About me

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Hotel security

People steal a lot of stuff from hotels, and the only purpose it serves is to run up the price for the rest of us. You can take the toiletries, which are likely product placement in every instance. The towels and stuff are another matter.

So are the decorations, even the sculptures.


Check out the security system used with the sculpture. You know it's there because someone somewhere took something similar. I can only imagine what is securing all the art hanging on the walls.

Good biscuits

The morning breakfast and snack table was graced with above average biscuits yesterday and today. Yesterday's biscuits were ham, sandwich ham, and my grandmother would have offered council because proper biscuit ham is salt cured. However, I found myself willing to forgive what I saw as a very minor transgression.

Today, we have sausage and cheese.


They were good, very good, even with American cheese, if not the proper hoop cheese, but again, that was a very minor transgression, one that can be easily forgiven.

Hotel breakfast

I'm certain there's a fine breakfast downstairs. It's just that it's too late.

On weekends, breakfast starts late. Yeah, that's me. I don't want to chow down, and then step into my work. All that belching and farting just gets in the way. Of course, there'll be someone in the restaurant who wants to talk to me about all sorts of exciting mess, and that conversation is forbidden until there's a lot more coffee in the system.

OK, there's never that much coffee.

There's also the matter of facing yet one more breakfast buffet, but that's a piss and moan from a bird in a gilded cage that I'll forego.

Besides, a 5 A.M. alarm suggests first breakfast towards 6, and that means, especially on the weekend, that we'll be waiting a couple of hours to eat, and that won't do.

Here's my solution.


Yes, I often travel with peanut butter, and that cannot fly in the cabin, which means a checked bag is common for me. This time, my two first breakfasts of PB sandwiches cost $25. Delta served breakfast, I suppose.

And yes, Grandpa has peculiar ways.

Food and snacks

We already know how barbecue can start civil wars and threats of secession, and I shouldn't even start on what makes an all-the-way hotdog, which should be called a salad of some sort in Chicago.

It was has browns that first caught my attention as an indicator of location. Bear in mind that most are good, even among those things falsely called barbecue, but it's rare that the one will bear discernible resemblance to the other.

What brings us here is the afternoon snack table that came with yesterday's work in Chattanooga.


You should know that I have no problem with a Moon Pie, and I've surely eaten a few million along the way. It's just that I never expected to see one here. Now, I just need an RC Cola, diet, and a truck dashboard to warm the Moon Pie on. Yes, that's the only fitting way to prepare a Moon Pie for human consumption. I should know.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Trying to reason with the hurricane season

I'm working FoDaMan this weekend while the home peeps sit out the hurricane.

I entered the RDU airport at 10 A.M., and found myself mostly alone. Checked my bag for an extra $25, found an ATM, and rolled through security. My gate was just outside security. Across from the gate, a clinic. I visited the clinic for a booster shot.


Diet Coke, people.

Even with my private airport, the plane was full. Packed. A gentleman of size had the aisle seat. I had the window. I later tweeted as to how he was a very lucky man. He was reading fantasy on a Kindle, and I was sampling the free and plentiful rum, all while we rubbed elbows and more.

ATL was it's usual big and busy self. This time, I noticed a brown layer of air as we approached. Smog. Landed. Fourteen point FourSquare check-in. Walked a mile. Stayed off the moving sidewalks and the tram. Should have worn the Vibrams. Found my gate. Slammed down a BK burger and fries in three minutes flat. Left again, this time on a little plane. CRJ-200, to be precise. Aisle seat. Chatty seat mate. I hate a chatty seat mate.

I hate even more planes without AC. I was dripping by the time we landed.

Bumpy landing in Chattanooga. Taxi. Aside from a couple of small mountains, Chattanooga like a lot like about every other American city, filled with people trying to make a living.

I'll blast out of CHA Sunday evening, Irene willing. Otherwise, Hilton surely has a spare pillow for me.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

You could lose a bandanna in there

A short while back, I described my collection of bandannas over at The History of My Stuff. In it, there's a brief story of my white bandanna from CCL.

I was thinking of that today when I checked in at the Hobbit Hole under our inner beltline. It would be a good place to lose a bandanna. I'm sure of it.


Of course, if you lost a bandanna there, say a white bandanna given to you by an organization of corporate trainers, you'd probably return in a few weeks to find said lost bandanna here.


It'd be neatly folded into a square, and placed atop the cement where you would see it clearly when you walked by. You'd probably want to bleach it hard in hot water when you get it back home.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Ribaldry in flesh tone

Gotta love the hubris that ever led to that shade of Crayola back in the day. At the rate we're going politically and socially, I expect to see this one return all too soon. Anywho...

More pre-dawn laundry, and look what I found.


The peeps here must be going commando. The size remains a mystery. The wadded state was too great to check the label. The cloth looks stretchy. If you're running low and need a slightly used fresh pair, let me know.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Finally, some excitement

It's been a long month or so with little or no diversion aside from the kind that gets me into trouble. Well, it was a clever Post-It note if I do say so myself. Work. Eat. Pretend to sleep. You probably know the busy-season drill.

So it's into the laundry room this morning, this Sunday morning, so I can avoid indecent exposure charges this coming week. I load my washer half asleep as it's only been maybe 30 minutes since I awoke from a dream about a work activity that involved using Skype. Now, that's not so strange, in and of itself. Dreams about work are common when the work is heavy. I used to dream of working in tobacco this time of summer many years ago. This morning, the dream, the one with Skype and about work, this dream involved Skype producing not just a video call, but a hologram call.

This'll teach me to watch a movie about megashark and crocosaurus before I go to bed.

So there I am, loading the washer. Clothes in. Soap in. Washer on. Let's noodle back to the coffee. Wait. What's that flash of pink across the room? Uh oh.


Lost and found. Pink draws. Thong, if memory serves. If you angle the light just so, you'll see that the label indicates S/M, small to medium. Some petite young thing is running around her, maybe his, without her draws. You'd think they'd catch such as that at the security check by the door.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

A little sump'in different

I was still sweating after the bath that followed about 30 minutes of stair climbing, and it seemed like a reasonable time to make some lunch.

Here's what happened.

I fetched out the loaf of homemade white bread I was given last night. The fruitfly has been working on her baking. A decent slice of that seems a good place to start.


This definitely needs a light coating of butter. Most things do.


Notice how the butter reflects enough light that it bleaches out the picture. I should probably add more butter, but I'll refrain.

Now, find the tomato that Fruitfly delivered from her garden. Cut it into small pieces. WOnder why the software wants this one rotated.


At this point, the pasta sauce was calling to me. Generic. Food Lion. It might not get any better.


Did someone mention shredded cheese of the Mexican variety?


A toaster would come in handy about now. So would a heated oven. I'll somehow make do with the microwave.


Now, don't go and get all in an uproar over your lost diet. I ate it all for you.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Chicken stew

OK, some of you might call this chicken pastry. If you do, stop. My grandmother called it stew, not pastry, and you should too.

You need a pot. A large pot. I'm using the cast iron.


Grandmother would send Papa out to the backyard with his hatchet. You can try that if you have chickens in the yard. Mama would just buy a whole chicken from Food Lion. Normally, I would open a few cans of chicken, the kind they sell by the canned tuna. However, I have some frozen chicken tenders that I need to use. They're going in the pot.


Wings and backs make a better stew, and you can still find wings, but I have no idea where you'd get a pack of chicken backs these days. I also don't much hang around people who would refrain from comment over using chicken backs. Danged city people.

Now, cover the chicken with a lot of water. I added salt and olive oil. It's what I do.


Boil this mess for an hour or so. Then dip out the chicken.


I used the plastic spoon we found at Jordan Lake. You should too if you have one. Now cut the chicken into small pieces.


While you're cutting up the chicken, bring the pot back to a hard boil. You'll probably need to add some water also. Taste the broth, and add salt if you need it. Remember how Mama taught you it's a lot easier to put salt in than it is to take it out.

Put the chopped chicken back in the pot and let it boil a while.


While it pot is coming back to a hard boil, add some water to some plain flour so you can roll out some pastry. Yes, you may call this part pastry. I let Aunt Anne make my pastry.


She puts the pastry in a nice box. There are pieces of wax paper between the pastry strips. I love Aunt Anne.



Put the pastry strips in the boiling pot. One at the time! This is no time to get in a hurry. If you're that inpatient, you should go to Hardee's or something.


Keep the pot boiling as you add the pastry strips, and stir a lot to keep the strips from sticking together. Mama will tell you to drop the strips where the broth is boiling.

When you've added all the pastry, stir, boil, cut the heat way down, stir, add the lid, let it simmer a long while. Remember to stir frequently. You'll probably have to add more water.


It'll need to simmer about 30 to 45 minutes. The stirring will prevent the pastry from sticking to the bottom and burning. My daddy liked the burnt part best.

It's done.


You know what to do now.