Wednesday, December 18, 2019

All I Want for Christmas

It's that time of year where I get asked what I want for Christmas. People laugh when I respond with, "What I want you can't buy me." But, it's the truth and one of the rare times I'm not being sarcastic. You should always assume sarcastic.

I'm going to go ahead and put it all down though, just in case you or someone you know can get this for me.

Ruffles Henley, worlds toughest cat.
I want to wake up from a late afternoon nap on a scratchy gold couch with a big gray cat kneading my chest while she purrs. Loudly. I've finally grown enough that my head rests on one arm and my feet almost touch the other. An exciting development.

I've woken because with the fire going behind me, the room is a little too warm. I hear her footsteps in the hall and then they pause at the squeak in the floor. The thermostat is adjusted. She hums as she returns to the kitchen. Always humming. Dinner is cooking. It smells so good. The news is on, Randy Shaw on Q6. Pans clank in the kitchen, the newspaper rustles, the fire pops. The kitchen door slams as she goes in and out, bringing Christmas leftovers in from the garage, where it is so cold things aren't in a refrigerator, just on the counter.

The phone rings. The conversation is brief and ends in, "Good enough." He goes back to the newspaper. The foot rest on the recliner snaps up. Ice cubes clink in the airplane glass.

Over the sounds of dinner being prepared, the news and the fire, I can hear the singing Christmas lights on the shrub just outside the den window. At the hardware store we were given an option - enough lights to decorate the whole front of the house or one string that sings 12 different Christmas songs while blinking to the song. We chose wisely.
Pretty sure I'm happier than I look.


We're eating dinner early because there will be popcorn and a rented movie later. A musical. Everything else is trash.

I'm refusing to open my eyes because even at 9, I get this.

She comes to the doorway and in her sing-song way calls me, "Staaay-seeee. Go wash your hands for dinner, lazybones."

I open my eyes. Ruffles is an inch from my face. Her green eyes widen as she embarrassedly realizes she's been drooling. Her purring stops as I set her on the floor. She stretches. At 15 she's got to hold a record for oldest farm cat ever. She heads to her dish for a snack of bacon soaked in half & half. Which probably explains her longevity.

After I wash my hands we'll eat dinner. He'll tease us all and talk about all the girls who were in love with him over the years. We'll eat canned peaches and frosted sugar cookies while she clears the table. And when she picks the last plate up, he'll say something that puts us all in stitches and she'll hit him in the head with that very plate. Right on top of his very bald head. It will echo like a gong through the kitchen.

Perfect Popcorn.
He'll take his coffee to the living room to read the mail. When he's finished he'll roll his mug across the living room floor and say something like, "Woman, I'm done with my coffee." to which she'll respond, "There were lots of boys chasing me too, you know." And then she'll giggle until she cries.

We'll watch the movie, probably Singing in the Rain. Because I've burned her out on Annie. 

We'll sing along and he'll say that we couldn't 'carry a tune in a bucket'. 

The roasting pan will be overflowing with perfectly buttered popcorn. Popcorn that I cannot duplicate.

It will be a perfect night. And I want it back. The sounds, the smells, the stories, giggles, everything. I want it all back.

Ruffles died in her early twenties. I was in high school. A very long life for a farm cat.

Grandpa left us in 2004. I've got one of the airplane glasses. There's nothing in life that a whiskey and seven served in an airplane glass can't cure. Nothing. And, it'll make you feel taller too.

Sadly we lost Grandma's memories soon after he passed - she stayed a few more years. Not quite the same. Those times I can't stop laughing and just dissolve into tears - that's her. Turns out that also cures anything life throws at you.





Wednesday, November 6, 2019

Requirements Gathering and Problem Statements

My team works in an Agile Framework. What this means is that we break our work up into small pieces so we can collaborate with our stakeholders quickly. We work in what is called an 80/20 model. We'll get you up and using the tool  - that's the 80. We'll make it better over the next few weeks. That's the 20. Maybe it started as five clicks to get the information, now it's two. We break work down into ship-able product. Does the thing work? Yep. Then it goes. You want the buttons moved around a bit? Cool. We'll do that next week. In the meantime, you're working. It's not yet perfect, but you're working. We're currently delivering ship-able code in 32 days or less on average. That's from initial ask to all the way to production.

We start with problem statements. What problem are we trying to solve?

"As a manager I need to be able to approve purchases over $2000."

Cool, we'll build an intake and approval workflow for you. Now, let's talk about requirements. Who are the approvers? What items can they approve?

This is the cycle. Build it. Show them. Iterate.

I have adapted to an Agile Framework for most of my life tasks. Break the work into manageable chunks - it makes you feel more successful. You can get two big things done today or 10 little things. 10 is better. 10 feels accomplished. I am also a fan of the 80/20. Get the room painted. Touch up the trim next weekend. 80/20.
He likes the view.

This all goes really well when requirements are clear and well defined.

I've not had a wife for very long but I do know, from my own experience, that a happy wife makes for a happy life. I desire both of those things.

So, today when I got a text asking me to put the Halloween skeletons in the garage rafters after work, I happily complied with a 'Happy to'.

Problem statement: The Halloween skeletons need to be put away.
Initial Requirement: Put the skeletons in the garage rafters.

Now, it's kind of clear, but not crystal. I wasn't given exact specs of where to put them. That part is what feeds my creativity. How can I solve this in a way that makes me feel creative and solves the problem?

Will we hear screaming from the children when they go get their bikes out of the garage?

Likely.

Is the problem statement solved?

Yep.

Am I likely to forget and scare myself at some point?

Also, yep.




Greetings.

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Translation

My role at work is global. It's not often that I travel but when I do it's to The Netherlands or China. The Netherlands is amazing and beautiful. China is amazing and beautiful. The Netherlands is easier. Most people speak English but Dutch is pretty easy to sort of translate. Chinese, not so much. After a few days on the subway we could recognize some of the symbols. Like three.

The thing about China, is that everyone is very welcoming and friendly. Especially at the hotels. The concierge especially.

Need a car?
Need a cab?
Need a contact to buy pearls from because you absolutely need to buy your wife some jewelry? Done.
Need Tylenol because you are absolutely getting a cold and feel like you might die?
Done.

Need eye drops because your eyes are used to the amazingly clear and clean Pacific Northwest air and the air in China is not so clear?
Done.

Maybe.

He spoke some English. The ask for eye drops was tricky. I showed him what I meant. He said he'd look into it. There was a decent amount of charades done.

While I was waiting for the car to take me to the office he came over and showed me a photo of something. All in Chinese. He asked, earnestly, 'For blood in eyes'?
Blood in eyes.

"Yes! Yes, blood in my eyes."

"For 50 RMB I can have them in your room when you return from the office."

"Perfect," I handed him the money. For 150 RMB ($9 American) I would have Tylenol and eye drops in my room in eight hours or so.






When I returned that afternoon, I hurriedly opened the packages waiting on the table for me. The Tylenol looked like ours, just with Chinese writing. The eye drops, not really. But for me, it was impossible to know. Plus, I was desperate. My eyes were itching, burning and
glowing red.

I took out my contacts and opened the eye drops. For an instant, I thought, "maybe I should have this translated".

Minty tears.
I dismissed the thought. That would add another 20 minutes onto waiting for the drops. I was clear, he was clear. "Blood in eyes" is a pretty clear statement.

I pulled the lid off, pulled my eye lid open wide. So wide. Squeezed.

And, screamed.

The minty mouth drops splashed into my right eye with force. My eyelid slammed shut. The tears came. The swearing started.



I should have had the label translated.



Tuesday, July 30, 2019

Bat Shit Crazy


About two years ago, as we combined families we went through a period of ‘yes’. The answer to everything was pretty much, 'yes'. 

The kids all wanted pets, we wanted to be ‘fair’ and so of course we at one point had two birds, two fish, two dogs, two cats and two rabbits. It was damn near Noah's Ark at The Stella.

The rabbits weren’t long for life. Bought from the same breeder they unexpectedly died within a couple months, leaving devastated boys behind. A call to grandma and a recommendation: get them kittens. Kittens are much sturdier.

And so, we've shifted pets a bit. The birds and cats together were a bad idea… after a little circle of life situation we were down a bird. The other one was re-homed to another family who lost one to a cat as well.

Now, two years later, we have four cats (one for each kid) and three dogs. Oh, there’s a fish left too. Somehow, with minimal care, it soldiers on.

Sophie, was a bottle fed orphan. Shy. She doesn’t like strangers. At all. She prefers Madi to any other living being. Other than being found in the middle of Stark Street in Portland, she has spent no time outdoors and has no interest in hunting and/or gathering.


Pixie is a fancy cat. She’s a British Short Hair. She’s persnickety. She’s the kind of cat who when you reach out to pet her, takes a step away from you. She’s also a diabolical mercenary. Now that we don't have parakeets, fledglings are her favorite afternoon snacks. I get attached to the fledglings born to robins in our porch baskets and thus spend a decent amount of time removing Pixie from the area.

Dwight. Originally, Ellie. Until we realized that the recently adopted girl kitty had balls. Afraid of most things. Or, realistically, everything. Likes to go outside and peek into robins’ nests. Appears utterly confused as to what to do next.



Bear. Barry. Also known as Fat Bastard. Must be sitting on a person whenever a person is available. Preferably your head. Known to chase a squirrel once. Never put out that level of physical exertion again. Drools, weighs 16 pounds and has an udder that swings under him as he walks.







A couple months ago, I bought a bat box. I love the idea. The bats will swoop through the yard at dusk gobbling up mosquitos. Bats are slightly scary but mosquitos are horrible so I’d rather go with bats. I haven’t hung the bat house up yet as it requires a purchase of bat pheromones which is a task that hasn’t yet been completed. It’s on the to do list. The to do list is always long.



This is called foreshadowing...


I’m in bed. It’s after 10 which is pretty late for me. Barry comes in. This is never good as he tends to hide and then around 2AM changes sleeping positions. To one of our heads.

He’s on the window seat. The window is open. Under our side window is a little bump out from the dining room below. Cats being cats, they like to sit there, on the roof of the bump out, surveying the North side of the property. Sometimes to their detriment as I close the window while they are unseen out there. Cue 2AM meowing. Also known as singing the song of their people.

“Barry is in here,” I called to Deb. That’s her cue that since I’m already in bed and she isn’t, I have passed the Barry grabbing task to her. This is unwritten.

He jumped out the window. And right back in.

Maybe he is getting smarter about getting locked out. Or he's just weird.

When Deb came in from the bathroom she asked as she walked over to close the window, “Is Barry out there?”

“No. He’s in.”

“In here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He went out and right back in. I think he went upstairs.”

Deb got into bed and pulled out her book.

A few minutes later, a knock came to the door. A sheepish boy entered, flashlight on, “I think Barry caught something. I can hear him running around and there is a weird sound upstairs.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, let’s take a look.” I am doubtful that Barry could catch anything. Other than some type of expensive cat illness. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight.

The three of us step into the hall. The girls poke their heads out of their rooms. “What’s going on?”

“J thinks Barry caught something.”

“I’ve been hearing a weird noise.”

The girls followed.

There are now five of us headed up the narrow staircase. Armed with two flashlights.

As I passed Henley’s door, I banged on it. Loudly. “Get out here. Your cat caught something and it’s running around up here.”

It should be noted that I avoid boy land at nearly all costs. It just makes my blood pressure go up. I glanced around. “Jesus you guys. Would it kill you to tidy?”

They shrugged. For all they know, it might kill them to tidy. Why risk it?

Barry was on the buffet that acts as a television stand at the other side of the room. I could see the back half of him. The front half hidden behind the TV. He thinks that he’s invisible if he can’t see you.

I peeked around the TV, expecting to see a fledgling or baby squirrel. The only things I think he could possibly catch.

But it wasn't a fledgling or baby squirrel.

“OH SHIT! BAAAAAAAAAT!”

At my outburst, Barry spit the not at all dead bat out. It turned, took one look at me, hissed and flew over my head.

The girls, screaming, ran down the stairs and slammed the door.

There are now four of us. Two boys. Two moms. All in shock while a bat circles the vaulted ceiling of a remodeled attic.

It landed on a shelf above the staircase windows. We closed the rest of the doors to limit its flying options and came up with a plan.

Our assets: a broom, a framed painting, a large piece of cardboard that is the back of a poster frame as well as the plexiglass for said frame.

What we really needed was a net. We don’t have one.

Henley offered, “Dad has one!”

“Buddy, we’re not calling your dad at 10:30 at night to drive two miles to bring us a fishing net. Plus, the last time we had a bat in the house, I had to deal with it because he was afraid.”

“True. But he does have a net.”

Noted.

Our idea: open both staircase windows. I’ll brush it down off the shelf with the broom. Deb, Jorn and Henley will hold up their various large items so the bat can’t get out of the open staircase and into the sitting room. It will see the barriers and fly right out the window.

Not a baby.
Seems reasonable.

It wasn't.

It should be known, that the last time there was a bat in the basement, I saved it. Put on leather gloves, trapped it into a container and put it in a tree. It was a baby. A baby bat. This. This was not a baby. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised had it transformed into a man in a cape and asked us to join the undead. The answer would be yes, by the way.

The bat flew over us. Grazing my arm, which caused a panic. My associates used their large items to shield themselves from the circling bat, so he flew right on by buzzing each of us. Several times.

There was screaming. So much screaming.

This repeated a couple times until he was exhausted or injured or both and landed on the floor. Henley covered him with a basket, I slid the plastic and cardboard underneath and we carefully, as a unit, walked the package down the stairs to the balcony where he was, to a chorus of screams and giggles, released to freedom.

The children were calmed and returned to their rooms, where I assume, they were texting their friends the tale late into the night. 


Deb and I returned to bed. A little amped up.

“So, you know, I’m rethinking the bat house.”

Deb sighed, “this is just coming to you NOW?”

“Well, I was originally thinking why would a bat come into our house when it has a house of its own?”

“Sort of like how neighbors don’t just walk in because they have their own houses?”

“Exactly.”

I'm not sure if bats respect property boundaries. My hunch is no.

More surprising than a bat in the house is that Barry, fat Barry brought it in. That he somehow nabbed it off the ledge and held onto it for a solid 15 minutes. He was probably relieved to spit it out when he did. I’m sure the whole thing was terribly exhausting for him.

Probably for the bat too.

Should you be interested in a sampling of the Bat Shit Show, take a look. The camera work isn't good. Because, bat.










Wednesday, June 26, 2019

Books, Booze and Bias

I grew up in North Idaho. Well, for awhile. Sort of. From five to 10. I have vivid memories of the Mormon kids telling my brother, sister and me that we were going to Hell. Hell. HELL. Because we didn’t believe in the Book of Mormon. (We have the Book of Common Prayer, but that is much, much different.) 

At any rate, it’s not a very welcoming message. And so scary when you’re seven!

Being raised in an Episcopalian, coffee drinking, cocktail hour, wine with dinner, family planning house the whole thing seemed foreign. 

On the occasion that the missionaries stop, I usually say something to the effect of, “I’m Episcopalian, love coffee and booze and have no plans on converting”. That’s usually enough. They know enough to know we won’t give up coffee. Or booze.

Plus, my seven year old self is still smarting from those threats of hell. So, get off my porch with your white shirt and your tie.

Tonight, whilst sitting on the porch, drinking wine, talking about our days and listening to the rain, we watched the Mormon Elders walk by the house. They haven’t stopped in awhile.


The rainbow flag and me often running around in a tool belt seems to be enough that they know we aren’t going to make a big religious leap.

But, Deb. God love her. Literally. I love that woman. She had to get to know them. She had to know how they feel about ‘the gay’. 

They gave a very nice response about love, etc. Then offered to come over and do some yard work. 

We do have this big ol’ wedding happening in a couple weeks... Big ol’ gay wedding. Lots of yard work needed...

“Please don’t”, I said as I swallowed the last of my wine. Bottle.

“I think I can teach them. They’ll learn about real love if they’re around here.”

“No, please”.

“I think this is an opportunity for growth”.

“They hate us”.

“What if we can change them”?

“We can’t. They were born this way. Just like us.” Then I laughed hysterically. Maybe that was the influence of the wine.

“I think we can”.

“Jesus Christ. On a bicycle”, I rolled my eyes. Hard. I probably pulled a muscle.

I don’t have a lot of bias. I live a fortunate life. I know I’m lucky. But, my seven year old self, carrying a lot of baggage, has some bias. Maybe even a lot of bias. 

She’s got some stuff to work through. 

Perhaps she can work through that while they do yard work.






Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Fixin'

Over the last six months or so I've repaired two toilets, installed a sump pump and now a bath tub spout. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. Not, join the plumbing union good, but pretty damn good.

Busted.
But, as I was lying in the bathtub, fully dressed, desperately trying to loosen a set screw - with my sunglasses on as the spout was dripping water. Into. My. Eyes. I was thinking, maybe I shouldn't be so cheap. Maybe I should pay for some of these repairs. Because, sweet Jesus, this thing was stuck tight.

But then it came loose. And, victory was mine. Sweet, sweet victory.

My exposure to gamma rays has resulted in my ability to occasionally inadvertently pull the diverter out of the bathtub spout, it must be a sporadic exposure as it wasn't present during set screw removal...

Note all my plumbing vocabulary. 

The most recent one, Sunday, wasn't me. But, Deb. I must have loosened it. Obviously. It was so worn, there was no repair.

To be honest, the spout has always bugged me. While relaxing in the tub, it's immediately obvious that it's askew. Which makes for relaxing with eyes closed or quick bathing.

I had assumed that to replace or repair it would require tiling and a massive amount of work. It just seemed intimidating.

To google I went. Watched a couple videos on YouTube, climbed into the bathtub, examined the spout closely, and, Bob's your uncle. Set screw.

$34 bucks in parts and 20 minutes later I had a new fully functioning, shiny, new spout.

Victory! 

And, even better, it's on straight.

Looking forward to long leisurely bathing.


Approved by Ouiser.

Friday, February 15, 2019

Esoteric

I was referred to as esoteric today. And, yes. I knew what it meant when it was said, it's just not a word I use. YET.




But, esoteric. Holy shit.

It all makes sense. I am. 

Light bulb.

I am typically very esoteric. I speak in the specialized language in which I work. A small team of people know what I am saying. I have said things and then paused to make sure that I actually understand what I just said. Most of the time it's a yes. 

So many blank stares now make sense to me. So, so many.

It's not a bad thing to be called. In the twenty-ish years of my career I've been called much worse.

So. Much. Worse.