

Not even a mouse...

As fits my observer personality, I like to watch Christmas. When I was a reporter, I always volunteered to work Christmas Eve or Christmas Day — ostensibly because I was single and half-Jewish; but really because I enjoyed the opportunity to reflect on the holiday rather than participate in it.

My favorite Christmas Eve assignment was the one where I was sent to the local mall to cover the last-minute Christmas shopping. Like the man who dashed into the shoe store and asked the saleswoman for a pair of plush slippers for his wife. "What size?" she asked. "Oh, any size," the man replied as he handed over his credit card. "She'll just return them anyway."

The cafeteria at the newspaper was closed that night, but I'd brought a whiskey-soaked fruitcake to share with the few other folks on duty. I came back from the mall assignment to discover that the fearsome assistant editor, in charge of the newsroom for the night, had eaten more than half of the cake. She was sitting at her desk, looking stunned. I ate the other half, filed my story, and drove home.

On December 26, I arrived at the paper to discover a clipping of the Christmas shopping article on my desk, covered with the distinctive red scribbling of the managing editor. I remembered the fruitcake. I (vaguely) remember writing the story. Expecting the worse, I peered at the scribbling.

"Great story!" it read. I looked over at the assistant editor, who made a "Whew!" gesture at me.

Now, instead of working Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, my gig is looking after other people's pets. Two families on our street are out of town on vacation. The cat next door helpfully moves into our house when her family is away. But the other household has fish and mice as well as two cats, so I walk across the street to their place once or twice a day.

When the family was leaving Thursday night they told me that one of the mice was seriously ill. A website they had checked said a mouse with its symptoms should go to the vet, but the family decided they weren't going to do that, it being "just a mouse."

The mouse looked slightly better Saturday, and even ran over to its food dish when I poured in the kibble. But tonight I came in to find that mouse dead, with the survivor mouse curled up beside it, trying vainly to keep it warm. Argh.

I went home and got Zorg, who, prior to becoming a cat owner, had extensive experience keeping larger rodents. We went back and he removed the dead mouse from the cage (it's now in our basement freezer), and I am researching online to figure out if the remaining mouse is likely to freak out from loneliness. Not sure if we should go over and pet it and keep it company, or if we need to buy it a companion (even though the companion would need to stay in a neighboring cage until they acclimated to one another).

I asked our visiting cat, Kit-Kat, what I should do. She rolled her eyes. "It's just a mouse; get over it. But that reminds me: I could use a snack."

Cats do seem to lack something when it comes to the compassion department.

The Winter Solstice Feast

The Winter Solstice Feast put on by the Fremont Arts Council is a fascinating community tradition. You don't hear it talked about much (as opposed to the Summer Solstice Parade), and as a result it's more of an "insiders" event for artists. Yet it's open to anyone who wants to help fabricate and decorate in the weeks that precede the event; after volunteers complete their work, they receive an invitation (that is a work of art in and of itself).

Last night's event was glorious. But rather than describe it, I'm going to refer you to the webpage Delilah of Visionary Dance wrote about her experience as a performer at the 1998 Feast. The art changes with the year and the venue, but the elaborate gathering to share food, burn out the old year, and celebrate the return of the sun, persists.

My purple star

After you've received feedback on 500 transactions (sales and purchases) on eBay, they put a a purple star next to your user name. I don't know if I should be proud or embarrassed to say that I got my purple star today.

However, I will tell the story of my most recent eBay purchase, a bright red down-filled Eddie Bauer parka. I signed up to "watch" item, and, when no one else had bid and the auction was nearly over, I bid $9, plus shipping (since parkas don't weigh much).

I won, I paid, and then I got a note from the seller. She lives in Greenwood (about 2 miles from our house); would I like to pick up the jacket and she'd refund the shipping? We negotiated by email and phone message, never actually talking to each other live, and she said she'd leave it packaged for me on her porch. PayPal sent a message saying my shipping had been refunded. So Thursday night I drove over to her place and there, on the covered porch of her bungalow, was a double grocery bag with my jacket neatly folded inside. She'd placed a big sprig of holly with berries and a nice note on top.

Oddly, I'd been looking for another sprig of holly for the basket of greenery on our front porch. And the jacket, which appears to be brand new, is now my favorite coat.

Needless to say, I left the seller (clover.iris.womens.and.vintage) very positive feedback on the eBay site; she has 1400 transactions and a red star!