Sperari

I've been reading a handful of personal finance blogs for the last six months or so and seeing the same advice over and over - clip the damned coupons. In particular, The Simple Dollar (favorite grocery/coupon posts: 1 2 3) and Get Rich Slowly (favorite grocery/coupon posts: 1 2) hit the grocery strategies with some frequency. I decided to pick up the Sunday paper today and find out if the coupons inside would actually save someone like me any money. There are a few factors I considered in this exercise:

I decided to sign up over at Revolution MoneyExchange to nab the $25 sign-up bonus, which they're offering until May 15. The service allows you to email funds back and forth between friends. The sign-up process is quick; there is no hard credit-check against your credit report; they're backed by some serious financial heavies (Citi, Morgan Stanley, etc.). Google around a bit - they're legit. They want you to take this money, because it means another customer for them.

As is pretty easy to see, Sperari has undergone a migration. I switched over from Wordpress to Movable Type Open Source, and I don't really see looking back. This is being posted from the iPhone interface, which is basically sex. (Apologies to anyone who winds up with repeats of posts in feed readers.)

I read this story earlier today - I thought it was a link from one of the autism-spectrum topic blogs I follow, but none of them appear to have been the actual source. The story is about Nate Tseglin, a kid who was apparently a successful, bright, happy kid who happened to have Asperger's. When he ran up against some road blocks in school - inappropriate class offerings, lack of sensitive counseling service, and so on (problems with which I'm only too familiar, even if I don't have Asperger's) - he started having problems with impulsive behaviors. The solutions he devised (such as a system of soft restraints which he would request to use when he felt like scratching himself, approved by his doctor) were unpalatable to the school; a teacher reported them to Child Protective Services.

What happened after is a complete failure of common sense and state restraint. Rather than repost the entirety of the history, I encourage you to go read it at Get Nate Home. Excerpt:

Step one: make enough noise that they can't get away with this. I'll figure out step two when I get that far.

I'm sure it's not news to anyone that Poetry.com - which I won't actually link - is a scam. The idea is a simple appeal to the vanity of the average person. Tons of people have written at least one poem on a whim or for a school assignment. Poetry is also extremely subjective; because it's highly symbolic, in most cases it will have more meaning to the person who wrote it. Even the form of poetry is defined more by what it isn't than by what it is. Some poems rhyme, some have a particular meter or rhythm, some have specific combinations of these things. And then, some don't have any of these features. For the longest time, I thought that poetry was a written work without a factual basis or narrative - but then, I've seen poems with both.

The point of this game of pin-the-definition-on-the-amorphous-blob is that poetry does not really have objective standards to which any particular work can be held. What I think is great poetry might read like third-grade drivel to someone else. I know people who don't like at all any poem that doesn't rhyme.But when a person writes a poem, unless they do so under great duress (i.e., begrudgingly for a school assignment) they're likely to do so in a way that approximates their ideal of what poetry should be. When I though "poem" meant "twenty lines or fewer with a rhyme scheme", that's what I wrote. And in the end, because I wrote to my own definition, I thought I was hot shit.

That's what Poetry.com preys on. Just about everyone has a poem, and who doesn't want to see their poem in print? You submit your poem - under 20 lines, of course - and it goes in for a "review" that never happens. After it's determined that the poem is good enough (read: was submitted), they congratulate you, and tell you it's to be printed in their next anthology. You haven't won any money, but you are getting published, assuming you release them to use the poem. If you'd like to see the poem in print, remit $60 for your leather-bound copy of the book and a certificate. Additional copies can be had for $60 each.Poetry.com is simply extraordinarily expensive vanity publishing. To call it anything else is completely disingenuous.

I follow the writing jobs on Omaha Craigslist in my news reader, and tonight, the following job popped up:

Since I do write both prose and poetry, I followed up on the ad. A few moments later, I received an email, explaining that my name, email, and a brief poetry sample would be required to determine whether or not I was a fit for the site. Fishy - but they weren't asking for the poetry sample yet, so I entered my name and my semi-junky email address. And then there it was: a redirect to Poetry.com.

Why on earth is Poetry.com scamming on Craigslist, I wondered, as I closed the site. Then, up popped a javascript window-in-the-window. The following conversation followed:

• Ashley says: Wait don't go! I'm sure others would like to see what you've written. Please type "Hi" if you see me.
• You: Hi
• Ashley says: Thanks for taking a minute. You really should enter our poetry contest, it's free. Just CLICK HERE to get started.
• You: No thank you
• Ashley says: You're welcome
• You: ...sorry
• Ashley says: It's Ok. CLICK HERE to enter the contest.
• You: You're a robot.
• Ashley says: My name is Ashley and of course I'm not real but wish I were :)
• Ashley says: I can answer most of your questions though.
• You: Why is Poetry.com scamming on Craigslist pretending to be a job?
• Ashley says: I'm sorry, I did not get that.
• You: I bet you didn't.
• Ashley says: Sorry, still didn't get it.
• You: Smile! You're on candid blog-cam. Goodbye!
• Ashley says: I don't think I can help you, you can contact customer service at 410-356-2000 ext 2
• Ashley says: Poetry.com will award over 1,200 awards and prizes totaling over $200,000 to amateur poets in the coming months.
• Ashley says: We have become the definitive source for personal creative expression in the world. CLICK HERE to join us.
• Ashley says: Over 7 million poets worldwide are profiled on our site.
• You: No. Goodbye.
• Ashley says: Sorry I couldn't help. If you change your mind you can CLICK HERE to return to our site.

Emphasis mine. Audacious claim, eh? I thought Livejournal had that one in the bag. Be careful where you invest your time, people.

I'm in New England, again! This visit has been too short, largely because I've slept through so much of it; I had to have unexpected surgery last week to remove my gall bladder, which was apparently the source of many of the stupid-headed ailments I couldn't shake. Here's looking to better health. Anyhow, I've been hopped up on the narcolepsy-inducing wonder-drug Vicodin for a good deal of my trip. I have, however, managed to do some cooking, which is a favorite activity to do when I'm out here. Particularly cooking with fish. It's so jealousy-inducing fresh! Bliss.

So, Will and I visited the grocery store Wednesday evening in search of good food to welcome me to New England for my second visit. Also, because of the aforementioned surgery, I'm on a (lower sodium) diet that's not terribly compatible with a good deal of his pantry. On our trip, we purchased:

• leeks


• asparagus


• white wine (Sauvignon Blanc - cheap stuff)


• red potatoes


• olive oil & black pepper triscuits


• lots and lots of jello


• a bar of dark chocolate (Chocolove Extra Strong Dark 77%)

We also stopped by the seafood counter to ask for fish heads, hoping to find a good bunch to make fish stock. They had none. "Have anything you want to get rid of soon?" I asked.

"Well, if we keep it between you and me..." said the man manning the stand. And so we wound up with four nice looking salmon steaks that were just going to be thrown away about an hour and a half later, for a total of under ten bucks (about half price). Win.

Salmon is not traditionally a choice for making fish stock. It's too fatty. But you know what I say to that? POOEY. I for one am willing to try (and fail) once.

Using four perfectly good salmon steaks just to make fish stock seemed like kind of a waste, or as we say where I'm from, a fucking travesty. So after the stock was suitably stocky, we decided that there would be a salmon salad made afterwards. That's how we roll.

Without further todo:

Leek & Potato Soup with Salmon Stock

Ingredients

• Four salmon steaks


• One bottle cheap Sauvignon Blanc (or other relatively dry white wine)


• Four large red potatoes, cubed to about 1 inch


• Four large leeks, thin-sliced, dark green parts discarded


• About 8 oz portabella mushrooms, finely diced


• 10-12 leaves fresh lemon basil


• extra virgin olive oil


• sea salt


• black pepper

Instructions

1. Heat some extra virgin olive oil (to cover pan bottom) in a large saute pan over medium heat. Bruise lemon basil by rubbing it between clean hands (or however you like to do it); toss in the pan. Stir in with the olive oil to flavor the oil well. Cook until leaves are a little brown but not crispy.


2. Put salmon steaks directly into lemon basil olive oil. Pan will be crowded. Don't worry about it. Let the steaks brown very slightly on one side (about a minute). Turn, allow to brown for a minute, then add a quarter bottle of the wine.


3. Turn down the heat and allow the salmon to gently cook through. This takes a little bit, about 15 minutes.


4. Transfer everything in the pan to a stock pot. Add the rest of the bottle of wine. Crush fish a bit without completely destroying it to release some flavor. Allow to cook another 15-20 minutes.


5. Strain fish stock off using a fine mesh strainer, reserving the fish and other solids. If you don't have one of those, a collander lined with cheesecloth works. In case of utter stock-making ghetto-i-tude (i.e., no fine mesh strainer and no cheesecloth), paper towels work for lining the collander, but will absorb some of your fish stock and will also pass the stock very slowly.


6. Back in the stock pot, put the fish stock along with an equal part water, your potatoes, leeks, and portabella mushrooms; allow to cook for an hour on low heat, long enough for potatoes to become tender. (Posterity note that is absolutely not advised: This is the point at which we also added milk. I like milk in my leek/potato soups; it matches well with the mild onion flavors and such. What I had failed to remember is that we had started this culinary adventure with wine, which is acidic enough to (upon addition of heat) make young cheese out of milk. Our milk started foaming after about 30 minutes, and by the time we got the heat turned down, we had a lot of cottage cheese in our pot. I think this soup might well have been very good with paneer in it, but cooking it this way also left all of the whey in our broth, and the cheese was not compact and well-made. We skimmed off and discarded as much as we could.)


7. Season with sea salt and black pepper to taste. Serve with crusty bread - regular old Italian works great.

Sweet Salmon Salad

Ingredients

• Salmon steaks left over from leek & potato soup


• Two medium apples, finely diced


• One heart of celery, thin-sliced


• 1 tbsp nutmeg


• 1 tbsp cinnamon


• mayonnaise to prefered texture

Instructions

1. The salmon steaks, after pulled out of their bath of extra virgin olive oil, lemon basil, and white wine, were still delicious-smelling and ready to be used in another recipe, but somewhat unfortunately still full of bones. We washed our hands well and manually deboned the entire mass of salmon. A number of the bones were soft enough that simply amounted to extra calcium, but some were still firm and pokey, so this step was necessary.


2. Mix apples, celery, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a half cup or so of mayonnaise in with the salmon. You will probably need more mayonnaise to acheive a lumpable salad, but mixing in a half cup at first is more manageable.


3. Serve, either on bread or on crackers. We had ours on Olive Oil & Black Pepper Triscuits, which was optimal - the sweet flavors from the apples and celery played very, very nicely with the savory flavors from the cracker. The salmon flavor was present and well-represented without being overpowering.

Having shared both dishes with self-proclaimed foodies, I can confidently say they were good and it's not just me liking my own cooking. Recipes approved for general release.

P.S. Go Sox!

If you have a garden and you're anything like me, you've walked out and found that there is an obnoxiously large squash or zucchini (or five). You know the drill: squash picked when it's 3 to 5 inches long is the most tender, perfect for grilling up in a minute or two with steaks, and if they get too much bigger they're tough and useless. Right?

Actually, I only got a couple of specimens in the "good" range, this summer; travel and school and illness meant I wound up keeping very poor track of squash growing progress. I did a crazy harvest yesterday in the tomato and pepper patches (even discovered some okra!), and the summer squashes I picked a few days earlier were giving me accusing looks. We'll wind up in the compost heap, they despaired.

So to use up not only the massive harvest of tomatoes and peppers I found myself with, but also the squash, I turned to that brilliant series of tubes, the intarwebs. Apparently, humongous squashes can be stuffed, and to excellent results. Not satisfied with any of the recipes I was finding, I developed my own. It was delicious. A little time-consuming; all told, about an hour of work to put together. But it was so, so very worth it.

Incidentally, I had intended to use leeks in place of the onion I used, but I spaced it. I had also intended to use cream cheese (I love cream cheese on pizza, and this has many similar flavors), but there wasn't room. Your mileage may vary.

Erica's Stuffed Squash

Serves 6 (in my family) to 12 (on TV). (We have lots of leftovers.)

Tools:

• Large stock pot


• Large skillet


• Baking pan


• Food processor (I use a Magic Bullet and, marketing methods aside, I love it. No other tool I have in my kitchen sees the kind of use this thing does, aside from perhaps my standard issue knives.)


• Bowl


• Sundry implements of cutting, scooping, and serving

Ingredients

• 2 Gigantic garden summer squash/zucchini


• 1 tube of bulk sausage (I used Jimmy Dean's extra bold)


• 8oz container sliced mushrooms


• 5-6 small-to-medium tomatoes (from the garden)


• 2-3 small-to-medium bell peppers from the garden


• 1 medium onion


• 1 loaf asiago ciabatta


• fresh oregano and basil


• kosher salt


• 3 cups or so of any acceptably Italian cheese, shredded (I used a blend of mozarella, provolone, asiago and... something else. I forget.)

Instructions

1. Blanch the squash. To do so, bring water to a boil, then drop the squash in. For your little teeny "picked-at-the-right-stage-for-eating" squashes, this takes 5-8 minutes. For gigantic "oops-I-let-the-garden-go-a-few-days" squashes, it takes 10-15. The big ones are better for this, anyway.


2. Start the stuffing on the stove while the squash is blanching. Empty your tube-o-sausage into the skillet over medium heat. Run the onion in the food processor to whatever consistency you like (I like mine very small for this recipe; plenty of texture elsewhere) then add to the pan. Repeat this with your tomatoes, peppers, and basil. Add your mushrooms and oregano whole (leaves for the oregano). Add a bit of kosher salt, then let that cook for a bit.


3. Now's a good time to pre-heat the oven to 400F (about 205C).


4. Pull the squashes from the stock pot. Split them, length-wise. Scoop out all the seeds; discard. Continue scooping the flesh out, carefully, and set that aside in a bowl. You want to have a squash-shell remaining.


5. Arrange the shells in your baking pan. You may have to cut them down to fit. Rip some pieces of the ciabatta bread and put in the bottom of the shells. This will help to catch the juices and make this dish less messy. (Plus it tastes awesome.) Add the sausage stuffing on top of this. Be liberal with the amount of "sauce" (mostly tomato juice) you use, but conserve some.


6. Take the squash flesh you set aside and put it in the food processor with the conserved tomato juice. Puree. Layer this sauce over the top of the sausage stuffing. Top with cheese. Use all of it. Yes. All of it.


7. Put in the oven for 15 minutes. After 15 minutes, remove. Allow to cool for a few minutes. There are two serving options: with shell or without. I like it both ways - the shell is edible and tasty. If without, I recommend cutting a slice of bread and eating it on that as an open-faced sandwich. Yum.

Enjoy!

I'll give you countless amounts of outright acceptance if you want it. I will give you encouragement to choose the path that you want if you need it. You can speak of anger and doubts your fears and freak outs and I'll hold it. You can share your so-called shame filled accounts of times in your life and I won't judge it - and there are no strings attached.

You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give; you owe me nothing for caring the way that I have. I give you thanks for receiving, it's my privilege - and you owe me nothing in return.

You can ask for space for yourself and only yourself and I'll grant it. You can ask for freedom as well or time to travel and you'll have it. You can ask to live by yourself or love someone else and I'll support it. You can ask for anything you want anything at all and I'll understand it - and there are no strings attached.

You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give; you owe me nothing for caring the way that I have. I give you thanks for receiving, it's my privilege - and you owe me nothing in return.

I bet you're wondering when the next payback shoe will eventually drop. I bet you're wondering when my conditional police will force you to cough up. I bet you're wonderin' how far you have now danced you way back into debt. This is the only kind of love as I understand it that there really is.

You can express your deepest of truths even if it means I'll lose you and I'll hear it. You can fall into the abyss on your way to your bliss I'll empathize with. You can say that you have to skip town to chase your passion I'll hear it. You can even hit rock bottom have a mid-life crisis and I'll hold it - and there are no strings attached.

You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give; you owe me nothing for caring the way that I have. I give you thanks for receiving, it's my privilege - and you owe me nothing in return.

I suck at keeping up with this thing. Therefore, I provide here a mostly-complete update before I have to once again retreat for the evil that is school.

I spent a good deal of late July and early August simply taking time for myself. I made a to-do list, and I used it. I cleaned up my office (most of the way). I handled some obnoxious financial badness, and also took some positive steps to clean up our finances without requiring disaster conditions as impetus. I took wedding photos for a friend of my mother, did loads of Spanish, and prepared for the upcoming school franticness - I always know it's coming, and I'm never ready.

Then, last week, I flew out east. I flew from Omaha to Chicago to Boston on Monday, and landed early Tuesday morning. (As in, a few minutes after midnight.) I was slated to be delayed on my first flight enough to make me late for the second, so United booked me on a couple American flights, then proceeded to try to dick me out of the miles. (I still have to mail them the boarding passes to get credit for the flights.)

Well-kept Boston secret: the shuttle from the airport to the train station stops running long about midnight. P.S. so does the train. My original transport with Kara from plane-landing-place to bed-sleeping-place fell through, so the plan was to take the shuttle to the train (subway, I suppose: do not call it either of these things when you are there, for it is the T, and if you call it something other than this, you will get funny looks) and the <strike>train</strike> T to the MIT campus to chill until Live Entertainment became available (i.e., the person I was visiting made it back to town).

So I hopped on the wrong shuttle, and I wound up at the Chelsea Employee Station. Yes, it seemed a touch odd that everyone on my shuttle seemed to be an airport employee, but I chalked it up to hopping on around midnight - shift change time, yeah?

Anyway, the very nice shuttle driver - Alberto - chatted with me for awhile (my favorite bit was discussing the many ways Spanish has to tell a woman you love her) and took me back to the airport to wait for the 4:30am shuttle to the 5:00am T. The only food open was a Very Suspect Dunkin' Donuts With No Shortage of Ghetto But a Definite Shortage of Croissants; I bought a twisty glazed donut, then a few hours later, an everything bagel with cream cheese. (It is strange how different "everything" tastes, out that-a-way.) And copious amounts of coffee, of course. I read the rest of American Gods (which I started on the plane), finishing just in time to catch my shuttle. (Reading American Gods and other Gaiman-foo on the trip has made me itchy to write. I have story ideas. This always happens when I fly.)

Shuttle to the T station, blue line to the green line to the red line to Kendall/MIT station. I got off there around six in the morning, then proceeded to wander aimlessly, no thanks to a couple of helpful folks who, when queried, told me that MIT was "all over [there]". I struggled until normal-ish business hours to find a restroom, eventually finding one at the Coop. And a wireless internet connection, courtesy MIT! I took an amusing video to highlight my toilet frustrations, then dorked around online for awhile until stuff started opening. After a couple hours, I grabbed a map and navigated my way on over to 14N to check out the Science Writing graduate program.

The lady in the Science Writing department - Shannon Larkin, I believe (and I think she'll forgive me if I'm wrong, as she's aware of how sleep deprived I was when I met her) - was extremely genial and very thorough in describing the program. She didn't seem put off by my tangential train of thought, which might reflect well on her, the department, MIT, or some combination. She was effusive and competent and just nice to talk with. That's so underrated - all of it! As a result of my talk with her, I'm pondering the brutal stabbing of the voice in my head that says, "But I'm tired of school!" and possibly an application to the program.

I had lunch at a nifty little (Greek?) place up near Central square, Brookline Lunch. They have an excellent idea for what should be in an omelette, which is to say, everything. Then I hopped back on the T (thanks to my handy week pass) and dashed up to Harvard.

Harvard left me completely cold. Everything that felt like home at MIT felt like an overstuffed and still uncomfortable chair at Harvard. Which is not to say that it's a horrible school, or ugly, or even unpleasant - I'm sure people get a fantastic education there, the campus is pretty, and so on. I suppose it was just that: Harvard seemed so conventionally pretty, so uniform, that I was struck by the overwhelming sameness of everything I saw. I like surprises and disconcerting nooks and pockets of space for my many moods, and MIT seemed to play well to that (even if my predominate mood during my visit was tired). So pretty well immediately after arriving at Harvard, I took to the streets and the T tunnels on my tired feet and went back to MIT. I found a couch up in the Writing department, figured out what was up with Kara, and promptly attempted troubled naps.

It should probably be noted that I packed light, carry-on only style, to avoid carting around five-piece Samsonite hell during all of this. I had my purse and my laptop backpack, which contained reading material, toiletries (all of the dry variety), clothing, and the laptop. It was really all I needed. So the wandering was not loaded down, but the sleep was hampered by my rampant paranoia; though I was tucked away in a very quiet corner, I was committing some sort of cardinal sin by Traveling With Many Valuable Possessions. Sleeping curled around a backpack is fitful.

A few hours and some obnoxious traffic hassles later (5pm-ish, at this point), Kara rolled along my way, and we headed to her place. Recollections get fuzzy, here, but I believe there was showering and Red Bones for dinner, then we struck out on an ill-advised and ultimately failed attempt to find a drag show. Sometime around 11:00pm, I decided that the feet just could not take it anymore, and after nearly 36 hours of nearly-awake, I had to call it quits. Back to the T station, back to her place, and we retired to el bed-o.

Wednesday (which, if you're keeping track, was both my second and third day there, sort of), we woke up late, had Indian food that apparently didn't agree with me (but tasted good!), then set off to LUSH for requisite stocking-up-on-bath-foo. We grabbed some henna for our hair while we were there, bought a couple books off a street seller, then pondered going on a duck tour. Given a combination of weather, cost, and lateness, we opted to check out The Garment District instead. It was kind of a bust - little to nothing in the XL+ range, so nothin' doing for me - but looking at obnoxious hats was fun; it was determined I should wear pimp hats, and Kara should wear top hats, particularly ones with Hideous Numbers of Sequins. We then walked home, primped briefly, and drove to the wrong Melting Pot for the gift certificate I had for a Fondue Experience. They honored the certificate, and we had the promised Experience, though I believe I will go ingredient shopping and have the same Experience at home for about a quarter of the cost (perhaps with less capital E). Particularly if I am eating with a vegetarian-or-something-like-it again; there wasn't a veggie in the main course that couldn't have been suitably sauce'd up for five bucks. We went home and henna'd Kara's hair - we were going to both do it, but I think I erred on the thick side with the henna and we ran out almost before we were done with hers alone. Alas. But she smelled yummy and herbal for days after, which was more pleasant Experience (at about a fifth the cost of the Fondue sort, and just as gooey).

Then there was more sleeping. I was apparently catching a cold, but I wouldn't be certain about that for a day or so. Thursday, we milled about, showered, packed up, and headed north to Portland to pick up Will. There was much rejoicing and hugging, and then driving in the direction of his new place. We were greeted by the arrival of his bed, and also baby kittens nesting just outside his door, because apparently someone shorted him on his damned cute quota, or wanted to see me convulse and revert to the vocabulary of my babyhood. We proceeded to shop for all manner of home stuffs for him, as his moving strategy apparently involved throwing away anything that appeared to have possible uses in a new apartment. (Tongue firmly in cheek.) Friday was a good deal more of that, plus poking at the Chamber of Commerce for Answers About The Community. This all culminated in sangria-making and some hardcore chillaxing at Casa William.

Saturday, we went to Scarborough Downs for lunch and pony-watching. My chaotic influence must have been working overtime, as one of the horses broke free and tried to jet out the service entrance. After lunch and a credit card kerfuffle, we picked up a rental car. We took Kara back down to Cambridge so she could prep for further traveling fun, then proceeded to get hopelessly lost in the death spiral that is driving in the Boston Metropolitan Area. Sam, to the rescue! He helped us avoid driving past Harvard for a fifth time, and to find the evil sign for the right turn we'd repeatedly failed to make - the sign which, against all logic, is located on the far left of a large intersection, through a thicket of trees and several lanes of traffic.

I liked Boston. And then I drove in Boston.

We fell into bed in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Sunday was a day for relaxing in the most complete way possible. Except that part where there was life stuff that needed sorting, still. We took a little evening drive up to a suburb of Portland to check out a car - one that seemed like a killer deal, but wound up not being it because the seller seemed bent on not allowing a prospective buyer to do diligence, obnoxiously. We looked at another car Monday morning, which wound up being the winner instead. And then we bought me a new bag for my return trip, as my laptop backpack was staying with Will, along with the laptop and such, which he bought.

The return trip was a minor nightmare. We packed after we bought the new bag, then drove down to Boston in the rental and dropped it off at Logan, as agreed, then found my gate with plenty of time, so I chatted with Will about the laptop a bit - showed him the essential programs, set up a user account and all that. (This is not the nightmare part, of course.) Then it was onto the flight. For whatever reason, it would only let me check in through my first stop, at New York's LaGuardia International Airport. When I landed, therefore, I had no boarding pass for my next flight. I exited the secure area, hopped on a bus to the other terminal (brilliance) since my second flight (to Chicago) was on United itself, rather than a United affiliate (US Airways). When I got there, I couldn't check in at the carry-on only kiosk - it told me it couldn't process the itinerary change. Itinerary change? I thought. What itinerary change?

Turns out my New York -> Chicago flight was delayed by a couple hours - enough to kill my Chicago -> Omaha connecting flight. So, rather than getting me to Chicago and then dealing with it, they stuck me at the end of a long line of similarly delayed folks so as to delay me the maximum amount possible. When I got to the counter, I explained my situation. "Can you get me home by 8:30am? I start a new job."

"No," the nice lady told me. And I must have looked sufficiently crestfallen, for that got changed to a, "Well... let me see."

She wound up putting me on a flight that was scheduled to be leaving an hour and a half earlier, but was actually leaving ten minutes later than the scheduled time for my originally scheduled flight, which made silly forty minute connection at O'Hare a ridiculous thirty minute connection. A ten-minute-late takeoff made it a stone-stupid twenty minute connection. And so when I landed at terminal C at O'Hare, nineteen minutes before the scheduled takeoff of my final flight (gate F12), three terminals away from said flight and at an hour that the shuttle to the other terminal was no longer running, I hoofed it. I shoved off my plane, I ran down moving walkways and stupid halls that stupidly lacked them, up the up-escalators in defiance of gravity, around corners and passengers. I ignored my burning fucking lungs for my fifteen minute sprint-jog-powerwalk-sprint-jog-powerwalk, only to arrive at the gate and find the door closed.

"I'm sorry," the lady behind the counter there was saying to a similarly beleaguered couple. "We have to close the doors ten minutes before takeoff." We had seven minutes left.

In the only good news from the entire debacle, the flight crew was negotiated with, we were escorted out onto the plane, and I did, in fact, make it home shortly after midnight, Tuesday morning. I hadn't eaten in about twelve hours, and the Boston -> Chicago leg of my trip had introduced me to the joy of sitting adjacent Boys Gone Wild, a screaming child and his non-English-speaking mother, a woman with the plague, a deaf woman who was apparently surly about said impairment and anyone who noticed it, and a chatty businessman brandishing college Spanish skills with bravado. Taco Bueno soothed my hunger and the immediate sleep once I was fed soothed my surliness.

And I made it to my internship on time. So there. </Travelogue>

Still vaguely sick with this cold. My internship started this week. Next week: UNO classes, eight credits. Teaching at UNO, two credits. The week after: Metro classes, three credits. I'll be busy, but it's actually a decently happy busy.

Ciao, kittens. I'm off to bed.

Sam and I went to Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo today for his company picnic. It was far too hot, I had an allergic reaction to something, and the IMAX movie we were going to see was sold out. But I did manage to get some awesome pictures! One of them, in fact, was good enough that I feel like posting it here for your desktop-type enjoyment. Pick the one that makes the most sense for your operating system and screen size. (The reversed ones work best for Windows peeps; regular, best for Macs.)

FishFace Widescreen (1680x1050):

FishFace Fullscreen (1600x1200):

FishFace Widescreen (Reversed, 1680x1050):

FishFace Fullscreen (Reversed, 1600x1200):