I've just finished watching the news and I'm hopping mad - so incensed that I've been pacing around the house and shouting obscenities at the TV.
Why? Because my taxes are going up, at the hands of the DFL-controlled Minnesota Legislature.
Today, the state House of Representatives voted to overturn Gov. Tim Pawlenty's veto of a $6.6 billion transportation bill (Star Tribune story is here). Why did Pawlenty veto the bill, you ask? Because the DFL got greedy.
The collapse of the I-35W bridge last August brought the state's "crumbling infrastructure," as some have called it, into sharp focus. Lawmakers, political leaders, government officials, and media pundits all began jabbering about our chronically under-funded infrastructure. They had valid points - most of us Minnesotans would probably agree that our roads, generally, aren't in the shape they used to be. (Of course, later the NTSB said that, preliminarily, its investigation was pointing toward a construction flaw that would ultimately doom the I-35W bridge, not some negligence of the Minnesota Department of Transportation and lack of funding...but never mind that.)
Even the governor seemed open to the idea of a gas tax increase, and a lot of Minnesotans along with him. A couple of cents seemed reasonable - a compromise between no taxes and the sky's-the-limit attitude of the DFL. But DFL legislators drafted a transportation bill that would raise it a whopping 8.5 cents per gallon by next year (3.5 cents of that is "temporary," for bonds authorized under the plan, but you can bet they'll find some excuse to keep it permanent). In addition, the bill hikes up the license fees on new cars, and - this one really riles me - enact a new quarter-cent sales tax on the seven-county metro area without a referendum.
Translation: In a year, I'll spend an average of an extra 85 cents every time I fill up my car to satisfy the state's appetite for spending. And I'll be paying an extra 25 cents on every $100 I spend here in the metro area - where I live and do 95 percent of my shopping - even though no one offered to let me vote on it.
That's only a few cents out of anyone's pocket, you may argue. On any given day, that's true. But over time, that money adds up. It especially adds up for the Minnesotans who are struggling to make ends meet, who are facing foreclosure with an adjustable rate mortgage that is about to send their monthly payments skyrocketing, who may have just lost a job as the state's economy teeters on the brink of a recession, and who are paying more and more for food, fuel, energy, and just about every basic necessity.
DFLers probably weren't thinking about those folks when they were congratulating themselves today and celebrating "making history" with the first override of a Pawlenty veto. That might be because your average state legislator won't feel the pinch nearly as much as your average Minnesotan. Many of the legislators who represent us are successful lawyers and businesspeople. Many own their own businesses. Many have incomes that can afford these tax increases. Perhaps, as Gov. Pawlenty suggested, they are a bit out of touch with their party's base.
The veto override passed with 91 votes; 90 were needed. It wasn't exactly along party lines, but close. The few Republicans who supported this bill are taking a lot of heat, and defending themselves by saying they voted on conscience, believing that passing the bill was the right thing to do. I don't take issue with that, providing their vote reflects the majority of the people they represent. But I do take umbrage with the DFL as a whole, crafting such a greedy, bloated bill and then foisting its tax increases onto Minnesotans all at once, at a time when milk is $4.30 a gallon.
The DFL bills itself as the party of farmers, unions, and blue collar workers. But its transportation bill will disproportionately hurt those Minnesotans who are most economically vulnerable.
Since Daddy DFL knows best how to take care of Minnesota, there are a couple of logical next steps: (1) It ought to craft a bill regulating the price of milk and dairy products. And, (2) it ought to immediately suspend all government subsidies for the energy boondoggle otherwise known as ethanol. That would free up even more money for transportation, and in the process, decrease the demand for corn, which is driving up the price of all sorts of goods.
I suppose that's too much to ask - unless, perhaps, it involves a new tax.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Man versus the manhole
More on the subject of this post in a minute. First, the next installment of my great misadventure to Chicago:
Having just heard the pilot announce our maintenance delay, the plane pulled back into the gate. And we sat. After 15 or 20 minutes, we heard from our captain again: They were thinking it was just the indicator, but were going to look at things a bit more closely just to be sure the hydraulics system was functioning normally. Well, OK - no arguments on that. And, he said, they'd have another update in about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, a maintenance truck appeared outside the DC-9 and bundled-up mechanics could occasionally be seen walking near the rear of the aircraft. It wasn't too long before the flaps slid out from their bay in the wing and drooped toward the ground, then retracted. The wing spoilers flapped up in a salute, shaking off some snow. These are parts of the hydraulic system - a good sign.
This captain was punctual, and after that 15 minutes had passed, he had another update. They thought they had discovered the issue, and had fixed it. The paperwork had been completed, and after a few more final systems tests, we "should be ready to go." Hmm. Should isn't exactly the same as will.
So we waited some more. I glanced at my watch and say that our delay was stretching past 9:30; I had two-and-a-half hours to get to Chicago to catch my return flight. It was going to be tight.
By 9:45, snow had piled up visibly on the wings. We still weren't moving, and a maintenance truck was still parked conspicuously underneath my window near the starboard engine. We heard from the captain again: The operations people wanted maintenance to look a bit closer at the problem, because they still weren't convinced it had been fixed. In the mean time, the captain had put in a request to look for a new plane, and had called the gate to get someone to come open the door so we could get off if we wished.
This is never a good sign. Some of the teenagers sitting around me, on the way home from a school trip, started to get antsy. One had a college interview scheduled that afternoon. But clearly, this plane was going nowhere.
Shortly after 10 o'clock, we got word: The gate door had been unlocked, and the plane's door was open. Anyone who wanted to get off could do so.
Naturally, everyone stood up and surged toward the front of the plane like snails fleeing salt.
By the time I stepped off the jetway and back inside the terminal, all 22 rows worth of people ahead of me were in line at the check-in counter to re-book, complain, or God-knows-what. It was clear now that I had no chance of making my noon return flight, so I strolled briskly up the G Concourse until I was several gates away.
I got less skepticism than I expected when I explained my predicament to a couple of gate agents who happened to be at the counter of an otherwise empty boarding area. Maybe I'm not the only one who spends part of a Saturday jetting around the country for fun. They rebooked me on a 2:25 p.m. flight out of Chicago - still on a DC-9, fortunately. I returned back to gate G19 to learn that we had a new plane after all, and a new gate. So it was back the way I'd just been.
The plane was just arriving at the new gate, and the agents told us politely, but firmly, to stay out of the way while its passengers deplaned. What, were they expecting a mad rush of passengers storming the gate door?
Waiting, waiting, waiting. We waited while the plane was cleaned and prepared for us. I munched on Nestle Rasinettes - which I'd brought precisely in case of such a delay - and pondered the scene. Throngs of people crowding every available chair at the gate, tapering flakes outside, gusty winds buffeting the window.
Northwest 126 was scheduled to depart at 9 a.m. It was now going on 11 o'clock. Tune in next time as the adventure continues...with photos!
Now, what you've all been waiting for...our voyeuristic videos of the awesome power of the infamous I-35W manhole geyser. If you're not familiar, Interstate 35W south of Minneapolis has a storm water tunnel underneath it that doesn't have enough capacity for the runoff created by a heavy downpour. All that pressure has to go somewhere, and the result is spectacular. Of course, it's nearly as incredible that the traffic whizzing along seems largely unconcerned with what's happening in the median.
On the other hand, I'd probably stop, too, if I saw that giant manhole cover lying in the middle of the road. But get out of the car to look at it? I don't know what this person was thinking - but I'll bet they were soaked by the time they were sprinting away.
This is as good as anything I saw at Yellowstone. If someone charged admission to watch this sucker spout off live and in person, I'd pay it!
Having just heard the pilot announce our maintenance delay, the plane pulled back into the gate. And we sat. After 15 or 20 minutes, we heard from our captain again: They were thinking it was just the indicator, but were going to look at things a bit more closely just to be sure the hydraulics system was functioning normally. Well, OK - no arguments on that. And, he said, they'd have another update in about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, a maintenance truck appeared outside the DC-9 and bundled-up mechanics could occasionally be seen walking near the rear of the aircraft. It wasn't too long before the flaps slid out from their bay in the wing and drooped toward the ground, then retracted. The wing spoilers flapped up in a salute, shaking off some snow. These are parts of the hydraulic system - a good sign.
This captain was punctual, and after that 15 minutes had passed, he had another update. They thought they had discovered the issue, and had fixed it. The paperwork had been completed, and after a few more final systems tests, we "should be ready to go." Hmm. Should isn't exactly the same as will.
So we waited some more. I glanced at my watch and say that our delay was stretching past 9:30; I had two-and-a-half hours to get to Chicago to catch my return flight. It was going to be tight.
By 9:45, snow had piled up visibly on the wings. We still weren't moving, and a maintenance truck was still parked conspicuously underneath my window near the starboard engine. We heard from the captain again: The operations people wanted maintenance to look a bit closer at the problem, because they still weren't convinced it had been fixed. In the mean time, the captain had put in a request to look for a new plane, and had called the gate to get someone to come open the door so we could get off if we wished.
This is never a good sign. Some of the teenagers sitting around me, on the way home from a school trip, started to get antsy. One had a college interview scheduled that afternoon. But clearly, this plane was going nowhere.
Shortly after 10 o'clock, we got word: The gate door had been unlocked, and the plane's door was open. Anyone who wanted to get off could do so.
Naturally, everyone stood up and surged toward the front of the plane like snails fleeing salt.
By the time I stepped off the jetway and back inside the terminal, all 22 rows worth of people ahead of me were in line at the check-in counter to re-book, complain, or God-knows-what. It was clear now that I had no chance of making my noon return flight, so I strolled briskly up the G Concourse until I was several gates away.
I got less skepticism than I expected when I explained my predicament to a couple of gate agents who happened to be at the counter of an otherwise empty boarding area. Maybe I'm not the only one who spends part of a Saturday jetting around the country for fun. They rebooked me on a 2:25 p.m. flight out of Chicago - still on a DC-9, fortunately. I returned back to gate G19 to learn that we had a new plane after all, and a new gate. So it was back the way I'd just been.
The plane was just arriving at the new gate, and the agents told us politely, but firmly, to stay out of the way while its passengers deplaned. What, were they expecting a mad rush of passengers storming the gate door?
Waiting, waiting, waiting. We waited while the plane was cleaned and prepared for us. I munched on Nestle Rasinettes - which I'd brought precisely in case of such a delay - and pondered the scene. Throngs of people crowding every available chair at the gate, tapering flakes outside, gusty winds buffeting the window.
Northwest 126 was scheduled to depart at 9 a.m. It was now going on 11 o'clock. Tune in next time as the adventure continues...with photos!
Now, what you've all been waiting for...our voyeuristic videos of the awesome power of the infamous I-35W manhole geyser. If you're not familiar, Interstate 35W south of Minneapolis has a storm water tunnel underneath it that doesn't have enough capacity for the runoff created by a heavy downpour. All that pressure has to go somewhere, and the result is spectacular. Of course, it's nearly as incredible that the traffic whizzing along seems largely unconcerned with what's happening in the median.
On the other hand, I'd probably stop, too, if I saw that giant manhole cover lying in the middle of the road. But get out of the car to look at it? I don't know what this person was thinking - but I'll bet they were soaked by the time they were sprinting away.
This is as good as anything I saw at Yellowstone. If someone charged admission to watch this sucker spout off live and in person, I'd pay it!
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The blog is back, Jack
Finally!
We're up and running again. BlogOLink is back.
For a while, it was going passably well: Quasi-regular updates, musings on this and that, and the tale of the saga of the air conditioner. But then came the Great Black Hole...an information blackout that has descended for nearly seven months.
Well, I'm back, and I have a good excuse: Life is what happens when you have other plans, but getting married prevents you from making them in the first place. You must focus, concentrate, and Obey Your Wife.
You fall into new routines, once you're married. You come home at the end of the day, and have dinner together, or watch TV and eat, or watch TV. And you talk. Time on the computer -especially for the man of the house - becomes a string of stolen moments. You have to hop on when your wife isn't paying attention, lest she drag you off, or you must get there before her, or she'll spend the whole night gawking at pictures of dogs in need of adoption on Craigslist.
Eventually, you find your happy mediums. She realizes that she will never keep you away from the computer as much as she prefers, despite her pleas that you exercise more (well, we're working on it). You resign yourself to the fact that you will never be as buff as she, and you feel OK about it. She gives you time for silly hobbies like home computer flight simulator, and you accept the fact that, sooner than later, she's going to bring home a dog.
This is marriage, and so it goes. But you know you'd never be as happy - or enjoy life as much - without her. And so coming home is a pleasure every day.
Perhaps the sign that things in the new marriage are off to a good start, at least, is when you come home from work one evening and say the following to your wife:
"I just had this crazy idea at work today. There's an airfare sale on, and fares to Chicago are dirt cheap. I think I might go there on a Saturday next month...just to fly there and back. It will cost me $110. What do you think?"
About now, the average husband might expect to get a frown, a disapproving look, or an exclamation: "What? You moron! Why would you want to do that?!"
But not my lovely wife. She said, "I think you should go! I think you would appreciate it a lot, and you would have fun."
Score!
Here's the backstory: I wanted to catch a ride on a DC-9. They're a familiar sight to those of us Minnesotans who travel through Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport: slim jets with twin engines at the back of the fuselage and a red T-tail (not to be confused with the much smaller, and much newer, CRJ). Why? Because Northwest is the only airline in North America that still flies the DC-9 on regularly scheduled passenger routes. You'll see a few DC-9s working as cargo haulers, and you'll find them on just a handful of passenger airlines elsewhere in the world. Today, Northwest is the world's largest operator of DC-9s...significant because these planes were built before I was even born.
They're being phased out now, like the 727 before them, in favor of newer, more fuel-efficient aircraft. These are your Airbuses, your next generation Boeings, your Embrarer E-jets, and a new yet-to-be-developed line from Bombardier called the "C Jets." Northwest has the oldest fleet of any of the major U.S. airlines, and the DC-9s are a big reason why. Many of these planes were delivered from the manufacturer more than 30 years ago, to airlines like Eastern and Republic that don't even exist anymore. They're still flying today thanks to a regimen of regular and thorough maintenance checks...the same that any airliner in the U.S. undergoes.
DC-9 pilots have said the jet is built like a tank and flies like a sportscar. But within a few years, you won't hear them thundering through the skies above Minnesota any longer. Every era of aviation eventually comes to an end. And with a looming (possible) merger between Northwest and Delta, there was speculation that the retirement of the DC-9s might be moved up significantly. I didn't want to miss out on another chance to fly them.
So I took advantage of a cheap airfare and bought a round-trip ticket to Chicago for last Saturday. Departing Minneapolis at 9 a.m., and turning around at O'Hare and coming back to MSP over the lunch hour. Both flights on a DC-9. Now that's passion.
Saturday morning saw me up in the pre-dawn hours, and out the door at 7 a.m. for a drive to the Ft. Snelling LRT station park-and-ride. No sense paying to use the ramp at the airport when the park-and-ride was two minutes and $1.50 away by train. Snowflakes swirled through the air as I boarded. True to the schedule, two minutes later I was stepping onto the platform at the airport's cavernous underground LRT station. Up several flights of escalators, I found a check-in kiosk. Going through security was a snap, though I overheard one of the TSA guards tell another that what she was looking at in my bag, via the x-ray machine, was a big camera lens. Fortunately, no one asked questions.
I was at Gate G19 a few minutes later, and settled in a chair by the window to watch the snowflakes fall on the lineup of morning departures. When it was time to begin boarding our plane, the gate agent announced a 10-minute departure delay because of a problem with the plane's PA system. It was fixed by the time we boarded, and everything was squared away for a nearly-on-time pushback of flight 126. The engines spooled up to a throbbing roar.
Then we sat. Two minutes went by. Then the pilot's voice crackled over the PA: "Folks, from the flight deck, we have a hydraulic indicator here, and we need to figure out if we actually have a problem with the system or if it's just the indicator. So we're going to taxi back to the gate and get this figured out. It's probably going to take us 15-20 minutes. We apologize for the delay, and we'll update you as soon as we have more information."
I glanced at my watch. Just under three hours until my return flight from O'Hare was scheduled to depart. And now, another delay. Outside, the snow was falling harder, and the flakes were getting bigger...
We're up and running again. BlogOLink is back.
For a while, it was going passably well: Quasi-regular updates, musings on this and that, and the tale of the saga of the air conditioner. But then came the Great Black Hole...an information blackout that has descended for nearly seven months.
Well, I'm back, and I have a good excuse: Life is what happens when you have other plans, but getting married prevents you from making them in the first place. You must focus, concentrate, and Obey Your Wife.
You fall into new routines, once you're married. You come home at the end of the day, and have dinner together, or watch TV and eat, or watch TV. And you talk. Time on the computer -especially for the man of the house - becomes a string of stolen moments. You have to hop on when your wife isn't paying attention, lest she drag you off, or you must get there before her, or she'll spend the whole night gawking at pictures of dogs in need of adoption on Craigslist.
Eventually, you find your happy mediums. She realizes that she will never keep you away from the computer as much as she prefers, despite her pleas that you exercise more (well, we're working on it). You resign yourself to the fact that you will never be as buff as she, and you feel OK about it. She gives you time for silly hobbies like home computer flight simulator, and you accept the fact that, sooner than later, she's going to bring home a dog.
This is marriage, and so it goes. But you know you'd never be as happy - or enjoy life as much - without her. And so coming home is a pleasure every day.
Perhaps the sign that things in the new marriage are off to a good start, at least, is when you come home from work one evening and say the following to your wife:
"I just had this crazy idea at work today. There's an airfare sale on, and fares to Chicago are dirt cheap. I think I might go there on a Saturday next month...just to fly there and back. It will cost me $110. What do you think?"
About now, the average husband might expect to get a frown, a disapproving look, or an exclamation: "What? You moron! Why would you want to do that?!"
But not my lovely wife. She said, "I think you should go! I think you would appreciate it a lot, and you would have fun."
Score!
Here's the backstory: I wanted to catch a ride on a DC-9. They're a familiar sight to those of us Minnesotans who travel through Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport: slim jets with twin engines at the back of the fuselage and a red T-tail (not to be confused with the much smaller, and much newer, CRJ). Why? Because Northwest is the only airline in North America that still flies the DC-9 on regularly scheduled passenger routes. You'll see a few DC-9s working as cargo haulers, and you'll find them on just a handful of passenger airlines elsewhere in the world. Today, Northwest is the world's largest operator of DC-9s...significant because these planes were built before I was even born.
They're being phased out now, like the 727 before them, in favor of newer, more fuel-efficient aircraft. These are your Airbuses, your next generation Boeings, your Embrarer E-jets, and a new yet-to-be-developed line from Bombardier called the "C Jets." Northwest has the oldest fleet of any of the major U.S. airlines, and the DC-9s are a big reason why. Many of these planes were delivered from the manufacturer more than 30 years ago, to airlines like Eastern and Republic that don't even exist anymore. They're still flying today thanks to a regimen of regular and thorough maintenance checks...the same that any airliner in the U.S. undergoes.
DC-9 pilots have said the jet is built like a tank and flies like a sportscar. But within a few years, you won't hear them thundering through the skies above Minnesota any longer. Every era of aviation eventually comes to an end. And with a looming (possible) merger between Northwest and Delta, there was speculation that the retirement of the DC-9s might be moved up significantly. I didn't want to miss out on another chance to fly them.
So I took advantage of a cheap airfare and bought a round-trip ticket to Chicago for last Saturday. Departing Minneapolis at 9 a.m., and turning around at O'Hare and coming back to MSP over the lunch hour. Both flights on a DC-9. Now that's passion.
Saturday morning saw me up in the pre-dawn hours, and out the door at 7 a.m. for a drive to the Ft. Snelling LRT station park-and-ride. No sense paying to use the ramp at the airport when the park-and-ride was two minutes and $1.50 away by train. Snowflakes swirled through the air as I boarded. True to the schedule, two minutes later I was stepping onto the platform at the airport's cavernous underground LRT station. Up several flights of escalators, I found a check-in kiosk. Going through security was a snap, though I overheard one of the TSA guards tell another that what she was looking at in my bag, via the x-ray machine, was a big camera lens. Fortunately, no one asked questions.
I was at Gate G19 a few minutes later, and settled in a chair by the window to watch the snowflakes fall on the lineup of morning departures. When it was time to begin boarding our plane, the gate agent announced a 10-minute departure delay because of a problem with the plane's PA system. It was fixed by the time we boarded, and everything was squared away for a nearly-on-time pushback of flight 126. The engines spooled up to a throbbing roar.
Then we sat. Two minutes went by. Then the pilot's voice crackled over the PA: "Folks, from the flight deck, we have a hydraulic indicator here, and we need to figure out if we actually have a problem with the system or if it's just the indicator. So we're going to taxi back to the gate and get this figured out. It's probably going to take us 15-20 minutes. We apologize for the delay, and we'll update you as soon as we have more information."
I glanced at my watch. Just under three hours until my return flight from O'Hare was scheduled to depart. And now, another delay. Outside, the snow was falling harder, and the flakes were getting bigger...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Welcome news from Moscow
It was in the midst of whipping together a pot of chili Sunday evening that I happened to glance out the window and see this:
I’ve seen my share of freaky-looking skies, but never anything quite this well endowed. These are mammatus clouds, which form on the underside of thunderstorm clouds where pockets of cool air are sagging into the warm air beneath. “Mammatus” translates roughly as “breast-cloud” in Latin. The sky was the aftermath of another glorious summer storm front moving through, which rained hail the diameter of tennis balls near St. Cloud and caused all sorts wind and flooding havoc around the metro area. As usual, Maple Grove’s Copper Marsh neighborhood was spared of all but a few good downpours. These were more than just the air-cleansing rainstorm; it rained torrents, as though Water had declared war on Oxygen and Nitrogen and was determined to blast every atmospheric molecule back to the random atoms from which they came.
(The weather gods have not always treated our neighborhood with mercy; the window screens on the north side of my house are dimpled, no doubt the enduring calling card of some long-ago hail lashing.)
The air conditioner fix-it man arrived on schedule Friday morning. He dragged all sorts of mysterious looking equipment out of his truck, and the hefty box that contained my new condenser. Soon the old beater was dragged from its languid plastic pad, rattling and groaning and leaking oil like a wounded beast. A clean, level, freshly scrubbed concrete pad replaced it—an altar for my shrine to R-22 Freon—and on the pad, the sparkling, gleaming, spectacular York air conditioner. The old Concept A/C (when they stop at the concept stage and turn it into a brand name, you ought to know you're in trouble) looked like some poor neglected piece of flotsam, dumped behind the house and left to bake in the sun for the last 10 years.
I’ve seen my share of freaky-looking skies, but never anything quite this well endowed. These are mammatus clouds, which form on the underside of thunderstorm clouds where pockets of cool air are sagging into the warm air beneath. “Mammatus” translates roughly as “breast-cloud” in Latin. The sky was the aftermath of another glorious summer storm front moving through, which rained hail the diameter of tennis balls near St. Cloud and caused all sorts wind and flooding havoc around the metro area. As usual, Maple Grove’s Copper Marsh neighborhood was spared of all but a few good downpours. These were more than just the air-cleansing rainstorm; it rained torrents, as though Water had declared war on Oxygen and Nitrogen and was determined to blast every atmospheric molecule back to the random atoms from which they came.
(The weather gods have not always treated our neighborhood with mercy; the window screens on the north side of my house are dimpled, no doubt the enduring calling card of some long-ago hail lashing.)
The air conditioner fix-it man arrived on schedule Friday morning. He dragged all sorts of mysterious looking equipment out of his truck, and the hefty box that contained my new condenser. Soon the old beater was dragged from its languid plastic pad, rattling and groaning and leaking oil like a wounded beast. A clean, level, freshly scrubbed concrete pad replaced it—an altar for my shrine to R-22 Freon—and on the pad, the sparkling, gleaming, spectacular York air conditioner. The old Concept A/C (when they stop at the concept stage and turn it into a brand name, you ought to know you're in trouble) looked like some poor neglected piece of flotsam, dumped behind the house and left to bake in the sun for the last 10 years.
But the new York? Ah, it carries the appearance of a magnificent piece of equipment. Sleek and shiny, with a three-bladed fan. This is a machine…my bride’s ticket to a comfortable, livable home for her parakeets.
Incidentally, when Carlos from Standard Heating & Air Conditioning ripped the coil—the real indoor guts of the system—out from its housing above the furnace, it was covered with corrosion and rust. This, it seemed, was the likely place of the leak. Is this sort of wear normal? I asked. “I’ve seen much worse,” he replied with a chuckle. Hmm. Well, anyway, it is done.
This marvelous installation occurred just in time for the weekend’s blast-furnace heat: 98 degrees on Saturday! And 103 in and around the car at a church parking lot; I ventured out for a wedding—another friend from high school is hitched. Now I’m the next “another friend from high school.” Saturday’s wedding was a major reality check, for Sunday was the official two-months-to-go mark. With Jenni away, I celebrated in the best fashion possible under the circumstances: a major water change in the fish tank; clipping coupons; and taking an online defensive driving test (“Now available in Spanish!”) to get a lower rate on my car insurance (Did you know, for instance, that if you decide to pass a car going 50 mph in a 55-mph zone on a two-lane road, you will be in the oncoming lane of traffic for two miles? What’s that, you say? Why would it take that long, and why on earth would anyone drive in the oncoming lane for two miles? That’s crazy! Well, you’d be right…but our friends at the National Safety Council certainly do not want you to break the law by speeding. Thus the two-mile-long passing maneuver, because you can only legally go 55 mph. But I also learned some useful facts: between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. on weekend nights, and average of one in every five drivers on the road is intoxicated. Think about that next time you’re cruising down 35W or I-94 late on a Saturday night. Shudder.).
And then mid-morning Monday, the Greatest Thing All Week took place: An E-Mail From Jenni! This showed up spontaneously around 10 a.m.—or 7 p.m. Russia time. The subject: “I’m Alive!” Yes, she arrived alive and with no problems. And she’s fine. Having a good time, working with the kids, seeing some sights, and feeling safe. Apparently, she went into Moscow to see St. Basil’s with her counselor counterpart, a guy named Branndon, who is “very nice” and has “traveled a lot” and “knows what he is doing.” So, no worries! My fiancée is seeing the wonderful sights of Europe with a guy she just met who is well traveled and very nice.
Well. Three cheers for that. But it is better that he is well-traveled than not, I suppose.
Of course I know that everything will be fine. I appreciate your intention of telling me so, but I know that. It’s just my job to worry—as both the left behind fiancé, and because Jenni rarely ever worries about anything. I feel a bit obligated to pick up her slack.
Truly, though, I am relieved that she is OK doing well. Regrettably, she added that it took her 45 minutes to log on to the Internet and write a short e-mail, so she would not be doing so again and we will have to hear from her again until she arrives at MSP next Wednesday evening.
RIP, Concept 10.
Incidentally, when Carlos from Standard Heating & Air Conditioning ripped the coil—the real indoor guts of the system—out from its housing above the furnace, it was covered with corrosion and rust. This, it seemed, was the likely place of the leak. Is this sort of wear normal? I asked. “I’ve seen much worse,” he replied with a chuckle. Hmm. Well, anyway, it is done.
This marvelous installation occurred just in time for the weekend’s blast-furnace heat: 98 degrees on Saturday! And 103 in and around the car at a church parking lot; I ventured out for a wedding—another friend from high school is hitched. Now I’m the next “another friend from high school.” Saturday’s wedding was a major reality check, for Sunday was the official two-months-to-go mark. With Jenni away, I celebrated in the best fashion possible under the circumstances: a major water change in the fish tank; clipping coupons; and taking an online defensive driving test (“Now available in Spanish!”) to get a lower rate on my car insurance (Did you know, for instance, that if you decide to pass a car going 50 mph in a 55-mph zone on a two-lane road, you will be in the oncoming lane of traffic for two miles? What’s that, you say? Why would it take that long, and why on earth would anyone drive in the oncoming lane for two miles? That’s crazy! Well, you’d be right…but our friends at the National Safety Council certainly do not want you to break the law by speeding. Thus the two-mile-long passing maneuver, because you can only legally go 55 mph. But I also learned some useful facts: between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. on weekend nights, and average of one in every five drivers on the road is intoxicated. Think about that next time you’re cruising down 35W or I-94 late on a Saturday night. Shudder.).
And then mid-morning Monday, the Greatest Thing All Week took place: An E-Mail From Jenni! This showed up spontaneously around 10 a.m.—or 7 p.m. Russia time. The subject: “I’m Alive!” Yes, she arrived alive and with no problems. And she’s fine. Having a good time, working with the kids, seeing some sights, and feeling safe. Apparently, she went into Moscow to see St. Basil’s with her counselor counterpart, a guy named Branndon, who is “very nice” and has “traveled a lot” and “knows what he is doing.” So, no worries! My fiancée is seeing the wonderful sights of Europe with a guy she just met who is well traveled and very nice.
Well. Three cheers for that. But it is better that he is well-traveled than not, I suppose.
Of course I know that everything will be fine. I appreciate your intention of telling me so, but I know that. It’s just my job to worry—as both the left behind fiancé, and because Jenni rarely ever worries about anything. I feel a bit obligated to pick up her slack.
Truly, though, I am relieved that she is OK doing well. Regrettably, she added that it took her 45 minutes to log on to the Internet and write a short e-mail, so she would not be doing so again and we will have to hear from her again until she arrives at MSP next Wednesday evening.
RIP, Concept 10.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
No fireworks this Fourth
Thirty minutes to fireworks. Another Fourth of July...er, Independence Day...is about to culminate with colorful, thundering explosions spreading across the night sky. And my fiancee is a thousand miles away.
As I write, Jenni is sitting inside a Boeing 767, hurtling through night at 600 miles an hour 34,000 feet above the North Atlantic. She's on her way to Russia, where she'll be spending two weeks at a camp, leading activities for Russian children to help them learn English and a little teamwork, too. It's quite an adventure for her, while those of us left behind are worrying about bribes, kidnapping, corruption, stolen passports, and all of the other wonderful things Russia is known for. If all goes according to plan, Jenni's plane will touch down at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport about 2:30 a.m. Minnesota time. Then she's off to the Mr. English camp. Yes, that's the name of the organization that runs this camp. Apparently it's a large, well-known English school over there. Not exactly the sort of name that instills confidence.
My Fourth began at the dew-soaked hour of 5:45 a.m. Jenni woke me up so we could chow breakfast, say au revoir to her parents, and head off to the airport. Between stupid "express" check-in kiosks that didn't work, questions about frequent flyer miles, and attaching luggage tags, it took us nearly an hour to get squared away at ticketing. We steered away from the huge heard of sheep in the security screening line by the Delta counters and headed over to Northwest ticketing territory. Then it was a teary goodbye, and off Jenni went. Into the line...through the screening gate...belt off, back through again...beyond to collect her things, then one more wave goodbye before she disappeared into the terminal.
I stood there for a minute, thinking about her adventure ahead. It's never fun to be left behind. But that's life...and so it was back to the car to grab the camera. As a dutiful husband-to-be, I wasn't about to leave without watching Jenni's plane climb into the haze. So I wandered around until I found the elevators up to the top of the parking ramp. Level 7. Hot up there, under the already burning sun. Lots of long-term cars, but no people. Strangely deserted, even though nearly every spot was full. I found a great vantage point where I could see the plane at the gate and fired off a few shots. Watched it push back, heard the howl of the engines firing up, and watched it taxi. I've never see the airport so quiet. The Delta MD-88 had a wide-open taxiway and was first in line for departure. Ten minutes after it started to push back from the gate, it was rolling down Runway 30R (that's pronounced "three-zero-right"). I watched the jet, trailing smoky exhaust, until it disappeared into the haze. Jenni was off to Atlanta, where she'd connect through to Moscow.
Back to the car again, and a quick exit from the airport after forking over my $7 tariff for the goodbye and the departure spotting. Here was a holiday, a day off, and so far I'd kissed my fiancee goodbye to the clutches of the Soviets and paid seven bucks to do it.
As I write, Jenni is sitting inside a Boeing 767, hurtling through night at 600 miles an hour 34,000 feet above the North Atlantic. She's on her way to Russia, where she'll be spending two weeks at a camp, leading activities for Russian children to help them learn English and a little teamwork, too. It's quite an adventure for her, while those of us left behind are worrying about bribes, kidnapping, corruption, stolen passports, and all of the other wonderful things Russia is known for. If all goes according to plan, Jenni's plane will touch down at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport about 2:30 a.m. Minnesota time. Then she's off to the Mr. English camp. Yes, that's the name of the organization that runs this camp. Apparently it's a large, well-known English school over there. Not exactly the sort of name that instills confidence.
My Fourth began at the dew-soaked hour of 5:45 a.m. Jenni woke me up so we could chow breakfast, say au revoir to her parents, and head off to the airport. Between stupid "express" check-in kiosks that didn't work, questions about frequent flyer miles, and attaching luggage tags, it took us nearly an hour to get squared away at ticketing. We steered away from the huge heard of sheep in the security screening line by the Delta counters and headed over to Northwest ticketing territory. Then it was a teary goodbye, and off Jenni went. Into the line...through the screening gate...belt off, back through again...beyond to collect her things, then one more wave goodbye before she disappeared into the terminal.
I stood there for a minute, thinking about her adventure ahead. It's never fun to be left behind. But that's life...and so it was back to the car to grab the camera. As a dutiful husband-to-be, I wasn't about to leave without watching Jenni's plane climb into the haze. So I wandered around until I found the elevators up to the top of the parking ramp. Level 7. Hot up there, under the already burning sun. Lots of long-term cars, but no people. Strangely deserted, even though nearly every spot was full. I found a great vantage point where I could see the plane at the gate and fired off a few shots. Watched it push back, heard the howl of the engines firing up, and watched it taxi. I've never see the airport so quiet. The Delta MD-88 had a wide-open taxiway and was first in line for departure. Ten minutes after it started to push back from the gate, it was rolling down Runway 30R (that's pronounced "three-zero-right"). I watched the jet, trailing smoky exhaust, until it disappeared into the haze. Jenni was off to Atlanta, where she'd connect through to Moscow.
Back to the car again, and a quick exit from the airport after forking over my $7 tariff for the goodbye and the departure spotting. Here was a holiday, a day off, and so far I'd kissed my fiancee goodbye to the clutches of the Soviets and paid seven bucks to do it.
So why not spend more money? I did just what Jenni recommended: Went to PetCo and bought another fish. A guppy, with a leopard-print tail and beautiful iridescent coloring. This brings the total number of fish in the tank to 15, after adding a rosy barb, dwarf gourami, and some little algae-eater, whose scientific name I can't remember, last Friday. Then went to Cub to buy ice cream at a BOGO-with-a-coupon sale.
Back at the homestead, the guppy was released into the tank. The zebra danio, self-appointed welcoming committee, chased the hell out of the guppy, who made a hasty retreat to the protection of the fake plants. He's been there all day.
Later, I went to St. Cloud for a family gathering and delicious food. Saw two bald eagles soar down the river valley at eye level - very appropriate for today. Back home this evening, checked the progress of Jenni's flight on Flight Aware several times, and eventually dragged myself out for a quick jog at nine o'clock.
The neighborhood was typical Fourth in suburbia. Clouds of smoke hung over backyards; I caught whiffs of tangy sulfur as I ran. Through the park, the path bore the scars of pyromania: white-gray burn marks and blown-up bits of cardboard. Further along, a backyard family gathering was in full swing. Some bright-witted adult gave all the kiddies - some who were clearly not older than kindergarten-age - sparklers. They pranced and squealed while sparks flew. Injury seemed inevitable.
Later on, I saw more "fireworks"...the legal (boring) kind that spout vibrant glowing embers onto the driveway. When will Minnesota's legislature stop saving us from ourselves? I say, legalize all of the fun fireworks (bottle rockets, roman candles, low-grade explosives, you name it), give us the annual lecture about being careful, and turn us loose to let natural selection take its course. We swim at our own risk...why can't it be the same when it comes to blowing things up?
It's after 10 now. Full-swing firework time. Time to click on the news. Meanwhile, Jenni's plane is well off the Newfoundland coast, six hours out of Atlanta, with another four to go.
Think I'll have some ice cream.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Off the treadmill
Finally, back to the blog. I thought I was lax in not posting for a few days earlier this month. And now here it's been two weeks. But I shall plead having good reasons, namely in the form of socialization and particularly wedding planning, that have kept me running on the scheduled-to-the-hilt treadmill. This isn't just an ordinary treadmill, but a turbo powered model. And it's sitting on the edge of Palisade Head. (For the untraveled, this is a 300-foot sheer cliff towering above the icy waters of Lake Superior. If the fall doesn't kill you, the frigid lake surely will.) So this is how it's been for the last couple of weeks: Run on the treadmill of work and commitments, and don't stop, or it's over the edge you go. There, certain death waits, because your wife-to-be won't stand for you falling behind on your Important Pre-Wedding To Do list.
It doesn't help when it's irritably boiling hot outdoors. Seems like it was near 90 degrees for a week straight. We were saved by a cold front that rippled through on Tuesday. The wind picked up out of the northwest and swept the heat and humidity back to the south. The last two mornings I have awoken to a chilly room and the sound of rustling leaves outside. Almost like early fall. Fantastic. The Canadian cold front and the cool "exhaust" that follows it after a summer heat wave are one of the best experiences of summer.
Anyway, here's rundown update:
Thursday, June 14 - Standard Heating and Air Conditioning sent an air conditioner life-support technician out to the house. I expected to come home from work, let him in, and watch him work his magic in short order. Oh, but the news wasn't good. He explained most expertly that the system had a coolant leak - one so severe that there was hardly any freon left in the system. Freon, of course, is what gives the air conditioner its coldness...so no R-22, no cold air. This explains why I'd run the system for 24 hours to find that the house had actually gotten warmer. And the news got worse: A freon leak is the equivalent of advanced, malignant cancer that has spread to the brain, heart, lungs and extremities: We're talking weeks, not months. Leaks are usually in a worst-case-scenario location - although it would cost nearly $300 to locate and even then, probably wouldn't be a simple fix. The technician was able to perform a tune-up to get the AC running temporarily, but the end diagnosis was grim: Given the age of the system, and the likelihood that other components would fail in the next five years, replacement was undoubtedly the best option. Today's systems are built to be replaced, not repaired. With these glad tidings, thus began my three-day weekend.
Friday-Sunday, June 15-17 - Took work off on Friday. Just for fun. Jenni and I went to St. Cloud to house-sit for my dad and Jamie, who were in Wyoming. The house-sitting gig is a good one; hang out at home, water the grass and mow the lawn, and enjoy the surrounding woods and big-screen TV. We also ventured out for a 30-mile bike ride on the Lake Wobegon Trail, riding from Avon to Albany to Holdingford and back. My friend Kristen used to work across the street from Albany's landmark Kraft cheese plant, so I related to Jenni Kristen's experiences of coming out to her car after work to fine small bits of cheese dust coating her car, not unlike a light coating of orange snow. One memorable day the plant suffered a malfunction and large chunks of cheese went blowing out of its stacks, causing the Kraft folks to send a clean-up crew out to Railroad Avenue and sweep/shovel/wipe of the clods of cheddar that had decorated downtown. A good episode for Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon, if anything. Leaving the cheese factory behind, we pedaled past picturesque farmland, shady forests, and fragrant meadows underneath the expansive prairie sky. (We also biked past a flock of sheep; Jenni baaa-ed. My response: "No pets!")
Monday, June 18 - New fish came home! My aquarium hit the up-and-running-for-a-month mark, so I brought a sample of water to PetCo and got the green light on water quality. Time to add a few residents to the tank! I brought home two albino corydora catfish and three vibrant neon tetras.The corys are a type of catfish; by scouring the bottom, rocks, and plants looking for food, they keep the tank clean. The neons are pure eye candy. Their iridescence, flashing electric blue and red, makes me smile every time I enter the dining room.
Tuesday, June 19 - Had another wedding meeting this day. We sat down with our church's musical director to figure out songs for the ceremony. I thought this was going to be long and difficult and almost didn't go. But Jenni prodded gently, so along I went. Actually, it was enjoyable. The musical director had good suggestions, and I rescued our opening hymn from a somber-sounding "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee" (sung to "Ode to Joy") to something more contemporary and cheery ("Gather Us In," a song I'm sure Catholic readers know well). Marriage is about compromise, but sometimes you have to stick to your guns. (Jenni still got her "Ode to Joy" music in a delightful arrangement that will be our processional.)
The rest of the week - It flew by. Jenni's friends Kay and Jake joined us for dinner on Wednesday. We've entered that stage of grown-up-ness where we often hang with couples, and more and more of them are married. Not that I mind, because Jake and Kay are loads of fun. They returned the favor by having us over on Saturday evening for steaks. And mutual friends Amy and Brodie joined us. Our group of six then romped around the yard until dark playing bocce ball. The women won; luck was on their side.
Also brought more new fish home on Saturday. Two gold dust mollies - small fish aptly named for their color - are adding another burst of color to the tank. And two more neons joined the mix. The neons are a shoaling fish, meaning they are happiest in a school, and preferably at least five, thank you. The new neons immediately joined up with the fledgling school, and the new group seems happier now that they are a more legitimate size.
This week's free time has been devoted largely to wedding prep, getting invitations ready to go out the door. I used Adobe InDesign - purchased for our computer with Jenni's educational discount at Minnesota State University Mankato - to design a whiz-bang invitation insert with a top-notch map. Finally, I am contributing. I was most pleased with the result.
Now, as this week is drawing to a close, I have to get install crew from Standard Heating scheduled. A superbly knowledgeable and helpful guy name Zack came out to to the homestead last Friday to give me the official estimate on a new air conditioning system. Ouch. These things aren't cheap. So ironic that a week after I get a raise, I learn that it will be all spent - and then some - on keeping the house cool. But the upside is that we will have a brand-new system, expertly installed, that is more energy efficient and comes with a five-year warranty.
My only consolation is that the current system is old enough and cheap enough that we would likely have to replace it anyway before we sell the house. So there it is. Some things you just don't wait on.
More fish coming home tomorrow!
It doesn't help when it's irritably boiling hot outdoors. Seems like it was near 90 degrees for a week straight. We were saved by a cold front that rippled through on Tuesday. The wind picked up out of the northwest and swept the heat and humidity back to the south. The last two mornings I have awoken to a chilly room and the sound of rustling leaves outside. Almost like early fall. Fantastic. The Canadian cold front and the cool "exhaust" that follows it after a summer heat wave are one of the best experiences of summer.
Anyway, here's rundown update:
Thursday, June 14 - Standard Heating and Air Conditioning sent an air conditioner life-support technician out to the house. I expected to come home from work, let him in, and watch him work his magic in short order. Oh, but the news wasn't good. He explained most expertly that the system had a coolant leak - one so severe that there was hardly any freon left in the system. Freon, of course, is what gives the air conditioner its coldness...so no R-22, no cold air. This explains why I'd run the system for 24 hours to find that the house had actually gotten warmer. And the news got worse: A freon leak is the equivalent of advanced, malignant cancer that has spread to the brain, heart, lungs and extremities: We're talking weeks, not months. Leaks are usually in a worst-case-scenario location - although it would cost nearly $300 to locate and even then, probably wouldn't be a simple fix. The technician was able to perform a tune-up to get the AC running temporarily, but the end diagnosis was grim: Given the age of the system, and the likelihood that other components would fail in the next five years, replacement was undoubtedly the best option. Today's systems are built to be replaced, not repaired. With these glad tidings, thus began my three-day weekend.
Friday-Sunday, June 15-17 - Took work off on Friday. Just for fun. Jenni and I went to St. Cloud to house-sit for my dad and Jamie, who were in Wyoming. The house-sitting gig is a good one; hang out at home, water the grass and mow the lawn, and enjoy the surrounding woods and big-screen TV. We also ventured out for a 30-mile bike ride on the Lake Wobegon Trail, riding from Avon to Albany to Holdingford and back. My friend Kristen used to work across the street from Albany's landmark Kraft cheese plant, so I related to Jenni Kristen's experiences of coming out to her car after work to fine small bits of cheese dust coating her car, not unlike a light coating of orange snow. One memorable day the plant suffered a malfunction and large chunks of cheese went blowing out of its stacks, causing the Kraft folks to send a clean-up crew out to Railroad Avenue and sweep/shovel/wipe of the clods of cheddar that had decorated downtown. A good episode for Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon, if anything. Leaving the cheese factory behind, we pedaled past picturesque farmland, shady forests, and fragrant meadows underneath the expansive prairie sky. (We also biked past a flock of sheep; Jenni baaa-ed. My response: "No pets!")
Monday, June 18 - New fish came home! My aquarium hit the up-and-running-for-a-month mark, so I brought a sample of water to PetCo and got the green light on water quality. Time to add a few residents to the tank! I brought home two albino corydora catfish and three vibrant neon tetras.The corys are a type of catfish; by scouring the bottom, rocks, and plants looking for food, they keep the tank clean. The neons are pure eye candy. Their iridescence, flashing electric blue and red, makes me smile every time I enter the dining room.
Tuesday, June 19 - Had another wedding meeting this day. We sat down with our church's musical director to figure out songs for the ceremony. I thought this was going to be long and difficult and almost didn't go. But Jenni prodded gently, so along I went. Actually, it was enjoyable. The musical director had good suggestions, and I rescued our opening hymn from a somber-sounding "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee" (sung to "Ode to Joy") to something more contemporary and cheery ("Gather Us In," a song I'm sure Catholic readers know well). Marriage is about compromise, but sometimes you have to stick to your guns. (Jenni still got her "Ode to Joy" music in a delightful arrangement that will be our processional.)
The rest of the week - It flew by. Jenni's friends Kay and Jake joined us for dinner on Wednesday. We've entered that stage of grown-up-ness where we often hang with couples, and more and more of them are married. Not that I mind, because Jake and Kay are loads of fun. They returned the favor by having us over on Saturday evening for steaks. And mutual friends Amy and Brodie joined us. Our group of six then romped around the yard until dark playing bocce ball. The women won; luck was on their side.
Also brought more new fish home on Saturday. Two gold dust mollies - small fish aptly named for their color - are adding another burst of color to the tank. And two more neons joined the mix. The neons are a shoaling fish, meaning they are happiest in a school, and preferably at least five, thank you. The new neons immediately joined up with the fledgling school, and the new group seems happier now that they are a more legitimate size.
This week's free time has been devoted largely to wedding prep, getting invitations ready to go out the door. I used Adobe InDesign - purchased for our computer with Jenni's educational discount at Minnesota State University Mankato - to design a whiz-bang invitation insert with a top-notch map. Finally, I am contributing. I was most pleased with the result.
Now, as this week is drawing to a close, I have to get install crew from Standard Heating scheduled. A superbly knowledgeable and helpful guy name Zack came out to to the homestead last Friday to give me the official estimate on a new air conditioning system. Ouch. These things aren't cheap. So ironic that a week after I get a raise, I learn that it will be all spent - and then some - on keeping the house cool. But the upside is that we will have a brand-new system, expertly installed, that is more energy efficient and comes with a five-year warranty.
My only consolation is that the current system is old enough and cheap enough that we would likely have to replace it anyway before we sell the house. So there it is. Some things you just don't wait on.
More fish coming home tomorrow!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wherefore art thou air conditioning?
Please accept my apologies for not posting in nearly a week. I have been having an indoor climate emergency at the homestead. Since I am dashing off a quick update from the office this morning, I must be brief. These stolen moments we have together! How they make my heart pound with anticipation! And what if we're caught?! Oh, the intensity of it all.
Anyway. The office is as dead quiet as a morgue. So here it is:
We did make it to the top of the Rainbow Foods in Richfield. Pictures later. New experience: Picnic dinner on the roof of a grocery store. I'm glad I had the camera along. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Pre-wedding discussionfest - a.k.a. Engagement Encounter - was long, but Jenni and I had some good discussions. Plus our hosts served us burgers and some tasty prone-to-squirting-liquid-butter-out-of-the-center breaded chicken a la rice pilaf (separate meals, obviously). Arm ached all weekend from the tetanus booster. Oh, well. If I step on a nail anytime in the next 10 years it will be worth it.
Not feeling so well Monday. Got through the workday, came home to a hot house, turned on the fans. Long story short, decided to click on the air conditioner before bed to cool down the indoors. Woke up still feeling like I had the flu coming on, so I called in sick. Strangely enough, the blower fan and air conditioner were still running. Groggy, I tumbled back into bed. Hours passed. I finally emerged early in the afternoon. I felt better, but hot. The house was stuffy. The air conditioner was still running, the vent still blowing lukewarm air, and it was HOT in the house. Eighty-three degrees in the dining room, where my theromostat presides over the household.
The awful truth: something in the homestead's HVAC system was drastically wrong. I had run the air conditioner for 14 hours - constantly, it seemed - and the indoor temperature had actually gone UP. Of course, by the time I figured this out and called the fix-it man, the splashes of sunlight on the living room floor were lengthening. The earliest I could get a repair? Thursday afternoon.
By 6 o'clock Tuesday it was 87 degrees in my living room. Thankfully Jenni had arrived and we dashed off to a wedding planning meeting at our (air conditioned) church. When we returned, thus began the regimen of the last couple of days - open every window in the house as the sky turned dusky, turn on the fans, and hope for the best overnight. In the morning, turn off the fans, close the windows, close every shade and curtain, and hope the house can retain some relative coolness. I say relative because it hasn't gotten much cooler than about 70 or the high 60s at night, which isn't enough to keep the house cool when its 90 during the day.
I considered updating the blog last night, but my computer's cooling fan was whirring angrily and I feared that if I ran it much longer it would melt into an oozy puddle of circuitry and colorful mutated plastic. So alas, no updates until today.
The fix-it man should be along this afternoon. I shall leave work early to meet him. Fingers are crossed that all will be comfortably cool in a few hours...
Anyway. The office is as dead quiet as a morgue. So here it is:
We did make it to the top of the Rainbow Foods in Richfield. Pictures later. New experience: Picnic dinner on the roof of a grocery store. I'm glad I had the camera along. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Pre-wedding discussionfest - a.k.a. Engagement Encounter - was long, but Jenni and I had some good discussions. Plus our hosts served us burgers and some tasty prone-to-squirting-liquid-butter-out-of-the-center breaded chicken a la rice pilaf (separate meals, obviously). Arm ached all weekend from the tetanus booster. Oh, well. If I step on a nail anytime in the next 10 years it will be worth it.
Not feeling so well Monday. Got through the workday, came home to a hot house, turned on the fans. Long story short, decided to click on the air conditioner before bed to cool down the indoors. Woke up still feeling like I had the flu coming on, so I called in sick. Strangely enough, the blower fan and air conditioner were still running. Groggy, I tumbled back into bed. Hours passed. I finally emerged early in the afternoon. I felt better, but hot. The house was stuffy. The air conditioner was still running, the vent still blowing lukewarm air, and it was HOT in the house. Eighty-three degrees in the dining room, where my theromostat presides over the household.
The awful truth: something in the homestead's HVAC system was drastically wrong. I had run the air conditioner for 14 hours - constantly, it seemed - and the indoor temperature had actually gone UP. Of course, by the time I figured this out and called the fix-it man, the splashes of sunlight on the living room floor were lengthening. The earliest I could get a repair? Thursday afternoon.
By 6 o'clock Tuesday it was 87 degrees in my living room. Thankfully Jenni had arrived and we dashed off to a wedding planning meeting at our (air conditioned) church. When we returned, thus began the regimen of the last couple of days - open every window in the house as the sky turned dusky, turn on the fans, and hope for the best overnight. In the morning, turn off the fans, close the windows, close every shade and curtain, and hope the house can retain some relative coolness. I say relative because it hasn't gotten much cooler than about 70 or the high 60s at night, which isn't enough to keep the house cool when its 90 during the day.
I considered updating the blog last night, but my computer's cooling fan was whirring angrily and I feared that if I ran it much longer it would melt into an oozy puddle of circuitry and colorful mutated plastic. So alas, no updates until today.
The fix-it man should be along this afternoon. I shall leave work early to meet him. Fingers are crossed that all will be comfortably cool in a few hours...
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