Invasion!

I sat on the toilet at work today, staring at the little speckled design painted on the linoleum floor.  The specks began to shift and roam in seemingly random directions.  I blinked and they stood still, back in their original positions.  I have the office ant colony to thank for this visual phenomenon. 

Jim, our maintenance guy, had noticed a few ants in the kitchen last week and set up a couple of traps, the kind with a clear goo inside that the little buggers get stuck in.  As of this morning, those traps had only caught one or two ants each.  But I was squishing about a dozen of the bastards on my office floor every day.  So finally, after going on a mini rampage this morning, wiping out 10 or 15 of the little twerps, I stole one of the traps from the kitchen.  I found a huddled mass of probably 20 or 30 ants under the corner of the rug below my desk, and placed the trap near them.  Then I went about my work and soon took a break for lunch.  When I came back from lunch, less than two hours after setting the trap, it had gone from clear to black. 

There had to have been 60 or 70 ants inside that one-by-three-inch trap.  Some were still alive, near the entrance, just beginning to explore this new contraption placed before them.  But most were dead, floating in the goo.  When I lifted the corner of the rug, there were yet another 40 or 50 of the little critters milling around, no doubt trying to figure out where that delicious sugary smell was coming from. 

I tossed the full trap, its black coat rippling, into the garbage can.  I knew we didn’t have any spray poison, so I grabbed some floor cleaner from under the kitchen sink and gave the remaining ants a good spritzing.  Then, while they were trapped and drowning in the liquid, I came through with a wad of paper towels and finished the job.  When I was done, there were no ants left. 

I cleaned up, took out the trash, and when I sat back down a few minutes later, a couple of ants had reappeared.  I tried to go back to work, but every few minutes I would look down and see trios or quartets of them fanning out across the floor.  I peeked under the rug again and found a new batch—maybe 20 of them—amassing near the seam at the bottom of the wall. 

I stole the second trap from the kitchen.  It had a mere two dead ants in it.  Throughout the rest of the afternoon, I kept an eye on the trap as it filled up.  The ants seemed to approach its entrance, peer in at the growing crowd inside, and say to each other, “Damn. Must be a party. Smells like they’ve got some sweet grub too. You wanna check it out?”  “Yeah, dude. Looks pretty fun.  I need a break, the queen’s really been crackin’ the whip lately. Check out all these guys, passed out near the door! This must be one helluva party! Woo!”  Then, dead.

Still, not every ant could be lured in.  Every 30 minutes or so, until quitting time, I went around squishing 8 or 10 little guys who happened to be scattered across the floor, roaming aimlessly.  But wherever I would kill one, another would always seem to take its place just a few minutes later.  By the time I left, their numbers appeared to be dwindling, but they weren't gone completely.  And now the ants have the office to themselves for the weekend, with the freedom to wander or join the party. 

My new #drug?

It’s funny how, as humans, whenever we quit one habit we almost inevitably replace it with another.  Quit drinking and start smoking.  Quit smoking and start putting food to your lips instead of cigarettes.  And in my case, quit wasting time on Facebook and start tweeting your brains out.

In my defense, though, my newfound Twitter addiction—er, fascination (addiction is a bit strong)—was enabled by one of my co-workers quitting his job and a nonprofit organization's controversial social media campaign. 

For the first week or so of Lent, I was happily plodding along without Facebook or any other form of social media mucking up my free time.  Then, on two days’ notice, the guy who used to take care of all our organization’s social media needs left to join a marketing firm that wanted him to start his new job post-haste (for which I cannot blame them; he does good work).  That left me and a fellow employee to pick up the slack by Facebooking and tweeting.  Naturally, my cohort filled the Facebook position while I took the wheel of the Twitter bus. 

That was two weeks ago, and since then Twitter has captured my interest and wasted my time like no website since, well, Facebook.  Or maybe Sporcle.  OK, yeah, Sporcle. 

When I first started using Twitter a couple of years ago, it didn’t hold much of an allure for me.  Hardly any of my friends and acquaintances were using it, and the 140-character updates (almost always with misspellings and textese abbreviations like “lol” and “smh”) left me shaking my head, wanting more. 

Now it’s different.  I still don’t really care to use my own Twitter account, because very few of my friends tweet, and I haven’t taken the time to follow a bunch of people who might be interesting to read about.  But using my organization’s Twitter account is fascinating.  We follow all sorts of interesting people, and all sorts follow us.  Plus, I can have fun coming up with clever little 140-character advertisements for our website, which might actually get people to click, and therefore become involved with our organization.  Social media have become viable forms of marketing, as many companies have proved in recent times.

The most recent, and probably most poignant, proof of that came last week, in Invisible Children’s Kony 2012 campaign, which, in addition to riling me up for a variety of reasons, kept my attention riveted on Twitter.  But that’s another story, for next time. 

By the way, these are some of the images that come up when you search Google for "twitter needs you."

This was here.

This was here.

And finally, my favorite. From here.

Status Update

I saw a great Facebook profile photo a while back.  No, I wasn’t on Facebook.  In fact, I haven’t logged on since Fat Tuesday, nearly three weeks ago.  And I don’t really miss it.  The longer I go without it, the easier it is to avoid it and not care about logging on.  But I digress.  This photo I saw showed up on a Google image search, I believe.  I don’t recall what I was looking for, but for some reason this photo showed up.  It was a Flash graphic that read, “You don’t need Facebook,” at first, and then changed to, “Facebook needs you.”  I’ll attach it below if I can find it.* 

It’s a nice little adage, or protest, but the sad fact is, I still feel like I do need Facebook.  Yes, Facebook needs me and other people to use it in order for it to be worth anything.  And if everyone stopped using Facebook, Facebook would be obsolete.  But the truth is, Facebook is actually quite a handy little communication tool.  According to this, nearly 156 million people in the U.S. alone communicate via Facebook.  So inevitably, by not using it, I’m being left out of some things.  And I’m leaving my friends and acquaintances out of some things too. 

For instance, how am I supposed to let people know that I’ve just posted a new blog entry?  I could call, text, or email a bunch of people and attach a link to this page.  Or I could post the link on Facebook.  Obviously the second option is the simpler of the two.  But now, without access to Facebook, I’ll just have to post this and hope my friends and family will check my blog and find this.  No, I’m not going to email everyone with a link.

Similarly, if one of my friends on Facebook posts an interesting link, I’ll have to hope they did the same on Twitter, which only a small fraction of my Facebook friends use.  More importantly, if one of my friends is hosting a social gathering (in real life), it’s not likely I’ll find out about it.  Most of my friends send party or event invitations via Facebook, not email or text.  Although, right now I am thankful for the ones who text.

So, even though Facebook’s existence depends more on its users than its users’ existence depends on Facebook, its overwhelming popularity has made it a ubiquitous communication tool.  I’ll survive just fine without it, but there’s no doubt I’ll be just a little bit out of the loop until I start using it again.

*PS: I couldn't find it.  Maybe I didn't see it on a Google search, but just imagined it in a dream.  Anyway, here are a couple of other fun pictures.  I found the first one here. 

I'm including this one just because it cracked me up.

This one was on this web page. 

And finally, here's another one that made me laugh.

Summer is at least getting closer

I readily and wholeheartedly admit that the Pacific Northwest has some of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve seen in all my travels.  But I still wish it wasn’t so damn cold for so much of the year.  It’s the last day of February, and aside from a brief work trip to the Caribbean last November, I’ve been bundled up, with the heat on, for the last four and a half months. Only three and a half more to go. 

Sure, it could be worse.  I could have been raised in Alaska and still living there.  The views might be stunning way up there, but the cold would be even more bitter.

With that said, I know living here in Western Washington isn’t all bad.  The clear days don’t happen all too often, but when they do, we’ve got it made.  I’ll keep that in mind as I wrap a few more sweaters around myself and dream of the approaching summer.  Because in my mind, summer is always approaching, even when it’s the middle of winter. 

The end of last summer. 111 days until the next one.

40 Days Without Facebook

I’ve managed to avoid Facebook for a little over a day so far.  Only 39 more to go.  I haven’t broken out into night sweats or seen dead babies crawling across my ceiling just yet, but I was feeling dizzy and lightheaded today.  Why does it seem like good health is always so fleeting?  Maybe I really do need to get back to running.  And lay off the ramen.  At any rate, the health issue probably had more to do with diet or blood sugar (and hopefully nothing more serious) than with Facebook, which is what we’re here to talk about. 

I don’t normally bother observing Lent, but I thought it would be interesting to try this year.  A couple of weeks ago, I was at work, on Facebook, which I’m allowed to do a little bit for gathering work-related info and the like.  But while I was on there, I realized how easily I get distracted and begin perusing my news feed and just plain wasting time.  Working at a computer all day, it’s so easy to just click on over to Facebook anytime there’s a lull.  I thought about this and looked over at my calendar on the wall next to my desk, to see when Ash Wednesday was.  “Hmm,” I thought. “Maybe that would be good for me.”

So here we are, 26-ish hours in and going strong.  I’ve gone for long periods without using Facebook before, but only when I’ve been out of the country or busy and away from a computer.  I think, for the first few days, it will be tough to avoid checking up on my friends via Facebook.  In addition to being a huge distraction from real productivity, it’s also such a great communication tool.  It’s a one-stop shop for sending and receiving messages and party invitations, and for keeping in touch with my outer circles of friends, who I don’t see on a regular basis.  It even keeps me up to date on some of the goings-on with inner-circle friends when we don't make the effort to call each other. 

I’m sure I’ll feel out of the loop for a little while, but I’ll get used to using my phone and email as my main communication tools.  I bet I’ll even feel relieved to not have Facebook as a constant distraction or one more thing that I have to keep up with.  Sort of like the peaceful feeling I get when I turn my phone off when I’m out of the country. 

And even though my only other attempt at observing Lent failed within two and a half weeks (I couldn’t last very long without soda pop; I just get these cravings), I feel better about this one.  It’ll just take some getting used to.  And it’s a little disappointing that no one will read my blog during this time, since Facebook is by far the best place to set up links pointing my friends and family here.  I mean, it's not like anyone ever checks this blog on their own.  And I'm certainly not going to email links to everyone I know.  I guess I’ll just have to tweet this. 

La Rioja

I had heard talk of La Rioja and its wines before I visited Spain.  Linnell was the first to mention it.  After college, where we had become friends, she had spent one year working as an au pair in Barcelona, and another year in Valladolid as a teaching assistant.  When she returned to the States, she informed me that her favorite wines came from La Rioja.  A few short months later, I was in that very region, visiting my friend Jason as I made my way through Europe.

Just like Linnell and anyone else who has spent more than a few hours in Spain, Jason had developed a respect for the Rioja wines.  I quickly saw why.  In Spain, there are a few wine-producing regions, but none are regarded the way Rioja is.  Standing at the edge of the town of Tricio, where Jason lived, we looked down at the surrounding vineyards.  The valley stretched out around us and flamed with neat little rows of yellow, orange, and red vines.  The scenery was probably similar to the kind found in Spain’s other wine regions at that time of year, but the produce here was different, better.  The people of La Rioja know this, and are proud of it.  Their love for the very ground where they live, and all it produces—especially its famed wines—is contagious.  That pride alone could convince a visitor to love the tempranillos, crianzas, and reservas passed around at Rioja dinner tables.  Fortunately, though, the wines have a taste that lends credence to the delight these people take in their prized beverages.

The best of the bunch was a tempranillo made in a neighboring town and named after Tricio.  They called it Tritium, which is what the Romans called Tricio, and which was a hell of a lot better than “ashtray,” the name of the town where it was bottled.  Jason and his wife, Maite, had an entire case of the stuff left over from their wedding more than a year earlier.  We polished off a few bottles during my stay, and I decided to bring one home for the family to enjoy at Thanksgiving.  Everyone who tasted it loved it just as much as I did, and that bottle was empty before anyone had even finished their turkey. 

My dad enjoyed the Tritium so much that he tried to find it in the States.  He found one place in California that imports it, but none in Washington.  We still haven’t had a second bottle of it.  Thankfully, though, there are plenty of other tasty Rioja wines to be discovered here in the U.S.  More and more people seem to be gaining an appreciation for wines from all corners of the earth.  Just like I first began to do five years ago, when my friends in Buenos Aires introduced me to the malbec. 

The view from Tricio.

Cafe con leche

After the UK and Ireland, I made my way through Amsterdam, Berlin, and Istanbul before hopping over to Spain.  In Amsterdam I had one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten—turkey, sprouts, and honey—but that’s another blog for another time.  When I think back on drinks during that leg of the trip, the only one that stands out is the tiny cup of Turkish coffee I had with my baklava one night in Istanbul. It was a dainty little thing, in an ornately painted blue and gold cup.  But it was powerful.  A bit too strong for my taste, in fact.  And it started to get gritty toward the bottom.  The English and Irish teas were still winning.  Then I flew to Barcelona.

Café con leche.  It just means “coffee with milk,” but it’s so much more than that. Tea with milk, I can make at home, even if it’s not as good as Dave and Chloe’s stuff.  But café con leche, no chance.  They do something special to the mix, whipping it up a little and infusing the coffee with the milk just right.  Toss in a packet of sugar and you’re golden.  Maybe even platinum.  I couldn’t get enough of the stuff during my two weeks in Spain. 

After a few days in Barcelona, I bussed it over to Logroño, where my buddy Jason and his wife, Maite, picked me up at the station.  They took me back to Maite’s parents’ place in a little town up the road called Tricio, where I stayed for a week.  Just about every day during that week, Jason and I would be out and about and find some bar or restaurant and dip in for a cup of café con leche and some food. 

At one of the first places we went, Jason demonstrated an amusing bit of Spanish culture he’d discovered since moving there.  As he finished his pincho (a small plate of food served at bars and cafes in Spain), he wiped his mouth, wadded up his napkin, and as he finished chewing, said, “Watch this.”  Then he threw his napkin on the floor, right in front of the bar.  I looked down, and there were dozens, if not more, wadded-up napkins and toothpicks and other pieces of trash at our feet.  Apparently Spaniards prefer sweeping the floor over cleaning off the bar.  I got into the custom and pretty soon we were both chucking napkins, empty sugar packets, anything, onto the floor with gusto. 

But Jason's new home had a lot more to offer than just coffee and free-spirited littering.  You see, Tricio is in the heart of a region in northern Spain called La Rioja.  And it wasn’t long before I learned just how important that name is to people who enjoy a good glass of wine.  

Cafe.

This was hanging in the bathroom in Maite's parents' house.  It has nothing to do with coffee, but I like it.