Turn Off the Juice, Boy

Tata: We’d looked at fridges and settled on a Hotpoint 17 cu. ft. as a good size/shape for the basement. At Home Depot: $434, with rebates and delivery: $404 plus some change. Hotpoint may be evil, but it’s possibly less evil than Whirlpool, and Home Depot is still on my Merde List.

Siobhan: It took you six months to Google a washing machine, so I’m impressed with your improved shopping ability.

Tata: After you and I talked yesterday, I went home, Pete and I developed a good head of steam and drove over to Derby, which is local and I’d rather buy local. The guy there seemed kind of hostile. I said we were interested in the Hotpoint 17 cu. ft. and Home Depot was selling them for $404 delivered. Three times, I said this. Three times, he said Derby would start at $479 + $60 delivery + taxes, and there’s no way Home Depot was selling this model for that price. I said, “We saw it with our own eyes.” Three times, he essentially called me a liar, so we left. Derby was also selling Girl Scout Cookies, so Pete was sorry to leave.

Siobhan: A case of those qualifies as groceries.

Tata: At Sears, we found a GE Energy Star 18 cu. ft. For $479 + delivery charge + warranty – rebates + tax and could not get a clear picture from the salesman of the price, and it couldn’t be delivered until the 14th. GE is of course evil, but I need a fridge. I came very close to saying, “Fine. Whatever.” Then I didn’t so much change my mind as not commit and the salesman disappeared. We saw three car wrecks in a space of two miles, which NEVER happens.

Siobhan: I’m starting to know how that feels.

Tata: Pete and I drove over to the Home Depot in Milltown, where when we walked in the front door, there stood the GE Energy Star 18 cu. ft. model with a long series of discounts on a sales tag. Bottom line: $331. With tax, it turned out to be $353 + change, delivered Saturday. And that guy at Derby can kiss my entire ass.

Right Back To Where We Started From

Here at Poor Impulse Control, who the hell knows if we have our priorities straight. Let’s review:

Adorable grandchildren –
Learning about food preserving –
Potatoes, still without a glass bottom potato boat –
Cat blankets

And on Monday, Pete and I start a three-day motorcycle safety course that either ends with our getting licenses or drastically rethinking the next thirty years of our futuristic and stylish lives.

Buckwheat: check! Panky: check! Destination: picnic!

Zucchini in tomatoes, pickled beets, red onions in red wine, Tata in 100 degree weather.

We've grown potato plants; no idea if we've grown potatoes.

Hey! Turns out cats like blankets!

I Gotta Wear Shades

Say, isn’t this a blog called Poor Impulse Control, which title is like uber-swiped from a novel predicting a terrible, fucked up future? Well, not if you’ve seen my table manners, but what’s this then?

Important characters

Y.T. (“Yours Truly”)
A 15-year-old skateboard “Kourier” who helps Hiro investigate the mysterious meta-virus. She is Hiro’s “partner” in information-gathering for the Central Intelligence Corporation. Her real name is never stated, though she is alluded to in a later book by Stephenson, The Diamond Age. Like all Kouriers, she uses an electromagnetic harpoon to hitch a ride from (often-unwilling) motor vehicles, such as Hiro’s. Though she does not carry any lethal weapons, all Kouriers are outfitted with a wide variety of defensive countermeasures, which Y.T. uses throughout the book to escape sticky situations. Her mother is a worn-down programmer for the irrelevant Federal Government; Stephenson satirizes American bureaucracy (in particular, the real-life Code of Federal Regulations) via a multi-page memo on intra-office toilet paper policies which good employees are expected to spend 15.62 minutes reading.

Toilet paper policies? What? Help us, Newark Mayor Corey Booker:

Newark city employees may have to start carrying a roll of Charmin’s [sic] to work.

Mayor Cory Booker says the city can no longer afford to buy toilet paper.

Who knew the terrible, fucked up future would also be embarrassing?

Faces So Tired Of Facing

The potatoes die back, as friends promised potatoes would.

Friends who’ve grown potatoes and know I have the attention span of a frazzled gnat assured me the little potato plants would grow, then grow more, then grow some, then go crazier than a liquored-up bridesmaid in a paid-up limo before dying back and needing fallow time for reflection and hardening – in fact, just like that bridesmaid. Her special day will come! Today, I dug my hand into the dirt around some of these plants and didn’t find fingerlings close to the surface. I am not sure what to think.

By way of contrast, the Blues look like a cuter, younger sister.

All along, the blue potatoes, planted on the same day at the same time, looked weeks behind. Today, they look healthy and strong in a way the Yukon Golds never really did. I have high hopes for the little darlings, but I worry. We’ve had a strange spring and summer of wildly uneven rain and heat, and I can’t see what’s really going on with them. What if they’ve got a crush on that greasy boy from French class?

This Conversation Kills

Our driveways are too close together.

Benny: Roll up your windows.
Connie: Okay.
Benny: Don’t start your car! Turn that off!
Connie: What?
Benny: You can’t start your car. There’s no oil in it!
Connie: How am I supposed to know that? I’m not a boy.
Tata: Ugh. Time is traveling backwards and I’m gonna buy pink clothes.