Jen Clodius

…sometimes reliving the past turns out to be, well, fun.

Last weekend, I had occasion to drive from Portland, OR to Monterey Bay, CA.  (Yes, yes, planes fly — but circumstances dictated driving.)

And, as it happens, I was leaving the Monterey Bay area on Monday morning and needed to be home Monday evening.  There’s just no way to avoid the morning Bay Area commute under those circumstances, including driving Highway 17 in the commute.  What to do?  What to do?!?

Well, duh.  I used to drive Highway 17 every weekday, commuting between Capitola and Hayward.  In fact, People I Respect refused to let me drive 17 if it wasn’t during the commute because those idiots/tourists/amateurs clearly couldn’t drive and, um, I tended to be vocal about their inabilities. (There are two kinds of drivers on 17, we used to day: the quick and the dead.)

So, last Monday morning, I drove 17 in the commute.  And (with all due modesty) it was a blast.

In fact, I think it was a bit easier than it was the days I drove it regularly.  Even at 6 a.m., I didn’t see a single sand truck.  And (mind you, almost two decades have passed) I think there was actually less traffic.

Even odder, I think the pace was slower.  Back when I was driving the ‘tola-Hayward-’tola trip daily, once you got through San Jose and hit 880, the opening ante on the right lane was 80, and speed clicked up about 5 mph/lane as you moved left.  This drive was a fairly sedate — in the inner-most lane — 5-10 mph above the speed limit.

All that said, I spent less than 12 hours, total, on the road Monday.  (It was a bit discouraging to have the GPS tell me, when I got to I-505/I-5, “continue for 569 miles”.)  Nonetheless, I arrived home with plenty of time to do laundry, have dinner, and make lunch before returning to work on Tuesday.

I’m glad my current commute is shorter and contains no mountain passes.  I’m also glad I got to drive 17 in the commute again!

For good or for ill, positive or negative, the past will remind you that it exists at the oddest times.

My fridge finally died.  I probably should have replaced it back when I noticed it was running oddly.  And, looking back, I’m surprised that it was last summer when I made a mental note that the fridge was giving notice that it was leaving.  I had time to find a replacement, but, well, what with one thing and another, I didn’t.

Still, the fridge sent more warning signals.  I kept turning the dials to “colder” to keep things going.

Friday, I got something (okay, a TJ’s ice cream cookie sandwich — the ones with teeny chocolate chips around the edges of the ice cream — yum!) out of the freezer… and it was soft.  Squishy, even.  Usually I have to let it sit on the counter for a minute or so before it’s soft enough to bite.  This one was squishy.

On Saturday I noticed, somewhere mid-day, that I hadn’t heard the fridge run for a while.  (Yes, the fridge made enough noise — and the “normal” noises were sufficiently odd — that it registered somewhere in my brain.)  Hrm.  Checked and most of the food in the freezer seemed okay, but food in the fridge was warmer than fridge temps.

Okay.

Fine.

I’ll go buy a fridge.  So I trundle off to Standard Appliance.  I chose a lovely, freezer-on-the-bottom fridge.  It’s similar to the one Todd (the ex-husband) and I bought to put into the house we built, similar to the one Todd (the ex-husband) and I bought to put into the house we remodeled that financed half of the house we built.  It’ll be delivered tomorrow morning.

The fridge decision isn’t the “can’t escape the past” bit; I made the decisions on the previous refrigerators because (here’s a surprise) I have opinions about fridges.

The “can’t escape” part came when I got into the car to go to Standard Appliances.  My radio is preferentially tuned to OPB so, as I pull out of the driveway, I hear a re-run of Robert Krulwich’s on Time..

…including the interview with Todd (the ex-husband), which was the first voice I heard.

I think the word I’m looking for is “surreal”.

Meantime, I’m having frozen pizza for dinner, ’cause that box didn’t come close to fitting into my ice chests.

Instructions:

One of the best parts of being back on the west coast is fresh produce. Never mind being three-to-five days fresher when produce doesn’t have to be trucked across the country — although that’s certainly a factor! — it’s the variety of it all.

It was rare that I could find jicama in an east-coast grocery store, and even rarer that the checker knew what it was. Conversations would go like this:

“Is this a turnip?”
“It’s jicama.”
“Never heard of it. What’s it taste like?”
“Kind of like water chestnut. You peel off the skin, then slice or chop it up and eat it raw. It’s great in salads.”
“Interesting — let me find the code…”

Thinking to speed the process (and suspecting what’ll come next), I spell, “J - i - c - ”
“You said ‘HICK-uh-ma’.”
“It’s like the ‘j’ in “Tijuana’. It’s pronounced ‘h’ but spelled ‘jic’.”

Once, the checker couldn’t find the code in her flip chart. She also thought I might be fibbing about the pronunciation (”I’m not saying THAT over the PA!”), so called the produce department for a price.

Moments later, over the PA we hear “The juh-CAM-uh is 99 cents a pound.”
“See?” the checker said. “I was pretty sure you weren’t saying it right.”

It’s nice to be home! (Added bonus: local blueberries are currently two POUNDS for $5!)

No, not the “life” kind. The Microsoft kind.

My non-work life runs on a MacBook Pro. I do have Boot Camp installed and, on that side, run Microsoft XP so that I can update the website for an organization with which my dad is involved.

The head of that group knew I was job hunting, moving across the country, buying a house, and (in general) distracted. She hasn’t sent me updates for a while. She recently, graciously checked with Dad, who confirmed that I was (to the extent that I ever am) organized, and sent me the current updates.

Being relatively security conscious, the first thing I do whilst booting into the Windows side of my Mac is check for updates. And when I booted into Windows, I discovered that I’d missed several updates.

“Wow!”, I think. “An entire service pack! And all of the subsequent updates rely on having Service Pack 3 installed!” I’m a geek. I can do this.

Well.

First attempt: Service Pack 3 requires 4 MB more than is available. Please delete something and try again.

I own a Mac. I boot into the Windows side maaaaybe once a month. The Windows version of iTunes can certainly go, and that’ll free up 68(ish)MB.

Sa-weeet. Done, and done.

Second attempt: Service Pack 3 requires 4 MB more than is available. Please delete something and try again.

Uh… Oh, yeah. Windows. Reboot, then try again.

Third attempt: Service Pack 3 requires 4 MB more than is available. Please delete something and try again.

Excuse me?

Well, okay. (think-a-think-a-think) Wait! Maybe the update needs 4-contiguous-MB? De-frag and generally clean up? What the heck, there’s no harm in trying!

Fourth attempt: Service Pack 3 requires 4 MB more than is available. Please delete something and try again.

I walked away. I muttered rude comments. I updated Dad’s website and ignored the potential security risk of using an out-dated version of XP on a Mac.

Evenutally I came to my senses, and Googled.

Ah. Update Boot Camp, THEN attempt to install Service Pack 3.

Done, and done.

(And people wonder why folks love Macs, and are annoyed by Windows? You coulda given me a teeny bit more of a clue in the error message!)

… of being a haphazard blogger is that no one believes you blog and, as a result, no one expects you to blog.

The DISadvantage is that no one expects you to blog, so you don’t make it a priority.

Since last post, I’ve gone to sock camp (hooray, Blue Moon Fiber Arts!) with my friend Susan — and made new friends in the process AND learned a ton. I also got to see the Yarn Harlot at the PDX stop of her book tour, and ordered Cat Bordhi’s “Magical Knitting” (because, of course, I don’t have enough books in boxes in my living room), and joined the Monkey KawKaw knit-along hosted by equally odd ex-campers.

On the “seriously hopeful” side, my sister is coming to visit in a couple of weeks, and promises to help me choose furniture. On the “less hopeful” side, I still haven’t figured out how to post pics to this blog! Hmph!

After almost six weeks here (can that be true?) and almost five weeks on the job (ditto?!), I have to say that I love, love, love being here.

Found a house that fits me at a price I can afford, my folks visiting for the weekend tomorrow (and have promised a longer visit this summer) (and I’ve even managed to vacuum the guest room after setting it up), a pal is arriving next weekend for a fiberishly delicious week … it’s hard to imagine how this could be better.

Okay, that’s not *exactly* true. Everything unpacked, wireless working flawlessly, detritus removed… THAT would be better. But I’m well on the way

Fall has finally gotten around to arriving! Early this month, temps were still in the short-sleeve, no sweater range, and I actually saw Canada geese flying north. (Uh, wrong direction, guys!)

Over the last week, temps have dropped like the proverbial rock, and it’s finally time to break out the wool sweaters and long-sleeve shirts. Saturday night NOAA predicted we’d have a low of 34°F (1°C) and it was, at 11 p.m., 29° (-2°).

Next up: snow? (Is it too soon to wish/hope for snow?)

It’s been a more-or-less normal week: work included hectic - but amazingly effective - preparation for multi-school participation in a web cast from one of our Big Science Machines. My colleague and I are thrilled that it went well, are glad it’s over, and are beginning to prep for the next one.

I did manage to get all of my Rhinebeck loot sorted, tagged with its intended project (when I actually have a plan for the yarn), photographed, and stashed on Ravelry. After concentrating so hard on The Unworn Sweater, I’m puttering along on a simple scarf.

I read. It doesn’t seem to be a matter of choosing to read, or liking to read, or enjoying reading. It’s more a statement of fact: I read.

I also like owning books. I wholly support public libraries, school libraries, lending libraries, and the Gutenberg Project. Still, I like being able to think, “Y’know, I’m in the mood for some $author” and know that the book is right there on my shelf. I suppose, at some level, books represent a kind of wealth to me: I get to keep them!

But when you’re getting ready to move — even if you don’t know when or where you’re moving — it does seem wise to begin packing books when you own a pile of them. Completely aside from the fact that a) piles of books are heavy and need to go into small, manageable boxes and b) it helps to have a good grasp of geometry to fit awkward shapes into those boxes, I have an additional problem when packing books: I keep getting sidetracked.

“Oh! I remember you! I’ll set this aside to re-read soon.”

“Oh, my, one of my favorite series! I’ll set these aside to re-read.”

“I remember buying this; I wonder why I never got around to reading it? I’ll set it aside to read.”

You can see where this is going, can’t you? It’s taken some pretty stern discipline to put books into the boxes. It’s easy to justify leaving some out, because I don’t know when I’ll move and wouldn’t want to be entirely bookless in the meantime. But there are a limited number of hours in the day, and I do have other obligations (like work, and long-distance job-hunting), so I really don’t need a mountain of books set aside.

Besides, if I do run out of reading before I move, I can always go to the library!