My brother wrote a stand-up routine. I have a brother. He's the one that didn't show up in an earlier post because he almost didn't show up in time for my visit. Here are some highlights (in my humble opinion) of the jokes that might almost make him famous.
Man, I remember growing up.... Today what happens, you scrape your knee you get antiseptic, anti infection, a tetinous shot and a band aid. Back in the day you get a “Well better be more careful next time”. If you weren’t gushing blood nobody cared. Or if you did cut yourself my dad would clean it off with that greasy yellow slime that mechanics used to wash their hands, and it always has oil streaks through it from the last guy who used it. After you wash the wound with penzoil 10W 30, they put that orange stuff on it. Nobody knew the healing power of this particular liquid, we just know it burnt like hell.
Nothing is considered safe anymore and if you want anything remotely dangerous, you have to fill out paperwork, be a legal U.S. citizen, of age, and suffer through a 3 day waiting period. My brother when he was 4 years old almost cut his thumb off with a hatchet. Let me repeat that for ya, MY BROTHER, AT AGE 4 ALMOST CUT HIS THUMB OFF WITH A HATCHET. This was 1985, a person who can barely put sentences together severs his finger with a kid sized axe. Basically all my dad said after the bleeding stopped was, “It was his first time using that hatchet, I hope he learned his lesson.”
I remember, from what my parents told me, that when I was 3 years old I set my bedroom floor on fire by putting crayons into a toaster oven. Appliances today have all these gadgets on them to try and prevent anyone from injuring themselves, but 20 years ago a 3 year old kid could commit arson with some colored wax and a mini kitchen.
Kids today have child proof Tupperware containers for corrosive and hazardous materials. Do you remember what we had? Mr. Yuck stickers. That’s right that little green face meant DON’T TOUCH!!! But they never worked, one because they were always half scratched off anyway, and I basically just referred to them as Mr. Curiosity.
I was a middle child growing up though. Well I guess I still am. I have one older brother and 2 younger sisters. So my brother and my younger sister would always get new everything. New clothes, new toys, and I was stuck with my brother's hand me downs. So there I was going into 6th grade with a faded ninja turtles T shirt and some acid wash jeans. I can’t complain though, I love my brother, we had a lot of fun growing up. We lived on a farm, miles from anyone and neither of us were cool so we didn’t have any friends, so my brother was my best friend. It was great though, he always included me. My brother and I would always invent things, like booby traps. And my brother, being the smart, considerate and cautious brother that he was, knew that in order to ensure the success of said inventions we would have to test them. Yeah he included me big time. “Hey Matt, stick your foot in this rope and I’ll release the counterweight.” Wooosh. “Great that one works, now get down so we can test the next one.”
But growing up with few friends and on a farm, we had a blast. We used to run around and try and jump the holes in the loft. We’d pretend to drive tractors, then we’d try and pretend that it wasn’t us who got it stuck in the mud. But being a small child in our generation and growing up on a farm was not the best combination. Some of my dad’s favorite sayings were; “You have small fingers, try and unscrew that bolt that’s lodged in the combine there. The darn thing won’t spin.” Or also “Your kinda tiny why don’t you climb up that small chute and unclog it so the grain falls down again.”
Oh, such a {insert your own adjective here} picture he paints. Takes me right back, it does. The funniest part for me is actually remembering many of those things and thinking how the truth is indeed stranger than fiction. And may even get you put in a foster home.
Thanks for the memories, Matt!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
fallout
You all remember Luna, right? Well, she loved it here so much she left me a parting gift.
Fleas.
And they're hungry. I've vacuumed, washed my blankets, and still they persist. I think I can maybe starve them out-- I only sleep here, really. But the problem is they get so hungry during the day they just leap upon my legs with no mercy the moment I walk in the door. It's quite unnerving, really.
I don't know which is more disturbing: that I have fleas in my house, or that they are so visibly active.
Any suggestions? Or should I just move out?
Fleas.
And they're hungry. I've vacuumed, washed my blankets, and still they persist. I think I can maybe starve them out-- I only sleep here, really. But the problem is they get so hungry during the day they just leap upon my legs with no mercy the moment I walk in the door. It's quite unnerving, really.
I don't know which is more disturbing: that I have fleas in my house, or that they are so visibly active.
Any suggestions? Or should I just move out?
Friday, August 24, 2007
disclaimer
I’m tired. Week one of the boss’s vacation is over for me! Only one more to go. German #2 is still out with her hand injury—the pig-hand transplant is still healing. Needless to say, we haven’t been up to snuff.
This is the part where I mention my wonderful family—that mysterious bunch that hasn’t yet appeared here. I’m not really sure why. I was going to write about my visit home—a camping trip, my family reunion, the County Fair, my brother’s visit, and the disaster that was the dinner I tried to prepare. But I came home, and my life started happening again. Then I forgot everything. A psychological defense mechanism? Of course not! Wink!
My visit to Pennsylvania was just that—a visit. It didn’t feel like a homecoming, but certainly not to my family’s discredit. I always feel welcome in their home, but it is their home, not mine. My parents moved into a new house a year after I moved to Massachusetts. I’ve never lived in that house. I’ve never had a room or space that was mine there, so visits are never returns; it’s a new place to me. I have no fond memories of afternoons on that back porch, or evenings spent in that kitchen. I don’t have a favorite seat in the living room, a place to hang my toothbrush in the bathroom, or even a favorite way to sneak out late at night.
I guess that’s the most effective (if not the final) nail in the coffin of my childhood. Although I’ve been living away from my parents for the last seven years, have a real job, and now my own house, I’ve still felt very much like a child at times. Knowing that my parents’ home is not mine has deepened the realization that these new things and experiences are my own, and nobody else’s.
Wow, that was a whole lot of self-disclosure. Now onto the shallow drivel about the rest of the trip.
Because my youngest sister was gone for the first four days of my visit, I reaped the benefit of having a room to sleep in! I always feel funny about displacing Ari, so her absence made my nights a little less uneasy. Also, Ali, my mom and I got to take a short camping trip while heading out to collect Ari from soccer camp. I haven’t gone camping in nearly a year—it’s good to see the sport hasn’t changed much: run around frantically a few hours before departure trying to gather and fit more things than we probably need into the back of the van. It was nice to sleep in a tent again and do some catching up with my mom and sister.
Later in the week was Houtzdale Days. Because my parents are such involved parents, they helped organize and staff the 4-H club’s nacho concession at the festival. That meant three nights of wandering around the tarted-up block and sitting under the green and white canopy, making sure the kids weren’t setting fire to anybody. I got to experience some of the finest culture Houtzdale has to offer, and even get in a few rounds of ‘Spot the Cadaver—Digicam Edition’ with my mom. I seem to have misplaced my winning shots….
I got back from a side trip just in time for a family reunion. Getting to see cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents that I haven’t seen in a long time was really nice. I got to talk about my crazy plans of quitting my job, becoming homeless, and wandering nearly aimlessly around Europe. Everybody is SO excited for me. Of course, there were also all the other second- and twice removed-s that I still have no clue to their identities, so I had to play it cool and talk all like I know the scoop. I did, however, manage to have a few pretty worthwhile conversations about traveling (I need to get to Alaska and Mexico one of these days), and we had a great scavenger hunt. My team, the Lollipop Guild (my grade school cousins have NO IDEA what that is) blew all the other teams out of the water, thank you very much.
And then the County Fair. What can I say about the good old Clearfield County Fair? Well, I guess it’s been going on a long time. For over 30 years, my family had been taking dairy cows to put on display there, and my sibs and I even had the honor of holding the family corner in the barn when my cousins grew out of the tradition. I hadn’t actually been back since we stopped showing there. It was strange to be there as a visitor, and not a grungy farmer counting the hours until I could get home for a shower and some decent sleep. Sadly enormous, smelly, unruly beef steers have overrun the cattle barns which once housed glorious dairy animals. Yuck. Another odd thing about the experience was watching the Fair’s parade from the grandstand. My family had always walked out to some street corner where we were right up against the floats and marchers. In the streets were the prime positions for scavenging the thrown candy and heckling friends and relatives in the marching bands. Hard, metal bleacher seats aren’t much fun—so we had to start up some spontaneous rounds of ‘Spot the Cadaver’ and ‘Guess the Yardage of Tulle’ in the Fair Queen Court’s gowns. Bonus points for cadavers in tulle.
I guess that brings me up to the dinner I tried to cook. I bet nobody believes anymore that I actually do this for a living. Every time I’ve tried to prepare something for my family, it’s flopped. First was the pan of popovers that imploded. Then was the carrot salad that everybody thought came from the sewer (to my credit it was delicious; it just looked funny to everyone else’s untrained eyes). This time, I burned the raspberry Dijon chicken on the impossible-to-control heat of the electric stovetop. And no grocery store in the area carries any grains other than rice. I think I was lucky that I managed to find a box of mixed variety rice in the next town over. So, instead of the quinoa pilaf I planned, it was brown rice that took 45 minutes to cook. But my family loves me and they told me it was delicious anyway.
So, thank you God for a lovely stay, and what was the other I wanted to say? I talked about everyone, so what could it be? Now I remember… God forgive me. [adapted from ‘Christopher Robin is Saying his Prayers by Melanie]
This is the part where I mention my wonderful family—that mysterious bunch that hasn’t yet appeared here. I’m not really sure why. I was going to write about my visit home—a camping trip, my family reunion, the County Fair, my brother’s visit, and the disaster that was the dinner I tried to prepare. But I came home, and my life started happening again. Then I forgot everything. A psychological defense mechanism? Of course not! Wink!
My visit to Pennsylvania was just that—a visit. It didn’t feel like a homecoming, but certainly not to my family’s discredit. I always feel welcome in their home, but it is their home, not mine. My parents moved into a new house a year after I moved to Massachusetts. I’ve never lived in that house. I’ve never had a room or space that was mine there, so visits are never returns; it’s a new place to me. I have no fond memories of afternoons on that back porch, or evenings spent in that kitchen. I don’t have a favorite seat in the living room, a place to hang my toothbrush in the bathroom, or even a favorite way to sneak out late at night.
I guess that’s the most effective (if not the final) nail in the coffin of my childhood. Although I’ve been living away from my parents for the last seven years, have a real job, and now my own house, I’ve still felt very much like a child at times. Knowing that my parents’ home is not mine has deepened the realization that these new things and experiences are my own, and nobody else’s.
Wow, that was a whole lot of self-disclosure. Now onto the shallow drivel about the rest of the trip.
Because my youngest sister was gone for the first four days of my visit, I reaped the benefit of having a room to sleep in! I always feel funny about displacing Ari, so her absence made my nights a little less uneasy. Also, Ali, my mom and I got to take a short camping trip while heading out to collect Ari from soccer camp. I haven’t gone camping in nearly a year—it’s good to see the sport hasn’t changed much: run around frantically a few hours before departure trying to gather and fit more things than we probably need into the back of the van. It was nice to sleep in a tent again and do some catching up with my mom and sister.
Later in the week was Houtzdale Days. Because my parents are such involved parents, they helped organize and staff the 4-H club’s nacho concession at the festival. That meant three nights of wandering around the tarted-up block and sitting under the green and white canopy, making sure the kids weren’t setting fire to anybody. I got to experience some of the finest culture Houtzdale has to offer, and even get in a few rounds of ‘Spot the Cadaver—Digicam Edition’ with my mom. I seem to have misplaced my winning shots….
I got back from a side trip just in time for a family reunion. Getting to see cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents that I haven’t seen in a long time was really nice. I got to talk about my crazy plans of quitting my job, becoming homeless, and wandering nearly aimlessly around Europe. Everybody is SO excited for me. Of course, there were also all the other second- and twice removed-s that I still have no clue to their identities, so I had to play it cool and talk all like I know the scoop. I did, however, manage to have a few pretty worthwhile conversations about traveling (I need to get to Alaska and Mexico one of these days), and we had a great scavenger hunt. My team, the Lollipop Guild (my grade school cousins have NO IDEA what that is) blew all the other teams out of the water, thank you very much.
And then the County Fair. What can I say about the good old Clearfield County Fair? Well, I guess it’s been going on a long time. For over 30 years, my family had been taking dairy cows to put on display there, and my sibs and I even had the honor of holding the family corner in the barn when my cousins grew out of the tradition. I hadn’t actually been back since we stopped showing there. It was strange to be there as a visitor, and not a grungy farmer counting the hours until I could get home for a shower and some decent sleep. Sadly enormous, smelly, unruly beef steers have overrun the cattle barns which once housed glorious dairy animals. Yuck. Another odd thing about the experience was watching the Fair’s parade from the grandstand. My family had always walked out to some street corner where we were right up against the floats and marchers. In the streets were the prime positions for scavenging the thrown candy and heckling friends and relatives in the marching bands. Hard, metal bleacher seats aren’t much fun—so we had to start up some spontaneous rounds of ‘Spot the Cadaver’ and ‘Guess the Yardage of Tulle’ in the Fair Queen Court’s gowns. Bonus points for cadavers in tulle.
I guess that brings me up to the dinner I tried to cook. I bet nobody believes anymore that I actually do this for a living. Every time I’ve tried to prepare something for my family, it’s flopped. First was the pan of popovers that imploded. Then was the carrot salad that everybody thought came from the sewer (to my credit it was delicious; it just looked funny to everyone else’s untrained eyes). This time, I burned the raspberry Dijon chicken on the impossible-to-control heat of the electric stovetop. And no grocery store in the area carries any grains other than rice. I think I was lucky that I managed to find a box of mixed variety rice in the next town over. So, instead of the quinoa pilaf I planned, it was brown rice that took 45 minutes to cook. But my family loves me and they told me it was delicious anyway.
So, thank you God for a lovely stay, and what was the other I wanted to say? I talked about everyone, so what could it be? Now I remember… God forgive me. [adapted from ‘Christopher Robin is Saying his Prayers by Melanie]
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
stop right there
Is Mercury in retrograde?
I swear, things like this only happen while my boss is away. On the first two days of this week, my co-assistant was out with a stomach bug, and then today, German #2 sliced her hand open and had to get four stitches. Thankfully, Starpilgrim and later, Mark, lent some hands to make up for the missing one. Otherwise, I don’t think the three-person Tuesday crew would’ve been able to make grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, or dessert for tonight’s dinner.
It must have something to do with the boss’s vacation. The last time he went on a two week break, Tizzy broke her fingers and our senior BVSer twisted her ankle. I’m glad he doesn’t go away that often; we’d have some pretty crippled folk at the Farm.
I swear, things like this only happen while my boss is away. On the first two days of this week, my co-assistant was out with a stomach bug, and then today, German #2 sliced her hand open and had to get four stitches. Thankfully, Starpilgrim and later, Mark, lent some hands to make up for the missing one. Otherwise, I don’t think the three-person Tuesday crew would’ve been able to make grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, or dessert for tonight’s dinner.
It must have something to do with the boss’s vacation. The last time he went on a two week break, Tizzy broke her fingers and our senior BVSer twisted her ankle. I’m glad he doesn’t go away that often; we’d have some pretty crippled folk at the Farm.
Monday, August 20, 2007
serf's up
So, have nothing better to spend your money on? Why not send your child to high school in a castle.
This past weekend, I helped cater an event in a castle. You read that correctly. 200 very rich people celebrating the graduations of twelve of their finest and proudest. In a castle. That also happens to be a school. PS—it’s up for sale! Buy it for me!
In an hour and a half, we turned a pile of this…
…into this:
Not bad work. The venue was beautiful, the food delicious, and the crew a lot of fun. Smitty got the gig (she’s done catering with this company before) for German #2 and me. The set up was mostly a snap, and serving food for the event wasn’t as intimidating as I was expecting. All in all, I made as much in 8 hours as I do in one week here at the Farm.
It reminded me of the time I did an afternoon’s gardening with my friend Christy on an estate for her friend’s landscaping company. Funny how acting like a serf makes the most money in a place like the Berkshires. Now, how do I make that happen every week?
This past weekend, I helped cater an event in a castle. You read that correctly. 200 very rich people celebrating the graduations of twelve of their finest and proudest. In a castle. That also happens to be a school. PS—it’s up for sale! Buy it for me!
In an hour and a half, we turned a pile of this…
…into this:
Not bad work. The venue was beautiful, the food delicious, and the crew a lot of fun. Smitty got the gig (she’s done catering with this company before) for German #2 and me. The set up was mostly a snap, and serving food for the event wasn’t as intimidating as I was expecting. All in all, I made as much in 8 hours as I do in one week here at the Farm.
It reminded me of the time I did an afternoon’s gardening with my friend Christy on an estate for her friend’s landscaping company. Funny how acting like a serf makes the most money in a place like the Berkshires. Now, how do I make that happen every week?
Saturday, August 18, 2007
i'm still alive
No, I haven't been fired for poisoning everybody. I'm still here. Just haven't had much time these days.
Updates: Luna has left the building. My house is clean. It's turning into Autumn. Amos has gone back to SLC before her trip to Bolivia (lucky thing). The Spanish Consular Office in NYC has the worst phone system IN THE WORLD. My blog currently advertises for Amish Country Gazebos and The Interchangeable Shoe.
More later.
Updates: Luna has left the building. My house is clean. It's turning into Autumn. Amos has gone back to SLC before her trip to Bolivia (lucky thing). The Spanish Consular Office in NYC has the worst phone system IN THE WORLD. My blog currently advertises for Amish Country Gazebos and The Interchangeable Shoe.
More later.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
welcome back, take 2
I suppose the first snag happened when I couldn’t find a ride home from the train station. “Oh, I can maybe come get you. Just call me a few days before you get back,” was what I got from a few people before I even left. But then none of them could pick me up. What to do? After some frantic calling from Kristen’s cell phone on the way to the Philadelphia train station, I lucked upon a willing participant: a new volunteer to the Farm, energetic and unfamiliar with the area. Tip off, the second.
So I was willing to wait at the station. And wait I did. “In 2.2 miles, turn left,” announced the automated voice of her electronic GPS. In 2.2 miles, I decided it was better to stay on the numbered roadway with a definite direction rather than turning onto ‘Bob’s Lane – No Outlet.’ Nonetheless, many thanks to that willing volunteer. We managed to find a cute surf-themed deli/café somewhere near the MA border in Connecticut, along one of the several, previously unexplored back roads that made up our journey. And the bastards wouldn’t tell me how they made their Jamaican Jerk Chicken wrap! It was tasty, but make no mistake: they were not making millions off their secret recipe.
I finally walked into my cute house to be wildly greeted by Luna, the shedding machine. I still haven’t found my furniture beneath the fur. I want to offer a big appreciating to Amos and Laura for keeping Luna alive while I was away—she did not develop rabies in my absence. I wouldn’t have wanted either of them to have to shoot her. And my dial tone has gone missing again. If you see it, please send it home and give Verizon the finger for me. Feel free to ask me for details about my occasional phone line; I’d be happy to complain for hours.
Patron’s death hit home when I walked into Main House and saw the empty cage. That parrot had been a bane to many an existence, but also a companion to as many, if not more, community members. He arrived from Africa 20ish years ago with a family that’s still here and has learned several phrases from the people who’ve passed through. ‘Cigarette!’ was a favorite, as well as the child-laugh of his owners’ now adult son. I used to have a whistling game with him when I would open the kitchen on lonely mornings, sending a tune across the empty dining room and getting a facsimile, or opposite sound pattern. He was one of three things that have always been here, and in my mind, should’ve still been here until long after my departure. The other two are Roma and the Red Barn, which defies the laws of physics.
Thankfully, work on Sunday was pretty uneventful, short of a few scheduling miscommunications that needed to be ironed out.
But Mondays must be Mondays, the world over, even if they’re the second day of one’s workweek. Mine started with a note: “Please replenish guest snack. Thank you.” And because I’m apparently too dense to understand that ill-defined request, there on the kitchen counter was the pile of empty cereal, bread, and jelly containers left from the previous night’s depleted snack. They don’t even belong in the kitchen! They live in their own cabinet, locked up in the dining room— the same cabinet I open and examine every morning when I REPLENISH GUEST SNACK. It’s one thing to be given a note to let me know about something I may have been unaware of. It’s an annoying thing to be given a note telling me to do my job. Sorry, Res. Team, this is how I feel.
But the best is yet to come, my friends. Yesterday will live on in the insular history of my life as The Day I Poisoned the Community. As is my custom when I open the kitchen, I brewed six pots of coffee. Monday’s roast: Café Phosphoric Acid. Apparently Sunday’s closing crew decided to clean the coffee maker, a noble chore. With industrial de-scaler. We’re talking for-the-removal-of-rust-calcium-and-mineral-deposits-caution-do-not-ingest-may-be-fatal-strength formula. Alright, so I didn’t actually poison the coffee machine. But I had to speak to the clinical director, call Poison Control, notify work leaders (without leaking to everybody else who may already have paranoia/hypochondria issues), rustle up a pH meter, and oversee the myriad flushings and subsequent pH tests of the coffee machine and pitchers. Thank you, Moo, for keeping me sane and helping me track down the Maintenance Team. Fortunately, very little of the chemical was actually used, and the closing team was thorough enough to rinse the machine so many times that it was detectable in the morning’s java by an off taste only; nobody experienced symptoms of mass poisoning.
So, if you’re reading this, you know that I can’t be trusted with your pet, car, or therapeutic community. I’m only human.
On the bright side, after these minor incidences, a couple more scheduling jumbles, team members spacing out, and a complete menu change for the next day’s lunch, everything was just swell.
I also experienced that interesting mix of greetings from people who were happy to see me back, those who didn’t know I was gone, and newbies who didn’t know who I was. My own feelings about being back are mixed. It’s nice to be home again—this is where my place is right now. And being away reminded me that there are other places out there.
So I was willing to wait at the station. And wait I did. “In 2.2 miles, turn left,” announced the automated voice of her electronic GPS. In 2.2 miles, I decided it was better to stay on the numbered roadway with a definite direction rather than turning onto ‘Bob’s Lane – No Outlet.’ Nonetheless, many thanks to that willing volunteer. We managed to find a cute surf-themed deli/café somewhere near the MA border in Connecticut, along one of the several, previously unexplored back roads that made up our journey. And the bastards wouldn’t tell me how they made their Jamaican Jerk Chicken wrap! It was tasty, but make no mistake: they were not making millions off their secret recipe.
I finally walked into my cute house to be wildly greeted by Luna, the shedding machine. I still haven’t found my furniture beneath the fur. I want to offer a big appreciating to Amos and Laura for keeping Luna alive while I was away—she did not develop rabies in my absence. I wouldn’t have wanted either of them to have to shoot her. And my dial tone has gone missing again. If you see it, please send it home and give Verizon the finger for me. Feel free to ask me for details about my occasional phone line; I’d be happy to complain for hours.
Patron’s death hit home when I walked into Main House and saw the empty cage. That parrot had been a bane to many an existence, but also a companion to as many, if not more, community members. He arrived from Africa 20ish years ago with a family that’s still here and has learned several phrases from the people who’ve passed through. ‘Cigarette!’ was a favorite, as well as the child-laugh of his owners’ now adult son. I used to have a whistling game with him when I would open the kitchen on lonely mornings, sending a tune across the empty dining room and getting a facsimile, or opposite sound pattern. He was one of three things that have always been here, and in my mind, should’ve still been here until long after my departure. The other two are Roma and the Red Barn, which defies the laws of physics.
Thankfully, work on Sunday was pretty uneventful, short of a few scheduling miscommunications that needed to be ironed out.
But Mondays must be Mondays, the world over, even if they’re the second day of one’s workweek. Mine started with a note: “Please replenish guest snack. Thank you.” And because I’m apparently too dense to understand that ill-defined request, there on the kitchen counter was the pile of empty cereal, bread, and jelly containers left from the previous night’s depleted snack. They don’t even belong in the kitchen! They live in their own cabinet, locked up in the dining room— the same cabinet I open and examine every morning when I REPLENISH GUEST SNACK. It’s one thing to be given a note to let me know about something I may have been unaware of. It’s an annoying thing to be given a note telling me to do my job. Sorry, Res. Team, this is how I feel.
But the best is yet to come, my friends. Yesterday will live on in the insular history of my life as The Day I Poisoned the Community. As is my custom when I open the kitchen, I brewed six pots of coffee. Monday’s roast: Café Phosphoric Acid. Apparently Sunday’s closing crew decided to clean the coffee maker, a noble chore. With industrial de-scaler. We’re talking for-the-removal-of-rust-calcium-and-mineral-deposits-caution-do-not-ingest-may-be-fatal-strength formula. Alright, so I didn’t actually poison the coffee machine. But I had to speak to the clinical director, call Poison Control, notify work leaders (without leaking to everybody else who may already have paranoia/hypochondria issues), rustle up a pH meter, and oversee the myriad flushings and subsequent pH tests of the coffee machine and pitchers. Thank you, Moo, for keeping me sane and helping me track down the Maintenance Team. Fortunately, very little of the chemical was actually used, and the closing team was thorough enough to rinse the machine so many times that it was detectable in the morning’s java by an off taste only; nobody experienced symptoms of mass poisoning.
So, if you’re reading this, you know that I can’t be trusted with your pet, car, or therapeutic community. I’m only human.
On the bright side, after these minor incidences, a couple more scheduling jumbles, team members spacing out, and a complete menu change for the next day’s lunch, everything was just swell.
I also experienced that interesting mix of greetings from people who were happy to see me back, those who didn’t know I was gone, and newbies who didn’t know who I was. My own feelings about being back are mixed. It’s nice to be home again—this is where my place is right now. And being away reminded me that there are other places out there.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Saturday, August 4, 2007
cigarette
Patron, our African Grey Parrot, died while I was gone. He was at least 30 years old and has been at the Farm for... a long time. I can't imagine this place without him.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
google ads and... nothing else to write about at the moment
I want to know who designed the google ad crawling feature that provides my blog with links to such things as:
Parenting Advice (www.MVparenting.com)
An All-American Rejects concert
Stop Him from Withdrawing (havetherelationshipyouwant.com)
I don't remember blogging about any of these things. Have I?
In other news, my time here in the land of dull knives and electric ranges is drawing to a close. My family is getting antsy for me to write something about them, so I think that will all come in a summary blog about the time between events here in sunny Pennsylvania. Tomorrow I climb back aboard my Amtrak chariot to Philadelphia. Quick: tell me some fun things to see!
Parenting Advice (www.MVparenting.com)
An All-American Rejects concert
Stop Him from Withdrawing (havetherelationshipyouwant.com)
I don't remember blogging about any of these things. Have I?
In other news, my time here in the land of dull knives and electric ranges is drawing to a close. My family is getting antsy for me to write something about them, so I think that will all come in a summary blog about the time between events here in sunny Pennsylvania. Tomorrow I climb back aboard my Amtrak chariot to Philadelphia. Quick: tell me some fun things to see!
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