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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is pleased as punch this afternoon because the Port Swiller Manor dining room has finally been restored to active service after having spent the last two months seconded as an emergency storage shed for the basement furniture.
Yesterday afternoon, a couple of the contractor guys came out and man-handled the stuff (mostly sofas and comfy chairs) back down stairs, and I’ve just finished putting back the table and rugs, and generally giving the room a dust and a sweep. Yes, there are still minor odds and ends shoved into corners and all over the sideboard, but we can definitely take meals there again.
In celebration, I plan to whip up a batch of my highly popular popovers as part of the re-inaugural dins tonight, thus assuring that teh gels spend a little extra time at table.
Bumpers all around, if you please!
*Verified by Ed’s Ebola Verification Service. “If we’re wrong, your funeral is comped!”
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Welp, two hallmarks of autumn’s arrival are here: The start of the slow bleed of leaves off the maples in front of Port Swiller Manor, and the local classickal station’s annual fall pledge drive.
I’m not sure which is more irritating.
Oh, and teh Eldest Gel is out getting her first taste of driving on I-95 this morning. Your prayers would be appreciated.
*Verified by the Comité de salut public.
UPDATE: I forgot to mention that this is also the time of year when the ground (at least in these parts) never completely dries out, so every time you go to mow the lawn you also trench it. Plus, it’s when bees and wasps start going after you for no reason other than pure, fin de siecle cussidness. Youch.
UPDATE DEUX: First flight on the Beltway/I-95 was a success. (She drove down to Fredericksburg for a pumpkin festival and back.) No problems, although she was eager to recite the litany of driving sins she observed in those traveling around her when she got back.
Relatedly, when the gel started out and was still rayther unsure of herself, she said several times that she had no interest in a car. Now that she’s gained confidence, it’s remarkable how radically that position has changed. Indeed, she’s recently started lobbying for one as a birthday present. Funny, that.
The contractors are at Port Swiller Manor this afternoon messing around with the basement stairs. The door at the top is closed, but there are some serious fumes coming from under it of a sort that take me back to my teenaged model-making days. Whoa.
They must be permeating the whole house, too, because the Eldest Gel is up in her room belting out “Yesterday” at the top of her lungs, which is a bit weird.
Mrs. R had me pick up the Middle Gel at school this afternoon with the plan to take her to the doctor for a follow up from her appendectomy of a couple weeks ago. What I didn’t discover until too late was that she scheduled the appointment for half an hour after the pick up. Jeesh. In Friday afternoon traffic in these parts it takes at the least an hour to get from her school to the doctor’s office. I can’t bear being late to things, especially appointments. So when I realized the situation, I had the gel ring up the office to cancel and reschedule. Next time, I’ll work out the logistics.
Speaking of teh Middle Gel, allow me to test out a .gif I stole from Groovy Vic:
Over/under says she’ll spend a good twenty minutes staring at it when she next comes nosing around here. (Enjoy! But get your homework done, too.)
So here’s a science-y question for you: Is it possible for the same mug with the same beverage zapped for the same length of time in the same microwave to come out with its handle at different temperatures? Made myself the usual cuppa tea just now and the handle was so hot I couldn’t hold it. This doesn’t usually happen, or else I haven’t been paying sufficient attention.
Oh, speaking of the basement, the plan is to start moving furniture back in this weekend. Hopefully, they’ll also finish hooking up the lights and the sink. So pics will come hopefully in a few days.
* Verified by the new Ebola Czar©
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Sorry to leave you lot hanging about with what I will admit you probably thought a dreadfully obscure and boring post for a couple days, but the box which brings Verizon’s bundle of communication services into Port Swiller Manor decided to commit suicide Tuesday evening and we only just now got it replaced.
For me this was just a minor annoyance, but for others in the family it had a much greater impact. More and more these days, teh gels are being given web-based school assignments and requirements to file things with their teachers electronically. So when the system goes down, you can imagine the consternation.
We managed to limit the disruption somewhat thanks to our neighbor who graciously allowed us to borrow his Wi-Fi signal, but it was still pretty chaotic for a while.
Old and Busted: “The dog ate my homework.”
The New Hotness: “The server crashed my homework.”
Anyhoo, back to biznay now.
(BTW, as I was typing this post teh Middle Gel came wandering in to crow a bit about her new, autographed, Piano Guys CD and, being incurably nosy, started reading it over my shoulder. She attests to the troof of my observation.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Well, on further reflection ol’ Robbo doesn’t have much to say about his beloved Nats’ elimination in teh first round of the playoffs. He could point out that each of our three losses to the Giants was by a single run and that two of them arguably were the direct result of rookie manager pitching decision mistakes (the first one questionable, the second one insane). He also could point out that the Nats had the best National League record during the regular season, and could argue that a team’s results over 162 games are far more demonstrative of its quality than said team’s results over any four games. But nobody would listen. All anybody cares about post-season (and, arguably, for any given season) is who advances and who goes home. At this point? I really don’t even care anymore, but am thinking ahead to what is likely to happen over the off-season and into next spring. (My prediction? Not much. LaRoche is likely done at 1st so that we can bring Ryan Zimmerman back into the starting lineup, Soriano is gone, but most of the rest of the team stays, I think, pretty much as it is. Oh, and I’m calling it Right Now: We win next year.)
Regular friends of the decanter will tolerate ol’ Robbo going through the math here because they understand that this is only the second post-season venture in his nearly 50 years in which he’s had a genuine vested interest. (I grew up in a non-baseball town and could never consider myself more than an interested sympathizer for any team until the Nats came to Dee Cee in ’05. How lucky are the Gels, by the bye, that they get to experience all of this in their yoot.) I must say that I find the experience…….bittersweet.
Anyhoo, it’s over and done and I now can turn my attention to other things, such as the fact that the Great Post-Flood Port Swiller Manor Basement Renovation of 2014 is almost complete! (A mere two months after the original disaster, but who’s counting?) Flooring (Pergo or its equivalent) went in yesterday, baseboards were tacked on today and now pretty much all that’s left is the bathroom fixtures and some wiring. In fact, the Former Llama Military Correspondent and his lovely family are coming in this weekend for an overnight stay and I had been fretting the past week or so about where on earth we were going to put them all. Thanks to this week’s work, the basement is now at least habitable. This gives ol’ Robbo a happy.
If you’d like me to post pics of the finished product, let me know. (I’ve never been able to decide whether that sort of thing is looked on favorably by readers or is considered showing away.)
Final observation: Last evening I watched Enemy at the Gates, the 2001 dramatization of the duel between a Russian and a German sniper (based somewhat, I believe, on “actual events”) during the Battle of Stalingrad, that I almost automatically think of as Saving Private Ivan. I’ve seen this movie maybe three or four times and still cannot quite put my finger on what makes it an okay flick but not really a good one (even though it features the lovely and talented Rachel Weisz, which fact alone ought to carry it).
One positive thing I forget each time and am delighted to rediscover is Bob Hoskins as Khrushchev. I love how he continually refers to Stalin as “duh Boss”. This is exactly right. Uncle Joe was as much as or even more of a thug than was Hitler. Appallingly, the typical Modern, to the extent they have even heard of WWII, thinks the Soviets and the Nazis were diametric opposites. The truth, of course, is the reverse. Fascism and Communism (and, I may add, Progressivism and, for that matter, the Mafia) are close cousins, all of which argue for the sacrifice of individual freedoms to the alter of collective, centralized authority and for the elimination of said individuals who either can’t or won’t comport with the Plan.
This reminds me that I’ve never read Solzhenitsyn but have been meaning to the past few years. Any friends of the decanter have any suggestions on the best place to start? Ol’ Robbo would appreciate such tips greatly. From what I gather, it’s not so much of a stretch to call the man a Saint. And yet, after all he’d been through under the Soviet regime and all the effort he had put forth to speak (if I may) Truth to Power, he is these days a hissing and a byword among those who claim to champion liberalism. (This is just one of the million and one reasons, or perhaps more accurately one of the million and one pieces of evidence of the general reason, why ol’ Robbo detests Leftists.)
The Gels and I caught the last half of the game via the Middle Gel’s laptop while sitting around the kitchen table. A good time was had by all even though I’m still dubious about this .eu website streaming the feed and half expected the NSA to knock at the front door.
Anyhoo, what a great (and to me surprising) move by Matt Williams to put Drew Storen in to close! After Saturday night’s blown save, I worried that poor Drew’s confidence might be completely shattered. Good on Matt to get him right back on the horse. (I was also impressed in general that Williams didn’t panic and start tinkering with the line-up.)
So. We live another day. Deep breath and on to tomorrow. What else is there to say except
**Spot the quote.
UPDATE: Maxy got it:
I will confess that I don’t plan to stay up this evening to watch Game 4 but will wait until the morning to find out whether my beloved Nats are bringing the series back home. Fact of the matter is that during the week I get up at 4:45 ack emma, as I am point man for the whole Port Swiller Family morning routine, and I simply can’t deal with West Coast games and expect to function.
I will say that no matter what happens tonight (and without any intent to cause affront to the baseball gods I will say that I am not entirely un-optimistic), I am damn proud of the boys for not rolling over yesterday as they so easily could have done. That’s what makes champions. So, what else is there to say except
Well, my fellow port swillers, it’s been an interesting 24 hours here at Port Swiller Manor, to say the least.
Flipping through the archives, I can’t see that I posted about it at the time (because HIPAA or sumpin), but last fall teh Middle Gel lost a lot of school time due to a malaise that manifested itself in fatigue, frequent intestinal discomfort, acid reflux and general blah.
Over the course of a couple months, we made frequent trips to our local GP. Then we started seeing specialists and counselors. Finally, she had an endoscopy and a CAT scan done. Nobody could find any definitive physical cause of these symptoms.
We went through a whole punch list of theories: Maybe it was Mono. Maybe it was an ulcer. Maybe it was stress over her demanding schedule. Maybe she was just a hypochondriac and there really wasn’t really anything wrong with her. We tried all kinds of therapies and drugs, but none seemed to make much difference. Eventually, after about 8 weeks or so, the symptoms seemed to die down on their own. We finally reached the conclusion that she must have been whanged by an especially bad stomach flu, and that it simply took her a longer time than usual to get back on her feet.
I may say that I was never really satisfied with this explanation – not that I’m a doctor or that I play one on teevee – but I had to accept it because no better ones had been offered by anybody.
Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon. In the middle of working out with her teammates at school, teh Gel was suddenly stricken with pain in her lower right abdomen. The trainer took her in hand, noted that her BP was all a-hooey, and recommended that we get her to the ER, which we did.
Well, I won’t detail all the diagnostic steps taken last evening and this morning, but bottom line: Acute appendicitis.
The Doc went in and took out teh Gel’s appendix this afternoon. In doing so, he also noted that there was considerable scarring, as if the thing had enbiggened itself previously and been beaten back by teh Gel’s system.
Now Mrs. R and I had always supposed that once the appendix goes dicky, it commits itself to an automated buildup to detonation like the Genesis Device and it’s only a matter of days or maybe weeks before the thing ruptures. Not necessarily so, said the Doc this time (who seemed a heck of a lot more competent than the G/E doc we consulted last time around).¹ The body sometimes can, in fact, fight it off. At a price, of course.
Now naturally we had considered the Gel’s appendix as a possible villain last year and had sonogrammed it then, but had found nothing. Turns out that it’s a difficult organ at which to get a good dekko, and the Doc’s theory is that last year’s flare up probably was just not quite severe enough to be spotted, even if it was the culprit which spawned all the Gel’s reactions.
So there we are.
The Gel is resting at the moment, worn but in good spirits. She may come home from teh hospital this evening, but more likely tomorrow morning. Of course I’m happy that the operation was a success (which, it being routine, I didn’t seriously doubt), but I think I’m even happier that we hopefully seem to have put this whole biznay to bed once and for all.
I hate the word “closure” but, well, you know…..
So speaking of medical mysteries, did I ever tell you about my college roommate my last two years at the People’s Glorious Soviet of Middletown, CT? We couldn’t have been more different had the matter been designed by a committee. I was a hidebound conservative from South Texas and, by then, a varsity oarsman. He was a skinny little pot-smoking, left-wing Jewish kid from New Jersey. We disagreed with each other in almost everything. Except perhaps the most important thing: We had nearly identical senses of humor.
One of the ways in which this sense of humor manifested itself was in our practice of watching Quincy, M.E. reruns on weekday afternoons. We quickly got into the habit, when finding fault in something around the dorm room, of falling into our best Jack Klugman impersonations and yelling, “What kind of a CRUMMY doctor would let this happen??” Good times. Good times.
I mention this memory because it was just about the first thing that flashed across my mind today when considering all the song and dance we went through a year ago while failing to spot the Gel’s problem then.
¹ Now no gratuitous swipes at doctors as a class in the comments, please. The Old Gentleman was one (a pathologist) and my brother is another (an internist), so I know a goodish bit about the profession from the inside, as it were. Of course they’re not infallible, but, as in all fields, some are better than others.
Friends of the decanter, ol’ Robbo feels it is time to ask your collective opinion on an issue that has plagued Port Swiller Manor for some little while and now threatens to flame up into outright civil war.
You see, some time in the past couple years, we became possessed of a set of Washington Nationals Russian-style nesting dolls. (It must have been in 2011 or the immediate offseason, because both Jason Marquis and Mikey “Beast Mode” Morse are included.) The set occupies a shelf in the Port-Swiller library that also holds some chick lit, a porcelain fox, a miniature globe and a plaque commemorating one of the gels’ softball seasons.
Here’s the problem: I believe that the set should be displayed in what one might call “extended” ranks, with the dolls lined up next to each other. Mrs. Robbo, on the other hand, seems to think that they are better off in the “contracted” position, all of the smaller ones nestled safe inside Jayson Werth’s belleh.
We’ve spoken on this issue but have failed to reach an accord. Instead, we find ourselves in a low-intensity domestic conflict. When ol’ Robbo finds the dolls contracted, he quietly spreads them out. When Mrs. Robbo finds them in extended order, she just as quietly stacks them again.
Am I wrong?
Incidentally, The Beast is with San Fran this year and the Giants look to grab one of the NL wildcard slots. Morse was so beloved by us Nats fans that, even if we find him facing us at some point in the playoffs this year, I think I’m right in saying on behalf of all of us that we all wish him the very best. Indeed, I – and I think almost all of us – would sing along lustily if, on Morse’s coming to the plate at Nats Park, we put on his old walk up musick. Enjoy!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Earlier today, a friend of the decanter (who knows who they are) asked of ol’ Robbo, “Tom, how have the first few weeks of school worked out so far this year?”
Well, I’m happy to say that things are (touch wood) going pretty well.
Teh Eldest, now a high school junior, seems finally to have grasped that whatever her record is, she owns it. In other words, after all those years of complaining about us nagging her, she’s finally beginning to learn to nag herself. Laus Deo.
Teh Middle Gel, now a high school frosh, is talking much about leadership (particularly in her choir program) and is running for Class VP. She’s an awesome kid, about whom we have very little to worry except for her apparent resistance to learning math. (I say this here because she regularly reads this blog. Thpppppt!! )
Teh Youngest is taking to middle school like a duck to water, loving every aspect of her new school. One thing: she originally signed up to play cello in the school orchestra, the course description assuring that no previous experience was necessary. Well, it turned out that a) she and one other kid were the only ones in teh whole troupe with no experience, and b) the director was not much interested in babysitting newbies. After a couple days, teh YG decided to chuck it and I can’t say that I blame her. The good news is that, when she went to her counselor, it turned out that a slot had become open in drama, the course the gel had wanted to take originally but was full up when she applied. And so she switched. Apparently, teh gel had them rolling in the aisles during an improv session this week, and her new theatre teacher is quite bananas about her. I’m not in the least surprised.
And speaking of such things, this week teh Eldest was assigned by her Art teacher the task of snapping a photo of a family member in a “characteristic” situation, and using such photo as the model for a sketch. In pursuit of said goal, teh gel caught me quite unawares as I was engrossed in Handel:
Not the greatest pic, but nice composition. And, I must admit, substantively quite pleasing, at least to me.
UPDATE: In response to myriad queries as to what particular piece of Handel I was mutilating when teh gel snapped, this pic, I can tell you that it was Handel’s Suite No. 7 in G minor, HWV 432. Here’s a genuine performance version of it:
Subtract a bunch of technical errors, add a great deal of blasphemy (you can’t see it from this angle, but I’ve got a frieze of St. Cecilia on top of the piano to give me strength), and you’ve got my rendition. Sort of.
As regular friends of the decanter will know, Port Swiller Manor has been without cable teevee for about a month now due to the Great Basement Flood.
This aspect¹ of the disaster has bothered ol’ Robbo very little, for the most part, because he hardly ever watches much teevee outside of old movies anyway. However, with respect to that one small part, it is absolutely driving him
to drink² batty because he has been unable to watch his beloved Nationals working their way toward the NL East Division title. Indeed, even as I type this post I have MLBcom’s Gameday open in another window as the team tries to put the season away against the dastardly Braves of Atlanta and it is a very, very poor substitute.³
As far as repairs go, I believe the contractor will be ready to paint downstairs before the end of this week, which means that we are making some progress. If and when the Nats make it into the playoffs, I hope they stay alive long enough for the project to be finished and for ol’ Robbo to get in some more actual MASN viewing.
In the meantime, what else is there to do but surf the Innertoobs as best I can and say,
¹ On the other hand, the other aspects – the reduced living space, the cramming of furniture and things into half the main floor, the general grunginess and the constant stream of workmen in the house – are over time making me somewhat frantic.
² Heck, that ship sailed a loooong time ago.
³ I suppose I could dial up the radio coverage, which I understand is very good. I’ll certainly do that if we get to the playoffs before Verizon comes back on line.
UPDATE: NATS WIN! N.L. EAST, BAYBEE!!!!!
Second title in three years! Not. Bad.
Friends of the decanter will forgive me my enthusiasm, especially as they will know that ol’ Robbo is no summer soldier, no sunshine patriot, but has stuck with his beloved Nats from the very beginning, through both the Bad Years and the Good. So, ladies and gentlemen, pray charge your glasses, gun’ls down, and allow ol’ Robbo to propose once again: