Kentucky Fried Salad

What's open after 10 pm? After staying late at work, I was heading home. KFC, a place I rarely go to, sounded fine. They were out of potato wedges, so I doubled the other side I usually settle for: side salad. So, I now had two chicken parts, two garden salads with ranch, and a biscuit with honey.

Apparently this branch appeals to those with a hankering for jalepenos. There was a huge jar. I poked at the change from having just paid for the two piece two sides. Twenty two cents. "Will you sell me a jalepeno for 22 cents?" "Sure."

Back home. The salad is basically shredded iceberg and a handful of tomato bits. Not very nutritious, "so how can I improve this?" There were four sprigs of leftover broccoli in the fridge. And a big jar of shredded parmesan cheese.

Caesar salad has croutons; you can add chicken. Hmm.

I dumped the salads in a big mixing bowl and threw in a pile of parmesan. I chopped up the jalepeno and the broccoli and stirred those in with the packet of ranch dressing. The greasy skin slipped easily off the chicken; I chopped up the chicken (okay, and just a wee bit of tasty fried skin) and mixed that in.

Bisquit. Hm. Sure, why not. Chop, chop, mix. At this point, I have the entire meal blended in a bowl, plus broccoli, parmesan and a jalapeno--everything except the butter and honey. Sure, why not. I added the honey.

This is a really big bowl of chicken salad now. And I'm working my way through it. Not bad! (Do you have to be from California to be okay with such a salad?)

Rainwater

Look at all that water exiting the rain gutter and flowing out to the street. Look at all those porch plants that could use that nice nitrogen-laden rainwater.

I stuffed a rag into the top of the rain gutter exit, used these huge red clamps to hold some tubing in place in the now-filling gutter and, voila, I'm filling a garbage can that I've put onto a skateboard (so I can move it to the next porch plant) and I have a second siphon tube from there to the plants.

A neighbor stopped his car to pause and stare at the ladder and the bright red clamps on the light gray house. He called a bit later to joke that he thought I was doing some sort of electrical experiment.

I'm just glad to be accepted by the hippies in California.

The $15 echinacea weed, revisited

In an earlier post, I highlighted my disappointment with the performance of my new echinacea. I admired the hardy echniceas I saw while at a backyard wedding reception, and the host said the first year's growth was disappointing. That gave me hope.

And so, I've been watching that spot in the yard, waiting for the echinacea weed to break through the ground for the first time this year. And today I saw it. "Yay, the echnicea weed is back!" I announced.

It's off to a good start.

Well, it was. After taking the photo, I decided to transplant it to a better spot in the yard. (Duh, I'd planted it almost _under_ the lily, and the lily is a snail breeder, and last year's growth was tackled by snails, slugs and pill bugs.) With a post-hole digger, I made a hole; then I used it to grab the soil containing this growth and yanked it out and moved it. That means I just shocked it by breaking its roots. But it'll do fine. (Hey, it's already looking better than what I first received in the mail last year, its root system is more mature, its roots are in native soil, AND I'm hitting it with the pill bug treat that'll knock those buggers out in the early growth stage, way sooner than last year's growth.

Jury duty

This was day 2 of filling the jury box and interviewing the prospective jurors. Oh, we were so close. They had excused only a few folks from the box. It was just about lunch time. They called my name to come fill the newly vacated seat in the box. Sigh.

When you tell friends, family and coworkers you're called in for jury selection, you're likely to hear stories and ideas on what to say to be rejected. Two folks had said that announcing their particular profession seemed to get them out of service. Several joked about what ridiculous things I could claim about my background or come up with some extreme beliefs. My brother said his artist friend would show up unshaven and start sketching the lawyers and then be dismissed.

So, they had called my name. I was seated by the wall and needed to sidestep in front of my whole row in the gallery. In that time, I pondered what was the best timing. As I approached and made my way through the swivel barrier between the gallery and main court area, I quietly mimicked (though loud enough for the court to hear), "The Price is Right! Come ooonnn dooown!"

In the span of hours in the gallery, I had jotted notes about what I might say about my background. I had observed the routine: jurors were asked the same set of printed questions; they were given the chance to bring up issues at the start. When asked if I had anything key, I went into my speech. I spoke the truth; I was one to keep watch on the neighborhood; I'd been a key witness to a street crime a few months back; I was a process engineer / tech writer / programmer with a drive to find better ways to do things. I was also truthful about how I most definitely understood the rules about the burden being on the prosecution yet had my attitudes and feelings about how I wish things might go. I praised the American justice system over other countries' systems yet noted I would follow all the rules even if I ended up feeling quite frustrated with the rules.

Oh my gosh, was I nervous. My voice cracked frequently; I choked up; I was jumpy. (Almost without fail, my throat tightens up if I have to speak in front of strangers AND have a mic on me...or whatever represents "one shot at sounding right". Probably some kind of perfectionism/fear thing.) Maybe to others I sounded fine. To me, they all sounded way cooler and more collected than me.

I poured out all this information to the judge and lawyers. The judge asked at each key point whether I understood and would follow the rules. "Absolutely!" I felt I sounded fair.

Each lawyer is given a chance to ask whatever questions may reveal whatever secret thing it is that the lawyer wants to gauge or know. The other prospective jurors had received lots of questions. But when the judge gave the opportunity to the lawyers for my interrogation, they basically passed. Had I explained everything so well?? Had I pre-answered questions they were lining up?? Had I made myself out to be so off-center that they were ready to dismiss me with no further information? I did not know; I had to wait for the next formal leading of the judge for dismissals.

We broke for lunch. A fellow juror (one of the earliest to be selected) said, "YOU'RE stuck." Drat. Had I been so thorough and fair-sounding that I eliminated all doubt for the lawyers and they liked me? Well, okay, then. That helped me settle into the notion that I'd be on jury duty for the next month. I fired up my laptop and connected to work.

I cracked up in seeing my boss had written a haiku about jury duty in honor of me and coworker Curtis, also on call for jury duty, and had emailed it to the team. We have a long-standing semi-tradition of using pointless opportunities to communicate via haiku, just for our amusement as writers. Oh, and invariably, someone would come up with lines that did not even come close to fitting the 5-7-5 syllable rule, much less the point of capturing nature in some way.)

Her haiku:

A higher power

summons juror candidates.

Curtis, John, who's next?

I replied with my sobering status:

I am in the box.

Selection continues, but

I think I am stuck.
Newt.

(I added on the "newt" part because I failed to work newt into my haiku like I usually do, a silly signature of mine, so to speak.)

We were all called back in from the break. There was a seating issue: not enough seats in this new venue. They were now asking gallery folks to come sit in seats close to or even in the jury box. I offered loudly, "Hey, I'm willing to give up MY seat..." Nice to see even the judge and lawyers chuckle. (Nice try, buddy.)

Jury selection resumed. I settled into my comfy swiveling seat and listened to the repeat of all the questions for each new juror candidate. Over the next hour, they dismissed person after person. I broke out my little notebook and started sketching a couple of lawyers. At one point, I observed the lawyers passed around a post-it note and thought I caught them glancing my direction. They asked for a sidebar and chatted up there for a while. Hey! Had this "sketching the lawyers" thing paid off--were they moving to dismiss me? On the other hand, was I about to get in trouble for "recording" court action in this way? Recording devices had been expressly forbidden. Well, nope. Turns out they were having a side bar about the guy next to me who they had been interviewing while I sketched away.

They continued dismissing jurors, most of them the ones called since I'd been interviewed. (In a couple cases, I thought, "Hey, I could've said the same thing and gotten immediately dismissed...") Plenty of interviews were conducted of folks next to me. (I resisted the urge to joke that I wanted to move into the chair to my right--a reference to the nonsensical statistic of that chair position resulting in dismissal.)

One guy they interview at length was next to me. He reminded me of a key character on the TV show "LOST". When the lawyers and judge gathered for a little sidebar, I leaned toward him and asked if he was the stunt double for the Asian scientist. He smiled and said he knew who I was talking about. "You get that a lot?" "No." "Oops, I guess I'm the only one rude enough to say it!" I said. We smiled. The lawyers returned to their seats.

Last week, the judge had said we'd go from 8:30 to 3:30. Just before 3:30, the judge gave us a break and announced we'd be there till 5 pm. Big gasp in the audience. (I thought gasps like that were reserved for poorly directed TV dramas.) It was clear from that gasp that many people had planned on the clear 3:30 ending time. The judge then said that his reason for doing this was with the hopes of being done with this and folks not having to come back the next day. In response, there was a collective delighted "Oh!" and then laughter as a few of us in the jury box reflected on the quick reversal in emotion we just observed.

Well, that kinda sealed it for me. It had been a few hours since I had been interviewed, and others who seemed to me to be pretty middle of the road were being dismissed. I was still there, and the clock was approaching 4:30. And the judge had set the context of "almost done".

It was the prosecution's turn to dismiss whomever he might wish. I heard my number come out of his mouth. It was a strange dreamy moment. I thought he said my number. It had been a long time since they interviewed me, so there was that additional lack of connection. And why would *he* say my number? I figured he would've liked me and wanted to keep me for "his side" of the case. The judge then used my number in a complete sentence about "juror number such and such" and looked at me. Oh my goodness, it was indeed me. I calmly rose (the judge had earlier cautioned the jurors against departing with joyous high-fives, to the laughter of the gathering) and picked up my items; at the same moment, the clerk called out the number of the next gallery person to fill the seat I was vacating. (Efficient, that one.) I paused and turned back toward my fellow jurors in the box, looking particularly at the one who'd declared "You're stuck". I twisted my expression into a partial smile, partial raised eyebrows of sympathy, partial "I don't know what just happened!" and then headed on down the center aisle. A few folks in the gallery smiled at me. I think they were communicating a mix of envy and congratulations. I, unlike them, was free to go. They were still there, with the prospect of returning the next morning.

Had I been the last person to be dismissed that day? I considered that possibility.

I wasn't far beyond the exit from the courtroom when I started speaking my glee. I was basically talking to myself and God to congratulate myself. In hindsight, the joy I was feeling was the joy of the fresh taste of freedom. As I made my way down three flights of stairs, cheers kept falling out of my mouth. They kept coming out all the way back to my car in the parking structure way across the street.

Invigorated, I made my way over to the San Jose airport and put my energy into taking this self-portrait.

When I got home, I fired off a new haiku to my coworkers to correct my prior guess that I'd be out for a month:

I didn't have to

mention my insanity;

they just dismissed me.

In hindsight, I'm considering that might not be far off. The prosecutor might've been annoyed from the start with my drama. The price was right.

Molly the owl and Alf

Last night, a few thousand of us were watching Molly and her hatchlings. Her bedding material is entirely pellets--that is, coughed up rodent fur and bones.

Somebody pointed out that it looked like there was a pig snout in the picture (see the bottom right). I said it was Alf, and that stuck. What you see below is my (obviously) tweaked version of a screenshot. At least you still get to see the "snout" and speculate what it is.

Two nights later, we got the Neverending Story character. (Sorry, kids.)

A poem to accompany the Mouse Escape video:

The mouse was live when it arrived, and Molly planned to eat.
She'd held it in her beak a while and stretched her pointy feet.
The mouse got loose and slipped behind the chicks that we adore.
While Molly looked down to the right, the mouse ran out the door.

A poem about CBS' Molly interview error:

Six hours' recording a few days ago
(and all for three minutes in CBS' show!).
Molly fans watched and are now calling 'foul':
the idiot editors showed the wrong owl!

A poem about the egg sitting in the corner, and that's just about all we could see with the new camera angle:

We had high hopes we'd someday see a lovely little owlet;
instead, our Dudley rules the roost as Honorary Pellet.

Looking for true love

A re you my dream woman? My dream woman is well-educated, has long hair, not only knows how to cook but frequently entertains, can drive stick shift, owns her own tree pruning cherry picker, is not afraid of snakes or spiders, just says no to prescription glasses, can start a fire without matches, wrote a novel in high school and won an award for it, is able to live out of the narrow backseat of a pickup, organizes files for the U. N., has memorized two poems by Robert Frost, buys and sells condos in Belize, likes to cuddle even on a tandem bicycle, remembers to lower the seat, can play the theme music of "Fractured Fairy Tales" on the piano, uses only environmentally friendly solvents when hosing down garbage men, spreads wildflower seeds while singing songs from Broadway, knows the difference between chelated calcium/magnesium and Belgian chocolate, creates her own wine labels and sneaks them onto friends' bottles when we're visiting their homes, uses programmable crochet needles to write social networking software while simultaneous creating fashionable rayon swimwear, likes me, makes oboes for charity, attends book clubs, studies the feeding ranges of whelks, can separate out egg whites with ease, can show me the best shoe stores at the mall, and can explain Oprah. She is able to find (and retrieve, as needed) things I've lost (e. g. car parts under the middle of the car, parts of her sewing machine I've dropped under the bed, parts of her food processor that I left in the car, her entire Precious Moments collection that just magically disappeared when I was there), and she is graceful even when standing on the top rung of the ladder while hanging Christmas lights or raking lemons off the back awning.

I'll gladly give you the local tour: there's the Methuselah Tree on Skyline Blvd; there's the Sections of the Berlin Wall "hidden" in the corner of a small business parking lot in Mountain View (both easy to find on internet); there's the Elizabeth Gamble Gardens, the Yoda statue in San Francisco; there's the stench of Alviso and of Shoreline Park, worth positioning ourselves downwind. Maybe we'll hang out by the railroad tracks, downtown, at night, and collect returnable bottles.

I tend to write math equations on walls, using broad felt pens. I invite friends over in the middle of the night to review these equations, finish off whatever beer is left, and add color wherever they find Greek letters. I like to attract the neighborhood cats into the garage by dribbling the oil from a can of herring in lines radiating from the garage door to a block or two away. If my fingernails had been shorter, I could have typed all of this; thankfully, though, someone typed this up from my dictation so that I continue to be free to pursue my dream of breaking the Guiness record for long fingernails. I wish it weren't so, but I tend to react negatively to Doppler radar. I am a licensed mountain lion breeder but thankfully have no experience. I am humble.

If you're the woman for me or I am the man for you, well, that's the way it goes.

Posted as my description on an online dating site, Apr 1