2008

There were 123 posts published in 2008 (this is page 5 of 13).

A Gold Medal in Boring

I find NBC’s Olympic coverage maddening. Asinine, really. I’ve always been a huge fan of the Olympics, and I like Bob Costas. So I’m willing to watch television for the first time since the Academy Awards last winter. But NBC doesn’t seem to care.

Everything here in Portland is tape-delayed. Events that could be live — like the women’s gymnastic all-around competition — are instead delayed three hours, putting them far past my bedtime. Why not run West Coast coverage from 5 p.m. until 11 p.m., NBC?

And why so much frickin’ beach volleyball? Is the sport really that popular? I don’t mind watching a match or two, but every single night? Ugh. Same with Michael Phelps. I admire what he’s done, and I’m glad to watch the races, but yesterday NBC not only ran a half-hour interview with Phelp, his mother, and his coaches, but they re-ran the same damn interview a few hours later. I would have rather watched archery! Or the equestrian events.

I would dearly love for some other network to outbid NBC in the near future so we can have a taste of what competent coverage might be like.

Improper Usage

I have an editor. Each week one of my posts from Get Rich Slowly is reprinted at MSN Money’s personal finance blog, Smart Spending. I work with a woman named Karen Datko, whom I admire a great deal. She’s funny and helpful and full of advice.

Karen and I have a difference of opinion on commas, especially as they relate to quotations. I follow standard usage for dialogue, but I cannot bring myself to do so in a situation like this:

Kris Gates is always “right,” according to her husband.

That’s the correct usage, but it makes me tense. That comma does not belong inside the quotation marks. When I write, I always do the following:

Kris Gates is always “right”, according to her husband.

To me, this is not only aesthetically pleasing, but it’s also logical.

Unfortunately, Karen isn’t a fan of aesthetics and logic. She’s a fan of standard usage. “Won’t you please make an effort to fix your commas?” she asked me last spring. And I did for a while. But it’s difficult! I’ve been doing sensible commas for decades; it’s not a natural thing for me to “correct”. (Heh. See what I did there?)

Karen recently corrected another usage error that I consistently make. “‘Personal finance’ needs a hyphen when it’s a compound modifier,” she said.

She probably thought that was an innocuous statement, but to me it was a revelation. I’m not joking. I’ve been using hyphenated adjectival phrases (and adverbial phrases) a lot since starting to write full-time, but I’ve always just used my gut to tell me when to use a hyphen and when not to. As soon as Karen mentioned compound modifiers, the rule became clear!

Still, I’m not sure I can bring myself to write “personal-finance book.” I’ll probably write “personal finance book”. And Karen will weep.

Gros Manseng

Kris’ parents were in town last week. While they were here, we took them to some of our favorite restaurants. (We didn’t get to Pok Pok — maybe next time.) On Sunday night, we dined at South Park for the first time in two or three years.

South Park has altered its menu a little since the last time we were there. There are fewer choices, but each one seems more interesting than before. They still have the paella, though, and so I ordered it. First, though, I had a plate of fruit and cheese. I asked the waitress to bring me a wine that would match.

She chose a 2007 Alain Brumont gros manseng/sauvignon blanc blend. No, I’d never heard of gros manseng, either, but I love sauvignon blanc. (It’s my favorite white.)

Well.

I took one sip of the wine and was floored. I’m not a wine snob, so I can’t tell you what about its nose and notes. All I know is that it was crisp and refreshing — perfect for a summer cheese plate. (The cheese plate was good, too.)

When the paella came, I was a little startled to see that it was nothing at all like South Park’s old paella. Formerly, it had been almost soupy. Now it’s dry — seafood and rice. Don’t get me wrong: it’s good, if a bit too laden with shrimp. (I only tolerate shrimp — I’d rather have more mussels in my paella.)

“Can you bring me a wine to go with this?” I asked the waitress. She seemed puzzled, so Kris said, “Just bring him another glass of that.” And she did. Yum.

On Monday, I did a very non-J.D. thing. I bought a case of the 2007 Alain Brumont gros manseng/sauvignon blanc from Liner & Elsen. The only case of wine I’ve ever bought before was three-buck Chuck at Trader Joe’s. I’ve never found a wine I liked so much before, though.

“I feel decadent buying a case of wine,” I told Kris.

“It’s fine,” she said. “You like it. You’ll have fun sharing it with other people. I think it’s good to buy a case because it saves you a little money.”

She’s right of course, so while I was at it, I also ordered a case of the Domaine St. Michelle blanc de noir sparkling wine, which Marcela and Pierre introduced us to last spring. That stuff is yummy, too.

Caffeine is Not My Friend

This has sort of turned into the “dumb things J.D. does” blog. Here’s yesterday’s dumb thing.

I drove to Eugene to participate in a neuroeconomics study. I spent an hour inside an MRI scanner answering questions about personal finance. For this, I was paid $120.

Because I knew I might fall asleep, I had a diet soda for lunch. Lying on my back for an hour (or more) is a recipe for slumber, even if I’m supposedly taking a survey for money. Sure enough, even with the diet soda, I was very, very groggy.

After the study, Paul and I spent more than an hour working out at the gym, and then went out for Thai food. (I could splurge — I had an extra $120!) I was still groggy, though, even though I had exercised. The sun was warm, and I had a long drive ahead, so I ordered diet soda. Three times.

“You know what I do when I’m groggy and have to drive?” Paul said. “I stop at a minimart and pick up an energy drink.”

“Like a Red Bull?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he said. “Only bigger. And with more caffeine.”

So, about half an hour north of Eugene, I pulled over to pick up an energy drink. There was an enormous selection. I had no way of knowing which one was “best”, so I just grabbed a can of something that boasted 344mg of caffeine. I drank it. I drove home.

“Are you coming to bed with me?” Kris asked at ten o’clock. I wasn’t tired.

“Uh,” I said. “It’s too hot. Plus I had too much caffeine.”

“How much caffeine did you have?” she asked, but I didn’t really have an answer. Now, a few hours later, I do have an answer. Twelve ounces of Diet Pepsi have 36mg of caffeine. By my calculations, I had four such servings yesterday, plus the energy drink, which contained the equivalent of ten similar drinks. In other words, I had a much caffeine as if I’d had fourteen Diet Pepsis.

No wonder I couldn’t fall asleep until 3 am. I probably won’t be able to sleep again until next week.

Live Radio, Take Two

In February 2007, I did my first radio interview. It was a disaster. I was a nervous wreck. I swore I’d never do another interview on live radio again.

In the past eighteen months, I’ve held true to that promise. I’ve given probably a dozen interviews for newspaper and magazines, given several recorded radio interviews, and even done one recorded television interview. But I’ve avoided live interviews like the plague.

Last week, I was contacted by a producer from “On Point”, an NPR program I’ve never heard before. He asked if I’d be willing to speak about credit cards and credit card debt. Despite my vow of radio silence, I agreed. I felt like the topic would stick to themes with which I was familiar, and that I could do okay even if nervous.

And I was nervous. “We need you to use a landline,” the producer told me, so I drove out this morning to Custom Box Service. I sat by the phone for a half an hour, working myself into knots. Having learned from my previous disaster, I had just a few notes instead of pages and pages.

When the show called, the connection was lousy, as if we were talking over a garbled cell phone. They called back. This time I could hear them fine. I stayed on the line for a few minutes while Professor Elizabeth Warren, one of the Good Guys, described slimy credit card tactics. Then it was my turn.

The host asked questions I could answer. (Part of the problem with the previous poor radio interview was that the host wanted me to answer questions for which I was unqualified to give an opinion.) I felt that, although nervous, I was doing a decent job on the interview. I even remembered to smile at some points.

Then, all of a sudden, the interview was cut short. “I’m sorry, J.D.,” she said, “but we’ve got a poor connection. Thanks for being on.” When the producer came back on the line, he told me it sounded like I was on a cell phone.

Argh!

At least I was undone this time by a technical glitch and not by personal stupidity. I don’t think I came off sounding like a fool. But perhaps I sounded like I was underwater. I don’t know.

Maybe the third time’s the charm?

Three in a Row

I was awakened last night by a jab in the ribs. “Wake up!” Kris said. “Wake up!”

“Huh?” I said through the hiss of the C-PAP machine. “What’s up?”

“Look,” she said, pointing to her side of the bed. I looked.

“What?” I said.

“Look,” she said. “Look at the cats.” Toto was by her head while both Max and Simon were by her feet. Only Nemo was missing.

“Yeah,” I said. “Three in a row.” I turned over to go back asleep.

“Look again,” she said. I groaned and rolled over to look. “Look at Max and Simon,” she said. I looked more closely, and then I realized what she meant. Max and Simon were huddled close together, and Max was draped over Simon’s haunches. In essence, they were cuddling.

Now I know this is no big deal for many cat owners. Most cats like to cuddle with each other. Not our cats. Our cats may be friendly to one another (with the exception of Toto), but they do not cuddle. It’s just not done. In fact, it has never been done in the fifteen years we’ve had multiple cats. This was the very first time.

“That’s cute,” I said, adjusting the C-PAP mask. I pulled the covers over my head and fell asleep.

In the morning, Max and Simon were still on the bed, but they were no longer cuddling. I’ll probably have to wait another fifteen years to see that happen again.

Piling It On

When I started working from home in March, Kris and I developed a system to encourage me to get some household chores done during the day. We’ve placed a dry-erase board at the top of the landing, and every day Kris writes down her top priorities for me. Most of the time, I this works well. (I don’t always get the chore(s) done, but I do try.)

I had to laugh at this weekend’s chores, however:

  • Pile on bench
  • Kitchen table pile
  • Guest room piles

And this doesn’t even include one of the tasks I have for myself: “office piles”.

Yes, I’m a piler. Anything I don’t get processed gets stacked. Unfortunately, right now I have more things in piles than I ever have in my life. I count eight distinct piles of Stuff I have to process.

If I were efficient at processing piles, this might not be a problem. And if I weren’t so busy right now, that’d also make things easier. But as it is, I feel like I have piles of things to do.

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

“What in the world are you doing?” Kris said, stopping in the middle of the road. She pointed at my bare feet.

“It’s just a whim,” I said. “I want to see if I can do this.”

“It’s over a mile to Paul and Amy Jo’s house,” she said. “The asphalt is hot.”

“My feet feel fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go.”

We walked up the hill, past the smokey bar, and then down the hill to Laurie Avenue. We chatted about her job, about how Mom is doing, about the garden.

“Hold up a second,” I said. “I think there’s a rock stuck to my foot.” Kris gave me a knowing look. I rubbed the bottom of my foot, but there was nothing there. That seemed a little strange, but I kept walking.

My feet began to hurt a little. For large stretches along Laurie, there are wide expanses of asphalt that are basically smooth tar. Walking on these was a blessed relief. I sighed inwardly at the cool, smooth surface.

At the end of Laurie, I stopped again to pull pebbles from my feet. There was nothing there. “That’s strange,” I thought. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I began to realize this might not have been a good idea.

The last few hundred yards to Paul and Amy Jo’s house were sheer torture, but I tried not to show it. My feet were on fire.

“Look at me,” Kris said, turning into the driveway. “I’m walking on gravel.” I ignored her and walked up the lawn. I relished the cool, green surface where the grass had recently been watered.

Amy Jo opened the door. “I’m not even going to ask,” she said.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said.

“I tried to make him go back and put on shoes,” Kris said. “But he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“How do they feel?” asked Paul.

“They hurt,” I said. And they did. In fact, I was in pain. I slumped in a chair on the back patio. “Ouch,” I said. I looked at my feet. Each one sported two huge blisters.

“You know what that is, don’t you?” Kris said.

“No. What?” I said.

“That’s psychological,” she said. “Right now you need to be an adult. Your mom’s situation requires you to be at your best. This is you rebelling. You’re being a kid.” I gave her a look. Like she knows anything about psychology!

Paul brought me a pair of socks. “These should help,” he said. I put them on, and while they did help some, my feet still felt like they were on fire. We ate dinner. We talked about life and about work and about the weather. We talked about our gardens. We ate berries and burgers and ice cream.

When we’d finished, Paul said, “Are you going to walk home? Or would you like me to drive?”

Everyone was silent. I didn’t want to speak. At last I said, “I guess you’d better drive us.” My companions laughed.

“And what did you learn from this?” Kris asked.

I was reluctant to admit it, but I knew the correct response. It’s the same response to every conflict we have. And so I said, “Kris Gates is always right.“

She Rules a Crowded Nation

It’s one o’clock when we reach the house. Neither Mom nor I have eaten all day. She took her meds sometime before I picked her up at nine; I ate half a bag of peanut M&Ms on the drive to Salem. When we walk into the kitchen, she sets her purse down and says, “I’m hungry.”

“What would you like to eat?” I ask.

“Peanut butter,” she says.

“Just peanut butter?” I ask.

“And bread,” she says.

“A peanut butter sandwich?” I ask.

She thinks about it. “Yes,” she says. She shuffles her feet and looks down.

“Would you like me to make the sandwich?” I ask, pulling the bread and peanut butter from the fridge.

“No,” she says. “I can make it.” I watch as she slathers the bread with thick gobs of peanut butter. “And milk,” she says. I pour her a glass of milk.

While she works, I prepare a place for her at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you sit down,” I say.

“I’m fine,” she says. She stands at the counter and devours the sandwich in great gulps. She chases it with the milk.

When she’s finished, I show Mom the computer at the kitchen table. She sits down and types in a URL. She clicks the button. She clicks the button. She clicks the button. “It’s not working,” she says. I look. She’s not actually clicking the button.

“You’re pressing the space bar,” I say. “You need to click the button.” She presses the space bar again. And again. She looks at me, and I know that I’m making her uncomfortable, so I leave.

Moments later, she’s up again. I can see her pacing. She’s pacing, as if she can’t make up her mind where to go or what to do. I hear her walk into the next room and begin rummaging on the bookshelf. She comes in to my room. “You said I could borrow books,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “What would you like to read?”

“How long will I be gone?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “A few days.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Anything.”

I giver her My Antonia by Willa Cather, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith, and a couple of others. She sits down at the kitchen table again, in front of the computer. She opens her e-mail program. I go back to my chair.

Moments later, she’s up again, pacing. “I don’t like it here,” she says. “Can’t we just go someplace and drive around?”

“Yes,” I say. “I have to go upstairs for a minute first.”

“Is the car unlocked?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. I go up upstairs to send e-mail so the family knows where we are. When I get in the car, Mom is sitting at attention in the passenger seat. She has everything with her: her purse, the pile of books. I start driving.

Tony and Kamie pass us going the other way. They turn their truck around to follow. Tony calls me on my cell phone. “We’re behind you,” he says.

“I’m scared,” Mom says. Her hands are fidgeting uncontrollably. She’s sweating.

“Yes,” I say. “I am too. But it will be okay. It will be fine.” We drive in silence for a few minutes. Mom fidgets.

“Can we go to the hospital now?” she asks at last.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re almost there.”