What a pleasure to step outside this morning to get the newspaper and instead of getting a nose full of frozen hair I had it filled with the smell of warm, moist earth and impending rain. It won’t be long now before I can take down the Christmas lights, pull up the orange driveway stakes, or find a place in the back yard to bury the cat (wrapped and boxed in our deep-freeze). I don’t think it’s going to take me four hours to finish that task.

The snow is almost gone, revealing all the goodies the city plows deposited in my front yard and the tire tracks of the yahoos who drove across my lawn over the winter. It’s good to see the snow go, but I’m a little disappointed. Our sump-pump started acting up last year and I had gone most of the winter without replacing it because there wasn’t a pressing need. When the 16″ of snow fell a few weeks ago, followed by the 40+ degree temperatures, I knew procrastination was no longer an option. I pulled up the old pump and went to Menard’s for a new one and other necessary parts (only two trips!) and got it hooked up, then sat back waiting for the deluge. Nothing! The ground has absorbed everything and nothing has made it into the drain tiles. Oh well, at least the job is done.

Without that to worry about (for the time being, anyway) I can focus on the Twins’ preparations for the upcoming season. The team looks a lot more promising this year than last year at this time, what with the League MVP, Cy Young Winner and Batting Champ all on the roster. Now the biggest concerns are who will be the back-up infielder and whether desperate veteran pitching acquisitions Ramon Ortiz and/or Sidney Ponson can fill spots in the rotation allowing our host of promising but young pitchers an opportunity to season a little longer.

It strikes me as a dubious proposition; Ortiz reportedly has the ability to focus like a shotgun when the going gets tough and the portly Ponson has a reputation for bizarre and aggressive off-field behavior. This has been attributed to excessive drinking, but supposedly that’s no longer a concern because Sid is limiting himself to just a little wine with dinner. Uh-huh. I expect to see a report any day now that Ponson has eaten a bat-boy with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Twins management is hopeful that he’ll work out, of course, saying they expect that Carlos Silva’s work ethic would be a positive influence on him. This is like saying Paris Hilton could be a good influence on Britney Spears.

Oh well, it may be spring, but it’s early in the spring when things still look a little gritty and messy. Soon the grass will be green, the flowers will be out, the sump pump will be humming along and Opening Day will be here.

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We had little idea how much personality a bird can have when we adopted a storm-tossed budgie a couple of years ago. Actually we knew very little about budgies at all, including how to figure out if the bird was male or female. We’ve since learned that “budgie” is an abbreviation of an Australian word, and we’ve become well educated in many different aspects of bird-rearing (and determined that our bird’s a sheila).



Now that our cat has moved on to happier hunting grounds The Bird (Tiger Lilly may have a name for it, but everyone pretty much calls her The Bird) has many more opportunities outside of her cage to have the run (or airspace) of the house. She always wants to be wherever her “flock” (us) is, whether she’s in her cage or not. Any companionship appears better to her than none, but she is especially bonded to Tiger Lilly. Anyone will do in a pinch, or peck, however, as I’ve discovered.



Saturday morning my wife and I were up before Tiger Lilly and my wife let the bird out of her cage while we read the paper. The bird loves to shred newspaper, so this was like an invitation to party. Take it from me, it is very distracting to have a bird trying to savage the section of newspaper that you’re reading. This particular morning, however, The Bird decided to share the paper with my wife, probably because the last time she and I “shared” the paper it got to be pretty frustrating for both of us. My wife was clever and thought to offer up a sacrificial section of the paper (probably the one with Nick Coleman’s column in it) to busy The Bird so she could read the comics in peace. Just like the cat, however, The Bird is only interested in the section that you have in front of you. After a couple of tears at the decoy section she hopped over to my wife’s leg and started working at the folded gutter of the paper. My wife is much more patient than I am and gamely continued to read. When she opened the section fully, however, to turn the page she discovered a better-than-bird-sized hole in the middle of the paper (including a missing punch-line from the last panel of a comic).



After the ensuing protest The Bird decided a change of scenery would be beneficial, so she flew across the room and landed on my shoulder. She wisely didn’t make for the paper right away, as I turned my head and we regarded each other like familiar opponents. It so happened that when I turned toward her she was able to see her reflection in my reading glasses.



You know, it is kind of a strange sensation to see a magnified and blurry beak coming at your eye.



Finding herself again airborne, The Bird went on the hunt for more docile prey, or at least another section of the newspaper. I don’t understand why chewing up the newspaper is so interesting to her, but I suppose it’s probably a good source of fiber.



That’s all I need — an unconstipated budgie flying Dawn Patrol in my living room! I never thought I’d miss that cat.

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The young woman sat across from me, looking a little nervous or, perhaps, just excited and not wanting to let it show too much. “You’re not meeting my needs,” she said, “and I can’t go on like this. Plus, there’s this other guy…and I think we’re going to be very happy together.”

Well, actually she didn’t say that exactly, but that’s kind of the way it sounded. Moments before she’d shown up with that “We need to talk” look, and handed me The Envelope. It was clean, white and absolutely neutral in all things but I knew in a single heart-stopping instant what it was, and what it meant. Guys always talk about how it came “out of the blue” or that they “didn’t have a clue”, but the fact is, deep down, we all sense that it’s just a matter of time. I knew what was coming; the sleepless nights, distracted conversations, morose pity-parties, the random outbursts, perhaps even some heavy drinking. But that was all ahead; first things first. “Have a seat,” I said, glad that I was already sitting down.

What she really said, in more or less this order, was “There are no opportunities for me here, and I have to make a career move.” And that “other guy”? It was another company, offering more money and more opportunities. Yes, this all took place at work a couple of weeks ago when my sole staff person handed me her letter of resignation and two weeks’ notice. Our relationship was all business, but after six years together it was hard for her announcement not to take on some “break-up” overtones, and also hard for it not to feel a little like a personal rejection. Oh, sure, there were the “it’s been fun, I learned a lot, I loved the company and didn’t want to leave” affirmations to soften the blow but also, maybe, just a hint that if only I’d “done” something it wouldn’t have come to this. Or maybe that’s just my perception based on manager’s guilt (I’ll let you know after therapy).

It was inevitable, however. My particular division in this global company is very profitable but pretty flat in terms of organizational structure, and while she was a top performer who had taken on more and more responsibilities over the years there really wasn’t much opportunity for advancement, especially since my absent-mindedness hasn’t (so far) extended to crossing the street without first looking both ways. Oh well, at least we can still be friends, right?

Anyway, my workload has leapt substantially as I try to manage my own projects plus all the other things our unit is responsible for, while also trying to hire a new person or devise a rational way to farm the responsibilities out to others. Along with that, of course, my phone is ringing off the hook, emails are piling in, and people are popping their head in my office saying, “I tried to call you — why aren’t you answering your phone?” While I was talking to one such person standing in my doorway today, another walked by behind him, pointed at me and did that thumb-and-pinky telephone pantomime.

I’ve got a strong suspicion that 9-to-5 ain’t going to get it done, at least for the next few weeks. I’m going to try to keep updating this blog on a daily basis because I enjoy it, but I make no guarantees that posts will be up to my usual standards, pitiable as these may be.

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The HDTV guy finally showed up Friday afternoon to hook up the new dish and bring me into the 21st century. I’ve just spent my first weekend with 1080 resolution (whatever that is) and a surround-sound home theater. So, what did I watch?

Golf, mostly. The Nissan Open from Los Angeles was broadcast in HD by CBS, and the experience was amazing and especially heightened my enjoyment of watching Phil Mickelson kack up another tournament. (I don’t know what it is specifically about Mickelson — the smirk, the false sincerity, the ugly logos — but I just can’t stand the guy. No doubt his epic and predictable brain-farts are quite painful to him and I know I shouldn’t take such satisfaction in his travails, but I can’t help it; he’s the Joe Biden of the PGA.)

Anyway, the super-sharp picture resolution showed every dimple on the ball and every blade of grass around the hole as “Lefty” lipped out yet another short putt. It let me see the little flecks of vomit still on Phil’s golf shoes since the U.S. Open. It let me clearly see the bull logo printed on Sergio Garcia’s golf ball (and what is with the horrible commercials trying to establish this mis-shaven Spaniard into a trashy sex symbol? The commercials use double-entendres so heavy-handed pro wrestling wouldn’t even touch them). There’s more to high-def than just the picture, though. Additional sounds are picked up and transmitted from the extra microphones around the course and in the crowd, leading to some pretty interesting effects, especially if you’ve got a home theatre set-up. The sound of a driver crushing a ball is explosive and seems to come from behind you. The applause and cheers of the crowd sound as if you’re standing right in the middle of the gallery.

This isn’t always such a good thing. On one long putt the golfer had no sooner started the putt on its way when some jack-ass, apparently standing right next to a microphone, shouted “IN THE HOLE!” from immediatley behind my left shoulder. I jumped and reflexively lashed out in that direction with a back-handed karate chop, saying “IN THE ADAM’S APPLE!” I wish the clown had actually been standing there. I don’t understand the appeal of this “cheer” except to get yourself “on” TV. Do the jokers who do this stupid thing go to work the next day and brag, saying “Did you hear me on number 14? I shouted ‘YOU DA MAN!’ or “IN THE HOLE!” when Tiger marked his ball.” No one’s ever said that to me at work, and if they did I’d probably say, “Oh, that was you? IN THE ADAM’S APPLE!”

All in all, though, I’m really liking this new technology even if it was kind of expensive, and even though I am discovering some hidden costs. One of the things I watched on the new system yesterday was one of the “Band of Brothers” DVDs. It was the episode where the men are freezing in foxholes around Bastogne. There was a quiet scene where a couple of guys were hunkered down, softly reminiscing about home or some such. I even turned the sound up to follow the conversation, when all of a sudden an artillery shell exploded right behind them (and me).

Now I’ve got to buy a new couch.

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Buffy at Plain Simple English is wondering what special dinner to make for her guy for Valentine’s Day. It sounds as if he doesn’t use the V-Day gifts she’s given him in the past (and they’re nice ones), so I guess the thinking is that if she cooks he’s at least got to eat it. She’s asking the ladies for tips on great meals they’ve put together.

I’m not one of the ladies, which is probably just as well because my most memorable meal isn’t that high on “fancy” or “special.” Here’s how it went, though.

We were living on the East Side of St. Paul, back when the Mall Diva was just the Diva and Tiger Lilly was little more than “‘Ger”. I was taking the bus to and from work, with a three block walk to the bus stop from our house (no, it wasn’t uphill both ways). It was an especially cold and windy day in the middle of a Minnesota winter and the walk home that evening was directly into the pointy teeth of the wind. My office hadn’t gone to “corporate casual” yet so I had on a suit, my professional wool overcoat, a snappy suede fedora and a scarf around my neck and under the lapels of my coat. This is theoretically sufficient for your urban commuter, but hardly what you’d take along for an arctic expedition, which was what my walk felt like it was turning into. The pain only abated a little when my cheeks went numb about a block from the house.

I made it to the back door, lunging directly into the kitchen as if bursting through a snow drift … and was enveloped in the warm cloud of dinner coming off of the stove. Mmmmm, breaded pork cutlets, right out of the skillet with mash potatoes, gravy and (ambrosia!) sauerkraut to spread over the top of the cutlets. The cutlets themselves were perfectly crisped on the outside and succulent on the inside; the mashed potatoes had just the right, satisfying degree of lumpiness, and the bright, shiny faces of my young family around the table were the perfect complement to my own chapped cheeks. There may have been dessert.

When I think about “good eating”, that’s what I remember.

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Anyone who’s lived in the Twin Cities any length of time recognizes this area’s mewling metro-insecurity that lurks just beneath our supposedly cosmopolitan surface; kind of a “Cold Omaha Syndrome”: the fear that despite our aires of suave sophistication and our cultural icons we’re really more at home with blue-light specials than gas-light ambiance. The latest jeremiad on this theme was an article in yesterday’s Strib lamenting the demise, in quick succession, of three high-end, top chef fine dining establishments, Levain, Five Restaurant and Street Lounge, and Auriga.

Though I never ate dined at any of these places I will say I feel a little sad that they’re gone I am not inclined to press the back of my wrist against my forehead and lament that Minneapolis (few even will include St. Paul for consideration) is not worthy, or is merely a “two-star” city as one restaurateur and critic said. He’s probably right, but so what?

Make no mistake, I like to eat out and the Old Country Buffet and Red Lobster (“Dead Lobster” we call it at our house) are not the troughs of choice for my family. We appreciate good food, above-average service and a degree of imagination in the menu, but dropping $75 to $100 per person on dinner isn’t high on our list of Entertaining Things to Do. Sure, I know you can spend similar amounts and more on theater or concert tickets or even going to a Vikings, Wild or Timberwolves game and that these amusements are as transitory as a fine dinner (and probably won’t set as well) — but we don’t typically do those things either. So, would we be just as happy in Des Moines?

The fun thing for us (my wife and I, anyway) is going to some new, off-beat place we’ve never been. Heck, we’ll even dress up. It’s easier to be adventurous, however, if the entrees don’t cost as much as a tank of gasoline. My wife likes to peruse the restaurant reviews in the local papers and clip out places that sound interesting. She keeps these clippings in a folder and when we have a chance to go out we’ll consult this file and choose a place. The Reverend Mother prides herself on being willing to try anything but liver or beef stroganoff (and she has discovered that she doesn’t like catfish). I’m not nearly as daring, especially if it involves vegetables, but through our outings we’ve had goat, yak, many varieties of Indian food (her favorite) and even ordered food at ethnic places where we simply pointed at things on a steam table that looked good. We’ve also enjoyed the imagination and presentation (especially because the food was also excellent) at Muffuletta and at Zelos. If anyone has any suggestions for other places we can try, leave a comment below.

One thing we’ve learned, however, with our various outings is to call first: several times we’ve ventured out to some promising place only to find that it’s already gone out of business. Apparently it’s not just the high-end, fancy restaurants that go out of business. Who knew?

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Jessica Simpson didn’t have to kick me in the throat to get me to think about High Definition (HD) TV because for some time I have been longing from afar (for HD, not Jessica). The cost of HDTVs, however, made it about as likely for me to find one of these in my rec room as it was for me to have Ms. Simpson calling me from the grocery store to say she’d looked all over the meat department but couldn’t find Chicken of the Sea so would it be all right if she just made tuna casserole for dinner.

I am, however, a patient man (that sound you just heard was my wife snorting). I know that when it comes to technology you just have to bide your time and the price will come down as the “early adopters” drive the market toward the new newest, greatest thing. I learned this lesson long ago before I was even married when I paid more than $600 for a VCR with “breakthrough” 4-head technology for the highest resolution. Now my forehead is what I slap whenever I see a brand-new VCR going for $19.95 at Wal-Mart. Of course, you can fall too far behind the technology curve: I used to really want one of those thin, pricey RAZR cellphones — now companies are giving them away like Skittles and I wouldn’t have one.

Anyway, the HDTVs finally came down into the range where value and opportunity were within hailing distance, and wouldn’t you just know it happened to be right before the Super Bowl? I was able to find an HD-LCD TV with a home theater system for about half what a similar set-up cost this time last year (yes, I was looking last year, too — I told you I’m patient). At last, a big, sharp picture (to compensate for my fuzzy eyesight) and multi-channel surround-sound speakers (to compensate for my fuzzy hearing) and a huge screen (never mind) — if I could just work on my fuzzy logic.

I still had to get the idea past my wife, the Reverend Mother, who also has another title: The Finance Minister (I’m the Minister of Fritter & Waste). She’s also someone who, if it were up to her, wouldn’t even have a television and would never allow one to take up residence in the living room (except when company is coming specifically to watch something on TV). Obviously I wasn’t going to be able to make the case that this was a necessity (“Didn’t I just let you buy a TV three years ago?”) and there wasn’t time for an subtle, extended, Ralphie-like campaign (“You’ll rot your eyes out!”). That left me with … puppy eyes. Or something. I’m not sure just what it was that wore her down, and if I did know it would probably have to be kept a state secret anyway.

I raced out immediately and picked up the TV and accessories last Saturday and set to work getting everything set up in the living room (for the group coming to watch the Super Bowl). I had opted for a 32″ LCD screen based on cost, the size of the room where the TV will normally reside, and the size of our existing entertainment center. I got everything hooked up and brought my wife in. “What do you think?” I said, beaming with pride. She appeared to be underwhelmed.

“I thought it would be bigger,” she said.

Oooh, that left a mark. Not only that, but the next afternoon I was booted out of the living room right in the middle of watching Tiger Woods reel in another tournament so that she and the Mall Diva could watch a chick flick with their friends on the new TV and home theater (very “estrogenic” as the MD would say). That’s okay — it’s the Super Bowl this weekend, bay-beee!

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OK, fair warning to all would-be lay-about boyfriends; jerks who let their dogs crap in my yard and don’t clean it up; yahoos who play their car stereos so loud the vibrations can rearrange my internal organs; and pouty, sunken-chested boys who don’t wash the car when you tell them to: I finally bought myself a pair of Haggar slacks as advertised by Pete and Red on their how-to show, “Making Things Right.”

Alright, that’s not really a tv show, it’s just a series of tv commercials made to look like a show, as I described before. Nevertheless, I’ve been impressed by Pete and Red’s demonstrations of the flexibility of the “Do-it To-it” waistband, the unbustable seams and the un-rippable pockets as they threw slackers through picture windows or trowelled dog-doo onto clueless jerks so I went out and bought myself a pair in a color I like and made in some mystery fabric described as “micro-gabardine”. They look great and feel terrific, as I’ve already practiced “bending at the knees and swinging from the hips, which comes in handy when you have to grab a squirmy one.”

The only problem is that all the Haggar slacks I had to choose from happened to be pleated. The day after I bought them my wife pointed out that the gay guys who write the Withering Glance column in the Strib had declared pleated pants to be totally out-of-it. Actually, I think this would strike Pete and Red as another product benefit: “Great slacks and you won’t have gay guys checking you out.”

The pants were also a little long, but the Reverend Mother is great at hemming slacks for me. Therefore Sunday right after church I changed out of my suit and pulled on the new pants, then called downstairs to my wife that I was ready for her to come and mark my new slacks for sewing. She called back upstairs, “are they the Haggars?” I responded affirmatively, whereupon I then heard both my daughters yell, “Run!” to the unsuspecting fella who had innocently followed us home from church for lunch. Heh, heh, they work great already and she hasn’t even hemmed them yet.

Anyway, you can check out “Making Things Right” for yourself here. All four commercials are shown in their long form, including some details that I’m certain will never make it to network tv.

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I’ve been known to get a bit misty at times as the Mall Diva has passed certain milestones in her life: first day of school, first prom, first blog, graduation, new job, etc. None of this has prepared me for the latest revelation, however…(cue “Sunrise, Sunset” music)…

I just realized this morning that in 2007 I’ll no longer be able to claim her as a deduction on my income taxes!

*SNIFF*

I…I…I think I need a Kleenex!

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