Category: General

I ran in the rain yesterday.

It was pouring down, hard, for almost the entirety of my 5.22 miles and nearly an hour-long exercise. The “almost” is in there because I didn’t leave the house until it had slacked off a bit, the rain becoming a drizzle, lulling me into thinking that hey, maybe it won’t rain the entire time.

Of course, less than a minute or two from home, the rain picked up again, and pretty much did not stop for the rest of the day.

I had my iPhone with me, sealed up tight in not just one, but two ziploc bags, arranged so their openings were at different ends of the phone. Still, I worried that somehow, water would work its way in and render my expensive smartphone useless.

It didn’t.

I’ve run in the rain before. I’ve even enjoyed it before. But late last year, I allowed any excuse to prevent me from running. It’s too cold. It’s raining. It’s too warm. I’m too tired.

But in the last month or two, I’ve begun, again, to run. Even in the rain.

In fact, I ran stronger for the entire five-plus miles than I have in a while. Sure, I’ve had faster, shorter sessions, but that one on Sunday was steady nearly the entire way. The speed workouts I do once or twice a week really do help. So does losing weight. I’ll be in great shape for the Shamrock Run in March.

Is the rain motivating, in the sense of “I can’t wait to get out of this”? Maybe so. After I had finished my run, I still had to go do some shopping and maybe get a bite to eat, and I was less than motivated to go back out in it. I took a bus to one of my favorite restaurants, the Iron Horse, and ate, then took another bus trip, involving a transfer, to Fred Meyers in Oak Grove, then took another bus trip back to my neighborhood. I’d dressed for the weather, in camp pants, hat, and Columbia rain coat with hood, but even so, when I got back home, I was soaked through. Not a good feeling.

I still needed dinner, and did not have much food in the house, but I made do, because I was not going to go back out in the rain again that night.

And I didn’t. I’d had my fill.

Stupid rain.

It’s Sunday and time for something a little less serious.

iPhone apps.

Friday I had a one-on-one with my boss, who is a gadget-hound and geek of the highest order. I mean that as a compliment; that’s how it should be in IT. And things have been going very smoothly at work, so I didn’t have much to talk about or requests to make, and when that wound down, my boss pulled out his iPhone 3GS and asked me if I had any cool new apps to recommend to him.

He knows I’m an Apple fan, and that I tend to keep up more on the Apple side of the tech divide than the Microsoft side. It’s fun and awesome, because at work we are massively majority Microsoft on the desktop, but if any questions or issues come up with Mac OS or iPhone, my boss will steer those my way.

Then last night, over at a friend’s house, his wife was asking me what cool iPhone apps I have, too. Apparently the hunger for “the next cool app” is high among iPhone users.

In any case, I looked over the apps I use the most, and realized that most of them are utilities, designed to do a specific task and do it well: I use Quicken to track my money, I use Livestrong to track my diet, Runkeeper to track my running.

The few “cool” apps I have, I actually rarely use. Shazam feels like magic: listen to this song and tell me the title, artist, and lyrics. It’s fun, but I don’t use it all that often.

Dragon Dictation feels like magic, too: transcribe what I’m saying. And it doesn’t fail very often, but when it fails, it’s very humorous. You may think I don’t use it often, and you’d be mostly right. I did, however, use it more in the winter when I was outside, wearing gloves, and needed to send an email or text, which is surprisingly often considering I’m a high text-sender.

(There are gloves out there that let one use a touch screen while wearing them, though, and I’d love to get a pair. Hint, hint.)

My “marquee” cool apps, though, I can really only show off at home: I have a handful of apps that let me control my entertainment system: play music, play a video, let guests pick a song from their iPhone. My major wish is that I could afford a way to let me power on the whole thing with my iPhone, and get rid of the remaining remote control, too. I’m sure there’s an app for that, too – I just can’t afford an upgrade right now.

A downside to cooking for myself more is that I don’t have as many conversations with waitstaff anymore.

That statement makes me seem a bit starved for human interaction, doesn’t it?

And I guess I am, a bit. Just a bit, though. I’m pretty happy right now with my social life. I spend a day or two a week with one or several of my friends. Tomorrow night I’ll be meeting a friends’ wife for the first time, having dinner at their house. Of course, earlier this week I hosted my monthly D&D game; prior to the game I spent the afternoon and had lunch with Terry. I’m in constant contact with Tracy via text, and regularly trade emails with Kevin.

Yeah, I’m happy with my social life right now. I have good friends around me.

The small part I miss, though, is the small random interactions, the chance encounters. If I’m honest, though, those were always few and far between in my life. Maybe they stand out in my memory only because I didn’t have regular contact with close friends? And because of the rarity of the chance encounter, I have to admit I wasn’t very good at them: I often ran out of things to say, or didn’t know how to continue the conversation, or failed to express an interest in talking to them again. Or, worse, did those things in an awkward way.

If I think about it now, though, I spend a bit more time at the grocery store these days. There’s a chance for interaction. I still visit my local coffee shop regularly and talk to my coffee guy and the girl who works there, and could possibly get to know some of the other regulars there. I see pretty much the same faces every day on my bus ride to and from work. The people who run the Thai restaurant near my house still recognize me, even though I don’t go in as often.

I still have opportunities for random conversations. Maybe the lack was just a mental blind spot for me? I’ve been feeling the winter doldrums quite a bit for the last month or two; hopefully with the return of sunnier weather and longer days, my mood will pick up.

If I can get political for a brief moment¹, I look around on the morning after the Massachusetts special election and see a lot of blaming going on. This is to be expected: elections produce winners and losers, and it’s human to try to figure out why.

I’ve got some opinions, too, but for the moment I only want to make one small point. John Scalzi suggest that some of the blame for the endangered state of health insurance reform lies at the feet of progressives, because progressives criticized the President and somehow weakened him, is just the same old “it’s always OK to punch a hippie” conventional wisdom.

When I look at progressives, what I see is that they have been trying whatever they can to enact real health care reform, not just pass any fucking thing, shovel money at the insurance industry middlemen, and call it good. I do not get how that translates into “weakening President Obama”, I just don’t.

Jane Hamsher has been trying to push through better legislation. Markos Moulitsas Zuniga pushed for better legislation. Many many more, that I’m too lazy to google and link, did the same.

Of course, Mr. Scalzi doesn’t actually specify who he means by “progressives”, which may be chalked up to his writing that post late in a sleepy frame of mind. Or it may just be a strawman argument and a reflexive “punch a hippie” attitude. I don’t know which. Mr. Scalzi strikes me politically as a “moderate”; he often tries to distance himself from what he sees as both right and left extremes. I’m definitely a progressive, way over here in Little Beirut.

But from the way I see it, criticizing a president only seems to “weaken” him if he’s a Democratic one. It’s always OK to do… whatever… when one is a Republican.

Still.

¹ And I can. It’s my blog. Not being mean, just being real.

Until I can get some time to write something down with a bit more creativity, I present to you a puzzle: Can you read this quote and not want to re-watch¹ the movie from which it comes?

“Just remember what ol’ Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, and the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big ol’ storm right square in the eye and he says, ‘Give me your best shot, pal. I can take it.'”

Well… can you?

¹ Surely everyone who reads my blog has already seen this movie previously? More than once?

Sunday night, I bought a pound of dry black beans, and put them in a bowl, covered them with water and plenty of it, and let them sit overnight.

Monday morning, I chopped up some jalepenos, dumped the soaked beans and peppers and chicken broth, along with some spices, into the crockpot, and then turned it on.

Wait.

The recipe I had called for four hours of cooking on High, and then two (or more) hours on Low. My crockpot, a hand-me-down from my mom, only had a manual switch for Off/Low/High. I was going to be at work and, because I was going to hit the treadmill after work, I wouldn’t be home for 11 or 12 hours. Did I want to leave the beans cooking all day on High? Would that overcook them? Is there such a thing as overcooking in a slow-cooker? Would it overheat, catch fire and burn down my apartment and the building it’s in?

I’m a worrier.

So I put the crockpot on Low, figuring 12 hours of that would be enough cooking. Then I left for work.

On my way home from work, starving and needing food because of my workout, I thought about ladling out some spicy black beans over some Spanish rice I’d made this weekend, and chowing down. So good. I got off the bus, trusty #70 12th Ave, at New Seasons Sellwood, for a brief pit stop to see if they had a cheap ladle, since all I had were spoons; but I’m not going to pay $9.99 for a freaking ladle, no matter how fancy and pretty it was.

Walked home from there, still hungry. Walked in the front door; the whole house smelled like spicy beans. Went in the kitchen, saw that the crockpot was bubbling, slowly. Spooned out some to taste.

Damn. The beans weren’t done. Still chalky and hard. Damn.

I guess 12 hours on Low is not the same as 4 hours on High, after all.

I settled for the Spanish rice, and put the crockpot on High again. Watched some TV, chilled, went to bed.

Woke up around 1 AM, suddenly worried about the crockpot. But when I checked on it, it was bubbling nicely, though the liquid was down a bit. Added a little bit more broth, then turned it to Low. Then thought better of it sitting like that all night, and unplugged it.

This morning, after making breakfast, I portioned out the beans and brought some, with more leftover rice, to work for lunch.

I still haven’t had more than a small taste. But it’s fun learning about cooking.

Social media like Twitter and Facebook is great and all, right up until you’re following someone who disagrees with you. What do you do at that point?

Do you ask them questions to try to find out what the root of the disagreement is? What if they can’t, or don’t want to explain? What if they think your questions are intrusive and attacking, when you’re only trying to understand? Do you draw conclusions based on their responses?

Do you try to explain your own point of view, because, surely, the basis of your opinions is rational, and if you can just explain clearly why you believe what you believe, the other person will have to abandon their inferior opinion. Right?

Or do you talk about them to other people who agree with you and not them? That other opinion is wrong, am I right? Why would they think that, I wonder, out loud and at no one in particular (hoping someone will agree with me)?

Or do you send them a note telling them you won’t be following them from now on, and this is why, and goodbye? I mean, they would want to know why you’re not paying attention to them anymore. That’s what you would want, anyway, as long as you’re being reasonable and rational and not at all emotional about this issue on which you and another person in your social circle disagree for reasons that may or may not be important. Right?

Or do you simply ignore them. How… how… boring.

I’m being snarky but I’m pretty sure I have done and thought all of those things before. Sometimes I’ll pretend to take the high road and cloak my questions in the cloak of “honest inquiry”, and sometimes I’ll try to explain my own position and hope out loud that they’ll change their mind while inwardly knowing they probably won’t. And sometimes I’ll just ask other friends about it.

Looking at that behavior right now, I don’t really think I’ve been very mature. About any of it. I gotta be honest with myself and admit that there’s a little bit of troll in me. And maybe you, too, yeah?

There is entertainment value in it, though, which is why I’m always tempted. And there can be honest engagement where I’m legitimately trying to understand a different viewpoint. Sadly, though, I often press on past the point of honest engagement. Knowing when to quit, ah, that’s the real trick.

I find value, though, in keeping open lines of communication to people who don’t see the world the way I do. I’m not inclined to unfollow someone on Twitter just because I don’t like their opinions. I’d like to believe that I can listen, ask a question or two, and then just process the information without belittling the other person.

And my close friends, the ones whom I trust, always have an open invitation to call me on my bullshit. Lucky for me, they take advantage of that, as I return the favor to them. That’s what makes them my friends.

Not much to say this morning. I wrung myself out with yesterday’s post I think.

Spent last night with two fabulous dames, Tracy and Gina. Dinner at The Delta, which was terribly crowded and we had to wait an hour to be seated, in spite of our trying to sneak in the back and steal a table (what? We didn’t know!). We gorged on flank steak and corn bread and red beans and rice and hush puppies.

Oh, and booze. Did I forget the booze? Had my first vodka mojito of the year, and, well, really, ever, and it was good enough to prompt me to buy the second vodka mojito of the year, and, well, really, ever. I’ll probably stop counting them after this.

Then a quiet cup of coffee at my favorite local coffee shop, and then home.

Lots of conversation in-between, though. Private conversation.

Today looks to be a shopping and cooking day. I may have to find a reason to ride MAX this afternoon, though, since it’s Global No Pants Subway Ride Day.

I may or may not post something else later.

Seven or eight years ago I was dating a woman, named Terri Ann, who, among other things, introduced me to the idea of the five “languages” of love.

These are the five primary ways we express romantic love (and other kinds, as well), and they are: words of affirmation, physical touch, quality time, gifts, and acts of service. Terri Ann explained to me that everybody generally uses all five in a relationship, but that we tend to use one or two more often than the others.

Things did not work out with me and Terri Ann, but we remained friends for a long time afterward, and I was there at her wedding to meet the man lucky enough to marry her. I still think fondly of her, but what I think about since then, and lately, is those five expressions of love.

I think that she and I were able to remain friends, where I’ve failed to do that with other girlfriends, because of the way we expressed ourselves around each other. Our languages of love were complementary. We both liked and appreciated physical touch and quality time. It may have been a contributing factor that she lived an hours’ drive north from Portland, and we had to make a special effort to spend time together, so any time we were in each others’ presence was quality time and a gift of sorts. Especially since I did not own a car and had to make explicit arrangements to go see her¹.

I’ve never read the book that she got the idea from, but I’ve developed my own ideas about these five languages. I’ve decided that the “primary” one is learned from family, and that we tend to both take it for granted and de-emphasize it, while seeking out the ones that we did not get as children. That makes sense, right?

I don’t remember a lot of physical affection from my parents when I was growing up. I’m not saying they didn’t love me; I’m just saying they didn’t express themselves with hugs. My father tended to express love as acts of service; he worked hard to make sure we had a roof over our head and food on the table. He liked fixing and making things. I remember being in middle school when I was taking a class on the two World Wars; I needed a project for the class because the teacher assured us an A if we did some kind of special project. My dad suggested building a balsa-frame model of a WWI fighter plane, something I had never done before. My dad built the Red Baron’s plane; I built a replica of the Sopwith Camel, the plane flown by the man who shot the Red Baron down. Dad and I spent a lot of time on either side of the dining room table putting those models together, covering the frame in tissue paper, and painting it.

I was a kid. I didn’t value the model in and of itself. I valued the time I spent with dad working on it together. Later, when I was in high school, my friend and I blew that model up with fireworks, which was spectacular (for a teenager). I’m sure my dad would be dismayed to hear about that, if he doesn’t already know. But that’s the thing: I valued the quality time, not what was derived from it. And in another way, I devalued the time we spent together because I assumed it would always be like that.

So as an adult, when dating and trying to form close relationships, I model my parents’ behavior. I spend time, lots of time, with the woman I’m courting. I work on their computer, or help them get their car tuned up.

But I also crave physical touch. I like holding hands as soon as I think I won’t be rejected for doing so. I hug. And I think I crave all that because I did not get a lot of that when I was younger.

I was in high school before I remember hugging someone who was not a member of my family. I can clearly remember the circumstances. I was in the theater, on stage, after drama class, with some of my fellow students. I was an awkward and shy kid (who doesn’t think of themselves that way?) and me and another male friend (the same one I blew up the plane with²) were leaving. The details of it all are gone, but I remember Tina deWitt, class president, turning to me and offering a hug. She was bright, and cheerful, and very cute, all dark curly hair, just a bit shorter than me, but I didn’t really think of her in terms of romance.

Until she hugged me.

I’m pretty sure my body responded to her touch in a way I’ll leave undescribed, but luckily she didn’t notice because it was a lean-in hug. That was all it took. I can still smell the perfume in her shampoo; to this day I can feel her arms around my shoulders and hear the sparkle in her voice. And the reason I can remember all this is because it was so freakin’ rare for me.

When I remember past girlfriends, even now, I am hugging them in my memory. And often, my present mind is analyzing the hug to demonstrate how uncomfortable they were with it.

I can remember Terri Ann standing in my apartment, dressed up for dinner out, and I go to hug her. Her head is above mine; I have to turn my head up to look at her and kiss her. In her heels she’s three or four inches taller than me. She laughs, looking away, and I ask her why. She remarks on the height difference, and I laugh and tell her “I’m OK with it.” Was she?

I can remember being downtown with Deb, and she was getting on MAX to go home, and while we waited for the train to show up, I hugged her. And I felt her pull away a little, and she didn’t look me in the eye, so I asked her about it. “Do my hugs make you uncomfortable?”

“A little” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s just… too much.”

I’m no longer with Deb, clearly. That was six years ago now. But the memory, of me wanting touch, and being rebuffed, in words and small nearly unnoticeable movements, is still fresh.

Thinking of that, now, I connect it with a memory of my mom standing at the sink putting dishes in the dishwasher, and my dad coming up behind her to hug her from behind. And mom tenses up, stops what she’s doing, and waits it out. “Bob,” she says, simply, scolding. And dad laughs, but I can tell he’s hurt, and he holds her a second longer, and then lets go, walks to the fridge, and gets something out of it, while mom goes back to washing dishes.

I know how he feels now. Over and over again.

Am I attracted to women who don’t want what I want? Am I over-doing it? Or is it just a mis-match in communication?

So many questions… and it feels so much like there’s less and less time for answers.

¹ Thank you, Zipcar! Although back then it was FlexCar, or possibly Portland Carshare; the company has changed over the years).

² Hi, Terry! (I’m pretty sure he reads my blog)

Things that will get you kicked off CNN: using a common expletive every adult has heard or said.

A quickly-compiled and necessarily-incomplete list of things that won’t get you kicked off CNN:

• Lying about terrorist attacks under former President Bush.
• Calling someone who has been proven to spout falsehoods a “straight talker”.
• “Reporting” on a pro-war advertisement without calling out the false claims made therein.
• Uncritically repeating claims of reduced violence in Bagdad by the president without fact-checking said claims, in spite of concurrent evidence to the contrary.
• Comparing torture to a spanking.
• Being a convicted felon in connection with the dominant political scandal of the past 40 years.

To their credit, CNN did find a method for parting ways with a xenophobic, hate-filled pundit after controversy upon controversy. So perhaps this post should be comparing Kathy Griffin and Lou Dobbs.…naaaaah.