Keeping Columbus Safe

I walked down High Street in Columbus, Ohio today.

It’s nice.

There are plenty of galleries, boutiques and trendy restaurants. You can guess the name of several of these establishments. Spirits on High. Yoga on High. Art on High. I passed by a shop or a club or some type of storefront with a pair of human legs sticking out from behind a curtain. They were resting on some kind of little stage. I looked twice. They were real. They weren’t moving, but I could tell they were attached to someone.

A little further down the street there was a fetish shop. The Measure of a Man shop had two leather clad mannequins. One had a cod piece. I’ve never seen one close up. They’re really big or at least this one was. It was huge.

I almost bought it.

I ate dinner at an organic food café. I had the Dragon Bowl (dragon = spicy hoisin sauce on chicken) with plenty of steamed cruciferous vegetables. I washed it down with a carrot and orange juice cocktail they squeezed right in front of me. My system isn’t used to this kind of abuse. If the gastrointestinal gas doesn’t kill me, the lack of preservatives will.

They had a magazine rack in the place. I was going to buy something to read with my meal but I found myself trying to choose something I wanted to not only read, but be seen reading. I was too disgusted of myself to buy anything so I just watched people get their drinks from the soda machine (I know, soda doesn’t jibe with the whole organic thing but there it was).

Good thing I was stuck watching the soda machine. It helped me pay a little karmic debt by picking up an ice cube someone had dropped. I watched people walk by the cube. I tried to stop myself from picking up the cube. This wasn’t some sort of philosophical experiment. I wanted to see someone hit the deck. Finally an older lady kicked the cube and I knew Jesus was watching so I went ahead and cleared away the threat (I know, Jesus doesn’t jibe with whole karma thing but there it was).

What's in Your Wallet?

I left my wallet at work yesterday.

I made the commute home running on fumes thinking I'd pick up the girls then scoot over to the Food & Fuel to drop $30 at the pump and fill up the tan sedan.

Long sentence. Simple plan.

It all fell apart when I got out of the car and reached for my credit card. There was a moment of panic. I had a full three seconds of worst-case scenarios that escalated from pushing the car home while Allie steered to me having a desk sergeant watch the kids while I was booked for driving without a license and assaulting a police officer.

Poof. The doom fantasies disappeared. I got back in the car and drove home. Allie asked, "What's wrong, Daddy. Why are we leaving?" I explained to Allie I had left my wallet on my desk.

"You forgot your wallet! What're we gonna do?!"

I didn't expect Allie to freak-out over this. I was surprised at her tone when, sounding as if she had been tied to a railroad track, she asked, "Are we going to your office to get your wallet?"

"No."

"What're we gonna do, Daddy?"

"Sweetie, don't worry. We have some money in the house and if worse comes to worse we can go see Mom at work and get her ATM card."

Allie didn't say anything after that. If you know how much my daughter talks you'd know that her silence was a clear sign she still thought we were in some sort of peril. I had no idea that a 4" x 3" piece of brown, bi-fold leather could mean that much to her. I was thinking she may have seen an old American Express commercial. Remember the ones where the vacationing couple would get their wallet stolen? They were always stranded in some exotic location with an infrastructure that looked like it could barely manage yak control let alone the needs of pampered, not-so-smart American tourists. I used to hope and pray my parents had an American Express card because I knew it came with a really attractive woman who knew her away around Yak City and would always be there to save your ass.

Truth is I’m not sure why Allie got so worked up. The thing that bothers me is, judging from her reaction, she didn't think I would be able to handle a problem without the help of my wallet. I'm thinking in her mind, a dad (her dad) is only as good as his billfold.

Unfortunately, in many cases, I tend to agree.

Newest Campbell Soup Flavor: Mercy

Allie can't wait for it to be Easter.

I'm not sure why.

Don't get me wrong. I like Easter. I'm all for celebrating the resurrection. Plus, I think the whole pagan, Eostre, Goddess of Spring stuff is interesting. Bunnies and eggs are fine representatives of fertility. They were a good decision. After all we were probably a single ancient edict away from watching a huge phallus go by on a parade float rather than Peter Cottontail (suddenly I'm thinking about a photo of Allie sitting on the Easter Bunny's lap and I'm very grateful). But I don't know why Allie is so excited.

Well, actually I do understand. She's five. Where she's concerned a UPS box left on the front porch can sometimes be cause enough for full scale revelry. Plus Allie's excited about going to see her grandparents and aunties this weekend. Then there's the candy and potentially a gift or two. On second thought this holiday is chock full of high octane anticipation fuel.

As for me, I'm looking forward to brandy old-fashions, garage ham . . . and spending time with my family, of course. That goes without saying.

Garage ham? I'll let you figure that one out for yourself.

Easter isn't the real reason for this post. I wanted to let you know how things were going with the Campbell Soup Company. I decided to contact them, via their Web site, after all. The automated response claimed that I would receive an actual response within three business days. I think it's been three business days. I'll wait a few more days before I write them again concerning the alarming lack of dumplings in their Chicken & Dumplings soup.

The key to an effective customer complaint is to let the company know what it is you want. If you have a legitimate beef, don't just whine and hope they'll send you some coupons. You should have a reasonable, viable plan for resolution. It helps you and the poor person who has to deal with you and your dissatisfaction. In this case, I've asked for more dumplings. Eight to twelve dumplings will do the trick. This seems reasonable and certainly viable for a company accustomed to delivering millions of pounds of foodstuff throughout the globe on a daily basis. Figuring out the logistics for twelve dumplings shouldn't be a problem.

Why should they bother?

Because. We're representative of the millions of loyal customers the Campbell Soup company has earned over the years. We consume gallons of their soup and vegetable drinks (they make V8, you know) each year; year-after-year. If at some point during this life-long relationship we, the loyal customer, feel it's necessary to address a problem then our cumulative soup dollars should provide us with recourse. After all, they expect us to pay attention when their marketing machine rolls out another campaign.

I could say it's just good business to respond but that doesn't really mean much. Deb and I switching to Progresso isn't going to matter a hill of beans with bacon to the Campbell Soup company. It's actually a case for compassion we're making. Campbell soup knows we're at their mercy when it comes to condensed soup. We're merely asking for a demonstration of corporate benevolence and a sense of fair play.

We are seeking dumpling justice.

Hippity - Hoppity

Soup Wounds

It's time for another consumer rant. This time it's not mine. It's Debbie who has a problem.

Take a look at this picture:

You should know Debbie is not a broth person. She's a noodle, or in this case, a dumpling person. I'm not sure you can tell from the photo, but the Campbell Soup Company felt Debbie was getting her money's worth by providing just 4.2 dumplings in her lunch.

According to their 2004 annual report, Campbell Soup eliminated approximately 400 positions to improve our agility and streamline our decision-making process. Apparently while streamlining they got rid of the person who runs the machine that counts the number of dumplings they put into their soup.

I know every can of soup can't be perfect. And, like most of the U.S., we'll more than likely continue to be solid Campbell Soup customers. After all, Cream of Mushroom is often employed to make our pork chops more interesting. And what would a cheese-toasty be without a bowl of their Tomato Soup (prepared with milk, not water)? The homoplastic, over processed, corporate flavor of Campbell Soup has been a part of most of our lives since we were able to hold a spoon. Therefore I don't see many cans of Progresso in our future.

It's just that we're disappointed . . . let down by a can of soup.

I'll forward this post to the Campell Soup company and let you know what kind of response I get. I'm hoping they'll send us at least eight to twelve more dumplings via express mail. We'll use them in our next can of Chicken & Dumplings soup making Debbie's next bowl absolutely dumpilicious.

On second thought, I don't think I will contact Campbell Soup Company. I think we should just move on with our lives.

Then the healing can begin.

Mad Max Wears Chuck Taylors

I should have taken a closer look at the new mattress Deb and I bought yesterday. I’m fairly sure when they deliver the thing on Thursday they’re going to try to pull a fast one. Instead of the nice Sealy we thought we were getting they’re going to leave us with some piece of crap stuffed with rat pelts. It would be easy to do.

We did a lot of spending this weekend (electronic tax refunds are fast). I had no idea all new mattresses are about seven feet deep. We don’t have sheets that’ll cover something like that.

I’d like to know the precise moment in my life when I became concerned with thread count.

The buying frenzy actually started on Friday afternoon. I took the afternoon off to run some errands. I wound up replacing all of our dishes, glassware and silverware. It wasn’t as expensive a proposition as it sounds. I got some bargains and spent far less than I expected. Plus, it was time. Our flatware was getting rust spots and our dinnerware was chipped and mismatched.

I’d like to know the precise moment in my life when I became concerned with whether or not our dinnerware was chipped or mismatched.

That Friday I stopped at a shoe store near the university. I wanted to find a pair of canvas shoes I could drop in the washing machine once they started to smell. This store always seems to have a wide selection of PF Flyers and Chuck Taylors so I thought I’d find something there.

I was trying on shoes when I paused to look at a scary guy who decided to shop for shoes that same day in the same store. He was tall and wore a stocking cap with a big horn that stuck out the top. At first I thought the horn was part of the cap but when I saw the tattoos and metal adornments he had on and in his face I wasn’t sure. The huge studded boots with matching pants kind of sealed the deal on me being more than a little uncomfortable with his presence.

Look, I’m no prude. I think people should express themselves anyway they like (as long as they’re not hurting anyone else). But I’ve seen Mad Max, I know people who look like this drive nitrous enhance dune buggies, favor shotguns as their weapon of choice and list vengeance and mayhem as hobbies on dating service applications.

I was walking around in a pair of low-rise Chuck Taylors when the guy with the tattoos on his face spoke. In a voice that sounded as practiced and smooth as a Christie’s auctioneer he said, “You know, you really should consider insoles for those. They can be hard on your feet.”

The sales guy and I looked at each other long enough for it to be noticeable. Then the sales guys said that was a good idea and fetched a set of insoles. I put them in the shoes. It made a huge difference. The sneakers became much more comfortable.

“Thanks for the tip,” I said to the tattoo-faced guy. “You’re welcome,” he said. From his tone and delivery I half-expected to hear, enjoy your stay, as if I’d just checked into a suite at the Four Seasons.

I went up to pay for the shoes and as the sales guy rang me up he said, “I should give that guy a job.” Once again we looked at each other long enough for it to be noticeable, then simultaneously we made a snorting sound with our noses.

Not a very nice reaction, but I think we deserve a little wiggle room when there is a horn and facial tattoos involved. Plus we were well away from the tattoo-faced guy and I’m sure there was no chance that we would have hurt his feelings. After all, there’s no way in hell I’d want that guy upset with me. In fact, I probably would have bought the insoles even if they were making my feet bleed just to make sure tattoo-faced guy and I were simpatico.

By the way, I think tattoo-faced guy bought a pair of hi-top Chuck Taylors.

Crazy. Like two peas in a pod, almost . . .

Check Your Kibble

No posts from the road.

It was a busy trip to Orlando and most evenings were spent grabbing a meal, calling Deb an the girls then falling asleep to whatever was on HBO. The three books I brought with me sat on the night stand untouched.

It's a full flight but there's still an empty seat between Brad and me. Brad is the man sitting next to the window. Nice guy. He shared his USA Today with me. We were both shocked and amazed the seat between us didn't get filled. As I write we're all spread out with our coats and reading materials in the spot NWA would prefer to have held a paying passenger.

My Dad and his girlfriend came to see me in Orlando. We had dinner then lunch the next day. I wish we would have had more time to talk. Two meals provide just enough time to become reacquainted and not much else. Still, I was grateful they made time to see me. Four hours on the road can't be much fun.

The flight attendant just sold me a “Snack Box”. For $3 I have dried fruit, a granola bar, Oreos, Goldfish Crackers, beef summer sausage, crackers and some kind of soft cheese. It sounds like a lot. Once I downed the crackers and tiny smear of cheese it didn’t look like a lunch. Better than just a little bag of pretzels, though.

I’ve spent a lot of time, this past week, speaking to analytical chemists. One conversation I had involved dog food. Most dog food formulas change from week-to-week. The kibble you’re feeding Sparky on Monday may not be the same kibble he’s getting on Friday once you open that new bag.

It’s all a matter of commodities. If the price of corn goes down the dog food company will reformulate their product to take advantage of the savings. It was the chemist I spoke with who made sure the nutritional value of a certain company’s dog food remained consistent from batch-to-batch. The chemist told me to look for the AAFCO (Association of American Feed Control Officials) symbol on whatever pet food you buy. This symbol tells people the food you’re giving your pet meets standards that will allow Sparky or Fluffy to remain nourished and healthy regardless of how cheaply the manufacturer produces the food.

Okay. Probably not as interesting an anecdote to you as I thought it was. But I could be telling you about how I suspect a flight attendant just turned her butt towards me and farted. In fact, I’m sure she just let go right in my face.

Cabbage?

Dear Lord. . .

See, this is the type of stuff I write to Debbie in the journal I keep for her whenever I travel. I'll spare you all the stuff about how much I miss my wife and kids when I'm gone. I can't wait to see them. Particularly when I’m reminded of them by seeing all of these families on the plane. This is a flight from Orlando, after all. The interesting thing is I’ve got Thomas the Tank Engine in front of me and Ice Age to my right. These parents have brought their laptops and created a multiplex of little drive-in screens only I’m not in a car and there’s not much chance I’ll be able to get any popcorn.

The kid to my right isn’t paying attention to the movie. She’s staring at me. She’s watching me write this post. I keep glancing over at her and each time I see her watching me. I wish she’d close her mouth. Maybe she’s got a sinus thing or something.

I just smiled at her.

She smiled back.

She’s back to watching Ice Age.

Her mouth is still open.

Nearly Excommunicated Nurses

I can't stop thinking about what the Pope had for breakfast following his tracheotomy.

NPR reported the Pontiff dined on: Café au Lait, ten biscuits and some yogurt.

I heard: a cup of coffee, a box of cookies and some ice cream.

I realize it would be difficult to tell the Pope to cool it on the cookies. He is the Pope and an old one at that. You can't tell old people anything. That's one of the great things about being old. In my experience, after age 60 you get a license that allows you to ignore all advice and provide unfiltered commentary on every topic. I don't think it's supposed to be a license to be rude but it seems that's how most folks use it. I guess in most cases that's okay with me. In fact, I think it would be nice to get your speak-your-mind license at 40. However, because most 40-year-olds still work, raise kids and maintain romantic relationships, holding off on unbridled honesty for twenty years or so might not be a bad idea.

Still, I can't wait to get my license.

The Pope's definitely got his. He says exactly what's on his mind (hence the whole a new ideology of evil thing) and makes no bones about exactly what he wants. So I'm sure a nurse woke the Pope up this morning and asked, "Hey Pope, you hungry? What would you like for breakfast?"

The Pope grabbed a notepad and wrote, "Cookies."

The nurse might have paused for a moment but he realized his soul might be in jeopardy so he gets the Pope some cookies. Then he asks, "You want anything else?"

The Pope scribbles on the notepad, "Cup of Joe to wash them down. And my throat hurts, how about some ice cream?"

The nurse is still worried about his soul but as a health professional knows better than to follow up cookies with ice cream after a major procedure. He compromises with some yogurt. The Pope is too tired to notice so he eats the yogurt without excommunicating the nurse.

That's the explanation for why the Pope ate like a six-year-old caffeine fiend at a birthday party following his tracheotomy.

The real question I'd like to ask (specifically to Jon) is this; at the age of 85 can the Pope still fly?

Shh. It's a secret. Don't tell anybody. Otherwise everyone will wanna be the Pope!

Official Notification

Richard Snead and Carlson Restaurants Worldwide Inc. can kiss my ass.

I told you I'd let you know if I successfully reproduced T.G.I. Friday's Jack Daniel's Dipping Sauce.

I did.

It's good.

Now my plan to exact revenge on T.G.I. Friday's for all the money they've taken from me without concern for my satisfaction can finally be put into motion.

It begins by providing you with the link to the recipe I used:

http://www.topsecretrecipes.com/recipes/jdgrill.htm

Roasting the garlic is a bit of a pain and your house will smell like an Olive Garden restaurant on a very busy night for a few hours. However, it's worth it.

Phase two of my plan involves completely side-stepping the restaurant. Even if I'm desperate and in an unfamiliar city I'll do my best to stay out of a Fridays.

Phase three?

Hell, I don't know. I've already invested too much energy into this as it is.

Just let me know when you're coming and I'll make some sauce and we'll have some wings or something. Maybe wash them down with some Jack and Coke. After all, the sauce only takes a tablespoon so I've got plenty of booze to go around.

Feral Toddler

I'm mixing over-the-counter cold remedies in search of relief. The Nyquil/Alka-Seltzer Cold combination seemed to work last night. This despite the fact that my nose was so clogged nothing short of a hammer drill would have cleared an airway.

Eventually my nose did clear and I got some over-the-counter assisted sleep. But it really wasn't the stuffed-up nose, coughing and general malaise that got to me. I had the hiccups. The only way I could get relief was to stand on my head and swallow some water. We tried other remedies. Allie fed me a spoon of peanut butter. Judy told me to balance a spoon on my nose while I drank water. Debbie recommended holding my breath while I took seven sips of water. Nothing worked other than placing my ass above my head while I swallowed some water.

The hiccups would return and I'd invert myself on the stairs or over the edge of my bed and they'd subside. The third time they came back, the upside down swallowing didn't work. Crud. I felt like crap and these tiny convulsions were pushing me over the edge. Plus I knew they would keep Deb awake if they persisted so I got serious. I sat on the bedroom floor and held my breath until I felt as if I was going to pass out. For some reason my diaphragm got the message that I was serious and left me alone.

So far. So good.

Yesterday we registered Allie for Kindergarten. We're not certain she'll go to the school at which she registered last night. But the Principal was kind enough to give us a tour of the Kindergarten classrooms. Allie didn't seem as impressed as I thought she would be. Overall, though, it was very apparent that she's excited about the prospect of going to school. I asked the Principal if they still did milk breaks. He told me they did and he believed it was a state law. When Deb and I were in school white milk was five cents and chocolate was seven. Milk will now cost Allie 20 cents each day.

Nothing profound to say about Allie's impending matriculation or the cost of milk. Just making notes for posterity.

Glenn and Judy are spending the week with us. They're taking care of the girls while our daycare provider gets to know her new baby. We're grateful they're here. This is particularly true when you consider how much Julia hates to go the temporary provider near my office. She would scream and try desperately to get her coat back on each morning I dropped her off. In the evenings she would cling to us as if someone was going to storm in and snatch her away at any moment. It was horrible.

I suppose things might have improved over time. Either that or she would have snapped and Julia would have gone feral on us. She'd lock herself in the bathroom and scream at us. She'd refuse to eat. She'd lash out and bite her sister.

Oh wait. . . She does do all those things.

Never mind.

Lessons Learned

Thanks, Grandpa Mike

We're back from a mini-vacation and we've got video. Unfortunately if you've got a dial-up connection it's going to take you a long time to watch it. 8.2 MB pretty much means you can get things started today and watch the footage tomorrow.

It's worth it just to see me half-naked.

Just go to password please, click Multimedia and choose Water Park.

We had a great time. Thanks to Grandpa Mike for really wonderful Christmas gift.

May I have the bitterness on the side, please?

Before you read this post, you should know I'm not a very picky guy, especially when it comes to restaurants. I know that the food business is a tough one and that every joint is going to have an off-night now and again. Ask Debbie and you'll find out I'm downright obsequious to staff and wouldn't consider sending a dish back unless it tried to crawl off my plate and harm someone at the next table.

That said, I think our local T.G.I. Fridays sucks.

And not just our Fridays. I've been to a T.G.I. Fridays in California, Georgia, Illinois and Wisconsin. Each time I've visited the restaurant I'm usually disappointed. The host station is always manned by an indifferent 19-year-old who inexplicably looses the ability to recognize the letters L, E and E (when combined) thereby seating dozens of other patrons who arrive after I've already blown most of my evening waiting for the little pager to vibrate and flash. The wait staff is usually okay but more than once I've been saddled with a server who is obviously going through some sort of career and/or emotional crisis. The table and flatware are usually sticky and dirty. The drinks are almost always heavily watered down. The food is usually presented as if Cub Scout Pack Number 43 was allowed to throw on some aprons and try plating a few entrees during their field trip.

So. Greg. Why do you keep going to T.G.I. Fridays?

For the Jack Daniels Dipping Sauce, of course.

This stuff is great. It takes T.G.I. Friday's mediocre fried shrimp, semi-tough sirloins, rubbery chicken, meatless ribs and past-its-prime salmon and turns them all into dishes of note.

It's like magic. Magic I've only been able to find at T.G.I. Fridays.

Until now.

This evening I looked for a recipe for Jack Daniels Dipping Sauce on the Web and I found one that looks very promising. I haven't made it yet but when I'll do I'll report the results and give you the recipe.

Then, Greg, why swear off T.G.I. Fridays until you're certain you can replicate the sauce?

Because the last time Debbie and I took the girls to T.G.I. Fridays I swore to Debbie that we would never return. Now there's hope that I can make good on my vow and I'm very excited. It's time that I stopped letting T.G.I. Fridays take my money without regard for my satisfaction. I've been too nice and too quiet for too long. It's time to fight back.

I'm officially putting Richard Snead and Carlson Restaurants Worldwide Inc. on notice. If this sauce pans out, I'm leaving and I'm going to take others with me. . . to Red Lobster. Those little garlic, cheese, biscuit thingys they serve are really good.

Is this thing on?

Allie: Why did the chicken cross the road?
Deb: Why?
Allie: To get to his banana yellow car!
Deb: Good one. . .
Allie: Sorry. That's old. It's like from the 80's.