I really was away in southern Connecticut for a weekend to attend a family wedding last month. Only about a week ago, I finally got around to posting some pictures on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=138816&id=783282941&ref=mf

It was one of the more interesting and inspiring family weddings I've been to. My cousin Andrew and his wife, Nicole, are both devout baseball fans. Not only that, but Andrew roots for the New York Mets and Nicole roots for the New York Yankees. Though I've really never been much of a sports fan myself, I'm told that the rivalry between the Mets and Yankees is nothing like whatever scrimmage might exist between Giants fans and A's fans in the Bay Area. In New England, the Mets and Yankees antipathy really runs deep. And yet Andrew and Nicole were able to meet and fall in love. Perhaps we can all get along.

While he and Nicole were kneeling before the altar, Andrew surprised everyone by revealing that he had written something on the bottom of his shoes, which you may be able to make out from the picture below, beyond the blur of Baby's Breath:



Namely, the base of his shoes reads "GO METS." My cousin Andrew has Mets in his very sole.

No less assertive, Nicole revealed during the reception that beneath the skirt of her elegant wedding dress she was wearing a pair of Yankees boxer shorts. Though I didn't get a picture, I did see it with my own eyes. You're just going to have to take my word on that.

Overall, it was certainly good to get away for the weekend and see some cousins and kin that I haven't seen in a while. There has been far less fortunate news in the family lately, so it was a joy to see the clan come together and in a celebratory mood. Moreover, coastal Connecticut is beautiful during the summer:



Not too surprisingly, the brunch on the morning after the reception was decorated with both Mets and Yankees paraphernalia, including a Mets cap and Yankees cap on every table. Andrew's parents, my Uncle Mike and Aunt Susan, were appreciative that I made it out for the wedding weekend. Susan also insisted that I take a Mets cap home. So, if you see me wearing a Mets baseball cap, it's not that I'm a big fan, but rather my cousin Andrew follows the team. I couldn't even tell you who plays first base for the Mets.

One of the other treats of the weekend was being able to see my sister, Lesley, and her family, who live in a suburb of New Haven, Connecticut. My niece, Oona, is quite cute, and while she lets Lesley hold her all the time ...



... Oona would not let me hold her since she simply doesn't trust men with beards. Yeah, two years old and she already has standards. Nonetheless, Oona's older brother, my nephew Quinn, is quite appreciative of my skills with Lego bricks.

I was at Friday Night Waltz in Palo Alto last night for the first time in what seems like a fair while. In the midst of dancing with a young lady recently returned home from college, she asked me how things were going with me, and in a way that sounded a lot less than so much small talk. So, I was reminded of the opening verse of the old Disney song, "Not in Nottingham":

"Every town
Has its ups and downs
Sometime the ups
Outnumber the downs
But not in Nottingham"

Latley, there have been ups and downs, good and bad, comedy and drama. Then again, "Robin Hood" probably wouldn't have been such a good story without the conflicts from the Sheriff of Nottingham, and my life probably woudn't be very interesting if just lived entirely within the idyllic shelters of Sherwood Forest.

Next weekend, I'm planning to attend a family celebration to see one of my cousins getting married. Yesterday, another cousin who has been married for over a decade just made some announcements that are almost sure to doom his marriage, setting off some fireworks and tears a day before the Fourth of July. At some later day, I'll probably have a lot more to say about the latter cousin and other recent acts of comedy and drama. For now, I have a few things to say about the former cousin.

The former cousin is Andrew Fergusson Tucker, the son of my Uncle Mike. Andrew is getting married next Saturday, July 11th, in southern Connecticut, and I have been formally invited. Thus, I am planning to be out of town next weekend for the wedding. (So, don't look for me at the FNW Bastille Day Waltz Ball.)

I mention Andrew's full middle name because Fergusson is a surname of my Scottish roots. Based on some genealogy research done by my Uncle Mike, I descend from a great-great-grandfather named John Mcintosh Fergusson who was born in Edinburgh, Scotland in 1844. Evidently, I really do have some Scottish blood in me, which I offer as an explanation for any of you who may have been wondering why I now own neckties in five different tartans and why I once owned flannel shirts in over five different plaids. My genes may have determined what I used to wear with jeans.

I seem to have come down with something lately.

I've been getting through the workday on tea and cough drops, but I'm worried I may not be recovered in time for tennis or, worse yet, for Gaskells tomorrow.

Maybe I stayed up a little too late browsing the Internet the other night and maybe my sniffles are a psychosomatic affect of this new financial planning class starting on Monday and the wedding travels in early July and my sister coming to visit soon after and all that jazz.

I will try and get to bed early tonight, but I may have to go back on my word that I would be a ready waltz partner at the Gaskell Ball this weekend.

Meanwhile, if I can grasp a possible advantage, one of my colleagues, Gloria, who sits just a few desks away, said that she can tell that I'm congested because my voice is a bit lower than usual. That may actually help avoid some of the typical confusion and annoyance when I call a brokerage firm or transfer agent at work and introduce myself as "Cary Tucker from Mechanics Bank" but then the representative starts referring to me as "Miss Tucker."

I thought that I had until Monday.

I signed up for a course in "Mathematics of Financial Planning" offered at the local UC Extension. The first class is this coming Monday night, June 22nd. So, I was looking forward to getting some play in this weekend before I had to hunker down and hit the books.

The Pirate Festival in Vallejo was off the table, but I was still hoping that I could focus on getting some sewing done during the next few evenings so that I just might be able to spend Saturday afternoon putting the final touches on a new waistcoat that I've been working on for Gaskells. I figured that I would still be able to play tennis on Saturday morning, do some errands and finish putting the costume together in the afternoon, and then enjoy the Gaskell Ball on Saturday night. Then on Sunday, I could do some housecleaning, go for a swim, and really relax, probably watch a movie or two, before hitting the ground running with the first class on Monday.

Just this morning I got a surprise email note from the course instructor with our homework assignment for the first class. By Monday, we need to read two chapters in the textbook, write down some questions and answers, and make sure that we're familiar with the required financial calculator (which I just got from Amazon and haven't opened yet).

Oh joy.

It looks like that new waistcoat is going to have to wait at least until the Gaskell dance in August. I still plan to be at the Gaskell Ball this weekend, and I plan to keep my spot at the Stanford dance workshop the following weekend. (How far can I have fallen behind after just one week?) However, after that, I will probably be cutting back on some of the Friday Night Waltz dances and other social events.

So, over the next two months, if you don't see me doing the BNP at FNW, it may be because I'm calculating FV's on my HP 12-C.

... until a bullet shatters the back window.



I was riding my usual AC Transit bus on the way home from work on Friday evening. We were almost to the Richmond BART station when four or five shots rang out in quick succession from nearby. At first, I wasn't sure that they were gunshots. It's not a familiar sound to me. I put my newspaper down and looked around, feeling a bit confused and rather startled.

I wasn't the only passenger on the bus. There was a man sitting right in front of me and about a half dozen kids -- young teenagers who may not have even started high school yet. I noticed the two girls sitting up towards the front of the bus. At the very first sound of the gunshots, both girls hit the floor like trained soldiers. While I was looking around in bewilderment, both girls were laying flat and motionless on their stomachs. Looking towards the back, all the boys had quickly dived down between the seats. Evidently, the gunshots were a very familiar sound to these kids. And that may have been one of the more frightening aspects of the accident on the bus that day.

Nobody was injured. I followed the lead of the teenagers on the bus and kneeled down on the floor until we reached the next stop, which fortunately was my departure point, right at the Richmond BART station. I had noticed that the rear window on the bus was shattered, but I still asked the bus driver as he was getting everyone off if those were gunshots and not a car backfiring or something else like that. The driver pointed me to the back of the bus where, by that time, a large hole in the back window had fallen out. I could also see the spot where a bullet appeared to have entered towards the top of the back side. A second bullet hole was also visible on the left side of the bus towards the rear. Fortunately, both bullets had come in fairly high.

I've been riding AC Transit through Richmond for most of the past year as part of my commute, but this is the first time that I've heard gunshots on the bus or that any bullets have hit the bus I'm riding. I haven't developed the kind of street smarts evident in the local kids who were also on the bus that day. Growing up over in San Francisco, diving for the ground at the sound of gunshots is not something that I learned to do during my relatively charmed childhood. I'll probably be a little quicker to react if I hear gunshots again though.

I only had about ten minutes before my Amtrak train was scheduled to arrive, so I couldn't stick around that long. I asked the driver if he wanted my name as a witness or anything but he just shook his head and continued locking up the bus. I thought I heard the bus driver mutter something like "There are no witnesses for this," as though he didn't expect the shooter would ever be caught. A couple minutes later, while watching from the train station, I saw a Sheriff cruiser arrive and park behind the bullet shattered bus.

So I'm alright, a little shaken maybe, but glad to have avoided any personal injury on the bus last Friday. I'm not going to suddenly quit my banking job in Richmond, but I will have second thoughts about staying at the Richmond headquarters of the Bank for the long term and relocating close to the Richmond office.

Now, someone may well tell me to put things in perspective and say that I should stop complaining and just be grateful that I don't live in Afghanistan or some bitterly violent region where that could have easily been two roadside bombs that hit my bus instead of two stray bullets. Maybe so, but that doesn't help the problem of gun violence in the city where I work. Shooting bullets at public transit buses is still wrong.

But what can I do?

So how many other people noticed that there was only one Congress of Vienna (COV) at the last Gaskell Ball?

I have had some recent communications with Frank Davis of the Brassworks band about the choice to essentially replace the second Congress of Vienna (COV) with a BNP at the Gaskell dance in April, though I'm quite curious as to how others might weigh in.

I arrived at the last Gaskell Ball right in the middle of the COV during the first set. (Especially since the Ball is only every other month, I really ought to get to Gaskells before the first set begins so as to participate in the Grand March and be able to enjoy the entire evening of dancing, but for April at least, I walked in partway through the first COV.) That was the only COV that night.

In all the years that I've been going to Gaskells, there has always been a COV during the first set and another COV during one of the later sets. While Brassworks has certainly played BNP at Gaskells before, this past April was the first time that I can remember the BNP replacing the second COV. I don't mind. According to Frank, the "Committee folks" running Gaskells have observed "the increase in popularity of and requests for BNP." I am all for including BNP in the dances offered at Gaskells, although Frank indicated that Brassworks is thinking about swapping out a COV for the BNP only for every other Ball. I'd much prefer to have the BNP included at every Ball.

I wouldn't mind too terribly if the second COV was replaced with BNP at every Gaskell Ball. I figure that the more experienced dancers who are more likely to know the BNP (in addition to COV) are also more likely to stay later into the evening, to stick around for the later sets. On the other hand, replacing the first COV with BNP doesn't seem like quite such a good idea. However, as I suggested to Frank, if the Committee wants to return to offering the COV twice at each Ball, how about also keeping the BNP at each Ball by swapping out the second Sir Roger de Coverley dance? The Ball only includes one Strip the Willow, so why does there have to be a second Sir Roger each night?

So, that would be my vote, to offer BNP at every Gaskell Ball, either by replacing the second COV or else by replacing the second Sir Roger de Coverley.

What say you?

I went to see "Angels & Demons"* last Sunday and left the theater feeling quite happy, not because I had just seen such a great film, but because for the first time, I was able to see a movie on the big screen and on my own terms.

I don't like to watch a movie on DVD without subtitles or captions. Unless it's a movie that I got from NetFlix and have been wanting to see for quite a long time, I will stop the film and return a DVD if I start playing the disk and discover that there are no subtitles or captions available. Especially with my hearing, captioning matters.

Seeing a movie on the big screen, I typically miss a fair amount of dialogue. I enjoyed seeing the latest "Star Trek" movie with my brother a few weeks ago and laughed at some of the lines, but as we were leaving the cineplex, I still had to ask my brother to explain some of the plot points. Sometimes you don't see a movie character's face when they're talking and can't use speechreading or pick up facial cues. Sometimes the character hardly has any lips to read, such as the helmeted Johann Krauss in "Hellboy II."

So, I happened to read in a digest from the Captioning group on Yahoo! about a new website called CaptionFish (www.captionfish.com) that lists local movie theaters showing films with open captioning or rear window captioning. I jumped at the chance to see "Angels & Demons" nearby at a showing with rear window captioning. Now, as much as possible, I am resolved not to pay to see another movie on the big screen unless I can see it with captioning.




* I found myself being somehow disappointed with "Angels & Demons", especially having enjoyed the book. I wouldn't say the movie was terrible, but perhaps more of the complications and suspense could have been carried over from page to film. I do have more to say about Dan Brown and his interesting and effective but remarkably formulaic novels; however, that's a post that can probably wait until his next book, "The Lost Symbol," comes out in September. Not surprisingly, I'm just reading that Columbia Pictures is already moving towards producing a movie version of "The Lost Symbol", continuing the Robert Langdon franchise.

I miss the YMCA.

I joined the YMCA near the office not too long after I started at the Bank. However, when gas prices were hovering around four dollars a gallon, prompting me to switch to commuting by train instead of by car, I could no longer go to the YMCA regularly after work. So, I cancelled my YMCA membership and tried to go for walks during lunch.

At the end of last year, I joined 24 Hour Fitness, which I can drive to from the train station once I get home from work. Per month, 24 Hour Fitness costs less than half what the YMCA cost, but as I'm finding again and again, you get what you pay for. Unlike 24 Hour Fitness, the YMCA had a part-time nutritionist on staff who occasionally offered cooking classes -- a skill I am much in need of improving -- as well as a lifeguard at the pool. (Last night, I just went for my first swim in over a year and the first since my ear surgery, which felt good, although I admit my arms were feeling kind of sore from the endeavour.) The YMCA also had the Fitlinxx computers set up to track the settings and reps for the weight machines, which was a wonderful system. I was also just reading that the Fitlinxx system may even suit my personality.

The other day, I read a magazine article about a book by Suzanne Brue called "The 8 Colors of Fitness", which tries to link preferred fitness activities to personality type, as determined by the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). (http://the8colorsoffitness.com) (And has anyone else tried the eight colors test?) Now, most of the MBTI tests that I've taken online indicate that I fall into the ISTJ category, which puts me in the BLUE fitness category: (quoted from the website)

Blues seek calm and familiar environments that allow them to focus on the task at hand. They find
commotion and interruptions disturbing and prefer keeping their gym interactions to a minimum.
Their personalities are modest and quiet; they call little attention to themselves and will not share
their fitness milestones and exercise accomplishments unless asked.

Blues typically have outstanding powers of concentration and are adept at creating their own
space, even inside a busy fitness center. They might do so by reading or listening to music or
books on tape. Many have said that while engaged in repetitious cardio activities, they maintain t
their energy by chanting or singing to themselves, or reciting personal mantras.

Interestingly, that's not that far off (and yes, blue is my favorite color). I tend not to chat much when I'm at the gym, and I like to read a book or magazine while I'm working out on a treadmill or elliptical machine. I also tend to recite poetry in my head while swimming laps.

Of course, the MBTI profile has its limitations and critics, where it seems nobody falls absolutely and purely into one of the Jungian dimensions assayed by Myers-Briggs. One of the MBTI tests that I took online actually put me in the INFJ category (rather than ISTJ). While core exercises suggested for the blue category, ISTJ, include jogging and swimming and keeping a log of progress, the corresponding activities for the saffron category, INFJ, include dance classes, of which I have taken and enjoyed quite a few, interestingly enough.

Now why the author would choose the color saffron, I have no idea. I also confess a certain reluctance to associate dance classes with a the name of an entirely untrustworthy female character from "Firefly" whom I would probably be quite loathe to dance with.

The Santa Clara Ballet presents their Spring Show 2009 the weekend of May 23rd to 24th:



Even in this rotten economy, there is still art and grace and beauty. Yes, this is the same ballet company in which I had a small part as one of the party guests in the "Nutcracker" production last December, but no, I will not be performing in the Spring Show. I've just volunteered to help out a little bit with publicity and perhaps serving as an usher or stagehand during the performances.

I really like the Santa Clara Ballet company. By and large, it's a very friendly and quite welcoming group of people, who are also very devoted to their dancing. If the "Nutcracker" was any indication, the company tries to include students of all different ages from the ballet school in the show. The older, more accomplished dancers take on some elaborate and pleasant choreography. Meanwhile, these little kids in costume, taking their early, tentative ballet steps on stage, are JUST SO CUTE!

My eardrum is all healed now.

I had my final appointment with the ear surgeon earlier today, who looked in my right ear and confirmed that the perforation is completely sealed up, the patch is fully integrated now, there is good blood flow all around, etc. With the hole in my eardrum fixed, the surgeon has now officially released me from his care.

So, I will no longer have to wear an earplug in my right ear every time I take a shower. I can also start swimming laps again, which is good exercise in general and especially good for my arthritis. My brother has cautioned me that it probably wouldn't hurt to still wear ear plugs in both ears when I'm swimming. Even though my tympanic membrane has been patched now, I probably still ought to refrain from any diving.

One thing that I asked the surgeon just before leaving is if there is anything that I can do to prevent another ear infection and rupture. He said no. Sometimes, it just happens. However, looking back now, I'm also have to ask if the worst of the ear ordeal could have been prevented?

It's not like I had an exotic virus wracking my inner ear. I was struck with staph aureus, a very common bacterial pathogen that was discovered in Scotland over a century ago and is now readily treated. Sometime back in 2007, I had some skin irritation about my scalp and some red blotches on my eyelids that I now strongly suspect were symptoms of the bacterial infection. Of course, I'm not a doctor, and back then, I didn't know that staph aureus can cause scalded skin syndrome or other effects.

Coincidentally, I just happened to read that red coloration on the eyelids is often symptomatic of a condition called dermatomyositis. I called my general practitioner, told her about the red rashes on my eyelids, and she agreed to have some blood tests done. The blood tests ruled out dermatomyositis. Now, maybe if I had bothered making an appointment with my general practitioner or had persisted in somehow determining the cause of my strange eyelids, we could have identified and treated the staph aureus then. However, the rashes on my eyelids weren't causing any pain and eventually went away. It also didn't seem to be worth the hassle and expense of making an appointment with my primary physician just to complain about what then seemed like a bad case of dandruff.

I do bear some responsibility for not being more proactive and assertive in identifying and preventing the infection that lead to my perforated eardrum.

However, what really chaps my hide (and part of my motivation for this verbose rant) is that the first medical specialist that I went to see about my ear infection essentially blew me off. Around the end of 2007, I noticed a sudden drop in my hearing, so I quickly made an appointment to have my hearing aids checked. My audiologist (hearing aid dispenser) said that my hearing aids were working fine. Around early 2008 then, I arranged an appointment with an otolaryngologist (ear, nose, and throat doctor) whom I told about both the unexplained drop in hearing level as well as some more recent sharp pain in my right ear whenever I bent down or moved my head suddenly.

Now, it seems that trying to convince a doctor that you have a problem is like trying to market a new product feature to consumers: you can talk about it until you're blue in the face, but if they don't see it, they won't buy it. The ear doctor listened to my complaints, took one look in my right ear, and then said "Sorry, I don't see any sign of infection." I blinked and stared at him. But he just shrugged and looked back at me like I was suffering from Munchausen symdrome or some other factitious disorder. I got the message that he wasn't going to lift a finger to do anything further except tell me to see my audiologist again. I left the office feeling that the appointment had been a complete waste of time.

Now, maybe I could have gotten a second opinion the next day. Maybe there was another ear doctor who would have listened to me carefully and insisted on running some more tests right away to try to figure out just what was going on with my right ear. The ear doctor that I had just seen was supposed to be very good, yet he didn't seem the least bit worried about my symptoms. So I tried not to worry either.

About two weeks later though, I noticed some discharge leaking out of my right ear. The bacterial infection that had been growing in my inner ear, behind the eardrum, out of casual view from a physician with a scope, had grown and had just blown a hole in my eardrum. This time, I made another appointment at the same medical office, but with a different ear doctor. The signs of infection in my ear were quite visible now. I soon had a prescription for some powerful antibiotics. The infection went away, but the hole remained, only to be closed up with surgery about a year later.

One of these days, I hope to read the fairly recent book called "How Doctor's Think" to get a better idea about how to deal with physicians and to hopefully avoid this regretful anger again while wondering if a surgical procedure could have been completely avoided if a doctor had just acted on my complaints instead of dismissing me as a hypochondriac.

A month or so after the second ear doctor had cleaned up the bacterial infection, I did see the first ear doctor again, sitting on a chair before me in the medical office. That first ear doctor was facing me and saw me; however, he didn't say a word in acknowledgement, and he avoided looking me in the eye.

I've gotten a creative urge lately, to rewrite some song lyrics or do something in tribute to Frankie Manning. At first, I was going to try working with "Poor Jud is Daid" from "Oklahoma!" However, I was recently reading the blog entry that Ammy Hill wrote about Frankie and Friday Night Waltz (which ends with "I can only hope I'm still dancing at 94.") and got an inspiration. I would take a stab at revising the lyrics to "When I'm Sixty-Four." (Thank you, Ammy!)

So, what? That's your idea of a fitting tribute to Frankie Manning? Writing new lyrics to an old Beatles song?

No, drafting "When I'm Ninety-Four" is all the tribute I can put together on short notice. I didn't say that it was fitting. Perhaps our best tribute or way to honor Frankie Manning is to go out and really enjoy doing the Shim Sham and Lindy Hop, to embrace the dances that Frankie helped create.

So, for your amusement ...



When I'm Ninety-Four


When I get older, losing my knees,
Many years from now,
Will you still be joining me in the Shim Sham,
Birthday jams, and eating frim fram?

If the band played till quarter to three,
Would you clap for more?
Will I be swinging, will I be dancing,
When I'm ninety-four?

You'll be older too,
And if you say the word,
I would dance with you.

I could be gentle, holding your arms,
When your legs have gone.
We could still Balboa when the nights are dark,
Sundays go Lindy in the park.

Doing the Charleston under the trees,
Who could ask for more?
Will I be swinging, will I be dancing,
When I'm ninety-four?

Every summer we could rent a cottage
Out in Avalon, if it's not too far
To Catalina Island.
At the Casino we'll play,
Dance to a big band.

Send me a letter, give me a call,
State your favorite moves.
Tell me where exactly we can meet to dance;
It may be our very last chance.

Give me your hand and follow my lead,
Partners evermore.
Will I be swinging, will I be dancing,
When I'm ninety-four?

Alas, the Ambassador of Lindy Hop, Frankie Manning died peacefully this morning.

http://www.frankiemanning.com/

This is the legendary swing dancer who invented the aerial and taught other Lindy Hop moves to me and so many other enthusiastic dancers around the world. Probably about a dozen years ago now, shortly after taking my first Lindy Hop lesson, I attended my first workshop with Frankie Manning. I was impressed and hooked. A few years later, I was helping to organize dance workshops featuring Frankie Manning with the Northern California Lindy Society. Frankie and Lindy Hop had transformed me from a guy who attended a total of four dances throughout all of high school to a guy who several years after college, was often going out swing dancing four times a week. Frankie Manning was still teaching Lindy Hop when he was over ninety years old, still helping me and others around the globe to learn a new language, to move with such joy, to express ourselves through dance.

Thank you, Frankie! Thank you for your legacy!

To leave or not to leave, that is the question,
Whether 'tis nobler in a life to suffer
The scorns and insults of outrageous employment
Or to take arms against a sea of resumes,
And by applying, beat them. To settle, to slave no more ...


The past Friday was my three year anniversary at Mechanics Bank. The Chairman of the Board -- a nice old man with enough cachet to be respectfully referred to simply as "Eddie" -- came down to congratulate me, as he does for all employees at the headquarters office on their anniversary dates. Eddie likes to personally visit employees to wish them a happy birthday too. I don't believe in birthdays though, so Eddie has been good enough to discreetly call me at my desk on my birthday. So, I do work with some nice people, in general. My boss still gets on my nerves now and then. :)

The point is that three years is a bit of a milestone for me. Three years is the longest that I've been able to or have chosen to remain at a job. Three years has often been the decision point, whether to continue or move on ...

Just a minute ... uh ... Cary, are you giving serious thought to looking for a new job in this economy? In the banking industry! Are you nuts?

Oh ... yeah ... maybe I should just be grateful to have a job right now. I could go on and on weighing the pros and cons, reasons to stay, reasons to leave. But then, I need to get back to the laundry. =)


... the undiscovered position puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear the job we have
Rather than hop to others that we know not of.
Thus uncertainty does make cowards of us all,
And thus the modern hue of applications
Is pixelated over with the pale cast of worry
And applications of great pursuit and momentum,
WIth this regard, their currents turn awry and lose the name of ambition.

I'm not really a gardener, but I have been composting for a few years.  I have a small worm bin out on my deck that's been receiving routine donations of food scraps from the kitchen.  The "worm hotel" is filled with several levels of decaying organic matter helped by a viable population of red wrangler worms.  The problem is that the compost from my bin seems to kill every plant it touches.  And I'm not sure why.

At least a year ago, my Mom gave me a nice rosemary bush that I put out on the deck and began watering with the "worm tea" runoff that comes out of the spout at the base of the bin.  The rosemary bush soon dried up and withered.  Later, I read that one is supposed to dilute the "worm tea" by half with regular tap water before using it to water any plants.  Ooops.  Alright, so it seems the "worm tea" is far too concentrated to use alone.  Strike one.

Then a month or two ago, I was visiting the local adult education center and found out that one of my neighbors, a nice retired lady named Jean, has been involved with the community garden there for several years.  Jean gave me two small pots filled with cuttings of rosemary and mint.  So, I put the herbs out on the deck and began watering them with tap water, and the plants seemed to be doing fine.  Then I tried to help the plants a little bit by taking a small spoonful or so of compost from the bottom of the bin and placing it on top of the soil in the pots.  That apparently was another mistake.  The rosemary and mint soon began to bend over, dry up, and wither away.  Strike two.

Now, it's not like I've been lacing the compost with mercury or salt.  I honestly didn't mean to kill the plants, and I don't want to strike out again by axing a third plant with my cursed compost.  At least the compost doesn't seem to be bothering the worms.  Most all my banana peels and apple cores and onion skins go out into the compost bin, sometimes even after I put the food waste through the blender, which I read that the worms are supposed to like better that way.  And I know that the worms are active enough to make short work out of leaves of lettuce and especially watermelon rinds.  They love devouring watermelon rinds. 

So lately, I'm starting to wonder if the problem with the compost is a bad carbon to nitrogen ratio.  From what I've been reading recently, If I'm just mostly just putting in fruit and vegetable scraps, then there's probably way too much nitrogen in the pile.  Can compost with excess nitrogen levels be what killed the plants?  Like the herbs choked on laughing gas?  I just have a third floor deck, not a yard where I can readily pick up dried leaves and other high carbon lawn waste.  Not that I'm an organic farmer, but I've also been reluctant to add a lot of newspaper or cardboard to the compost bin (which is also supposed to be high in carbon).  I don't add Cheez Whiz or other processed kitchen waste to the bin, so why add processed tree carcasses? 

Or maybe my compost is just way too acidic.  A pH test may be a rude awakening.  Whatever vendetta my compost has, I need to stanch this plant killing streak before I can hope to use the compost or even feel good about giving it away to Jean or other gardeners I know.  And only then maybe I can go forward with my plan to use the compost to fill some planter boxes out on the deck and grow some herbs, beginning with parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. :)

Lemon #3

Even though I had insurance, I still had to pay for a new toilet and pay the deductible.  After the firemen had left, I also had to do downstairs and meet Gloria for the first time and apologize for the water damage to her ceiling.  I had to fend inquiries from other neighbors as well.


Lemonade #3

Nobody has been able to tell me exactly why the toilet suddenly overflowed on New Year's Day.  The plumber that came by that day couldn't identify any major blockage in the pipes, and while he was there, I asked him to snake the bathtub drain, which had been draining rather slowly back then.  (I've snaked my kitchen sink several times, but running a snake down the bathtub is a bit more involved.)  I'm not sure if the toilet bowl backed up for some reason or if there was an unexpected crack that had just deveoped in the tank or what.  Maybe the toilet was just really pissed off and decided to finally throw in the towel after three decades of eating sh' ...  

Ahem.  Sorry, that was getting pretty bad.

In any case, the insurance company determined that the toilet failure was just due to normal wear and tear and thus excluded from policy coverage.  For at least a dozen days, the contractors had also removed the toilet and placed it in the bathtub while restoring the bathroom floor, during which I got in the habit of using the shower and powder room out by the swimming pool.  Fortunately, my insurance policy had a "loss of use" clause which provided some compensation while I was unable to use my own shower and toilet.  That "loss of use" reimbursement was about enough to cover the cost of both the new toilet and the deductible.

Gloria was pretty cool and seemed to take it pretty well when I knocked on her door for the first time and offered my apologies and reassurances that the flooding from my bathroom was unintentional and unexpected, a genuine accident.  The bag of fresh, homemade brownies I brought down for her may have also helped.  

At some point during the day, I also met Kathy, the nice lady who lives in the unit right next to me.  The firemen had knocked on her door that morning before breaking down mine, asking Kathy if there was a way to get into my unit from her deck.  When I saw her later that day, Kathy asked a pointed and astute question, namely, what if there had been a fire in your kitchen instead of a flood in your bathroom?  That is, how are we supposed to rouse you from sleep in an emergency if you can't hear us pounding on your front door?  

That got me to thinking.  There's still some work to be done in the bathroom before it's fully operational again.  (I need to replace the vanity or cabinet.  If anyone has any advice about choosing a bathroom vanity and picking out material for the countertop and sink, I'm all ears.)  However, once the bathroom is done, and before I consider doing any other major remodeling, I need to look into getting some strobe light smoke detectors or installing some other emergency electronics designed for the deaf.  

In other words, the arrangement in my condominium needs to be recast from that of a single guy trying to live independently to that of a single guy trying to live independently as a hard of hearing person.

Lemon #2

 The water damage from the sudden toilet flooding was extensive enough that the restoration company had to completely remove the linoleum flooring in the bathroom and kitchen and also pull up all the carpet in the closet and hallway.  They even removed some of the carpet in the bedroom.  For over a week, I was walking on bare wooden floorboards and navigating around powerful dehumidifiers and huge fans.


Lemonade #2

The insurance company provided coverage for replacement flooring, which meant that I got to pick out some vinyl for the kitchen and bathroom as well as carpeting for the other areas.  It seems the significance of the change is not so much that the flooring is new, but that I got to actually choose the color of the carpet and the design on the vinyl.  Instead of some dull carpet and old linoleum that came with the condo, I actually picked the flooring out myself, and I actually care about the flooring now.  I've suddenly become a bit more regular about mopping and vacuuming.

Admittedly, I still have a fair ways to go before I can fiercely dispute the saying that single guys are just bears with furniture, but I'm working on it.

 So, now that the whole affair is essentially over, I've been reconsidering the flooding adventure that I had on New Year's Day ...

Lemon #1

On the morning of January 1, 2009, a troupe of local firemen destroyed my front door.  Sometime late at night during New Year's Eve, a leak sprang from the toilet in my bathroom.  While I peacefully slept, the water flooded the bathroom in my condominium and began leaking down to the unit below.  Gloria, the lady living below me, noticed the water accumulating on her ceiling, ran upstairs, and began pounding on my door.  Twenty minutes later, without the least response from me, she called the fire department.  

Unfortunately, I don't sleep with my hearing aids in.  It probably also didn't help that the perforation in my right eardrum hadn't been patched yet.  While I wasn't hung over from the night before, I wasn't feeling all that great either.  I had come down with something a few days before, was feeling under the weather, and had a frog in my throat.  I had kept my commitment to help with setting up for a New Year's Eve ball in Berkeley, but had not stayed for the dance.  It was now the morning of New Year's Day, and I had an official holiday from work.  So, I didn't have any qualms about sleeping in.  Relaxing in my bedroom, I could hear some faint pounding, but it sounded rather distant, like it was coming from downstairs or from some construction on another unit down the hall.  I ignored it and tried to go back to sleep.

When I did finally roll out of bed and look out my bedroom door, the firemen had just broken down my entrance door and were stepping through at least an inch of water in my bathroom to turn off the source for my toilet.  For a moment, I stood aghast in my blue thermal underwear and stared at the completely ruined lock and doorframe, while a handful of firemen and even a few cops streamed into my home.

This was not how I had expected the year 2009 to begin. 

After I pulled on some sweats, put in my hearing aids, and showed my driver's license to one of the cops, a kind fireman took me aside and showed me the ladder he had used to climb up to my third story deck, where he had pulled the screens off the windows and doors and tried to peer past the curtains.  He explained that after they had been pounding on my front door for so long and couldn't gain access to my unit any other way, the crew had become concerned about my safety and consciousness and had finally decided to force their way in through my front door.  

The local firemen did their duty.  I am not angry at the firemen for breaking down my front door.  

Still, the damage was done, and not just to the now barely functioning entrance door.  There was also extensive water damage to the flooring in the bathroom, closet, hallway, and even the kitchen in my unit, not to mention the damage to the units below.

C'est la vie.


Lemonade #1

Fortunately, I had homeowner's insurance for my condominium.  One of the first things I did after talking to the cops and firemen, was to get out my cell phone and an insurance statement and file a claim with AAA.  (I'm very happy with the service I received and can now heartily recommend AAA for homeowner's insurance.)  The very next morning, a team from a local restoration company came by and began pulling up the flooring and drying out my unit.  By now, everything has been restored and repaired.  (More details to follow ...)

One of the last things that the construction company had replaced and finished fixing was the front door to my condo.  I happened to be home while a friendly contractor was getting ready to drill a hole through my new front door and install the old peephole.  He went out with a tape measure for a moment and then came back saying, "All the other units have the peephole eighteen inches from the top of the door.  How high do you want yours?"

"Oh," I said, "can you make it a little lower?"  I was thinking how I'm a little sho' ... uh ... vertically challenged. 

"Sure," he responded, "I'll put yours twenty inches from the top."  

So, as far as I know, the peephole in the front door to my unit is now a full two inches lower than every other condo in the building.  I still have to lift my heals off the ground a little bit to peer out the front door, but not as much as I used to.

I just got back from the third follow-up appointment with the ear surgeon, who says that he sees some more progress with integration and blood flow along the perimeter of the eardrum patch.  The surgeon tells me that I can now stop using the antibiotic drops for my ear, but he wants me to wait a week before I try using my regular hearing aid in my right ear again.  So, I went ahead and returned the bone conduction hearing device that I had borrowed from the audiology department.  

The good news is that I can return to work on April 8th as originally planned.

The bad news is that I can return to work on April 8th as originally planned.

If I do return to the office on the 8th, the eardrum probably will not be completely healed.  But it should be quite close.  It sounded like if I wanted to be especially careful, the surgeon would have been willing to write me a note so that I could delay my return to work for another week or two.  However, it seems like it's been long enough. 

Last Friday, I dropped by the office during lunchtime to attend a retirement party for an operations colleague.  I've been gone for enough time that the bank seems a little foreign to me.  I got some reassuring noise from management that they are counting on and looking forward to me returning soon; however, I also got a sense that there may be some resentment if I was to try to extend the duration of my medical leave.  Now that I've already had all this time off, I'm going to have to tread delicately in requesting specific vacation time later this year, even to attend a cousin's wedding in Connecticut in mid July. 

I don't expect that I'll be able to take up swimming again until late April, but starting the weekend of April 10th, I should be able to actually go out dancing and be social again. 

So, in about two weeks, I'll be back to burn the floor. :)

 A friend of mine recently gave me a gift card to Longs Drugs, so I stopped by the Longs down the road and picked up some toiletries and food items.  When I was finished, there was still $1.42 left on the card, so I asked the clerk if she could give me the remaining balance in cash.

The clerk dismissed me with something like 'No, sorry' and turned away.

Now, I seemed to remember reading something about recent changes to the rules for gift cards.  So, I spoke up, "You have to.  The law says that you have to.  There's less than ten dollars left on the card."  The clerk locked eyes with me for a moment, and after working out some technical issues with the cash register, eventually opened the drawer and gave me the cash due.

(Yeah, a whole $1.42 may not even buy a gallon of milk, but see, it's the principle ... :)  )

So, I was just doing some checking online to try to confirm the scoop on gift cards, and it turns out that the legal changes are not all that recent.  The new law was passed by the California Legislature in 2007 and went into effect on January 1, 2008, now requiring that a merchant or retailer issuing gift cards in California must provide cash back upon request if the balance of the card is less then $10.00.  ( California Civil Code Section 1749.5(b)(2)  - The same Code Section also requires that generally, California retailers can not issue gift certificates or gift cards with a service fee or expiration date.  )  

So, the new law on gift cards has been on the books for over a year now, but this was the first chance that I had to put it into play.  

And it worked.