Stuff-mo-tron

Thu, 27 Sep 2007

When I call, and say, "I would like to set up internet service," I am not calling to say, "Please take all my identification data." I am not requesting the ID theft special. I want to establish internet service, and that's it.

No, I will not give you my social security number. As you should well know, it's against Federal law to use a SSN as an identifying number, except for tax purposes. Are you proposing to collect taxes on my behalf?

No, I will not give you my driver's license number and my date of birth. These are also identifying data sufficient to lose me a considerable sum of money and cause more real-world headache than I ever want to deal with. Yes, I do shop online, and hey, lookit that, my credit card number goes across the wires! But you know what? There are consumer laws in place to protect from that type of theft. My liability is actually quite limited there.

There are no established laws about what happens when some sloppy corporation goes and loses a laptop full of ID numbers for their customers. But when that happens, it usually goes down poorly for the customers, as fraudulent credit purchases are made in their name. That hand-out on "Protect yourself from identify theft!" is a poor substitute for not having the problem in the first place.

Because of your self-interest, I've already signed up for my old standby, the 144k iDSL through Speakeasy. Yes, I'm willing to pay more than your rate for 1/20th the throughput. Why? Speakeasy doesn't act like an evil corporation hellbent on all-out fiscal domination. Crazy, I know. You could maybe learn a thing or two.

I went to a track day yesterday, and had a good time. I'll be writing more about it, but I wanted to get a quick summary out.

I was at the track by about 6:45 in the morning, having left Seattle in my friend Jesse's truck around 5:50. Tech inspection and registration was at 7. We did a ride-around of the track (via pickup truck) at 7:40, stopping at each corner so one of the instructors could get out and talk about it: lines through it, what to avoid, what to strive for, etc.

The day was broken up into 1/3 hours: first 20 minutes, the 300-level (expert) riders went on the track, and the people who'd paid for class time got instruction. The second 20 minutes, the 200s went on the track, and 100s in the class (I was in level 100, and took the class) were supposed to do Q&A with the teachers, but actually ended up working individually on the "lean machine" (a motorcycle on a tilting frame, to simulate going around a corner). The last 20 minutes of each hour, the 100s would have their time on the track.

For the most part, this worked. Unfortunately, late in the morning, people started getting too aggressive, and we had our first serious crash -- the father of one of the instructors did something that ended with three concussions, and being carted off in an ambulance. Unfortunately, that effectively cancelled the 100 session for that hour (noon, I think). There was another crash at the end of the day, cancelling the final 100 session.

Generally speaking, I found the classroom sessions to be review, and too fast to really get any points across in any case. I already knew everything they were teaching, because I've read so much about riding technique. That was a bit disappointing. However, the other valuable thing these training sessions offer is that skilled track instructors will ride with you, and let you know what you need to fix.

Unfortunately again, my experience with the instructors was essentially non-existent. I did, eventually, ride with several instructors in a confusing little pack. One of them gave me a thumbs-up after a particularly atrocious lap on my part, and I wasn't able to find any of them before it was time to go. So that was a bust, too.

Others I've talked to who've done track days and schools like this have always mentioned how much progress they make in the course of one day. I didn't really find that to be true. I started riding easy, but the other riders were all itching to go fast, so I ended up going fast pretty soon, and never really made progress beyond that point. I know I wasn't riding up to the bike's potential, but I didn't know how much further I could push it, and naturally when you push too far, you crash. Being rather keen not to crash (which would cause $500+ worth of damage to the bike for even the lightest crash, and probably ruin my $800 "one crash and it's done" riding suit), I didn't push any further.

However, even that level of riding had me keeping up with anyone I cared to pace through corners, and usually through the back stretch of the track. They'd always outdistance or pass me in the long front straight, because the Ninja 250 is not what you would call a powerful bike.

As the day drew to a close, two people in the class, also 100 level riders, commented that they had no idea the Ninja 250 could go that fast. Both were former 250 owners, and I think they both viewed the Ninja 250 as a little putt-putt beginner's bike, not worthy of their time. Both had quickly upgraded to larger motorcycles. I passed at least one of them on at least one occasion (it's hard to keep track of whose back is whose, when most people are dressed nearly identically, and most of what you see is their rear tire).

The biggest problem I had on the track was that I was fractionally faster through the corners (because of being on a light bike, mostly) than other riders. I had to slow down to their pace through the corners, but then they'd pull away from me as the corner ended, with their more-powerful motors. So I was left in this situation of perpetually having to slow down (bad) for other riders, without being able to pass them (which would have been good).

On the whole, it was a good day, but the disorganization, crashes cancelling my sessions, and lack of noticeable progress served to dull it somewhat. It certainly wasn't a waste, and I'll be back, but I definitely won't be taking the class again. I'll have a more comprehensive write-up (for you masochists) in a few days.

Tue, 25 Sep 2007

Yep, the open house this last Sunday was a total bust: 3 groups through, two of which wandered idly around the upper floor without even checking out the basement. They're obviously committed to the house-shopping process.

My awesome real estate agent, Charlotte Killien (with Windermere, look her up!) was completely unsurprised when I called Monday morning, and said I was done. She got the keybox off the front door, and the for sale sign will come down soon. I'm movin' back in, baby!

So, yeah. That's kind of exciting, and kind of disappointing all at the same time. I was looking forward to finding a new house. But then, moving back into this house will be pretty awesome. I spent a ton of time and money fixing it up to sell, and it's much nicer inside now than it was when I moved out.

Plus, as I believe I've mentioned, it will be so nice to move into the house fresh. When I first moved in, the house was in such an awful state that I had to spend a couple days cleaning up, changing locks, and trying to make it bearable.

My favorite anecdote to illustrate this is the "taking possession" story. You may enjoy looking at some pictures of the house at the time of inspection. I got all the paperwork signed, sent in all the money, and we set the hand-off date. I was to take possession of the house on a Wednesday. I'd specified in the closing documents that the seller had to do a bunch of cleaning and stuff-tossing (such as the huge, rotting pile of wood in the side yard). Naturally, none of this happened, because the seller was somewhat desperate, being in dire financial straits.

In any case, I got my keys, and walked through the house on Wednesday, to see what needed to be done. I think I was planning on cleaning up so I could move in on the weekend. The house was pretty gross, the kitchen walls and cabinets covered in grease, random trash strewn about, etc. Their move-out had been so hasty that they'd left behind a hamper full of stinking, well-used diapers. That was a bit much. I think I did some cleaning, and went away disgusted.

I came back two days later, on Friday, with Brooke (my girlfriend at the time, who would be living in the house with me). What did we discover, but that some of the trash was gone, and the stinking hamper had disappeared. Ok, cool enough that I didn't have to deal with a steaming barrel full of feces-soaked diapers, but how exactly did they get in!? See, when I took possession of the house, I kind of figured that meant it was mine, and anything they left behind was also mine by default. Not that I wanted it, but I figured that taking possession also meant I got all the keys. Apparently not. I changed all the locks to completely new units the next day.

So, that may give you an idea of what I moved into. It was nasty, and moving in was this sort of disturbing process of cleaning an area before I could put stuff there. As a result of that, and not knowing what I wanted to do, I never really got the house set up like I wanted. Shortly after we moved in, Brooke broke up with me, which was quite a wrench, and effectively prevented me from doing anything domestic for quite a while. This was, of course, to the detriment of my living situation, as I never got to all the projects I was going to do.

In any case, now, the house is clean and beautiful. Compare and contrast these pictures from August this year to the pictures I linked above. Just a bit different, particularly in the kitchen. The clean house plus my new-found desire to have a lot less junk around means this next phase will be pretty cool. It's not quite a new house, but it's nearly as good!

Sat, 22 Sep 2007

Today started poorly: at 7:30 am, with a phone call from work. "Sorry to call so early, but we have a P1 case you're responsible for." Grimacing through the haze in my brain, I said, "What's broken?" The guy said something along the lines of "According to this email, flooblejabble and spiffnorgle are missing." I had no idea what he was talking about.

I agreed to look into it after he promised to send me email with the problem files. I looked into it. Turns out it wasn't my problem, in that I could do nothing about it, but it was my problem, in that I was still responsible for it. So, that was pretty much my Friday. It was, shall we say, taxing.

I'd arranged with my friend Jesse to go somewhere for dinner. We didn't really figure out where we were going until after I'd left work, and we came around to the idea of Pete's Grill and Pub, in Carnation. This is a bit of a ride, but we were both in the mood for it.

The ride out ended up being rainy and difficult due to twilight visibility plus rain plus fogging helmet shields. We made it without trouble, but we were both more pleased to be at the restaurant than that we'd ridden there. Normally, the reverse is true.

We passed several pleasant hours at Pete's, discussing all sorts of things we haven't had a chance to talk about much due to full schedules. Eventually, long after the food was finished and the bill paid, we were ready to head back.

The evening had gone from soggy to dry, although there was still a heavy overcast. The temperature was pleasant, neither warm nor cold. There was a bit of bite to the air, pleasantly foreshadowing autumn days to come.

We set off, following the same route we'd used to get there. However, this time, there was a huge difference. For one, it wasn't raining, but mostly, it smelled like fall.

For whatever reason, fall is the one season that makes me absolutely giddy. I love everything about it, although I can probably trace a lot of my joy back to (nerd alert!) going back to school. Whatever the source of that happiness, tonight was full of it.

As we wound up the Snoqualmie Valley, the cool night air was scented with the smells of summer retreating before the cold. Vegetation was changing, and the recent rain had unlocked a kaleidoscope of smells.

The most prominent, to me, was the smell of the ferns cracking their knuckles and getting down to business. You other plants, you summery, sun-loving plants? You can back off. It's my turn now. That's what that smell said to me. Don't get in the way of those ferns.

It also brought other smells: falling leaves, just starting to turn red and orange; damp soil, claiming back the ostentatious growth of summer; sluggish rivulets and creeks; pine and fir trees shaking off the doldrums.

There's a particular aroma to fall, and I only ever smell it in Woodinville, where I grew up, and which we passed through this evening. I think Woodinville must exist in a particular microclimate that fosters some odd subset of plant life. Whenever I go back there, I can smell it, like a salmon finding its way back to the tiny tributary where it spawned. It's the smell of home, and the smell of happiness.

Finally, on the far side of Paradise Lake Road, the scent dwindled, and faded in the face of the freeway. Still, for those glorious 20 minutes, Jesse and I were riding through our own personal versions of complete happiness. We compared notes later, it's really true.

Wed, 19 Sep 2007

Rather than being upset about this, I'm actually kind of excited. This means that all the money and sweat I poured into getting it ready for sale goes to.. me! I still have to refinance it, but I get to refinance for a smaller loan, since I've been slowly paying down the principal over time. And when I move back in, I'll move back in to a gloriously clean, shiny new house!

New paint. New floors. Maintained yard. New curtains. Everything's clean. New faucet in the bathroom. Finally, finally installed undercabinet lights in the kitchen.

All the work I put into the house earlier this year was primarily to fix it up after 7 years of not caring too much about appearances, piled on top of the previous owners moving out in such a rush that they didn't even get all their junk out. There were still crayon marks on the walls from pre-2000.

So it's really hard to view this as being a bad thing. As I've argued with myself over and over again, I don't dislike the house, I just don't really actively like it. The kitchen's great, but everything else is too small. The basement's too short to be active down there, at least for me. Kristin doesn't like basements, so that makes the whole basement space kind of wasted.

Well, we've actually worked out some solutions to these problems. Probably the biggest (and riskiest) one is to put the bedroom down in the basement. Yes, it means darker and colder, but then, the only time I go in my bedroom is really to sleep. Why should I dedicate a bright, warm room to being unconscious for eight hours? Much better to use that bright, warm room for daytime activities.

Also, just because some previous owner built their own shed in the back yard 50 years ago, doesn't mean I need to keep it. Inspired by my own desire for a shop, and my friend Jesse doing this exact thing, I think I'm going to yank out the old crappy shack back there, and replace it with a shiny new one that's actually usable! Same size, but well built, not rickety, and at least temporarily not full of spiders. If I do things right, I can probably even use it as a tiny shop space (10x12 is not a very large space for much of anything, but I could put a little bench in there).

The final "maybe hopefully" thing I'm going to do is put a garden in the back yard. Right now, the back yard is full of grass I never use, which requires either mowing or watering, neither of which I'm keen to do. It'd be so much better utilized growing vegetables and fruits. We'll see if it actually pans out, but with any luck, I'll have some of my own vegetables to eat next summer.

First off, happy birthday, bicycle! I bought my Gary Fisher bike just over a year ago, on September 16, 2006. Since that time, I've racked up 1484 miles. If I hadn't moved to Fremont halfway through the year, I'd be closer to 2000 miles.

In any case, one of the recommended maintenance items to do about yearly is to service the wheel hubs. I'd never done this before, so like all new things, it sounded ominous and complicated. Of course, like many things that sound scary, it was simple.

I read up on the procedure, and it basically boils down to, "Take apart the hubs, get rid of the old ball bearings and grease, put in new ball bearings and grease, and put it all back together." The only tricky part is adjusting the bearings. I didn't actually find it very tricky, I just followed the instructions Sheldon Brown had written up, and it all went quite well.

Of course, it wouldn't make an interesting story if everything went perfectly. (Even with this complication, it probably doesn't make a very good story, but you're sitting here reading it anyway.) In their efforts to keep the bike from being astronomically expensive, Gary Fisher did what many companies do: they used some cheaper/knock-off components. In the case of this bike, they used hubs from Bontrager, an OEM-only manufacturer which probably produces fine parts. They're cheaper because they don't say Shimano or something on them, not necessarily because they suck.

Since the instructions said to replace the bearings (except in very expensive hubs, the balls are actually sitting loose in the bearing), I went to the bike store and asked for new bearings. The first question was, "What size do you need?" I had anticipated this, and said, "I have no idea, but I have the bike here." The nice man behind the counter said "Yeah, bring it over, let's take a look," with his voice, and "Not another one," with his body. I felt sorry for him, but the bike didn't come with a manual so detailed as to list bearing specs on the hubs.

I wheeled the bike over, and he sort of threw up his hands without actually throwing up his hands. "I guess I can give you the Shimano standard, will that work?" I had no idea, but it seemed reasonable, so I came away from the store with 22 3/16" balls, and 20 1/4" balls -- the front would take 10 per side of the smaller size, and the rear wheel would take 9 per side of the larger. I also got a couple extra, because loose ball bearings are essentially tools of the devil, and will disappear at the least provocation, usually when you need them most. By buying extra, I was effectively guaranteeing that none would go missing due to that corollary of Murphy's Law.

Anyway, I got the bike up on the stand at work, and took off the front wheel. The advice is to start on the front, since it doesn't have the complication of dealing with all the gears and such. It came apart as expected, using tools that I had bought previously for exactly this task when dealing with the Xtracycle wheels. I got all the balls out, and collected on a paper towel which had been strategically crumpled up to keep them from rolling off. I confidently grabbed my trusty little ziplock bag of new balls. I pulled one out and carefully compared it with an old ball: a perfect match. Cool! I counted out the balls on the paper towel, so I'd know how many to put back in. 1, 2, 3... 22, 23, 24. Wait a minute. 24? I counted again. Sure enough, there were 24 balls that came out of the front wheel. 12 per side. And I had bought... 22 balls. 10 per side plus a couple spares. Argh! Of course I managed to buy too few, even having gotten extras!

I mentally revised my schedule for tomorrow, moving the Xtracycle into the "active bike" slot as I planned errands. I'd just go to the very close bike shop at lunch, and get the extra balls to finish later.

I decided, as long as I was at it, that I might as well try doing the rear wheel. Maybe it would have a more expected number, but also if I needed more rear balls, I wanted to know before I headed to the shop. I was strongly reminded of working on the Xtracycle as I took the back end of the bike apart.

Fortunately, the back hub used the expected number of balls (9 per side). However, looking at a piece called the cone, each side looked a little worn. The advice I've read is to replace anything that looks even slightly worn. I decided I should go to a more distant bike shop tonight, since I had two things I needed.

So, out came the motorcycle (the logistics of where my various vehicles live is complex), and off to the bike shop. I retrieved my extra bearing balls, and asked the mechanic there to look at the cones. He declared them fit, and I headed back to finish the job.

I finally finished up around 10 pm. I had started at about 5, but I was going slowly and methodically, and had taken a surprisingly long time to clean off the individual chain rings as they'd come off the rear wheel. That trip to the bike shop in the middle really added to the time, though; it always does. I always try to have everything on hand, and somehow, there's usually something that slips through the cracks. Nothing kills progress on a project like the necessary trip to the store.

And, of course, I did more than just repack the hubs. As long as I was doin' stuff I also cleaned and lubricated the chain, adjusted the derailleur, and adjusted the brakes.

The nice thing about doing preventative maintenance is that you know you're doing the right thing. The bad thing is that there's very little sense of accomplishment. I didn't fix anything that was broken, I just kept it going. Nothing really got better. It'll last longer, but that's a pretty cerebral reward. In this case, conquering the new task was rewarding, but on the whole, it was not my favorite way to spend 5 hours.

Wed, 12 Sep 2007

Or, you know, minimus, as the case may be. Kristin and I went to look at Siberian cats again, this time in far-flung, wind-swept Ellensburg. We took some pictures of the feline event. Oh yes, it was full of kitties.

Young Miloš (pronounced "Mee-losh") will be joining us come early October. I anticipate several dB of hearing loss from the cooing and squealing.

Tue, 11 Sep 2007

I had a random idea last night, as we were driving out to Ellensburg to look at another batch of Siberian kittens:

Think about it. Desalination is an energy-intensive process, which makes it hard for poor countries to do -- they don't have a lot of energy to spare, or energy delivery is intermittent. Many poor countries also exist in arid parts of the world, where water is a constant problem. For those on the coast, there's an abundant supply of water, but it's effectively poisoned by salt.

Wave-generation of electricity isn't a new idea, and I don't think it's terribly hard to implement. Even better, some desalination systems use high-pressure pumps to do their work, which could use kinetic energy straight from turbines, rather than having to convert energy to electricity and back. Stack one on top of the other, and all you need to do is run a freshwater pipe out of the station. Make 'em relatively cheap (a few million dollars each), and they'd be within the grasp of even the poorest countries. The US could probably even figure out a way to donate such stations.

The output is clean water, which can be used or sold as needed. If you need more water, you can put out more stations. Coastal countries could become suppliers of water to nearby landlocked countries.

It makes a lot of sense to me, but I have to admit, I know next to nothing about either wave power generation or desalination. Maybe it's not practical. But it sounds like a good idea to me. I officially place this idea in the public domain -- I'd like to see anyone work with it (and in any case, it seems pretty obvious to me, so I'm sure I'm not the only person thinking about it). (Yup, sure enough, Google reveals the fallacy of ever thinking you've had an original idea.)

Sun, 09 Sep 2007

There is a convention, in the theater world, called "calling time." It's pretty much what you'd imagine, and if you ever watched the Muppet Show, you've seen it. It was when Scooter would run up into the guest's dressing room and call out, "Five minutes, Mr. Belafonte, five minutes!" That's pretty much it. The stage manager runs around, and tells people how long they have until they're on, making sure everything's ready, and dealing with any problems that arise.

So, the final step in calling time is shoving the actor out the door (at least metaphorically) and onto the stage. If the stage manager isn't on the ball, actors end up going on late or early, and it can cause real havoc. If the actors don't pay attention to the stage manager, and cue themselves, it can cause at least as much havoc.

For the purposes of SketchFest, we don't have any internal cues to give actors, they all handle that themselves. However, we (well, the stage manager, R.) tells them when to go on, and she gets the next group ready, and so on. This year, we're also having a "host," who comes out and warms up the audience a little bit before the show, and thanks them after the show.

The hosts are stand-up comedians, which sounds like a good idea (why not introduce comedy with comedy?), but is having some teething troubles. The biggest one we've encountered so far is that stand-up people are not, by and large, theater people.

Imagine, if you will, that you're sitting in the audience at SketchFest. You've just watched a great show, Ten West. They put on a neat, basically mum show which might put you in mind of a Vaudeville act, including bowler hats and suits with suspenders. The lights go down after the performers bow, then a solitary light comes up, where the host stood before the show.

Seconds pass, finally what feels like a full minute (and when you're facing an empty stage, a minute is a long time) goes by. Finally, the host trots out, and gives the traditional, "Let's have a big round of applause for Ten West!" Everyone applauds, lights change, you get up to have some beer.

That's kind of annoying, but (at least to me), an acceptable mistake to make. It really only impacts the host, and chances are good that it was his problem to start with.

As it happens, there was a technical problem with our video intro for Ten West, and I was frantically conferring with our amazing video creator, Josh Knisely. (Really, I'm very very impressed with Josh's work, he's done fantastic stuff for two years now.) Anyway, the intermission flew by as I was talking with Josh about how to fix the video problem.

I heard R. call 10 minutes over the headset as Josh and I were talking. Then I heard a 6 minute call as we were wrapping up. I turned to start getting ready for the next show (Karla, as it happens, a culture-lampooning duo from LA). To my horror, I saw the host standing on the stage, hoisting the microphone up to his lips. Oh, no.

At this point in the process, I was frantic from the DVD problem, and had done none of my preparation for Karla's show. The prep isn't hard, and it's only about 30 seconds of work, but in the high-stress booth, that's not such a clear-cut thing. Now I was looking at this guy standing on stage, practically tapping his foot, waiting for his light to come up.

Not ready to do anything else, I grabbed the slider for his light and slammed it up. H., my delightful sound operator, looked over at me, and said, "Did you hear places?" "No," I replied, "and I'm not ready!" We wasted a few more seconds in a similar vein, confirming that neither of us had spontaneously lost our reason. As the host (who, despite a long and rambling introduction to the first show, had spoken for perhaps 10 seconds this time), turned to go, I keyed the headset and said in a low, urgent voice, "The booth is not ready. Send him back out or something, but we are not ready to go."

H. and I scrambled through the frantic urgency, and got Karla's show prepped (which involves doing ten seconds or so of actual stuff, and then double- or triple-checking everything -- the double-check has saved me more than once). The host slinked back out, and said, in a slow obsequious drawl, "Well.... I've... been asked to... come out... and... stall. Staaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllll. Yeah, so..." (I'm not making that up, that's reasonably close to what he actually said, including the 10-second long, drawn out "stall.")

At this point, I somehow signaled to him that he was done (I don't remember now what I did, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it involved rude gestures), and he slunk back off the stage as his light went out. Karla's video intro ran, and we got through the show without any further problem.

I had doomy thoughts running through my head as the first sketch ran, though, since the first time we did Karla's show, I clipped several of their sketches short accidentally, one of them about 10 seconds after it started. I figured for sure that between the DVD not working, the host showing up 5 minutes too early, and the screw-ups in the previous show, I was screwed. But, it went off without a hitch, and my hastily scrawled notes kept me from killing their show again.

As we were scrambling around getting ready for the next show after Karla, I passed R. (the stage manager) at some point, and said, "We'll talk later," as she looked like she was about to explain. I was actually too busy to talk at that moment, although I was burning to know what had happened. I suspect my voice and face had an ominious, glowering quality about them, although I didn't really intend that.

After the shows were all done for the night, and we were getting ready for PUSH! (the experimental, "bring what you got" cabaret at midnight on Fridays), R. came up and gave me the story.

Apparently, feeling bad for having missed his cue at the end of Ten West (I didn't get the story on why that happened, although the Ten West show is about 10 minutes shorter than normal), the host was bound and determined not to do it again. R. had circled around (as she does) to check on all the things she needs to check on -- the lobby, the actors, the booth, etc. She called 6 minutes over the headset (this was just shy of 9 pm, which is the nominal "go" time, although we usually end up waiting for 5 minutes to catch any straggling audience members), and circled around to tell the host 6 minutes, only to find that he wasn't there.

Right around that time, she would have been hearing his amplified voice jabbering about something, overlaid with my urgent, "The booth is not ready." He had apparently cued himself, in contravention of all ingrained theater habits. Except, of course, that being a stand-up comedian, he didn't necessarily have much theater experience, and so had no ingrained habit of obeying the stage manager.

After he confidently strode off, I'll hazard a guess that he got a look sufficient to wither men's souls from R., before being urged to head back out on stage and stall for time. R. is sweet, but I wouldn't want to be in her bad graces. Fortunately, we work well together, so it's not an issue.

The stress over, R. and H. and I had a good chuckle, and went on to have a great session of PUSH!

I can't honestly say that the stand-up comedians we've had so far are doing a bad job. I couldn't possibly do what they're doing. They just need to have a few theatrical habits ingrained. You know, with a stick or something.

Thu, 06 Sep 2007

Drop on by. It'll be a right good time. You can find the schedule and everything else you'll need on the SketchFest website.

If you do come (and I have any idea who you are (yay for random strangers on the Internet!)), poke your head in the booth and say hi. It's just on the left as you go into the theater.

Wed, 05 Sep 2007

I have a Plan. It's a decent Plan, and one which may be necessary given how things are going.

Yes, the house is only on the market for a limited time. I've got a fairly pesky balloon loan payment coming up in a few months, and ya know, I just don't feel like waiting for my perfect buyer to come along until the last minute.

So the house will only stay on the market until about October 1st. If I don't have an offer by then, it's getting pulled, and I'm movin' back in. I figure if this house can't sell for $385k, it's probably not worth selling right now. There's a difference between "Not ekeing every last dollar out of the sale" and "Shooting myself in the foot."

So if you know someone who's in the market for a house, send 'em my way by late September, or they're out of luck.

After all, I just put all this money into making my house look pretty, why not hang around and enjoy it? I'm talking under-cabinet lights here, people. And just think of the "Moving back in!" party I can have!

Tue, 04 Sep 2007

Ok, this really has nothing to do with Ken Kesey or anything, I just liked the title.

Kristin has been eyeing Siberian cats as being one resolution to the conflict of my raging cat allergies and her primal desire for something cute and fluffy in her life (I'm told that although cute and arguably fluffy, I don't count).

We finally arranged everything for me to go have an allergy test yesterday. That is to say, we went and hung out at a house in Des Moines, near the airport, and had reluctant cats draped over me. I spent about an hour petting four different Siberian cats, being shed upon, and generally living the cat-life. With normal cats, this would have most likely provoked sniffles and some lung constriction.

The results, however, were inconclusive. We had just spent the weekend at Kristin's parents' house, where they have a Siamese cat. I am normally quite allergic to Siamese, although their cat isn't as allergenic as I normally find Siamese to be. So, I started out with a relatively high background allergy level, and I'm not sure which allergic symptoms were caused by the Siamese, and which were from the four Siberians.

I continued to be stuffed up the rest of the day, although my lungs didn't close up at all. I also sneezed considerably more than I usually do, but again, I don't know the source of that sneezing. It could have been the Siberians, or it could have been left over from the Siamese.

The practical outcome of all this? I think we're getting a fluffy Siberian kitty. I didn't have a strong reaction to them, if I reacted at all. It seems like a worthy experiment. The place we visited will take a cat back if it doesn't work (for a reduced refund, of course). The only question is, how will Kristin take it if I end up being miserable after living with this cute little ball of fluff for a month?

Written by Ian Johnston. Software is Blosxom. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.