my honey do list

I've transitioned into a new role with my company and this means I won't be traveling the United States like I have the past two years.  My wife travels on occasion, and every now and then we find ourselves traveling simultaneously.  The last two weeks were just such a time; I began my travel in Portland, Oregon while Cathy was "forced" to work in Orlando, Florida.  Upon returning from Portland, I emptied my suitcase, washed some clothes, repacked and headed to a hotel in the northern suburbs of Chicago for a week long, company sponsored training symposium.

When we, Cathy and I travel, she always leaves me a honey do list.  I must admit that she always takes care of things when I'm on the road and she's not, managing to keep a spotless house and everything in working order.  She's really to be admired but I'm looking for a little sympathy from my faithful readers--I'm certain you'll give it to me after reading this.

As many of you know, Cathy and I are in the process of buying our vacation/weekend/retirement home.  Given her OCD personality, everything that could be repaired, packed, painted, folded, thrown away, removed, etc. has been thoroughly catalogued and documented.  I ain't kidding either.  My weekends, when we both travel, are mapped for me, and here's what mine looks like:

• Wash clothes, remove all handles/hinges from bathroom vanity and repaint the drawers and framing
• Mow the yard
• Pack everything in the garage
• Begin breaking down spare beds and position furniture for ease of move
• Other things as time permits

Here's what I wanted my list to look like:

• Wake up
• Drink coffee
• Burp
• Scratch myself
• Think about showering
• Change the channel on the t.v. (via remote control)
• Eat
• Drink my second cup of coffee
• Continue to think about taking a shower
• Take a nap
• Eat
• Pee (I've had two cups of coffee)
• Turn the channel (via remote control)
• Eat
• Prepare for bed

I feel like I have a much more inclusive list and you can see that it is much larger; therefore, my list would be more productive.  What are your thoughts?

The Great Parking Ticket Debacle

Last night I drove into downtown Portland, Oregon to check out a little of the local scenery and listen to some jazz music.  Not having ever driven in this particular area, I began searching for some place to park my rental car.  As luck would have it I found a parking lot that only charged three dollars for the entire evening, pulled up next to a blue Jaguar (a beastly chick car, by the way), assured that my car was even with the Jag, paid the nominal fee and set off on foot to find a jazz club.

My evening coalesced into several hours of watching the most passionate band I've ever seen, and I've seen many.  Jazz, for me, has been an acquired taste; it wasn't something I latched onto naturally.  Watching these guys, though, made me appreciate the music that much more. 

After their first set, which lasted an hour and a half, I got the chance to speak with each of the band members and congratulate them for being so talented.

It was after speaking with the band members that I decided to head back to my hotel, as I had to get up relatively early the next morning for work.  Somehow, I got turned around in the city and couldn't find my rental car.  I had walked about six blocks and made a couple of turns to get to the club and attempted to back track to my car.  After what seemed like forever, I recognized a couple of buildings and signs and finally found it.  And much to my chagrin, I had a parking ticket.  The ticket stated that I was double parked, and I was.  That being said, I was the only car remaining in the lot at that time of night, and the lot was nowhere near capacity when I arrived, so I was perplexed about why they felt the need to write this ticket but figured this was an easy way of generating revenue. 

Now most people would just get upset and pay the fine.  Not me.  I may wind up paying the fine, but not before I argue with someone about it.  And here's how that conversation went this morning:

*ring, ring, ring*
Lady: Pacific Audit Solutions, how may I help you?
Me: Yeah, I got a parking ticket last night and want to speak to someone about it.
Lady: I can help you with that.
Me: Great. 
Lady: Can you tell me the ticket number?
Me: Sure.  (I tell her the number on top of the ticket)
Lady: Okay Mr. Upton, it seems you were double parked.  We took a photograph of your vehicle and you split the yellow line.  Half of your car was in one spot and half in the other.  Do you dispute this?
Me: Well, I lined up next to that blue Jaguar, so I thought I would be fine.  Did that driver get a ticket too?
Lady: No, that car was in a single parking spot.  It's the only parking spot on the end.  Starting in your row, the spots are doubled, so when you lined up with him/her you were double parked.
Me: Oh, well I didn't realize that.  But I have a couple questions for you.
Lady: Okay.
Me: I paid three dollars to park.  If I took up two parking spots, don't you think it would make more sense to charge me six dollars, rather than the fifty-seven noted on this ticket?  Seriously, how do you justify charging fifty-seven dollars for a parking violation in a three dollar lot?
Lady: Sir, we don't set the fees, the city of Portland does that.  We simply enforce them.
Me: You didn't answer my question.  I asked if you felt the fifty-seven dollars was justified.  I want to know if you think charging someone fifty-seven dollars for a parking violation is the right thing to do when the real right thing would have been to charge me another three dollars for the extra slot you said I took?
Lady (after a few awkward seconds of silence): Sir, I can't answer that.
Me: What do you mean you can't answer that?  Do you mean you aren't allowed to answer it, or do you mean you don't have an opinion?
Lady (obviously getting flustered): Sir, how about as a courtesy I just dismiss your ticket?
Me: Great!  Have a wonderful day!
*click*

My Epic Adventure

I have certain "to do's" on my bucket list; that is, a list of things to see and do before I die (stolen with pride from the movie The Bucket List).  On that list was to see the famed volcano Mount St Helens, which exploded way back in 1980 and proved to be quite devastating to the surrounding countryside for a number of years.  There were also fifty-seven deaths attributed to the eruption; a memory plaque was placed in 2000 at the Hoffstadt Bluff Visitor's center dedicated to those lost souls.

My opportunity to view the volcano came this week as work travel pointed me to Portland, Oregon, a measly nintey-three mile drive en route to another check mark on my list.  My plane arrived rather early on a rare sunny and beautiful day in Portland.  I anxiously watched out the window of my plane as we broke through the cloud deck some ten thousand feet above ground, admiring the luciously green and mountainous terrain.  I looked around in hopes that I could catch a glimpse of the famed volcano to no avail.

The runway at PDX was getting closer and I was getting more excited!  My flight uncharacteristically arrived almost thirty minutes early and a gate was available.  My hotel was a mere two miles from the airport, so checking in and dropping off my bags would be quick.  I called and checked in with the wife who remained in Chicago letting her know I had safely arrived, de-planed, hit the restroom for some much needed relief, then took off to baggage claim.  After grabbing my bag from the carousel I hurried to the Hertz rental center, got my keys and drove to my hotel.  I managed to get checked in very quickly and drop my bags in my room; the stars were certainly lining up for me as the sun continued to shine and everything was clicking. 

I googled Mount St Helens, committed my journey to memory, jumped in my rental and headed north up the 205 then the 5 finally turning east on highway 504 toward the Cascade Mountains.  I was immediately stunned at how beautiful the drive was.  Breathtaking views of large pines over rolling hills gave way to a valley and the Toutle River winding along the base of the mountains.  Small communities lined the highway and I thought about how lucky they were to live in such a gorgeous place.

My drive continued up and up the mountains, following the ever growing Toutle River, across mile long bridges suspended several hundred feet above the valley floor. 

I snapped my head back and forth in search of the behemoth volcano, knowing I could easily identify its soft curved top, now mishapened after the eruption.  I also noticed some low lying clouds beginning to form around the tops of the mountains in view, but unfortunately I hadn't reached my goal just yet.

Up and up I drove, rain now beginning to fall.  To my surprise, snow was still lying on the ground.

Up and up I drove and deeper and deeper the snow became.  Now it was getting very foggy and I was getting nervous because I know how quickly the weather can change at higher elevations. 

I was six miles from my destination and the fog was so thick I couldn't see more than a hundred feet in front of me.  I saw the base of Mount St Helens, pulled off the road and kicked a rock, mad that the mountain had hidden itself from me and wondering if God truly wanted me to be miserable.

Suddenly I realized that not only had I seen what seemed like two feet of Mount St Helens (at the base), but now my toe hurt from kicking a large rock.

I turned around and headed back to my hotel.

Fail.

I'm still a guy

I heard a country song on the radio today entitled I'm Still a Guy by Brad Paisley.  I've heard this little diddy a few times over the past few weeks and I really like the tune, but today I paid a little more attention to the lyrics.  Brother Brad discusses pertinent issues such as some guys getting manicures, plucking their eyebrows and having botox injections.  He goes on to let everyone know he ain't that kind of guy; rather, Brad is a gun toting, fishing, hunting, pick up truck driving sort of fella those of his generation always wanted to be.

With that told, I would like to share a recent guy story, because you know.....I'm still a guy.

The wife and my two step daughters were at the house the other evening, standing in the kitchen and talking about whatever it is women talk about.  I caught bits and pieces of the conversation--things like fingernail polish, boyfriends and cooking--not things that typically catch my attention.

Being Asian (and yes, I'm stereotyping here, but it's true) they are all pretty musically inclined, especially the two girls.  Their conversation shifted to music, although I can't state with any certainty what musical topic they were discussing.  What is important, however, is what I interjected into the topic at hand.  And it went a little something like this......

(I felt a rumble down deep in my bowels and understood time was of the essence)

Me: Hey, I can fart the theme to Star Wars.

The three females: *blank stares*

Me: No, seriously.  I can fart the theme to Star Wars.  Wanna hear?

Amanda: Yeah, I want to hear!

Me: *bbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttpppppphhhhhhhhhhhhh*  (insert loud fart sound)

The three females: *looks of horror*

Me: I only know the first note.

Cause I'm still a guy.......

watching paint dry

We are trying to get this house on the market, which means a lot of paint, de-cluttering and yard work.  I'm fortunate that the yard work is minimal (we have a relatively small yard), the wife keeps the house very clean (I mess it up so she has something to do) and beyond the painting, getting the house prepared to sell has been fairly painless.

With all that said, I hate painting.  Once I get my groove on and start rolling it's not so bad.  I put on a little music, do a little popping and locking, occasionally I moonwalk and sing into a paint brush or roller and the time seems to go a little faster.  But still, I hate it.  I know that having a place that's aesthetically pleasing will help it sell, and I know no one wants to walk into a place that looks like a dump.  And even though the prospective new owner will ultimately repaint to his/her liking, this bit of work has to be done.

I hate it.  It makes my back hurt...and I hate complaining, but this makes me complain.  So as I approach the time that I will get yelled at for not getting the painting completed, because I'm blogging instead, I continue to agonize over the taping, moving of furniture, removal of electrical covers and other such mundane crap.

Time to put on some Michael Jackson...and just beat it.