About the Weather

It is June 6th, just two weeks from the start of summer. Here are the current weather conditions:

The temperature is 10 degrees centigrade (or 50 degrees fahrenheit for those of you in Oregon City).
The wind is from the south at 18 miles per hour, with gusts up to 28 miles per hour.
The sky is completely overcast. It looks like a winter’s day at the Oregon coast.
There’s a 90% chance of precipitation. Translation: it’s going to rain off-and-on today. Mostly on.

What I’m trying to say is that it feels like November, not June. I am cold. I am sick of the rain. It’s bad news when even life-long Oregonians are frustrated by the weather.

The Case of the Too Tall Grass

You’d think that if I were home all the time, I’d be able to keep the grass mowed. Heck, I’d certainly think that. Well, it just hasn’t been the case.

It’s been a constant battle this spring to keep the lawn at its proper length. I don’t mind mowing — in fact, I find it therapeutic. (Some of my best blog posts have come to me while mowing the lawn.) But in order to get the job done:

The grass must be dry.
I must be home.

Again, I’m not away from home very often lately, but I have missed some key windows of opportunities due to other commitments (running, biking, hanging out with friends). Most of all, the weather hasn’t co-operated.

At the moment, the grass is taller than I’ve ever let it get before. Ever. Well, parts of it, anyhow.

I’ve been trying to mow when the weather looks right, but I never get a long enough spell to finish. The sun was out all Saturday (well, it was dry anyhow), but I spent six hours in the morning trimming the arborvitae hedge. I started mowing the lawn in the mid-afternoon, but then had to stop midway through in order to leave for dinner with Marcela and Pierre.

I was going to finish on Sunday, but the weather didn’t cooperate. On Tuesday, I thought I had another shot at the yard, but the grass was too wet. The mower couldn’t handle it. I only managed to trim a small patch. I considered mowing late yesterday evening, but the grass was still too wet (it had rained earlier in the day).

Finally this morning I deemed the grass dry enough to mow. I went outside and began to plow through the green waves. The mower jammed, but not too often. I was making good progress, except that I was frequently interrupted by the guys who were here to suck the insulation out of the attic. Then, after they left a few minutes ago, I went outside to finish the job only to find it had begun to rain again.

Argh!

I am so frustrated. My lawn is now four different heights: short, not-so-short, tall, and savannah. And the forecast doesn’t look good. It contains rain, rain, and more rain. There’s a chance we’ll get a dry spell on Sunday or Monday, I think, but by then I’ll need to re-mow the entire yard.

I’m too the point where I’ve actually contemplated calling a yard service to see how much they’d charge to mow our half acre. I can’t bring myself to do it, though. Maybe I should call my brother Jeff and see if he needs to make some extra cash — he loves to mow!

Blue Jay of Happiness

Our yard is filled with birds. Since we moved in to Rosings Park, we’ve developed a passion for spotting and identifying birds. Kris is much more devoted to the hobby than I am, but I like it too. I like being able to recognize the call of the flicker, or to know that it’s the bushtits clustered on the suet feeder.

But for the most part, the birds don’t interact with us.

Sometimes a hummingbird will zip in for a closer look, but that’s only because she knows that we move like molasses. Last night there was a pigeon outside the kitchen who seemed very curious about us as we were preparing dinner. Usually if we’re working at the kitchen counter, the pigeons will fly away. This bird did not. And, of course, every summer the juvenile jays demonstrate a complete lack of fear toward humans.

Some people consider blue jays a nuisance bird, but I kind of like them. They’re cute. They’re also relatively smart. It’s fun to watch them interact with the squirrels and the other birds. Kris loves to give them peanuts to bury.

This spring, she’s actually befriended a jay (or pair of jays — we’re not sure). She calls him Sammy.

If Kris is outside, Sammy will fly in close to be near her. He watches her at work. She’ll be working in the roses, and Sammy will alight on a nearby branch. If she’s at the picnic table, he might sit on the gas grill. Or even on the opposite corner of the table. Kris and Sammy are buddies.

It’s quite possible that they’re only buddies because she carries peanuts, however. Blue jays like peanuts.

And cats like birds. Meatball, in particular, thinks that the new friendship between Kris and Sammy is exciting. It’s especially exciting to sit nearby when Kris throws a peanut into the lawn for Sammy to fetch. Meatball is convinced that what’s really happening is that Kris is trying to provide him a tasty snack.

The crazy thing is: Sammy doesn’t seem to mind cats. He’s a little wary, sure, and he doesn’t like to be charged by them, but mainly he’s just a gregarious little jay. While I was trimming hedges the other day, Sammy sat in the lowest branch of our mugo pine. He didn’t flinch at all as Simon spied him and crept closer. In fact, Sammy flew down to the grass, only six or eight feet from Simon, and hopped around doing bird stuff. Perhaps Simon was stunned by the bird’s brazen behavior. Or maybe he found Sammy’s actions worthy of respect. Whatever the case, he relaxed, and did not make a provocative move. So there we were: human, cat, and bird, hanging out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

On a final note, Sammy doesn’t actually eat all the peanuts Kris feeds him. Mostly, he hides them, but not very well. Recently, in a fit of desperation, he hid one in a rhododendron blossom:

I don’t know what will happen with Sammy. It’s very difficult to tell one jay from another. But I hope that he’ll stick around for at least a few more months. He brings a little character to the yard.

Note: I hope to eventually capture some video of Sammy in action. No promises.

Indiana Jones and the Saucer Men from Mars

Kris and I met Dave and Karen on Sunday to see the new Indiana Jones movie, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. This was a fun nostalgic throwback for me because I saw the first two Indiana Jones movies in the theater with Dave when we were much younger. (Much younger.)

Though I had hopes for the new film, they weren’t very high. I had seen the trailers, which promised new-style George Lucas instead of old-style George Lucas. (Translation: plenty of improbably CGI effects in place of story and characterization.) I’d also read how Lucas’ original idea for a new installment in the franchise was called Indiana Jones and the Saucer Men from Mars.

Let me state up front that I did not hate Crystal Skull. After my criticism of Peter Jackson’s Helm’s Deep, many people thought I hated that film. I didn’t. I just wish it had been better. And that there’d been one-tenth the CGI. (I did, however, hate Attack of the Clones.) I liked the new Indiana Jones movie, but only mildly. I don’t ever need to see it again.

Now I know many of you will tell me, “When you watch a movie like this, you should just enjoy it. You should turn off your brain and have fun.” But my brain doesn’t work like that. I can’t just shut it off. Besides, there are plenty of smart action flicks out there — why should I compromise just so filmmakers can have a license to be sloppy?

The acting in Crystal Skull was mostly okay. Karen Allen, who returns as Marion Ravenwood, is rather clumsy, but everyone else does a good job. Cate Blanchett makes a delicious Russian villain, though I get the impression that several scenes with her were left on the cutting room floor. Shia LaBeouf also does a fine job, taking the baton from Harrison Ford and opening the door for twenty more years of Indiana Jones films.

But my real problem, as usual, is with the script. I don’t like the script, neither on a macro-level nor a micro-level.

On a macro level, the story is sloppy. It feels like a patchwork, as if it were made up of several different ideas grafted together. Certain scenes go on far, far too long. The climax is lame in a George Lucas sort of way. The film just lacks an overall sense of cohesion that I would have liked to see.

But most of the problems occur at the micro level. This is yet another movie in which the filmmakers have become so obsessed with the neat stuff they can do (with CGI, of course) that they forget to be sure things make sense. Some examples:

At the beginning, the story focuses on the hunt for a relic lost inside a vast warehouse. “It’s a powerful magnet,” Indiana Jones declares, and to prove his point, he tosses metal stuff into the air. Look! Magic! The metal stuff is pulled toward wherever the lost relic is! And once the relic is discovered, we see that its magnetic force is so strong that it tugs at the dangling light fixtures and at guns and at other objects. Fine. But why isn’t it exerting this magnetic force all the time? Why is it only magnetic when the plot needs it to be magnetic?
Here’s a small spoiler. At the end of the extended introduction, Indiana finds his way to a strange small town in the middle of the dessert. He’s stumbled upon a nuclear experiment. When he hears a countdown broadcast over loudspeakers (why? to whom is it being broadcast?), he quickly tucks himself into a lead-lined refrigerator. Why? How does he know to do this? Worse, when the nuclear explosion occurs, the town is incinerated. Everything is vaporized. Except for the refrigerator containing Indiana Jones. That is thrown into the air for miles before it lands outside a prairie dog mound (without startling the prairie dog that lives there). Indiana tumbles out unharmed. Sorry. I can suspend disbelief with the best of them, but I can’t take it to the level of stupid.
Later in the film, a caravan of trucks is making its way through the Amazon jungle. (Well, it might not actually be the Amazon jungle, but it’s close.) There’s a big tree-cutter machine in front slicing down the overgrowth so that the other vehicles can pass. This makes no sense. When it cuts trees, the trees fall, right? Don’t they just fall into the path of the oncoming vehicles? And what about the stumps. Later, the vehicle caravan devolves into a race through the forest. I could buy this in Return of the Jedi because everyone was riding speeder bikes which had no contact with the ground. I can’t buy it here. And I can’t buy it when the race moves to the edge of a CGI-cliff, a cliff miraculously free of rocks and boulders.
Did you know that it’s possible to swing from vines like Tarzan at speeds much faster than those obtainable by jeeps?
The titular crystal skull apparently has the mass of a plastic resin skull. Shocking.

That’s enough. I don’t have all day. This movie just feels like a Roland Emmerich-like production in which appearance matters more than substance. That’s a valid choice, but you know what? Movies made this way do not stand the test of time.

Again, I did not hate this movie. I had an okay time. I enjoyed the motorcycle chase. I liked Cate Blanchett’s villainess. I thought the story showed glimmers of promise. And I’m not saying that I expected the film to be a classic. I just wish it had more of the old George Lucas in it instead of the new.

Oregon Mist

It’s one of those days I love. It’s about 15 degrees centigrade (which is 59 for those of you in Oregon City), the skies are grey, and there’s a light rain falling. A perfect Oregon day: warm and wet.

Over the past month or so, Kris has developed a system to ensure I don’t spend my entire day on the computer. She pulled a dry-erase board out of storage, and every day before she leaves, she writes down a chore (or two) that I need to complete.

To many of you (all female), this probably sounds like a terrible system. I should just do what needs to be done, right? In theory, yes. In reality, I’m easily distracted. I like having the dry erase board because it lets me know which of those tasks in my chore cloud Kris deems most important.

Today my primary task was to weed the grapes.

When we planted the raspberries and grapes, their 20-foot beds were empty of weeds. In fact, we even planted some strawberries alongside the raspberry canes. Now, however, the grass has crowded its way in and is dominating the base of that row. It’s threatening to do the same by the grapes, too, but it’s being held at bay by a variety of noxious weeds. Including raspberries. (Those raspberries are invasive!)

This afternoon I went outside in shorts, a t-shirt, and a cap. No shoes. No socks. I spent half an hour enjoying the misty air, pulling grass, hoeing weeds. It was a soggy mess, of course, but I loved it. As I say, it’s one of those days I love.

Too Much Time Away

Strange. I haven’t written anything since last Wednesday or Thursday. Now that it’s time to get some stuff ready for the morning, I find that I don’t have it in me. My writing muscles won’t flex. They’ve atrophied. It’s great to take time off, but I find that this is sometimes the result — I forget how to write.

The solution? I spend an hour or two “freewriting”, simply jotting whatever is on the top of my head. Like this. Most of what I produce during this time will be unusable, but that’s okay. The point is to get the writing muscles working again.

The real trouble tonight, however, is I’d really rather be watching a movie. Turns out we don’t own Raiders of the Lost Ark — which is what I’m craving — so I guess I’ll get back to work instead.

Three out of Three

Here’s a good old-fashioned Foldedspace post for you long-time readers who pine for them.

Last weekend I exercised my heart out. On Saturday I went for a 12 mile run and a 29 mile bike ride. Before my ride with Paul and Susan, I prepped my bike for the road.

“That’s strange,” I said as I futzed with the gear. “I can’t find my bike computer.”

“What’s a bike computer?” Kris asked. How long has she lived with me? And she still doesn’t know what a bike computer is?

“It’s a little square electronic device that straps to the handlebars,” Susan explained. “It tracks how far you’ve gone and how long you’ve been on the bike. It’s pretty cool.”

“And I can’t find mine,” I said. “Somebody has misplaced it.” I didn’t name names, but I knew that I had left it on the kitchen table, but it wasn’t there now. I went for the ride without it.

On Wednesday, I paid bills. Kris and I have gotten in the habit of paying our mortgage a month early (and we pay a little extra to principal, too). This makes us feel good. But it also means we received June’s bill in mid-April. That, too, I had left on the kitchen table, but now that it was time to pay it, I couldn’t find it.

“Do you know where the mortgage bill is?” I e-mailed Kris. “I want to pay it, but somebody has misplaced it.” I was pretty cranky actually. First the bike computer and now the mortgage bill. I looked online. I could pay the mortgage bill via the web, but it cost $11 to do so. Ugh.

“I wish I could find my bike computer and the mortgage bill,” I said every night for the rest of the week. “I sure wish I could find them.” I never named names, but I knew that Kris was responsible. I had checked everywhere for both items: my desk, my books, my pockets.

This morning I was preparing to go to the gym. Because it’s a glorious day, I decided to ride my bike into Milwaukie. “It sure would be nice to have my bike computer for this ride,” I said. “And where are my biking shorts, anyhow?”

“Your biking shorts are where they’re supposed to be. They’re where I put them. In your exercise drawer.” I checked the drawer. Sure enough, the biking shorts were there.

“Now all I need are the bike computer and the mortgage bill,” I said.

“Well, one out of three ain’t bad,” Kris said.

I sat down at the chair in my office to put on my socks. “Yes, I really wish I knew where the bike computer and the mortgage bill were,” I said. I wanted Kris to admit that she had misplaced them. Then, for no reason whatsoever, I opened my desk drawer.

“Huh,” I said. “What do you know?” There was my mortgage bill, exactly where I had put it. (But why had I put it there? That’s what I want to know.)

Kris looked at me and shook her head. “Two out of three ain’t bad,” she said.

“I guess I misplaced that,” I said, setting the bill on my desk. I idly began to clean up the gadgets in the far corner. “But I’m still missing my buh —”

I stopped.

There, underneath my Skype headset (which I had used last week to interview Tim Ferriss), was my bike computer. Just where I had left it.

“You know what I think is the best part of this story?” Kris asked. I didn’t really want to know, but she told me anyhow. “I wasn’t responsible for any of those.”

“I know,” I said, sighing. “But you’ll notice I never named you explicitly.”

“Oh, I know, but you were blaming me in your heart. I could tell.” She’s right. I was blaming her in my heart. I was certain she had misplaced the things that it turns out I had misplaced. But what have we learned over the years, dear readers? Kris Gates is always right. And that’s part of why I love her.

New Schedule

I seem to have found the key to my productivity: delay my gym trip from 7am to noon. Instead, I focus those first five hours of the morning on Get Rich Slowly. It’s amazing what a difference that makes.

Though I spend plenty of time on miscellaneous blog tasks (checking stats, design work, answering e-mail), I only have 4-5 hours of writing in me a day. During the first two months of my pro blogging career, I didn’t begin writing until ten or eleven.

I’d get up and go to the gym, come home, eat breakfast, shower, do some chores, catch up on web sites, etc. Before I knew it, ten or eleven had rolled around. After that, my four or five hours of writing put me into the late afternoon, and I’d begin to feel pressured. I didn’t like it.

This week, however, I’ve reversed things. I get up at the same time (between six and seven), but I go straight to writing. It should be no surprise that I’m most productive during these hours — it was between seven and noon that I used to do most of my writing at the box factory.

At about noon, I have a bite to eat, and then I head out for my exercise. Sure, it’d be better to get my exercise done earlier in the day, but I can’t be in two places at once. And my schedule the past two days has been very nice. It’s good to know that most of my work for the day is done by noon. It keeps me happier during the rest of the day — less stressed.

Today has been especially productive. I finally wrote my review for the new Robert Kiyosaki book (may go up tomorrow, but may delay til next Tuesday), then went to the gym for an awesome upper body workout. I powered through sets that had been dragging me down. I bought some Hot Tamales on the way home (yes, Nicole, I’m still shunning sugar, but I do let myself have a treat from time-to-time), sat outside with Toto and Max, then went upstairs to answer e-mail.

Later in the afternoon I conducted an interview with Tim Ferriss (of The 4-Hour Workweek), which gave me a chance to try out Skype. Not bad. I love the fact that I can record the conversation for later transcription. That means I don’t have to type notes while I’m talking to him. It also means I can try to shape it into a podcast sometime in the future.

I have a busy weekend ahead of me: lunch with Matt and PB on Thursday, dinner with The Tim on Thursday evening, family dinner on Friday night, marathon training on Saturday morning, bike ride with Paul and Susan on Saturday afternoon, brunch with Alan on Sunday. Something tells me one or more of these things is going to have to be set aside!

Sick and Tired

Kris is sick. I am tired.

It’s 5:38 on a Saturday afternoon, and we’re both in bed, ready to sleep. We may not get up until morning.

Kris started getting sick in the middle of the week. “I always get sick after our trip to Sunriver,” she said when she first began to wheeze. “And you always get sick before or during.” I had a severe allergy attack two weeks ago (about when the magnolias were blooming), which was when she first noted the pattern.

Kris stayed home sick on Wednesday, but went to work on Thursday. She also went to her Excel training on Friday. When I picked her up from that class, she was a sneezing whining mess. “I feel awful,” she said. “Take me straight home.” She went to bed early last night.

This morning, I ran ten miles. Our starting point was just a mile from Rosings Park, but it took me twenty minutes to drive there. Because the Willamette River divides Oak Grove from Lake Oswego, it took me far too long to reach my destination.

I bumped up a pace group today, moving from “no target time” to the four-and-half-hour goal group for the marathon. (Ugh. Lousy sentence, but I’m not editing it.) Our first mile was flat, but miles two, three, and four were all uphill. (And downhill on the return, of course.) As usual, I started poorly, but really felt good by mid-run. My last mile was ragged, but I think I’ll improve with time.

“I’m starving,” I told Kris when I got home. I showered and changed so that we could go to the Canby Garden Show.

“Hurry up,” she whined. She was still feeling sick.

“Can we stop at Burgerville?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

“What did you have for breakfast?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I don’t eat before I run.”

“That’s stupid,” Kris said. “What would Pam say?” (Good question. What would Pam say?)

“It’s not big deal,” I said. “I just eat after.” But by mid-afternoon, it felt like a big deal. When we got back from the garden show, Kris and I both took a nap. Then, while Kris continued to sleep, I went downstairs and drew a hot bath. After eating a raspberry yogurt and some beef jerky, I climbed into the tub and soaked for twenty minutes. Half an hour. An hour. Two. Mostly, I slept, luxuriating as the heat of the water soothed my tired muscles.

Now I’m upstairs in bed, writing this entry, forcing myself to keep my eyes open. Kris hasn’t left the bed since two o’clock. She is sick. I am tired.

A Day at the Office

I’ve just returned home from my morning workout, and am sitting at the computer writing a piece for Get Fit Slowly. I can hear Maxwell thumping around, but I’m not really paying attention. Soon, however, the thumps turn into squawks, and then to growls.

Max and Nemo wrestle a lot, so I’m not too concerned. They take turns being the aggressor. Sometimes Max pummels Nemo. Sometimes Nemo pummels Max. They both love it.

As I’m typing, the growls and cries become more distressed, so I go to the bedroom to see what is the matter. Max is on top of Nemo, chomping him. Nemo is trying to thumper his way out, but is having no success. The fur is flying. Literally. Chomp chomp, thumper, growl.

Being a good father, I don’t break up the fight. Instead, I stand and watch as they roll around on the bed. Toto is sleeping on a chair in my office. Simon is sleeping on the kitchen table, in a box of my clothes. He’s been there for the past twelve hours. Or had been there. Here he comes now.

Simon comes clump clump clumping up the stairs in a fat cat run. He’s heard the squawking and yowling, and wants to see what’s the matter. He charges past me, hops onto the bed, and stares at his brothers. They stop wrestling. They look at him. He looks at one and then the other.

I can’t tell if they’re saying something in a secret cat language, but both Max and Nemo fall apart, moving away from each other. Simon continues looking from one to the other. Then he looks back to me as if to say, “Dad, it’s your job to keep them from fighting.”

Max hops down and goes to the guest room for a bite to eat. Nemo slinks downstairs. Simon curls up on the bed and falls back asleep.

Footnote: As I’m writing this, the cats take turns coming into the office. First Max comes charging in, flails around on the floor, then barrels downstairs. A couple minutes later, Nemo strolls in, sits down, gives himself a bath for five minutes, and then leaves. Toto is still asleep on the chair. Maybe she’s dead!