Trapped with the TV.

Why oh why did I do it?

Why oh why did I take my car back to the dealer for an inspection and an oil change?

What am I, stupid?

Yup; next question?

There was a slight key issue that turned out to be a nonissue; the other reason was the coupon. The dealer has sent me coupons for oil changes, tire rotations, A/C check, and so on, but I never use them. I'd gone to the dealer for routine maintenance and it always took forever. So I usually go to the guy down the block. But this time, I don't know, I just thought they might have gotten better in the last three or four years.

WRONG.

Two hours for an inspection and oil change. They threw in an exterior car wash, but I would have happily told them not to bother if I had known they were going to do it. It might have saved me what, an hour and a half?

Yeah, sure.

Not that they don't try to make it comfortable for you. There is a lounge with magazines you'd never read, the newspaper one of the employees straight-up stole three minutes after I went in, and vending machines with no prices posted (but they'll take your credit card, so it's okay). The best of all was the TV that was on to one channel and could not be changed or shut off.

Now, if you work for a living, or otherwise avoid daytime television, you may not be aware that everything that is wrong with the United States of America can be determined by spending a couple of hours watching daytime television. I don't think it was as bad when I was a kid, as there were few talk shows and lots of game shows, and Mom never watched the soaps. What I saw on the idiot box while pining for my car told me that the acting on soaps was worse than ever, and that daytime talk shows are written and performed for morons.

I'm not sure what irritated me most about the talk show. Was it the celebrity suckup that was so powerful that James Dyson would have been envious? The heroic celebration of people whose accomplishments are minimal, self-centered, or stupid? Or the slavish pandering to the addle-pated crowd? ("That's what I think, amiright?" "YAAAY!") And there am I---because you can't leave, your car could be ready at any moment---looking toward the garage through the window like a sad Pierrot.

View from the window, my sad little clown face staring out.

Was Meredith Vieira ever really considered a legitimate journalist?

If the entire staff of the dealership hadn't been zombie-assing around like DMV employees on Ambien, I might had some sense that an effort was being made to get me on my way. If the idiot who figured out the bill had been able to figure out how to apply the coupon that the dealership sent me, I might not have told them they would never see my face again. (I told him to skip the coupon because I had to get back to work, which was true. At least one of us was willing to do some work that day.)

Maybe if the dealership spent more time getting non-dingdongs to work there and less time making signs telling everyone how great their service is, things would run better there. As it is, never again.

Pumpkin paradigm.

Had a casual meeting to attend the other day, so I decided it was time to bring a treat and mess with their heads!

Mwah ah ah! I gave them... PUMPKIN BREAD!

WHOA DUDE NO WAY

Pumpkin bread in JUNE? What mad insanity is THIS?

Even though their minds were totally BLOWN by giving them pumpkin four months in advance (yes, folks, Halloween will here in just four months, and the Halloween stuff will be here in one), they enjoyed it. I did not tell them why I was messing with them Jack-O-Lantern-style, as they might not have appreciated it, but I'll tell you.

Tralfaz the dog, Mr. McFussy Pants, has been a pain in the rear about dinner since he got some wet food a while ago. Mrs. Key wisely did not accede to his demands for canned stuff all the time. We tried to accommodate him by mixing wet and dry food, but his initial excitement turned quickly to disdain. Basically, Teen Wolf was becoming a pain in the ass about food, and that was before our current adventures with synthetic thyroid pills began.

Mrs. Key (comments here sometimes as Marshmallow) heard that some canned pure pumpkin mixed in with dry food was very attractive to dogs. So, I got a can, and Tralfaz rejected it instantly. So, now I have a can of pumpkin ($2.49) with about a teaspoon's worth taken out.

You know I'm not going to let food go to waste, not if I can mix it with sugar and turn it into something tasty. And let me make this clear: No part of the canned pumpkin made contact with the dog or his food at any time, save for the teaspoon that was removed with a clean spoon.

I got a recipe from Food Network, which you can see here; a very simple recipe for pumpkin bread. However, it turned out to be a problem in itself. It supposedly bakes up two large loaves in 30-40 minutes, which is horse hockey (and I would have been warned had I read the comments section). Worse, I had to run out when the bread was about forty-five minutes in and the toothpicks were still coming out gloppy. Mrs. Key took over for me, and guided the bread to their successful completion. I do recommend the recipe, but figure around 60 minutes to bake.

Having challenged conformity, confounded expectations, and outraged the great pumpkin paradigm, who knows what I'll do next? Peppermint macrons in August? Could be anything!

After all, you know what they say about paradigms: those and $2.55 will get you on the subway.

Bathroom sads.

This kind of thing always makes me a little sad. 

When you have to have a little bottle of hand soap instead of having soap in the dispenser. What could this mean?

I see three, not independent possibilities. Either someone has failed to get refills for the dispenser; they are unable to get refills for the dispenser; or the dispenser has stopped working. Any of these is bad tidings.

When a restaurant, shop, or other establishment falls down on the soap job, it's bad tidings. Covering up by getting a bottle of hand soap at least shows responsibility, but there's a reason that only very highfalutin joints avoid the wall-mounted dispenser: people engage in petty larceny. Plus, those bottles don't hold that much. If this bathroom is busy, that soap is going to vanish, one way or another.

It's worrisome too if the dispenser is unfillable or busted. It takes commitment to manage things at times like these; lacking such commitment, you wind up with a permanent ornament of dysfunction wedded to the wall, or a bracket where it used to be, which is just one of those signs that no one gives a damn anymore.

Maybe I'm overly sensitive to this, but I've done my tours in public schools. I know what not giving a damn looks like.

This bathroom has not reached the critical stage yet, not by a long shot. The towel dispenser still works---and still has towels! The lock on the door functions. The toilet flushes and is not repellent. There are lightbulbs. This soap bottle situation may have just been a temporary expedient while supplies are delayed or something.

Still, you have to beware the little things. First you have a nonworking dispenser; next, you're drying your hands on your pants; then the toilet itself performs a knockback feat when you walk in because of its state of grunginess. It's easy for this stuff to get out of hand, and it generally starts with the hand soap.

Birdie update!

Google celebrated Phoebe Snetsinger yesterday, in their continuing desire to celebrate people who are smart, hardworking, and often overlooked, as long as they are not white males. (See the Google Doodle Decision Tree here.)

Despite Google's prejudice, I don't mind when Google does quirky little celebrations like that. And there's no reason not to be impressed by the dedication of Snetsinger to our fine feathered friends.

Also, it gives me an opportunity to present the latest update on the birdies that have hatched under my deck:

Holy Moses! It's a bumper crop!

Those little birds---and I think there are four altogether---have doubled in size in a week, I think. I don't want to disturb them or get my eyes pecked out by Mom, so I haven't gotten out the ladder for a closer look. But they fill up that nest now. When Mom's away and they're sleeping, they're just this heaving feathery lump. Interestingly, Mom still sits on their heads at night; she barely touches the nest. It's interesting to me, anyway; I've never followed the progress of birds from nest-building to adulthood. Phoebe Snetsinger would shake her head and laugh at me.

I'm expecting it's almost graduation time at this rate, close to time to throw the kids out of the nest. Birds, unlike humans, are not going to stand for a 33 percent unemployment rate in the adult children. No, birds are much more along the lines of: You're grown, you're gone.

My wife has cautioned me to be careful next time I run the mower down there. Just in case there are four dazed chicks sitting on the grass, wondering what the hell happened, while Mom is watching HGTV and redecorating the nest.

Dog-empted.

Oh, I had such an awesome blog entry to write for you today! Full of action, humor, thrills, pithy comments --- lots of pith, actually. I was going to write about grapefruit. Unfortunately, all of that is going to have to wait, because I have a dog, and the dog has a pill.

As I mentioned the other day, the dog is on a new medication. We had noticed that he was listless and off his feed; the vet suggested it might be hypothyroidism. It's common for dogs of his type (big + hairy, would be the type). So she prescribed synthetic thyroid hormone, twice a day. 

Problem is: He takes the pill and goes nuts. 

There's like a 15-30 minute fuse, and then bam! Joe Cool becomes Fussy McDog. 

Part of it is that fun puppy stuff, which is very cute and happy, even if it extends into working hours or bedtime. But part of it is the irritated toddler, which is never good. I'm hungry, I hate food, I want to play with this, I don't want to play with this anymore, I hate this, I have to go out, now I have to nap outside, no you have to stay with me, now I'm hungry again, WAH. And then sometimes it's just slumpy, disgusted teenager. 

Something like that.

Which makes me think about my feud -- well, I hate to call it a feud, really -- my disagreement with comic Jim Gaffigan. As you know, he's the world's most successful comedian right now, who likes to horn in on honest writers trying to make a buck by trading his fame for best-seller list positions when he should be doing his job. But his boorish behavior toward actual writers is not why we're having a tiff, but rather his disdain for the idea that raising a dog is like raising a child. I bring this up to point out to him that my dog on thyroid is like having a teenager and a terrible-twos-toddler combined. So there, Gaffigan! Didn't see that coming, did you? 

Last night was the worst. Poor dog (and I know it's not much fun for him either) completely wore out two grown adult humans. By the time he made his final poop and was, in fact, pooped, so were we. So all my deep thoughts about grapefruit -- pfft! Gone.

And then, guess what? YES! We had to go pee at 1:50 in the morning, followed by poop at 2:15. And when I say we, I promise you I was not doing any of that. I had to chaperone.

Oh, and by the way, yesterday was the day the vet called with the results of the blood test. The new pill has our pup's thyroid hormone levels where they ought to be. He'll be on the pill for at least a year.

Awesome. 

So please excuse the technical difficulties, and if I can remember what I was going to say about grapefruit, or for that matter any citrus fruit, I shall pass on the knowledge another time. I can't let this dog situation get in the way of my pith. 

Juggling act.

As a freelance editor, I have to juggle jobs based mostly on deadlines given by my clients. But the longer I do this work, the more strange my method of prioritization seems to be.

For example, as I write this (when I should be doing paying work) I have the following five jobs in the works:

1. Copyedit one ms, due today
2. Fact-check one article, due Thursday
3. Proofread one galley, due Friday
4. Copyedit another ms., due Monday
5. Proofread another galley, due next Wednesday

The wet-behind-the-ears greenhorn, as once I was, might say, "I shall work on job #1 until it is complete, then go to job #2, then #3, and so on, in the order in which the deadlines occur. And if I can manage to turn anything in early, it demonstrates my dedication and tells the client I am ready for more work."

But that has not proved to be the way I have found best to manage my time. Why?

Say I focus on the first job and touch no others until it is done. If it turns out to be in worse shape than initially expected, I am going to be lucky to get it out the door on time; if it runs late, and there's always a chance one will, it's going to push all the other jobs back as well.

So I budget the time initially for all the jobs based on dividing it among the days I'm available to work. Say that means job #1 requires I copyedit 50 pages a day, and if I can make that goal it will be done on time. Okay, but job #2 is a fact-checking job, which does not conform to an easy X-pages-a-day schedule. Now what? And if both these jobs turn out to be complicated, what happens then? I've already had to plan to do 40 pages a day on job #3, but that has a bit of flexibility since it's a later deadline---but not much flexibility, because it's two freaking days away! Of course, jobs #1 and #2 are supposed to be gone by then, so I'll be able to pile on to finish #3 at the end of the week. And, by the way, job #4 actually is a rush job that was assigned after job #5, which called for a schedule alteration on the fly, and it looks like job #4 will keep me working all weekend....

It really winds up being more art than science by this time. But I absolutely must be flexible, because, whatever the quantum physicists say, in practical terms time is not flexible at all.

And of course, we all know what time equals.

I supposed for people whose home-based business includes projects with much shorter deadlines---baking cupcakes for a party, maybe---or much longer ones---planning the construction of a bridge---juggling deadlines is complicated in other ways. But words are my bag, baby; how do you roll?

Knights Anonymous.

Don: Hi, everyone, and welcome to this open meeting of Knights Anonymous. My name is Don Quixote, and I'm a recovering Knight.

All: Hail, Don!

Don: Let's read the preamble... Rodney?

Rodney: (reading) "Knights Anonymous is intended to help those recovering from knighthood, knight errantry, and knight missions. We have no affiliation with any kingdom, empire, or fief; have pledged no allegiance to any regent; announce no support for any cause. Our sole purpose is to recover from knighthood and help those in need of recovery."

Don: Thanks, Rod. As always, bear in mind that our program is anonymous, and our traditions insist that whatever one does or says here is confidential. And no dueling! Well, we have a small group here tonight. Rod, would you like to start us off?

Rodney: Oh, no, I shouldn't...

Don: Please.

Rodney: Oh, very well... I am Rodney, and I am a recovering knight.

All: Hail, Rodney!

Rodney: I was never really cut out for the knight shift. It just seemed like a good idea at the time, you know? But it became a knightmare. Back in Id, any gig that promised three hots and a cot put you way ahead of everyone else. And I always wanted to impress my girlfriend, Gwen. So I would pretend to be slaying dragons and stuff, when I usually ran away, or sometimes bribed them... Everyone knew, though. I was the last one to know I was a total coward, even when they called me "Rodney the Chicken-Hearted." Finally I got sick of being the king's flunky, and I was lucky enough to flee Id and find these rooms.

Don: Thanks, Rodney. We appreciate your admission of craven chickenhood.

Rodney: I know for sure today that I just can't handle knighthood anymore. Knighthood is fine for those who can take it. We make no judgments on that.

Don: That's right. How about you, Blackie? You want to go?

Blackie: Yes.

Don: Feel free.

Blackie: Very well... I AM THE BLACK KNIGHT! NONE SHALL PASS! THE BLACK KNIGHT NEVER LOSES!

Rodney: (sotto voce) Newcomer.

Blackie: WHAT'S THAT?

Rodney: Nothing! Nothing!

Blackie: It'd better not be or I'LL BITE YOUR KNEECAPS OFF!

Don: Blackie, maybe you ought to stand down.

Blackie: Is that supposed to be FUNNY?

Don: Why don't we come back to you a little later.

Blackie: I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I'm just not dealing with retirement well, you know? I mean, other knights go into recovery because they're coming out of delusion, or are abject cowards...

Rod: Mnmph.

Blackie: ...but I was brave! I was tough! My record was 65-0-1!

Don: Not sure about that draw, Blackie.

Blackie: Mnmph.

Rod: It helps to turn these things over to your Higher Power.

Blackie: Who, the KING?!?!

Don: No, no...

Sir Not Appearing In This Blog Post: Perhaps we should hear from the new fellow.

Don: Yes, you there! We don't wish to make thee, uh, you uncomfortable, but would you like to introduce yourself?

New Knight: Uhh... Not really, thanks; rather just listen.

Blackie: SCARED, are you?

Rod: Blackie, we don't want to make anyone uncomfortable... (ulp)

New Knight: No, no, it's all right. Hi. My name is... Lancelot....

All: Hail, La-- Lancelot?!

Lance: Yeah.

Rod: YOU? I mean, all knights are welcome here... but YOU?

Don: I think what Rod means to say is that, Knights Anonymous is for all knights who wish to begin a new life, but those who join are usually not so... so...

Lance: Successful?

Rod: Yeah.

Lance: Yes, I know. Greatest jouster, greatest sword fighter, bravest of the Table Round, slayer of the Worm of Corbin, slayer of this, slayer of that, slayer of the other thing... blah blah blah. But I'm... I'm...

Don: It's all right. You're among friends.

Lance: ...I'm the worst knight here! There, I said it!

All: No! No way!

Lance: Yes! Yes way!

Don: Now, just take it easy, Lancelot. You should hear some of our stories! Why, I jousted with windmills, thinking they were giants!

Blackie: I suffered grievous bodily flesh wounds in battle!

Rod: I got pantsed by the Huns!

Sir Not Appearing In This Blog Post: I didn't even show up for this joke!

Lance: Well, I...

Don: Come, speak, friend.

Lance: I, uh, slept with the queen, slaughtered a bunch of my fellow knights, violated my oaths, betrayed my sovereign, and brought death and destruction to Camelot.

(silence)

Crickets: Chirp.

Don: Ah, yes, well, Lance, that's a pretty rough story.

Lance: Yeah, I sucketh.

Rod: Holy cow.

Lance: So... Is it okay if I hang around for the meeting?

Rod: Uh...

Blackie: Er...

Don: Um...

Lance: I brought doughnuts.

All: Okay!

~here endeth the tale~