Govert, that bastard, tried to kill us…Part 1

My colleague Govert (guide to pronunciation: start hacking up a lung and then say “overt”) is leading a workshop in Copenhagen to which I invited myself. Perhaps this is why he is trying to ensure I meet an untimely end on the roadways. Apart from inviting myself I have done nothing to offend him — in fact I brought candy to the meeting and have been showering him with praise. Indeed, I have been such a good “guest” that I even offered him first dibs at purchasing the notes I was taking listing the date, time, and subject matter of all the managers and fellow workers he was bad-mouthing during the workshop.

Under the guise of gentlemanly behavior, Govert offered to allow myself and my companion to share his car for the daily commute to the office. He even was gracious enough to drive us to dinner and park 3.7 kilometres from the restaurant because he knew I had bad knees. We first became alarmed at his driving persona as he approached the hotel to pick us up. We saw his rental vehicle (not a sporty car by any means) approach from the distance. The sound barrier broke just as he screeched into the small indentation in the road designed to drop off passengers. Another of our workshop participants was with him in the car. The rapid deceleration flung him against the windscreen and it took us a good eleven minutes to scrape him off.

Roda and I exchanged a silent look of alarm and fastened our seat belts. Govert put the Peddle to the Metal and took a careening right hand turn and then braked hard to a stop in the middle of the intersection — Govert had seen a red light somewhere and was keen on obeying the local traffic light laws. Drivers swerved around us, honking and speaking in Danish. Some spoke English for I am sure I heard the word “You!” several times.

Once Govert felt it was appropriate to proceed he did zero to sixty in 1.2 seconds into a Left Lane Must Go Straight Ahead lane and took a sharp left. Only three  bicyclists were dispensed with. I craned my neck around and was relieved to see them all pick themselves up and dust off. I tried to pretend there was a police car after him by making siren noises but he did not hear me. Roda was screaming too loudly.

Govert was now barrelling down a one-way street — the wrong way. When we pointed this out he corrected the situation immediately by turning onto another street. Unfortunately it was also a one-way street going in the other direction. It was a long street flanked on both sides by parked cars — no room for a three-point turn. Three voices in unison alternated chanting prayers and curses. At last we made it onto a street going in the right direction and began looking for a parking spot. Several fine opportunities alluded us because Govert is very law abiding and would not dream of parking in front of a strip of sidewalk that had been painted with what had probably been yellow stripes 700 years ago. Several miles later he found a space that was only a little too short for his car and executed that 90 degree reverse for parallel parking. He backed in a good 73 degrees, aligned his wheels for a quick get away and got out of the car.

I drank heavily at dinner so the return trip was less acid reflux provoking. Upon dropping us off at the hotel Govert kindly suggested that he return at 7:15 AM to pick us up. Neither Roda nor I think quickly on our feet and could not come up with a suitable excuse for taking the train. That night I tried to break my ankle by falling off the bed repeatedly but was unsuccessful. Govert was prompt and at 7:22 we were once again in the Left Lane Must Go Straight Ahead lane. “Oh”, said Govert, “Look, I am not supposed to turn here.” He accelerated as he turned talking irately about someone who had blocked his car in the hotel parking lot. During the morning I booked myself some tightly scheduled conference calls which required me to return to the hotel at mid-day (by train). As I left the room Govert pleasantly called out “See you at 7:15!”

Rolling luggage

Tomorrow I am leaving for a week-long business trip to Copenhagen. On my last trip the wheels to my rolling laptop bag fell off on the cobblestones lining Vesterbrogade –hurtling like mini curling rocks out into the bike path — I dragged my crippled tote into the train station before I could witness where the little ballistic missiles finally landed. I prayed that the agile Danes, used to biking over rough terrain, managed to negotiate around the tiny tires.

I tried to find a replacement bag in Denmark, but the cheapest thing I could find was a backpack for $88 and I was not going to pay $88 for a bag colorfully printed with praying hands and beer steins (besides, its label said “Made in the USA”). So for the rest of my trip I lugged my stuff instead of rolling it. I am too old to be lugging laptops, files, books, and binders, not to mention cords, mice, headset, power converters, and enough office supplies to qualify me as a Staples annex. So I have been on the lookout for a new rolling laptop bag.

I went to eBags.com to research bags and discovered they were all in the seven to ten pound range — too heavy. I went to Staples and found a selection of bags but they were too cheap. I don’t want a repeat of the lost wheels while abroad. I went to Samsonite Black Label store in the mall and decided a)the store was too dimly lit to see any of the merchandise and b)I did not want to spend $300 on a bag. I went to Macy’s and found a Ricardo of Beverly Hills Essentials bag which was nice but a little too small. I would have purchased it, however, but I could not find a sales associate anywhere.

Finally I went to a store in Harvard Square that specialized in luggage. I found a rolling backpack made by Kipling. It was perfect. Lightweight, the right color (smokey blue), and it has lots of organizational features. I took it for a test run around the store, including some sharp turns. I opened and closed the extension  handle several times. I tested the zippers. Awesome. On the way home I remembered that I have a Kipling travel handbag, also in smokey blue — styl’n Lin!

My big suitcase is beginning to look pretty sad and besides it is too big. So I went “shopping” in the attic where I have a luggage storehouse — at least ten suitcases of varying sizes. I selected my husband’s suitcase which is a size down from mine. I think it will work. I need a bag big enough to carry a week’s worth of business clothes plus my CPAP machine, toiletries bag (which is the same size as the bags used in Marine boot camp to toughen up the recruits while hiking), and my “project” — I always take a craft project to work on in the evening while I relax. I have never actually “relaxed” in the evenings, so  I have never actually unpacked my project.  I am still knitting the brim of a charming cap.

My bag can not exceed fifty pounds according to the airlines. This means I have to pack light. Winter clothes are heavy so I used to pack summer clothes. This is not always the most comfortable approach to Danish weather in February, however. Happily I recently discovered “travel wear” — clothing made out of unwrinklable, lightweight fabric that is not native to Earth. I can pack six pairs of pants along the bottom of my suitcase and still have eleven inches on top for more stuff. There are a couple of problems with travel wear fabric — it tends to cling and is especially drawn to folds of  abdominal fat. And it tends to be shiny. So, unless I dress entirely in drab colors I look like a large Christmas ornament. So I compromise — 50% alien fabric and 50% stuff made by Lands End.

Any luggage worth its salt has a compartment specifically designed to house crossword puzzle books and pencils, not the little paperback once you get at the drugstore but rather the New York Times Sunday omnibus volumes.  That is why wheels are essential.  And since we are now required to remove our laptops and put them through the x-ray machine separately, the bags must have an easily accessible laptop compartment.  I hate the feeling of hot breath on my neck breathed by my fellow travelers waiting as I remove my shoes, my sweater, my charm bracelets, my laptop — pushing my train of four or five plastic bins along the conveyor belt.  And then I always set off the alarm because of my artificial knee and have to stand in the prisoner’s box while they pass by me giving me “the glare.” Having stylish and functional luggage bolsters my self-esteem so I can glare right back.

Whoever invented wheeled luggage was a genius — but why did it take so long?  When you think of it, it is kind of a duh! All those educational trips to Europe when I was a kid would have been far more enjoyable if I did not have to lug my brother’s suitcase around.  I love seeing toddlers in the airport pulling their tiny luggage — how cute is that?  This trip to Copenhagen won’t repeat any of the disasters of my last trip.  No strokes, no delusional ambling around Tivoli Gardens in the rain, no solo singing performances at the beer Garten, and no wheels shooting off my luggage, lethally felling innocent Danes.

The Boulder Report: Part 2 — Trivia Night

The Boulder Beer Company hosts a weekly trivia night every Wednesday.  Six or seven teams compete while enjoying a pub food dinner and beer.  It is highly competitive and ripe with drama.  I was invited to participate while on my recent trip to Boulder — the team, “Singletrack Mind” was the previous year’s champion and so had a lot of pressure.  When I was introduced to the team they grilled me about my “specialty”… British military history I said casually, praying that no questions in that category would come up. My specialty is actually handbags, but I did not think that would inspire confidence in me.

I was eager to see the goings-on for I had already been told about the previous season’s walk out in protest over the”leadership” style and method of conducting the event on the part of the trivia Captain. The incident nearly destroyed the event for good — happily everyone got their knickers unbunched in time for 2008. It was a casually run competition, but with sufficient crispness, an adequate supply of pencils and notepads, and well-photocopied score sheets.  There was to be no repeat of customer unhappiness.

 On the ride over, my friend Beth, who had been to trivia night before, explained the number one rule — no talking.  No blurting out the answer so that other teams could hear.  We were to write on our pads what we thought was the answer and come to consensus.  It was all very democratic.

My teammates were a fun and friendly bunch.  One lady had made homemade truffles and brought them in a tin.  Another lady was an illustrator and was doodling a picture of a horse that looked exactly like something done by Leonardo da Vinci.  There was a retired engineer and a couple of guys down at the end of the table who knew most of the answers.  The theme for the first section of the trivia contest was games. At first I thought I was golden, being a big game freak, but I was not prepared for questions about Candyland, Twister, or Frisbee.  I contributed right answers to “what is the value of a K in Scrabble; how many pawns are on a chessboard at the beginning of the game; and what is the name of the victim in the Clue?”  But others knew those answers too, so it was not until we had to look at a photograph and identify the person that I had my moment to shine — it was Roger Federer, current number one tennis star.  We racked our brains over “what Valentine song was sung by Sam Cooke?”  Only one team got that one.

In between rounds of trivia we chatted and had a major showing off of new cell phones.  I did not have a new cell phone — mine is only slightly newer than the model the size of Agent Maxwell Smart’s shoe-phone.  It does have features however — it can access the Internet for a cost that is equivalent to a semester of my daughter’s college tuition; it can take photographs if you don’t mind dark and murky pictures; and you can use it for text messaging (and I intentionally say “you” can use it because I can not — I don’t know how to text message). I lusted after Beth’s full keyboard flip phone and Kathy’s touchscreen model.  At least I wanted some bling for my phone but then maybe not — it might call attention to the aged device.  I think shoe laces would be more appropriate.

Right up to the end we were in second place so on the final question we decided to bet heavily (15 of our 19 points) and lost miserably on the question “what was the original name of the Frisbee? Luckily, by that time we had all indulged in so many chicken wings and white russians that we did not particularly care. Besides, the room was getting incredibly hot so we called it a night. If you are in Boulder on a Wednesday night and can rustle up a team, head over to the Boulder Beer Company and pray I am not there when the theme is the Battle of Trafalgar.

The Boulder Report: Part 1 – Japanknees Dining

Tomorrow morning I will be winging my way back to Boston from my week-long business trip to Boulder. Normally when I travel I arrive home in barely functioning condition because of lack of sleep, drug reactions, injuries, or other callamaties. With less than twenty four hours to go I am crossing my fingers that this trip will be different.

I did have a bit of a brutal schedule since I had to get up at 4 AM every morning to begin conference calls with my teams in Copenhagen (10 hour time difference). But I did go to bed earlyish (10 o’clock or so) and I did bring my CPAP with me so I had “quality” sleep. Unfortunately, when I know I have to wake up early for any reason my body’s built in alarm clock starts going off two hours in advance of the required wake up time. And once awake I do not return to slumber. So, in effect, I got about four hour of sleep each night.

My typical day on a business trip consists of getting up early, going into the “plant”, eating horrid food in the employee cafeteria, working until 5 PM, going out to dinner and invariably spending more for dinner than my per diem allowance allows, returning to the hotel to resume working until I pass out. But two times this week I broke that routine: once for Trivia night at the Boulder Beer Company and once for Japanese dinner with Greg and Beth. Greg is a friend/colleague who lives in Boulder and Beth is a friend/colleague who flew out with me. We always get together when the three of us coincide (sometimes in Colorado, sometimes in Dublin, and sometimes in Copenhagen).

For those of you not familiar with the housing philosophy in Colorado it is like this: you have a vast state with mile after mile of barren prairie — flat, featureless, and home to nothing but prairie dogs and bunnies with an occassional oil pump long since abandoned. Every once in awhile that landscape will be broken by a housing development of hundreds of identical homes all smashed together with barely enough space between them to run a garden hose (which they don’t need since the soil is not capable of sustaining plant life). Buried deep within one of these enclaves of the faceless masses is a small strip mall — home to Sorbut, Japanese torture house and restaurant.

The dining experience begins with an impatient but smiling hostess guiding you to one of those fake “sit on the floor” for Americans where you actually sit in a booth with a lowered floor. I looked at it with grave doubts since the table was rimmed on all side by a wide bench and the space between the table’s edge and the back of the booth met the dining comfort standards set by that nice skeleton guy in the Nightmare before Christmas. As I have explained to you previously, I am not a small person. Nor am I an agile person since my Parkinson’s ridden body is so rigid that I can be used as a bow. Nonetheless, after flinging all the annoying seat cushions off to the side I made a spectacle of myself by stradling the bench in a most unladylike fashion and then “swinging” my leg into the space under the table. There was no room to move my legs so after about half an hour the arthritis pain in my knees was beginning to hit serious agony level. Happily the food was good but I was literally burning to leave. Which I almost could not do.

My legs were frozen. There was no way I could swing them up and over the bench barrier. So with Beth standing and hauling me up by the arms and Greg manhandling my legs up over his lap and onto the bench, I made a very embarrassing exit. Throughout this whole ordeal the other customers watched like I was the entertainment for the evening. I would have been justified in passing the hat for tips. We got to the parking lot and dissolved in laughter.

Tomorrow I will be, once again, squashed into a ridiculously tight space where my knees will be crammed up against the seat in front of me (and invariably the occupant of that seat will go into enthusiastic and full recline thus pushing my kneecaps up into my thighs). But I am armed with pain killers and will ensure at least two are in the digestive tract at least an hour before takeoff. I will put on my iPOD headset, tune in to Hoi Doi (Yulara) and meditate my way home. They say that traveling is an enriching experience. Sometimes it is just a pain.

Frozen treats

Today is a twofer for my readers — my writing has been spotty of late partially because I am trying to work on my quilt, read, and converse with my family when we happen to pass in the hall.  It is also an indicator that my Prozac is working.  Life is flatter when I am medicated — I have been talking to my shrink about why it might be better if I were just allowed to be manic.  He said to me “I know Britney Spears, and you are no Britney Spears.”

But I digress… when I was a kid, before the highway was put in, I used to be able to walk about a mile to a little drugstore that had a freezer stocked with popsicles, Fudgsicle’s, Klondike bars, drumsticks, and Hoodsies (little wax coated paper cups filled with ice cream you would eat with a tiny flat wooden spoon).  My best friend Barbie and I would make the trek every Saturday afternoon to select a treat.  I almost always got an orange popsicle, which at that time consisted of two sticks of frozen orange flavored sugar water that were joined in the middle.  There was an art to splitting the popsicle in two.  The slightest imbalance in the pressure applied to the sides meant disaster and humiliation.  The popsicles were not a wise choice — they tended to melt quickly and by the time I got home I was a sticky orange mess.  Barbie, who was by nature far neater and more orderly than I, would choose a drumstick (an ice cream cone covered in hard chocolate and nuts). The worst that would happen was that some of the nuts would fall off onto her T-shirt or stick in her braces.

Last week when I was in the grocery store I headed up the frozen food aisle looking for low-fat frozen yogurt.  I deliberately avoided the section of the freezer where they house real ice cream and those expensive frozen treats.  But in a moment of weakness I allowed my eyes to wander ever so briefly.  I spotted Nestlé’s drumsticks — $4.49.  They came home with me.  I was totally expecting to be disappointed.  Nothing is ever as good as we remember it from our childhood.  But I have to tell you these drumsticks were just as I remembered them — crunchy cone, rich vanilla ice cream with the fudgy core, a yummy hard chocolate coating, and a sprinkling of nuts.

I cannot allow myself to walk down memory lane every week at the supermarket.  But the next time I do indulge I will select Klondike bars.  I will save getting orange popsicles for last.

My corner of the world

Clinton nailed it in Massachusetts despite the Kennedy endorsement of Obama. I am still trying to figure out how the Dems divvy up the delegates. Somehow Clinton takes all the big states but is still neck in neck with Obama — I don’t get it. What is the point of moving to New York if it is not going to get you elected? The Republicans have it figured out . . . oh, no  they don’t. Romney moved to Massachusetts, took the state and now is dismally behind McCain. The moral is — don’t move just to get a few more delegates.

I remember in school we were learning about government and the shenanigans that would go on to get votes. They had some guy named Jerry meandering around voting left and right. By the time we covered the Electoral College and Lincoln’s election I think it was too close to Spring break and all the kids were passing notes about their plans. Ask any one about the EC and they will respond “duh?” Kid’s today have it worse — they have to learn about Chad as well as Jerry. I think Florida went a bit too far in hanging the poor guy.

My double wedding ring quilt class is going well — I have completed six out of 256 arcs.  At this rate I will complete my quilt just in time to be buried in it.  We had to make a sample arc (a strip of six different fabric sewn together) in class, do the fancy sewing that makes it into a curved arc, and then hold it against a template to see whether the sewing was sufficiently accurate.  I tried three samples — one was suitable for the refrigerator.  But I have the knack of it now and can create an arc in 15 minutes.  Hmmm… 15 minutes times 256 equals… and that does not include cutting the fabric into strips.  My queen-size quilt might end up being a bib.

Work is going great — the project that I worked on for three years successfully deployed and they had a big party in Boulder.  Unfortunately I have to travel on business again next week and we all know what happens to Linshaolin when she travels.  I am already in contact with Blue Cross Blue Shield for preapproval of the needed emergency room visits.  I do have some good plans for my trip including participating in a Trivial Pursuit contest at the Boulder Brewery. My team won the trivia contest on the cruise we took last year and I win every year at the company picnic so I am psyched about showing off.  With my luck the topics will be Australian rules football and the history of German steel. Yah, das Krupps!

My daughter made homemade minestrone soup for dinner which is a good thing since I forgot to eat today and just realized that I am starving.  Last night it was my husband’s turn to cook and he announced that we had to “fend for ourselves.” Which means I drove to pick up pizza and not even the kind of pizza I like.  So for a day and a half I have lived on one slice of BBQ chicken pizza and a caramel machiatto.  Perhaps I will augment than minestrone soup with a couple of pieces of toast.

Nero kitty has gotten obese. I feed him one half cup of dry cat food and one tiny tin of wet cat food a day and yet he is tipping the scales at 13 pounds at least.  I think he is eating mice.  This morning at 4:30 a.m. I was watching Wild Hogs when I heard the unmistakable sound of cat barfing. I had not yet fed him and based on the amount of cleanup I had to do, I feel I have sufficient evidence to back up my mouse meal hypothesis.  It’s not that I am exactly Sherlock Holmes — I also found one half of a mouse corpse.  It is a good thing that tomorrow is trash day since the bottom half of the mouse was flung from the mud room, executing a perfect rim shot that ricocheted directly into the trash can on the driveway.  I am applying for positions with the Celtics tomorrow.

Ann Coulter picks Hillary over John

It is not easy grabbing a couple of minutes to check your email on the Internet. First I saw the headline about Britney Spears being hospitalized again (and, by the way, my heart really goes out to her in all seriousness.  I hope they are able to help her.).  After reading that article I had to read the spinoff articles about her mother, her pregnant 16-year-old sister, and fashion faux pas. Then I was sucked into watching a video clip in which Ann Coulter said she would support Hillary Clinton over John McCain because Hillary was more conservative… I can just visualize Hillary saying “noooooooooooooooo”! The world is getting so confusing — Richard Nixon would be a liberal today, Ann Coulter supports my gal Hillary (well maybe that is taking things a little too far…), and my neighbors have a huge sign on their house that says OBAMA. These are the people who always voted Republican until this election.  Can I trust the ground under my feet!?

And what am I supposed to do about the Kennedys endorsing Obama? I have always followed the Kennedys so now I have to rethink my position — what is it about Obama? Or is it payback for some slight during the Clinton administration?  I don’t want to abandon my candidate over some spilled cocktail at a reception on Capitol Hill.  But I also don’t want to miss the benefit of the Kennedy genius.  It is dangerous to walk amongst giants.  And it takes time to sift through all the politics to get to the issues and even more time to get from the issues to the positions.  And you have to do it quick before they shift.

I am going to have to put aside my double wedding ring quilt, my book about Marie Antoinette, and the patent idea I am working on (that has to do with flashcards) and become better informed.  On the other hand, tomorrow night I am going to a dinner party — that is the equivalent of reading the Reader’s Digest of political information.  I will pay close attention, incorporate the brilliant insights into my mash of Eastern liberal/old-fashioned Democrat/feminist political philosophy. I don’t have time to do all of this before Tuesday’s primary, but luckily I have months to go before I have to make a final decision.