Updates Weekly
Erin and I returned late last night/early this morning from visiting her brother and his wife in New Mexico. It was our first trip there. We spent most of our time near Los Alamos, and had a day trip to Santa Fe. It was glorious.
While I intend to write a bit more when I’m not running on fumes after a long travel day with several delays, here are the highlights through pictures.
I received a surprise letter in the mail this week from my friendly, not-so-neighborhood California Department of Motor Vehicles, specifically the collections arm of that renowned institution. Since I didn’t do them the justice of notifying them I had moved to Connecticut, their system assumed I was illegally driving my car around California with expired registration for the last seven or eight months.
Now, let’s not worry too much about the double jeopardy implied by the fact that if I were doing that, I certainly would have received a ticket or two at this point to go with the fees I already allegedly owe.
Here’s the kicker: the letter they sent was not via USPS forwarding. They sent it directly to my Connecticut address, so there is some record, somewhere, that I live there now.
Luckily, this has been resolved relatively quickly. There was a phone number I could call to dispute the charges, and I quickly got on the line with a nice person who told me what to expect. They were going to send me an email where I needed to detail when I left California, when I arrived in Connecticut, when I first registered my car here, and a copy of the registration document.
That email never showed up, but they gave me the email address from which I should expect it. I emailed them directly and received a notice that the DMV’s records were updated—the only remaining step is to call again so they can forward me to the Collections folks and settle the record. Why I have to do that is beyond me, but hey, I’m just trying to follow the rules.
I’m frustrated by the “guilty until proven innocent” tinge to this situation. Thousands of people must be similarly caught unaware by their policy, and it falls into the vast bucket of laws and regulations, which makes it extremely easy to accidentally violate because you have to think to ask the right question to discover said regulation.
As this post is going up, and ideally not while I’m writing it, I recently had three wisdom teeth removed. It’s mushtown for my meals, and that reminded me of two nearly identical lunches I started making in the last couple of months. They differ only in their spices.
My website isn’t a recipe blog, so let’s start with the important information.
Continue reading “Two Interchangeable Mushy Veggie Lunches”I’m fortunate to have been in seventh grade precisely when I was. Every four years in October, my middle school’s seventh-grade social studies classes held an election unit. Students were selected to be presidential, senate, and gubernatorial candidates; there were campaign managers, Secret Service agents, lobbyists, fundraisers, and speech writers.1I got to write my speeches on large cue cards like they use on SNL. It was good-natured, well-constructed, thoughtful, and impactful. Twelve years old was a good time for this, too: we were mature enough to engage with some of the policies but not cynical or set in our ways beyond whatever influence our parents had over us. I don’t recall any personal conflicts. Everyone focused on embodying their roles as best as possible, and I had a tremendous amount of fun.
I don’t remember who the seventh graders elected in 2008, but I know who America elected. It was the first election I felt conscious of, and I can still feel the palpable excitement, the Yes, We Can stickers in the hallways, the sense of progress and accomplishment that came with a relatively young African American man making it to the White House.
My biology teacher that year was a snarky man who was a bit tough on us—my older sister hated him, and my parents weren’t that pleased during conferences—but I got along with him fairly well because I was a know-it-all, especially during that year of my life. He was, in retrospect, definitely gay during a time when that would still be considered taboo in the affluent suburbs of Minneapolis. I can’t speak to his personal politics—Obama’s campaign opposed gay marriage in 2008—but this man felt strongly and optimistically about the result of the election. It so happened that Obama’s inauguration was during biology class, and he canceled the lesson so we could watch it.2To be clear, it’s possible that every teacher did this. I don’t remember. But my teacher made a point of declaring the importance of this event.
I remember being awestruck by the vast crowd gathered on the Mall, Yo-Yo Ma playing on stage, and a general sense of wonderment, pomp, and import surrounding the proceedings.
Today—as this post is published—will mark the second inauguration of a gaudy man who is an affront to the office he holds. He lacks the care, professionalism, solemnity, strength, tact, or humanity one should maintain to be a respected president. Backed by the money of ass-kissing CEOs and surrounded by incompetent and ill-experienced hangers-on, he’ll once again ascend to a reality show version of the presidency that suits his impressions from television. For every thoughtful moment from the Obama and Biden inaugurations that celebrated the beauty, diversity, and progress of America, we’ll see a funhouse mirror version worthy of a man who has no resolution to problems beyond grandstanding and ill-begotten money.
I have no clue whether the last three elections resulted in units for seventh graders in my old middle school. I’d like to believe that the teachers there managed to run something valuable despite the troubling and divisive rhetoric, laying a foundation for a future generation to have some hope of pushing past whatever comes after the next four years. But it’s a shame that they’ll be subjected to this flashy and distasteful inauguration that relies on a foundation of hate and disgust rather than well-earned pride and hope for the future.
Choosing Year of Fitness as my 2025 theme wasn’t difficult, but it was intimidating. My previous themes have leaned philosophical and emphasized a change in mindset that would affect broader habits; this year’s theme is direct and requires a higher level of personal accountability.
Continue reading “2025: Year of Fitness”At the start of this year I wrote this about the Year of Opportunity:
Characterized by a desire to explore and treat new experiences with more positivity and excitement, I hope to make the most of what could be our final year living in California while also increasing my appreciation for the life I’ve built.
It certainly was our final year in California, and that shifted my mindset to focus not only on the opportunities in San Francisco but also any that would be available once we moved.
Continue reading “Year of Opportunity 2024 Review”I’ve had this print of a painting for around twenty years.
I bought it at a garage sale in my neighborhood as a kid, and I’ve brought it with me everywhere I’ve moved since. Despite having it for so long, I’ve never closely looked at it until writing about it now. Doing so revealed two things: The painting is titled Troubled Pals, and the artist is Keith Ward.
Once I realized that, I tried to track down anything else about this painter or painting. The first result was a painting with a similar setup but an adjusted setting.
I found this version less impactful—what’s tough in this situation? Is the implication supposed to be that the boy doesn’t have enough money for the dog food in question? The problem is unclear compared to the baseball version I have.
Plus, I think the dog in mine is cuter.
I was able to find a few basic biographies of Mr. Ward on sites that posted his artwork. In short, he lived 1906–2000, was born in Kansas, but mostly grew up in California. He spent his early career out east after attending art school in New York, but eventually ended up back in California. This blog post from 2007 is the most comprehensive overview of his work and style I could find.
There’s no exciting revelation here, but I’m happy to know a bit more about this print that’s always been near my desk.
Wake up to a slight chill in the air, a quiet morning with leaves strewn across the sidewalks, brown and red and orange and yellow, preparing to crinkle later that afternoon once the morning dew glistening upon them evaporates. Throat is a bit scratchy. Pull up the covers for an extra moment of soft warmth before stretching out, rolling to the side, bare feet on wood floor.
Wipe eyes, grab some water, and go shut the window accidentally left open overnight leading to this moderate discomfort and grogginess. On second thought, it’s going to warm up today. Not too much. Just enough to keep the window cracked and let some warmer air make its way through.
Out the door, to the kitchen, striding gently and quietly so early in the day, trying to avoid the edges of the floor that habitually creak.
Ah, warm relief from the living room rug. Remember back, just a minute ago, when the sheets were pulled up, everything protected against the air that is fondly referred to as “crisp.” The thicker patterns in the rug shield against drafts from the windows—also left open—that spill across the floor.
Walk to the window and peer outside to see new piles of leaves collected on the sidewalk, listen to the birds chirping as the sun breaks through the mild canopy of the neighborhood, and smell the slightly humid air. Eyes cast about, taking it all in, then rest on the small red plastic bag at the base of the porch stairs.
The Sunday paper has arrived with its bold headlines, Associated Press blurbs, comics and box scores, and hyper-localized reporting. It is quaint and fun and supports a good cause; it is the perfect reading material to skim through on a calm, quiet morning.