Janicek.com

First day of school today:

First day of school last year:

First day of school 2 years ago:

We’re sitting there on the coffee shop’s patio and I ask my friend why he thinks that I abhor and resent my former employer so much. I interrupt before he starts in and instead ask, “what did I do wrong?”

Without overanalyzing, sugar-coating or trying to appeal to any kind of emotion that he thought I might be having at the time, he hit the nail on the head. And it wasn’t as painful as I thought it was going to be. He said, “At some point, conscious of it or not at the time, you realized that there was a game being played. And this game’s rules far from aligned with your core values. And, again, conscious of it or not, you decided to play in that game for whatever reason or reasons. So, it sounds to me that you went wrong when you didn’t get out soon enough. You played in the game with the expectation that you were going to win, or that things would just wind up being okay for you.”

And after he said that, I knew, almost to the exact hour a year and a half ago when that game began. And that’s when I should have quit that job. That last sentence was painful and hard as hell to write because I’m the farthest thing from a quitter, but that’s the way “the game” is played these days.

I wish my dad were still here so we could talk for hours about integrity and loyalty. He raised me to be a hard worker, to be loyal, faithful and to provide for my family. Assuming I live to be 10 years older than my dad was when he died, I’ll probably still have never worked as hard as he did. In my mind, there’s still a part of me that thinks I would have to explain to my dad how the working world is “these days,” but then I have to remember that he was subjected to demotions laid out by self-entitled middle management, the concept of loyalty being squashed and eventually being downsized after 30+ years or undying faithfulness. It wasn’t a game to my dad – it was the only way he’d known how to live and to provide for his family for his entire adult life. The job world had become a game after my dad reached the age of 66 and, although it wasn’t his plan, he was able to retire and be comfortably done, albeit sick at heart after the game ended.

Last week Elise and I were in our lawyer’s very ornate conference room complete with a library, expensive paintings and dark, oak paneled walls. It’s a rich and intimidating room. Sitting in this conference room reminded me of the few occasions where I found myself sitting outside the principal’s office when I was in the 7th grade. Whatever was about to transpire in the next hour would be temporarily life changing.

I would have never yelled across the table, “This is fucking bullshit!” to my junior high principal. But I did to my lawyer. That’s when, in my mind, the game had changed. That’s when I resolved to the fact that I would be a free agent. I wasn’t mad at our lawyer. I was mad at the reason why my wife and I were sitting in a lawyer’s conference room in the first place. I was mad because I had decided to fight fire with fire in a game that was based exclusively on corporate lack of loyalty. I was mad because after having only worked for this employer for a little over 3 years, I was having to subject my wife and myself to so much angst and unneeded stress. You see, the first couple years at this job were great for the company and me, however those last 15 months tainted the entire job for me. With the help of Elise, I’ve maintained my faith and some semblance of a positive attitude, but I left the lawyer’s office saying, “this just makes me sick at heart. There is no loyalty.”

Over the past six months I’ve read a lot of books, more than I can remember having read in a over a decade. Last night I picked up an unread book that’s been sitting on the bookshelf since 1997. My parents bought this book for me when I was in college. A book titled “Die Broke” wasn’t going to do this college student much good when my job at the Olive Garden afforded me barely enough money for rent and booze.

I try to put more fiction and classics between any self-help, financial or any other kind of non-fiction books as I’ve grown accustomed to my reading in the evenings as an opportunity for my mind to interpret, wander and paint pretty pictures. Last night I hesitantly cracked open to page 1 of the never-opened book and quickly found myself excitedly turning each page until I’d devoured the first 3 chapters when I finally needed (not wanted) to put it down so I could go to sleep at 1 a.m.

I highlighted these paragraphs from Chapter 1:

When you were growing up you were always told that if you got a good education you’d get a good job; if you did what was asked of you in that job you’d be secure; and if you did your job well you’d get raises and promotions. Under such circumstances it became easy for your job to represent yourself; somehow what you did for a living reflected on your value as a human being and the values you held. “Job” became an old-fashioned, blue-collar kind of word, a term used by your grandmother, which you replaced with more abstract terms like “career” and “work.”

This made a lot of sense at a time when government was subsidizing higher education through low-interest loans and when corporations were expanding the ranks of middle management. As a nation, our attitudes toward work had shifted from it being for God’s glory or our own individual comfort to it being a way to judge our status in society or to achieve personal growth. With such a work ethic in place, organizational loyalty and identification with our jobs made perfect sense.

But in a new world, a world in which there’s no such thing as corporate loyalty, a world where young people graduating from good colleges can land positions only as temps, a world where raises are rare and barely keep pace with the cost of living, viewing yourself and your job as one is dangerous psychologically and financially.

The answer is to quit today: mentally separate yourself from your employer and realize that you’re on your own. Abandon any remaining tinges of loyalty to your employer (who long ago abandoned any sense of obligation to you) and instead think of your job and yourself the same way free-agent athletes do: They retain their integrity by doing their best and being part of the team, but they’re also focused on getting the best financial deal they can. You should do the same. Once you’ve quit in your head, being fired is no longer a real threat: You’re already a free agent on the lookout for your next opportunity.

I also think most of us are making far too many demands on our jobs. It’s rare today for a job to be secure and rewarding both emotionally and financially. I suggest you instead adopt a mercantile approach: focus on what you’re doing as a job — that word your grandmother used — not necessarily a career, and view your job as primarily an income-generating device; any other benefits are purely secondary. Having a mercantile approach doesn’t mean obsessing over money. It simply means using your job to generate the money you need to pursue your personal goals, rather than looking to the job itself to fulfill those goals. A career is simply a series of such jobs viewed from above and placed in some kind of context. And life’s work need not be what is done on the job.

That, for me, is a tough pill to swallow, but it’s true. I’ve always made it known to friends and family that it irks me anytime someone immediately asks, upon meeting me for the first time, “so, what do you do for a living?” Although they might be pretty close, my personal values and goals aren’t the exact same as those of a “job” or an employer, therefore I don’t allow a job to define who I am as a person, and that’s generally how I interpret the “what do you do for a living?” question, although the person asking may just be genuinely interested in how I exchange my time for money.

As far as loyalty goes, I’ve been burned. It’s like an emotionally brutal breakup or divorce where I’d swear that I’ll never love again. From what I’ve read in the book thus far, I’ve seen in words what had only been underdeveloped notions in the far reaches of my psyche, notions that I’d subconsciously hoped I’d never have to allow to surface and massage. But it makes sense — in 1997 and today.

I’ve finally been to enough backyard “barbecues” where burger patties the size of half dollars are served up and I have to take six bites of bun and condiments to ever get to the beefy goodness of the burger. If you’re going to press and grill your own hamburgers, there are some fundamentals you should have permanently engrained in your grill master repertoire. I’ve been guilty of assuming that most of these would be common knowledge, and I have been proven wrong time and time again.

The beef

Fatty ground beef makes the best burger. If you want a good burger, get ground beef (sirloin, chuck, what-have-you) with 15-20% fat content. Fat is the binder and provides all of that juicy, flavorful burger goodness. Fat is what allows you to form your burger patties so they don’t fall apart when you put them on the grill. If you find yourself with only the extra lean stuff in your fridge, you’ll need to add some kind of binder. In the past I’ve used bacon fat, butter or an egg.

I’ve found that the pre-wrapped, long shelf life “tubes” of ground beef just aren’t good for much beyond dehydrating for beef jerky or for tacos where the seasoning is going to mask most, if not all of the flavor anyhow. I buy the stuff that the grocer’s butcher grinds in the store. For you Austinites, Newflower Market has the most flavorful ground beef in my opinion. Even better: get to know the folks at your local meat market (I’m guilty of not doing this).

Preparation

You know those 1/4 lb. 100% Certified Black Angus (you could probably omit the “g”) burgers on the menus at TGIFridays, Chili’s, Applebee’s, etc? Look at the fine print: “Weight before cooking”. A burger is going to lose a lot of its weight in the cooking process in the form of water in the meat protein and the fat that drips off. You probably lose 10-25% of the weight and size of your burger patty by the time you pull it off the grill. Compensate for that when forming your raw patties. When I press burgers, I make a 1/2 lb. raw beef patty.

Pressing

When forming your burger patties, make them BIG. One of my culinary pet peeves is getting an itty bitty burger patty lost in a bunch of bun and lettuce. By the time I’m done chowing through hamburger buns to get to the patty, I don’t even want the meaty burger anymore. Form your patties 10-20% larger than your buns. I usually press them down to about 3/4″

Much like the gravitational pull of the earth, when a hamburger patty loses weight in the form of moisture, the patty gravitates toward its own center; meaning that the patty gets smaller in circumference. When you’re done cooking your burger patty, it should be the same size (if not slightly larger) than the circumference of the hamburger bun on which it’s going to sit.

Grilling

If you can, grill on wood or coal. If you have a gas grill, get a little smoker box to infuse some smokey flavors. And don’t pay for wood if you don’t have to. Go out into your yard (or go for a walk) and snap off a couple twigs from an oak or hickory tree. You’re not wanting to smoke your burgers, just hit them with a little flavor. It makes a big difference if you only have a gas grill.

Throw your burgers on the grill, directly over high heat and remember the order on which you put them on the grill. I always use the left to right, top to bottom method (start at the far left of the grill and move to the right and then down a row repeating left to right — like reading a book). Let the burgers get kissed by the flames. Close the lid. Let them smoke up a bit, but keep close so you don’t start a grease fire or scorch your burgers. Let them sit on one side until you see the moisture pooling up on the top sides of the patties and you see that the undersides have a good sear. Flip your patties. This is when you should start getting some good flames licking up. The fat will now be healthily dripping off of your patties and onto the burners below. That white smoke that’s billowing up is what the American Dream smells like. It’s what makes your neighbors stop in their tracks, take a deep breath and say, “Awww man, that smells goooood! Somebody’s grillin’!”

If there’s not grease popping off your burgers and flames shooting up around the patties, firmly press down on the patties with your spatula. That will release lots of grease from the burgers and down onto the burners. Then you’ll see the flames and smoke and the smell that can only mean that you’re doing some serious burger grilling!

Doneness

I won’t turn down a pink burger, but in my book, the only burger is a done burger. If your patties have a 15-20% fat content, they’ll be plenty juicy if they’re grey in the middle after being cooked. The easiest way to tell if a burger’s done is to take your index finger and gently but firmly press it into the center of the patty. Use your face (and your clean finger) as a gauge:

Cheek: raw
Nose: medium rare
Chin: medium
Forehead: done

When the center of the burger has the same “give” as my chin does when I press on it, I start pulling burgers off the grill. Keep in mind that meat continues to cook after you take it off the grill. Meat should also rest for a few minutes after being cooked. Remember that gravitation pull thing? While the meat is being subjected to extremely high temperatures, a lot of the moisture is being pulled into the center of the patty. As the meat begins to cool, the proteins begin to relax and the moisture is released and distributed throughout the patty again.

Raw or undercooked ground beef is a breeding ground for bacteria. Ground beef is just that – ground up beef. That means that the surface areas of the beef (that have been exposed to bacteria) are mixed in with the rest of the meat, so bacteria lives in and among the center parts of the patties. A steak, on the otherhand, is a cut of beef where only the outsides of the steak have been exposed to surface areas and bacteria, hence it being okay to eat a rare cut of beef so long as the edges have been seared to kill off the bacteria.

Eating

I like my burgers on a toasted sesame seed bun with mayonnaise, mustard, onion, sliced dill pickles, lettuce and jalapenos. How you eat yours is up to you. And I’m always open for an invite for a good burger!

Elise has been with a certain insurance agency for as long as I’ve known her. When we were married, I switched my auto policy to her agency. When we bought our house, we decided to use this same agency (with discounts applied) for our homeowners’ policy. Over the years, and even though it’s an insurance agency, we’ve had no memorable complaints. And they’re just a great local agency that I’m confident I can reach by phone when and if I need to.

However, I received an email yesterday that just didn’t sit well with me:

Josh,

We were reviewing your auto renewal, and noticed the defensive driving certificate we have on file has expired. This discount will be removed upon renewal. If you have taken defensive driving, please send us an updated certificate and we can reapply the discount. Let me know if you have any questions. Have a great day!

Jane Doe
Customer Service Representative

So I let the above email subconsciously marinate, and I tended to it this morning with a response:

Hi, Jane.

Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I would have hoped that you might have written:

“Josh,

We noticed the defensive driving certificate we have on file has expired. Ordinarily this discount would be removed upon renewal; however, since you’ve been such a valued customer over the years and haven’t made any claims in the past 12 months, we’d like to continue offering you and your family this discount. Please don’t hesitate to call or let us know if there is anything we can do to be of any assistance with your vehicle or homeowner’s policies.”

The above would have given me more of a warm and fuzzy, and incline me to call [my agent] to perhaps discuss setting up a life insurance policy once I get a new job lined up. I’m sure you can understand that right now is a tough time to be unemployed while having a family to support. The receipt of the email below, letting me know that I’ll be paying more on my insurance policy only makes me want to call the competition. I’d rather look for jobs than have to shop insurance policies, and I’d rather keep [you fine folks] as my insurance agency because you guys have been nothing short of fantastic in the past.

Please let me know if the above is an amenable agreement.

Thanks,

Josh

Half an hour later, I received the warm and fuzzy I was hoping for:

Josh,

First of all, let me apologize for my previous email. It was not my intention to upset you and not make you feel warm and fuzzy. After rereading it, I realized it was not the proper way to approach the situation. We do value you as a client and truly appreciate your business. I understand times are tough and sorry to hear that you are unemployed. I do understand how it feels to have a family to feed, and less income…my husband also lost his job last year. Luckily I have a great job here with [your agent]. I did reapply the discount for you, and your renewal premium will remain the same. I feel totally awful for making you feel bad. Again, I apologize. Please feel free to give us a call if you have any questions regarding your policies.

Jane

And Jane called me shortly after hitting send on her last email. She apologized profusely and reiterated that I was an important client. We even chatted for a few minutes about what her husband is doing now — he started his own business, and I told her that that was very admirable, and that I genuinely appreciated the phone call and the personal touch.

Even though I had to ask for it, our local insurance agency earned our business again, and now I’ll be more than happy to give them more of our business when the need arises.

When it’s all said and done, we’re only talking about roughly $20 per month either way. It turned out to be $20 in my favor, and in the end, everyone’s better for it. We saved money in the short-term, and the insurance agency will earn more of our money when we need to update our policy.

The simple moral: Take care of each other (clients, friends, colleagues, subordinates, strangers, superiors, whomever)

I happened upon this Lifehacker article on a minimal workspace and it struck a chord with me. I don’t know if it’s come about with maturity or just a general change in perspective and/or personality, but I seem to have started adopting a concept of minimalism. I’ll admit that I’m not the cleanest person, but I’d consider myself tidy and comfortable knowing that everything has its place. Within the past year, I’ve been diligent about removing tangible “clutter.” I’ll sell my things that I not longer use or need on craigslist. If whatever it is won’t sell, I’ll either give it to someone I know who wants it, donate it, or just simply throw it out.

As I type this, I have no mental inventory of anything that needs to be “dealt with.” For me, it’s comforting to be able to walk through the house, garage or yard without seeing something and thinking to myself, “oh, I need to do something with that.” This is not true for the attic – given that it’s August in Texas, I’m not about to go into the attic to see if there’s any of my stuff that needs to be purged.

For the past 4 months, I’ve been spending normal “work hours” at the desk in our home office; and I like to have my workspace tidy. And since I have too much time on my hands, I took a picture of my desk:

1. Jade pup plant – because I’ve taken a need for slow explosions of beauty
2. The Canon HV20 high definition camcorder that I’m selling on craigslist for $500
3. A stack of legal paperwork, the homeowner’s association newsletter, notebook, receipt with notes on it
4. The best computer I’ve ever had – 15″ MacBook Pro
5. iCurve laptop stand
6. iPhone 3GS (I use it exclusively for my phone — Elise insists that we have a landline for the house, so we have Ooma, which is free VoIP after purchasing the Ooma Hub)
7. iPhone earbuds and USB cable
8. Apple wireless keyboard
9. Coffee before 9:30. Water the rest of the day
10. I am a mouse snob. I think the Logitech MX Revolution is the most precise and comfortable wireless mouse ever made.
11. Notice no cords on the floor? I ran a flat extension cord under the carpet (required a 2″ cut in the carpet) and below the baseboards. There is a surge protector mounted under the desk.

I like my workspace. I like the absence of clutter even better.

Maly and I were just kind of hanging out late this afternoon. First we played in her little pool and with water balloons out on the deck. After we were done, she wanted to go inside the house. While I tidied up the back yard, she sat on the couch and announced that she wanted to watch a movie.

“Daddy, I want to watch a movie!”

“pppbbbththth”

“PLEASE?!?!”

“Only if you do some jumping jacks.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“Okay, how many jumping jacks do I have to do?”

“How ’bout 50″

“How ’bout ONE HUNDRED?!”

“Okay!”

They weren’t pretty, but she jumped up and down and clapped her hands above her head well over 100 times. She was ready to stop at my 30 count, but she persisted and did her jumping jacks. Then I talked her into doing some push ups.

It wasn’t intentional, but from now on, whenever she wants to watch a movie on my clock, she has to work for it.

And next time, I’ll be right there with her doing push ups, jumping jacks, sprints, or whatever we come up with.

“Daddy, I get so scared when the shadows come out and stand next to my bed.”

Since Maly was born, there have been a handful of times where I’ve felt completely helpless. This was not one of those times. This is one of those situations where we have a problem, and we need to fix it. Actually, Maly has the “problem”, and all we can do is give her the tools to figure out how to fix it on her own.

I can’t convey this to my daughter, but I’m excited by her newfound fear. Her imagination is working and her subconscious is trying to work out some kind of problem. Now that she has some kind of boogy man, we have to help her find a way to control her own imagination so she knows she’s in control and is fully capable of handling this situation on her own.

I’ve been a horror buff for as long as I can remember and my self-serving side is excited to think that in a few years, my daughter might want to spend Sunday mornings with her dad at the movie theatre watching really bad horror movies. And on Halloween she and I can make our house THAT house in our neighborhood.

In the meantime, we’ve got a ghouly that comes out of the closet in the middle of the night. And it was serious business this past Monday night. Maly came into the living room around 11 p.m. and said she wanted to sleep in our bed. Long story short, we told her “no” and she sheepishly walked back into her room, flashlight in hand, and cried. We let her cry for a few minutes. Elise told her that if she kept crying, we’d have to shut her door. She kept crying. Elise shut Maly’s door. That’s when the waterworks and the shrieks of terror started. After a minute or so, I went into her room to see what I could do to fix the problem. That’s when she told me that she gets scared when the shadows come out. I assured her that the shadows wouldn’t hurt her and that if she needed help, to just call for me. I assured her that I was strong, faster and smarter than any shadow or monster, and that I checked on her all the time when she was sleeping. That seemed to make her feel okay enough to fall asleep.

I went back into the living room and I thought about this new shadow monster problem. My first thought was to take her on a walk the next morning so we could talk about it and try to figure out a way to fix it. I also thought that perhaps on this walk, we could find some kind of magic token (a rock, branch, leaf, etc.) that she could keep by her bed for protection. I thought about taking her to quirky shop in Austin to find a magic token. I thought about taking her to a lighting store so she could pick out her own night light.

So I jotted down on my daily “to do” list for the next morning to “Go on a walk with Maly to figure out how we can fix the scary shadows”. I decided I would follow any kind of lead she might put forth the next day. The subject wasn’t brought up. Elise, on the other hand, scoured the web and our local library’s website to find a child-appropriate book on dealing with shadows and other things that go bump in the night.

As the next day progressed, I decided to hold off on any proactive “help” and see if the problem carried over into the night. She and I had a brief discussion about the shadows after her bath. I reassured her that I was still strong, faster and smarter than any shadow or monster, and, that if there were any shadow or monster that came out of her closet, I would hear it and would be in her room before it had the time to make it anywhere near her bed. She seemed to find comfort in that and fell asleep just fine.

I think this battle might be over, but there may still be a war ahead of us. I could be wrong.

The one thing I purposely did not do is look online for suggestions or help. The way I see it, I was born with a God-given gift to be a parent and part of my job is to help the child figure out her problems in her own way.

They say if you change 3 ingredients, you can call a recipe your own. This strawberry ice cream recipe originally calls for sliced strawberries (we pureed ours because I prefer strawberry ice cream sans the fruit chunks), vanilla extract (we omitted), and we added chunks of frosted sugar cookies to make our own Frosted Sugar Cookie Strawberry Ice Cream!

This recipe was adapted from our Cuisinart Frozen Yogurt, Ice Cream & Sorbet Maker’s recipe book [buy ice cream maker from Amazon].

Frosted Sugar Cookie Strawberry Ice Cream

• 1 pint ripe strawberries, stemmed and sliced
• 3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
• 1 cup suger, divided
• 1 cup whole milk
• 2 cups heavy cream
• 3-5 frosted sugar cookies (frozen)

1. In a small bowl, combine strawberries, lemon juice and 1/3 cup sugar; stir and let strawberries macerate for 2 hours.
2. In a medium bowl, whisk to combine the whole milk and remaining 2/3 cup sugar until sugar dissolves. Stir in heavy cream.
3. Blend macerated strawberries until smooth.
4. Combine cream and strawberry puree in ice cream maker’s bowl.
5. Mix in ice cream maker for at least 30 minutes.
6. Add chunks of frosted sugar cookies and stir to mix in.
7. Pour into freezer safe container and freeze for at least 2 hours.

Last night Elise and I had an extended date night. My mom drove up to stay at our house and take care of the Zombie Eater for the night so Elise and I could have the night off. Elise booked a room for us at the Mansion at Judges’ Hill. We left the house around 6:30 and the original thought was to have dinner at the mansion, but we were pressed for time and probably wouldn’t have had time for dinner and a movie given that they only had a reservation available for 8:45. I suggested we go to the Domain to have dinner at North and to see the movie Inception.

By the time we found a spot to park and were less than a block from the restaurant, Elise stopped a security guard to ask where the movie theatre was. He told us that it was way off yonder in Phase II of the Domain, which was not within walking distance. He noticed that I had “We are on a dinner and a movie date” written on my forehead, so he said, “you probably won’t have time to eat and make the show. However, the movie theatre does serve food and drinks. You two could have dinner there.”

“You are a fantastic human being, Mr. Mall Security Guard Guy!”

So we walked back to the car and drove to the movie theatre. We had plenty of time, so we walked leisurely to the swanky counter to purchase our tickets. They were sold out for the 9 p.m. show. There were two seats located together for the 9:45 show. So I told the nice young lady that we’d take those two tickets. She told me my total would be $45. I told the nice young lady that I didn’t think she understood.

“You see, it’s just my wife and I that are here to see the picture show.”

“Yes sir.”

“I do not have a bus full of small children that are also here to see the movie with us.”

“I understand. It’s $45.”

Actually, that’s not the way it happened at all. She told me it was $45 and I handed her my credit card. You see, if you told me that a bicycle was $15,000 because it has a derailleur, and you show me a piece of paper with the word derailleur printed on it as one of the features of that bicycle, I will pay because derailleur is a very nice, fancy word.

Elise, on the other hand, would not pay. She said something to the effect of, “OH NO YOU DIDNNNN N’T!” as she pulled off her wig and started swinging.

“What comes with a $22 movie ticket?”

The young lady explained that there are only 40 seats in the theatre, reclining chairs, fresh blankets, pillows, and a private server call button.

I asked if a foot massage was included. She told me “no.” I would’ve had no problem paying $22 for a foot massage and a movie.

So we left, drove back south and bought our movie tickets for the 9:45 show at the Alamo Drafthouse. It was 9 p.m. and Elise was starving at this point, so we walked over to Casa Garcia. They were closed. We walked across the parking lot over to Suzi’s Chinese Kitchen and had 30 minutes to spare. Elise had the seafood combo. I had the scallops. We shared the restaurant with one other table — a couple, probably 30 years our seniors, sitting at the table next to us.

It wasn’t until just now, while I was recounting the events of last night, that I thought about the relationship I have with my wife that I’m guilty of taking for granted. As trivial as making ad hoc plans for a date night, driving all around Austin, finding a place to have a late dinner and going to a movie so close to our bed time is, it reminds me of how lucky I am to have the wife that I have. When I have no problem handing over my credit card and paying $45 for a pair of movie tickets, she steps in as the frugal one. I don’t complain or question her judgement. She fills in in that part where I’m lacking. When I’m stressed and in a hurry, she grabs my hand, holds it and makes us both walk a little slower. When we have dinner at a Chinese restaurant and I invariably tell her, “if I wanted that, I would have ordered it.”, the thought never crosses her mind to reconsider sharing with me. It’s just her nature.

The movie was just okay. The night with my wife was the priceless reminder.

It’s been a couple years now that I’ve had “rain barrel” on my to do list. When I’m not sending out resumes or waiting by the phone to sell a Bohemian Hose Guide, I’m looking for projects to do around the house. So last Thursday I decided to finally get to work on the rain barrel project.

My inclination was to just buy a relatively inexpensive rain barrel on Austin’s craigslist. As of last Thursday night, I couldn’t find a rain barrel that fell within my price range (I don’t recall what my price range was at that point – maybe $50 if memory serves me correctly). And I didn’t want to spend $100+ for a rain barrel at the local Home Depot. And I didn’t want to have to spend $250 at homedepot.com in order to get a rain barrel that I wanted. Although after it was all said and done, I think I would have made out better by just buying a rain barrel at the Home Depot. More on that later. But keep in mind, this is a project — man work!

After some research, I found Barrel City USA down south in Buda, TX. They sell 55 gallon food-grade barrels. So Maly and I got up early on Friday morning and headed down to Barrel City USA and good ol’ Philip sold me a big blue barrel for $18.

We stopped at the Home Depot (what project doesn’t involve a stop at the HoPot?) for some lumber, deck screws, mesh screening, water spigot, downspout attachments and a gasket kit.

After a stop at Starbucks, a blood letting and lunch, we headed home and the rain barrel project commenced. First I had to clean the dead Russian hooker parts out of the barrel. I jest, but seriously, good Lord that barrel stunk. It didn’t really smell like dead Russian hooker parts, but more like an industrial dead Russian hooker parts cover-up scent. If you’ve ever smelled the scent that’s emitted from the Flamingo Casino & Hotel in Vegas, or spent more than 30 seconds in a truck stop bathroom, then you know 1/10th of the potency of this smell. There was a pink gelatinous goo smeared amongst some industrial grime about the interior and exterior of the barrel that required copious amounts of dishwashing soap, elbow grease and the business side of an abrasive dish sponge.

First I built a two-foot tall table on which to place the rain barrel. The table would elevate the rain barrel enough so gravity would lend me some water pressure, and so we can get a watering can underneath the spigot.

Next I drilled the bung hole. Yes, bung hole. I didn’t have a bung hole bit (The Bung Hole Bits would be a great name for a band), so had to make a quick trip to Home Depot for a set of spade bits. I used a 7/8″ spade bit to drill my hose approximately 2″ from the bottom of the barrel. I used a PVC female adapter and a gasket that I made from the purchased gasket kit to ensure the spigot was water-tight.

It’s worth noting that if you buy a barrel for your rain barrel, make sure there isn’t a top to your barrel, otherwise you’ll have to saw the top off to install your spigot. Philip gave me a clamp for the top rim so I could cover the top with a mesh screen.

Next I used my jigsaw to create a 3″ hole for overflow. A 3″ hole is too big. Another trip to Home Depot to get some PVC parts and my rain overflow was complete.

Next I painted my downspout attachments to match the house. I already had paint from another downspout project some 5 years ago.

So, building a rain barrel is a relatively inexpensive ($99 if my math is correct) and fun project. Here are the parts that I purchased and their approximate prices:

• 1 – 55 gallon dark colored plastic barrel (I’ve read that white barrels promote UV penetration which will foster faster algae growth.) ($18)
• 1 – treated 8′ 4×4″ (cut into 2′ sections for the legs of the table) ($6)
• 2 – treated 8′ 2×4″ ($6)
• 1 – box 2″ deck screws ($7)
• 1 – 3/4″ water spigot ($6)
• 1 – rubber gasket kit ($5)
• 2 – 18″ accordion downspout attachments ($6)
• 2 – 60″ accordion downspout attachments ($20)
• 1 roll of mesh screening* ($5)
• PVC parts & glue** ($20)

* 55 gallon barrel had a 22″ opening at the top, so make sure your mesh screening or lid is at least 22″ in diameter.
** You could probably get away with just using 3/4″ or 1″ tube for your overflow. Or PVC and gutter attachments that will let you tap back into your original downspout.

And it just so happened to rain late in the afternoon on Saturday, just after I’d pieced together my overflow downspout. We got 4/10″ of rain and the rain barrel was full (and watertight)!

Today I’ll paint the barrel so it matches the house. And I’d also like to get a trash can lid with a cutout for the downspout to cover the top of the barrel. I don’t like the wire mesh hanging over the sides of the barrel.

Photos of the project can be seen here.

Southpark Meadows used to be the large track of acreage way out in south Austin where we would go see big name concerts. Off the top of my head I remember seeing the Dave Matthews Band, Rage Against the Machine and Pearl Jam there some 15 years ago.

Now it’s a concrete jungle strip mall. Wal-Mart, Target, PetsMart, a store dedicated exclusively to popcorn, among thousands of other retail chain outlets.

Here is a Haiku I wrote about today’s Southpark Meadows:

Southpark Meadows is
a place for you to consume
things. All of your things.

And a banana spider cameo…

Since losing my last job almost three months ago, life has really slowed down — and it’s been a welcome change. I can’t emphasize enough how welcome that change has been. One thing I’ve found comfort in over the past couple weeks is the plants. Just yesterday I sent a photo of our yellow 4 o’clocks, or Mirabilis jalapa to my mom, and we exchanged a series of three emails relating to what have become one of my favorite flowering plants. Maybe it’s a sign of finally maturing. Maybe it’s because I’ve truly experienced hustle and bustle; the stresses of providing for a family and maintaining some kind of semblance of what others might call success. Perhaps it’s something that I want to do, and it provides me with a form of fulfillment.

Just this morning I transplanted a jade pup plant to a new pot for my office. And this afternoon I potted a newly-acquired desert rose with some ice plant clippings from our front yard. Six months ago these moments would have seemed trivial. Now I take a moment to focus on what I’m doing and appreciate what will eventually, with patience, be “explosions of beauty” in the near future.

As I type this I’m looking at my little jade pup plant that sits atop my desk where I spend most of my time. It’s a pup from the big jade in the pot in our backyard. It started out as a pup as well. It was from the original jade plant that my mom gave me 16 years ago when I moved to Austin for college. When I first moved here, the plant-concious part of me that is all mom hadn’t surfaced. I think she gave me the jade plant because it’s relatively tolerant of neglect. And I gave that plant plenty of neglect. We endured a hard frost some 10+ years ago and the jade she gave me was on the verge of total death. For whatever reason, I plucked the only little branch that had an inkling of green life left in it and potted it. And that’s the jade plant that I’ve had ever since. It’s never neglected nowadays. The green thumb genes from my mom are, I guess, finally starting to rear their head. And I welcome that change as well.

John posted a link to Derek Powazek’s post titled “They Don’t Complain and They Die Quietly” on Facebook yesterday, and the timing was just right for a read like that…

These changes don’t happen at internet speeds. You’ll hardly know they’re happening at all. This is one of the gifts plants give me. They remind me to slow down, to take the long view, to breathe, relax, and just wait for what happens next.

Good stuff.

I like to bend rebar when I’m not out saving baby seals and the rain forests.

Yesterday was just a good day. Elise had an early morning photo gig with a newborn so Maly and I headed out early in search of some garden walking paver stones for my new “Garden of Serenity”, or whatever the hell I’m going to call out little section of backyard that I’ve started “redesigning.”

Instead of just going to Home Depot or Wal-Mart, I decided we’d support the local guy. We drove over to the mom and pop stone yard in Dripping Springs where we were told that they didn’t carry the circular pavers that I was looking for and that we should go to Home Depot or Wal-Mart. Okie dokey. Fadeaway, hook, swish on supporting the local guy.

Instead of leaving right away, we walked around and looked at the fountains, waterfalls, stones and huge piles of rocks. After 20 minutes, Maly’s flip-flops were good and muddy, so we decided to continue on our quest for pavers.

We drove to Wal-Mart. After a quick perusal of the garden section, no pavers were to be found. So we headed over to the toy section. It was about that time that Elise texted me to tell me that her photo shoot was over. She headed back south to meet us. Meanwhile, Maly and I browsed the Barbie and Princess aisles of the toy section.

Elise showed up and we hopped in one car and headed to SoCo. It was lunch time, so we stopped in at El Gallo. El Gallo is the Mexican restaurant on Congress, just across the street from St. Ed’s. I hadn’t been there in 15 years, and Elise had never eaten there. Good food.

Then it was time for the grand finale — the real reason I decided to take my daughter out on a date that morning. We drove a little north up Congress and parked behind Big Top Candy Shop.

Maly was just like, well, a kid in a candy store. She opted for Runts and Pixy Stix. I went for the malted balls and cordials.

Elise took lots of photos of the shop’s interior. Maly and I fed our faces with sugar. After half an hour, we were back in the car where the child quickly conked out and we toured south Austin on a photo location scout.

It was one of those days that just couldn’t have been been scripted any better.

Last night I was stricken with feelings of regret and pride. Maly has always been really good about tending to her “duties”, specifically her bedtime to do list. She gets a drink of water, goes to the bathroom, washers her hands, brushes her teeth and brushes her hair.

Last night, after the above ritual was complete, Rocio came over to drop off Rafter. We all hung out in the kitchen for a bit and Maly and I shared a sprig of grapes. Over my shoulder, and without putting too much thought into it, I told Maly that since she ate grapes, she was going to need to brush her teeth again.

Ten minutes later I found myself sitting at Maly’s bedside, finishing the Snow White story we’d started earlier in the evening. I remembered telling Maly earlier that she was supposed to brush her teeth. I just assumed she hadn’t, so I told her, “I asked you to brush your teeth, but since it’s late and you’re already in bed, it’ll be okay this one time if you don’t.”

“Daddy, I did brush my teeth.”

“No, I meant after you ate the grapes.”

“But I did brush my teeth.”

“A second time, after you ate the grapes?”

“Yes.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You brushed your teeth twice tonight?”

“Yes.”

I assumed that my child wouldn’t heed my instruction and lie to me about it. And I had absolutely no reason to make that assumption. I still wonder what that says about me.

This morning Elise asked, “Did you tell Maly that she needed to brush her teeth again last night?” I told her that I did. And it was confirmed that the child did in fact brush her teeth a second time last night. I praised Maly this morning for brushing her teeth, and I apologized for assuming that she hadn’t. I didn’t go into the details of my assumption – I just made sure to praise her because she did the right thing.

You know what happens when one assumes…

And so now we fast-forward to 3 p.m. today. I was walking out of the bedroom and into the living room where I caught the angel of a child on the couch with the cat’s head locked between her knees. Before I could say anything, and before she noticed my presence, she punched the cat in the head.

I’ll spare the details, but will say that it wasn’t pretty. There was no beating or bloodshed, but the child probably felt like she was an inch tall after I was done.

I had to go out to the garage and pace as the rain poured onto the driveway and contemplate the punishment for the Shiny Toothed Cat Mangler.

It’s amazing how in one day the child can be a saint, and in the next, she can be a demon.

“I think you have too much time on your hands.”

I’ve been told that a couple times recently and nothing chaps my ass more. I used to think that Austin drivers were my #1 pet peeve, but today I was reminded that it’s the person who says, “you have too much time on your hands.”

I really like what Terry Border says, and how he challenges people to be creative instead of being parasites. And anytime someone tells me that they think I have too much time on my hands, I send them the link to Terry’s post:

I come across that line far too often- “They must have too much time on their hands.” I’ll see something really neat on the internet, and written somewhere in the comment section, I’ll find those words. How many hours does that commenter spend watching television, surfing the internet, or playing video games?

If you spend 3 hours a day on passive entertainment (which is probably a very low estimate), that’s 21 hours a week that could be used to write something interesting, make something cool, or creating something absolutely nutty that you and some other people might really enjoy. If you aren’t doing something along these lines, then I think that it might be you who isn’t spending your time wisely, and not the other way ’round.

I challenge you to try it.

Terry takes photos of ordinary objects in interesting settings and situations. And he put these photos together in a book. And he sells his book. For money. He’s contributing something creative for you to consume. I’ve consumed his works as well, and I really appreciate him using his time to be creative and share it with the world.

So I’m with Terry. I challenge you to make something. Do something. Contribute.

It’s been almost two years since I noted my thoughts on Twitter and Facebook. Today I stand partially corrected. I’m a pretty avid Facebook user. And by user, I mean that I contribute invaluable nuggets of real-time information to my online social circle. For example, I recently noted that “if I were Bobby Flay and I had a little daughter, I would probably name her Sue.” While I was at Home Depot, I saw a product in the lighting department that were called Steel Nipples. I took a photo, uploaded said photo to Facebook and professed that “Steel Nipples” would be a great name for a band. I also use Facebook to keep up-to-date on the goings on of my friends, family, colleagues and a guy named Jimmy “Legs” Hamstercaster.

I’ve “unfriended” lots of “friends” because they really weren’t “friends”, but were “friends” at one point and now, well, even with close to 500 “friends”, it’s almost too much to keep up with. It’s to the point of distracting and the reasoning behind why I only browse my friends’ Facebook statuses in the evening.

We have company in town from Des Moines (French for “the Moines“) this week, and we found ourselves out on the driveway this evening playing foursquare. I thought to myself, “where I have I recently heard the term ‘foursquare’ a lot recently?…” It wasn’t long before I remembered Facebook – I see Foursquare updates from my “friends” who “check in” at places like Starbucks, Chick-Fil-A and Ernie’s Shack o’ Fresh Dead Bait, Tackle & Tanning. And just today, Mike Elgan tells us that we all will use Foursquare or we might run the unfortunate risk of not being awarded the illustrious titles of “Gym Rat” for checking into the gym, or “Super Matter Excrementor” for checking into the 3rd stall in the bathroom on the second floor of the mall from our smart phones.

He says:

The reason I say you’ll soon use Foursquare or some other location service is that even if you don’t embrace a location-based social networking, one is likely to embrace you.

The products, services and businesses you enjoy will increasingly offer incentives to persuade you to use location services.

I get it. I understand it. But I just don’t buy it. If I want a latte, I’ll go buy one because I want one, not because I have I a merit badge on my phone.

My friend Joey uses location-based social networking services to show to his followers that he’s at the Eiffel Tower, and then three hours later, he’s checking in at the In-n-Out Burger in Marina Del Ray, all while actually sitting on his back patio watching squirrels and deer eat corn.

My other friend Travis notes a social networking update observation in, “Oh wait… you just now checked into Chick-Fil-A and took a photo of your waffle fries with your iPhone? No f&%$ing way!”

Most other friends are “checking in” at bars. Or commenting on conversations held with their cat. Or buying a slip cover (whatever that is).

I genuinely hope that Jimmy “Legs” Hamstercaster has a great egg salad sandwich tomorrow. That’s his business. My business will be in the now, probably playing foursquare out on the driveway with friends and family.

I remember when I was a little kid and dad would let me sit on his lap and let me “drive.”

I was having dinner at the fine Schobel’s Restaurant in Columbus, TX with my daughter, mother, niece and her fiance when the topic of desserts came into our conversation.

Niece: “I was looking at their dessert menu and nothing really sounded good.”

Me: “You know what’s awesome for dessert?”

“What?”

“A concoction that I created once myself.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Bacon ice cream served in a bacon bowl and topped with chocolate covered bacon.”

“Bacon ice cream?!”

“Yes. It’s really quite good.”

“I’ve heard about chocolate covered bacon, and that sounds really good. I’d eat chocolate covered bacon. But bacon ice cream?!”

“Yes. Trust me, it’s awesome. I call it ‘TUBS: The Ultimate Bacon Sundae’”

“So, do you sprinkle it with gummy worms, too?”

“No. That’s just gross.”

The joke:

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock knock.”

“WHO’S THERE?!”

“Orange.”

“Orange who?”

“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again?”

The Zombie Eater version:

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Orange banana don’t you say so!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Here’s a playlist of 20 songs that I put together to put me in my happy place.

1. Beautiful Day – U2
2. No Woman No Cry – Bob Marley
3. Feelin’ This – Blink 182
4. Come Sail Away – Styx
5. Turn! Turn! Turn! – The Byrds
6. A Small Victory – Faith No More
7. Party Hard – Andrew W.K.
8. Top of the World – Carpenters
9. Don’t Worry Be Happy – Bobby McFerrin
10. I’ll Tumble 4 Ya – Boy George & Culture Club
11. Feeling Good – Muse
12. American Pie – Don McLean
13. Empire State of Mind – Jay-Z Ft. Alicia Keys
14. Could You Be Loved – Bob Marley
15. I’m A Believer – The Monkees
16. Walking on Sunshine – Katrina & the Waves
17. Do You Realize? – The Flaming Lips
18. I Can See Clearly Now – Jimmy Cliff
19. A Beautiful Morning – The Rascals
20. Three Little Birds – Bob Marley

Yes, I realize many of them have significant cheese factor, but hey, they work for me. And yes, there are three songs from Bob up there, but that’s how I roll. What’s in your list of pick-me-up songs?

Tonight Maly and I read all 26 little books from her alphabet collection before bed. When we got to the “I” book, there is a page that has a clipart picture of a guy sitting at a desk before a computer on a island out in the deep blue ocean.

“What’s that, Sugar?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s where daddy would love to be.”

“Mexico?”

“You. Are. Awesome.”

Last night Elise and I went on date #1 of our Ten Great Dates, a program that Elise signed us up for through her church. Like all functions, programs, standing, kneeling, sitting, tithing, kneeling, standing, sitting and standing that are sanctioned by the church, I went in to this experience with an open mind.

Our class started with all 39 couples sitting in the church’s little auditorium. After our program leader put away the levitating serpents, we watched a short film starring the fine couple, David and Claudia Arp, who, together, started the Marriage Alive program back in the early 70′s when the free love movement was nearing its end and being replaced by things like capitalism, disco and monounsaturated trans fats. In this film we were told that with the help of mild sedatives and Sade’s 1984 hit album “Diamond Life”, we could re-energize our marriage.

Our first class was quick and it allowed us to rip out not one, but two perforated pages from our “10 Great Dates” owner’s manual. These pages were our respective “Date One Exercise” worksheets – one for him and one for her. On these pages were the series of the same 11 questions. We hopped into our love wagon and drove over to the local interior Mexican restaurant for dinner, and to see if we could score some sedatives from the bus boy.

As we waited for our dinner, we filled out our respective worksheets. We wrote down our memories of things such as:

• First time I saw my mate
• First date
• First kiss
• Favorite dates
• First time we talked about getting married
• Wedding day
• First home
• First anniversary
• Most romantic moments
• Happiest memories

Elise reflected and reminisced in detail in most of her answers, while most of my answers consisted of a simple “yes” or “beer!”

The best part of the date was just being able to get away and focus on rekindling our relationship while knowing that our only offspring was safe, handling mosquitos the size of Labradoodles, under close supervision during a summer twilight in Texas.

It was fun to remind each other of important and exciting events that we’d experienced, arm in arm, in the past. For example, Elise reminded me that we were married in “SEPTEMBER!”

Three Pepsis and an hour later, we found ourselves back in the church parking lot along with the other parents who also didn’t know what to do with one another for an entire two hours.

So we loaded up the child, drove home and prank called the David and Claudia Arp house until 1 a.m. Elise blames it on the Pepsi. I blame it on the re-energizing.

In the almost 9 years that I’ve been married I have finally learned, after repeated reminding, that women need one thing: security. And by security they mean “health insurance.” This is especially true after offspring have entered the picture. Before we had a child, the only thing my wife needed was a man with hair and washboard abs; neither of which I had, but I did have health insurance.

If our child were to break her arm today, the only thing we would have after paying medical bills would be a stinky cast. Long gone are the days when one could trade a plump hen or a bushel of earthworms for the town’s doctor to set a broken bone. In my research I discovered that in the early 1800′s, 20 tablets of 30mg Viagra would set you back just a jar of canned peaches. I am clearly a man before my times.

In order for there to be “security,” we need one of two things: a job that provides group medical benefits to its indentured servants or independent medical coverage which, for a family of three healthy humans, will cost us approximately $6,279.98 per hour. I say approximately because insurance rates are calculated daily based on prime plus an arbitrary number that sounds official to lobbyists and special interest groups.

If I had a job working for a corporate employer, I would run the risk of losing my sanity, but thankfully I’d have health insurance which would cover up to 50% of sanitarium service expenses and monthly bedpan replacements! My wife would have to sift through the daily “THIS IS NOT A BILL” bills from the insurance company which indicate that antibiotics for an ear infection fall into the “Full Cranial Transplant” category, which is only covered in the event that said transplant occurs on a Wednesday during a month that contains the letter “Y”.

Or we could just get independent health insurance. Hahahahahahahahahahaha!

The one thing that I’ve learned about myself in the past few years is that I appreciate and aspire to live a simpler, saner life. I think this could easily be achieved by moving to a Pacific coast town in Mexico with little more than my family and my trusty laptop. We would all learn to speak fluent Spanish, fish in the deep blue, study ocean conservation and explore the regions and cuisines. I’d setup some kind of some kind of U.S.-based online business, or write a weekly newspaper column, to earn US dollars while living on pesos. If I had to guess, I would think my wife would love to become a teacher or a nurse. Our daughter would become increasingly popular by telling her jokes to the locals about farts and email. Surplus cash (above food, clothes, investments, savings, fishing lures and guitar strings) would go to charities. I’d setup my own health insurance plan where Richard Branson, Keanu Reeves, Sammy Hagar and I would charter a jet full of highly skilled Mexican doctors and fly to the U.S. to help sick children without insurance.

As far as security, Mexican health care in medium to large cities is considered very good to excellent, and very affordable.

As far as sanity, I like to re-read this story and daydream about catching dorado and laughing. Laughing a lot.

The American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked.

Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, “Only a little while.”

The American then asked, “Why didn’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?”

The Mexican said, “With this I have more than enough to support my family’s needs.”

The American then asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing; and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat: With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats. Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor; eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York where you will run your ever-expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15 to 20 years.”

“But what then?” asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said that’s the best part. “When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”

“Millions?…Then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”