Summer isn’t Summer until the Cicada Sing

Summer in Alabama is hot. No, not just hot, humid. Humidity so thick, your brow breaks at first contact. It’s like a wall of fresh-raked drywall.  But as hot as it gets, as early in the year as it gets, Summer isn’t Summer until the cicada sing.

Cicada are amazing little critters. They can lull you to sleep when the humidity is just right. They can wake you up in the early morning with their screaming. They can top trees and crawl grounds.

Summer isn’t Summer until the cicada sing.

They’ll eat beans They don’t sting. They just sing.

On a mostly humid night, windows open, ears open, the cicada make me sleep.

My minivan is a chick magnet

You can keep your candy-apple, red Mustang and your fancy foreign cars. Ferrari’s go fast, but it’s called a Testarossa. We all know you’re compensating for your own hormonal deficiency. I wouldn’t trade titles with your used-to-be-a-Subaru-now-it’s-a-formula- one-but-it’s-still-a-Subaru with all its Redneck go-fasters for nothing. I got my minivan.

Chicks dig my minivan. You know? Chicks. Women between 36 and 44. MILFs Bubba, MILFs. They see me in my sleek, black stretch and think, “My God! That could hold 5 kids and their soccer gear.” They don’t even know it has a towing package. If they did, they’d leap from the curb into my auto-sliding door.

When I drive down the boulevard in my glossy, midnight cruiser, you can hear their biological clocks ticking. When I pull up to the Pizza Hut and order 5 large pizzas to go, sweat breaks out on their perfectly-arched eyebrows. All the ladies want to get with this. They knows I gots the 6-cylinders of joy.

This ain’t your daddy’s station wagon. His wagon was the minivan of his day. It’s the reason your mom gave him the time of day, a kiss and hand-job at the lake.

It ain’t a crappy tall wagon neither. No women is getting jiggy with your emo-ass-looking-surfer-wannabe-mamma’s- basement-living-refrigerator-box-driving -plastic-seat-havin’ sorry ass. You need a minivan, son.

The ladies want my two hundred and seventy horses of desire. I can see it in their eyes. I read it in their body language. I can tell by the crease in their jeans. I hear them ovulate as I roll by. Eggs popping like scramblers sizzling on a Sunday morning. I don’t need cologne. I have my minivan.

Get you one or come get you some…minivan. Slide up in my leather captain’s chair and swivel an arm rest down. “May I take your drink, m’lady?” I got cup holders. Big cup holders. Big enough for those big cups at the drive thru. Just slide on down and fasten that seat belt. That? It’s a tri-stable-anchor-point for a child’s car seat. Yeah, I got two of those. “Flip down that DVD screen and put on Pretty Woman would ya baby?”

Oh, yeah. I’m pulling this minivan over right now.

Petroleum Remediation Product (PRP): Bio-gradable Oil Reclamation

PRP may be the wonder invention of the year. This NASA spin-off uses micro technology developed in orbital experiments to safely eliminate oil spills. It’s bio-degradable and perfect for water and land oil clean up.

read more | digg story

Ain’t that just slick?  I press one button at digg.com and the story shows up here.  Flippin’ sweet!  I’d never tried that before.  This might make me re-think the whole “Digg is for crack-addicted chipmunks with ADD” stance I had previously taken.  Spare a digg?  Yeah, thought not.  It pretty dry stuff, but cool in it’s own way.

Associated Content Next Town Hall

…because the last won blew chunky hose water, we should try this again and get it right. Get you’re butt in gear and get there with some hard questions.The next town hall meeting takes place on Tues., July 24th, 2007 at 8 p.m. Eastern. The topic of the next town hall meeting is: Spread the word about AC! Learn tips for getting your friends, family, colleagues, neighbors and more to join and submit content to Associated Content. We’ve also been promised a demo’s of the new forum layout.

Psychic Hotline Help Me

Save us all from my wife. My wife has always been a little different, but now it’s just getting scary.

My wife has always had certain gifts, one of which borders on the slightly psychotic or psychic.  I always get the two confused.  My wife has the uncanny ability to call my cell phone at three precise moments during the day.

She calls in the middle of business meetings just as I’m about to speak
Her radar tells her that I’m with some very important people and it is my turn to give the presentation that will earn that big promotion.  What could calling now hurt?  What better time than a crucial moment in my career is better to remind me that we need dog food?

“And this slide, ladies and gentlemen, is my revolutionary cost-saving proposal.  It is guaranteed to reduce over-head by 12% while increasing revenue”…buzz…buzz…buzz.  (I had the good sense to put the phone on vibrate.)

Naturally I have to take this call.  It could be an emergency.  If it’s not and I don’t answer, rest assured that by 6pm, it will have become an emergency that won’t let me get to sleep before 3am.

“Yes, dear?  Uh huh.  Uh huh.  I’m in a meeting.  Uh huh.  Yes, your niece is the cutest thing since toast.  Uh huh.  I really have to go.  Uh huh.  No I really have to go!  Uh huh.  The dog did what?  Uh huh. In the living room floor? Uh huh.  Looks just like the Virgin Mary?  Uh huh.  Please dear, my boss needs to fire me now.  Yes, I really have to go.  Uh huh.  Uh huh.  No, I can’t stop and pick that up on the way home.  Because we don’t have any money now that I lost my job.  Uh huh.  Uh huh.”

At a specific intersection, 2 miles from our house
“Hello.”

“When are you going to be home?”

“In about 2 minutes, just like yesterday when you called at 5:20.”

“Could you pick up some dinner?”

“Well, no.  Just like yesterday, I’ve already passed 400 restaurants and there isn’t another one between here and home.”

“Even if it’s just McDonalds?”

“I guess I could U-turn over the median and get a ticket so you could have a Big Mac.  Would that do?”

“OK.  Just come home.  You can fix dinner then.”

“Thanks.  I’m actually in the driveway right now.  Can I hang up or do we need to continue this conversation via technology?”

“Did you check the mail?”

“For God’s sake woman, open the front door and look outside.  You’ll see me checking the mail in person.  Better yet, go look at the satellite view on Google maps, zoom in close and see if I’m waving.”

“You can do that on Google?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

If there is a God, there will be a deadly snake in the mail box put there by some pissed off neighbor.  Please Jesus, give me sweet release.

On the toilet
This I just refuse to do.  I don’t care who is calling.  They have to wait for a call back.  I’m not going to be the stall-talker guy.  I’m not discussing anything with anyone while on the john.  Crap time is my own special alone time and I’d like to keep it that way.

Associated Content Tip of the Day 20 July 2007: Visualize your keywords

Tsu Dho Nimh offers up this great write-up including links to a text analyzer that shows your text’s words as a cloud tag. Very useful for analyzing your keyword density. Her article includes a short primer on using the on-line service and some tips on making effective use of the cloud. I highly recommend the read and the cloud tag software.

Using Tag Clouds to Improve Your Search Engine Optimization by guest contributor Tsu Dho Nimh.

Slowly becoming metro-sexual

My wife looks 20 years younger than she is. Her secret? She rarely spends time in the sun and therefore has really great skin. She also has an obsession with skin care products.

At any given moment she has a dozen different brands of make up and moisturizers. Why she has so much make up I’ll never know. The sun-aversion thing means she doesn’t get out much. Which also means she doesn’t have many girlfriends and I’m her de-facto giggle-pal. This is all fine until she wants to share her latest makeup find.

Damn it woman! I’m not going to try that lip-gloss. Now if you put it on, I’ll enjoy it vicariously via a kiss, but I’m not your girlfriend. I will not put on that eye shadow. I will not play Barbie dress-up with you. And I will not moisturize. Not until last night.

I was doing some yard work yesterday. Then I had to run an unexpected errand. Then I fixed a late supper. Then, dirty and exhausted, I told my wife, “I’m going to run take a shower.” Translation, “I’m going to groan as I get out of the recliner and drag my big butt into the bathroom and stand under the water for a good long soak.”

I traversed all the products lining the tub and got under a nice warm stream of re-vitalizing H2O. I wasn’t in my usual morning rush and curiosity got the better of me. That “Spin Spa” brush looked mighyt curious. If you don’t know, the “Spin Spa” is a battery-powered, multi-attachment, rotating, long-handled device. It has one of those puffy, body-wash applicators and a variety of brushes. I figured “What the hell? I’ll give it a try.”

The body wash was fine, but those puffy things aren’t made for a good face wash. As I reached for an old-fashioned washcloth, one of the other bush attachments caught my eye. It was laying next to a tub of “First-pressed olive oil exfoliante.” Oddly, the container was the exact size of the brush head. Snap off the puffy. Snap on the exfoliating brush. Holy Venus, goddess of beauty, this is what I’ve been missing? The guy staring back from the mirror was glowing.

By Jove, here are more interesting products on the vanity. What is Omega-3? Who knows, but it sure feels good on my face. I didn’t realize my skin was dry until I moisturized. But that’s where I draw the line. No make up. No hair products.

When did looking like you just got out of bed and forgot to comb your hair become a style? My hair looks like that every morning without any work. I’m not spending 15 minutes trying to look like some emo kid in a magazine. Besides, if I’m running late, a hat only takes 2 seconds to put on.

So the lessons for today are:

• Hat does not equal shower
• Exfoliating feels wonderful
• You have to draw the line somewhere

When musical theater goes wrong

I’ve a friend who likes musicals.  This is for her.   Yes, I like to ruin life for everyone.

If you didn’t find that funny, it’s OK.  In the next life you’ll be reincarnated as an accountant.

Camping is Cramping

My blog buddy Jenn posted about “your worst camping nightmare” contest.  I reminded me of this horror story from my past.

July is a hot month. The July in question was hotter than most. 104F in the shade. Yes, I said shade. 115F in the sun. When you walked through the threshold of the air-conditioned RC’s door, the humidity felt like freshly mucked drywall. As long as we had to endure the heat, we thought the beach breeze and water would be a slight comfort.

We packed the tent and some belongings onto the roof of the old, reliable station wagon and the four of us set out for the Gulf of Mexico. It rained the entire drive from the farm to Grayton Beach State Park (FL). That should have been our first clue, but the rain stopped as we arrive. Sucker punched again.

I staked the tent, complete with tarp porch and set up camp. The remainder of the day was spent wandering between the gators and the water. The night fell, but unknown to us, the Clampetts had moved in next door.

Quiet time in a state park is a given. Unfortunately, the Clampetts were never given anything in their life except for possibly the two cases of beer, also off limits in the state park, they brought with their horseshoes. Not the rubber set mind you, but the full-metal-jacket version.

Once the whooping, hollering, clanking and beer-can crushing stopped around 2AM, I finally got some sleep. My wife, however did not. By 7AM, I was directed to do something. I made breakfast. Apparently, that is not what was expected of me and by 9AM I was told that better accommodations were being sought. She took the car and sped west.

Now your standard black and green camping tent can absorb and amazing amount of solar energy before 10AM. I didn’t realize just how much until the stakes were up and it hit the sand. The next 3 hours were spent like this: Roll three turns. Ow! Roll two turns. Ow! Roll one turn. Ow! Roll a quarter turn. Holy cheese! Roll…Mother of Pearl! Roll…Kid’s take a walk. Daddy needs some space.

By 1PM the tent was tucked, the car was back (there’s the little woman) and we were off. Where? I didn’t care. My hands had 2nd degree burns and I needed a Mai-Tai.

The Holiday Inn in Sandestin, FL is a lovely pink building with a very refreshing swimming pool and a chastity-belt-wearing, 400-year-old receptionist who insists that check-in can not be accomplished before 3PM. Kids, let’s go stand in the pool.

It is important to know that these events took place about 10 years ago. That doesn’t mean that Ursula of the undead isn’t still there. I think they built the hotel around her because she refused to move.

Now I’m not one to complain, but…

I know. After reading some of my rants, you’re thinking, “Right. He’s not one to complain. Sure.” But I recently had something happen that I didn’t run to the blog and whine about. I wanted to see how it played out. Then I’d either have fodder for a righteous rant or a tale of happiness. Here’s the tale. Sorry to disappoint those wanting a rant.

Back on the 1st I treated my oldest and her husband to their first anniversary dinner at Ruth’s Chris here in town. The company was lovely, but the service was woefully lacking and the quality of the meat was nothing like I had experienced during prior visits to the same chain in other locales.

I let the manager know our server was inattentive during our visit. He made apologies and obviously had some sort of conversation with the young man before our dessert course. The kid was making all attempts to make amends during dessert, but still couldn’t get things right. Who wants decaf Irish coffee? That’s what he made and that’s just dumb.

The Ruth’s Chris web site has a nice little feedback feature. I let a few days pass, just to cool off a little. The form has a date/time/location portion and a place for your comment. I left all the info and a brief note about the service with specifics as to what I felt was lacking: uncleared dishes, unfilled drinks, having to flag down busboys for refills, the screwed up dessert, and the fact that the meat just didn’t seem up to RC’s par. It probably didn’t hurt that I threw in “ramekin” just so they knew I know a little about the culinary experience. After spending $80 per person for dinner, you can see I was slightly disappointed.

I intentionally left out the part about how the waiter paid much more attention to the party of 10 far across the room. Maybe he thought the large party would tip better. He didn’t know my propensity for generosity when dining. Maybe he felt an ethnic bond with the other party. I don’t know. Like I said, I didn’t mention that part in the web form.

The point of this little tale is that Ruth’s Chris Steak House is a class act when it comes to handling this type of situation. I got a letter in the mail today. It was a heart-felt apology for the situation. They gave me names and numbers of people to contact if I had wanted to discuss further or to contact prior to my next visit. They pin-pointed the server by name (I didn’t. They obviously took the time to cross reference my time/date/etc.) and assured me that the situation had been discussed with the young man.

Knowing how a restaurant normally works, I left a tip that just barely covered the bartender and the busboy without leaving much for the young man. I hope the other table covered the spread.

He probably thought, “See, I knew they weren’t going to tip. I’m glad I pegged them.” Unfortunately, he didn’t peg me. I regularly leave at least 20% for adequate service. I am not afraid to leave more if served well. I’m even the guy who will call the manager over to tell them when things went well. We didn’t ask for anything unusual or off the menu either. We just expected butter with our bread and drink refills. You know, attention to detail. Hell, I even wore a tie for cheese sake.

So what’s the incentive to return to Ruth’s Chris? Two reasons. Their prompt, sincere letter and the $200 certificate. Don’t get me wrong. The “money” is nice, but the letter and fact they actually responded made the difference. Beyond good service and food, that’s all a restaurant patron really wants. That’s all any customer really wants…to be heard; to know that your voice made a difference.

Thank you Ruth’s Chris for listening and responding.