Diary of a Network Geek

Or, Uncle Jim becomes a slum-lord.
No, seriously, it looks like I’ll be picking up a roommate later this month. I’ve got a friend who’s hit a rough spot, gotten a little behind on rent and, basically, needs to get out of his apartment in a hurry. I offered to let him stay at place for a couple of months, then, start paying some rent. It’ll be less than full rent on an apartment and he’ll have about as much room. A bigger kitchen, though, he’ll have to share with me. And, of course, it should help me with some of my own money issues, at least in the short-term. We’re going to do it for about six months and see how it goes. He may stay longer, if we both find it agreeable. Or, not.
I’m probably going to draft a “roommate contract”, just so we have our boundries set and clear before anything gets ugly. I don’t think it will, but, just to make sure and give me that extra level of comfort, I think it’s best to draw up a little agreement and both sign it. Again, it might seem a little extra anal-retentive, but better that than hard feelings later. I mean, we need to work out things like smoking. See, I can’t abide smoking in the house. Even when I do it, which is fairly rare, I sit outside to smoke. In this weather, it’s actually sort of nice to sit in the cool evening air and enjoy a smoke in the dark while the dog chases imaginary nocturnal interlopers. Hilda loves the cooler weather! Dealing with the utilities and the groceries and kitchen sharing will be a process of adjustment, I’m sure. But, it’ll be nice to maybe cook for someone once in a while, not to mention that I know he’s a good cook.
Still, I’m not sure how comfortable I’ll be letting someone that close into my life. After college, I said that the only time I’d have a roommate again is if she were sleeping with me, but, that was a long time ago and, well, financially, it’s not a wise rule to hold tight to right now. And, Hilda will like the extra company, I’m sure, once she gets used to him. And, then, there’s dating… I think maybe a “rule” that neither of us will have overnight visitors that the other person hasn’t met at least once is appropriate. Maybe an “at least one shared date” clause, or something. And, just like in college, some kind of early warning system will need to be setup. But, not a sock on the doorknob this time.

One last thing. To protect the more-or-less innocent, should I use a codename for my new roomie? If so, what should it be?

Allow me to explain…
I have recieved word that my sainted mother’s world-famous orange rolls are currently winging their way to me from distant Chicagoland. This might not seem like a big thing, but, believe me when I tell you those orange rolls taste like love.
They’re a holiday staple at that house. Lusted after and coveted all year long. Mom only makes them at either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Never both and almost always at Thanksgiving. They take hours and hours to make, mainly because massive amounts of orange peel must be carefully grated off only the freshest oranges available. They’re deliciously yeasty little rolls all glazed over in a caramelized orange sauce that is pure heaven.
Mom generously made two dozen of them so I could share them with the folks who are taking me in this year for Thanksgiving. I laughed out loud when she told me this.
“Ha! Are you kidding me? Those are all MINE!” I told her.
“Don’t you want to share any with them?” she asked.
“NO! What do they know from orange rolls, Mom? ‘Sides, I’m making bread to bring. They don’t need orange rolls.”
My father, who started this tradition by insisting that she keep making them, some mysterious holiday before I was born, simply laughed his great, roaring belly laugh at my holiday greed. I don’t think he’d share, either, if she’d let him get away with that.

The orange rolls should arrive tomorrow under armed guard via UPS.

No, not for me.
Though, if you want to contact me to revel in your geekiness directly, you can leave a comment that starts “Privatz: “, or something similar. I’ll keep that off the website. Just be sure to include a good e-mail address so I can respond.
But, what I was referring to was a call for submissions to a new essay project called She’s Such A Geek. Subtitled, “An Anthology by and for Women Obsessed with Computers, Science, Comic Books, Gaming, Spaceships, and Revolution”, the project is open to geeks of the female persuasion only and is meant to be an exploration of feminine geekiness in all its splendor. Specifically, they’re looking for essays from girls/women/ladies who consider themselves geeks on what it means to them to be a geek, what their mode of geekiness is to them, and how they found their geek niche. Frankly, for the sake of my poor, estranged step-daughter, I hope this book turns out well and stirs up some very positive talk about geek girls. I hope she’ll see it one day, and know that she’s not alone, or even all that different. In fact, I hope she’ll learn that what she thinks of as “geekiness” is really just a form of creativity or, even, genius that’s rare in this dull, grey age.
And, forgive me for mentioning my ex-wife again, but, if she were to write an essay for this work, I wonder if she’d be honest about who taught her the joys of comic books or Japanese animation? Could she be truthful enough to admit that she knew nothing about it until I made her watch Akira and Ghost in the Shell? Eh, probably not, but, then her memory gets a little flexible when it comes to her various ex-husbands.
In any case, if you’re one of my few readers who are members of the “fairer sex” and consider yourself geek material, think about contributing to the book.

I love that movie.
I actually don’t care much for Rob Lowe or Demi Moore, but that movie, set in Chicago, always reminds me of what I’d hoped life would be like in my late twenties. Ah, well, maybe in my next life.

Anyway, dinner last night went well. My friend Steve’s timing was perfect and he got here just as I was sautéing the onions to go with my Chicken Masala. Here’s how the food preparation went, and notice that I don’t feel guilty at all for the cheating involved. First, I cut up the chicken and the onions and put them in separate bowls. Next, I set up the rice in the rice cooker, but didn’t start it. Per the instructions on the jar of India Chef brand biryani masala sauce, I sautéed the chicken in a little vegetable oil, then added the whole jar of sauce and put the lid on the pan. While that was cooking, I started the rice and chopped the cilantro. Then, I set the table with my every-day, white dishes and flatware, but the better, clear glasses. As a jokey flourish, I folded the white paper-towel “napkins” into squares and put them into the glasses. After a quick check on the chicken, which had already started to smell delicious, I made a pitcher of instant, peach-flavored ice tea and set up the music. (The music, incidentally, was, in play order, Level 42, Level Best, then a mix CD that Steve himself had made and given me the year before, followed by Roy Orbison, Super Hits, and finally ending with The Very Best of the Doors, because that’s about the best way to end anything, I think.) By this time, the chicken was done, so I put it into a casserole dish with the rice, again, per the instructions, and added some other spices and a few onions. That popped into the oven and I started the broccoli. After that, I started the onions with a little extra vegetable oil, some garam masala spices and a pat of butter. While that got going, I lit the candles on the mantle and the kitchen table, including all my Saint Jude santos candles, and started the music. Shortly into the second song on Level Best, Steve arrived with a blueberry pie. Yum!
I knew I’d done well when Steve’s first comment on entering the house was “Oh, what smells so good!?” After I’d reminded him I was doing Indian, and he made appropriate “yummy” sounds, he saw the table. Now, in all modesty, I didn’t really do much there, but when a gay guy tells you how nice your presentation at the table is, you know it’s been done just right. So, while I finished up the onions and took the chicken out of the oven, Steve checked some voice-mail he’d gotten on the way over. By the time he was done, I had all the food on the table and was ready to go. As I mentioned, perfect timing!

So, we had a lovely dinner, scintillating conversation, and a grand time spoiling Hilda. You see, Steve is not only a “dog-person”, but also a keeper in the bird section of the Houston Zoo. He’s eicked smart and knows more about animals than anyone I’ve ever known. Oh, the stories he tells about things that happen at the zoo! “When miniature ducks attack!” I made a pot of coffee to go with the pie, which was also breakfast this morning, and we talked all the way into the first CD of The Very Best of the Doors. It was a very good time.

Today, after cleaning up what was left from last night and starting laundry, I set up a chunk of catfish for tonight’s dinner and prepped the last of the uncooked chicken to do up at the same time. Then, I can microwave that later in the week for a quick dinner. The catfish was already spiced, but I added a slice of fresh orange to cut the “fishy” taste. The chicken got liberally dosed with nearly random spices and the rest of the orange. Actually, that’s often how I cook. No recipie at all, but simply spices that smell good together on meat, sometimes mixed with something fruity, like apple, or orange or other citrus. My ex-wife was always afraid that it wouldn’t turn out well, but I’ve never had anyone be dissapointed in what I made. So, that, with some of the left-over rice and veges will make a lovely dinner several times this week.
Hey, you know, I like this part of being single again! I love cooking like this. Sass, you’re right, I did win in the end!

They just seem to multiply.
The slow PCs, I mean. There’s a never ending supply of the little buggers. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was out there manufacturing them! Well, no matter where they come from, TechRepublic has a download-able article to help you: Ten Things You Should Know About Troubleshooting A Slow PC. This one is good for the home user, too, not just the hardcore, corporate geek, like me. Though, honestly, most folks bring their PCs to the Geek at work and have them fix ’em up right, don’t they?
Aw, don’t tell me that I’m the only soft touch!

Oh, and forgive the lame post, but I hesitate to post the stuff I’ve been writing, since I know my ex-wife is reading my blog and might do something else crazy as a result of what she reads here.

Your attention, please!
I just thought I should warn everyone who reads, and comments, on my blog that my apparently bitter and vengeful ex-wife still reads my blog. She may follow you from your comments to your blog and comment there in her own very special, petty way. If you suspect such activity, you might trace any IP address associated with comments and see if they take you to either an anonymous proxy or a location in either Phoenix or Glendale Arizona. If said comment originates at either location and is seemingly out of place or otherwise inexplicable, you can be fairly sure that the Harpy has landed.
Please, don’t let this keep you from posting comments. In fact, look at it this way, she’ll add all sorts of intersting traffic to your website/blog! Sure, it might be the Tin-Foil Hat Brigade kind of traffic, but, hey, hits are hits, right? Seriously, I apologize to anyone who’s already been hit by this childish woman who just can’t let go. And, I apologize in advance for anyone who might get her filthy attitude smeared all over their website in the future. But, I wouldn’t worry too much, since she’s basically lazy as well. She might leave a comment or two, but I doubt she can maintain the energy to really do much more than annoy folks for a bit.
At least you get some idea why we’re divorced.

Hey, I remember this!
Back in the Before Time, your Uncle Jim was a pretty adventurous cook. Far from gourmet, but, still, not bad and I usually did it by the seat of my pants. Er, make that, on the fly. Okay, by guess and by golly. There, that doesn’t sound nasty, does it? Well, I’ll admit, it was usually chicken all done up fancy with rice, white or wild, on the side. Occasionally, I’d even do a vegetable.
So, guess what I did tonight for the first time in a very long time? Yeah, I cooked. And I don’t mean pasta. That’s not cooking so much as it is doctoring sauce. Nope, tonight it was Uncle Jim’s Mango Rum Tilapa with broccoli and rice. And, it wasn’t bad, either! Just a big hunk of tilapa, which is white fish, equal dashes of lemon juice and lime juice add an even coating of Old Bay Seasoning and smother in Captain Morgan’s Mango Rum. Broil for about 40 minutes, if fish is still frozen, which mine was, or until done. I did all that in an open packet of aluminum foil with the broccoli. The rice was done in a large rice cooker. Best thing my ex-wife ever convinced me to spend money getting!
In any case, it was yummy, if I do say so myself! I guess having my mother, who loves me, clean my kitchen inspired me to get cooking again. See, ladies? If you hit on me, these are the lovely things that you can expect to come out of my out-of-date kitchen. As I always say, it’s not the tools that determine the finished product, but the artist who uses them.

Oh, and I started sorting out which of my ex-wife’s things I’m going to start selling on eBay. If you’re interested in platinum wedding bands, let me know. Hers was hardly worn!

Okay, as promised, here are pictures.
Well, we’ll start off with the parental units. Obviously, the one on the right is my sainted mother who cleaned my house for me. The scruffy looking fella’ on the left is my father. You can expect me to look about like that when I make it to 78. Frighteningly, my ex-wife seemed to think he was better looking as an older guy than in the pictures of him at my age. You know, in retrospect, considering what I know about her now, that’s creepy.
Anyway, this is the stock from which I sprang.

This bad boy is one of the two things my father and I worked on this weekend. Of course we also did some indoor plumbing. In fact, I’m a little surprised that we managed that with as little cursing and shouting as we did. I usually cure like a sailor when I do plumbing. I think I taught my poor step-daughter some new words when I put in the amazing one-horse-power garbage disposal! That impressed my mother, by the way. She was shocked at the idea that I could grind chicken bones in that sucker.

Here it is again. I’m pretty proud of this monster. I designed it myself, bought all the parts, measured, cut and painted it all. I did have help from Dad, of course, but, mainly, I did it. And, I could have finished it by myself, if I really wanted to do that, but it was more fun working with my father. Wow, how many guys can say that and mean it!? Eventually, I’ll have some shots up here of this thing with all the plants in place, too. I think it looks pretty cool.

Just for reference, this is a picture of me and my beautiful girl. My dog, Hilda, and I, that is. Posing by our pond in the backyard. Oh, and I have my full beard in that picture. Notice, while it does exude testosterone, it increases wind drag reducing my aerodynamics. So…
I shaved down to this. See? It’s a bad picture, but even with that, you can see how much younger and more aerodynamic all that youthful skin makes me! C’mon, I’m a professional computer geek sliding into middle age. Work with me!

Anyhow, these are the best of the pictures from the weekend. The delay getting them, by the way, was because my dear, sweet, retired mother was figuring out how to use the digital camera and send pictures. I think she did rather well, don’t you?

I’m homesick.
It started on the way to the airport last night with my parents and just got worse. I had to tear out of the departures dropoff at high speed or else I was going to start blubbering like a baby. The really sad thing is, I’m homesick for a place that doesn’t really exist anymore. That “home” I left and that I miss so much doesn’t really exist except in my mind. The house where I grew up is in a neighborhood that, as my parents described it, is so changed that I most likely would hardly recognize it at all. But, I miss my family something terrible. I’m sure the divorce and attendant “opportunities for growth” that brought are part of my homesickness, but it’s more than that, I think. Equal parts fear of the unknown future and longing for a place that never truly existed. It’s the loss of hopes and dreams and what I thought was a sure future. It’s the fear of never getting past the current depressing circumstances where I’m currently caught. I once read it described as “homesickness for a place I’ve never been”. Weltschmertz. That troubling ache for old, familiar problems in place of the new, as-yet-unquantified problems.
You truly cannot go home again.

On a lighter note, it was an excellent visit with my parental units. We did a lot of eating out, both as a family and with friends. I did my best to get them to the local joints I knew, but my poor Dad with his tender insides as a result of surviving colon cancer had to stick to fairly safe, mainstream fare. In fact, I ate so much in the last several days that I should probably not eat dinner all the rest of this week!
Friday, Dad and I did plumbing. I thought that would be much more frightening than it was. My experiences as a child helping my father do that kind of thing were far, far different than it was this time. It was actually almost fun. Almost. At least, it was as fun as plumbing can ever be. And, he and I finished up the giant, arty water-feature for my ponds on Saturday. Saturday night, we went to church, which was good. I know it was a little different for them, since they’re fairly traditionalist when it comes to church, but they were happy that I was part of some kind of faith community. Of course, I stood up and introduced them, which was a bit of a social stretch for me. But, that was rewarded with the cute girl that I have a crush on, but will never date for reasons too long to go into here, coming over to introduce herself to my parents! Why, it almost made me rethink that “but will never date…” bit. Almost. Oh, and while Dad and I were off doing testosterone-laden activities, my Mother cleaned most of my house for me. It was incredible! Now, I just have to maintain it, and keep going on the war-zone that is my ex-wife’s junk and my home office.
Sunday, we went to the pond store, Nelson’s Water Garden, and got a bigger pump for my water feature and plants. It looks cool and pictures will be forthcoming, I promise. Then, I took Mom and Dad off to the airport and, well, tried not to curl up into a fetal ball and dissolve into tears, fear, and loneliness. Having my dog helped, too, but even she was missing Grandma and Grandpa today. She was getting used to being the spoiled grand-dog, I think. So much extra affection for her! She’s moping about now because it’s just boring, old, depressed Dad who’s always too busy to play for a full eight hours. Oh, the tragedy!
In any case, it was a good visit, though too short, and pictures will follow eventually.

That was what I woke up to this morning.
Apparently, the handle leaks on that toilet upstairs now. Yeah, everything else seems tight and non-leaky, but the water level rose to the point that it was streaming out the handle on the tank. Have I mentioned that I hate plumbing?
Oh, and the downstairs toilet has decided to act up, too. This time, though, it’s an easy to identify problem: the connection from the water to the tank. Normally, one would use a flexible hose, but not the guy who I got the house from, no sir! For him, it was ridgid pipe or nothing! So, all I have to do, in theory, is get the right size flex hose and replace that. In theory.
And, finally, I have a confession to make about why I get so much anxiety about this kind of thing when my Dad is coming to town. My family used to own a hardware store. Oh, Hoffman’s Hardware in Morgan Park (which is the South Side of Chicago, for those who are unaware) was nothing but a name on a building corner stone long before I was born, but I still feel like I should know how to do this stuff better than I do. Like somehow, magically, I should have been born with the knowlege and skills to do any home repair instantly, with no mistakes. Ignore the fact that my father almost never did these kinds of things in my presence. Usually, I was just in the way as a kid, so I made myself scarce. So, now I learn how to do it the hard way, just like everything else I’ve ever learned that was worthwhile knowing.
Eventually, I’ll post a picture of the pretty rust colored water stain on my ceiling. Damn hard Houston water.