This entry is in response to those who were concerned about my last entry, in which I described speeding to work in an attempt to make the journey in 25 minutes. This is not something I do very often.

My normal drive is a sleepy sort of thing in which I listen to an audiobook: Patrick O’Brian, Thomas Hardy, or something about personal finance. It’s not perfectly legal, but then few drivers ever make twenty mile trips completely within the law. As I mentioned before, it usually takes me 28 or 29 minutes to make the trip.

Out of curiosity, I made the trip on Friday obeying every traffic law — I used cruise control to keep me within the speed limit. How long did it take me? Exactly thirty minutes.

Also: I don’t speed through school zones. I’m pretty careful about that. It does frustrate me when people can’t read the parameters for school zones — “20mph 7-5 on school days”, “20mph when lights flash”, etc. — and simply drive 20mph through the stretch all the time, but you’ll never find me exceeding the posted limit.

Custom Box Service is located in farmland outside of Canby, Oregon, which itself is rather rural (though less rural than it once was). About a mile from the office there is a pond. In the late winter and early spring, this pond is home to hundred (thousands?) of geese.

For whatever reason, every couple days these geese get into a fit about something and start clucking and squawking. Most of the time they stay back by their pond, and we simply listen to what their complaints.

Sometimes, though, they engage in a display of goose fireworks. They rise above the tree-line and take to the sky, flying in great V-shaped platoons. Several platoons cluster together, crossing back-and-forth among each other, individual birds dropping from one V and joining another. The entire battalion of birds swarms through the sky, honking a fearful din, moving slowly to some new destination.

Today this army of geese took flight and passed directly over my office. What a noise! I had been preparing to go outside for my walk. But I put off my exercise a bit for fear of the bombs this air force might unleash. I’ve been pooped on before by a goose. It’s not pleasant.

Though I’ve returned to my regular posting pace here the past three or four months, I still get people who tell me I’m not writing enough. I think this is really just code for, “What’s going on with the chicken?”

I looked out the window just now to see what was making such a ruckus. Here in the country, we often get strange machines roaring and rearing in the nearby fields. In this case, something had been growling for a couple of minutes, but I couldn’t see what it was.

“Oh look,” I said to Jeff, who had just come into the office. “That silly chicken is up here foraging for food.” I hadn’t yet fed it its daily chicken-flavored cat food. “I should take a photo with my computer,” I said.

But when I went to open the window, a fat juicy yellow jacket dropped from the blinds. This happens often during this time of year. I don’t know where they come from, but yellow jackets spontaneously appear in my office. They especially like to pop out from the light fixture.

I have a bee phobia, so when this happens, Jeff knows his duty. He strips the ball cap from his head and thwack thwack he pummels the poor bee into a pulp.

“Thanks,” I said. And I leaned out the window to take a couple snaps of my chicken friend. Enjoy!

Look carefully. The chicken is in the lower right, between the two bushes.

Ours is a free-range chicken. Note the mossy sidewalk.

Wow is it warm outside.

I just made a 3-1/2 mile walk to run some errands. I had thought about bundling up in a turtleneck. I’m glad I didn’t. The air feels room temperature, except that there’s a strong wind. There’s a little mist hanging in the air. It’s nice.

I had hoped to listen to my iPod, but I updated its OS this morning, and when it was finished it asked me to plug it into the wall adapter. Fine in theory except that I’d just sent it to Virginia with Kris. She’s gone for a week of “glass training” at the FBI headquarters.

So instead I walked without a book playing in my ears. I listened to the wind. And to the birds. And to the dogs. And to the children playing in the park. I smiled to see the blossoming cherries, and the green of the willows, which are already showing tiny leaves.

I reached the library around noon. As I deposited my books in the return slot, I was tempted by the smells emanating from the Chinese buffet next door. I resisted. I walked up the highway to the grocery store, pausing to admire the shiny BMW 325i at the used car lot (“pre-owned” car lot — ha!). I resisted. At Safeway I bought a bag of greens, a tub of olives, and some lunch meat. (Kris managed to find some preservative-free lunch meat for me, which is keen.) I was tempted by the cookies. I resisted. I did stop to buy 25 cents worth of chiclet gum on the way out the door, though.

On my walk home, I passed several people out walking their dogs. The Asian man who owns the Buy-Rite was on the sidewalk in front of his store, cigarette dangling from his lips, swinging a golf club — whish, whish, whish.

At home, Meatball decided he could go outside to join his brothers. Toto followed me around, moaning piteously. “Where’s mom? Where’s mom?” Eventually she decided I would do for company. She followed me upstairs and purred as I watched my last James Bond movie.

It’s already lonely without Kris.

I’m in the process of cleaning my desk. It’s a mess. It was smart to set aside space in the guest room for my office: I’m able to come here for peace and quiet when I need to get writing done, especially on Sunday afternoons. But setting aside a space for writing hasn’t helped with my tendency toward clutter. If anything, I’ve become messier.

I have a habit of jotting down story ideas on whatever scrap of paper is at hand when I have the inspiration.

• Here’s a broad overview for “Get Rich Slowly: The Book” scribbled on a napkin from a restaurant.
• Here’s a barely legible note — “How much in an emergency fund? — on last week’s shopping list.
• On letterhead from my day job, I’ve neatly printed notes describing “how to test-drive a career”. I have a rough outline for the entry. I’ve even written a quote from a Broadway musical related to the subject.
• I often get ideas while driving to and from work. I listen to many self-development books on my iPod while commuting. These frequently spark ideas. Here’s one: “Small town personal finance”
• On the back of library receipt I’ve jotted ideas for improving site layout. I remember writing these down while stuck in traffic.
• My wife and I recently watched a screener for an upcoming film about credit. I have several pages of notes on that. Far more notes than will ever make it to the actual review at Get Rich Slowly.

These are just a few of the notes cluttering my desk. Add to that the stack of personal finance magazines, the tumble of books, and the dirty tea mugs and you have a very messy space.

In fact, I shouldn’t even be writing this. I should get back to cleaning!

Kris and I walked up to the corner of Oak Grove and River Roads at noon Saturday to meet Lane and John in what I hope will be the first of a series of gatherings. We got a table at McQueen’s, a smoky bar filled with aging men and women who look to be regulars. The women around us were ordering screwdrivers and Bloody Marys; the men were ordering beer to go with their breakfasts. Because McQueen’s doesn’t serve lunch until 1pm on Saturdays, the old folks chased their alcohol with chicken fried steaks and three-egg omelettes. And everyone smoked — great, billowing puffs of the stuff.

We’d had our hearts set on burgers, but we settled for breakfast food as well. The food was incidental, though. Our real purpose was to get to know Lane and John, our neighbors and fellow bloggers. We’ve been here nearly three years now, and have only barely said “hi” to these two.

We had a good time. We chatted about the history of Oak Grove, about the recent snowy weather, about our jobs, and about blogging. We shared anecdotes of the various stores that used to dot the Superhighway (now 99e).

I had forgotten how smoky McQueen’s was until we were walking home. I could smell it on my clothes. “It’s a good thing you just took that sweater to the cleaners,” Kris kidded. “Now it’ll really smell lovely.” When I took the sweater off at home, I could tell that she was right. It’s cloaked in cigarette smoke.

After a bit of writing, Kris and I each fired up an iPod and we took off for a walk. I listened to Undaunted Courage, which is about the Lewis and Clark expedition; she listened to The Decemberists. It felt very Pacific Northwest. The sun was out and shining. It was a lovely day. We walked down the hill, through the park, back along the river, through the lovely estates, and then up the hill past McQueen’s again. Along the way we stopped to point out notable features to each other: cats basking in the sun, cats sitting forlorn in bedroom windows, a gaggle of ducks in the ditchwater, a house damaged from a fallen tree. We passed several other people out walking. We passed a boy who had scraped together all the remaining snow he could find (there’s not a lot left) to build a snow-head — just the top of a snowman, with a carrot nose and eyes made from chestnut husks. We passed several people in their driveways washing their cars. We passed people outside gardening. It’s January 20th, and I feel like we’re being given a small preview of spring. I like it.

In the late afternoon we ran errands. We stopped by Trader Joe’s to get more salsa autentica and, especially, more nuts. (Since I started my wellness program, nuts are my favorite food.) The store was crowded, more crowded than I’ve ever seen it. I don’t do well with crowds. And I was hungry. And there was a hippie family with clueless parents and screaming kids. This all made me very tense.

“I’m hungry,” I said on the drive home. “Let’s stop at Oaks Bottom Pub.” We got the restaurant at just after five. All the booths and tables were full, so we sat at the counter. I had a feeling we should have just gone next door to Cha Cha Cha, but I didn’t heed it. Instead I sat there getting crankier and crankier (because I was really very hungry), listening to all the goddamn kids in the place. The pub had no less than eight children, ranging in age from about eighteen months to eight-years-old. It was like we were at Chuck E. Cheese.

I don’t mind kids, but there’s a time and a place for them. A pub? Not really the place.

On our drive home, Kris and I once again had a discussion about how kid-centric the United States is, or at least the small subsection to which we’re exposed. Are other countries like this? We don’t think so. We don’t even think all parents are like this. But many of them are. And that’s fine. That’s their prerogative. It just gets old after a while, listening to stories about children over and over, or having a dinner with friends constantly interrupted by the kids.

Now I sound like an old grouch, when in reality I love children, and especially our friends’ children.

You own a box factory situated in the middle of the country.

Your delivery driver is returning from a trip. As every driver has done several times a day for twenty-one years, he idles up to the edge of the parking lot, angles across the entire road, and begins to back in.

Meanwhile, a woman in a Ford Focus comes flying around the corner (which is 500 feet down the road) and accelerates toward the the truck. The woman shows no signs of stopping. At the very last possible moment, she slams on her brakes. The tires smoke and squeal as the Ford Focus comes to rest three or four feet from the rear of the truck. After the truck has backed into the drive, the woman in the Ford Focus speeds away.

You happen to witness the whole incident because you were watching for the truck’s return. You go out to measure the skidmarks. They’re 45 feet, five inches long. (That’s 13.84 meters to those so inclined.)

Question one. How fast was the Ford Focus traveling at the time the driver slammed on her brakes? (I own a Ford Focus, too. My owners manual indicates the car’s mass is 3640lbs, or 1651kg.)

Question two. If an accident had occurred, who would be at fault? (This is in Oregon.) The truck driver followed all legally prescribed procedures except honking his horn — not that the woman could have heard it.

Question three. Why do people insist on driving so darn fast?

Ah, at last my life has begun to slow to that pastoral pace I crave. The last two weeks have been crazy non-stop from dawn ’til dusk. Finally, things have calmed. I’ve got a couple chores here at the box factory this morning, but mostly I can resume my life of leisure. I have grand plans for it!

For one, I’m going to try to remodel Get Rich Slowly.

For another, I’m going to rejuvenate our desktop computer at home. After three years of hard use, even Macs get bogged down with cruft, and that’s certainly happened here. In particular, Mail seems to have flipped a switch to berserk mode lately, and refuses to communicate with my spamfilter. Thus, there are hundreds of spam messages in our inbox. I need to fix this.

I also want to set that machine up with an RSS reader so that Kris can become acquainted with the magic of efficient blog-reading. To that end, I’ve gone through this morning and nabbed the RSS feeds from all my friends and family. (All except for Nicole and Ruth, that is. These two aren’t publishing feeds. Come on, ladies! Pull it together!)

I also intend to spend some of this leisure time — gasp — writing. It’s my turn to produce something for the Woodstock Writers Guild. Inspired by the story Mark shared yesterday, I’m going to dig up one of my old favorites. (It has some similarities to Mark’s story.) I’ll revise, revise, revise, and then share the fruits of my labors in a couple weeks. (I may also try to write some new material, too.)

Most of all, I’m looking forward to a slow, quiet weekend with Kris. We have nothing planned. I have a bunch of blog entries pre-written. It’ll be a fine time to laze around the house, go see a couple movies, and generally enjoy each other’s company, something we haven’t had time to do for the past few weeks.

And, of course, we’ll continue to help Max acclimate to his new home. Kris has dubbed him “Meatball”. “We’ve never had a cat with a silly name before,” she told me. His official name is still Max, but Kris simply calls him Meatball. (And he is a meatball.) Simon and Nemo are beginning to contemplate friendly terms with Max, but they’re still a little stand-offish. Toto’s policy is simply to hiss at everyone.