Geek of All Trades

 

I don’t actually remember what prompted me to start or when it was that I first took up the art of folding paper. I have a vague recollection of coming across my uncle’s thick book of paper airplanes when I was about 12, not realizing it might be a gateway drug to more serious experiments with paper. When looking back through any hazy drug-related flashback, I don’t know if this memory was before or after I had started trying to force paper into animal forms. What I know is that paper doesn’t take kindly to being forced.

What I do remember is that I’d work at it intently for a few months, hit a road block made of crumbled wads of grotesque, malformed, animal-like lumps, and forget about it for a few years.

Usually, I’d return to it when I came across some really nifty paper, or one of my books, and I’d find that things that had been difficult years before, I could attempt with new eyes, and things looked marginally less lumpy.

I am not, in any way, a master of this art, and I keep the attempts that look like balled-up paper to myself. Perfected models I happily give as gifts.

There is a slight problem with this. The objects occasionally take on a whole new form when seen by people who are not me.

Grateful recipients of these carefully folded items will gush over the adorable frog I gave them (it was a butterfly), and I am entirely uncertain how to react. It seems churlish of me to correct their interpretation of the form, even though, for crying out loud, that’s clearly a butterfly. Frogs don’t usually have wings.

Usually, I just agree with them and go on with life, even when my mind is screaming “This is not a Rorschach test! It’s clearly a bird and not a horse. I have no idea how you came up with `horse,’ but can only assume it’s because you’ve never seen a horse.”

I take a deep, calming breath.

While I try and choose models that clearly evoke the shape of their inspiration, let’s face it, many are still somewhat on the vague side. I’m certain that some are complete failures, and the recipient is wondering if it’s really supposed to be anything at all.

I try to use papers with coloring to give further hints as to what I think it’s supposed to be (green means turtle, not bear), even though I’m sure a green bear is just as valid an interpretation as a turtle. They both have tails after all, and four limbs, and lying as a rug in someone’s den, I’m certain anyone could see the resemblance.

Deep cleansing breath.

In all art, there is room for interpretation, I know that. Certainly, there are a great many models which rely heavily on imagination to see the form intended by the designer. If I had seen a particular form without seeing the diagram name, I might also have seen something very different. Sometimes, butterflies are frogs.

 

It has always been a mark of culture to be able to correctly pair haute cuisine with the best possible beverage. This is meant to enhance the meal, creating a perfect harmony between plate and glass. Even people who don’t know a Merlot from a Burgundy know that those of good breeding should pair a red meat with a red wine.

And yet, for most of us, we’re eating our meals in the car, where adult beverage consumption is likely to be frowned upon, and possibly illegal. Where is the food pairing advice for the 99%?

For example, what is the best vintage to be ordered when selecting a Big Mac? What is the perfect varietal to serve with a Grande Meal from Taco Bell?

Your prayers have been answered, here is that all-important guide to everyday pairings. I know, I love you, too.

In most cases, if you are dining at McDonald’s, Coke is the beverage of choice. Perhaps a cliché, but, there’s a reason it’s a classic combination. If you are concerned about sugar, well, that’s understandable. Choose Diet Coke, and go ahead and super-size, because the taste of irony is so very delicious.

The only exception to the Coke rule at McDonald’s is if you’re having breakfast. Coffee is a fine choice, but, please remember that they tend to serve it hot. Unless it’s the new iced coffee.

At Taco Bell, the perfect companion for most of the menu, is Dr. Pepper. Sadly, this has become a tragic state of affairs, since they stopped carrying Dr. Pepper.

The remaining options, especially knowing that fountain Pepsi is very different from bottled Pepsi, are quite unsatisfactory. Despite the fact that they are owned by Pepsi Co, I find the varietal dispensed from Taco Bell particularly unpleasant. I typically solve this problem by not ordering a beverage at all, and taking the food home where I can enjoy it with its perfect compliment. My sister, however, will choose the Pepsi with hints of artificial cherry flavoring, which helps to balance out the tendency of fountain Pepsi to take on significant medicinal overtones.

At Wendy’s the drink choices are a tad more complicated. Salads should be paired with unsweetened ice tea. Wendy’s ice tea is consistently the best in the industry, and it goes very nicely with the chain’s superior salads. Frosties, while not precisely a beverage, do make for an admirable dessert. Some of my acquaintances contend that Frosties are a condiment for French Fries. Please do not molest potatoes in this fashion.

If you’re following in Jared’s footsteps and choosing Subway, pick cherry coke if you are eating a sandwich, ‘cause the fruits and veggies are free. If you’re having a salad, lemonade should serve you in good stead, unless you picked tuna salad. In that case, take it home and make some tea.

Learning the basics of proper food and drink pairings will separate you from the crowd, and give you a great conversation starter. And, if your dinner companions question your choice of beverage, just send them to me.

While I had every intention of ending the story with the second installment, I received a number of queries asking me if the story was really at an end.

And, in truth, there is something of a coda to the tale, which I had deemed uninteresting and frankly, embarrassing. I also had decided I had already gotten far more mileage out of the adventure than I had any right to expect.

Other readers expressed that they really enjoyed both parts, and so, being inclined to give my beloved audience what they want, I inquired if they even wanted to see a third part to this harrowing tale of nature and misplaced keys. All those I asked enthusiastically said “Absolutely.”

So here, by popular request, is the third, and final, part of the Deer Stalking Saga.

Having been freed of the need to wait for my sister to escape the parking lot of the convenience store, I went back to campus, and told her of the miracle of the glowing man with the keys. I also told her, given the hour and the drama of the evening, I would pick up dinner to celebrate.

Turning at long last toward home, and not feeling remotely like drive-thru fare, I stopped at a fast-casual establishment. I walked in the door, one fist clenched tightly around my recovered keys, and the other clutching my collection of plastic money. I ordered, and went to find my debit card to pay…

And it wasn’t there.

I looked again.

As I rifled through each of the items in my wallet, all I could see was the face of that convenience store clerk smirking at me as I returned, for the gajillionth time that night, to his counter looking for a valuable lost item. I went through all my cards three times, and it was very clearly, NOT THERE.

Exhausted from my earlier displays of futile emotional distress and noticing a much larger crowd of visibly impatient people ready to send me to an early grave if I took even one more second to hold up the line, I paid with a credit card, and sat down to wait.

With a growing sense of panic, I thought about racing out to the car and conducting a search for the missing card, but, I given how this night was going, I was equally afraid of someone taking the food I acquired for at 25% more than I had intended to pay, and I stayed rooted to the spot.

I couldn’t believe I had lost another debit card, which had only just been replaced about 6 months ago. The sadder part is that having to pay for a new one was looking like a more attractive option than facing clerk-o-smerk for yet another episode of “absent-minded hysterical female.”

My food, now worth its weight in gold, arrived, and I tried not to race back to the car.

I opened the door, and settled into the car, and looked around. It was not readily apparent.

My last hope was the bag which contained the paper and pens I had bought to amuse myself while I watched my “soon-to-be-stolen-by-a-hallucinating-thief” car. I pulled out the pens, I pulled out the receipt, I pulled out the paper. I shifted the bag just a bit, and, breathing a huge sigh of relief, revealed my misplaced card.

Offering thanks for yet another miracle on this evening of misadventure, I drove home with no further incident.

For those keeping track, one-hour photo development for 27 exposures and a photo CD cost me $16. I think the deer are laughing at me.

When last we met our heroine, she was phoneless, keyless and stuck inside a convenience store weeping and pulling out her hair in distress and agony. She had nothing but a disposable camera that cost a ridiculous $16 and a wallet filled with plastic money.

Before the convenience store clerks could call the police, she straightened her clothing, wiped her eyes, and stuck the handfuls of hair back on her head, where they drifted away in a gesture of nonchalant futility.

The clerk reviewed the security cameras and insisted I didn’t have the keys when I came into the store. I told him I remember hearing them as I set them on the counter to pay for the camera. He said, no, they aren’t there. We both looked around the store, around the car, under the car, and he was certain they must be in my car. His certainty was accompanied by the patronizingly knowing look of someone who is humoring the woman who has lost her mind. Which might be a reasonable conclusion had I been acting in any way as badly as I described here for comedic effect.

At any rate, I was getting nowhere with the searching, and the car was not going to move by sheer force of moral indignation at the rightness of my cause, knowing that the keys had been lost somewhere near the checkout counter.

This is when my brain inconveniently reminded me that the store I happened to have given my $16 in exchange for a camera is known for having the highest crime rate of any in the city. Actually, I heard of the entire nationwide chain, but, I was trying to stamp down a rising sense of panic that someone had stolen my keys to steal my car.

No one in their right mind would steal my car. The people not in their right minds that would steal it include people with hallucinatory issues who somehow saw a Lamborghini Veneno instead of a 1998 Saturn SL2.

I decided my best course of action was to walk back to campus to find a phone. The part of me that was still feeling paranoid kept looking back to check to see that my car was still there.

After exiting the building, I verified the car hadn’t moved and realized I was but a few feet away from the little critter that had started this whole adventure. And this time, I had a camera. Not only that, I had more than an hour to kill before my sister brought me the spare key. I might as well get a picture of the deer.

I returned to the store, and realized I had nothing to do but loiter. I hate wasted time. I figured, I could get a beverage to help combat the hot, get a writing implement, and paper, and write this all down. Another ridiculous $6 later, I turned to resume my vigil over the car, when a man walked into the store.

He was brightly lit from behind, with a golden halo around his head, and a cloak of light surrounding his silhouette. I heard a choir of angels as he reached out his hand and revealed a golden ball of light which, as my eyes adjusted to the radiance, I now realized, contained my beloved keys.

This beautiful figure holding joy in his hands, apologized profusely, and was a bit embarrassed. He’d gotten home, and realized he had an extra set of keys in his pocket, and couldn’t figure out why. And then he remembered there was a lady who lost her keys, and came back to the store. He’d been standing next to me in line, and inadvertently snagged the keys off the counter.

I glanced over at the clerk, who was honestly dumbfounded by the conclusion, and my ultimate vindication. I refrained from sticking my tongue out at him.

As I turned to go, I realized that I had gotten more for my $16 than a simple picture of a baby deer. I had a copyright free image to use for my column.

That was when I realized I would have to pay for film development.

I work on a lovely college campus converted from an Air Force base.  It has large open areas with well-maintained landscaping. Breaking up the pastoral scenery are uniform brick bunker boxes.  Most people just call them buildings.

There is no significant car traffic through the campus. This makes it a refuge for all manner of wildlife.  On any given day, you can see hawks, coyotes, geese, rabbits, magpies, students, and, lately, deer.

That’s right. Deer.

Did I mention that we’re in the middle of a city? As in, multiple, busy, two-lane roads between us, and wherever it is they go.

The deer don’t live on campus. They just visit at semi-regular intervals. I suspect they got a good deal on Priceline.com, with all-you-can eat landscaping and extra shady spots. They didn’t manage an open bar, which is probably why they usually eat, sit in the shade, and then take off just before sunset.

Normally, it’s a herd of 7-20 does, and I have never seen a single buck anywhere near them, which makes me wonder if we’re not so much the day trip vacation destination as the deer equivalent of the ladies room.

On Friday, I received, from one of my minions, that conclusive proof of the existence of bucks  had been spotted, in the form of a baby.

I got a basic description of the place where baby was hanging out, and resolved to go deer-stalking after work. No, I don’t have the appropriate hat.

Sure enough, I managed to locate the darling creature. And then remembered I didn’t have a camera. (No, not even on my non-existent cell phone. I’ve already told you about that. You thought I was lying, didn’t you? Well, I wasn’t.)

It being Friday night, and having nowhere to go, I figured I’d just stop at the convenience store a few blocks away, get a disposable camera, and get a picture of the little critter.

I grumbled when I learned that the camera cost $16, because, I am a frugal sort, and even though it’s been a decade since I bought one, I remembered them being much cheaper. Everything should always stay the same price as I remember, forever. This gets increasingly disappointing the older I get.  Yes, I realize I sound like a curmudgeonly old person. Yes, I was starting to regret the whole plan.

I managed to punch my inner oldster in the face by successfully arguing, “What’s a few dollars next to the opportunity to get close to a baby deer, and get a photo?”

Having made my purchase and grumbled, I went back to the car. And it was locked. And my keys were not in my hand.

I went back into the store. No keys anywhere.

I fell to my knees with my fists balled and my face uplifted to the heavens as I screamed “NOOOOOOOO!!!!” Tears rolled down my face, and I ripped out chunks of hair, and everyone was really uncomfortable.

And, that’s the perfect place to conclude the story for now. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion next week! Will Kate find her way home?  What had happened to the missing keys? Would there be a picture of a baby deer at any point in this sordid tale of inconvenient store intrigue?  Find out in the next exciting installment!

It’s almost time to plan my next excavation.

Of course, it’s not what you might think.  Unless you think it’s time to clean out the fridge, which I call an “excavation” because it sounds more fun.

As with any excavation, you start by putting down a grid, so that you can record where each and every artifact removed from the site was originally located.   For reference sake, I also append a depth chart to accurately record which layer in each grid has yielded the objects in question.

At this point, there can be no more procrastination. Sending in a canary to detect noxious emissions is unwise, they never come back, and let’s face it, we all know this is an expensive way to find out what we already knew, and you’ll now have a dead canary to excavate.  Just put the money toward a gas mask. Two to three pairs of latex gloves worn simultaneously would also be a wise plan. In fact, if you can afford it, a full hazmat suit would not be entirely ridiculous.

Now that you can’t smell the site, the work begins. It’s best to think of this as the remains of an ancient civilization, where every remnant is a vital clue to understanding history.  As you carefully sift the debris, place any decaying organic matter into a black waste matter disposal unit.
Items which cannot be sifted are what I call “artifacts.” These should be taken back to camp for proper cleaning, identification and cataloging. I usually just put them by the kitchen sink.

Last dig, there was a very confusing moment when I uncovered elements which were clearly dated to the bronze age in the middle of a level of stone age debris.  How could I explain the contradictions in my analysis?

A further search and careful digging uncovered the key evidence:  the jar of ketchup, which I remembered falling a few weeks ago. In its collapse, it probably drug some of the upper layer bronze age material with it into the stone age.  Hopefully, the bottle didn’t cause too much damage to the fragile artifacts in the bottom layers.  Fortunately, the jar itself was still intact.

The mysteries reveal themselves bit by bit.  The soft, green coloring near the back wall, looked like it could be part of an exquisite painting of Osiris, and I started to suspect that this could be a tomb for more than canaries!  Or, it might just be that bell pepper I bought six months ago for a batch of lentil soup.  I wondered where it had ended up.

My hopes of finding the lost tomb of Tetisheri disappeared with that realization. Also, I discovered the seal on the gas mask had slipped, and I was probably hallucinating. I closed down the dig for the day.

A few more hours, and the site would be cleared to bedrock. It was another thrilling excavation, and would be months before I’d start planning the next one, and for that, everyone was grateful. Especially the canaries.

Denver International Airport is the center of 47 different conspiracies. I know this because the Internet told me so, and the Internet would never lie to me.

First, there’s the theory that the shadow government has its headquarters in the miles of tunnels underneath the facility. Elvis is frequently spotted by maintenance workers. He usually comes out to play poker with Dick Cheney.

Another theory postulates that aliens are using the fiberglass teepee-like structures of the main terminal as a homing antenna for their invasion fleet, and as a giant greenhouse for growing sentient gelatin from invisible, irradiated mold found in the temples of Machu Picchu. The gelatin will be used to turn humans into zombies or batteries or something equally sinister.

There is some speculation that the artwork throughout the structure contains symbolic codes which, when activated by the correct Masonic rituals, the walls open to release a hidden army of cyborgs, ready to throw down all the world’s governments.

There are ominous interpretations of the granite monument that the airport claims is a time capsule. It’s just covered with more of those threatening symbols of the Masons, and engraved with the words “New World Airport Commission,” which practically screams their true intentions to the universe. I heard that the Queen of England, a well-known Illuminatus, has been secretly and anonymously buying up the property surrounding the airport. Possibly for a place to hide Princess Diana, who, we all know, is not really dead, just imprisoned somewhere in the Tower.

I’m not entirely sure why conspiracy theorists think the Masons need cyborgs to throw over governments. By that token, they’re not being very good at being secret by plastering their intentions all over public places. I mean, aren’t the Masons already in control of the government through their secret power bases and subtle means?

Isn’t their way better? Rule in secret? Cyborgs and sparkling neon signs don’t really seem their style. Way too flashy.

The murals in the airport, which I’ve seen, but, never truly appreciated for their end-of-the world implications, likely because I misplaced my crazy-colored glasses, supposedly depict Nazis, illustrated depictions of the coming Mayan 2012 apocalypse, and a comfy chair.

I suspect that the artwork symbols are really a control panel for the hell minion standing on the outskirts of the airport. You know the one. Blue-Who-Must-Not-Be Named. He’s much more frightening then cyborgs, and has laser eye-beams and a terrible, horrible, death-whinny.

Having just typed that, I realize the truth. There’s no way that “Blucifer” can be controlled by mere arcane symbols.

He probably waits until no one is watching, and comes to life to breathe fire, shoot his eye-lasers, and, I don’t know, eat babies. Maybe this is the key. The only thing that is keeping our children safe at night is the compulsion to stare at that horrifying blue mustang.

Maybe he really guards the five mysterious buildings that were completed and then buried intact. These were built by the Illuminati, They probably figured that Denver, so enamored of its football team, would not suspect a horse being a secret weapon guarding the headquarters of a pending genocide to usher in the New World Order if it was packaged in the shape of a blue horse.

They have a point, after all. Just ask the city of Troy.

I am a collector of found things.

In my day job, that is. By day, I am a mild-mannered receptionist. By night, I am asleep. Usually.

Being a receptionist, my centrally located desk becomes the obvious place to leave items that have been spotted, probably lost shortly before, but now found by another. They come to me, and most of them never leave.

Sure, I try and reunite them with their owner. I send an e-mail to everyone to alert them that a new item has been placed in my care. If the item is not claimed within a few hours, it never will be.

I have collected three earrings, five gloves, a bunch of mix CDs, two buttons, three pairs of sunglasses, a hat, a few pens, an old cup with some writing that looks Aramaic, and a ring that makes people invisible when they wear it.

Things such as keys don’t last long in my collection. Same goes with good stuff like flash drives, cell phones, computers and food.

Me being me, the unclaimed items take on a tragic air. I imagine that these lost things are trapped in a torturous limbo, separated from their owners and their purpose. In my mind, they were the favored objects of a person who can’t afford to replace them, and with their loss, their owner is now dying of pneumonia and cursed with blindness as their eyes are ruined by exposure the sun with no protection. This poor person can’t even mourn the loss of the earrings, which are the last heirlooms of their ancient and noble family, once heralded with land and titles.

At what point do I toss the mix CDs? When do I give up and admit they are never going to be claimed? I’m sure I’ve given those things more thought than their former owners, who probably burned new copies ten minutes after they learned they were lost. I’ve been storing these items in the vain hope that someone will come in looking for them, and will be so grateful I have taken such good care of them for so long, that they are compelled to thank me in exceedingly lavish ways for my faithful guardianship. The more time that passes, the more this seems like sheer stupidity.

And then I remember that the penniless descendant of a noble family lost these items, and I feel guilty about throwing any of these things away. I suspect my predecessor felt the same way, as I inherited at least three of the gloves, one of the sunglasses and the hat from her. I wonder if I’ve stumbled across an unwritten but sacred duty of receptionists everywhere: to be forever entrusted with accumulating and protecting a building’s flotsam. In that case, maybe I ought to get a bigger shelf.

There was a time when, if you were to mention “date night” to me, I would imagine that mythological annual event in which a person of the male persuasion would appear on my doorstep, open the car door and drive me somewhere in his car and then *pay* for an evening’s entertainment. A person other than my father.

That image is long gone, put on the shelf next to unicorns and cable companies with customer service you actually enjoy calling. I no longer even hope that I might possibly ever see another one of those fabled nights. Instead, the fantasy image of “date night” has been replaced with an image of chat client software and the antics of ghost hunters.

Date night in my house is the weekly ritual of three sisters separated by hundreds of miles but united by a common need to mock cheesy reality television. It goes something like this:

Me: *Pet name for one of the guys which is too colorful for the eyes of my discerning readers* is pretending to see something interesting again!
Sis2oncouch: He’s probably *salty comment.*
Sis1faraway: LOL! I bet he is. Maybe he’s found *something very improbable*
Me: HA! That *is* improbable. It’d be more likely that he found the Holy Grail while skiing in Hades.
Sis2oncouch: *something really funny, but, only if you had read the actual rest of the conversation, and not this redacted version*
Sis1faraway: ROFL. Can’t breathe.
Me: *Makes the funniest joke any of us have ever heard*
Sis1faraway: Tears. Dying. STOP. I mean it. Really can’t breathe.
Me: I win! (calls 911)
Sis2oncouch: That wasn’t the funniest joke I ever heard, and you’d better not say that in your column. Besides, I’m funnier. And if Sis1faraway is really dead, I am *so* telling mom on you. You will be in *so* much trouble.

But, only one hour of ghost hunters is not enough.

After the EMPs have faded into the credits, we pop in DVDs of whatever series we’re currently mocking. Usually, we pick something that requires little concentration, because half the time we’re not really watching it. We pick TV series’ we’ve seen a number of times, or something so simple that the plot could be followed by aliens watching three systems away at the same time that they recalibrate their naughty probes, sketch out their next crop circle patterns, edit a cookbook of long pork recipes, check their toddler’s calculus homework, and balance their financial accounts.

We spend about three hours in front of our computers, listening to the television, one night a week. During that time, we lose ourselves to the glow of the computer screen, and hope that it doesn’t turn us into zombies or grow unsightly appendages. Although, it might be nice to have an extra arm. It might finally let me type faster than Sis1faraway.