In the shelter with the Cat Man

Oh tangents, how you distract me!  I just deleted a long-winded entry that I realized contained way more tangential information that was necessary.  Really, it just distracted from the story I wanted to tell way too much. 

So I have been spending my down moments working on homework (oh the joys of metadata!), avoiding housecleaning, and fantasizing about reorganizing my second bedroom.  To fill you in on the status of these items, the first is almost done (but not quite), the second is a slam dunk, and the third has moved into the next phase (determining what, if any, budget I have). 

After an interesting discussion the other day regarding creepy people that we have encountered over the years, I had a flashback to an incident that occurred when I was still a teenager working at my first job. 

As first jobs go, mine was pretty sweet.  I worked at the first (and best) coffee shop in Willmar.  It was started and owned by two ladies from my church, and they were about as laid back and kind as any two first bosses could be. 

It was a small store; I think the kitchen in my townhouse may have been about the same size.  The location was perfect as it was in a strip mall on the main road through town.  This was before the whole espresso-drink craze took over the world, so words like "latte," "mocha" and "cappuccino" were all new concepts to the general public.  As the first crew of baristas to hit the town, we became well educated quickly in how best to explain these mysterious (and more expensive) beverages to our fellow citizens.

Despite the confusion over drink composition, the little store soon developed a loyal following.  Most of the regulars came through in the morning/daytime shifts, which meant that they rarely encountered the high school employees during the school year.  However, there were a few regulars that chose different hours to visit.

One would think that in a small town, one would know the names of all the regulars.  For some reason, this was simply not the case.  Perhaps it was because this was before the time of credit/debit card use and it is hard to see someones name if they're always paying in cash.  Or perhaps teenagers really don't give a rat's hinder about anyone but themselves.  Both are true.

Most of our regulars (nameless or not) were pleasant folk.  We happily chatted with them and served them their coffee and treats.

Then there were the creepers.  Not many, mind you, but enough to make young teenage girls take notice and be cautious.

One of these creepers was a nameless fellow we had dubbed "The Cat Man."  I have tried to recall the meaning behind this name, but I cannot answer with certainty.  I do not think it was because he had cats.  Not that I know he didn't, but he was not the kind of gentleman who would share that kind of information because he rarely spoke to us beyond his beverage related requests.  It may have had to do with the fact that he was quiet and sneaky like a cat.  Or something else.  I forget.

What I have not forgotten is that he used to come in alone, dressed casually and carrying a briefcase.  He would order his drink in a glass mug and sit down at a table to read whatever book he had in his briefcase.

He would sit there for hours, silently keeping to himself.  When his drink became cold, he would bring it back to us and ask us to warm it in the microwave.  When his drink was empty, he would refill it with coffee from the urns out on the counter.  When his refill coffee became cold, he would again ask to have it microwaved.  This was the extent of our normal interaction with The Cat Man.

Until the summer before my senior year of high school.  It was a strange time in my life.  My family was preparing to move to Wisconsin, but I was going to stay home to complete my education in Willmar.  On one particular week in July, my entire family went (without me) to Wisconsin to look at houses and familiarize themselves with the area.

This meant that for one week, I was alone at our house.  Of course, I did have the protection of our fearless Sheltie, but she was more of a lover than a fighter.  Rather than take the normal teenager route of hosting some wild and raucous parties, I kept a low profile.  Looking back, I am a bit ashamed of my square-ness.  Our house was on a lake in the woods and relatively secluded.  Really, an ideal place to host a bunch of people.  Oh well.

I decided to fill my alone time with more shifts at work.  The summer traffic at the coffee shop was typically a bit lighter, which meant that most shifts were done solo.  Long afternoons staring at pastries and swilling copious amounts of fountain Dr. Pepper were the norm.

All of this was to explain the scene for my Cat Man story.  One afternoon during my week of living alone, I was all by my lonesome at work.  Well, actually I was not totally alone.  There were a few customers, but I was the only barista on duty.  It was a slow day; however, the Cat Man did manage to make an appearance.

As early evening approached, I started to anticipate quitting time and my return to an empty house.  The seating area eventually emptied, with the Cat Man the final person to depart. 

That is when I noticed something odd.  The sky, which had up to that point been a beautiful shade of blue, was turning a very alarming shade of green.  If you are from the Midwest, you know what this means.  For the uneducated, this means that "a TWISTER be a-comin'!"

In normal tornado safety procedures, one knows to get to a safe location.  Usually, this is the basement.  In the absence of a basement, one moves to a central part of the building away from glass and windows. 

For the coffee shop, this meant moving into the back storage area.  In what I can only describe as a very odd layout decision from a safety and security standpoint, the back hallway of our little shop was openly connected to a thrift shop located next door.  Here is a crude map:

This is in no way drawn to scale.

While this always caused a slight unsettled feeling for me, it never really caused a real problem.  The thrift store was not open on this specific day, but this only meant that the entire place was dark and not exactly a place I would want to hang out.

After I noted the change in weather, I made a phone call to my boss.  She instructed me to lock the doors and ask that any remaining customers be invited to take shelter back in the bowels of the building with me.  This was not a problem, because at that point, there were no customers in the store. 

Before I could hang up the phone and lock the door, it opened.  The Cat Man was back.  In a rare moment of verbosity, he related that he had been half way home when he realized that a storm was starting.  So instead of going home to take shelter, he came back to the coffee shop.

This was an alarming development.  Not only was I isolated in a basement-less building during a potentially severe storm, I was now trapped in said building with a man that I considered creepy.  Was he dangerous?  I wasn't sure.  All I knew for sure is that he was weird.  Weird enough to think that it was a good idea to return to a basement-less building for shelter.

Various scenarios flashed through my mind, mostly ending in my gruesome and painful death.  Who could rescue me?  Who would find my body?  How could I tell the police who to look for when I didn't know the man's real name? 

Against every fiber of my being, I informed the Cat Man that I was locking the doors and that he was welcome to seek shelter in the back area of the store.  If he accepted my invitation, my plan was to hide out in the ladies bathroom.  For some strange reason, he declined my offer.  He chose instead to remain stationary at the front store windows, watching the sky and the storm unfold. 

Trying not to seem too relieved, I retreated to the back storage room/office and locked the door.  Yes, I realize I left the Cat Man alone in the front of the store with our merchandise and cash register.  But after all of our outside furniture was abruptly swept away by a large gust of wind, I decided that my safety was more important.

So I sat back there for what felt like hours but was probably only 20 minutes.  Occasionally, I peeked out around the corner to see if he was still there.  As is the case with most super severe storms, the worst part passed relatively quickly and the sky resumed its blue shade. 

I emerged completely from the office and asked if it looked like the storm was over.  The Cat Man nodded.  I told him that he was welcome to stay, but that I had to receive confirmation from my boss as to whether or not we would officially open for business for the remainder of the day.

Uncertain as to what his long-term plans were due to his aversion to verbal communication, I made myself busy behind the counter.  Finally, he started to shuffle towards the door and I quickly ran up to open it for him.  He thanked me and departed.

After re-locking the door, I called my boss to inform her that I was alright, the customer had left and that all of our outdoor furniture was probably on the roof or somewhere in the next county.  She agreed that due to possible damage and the low probability that anyone would want to venture forth for frothy espresso drinks, I could close up shop.

This was a relief.  Once everything was closed up and clean, I drove home to an empty house, unsure of what I would find.  There was indeed a large tree branch barring the driveway, but I kicked the '87 Chevy Celebrity into high gear and drove around it.  Thankfully the power was still on and my dog seemed unfazed. 

Later, I learned that there had actually been a tornado that touched down less than a mile from the coffee shop.  Hence the airborne furniture, I guess.

This was the last summer that I worked at this coffee shop, and to be honest, I do not remember much else for the remainder of my tenure.  I am sure that the Cat Man came back, but there was no bond of survivors between us.  Maybe he is still alive and living in Willmar.  I do know that my coffee shop no longer exists, so if he is still around he has had to find a new hangout.  Maybe this one will have a basement.

Oh well, whatever, nevermind

Oh dear.  It looks like I have been slacking in the blog department, and the sad thing is that I don't really have a legitimate excuse. 

Sunday would have been a perfect day to write; I was enclosed all day in a house with three dogs and no other obligations.  Honest truth?  I did not turn on the computer all day.  ALL DAY.  What did I do instead, you ask?  I did NOT do homework.  I did NOT read a book.  I did NOT call a friend. 

No.  In between feeding the dogs and myself, I watched a NCIS marathon.  We may have also had a dramatic reenactment of some scenes from said marathon.  If you're interested, Thor was McGee, Lena was Abby, Pippi was Ziva and I was Gibbs.  Yes, I realize there are some gender inconsistencies here, but there are only so many cool female roles in this show.

By the time my parents arrived home, they were all ready to go out for dinner, so of course I obliged.  This led to me staying the night on Sunday.  Which meant that I had to go to work from their house on Monday, resulting in a return voyage to the inner city to retrieve my dog Monday night.  Needless to say, we did not get back to the sticks until 9 p.m.  Way too late to write an update. 

So here we are, almost into the middle of the week. 

At the risk of revealing too much about myself, I will share that on Friday I had a bit of a breakdown.  My continuing job search has yet to materialize into any interest on the part of employers.  While I realize that this is also due to the state of the current job market and a saturation of qualified individuals, it still carries a whiff of failure.

The people who care about me have offered positive words and what they hope will be helpful advice.  My first order of business has been to reconsider the formatting of my resume.  To be honest, I have had doubts about my original resume based on the fact that the entirety of my job history to date has been with one company.  This may have positive meaning to some, but it is very hard to convey the amount of skills I have gained or accomplishments I have achieved when there is not much diversity in my work experience details.

Honestly, I do not have doubts about my ability to write effectively.  I know that I am using the right "action" words and that my grammar and spelling are correct.  My descriptions are honest, even when I am trying to make sure that I am listing the ones that are specifically pertinent to the job at hand.  Oh, did I not mention that I tweak my resume for each job application?  Yes.  It results in several saved versions of my resume in Word, but I feel the effort is worth it.  At least I would if I could even get an interview.

There is also the possibility that the hiring agents are getting high volumes of applicants and are doing some highly objective sorting methods.  If this is the case, I have no way of knowing what will ultimately work. 

The good news is that I still have a job.  I imagine that this process is at least 100 times more frustrating and gut-wrenching for someone who is unemployed. 

One thing that actually gets through my haze of frustration is the knowledge that in a few months, I will be able to update my education section to show that I have completed my MLIS degree.  While I have been careful to include the fact that it is in process and scheduled to be completed in December 2011, the edge will always be given to the person who is all done and finished.

Moving on from my job search woes, I had to go through my calendar yesterday and figure out potential time off for the next couple of months.  It was a bit surprising (and perhaps sad) to find that the majority of my vacation time is going towards the act of dog-sitting and not to actual vacation.  Said dog-sitting events are usually the result of my parents taking vacation. 

Don't get me wrong, my parents have definitely offered to include me on more than one of their outings, but with school and the dogs, it becomes difficult for the three of us to be away at the same time.  I keep saying that once school is done and my schedule is clear, I can plan a real vacation for myself. 

At this point, I am open to ideas.  Obviously, I would prefer to be economical about the costs.  No voyages around the world or stays at the Four Seasons Maui.  Unless you are willing to pay?  What say you??

Les chiens qui dorment

Goodness, it's getting late.  What am I still doing up?  Well, I will tell you. 

The pups have been out for their last bathroom break of the day, which was severely truncated due to the fact that some young gentlemen are carousing at high volume in a backyard somewhere within hearing distance.  They must also have a dog with them, which of course leads to doggie conversations.

As I am sure that none of my other neighbors care to listen to doggie conversations at 10:45 p.m., I had to lure them back in with treats. 

I am now contemplating the joy that is piling three terrier-sized dogs into a queen-size bed with one fully grown female human.  Sure to be a delight.  As a precautionary measure, I think I may bring up some doggy beds for the floor as the canines have a propensity to jump down at an hour that is far to early on a weekend for me to contemplate getting up.  Due to the fact that most of said canines cannot or will not jump back UP on the bed, they need comfortable accommodations to allow them rest after the initial hoopla of waking up.

Of course, this afternoon we also had "Orbit Gum Scare 2011."  I found the remains of a partially consumed wrapper with what I took to be already chewed Orbit gum.  As I know that sugar free gum can be toxic to dogs, I immediately called my vet brother.  He did some research for me and we determined that if any of the dogs ate gum, we would be seeing symptoms.  After conferring on the phone with my mother, I learned that it was likely a piece of ABC gum (Already Been Chewed), thus rendering the toxic sugarlike substance far lower in concentration.

Here we are several hours later and everyone is fine.

Today I had some exciting news.  My Saturday class, which is scheduled to meet for five hours every other week, is being truncated due to our required participation in an internship.  I know that three hours instead of five may not sound like much to some, but trust me, it is wonderful.

So now that I have completed my first week of class, I can say that I think this final semester is going to be a good one.  I find that I am without my usual anxiety over new courses and new information.  Is that a sign of the "senior slide" that usually precedes graduation?  We shall see.

Wish me luck.  I am about to attempt the process of putting the household to bed.  It's now or never, people.  Or dogs.  I get them confused sometimes.

Coasting into the weekend

Watch your backs, folks.  I am dangerously close to becoming a drooling flesh-eating zombie and I would hate for you to succumb to being one of my victims.

Yesterday I made the mistake of agreeing to accompany my father on a 5:15 a.m. dog walk on the streets of Edina.  In the dark.

By the time I arrived at school last night, I was starting to drag a little.  After two hours of my three hour class, which is held in the basement of the library building in a room full of computers, I was on the floor.  It is not my teacher's fault.  She had a lot of interesting information to share and she made lots of nice Power Point slides. 

It isn't as though the class runs to some ungodly hour, either.  It is from 6-9 p.m.  But by 8, I found myself drifting.  Eyes glazed over, thoughts turning to mush.  My brain became a giant sieve; all words being spoken floated in and out. 

I felt terrible.  My teacher was so earnest, so eager to impart knowledge.  But I fear that my trance was contagious because she noted seemed to pick up on a vibe that focus was waning and let us go a bit early. 

My only concern from that point was driving.  Even though it only takes about 20 minutes to get home, I was uncertain.  Of course, the fact that I had also skipped dinner in favor of an iced tea was not helping my blood sugar levels. 

Then I got home, and in a moment of what I can only assume was sleep deprived stupidity, I agreed to get up again this morning with my dad.  It is a wonder I am still functioning in an upright position. 

Thank goodness tomorrow is Saturday, right?  At the very least, I hope that this means I can get a little extra sleep, although I doubt it will help much in the long run.  I get to spend five hours in class tomorrow afternoon followed by a night in which I must share my bed with three space hogging dogs.

So to that end, I find that I cannot be clever today.  I cannot create long sentences.  Heck, I can hardly create coherent sentences without concentrating extra hard.

So instead, here you go.

I call this masterpiece, "Bread Monster."

This is how I used to sleep, surrounded only by pillows.

I've got skillz, man.

It begins. Again. For the last time.

I have school tonight. 

This is all I seem to be able to think about today.  You would think that this could be interpreted as a signal of distress, but don't worry.  I am alright.

This is my third fall semester of grad school, so all of the first day jitters have pretty much been overcome by now, but I still find that the brief period before my first classes meet to be a little unsettling.

It isn't a fear of not having any friends or not knowing anyone.  By now, I always know at least one person in my class.  Even if I didn't, it's grad school, not Kindergarten.  I can handle it. 

My professors have already published their syllabi's, so I have an idea of what kind of workload to expect.  It's always a little overwhelming at first, but that is largely due to the mental shock of accepting that one's free time is going to be much more limited for the next few months. 

Fortunately, I am generally pretty good at maintaining proper perspective in this case.  I always know that there is an end date to the hysteria.  In this case, it is December 20.  Graduation.

The only real bummer to the start of school is the fact that I usually end up having a class that meets in the evening.  In the case of this semester, we meet every Thursday from 6 to 9 p.m.  This means that I must get up for work in the morning, spend my day in the office, rush out at closing time and drive through traffic across the city to my university's campus.

To date, I have never been late.  I cut it very close only once, in my first semester.  This was due to heavy snowfall, so I was not the only one.  So it doesn't really count.

Normally, I do not consider 9 p.m. to be very late.  But when I depart from the classroom tonight into the cold darkness of the evening knowing that I have to drive back to my parents' house and will be going to bed within an hour of my arrival only to arise early tomorrow morning for work, it will seem like midnight. 

Of course, this feeling is not aided by the fact that like a fool I told my father to wake me up at 5:15 a.m. to take the dogs for a walk.  True, I do normally get up at 5:30 when I am at my own house, but somehow that feels different.  Maybe it was the fact that my mother had to work at 5 this morning and my ever-perceptive dog managed to hear her moving silently through the house at 4:20. 

When we are at home, this wouldn't be a problem.  Lena would just go back to sleep.  At my parents' house, she is a completely different animal.  For some obscene reason, she assumes that any slight noise is the all-clear to get out of bed.  She springs forth to the floor and lays her head down by the bottom of the door to see if anyone is out there who will let her out.

If no one does this, she usually resorts to laying down on the pillows that I thoughtfully laid out the night before knowing full well that she would do this.  This enables her to rest a bit more (if she wants) and it also relieves me of the duty to pick her up and put her back in the bed.  Never mind that she is fully capable of jumping back up on her own.  If she wants attention, she will not do it.

So essentially, I have been somewhat awake since 4:20 a.m. today.  I went on a walk around 5:15, and left for work around 7:30.  I (of course) picked up a latte because there is NO WAY I could fathom any coherent conversation without it.  Surprise surprise, I will probably pick up ANOTHER latte on my way to school tonight. 

Thus begins the final semester routine. 

Bake your cake and eat it too!

Apologies are in order, folks.  While I did bake a cake and it was highly successful and delicious, I did not capture any of it on film.  Does this make me a crappy blogger?  Maybe.  But let me explain.

This cake that I made last night?  It was a simple recipe, really.  But the instructions were a bit intense.  I am not a naturally gifted baker, and I appreciate specific tips and suggestions.  I appreciate that they will result in a superior result.

If I had to summarize the process, I would say that it was a bit... painstaking.  Seriously.  I had to mix or "cream" the butter for two minutes.  No biggie.  Then I had to add the three cups of sugar, half a cup at a time, beating the mixture for a full minute between additions.  Oh, and I had to scrape down the sides of the bowl in between as well.

After that, I had to add each of the five eggs, one at a time, again beating for a full minute in between additions.

If you're doing the math, you should realize that this means that total mixing time is now up to 11 minutes, not counting the extra time needed to add new ingredients, scrape down the bowl and break the eggs.

Next, I had to whisk together flour, salt and baking soda.  Then?  You guessed it, I had to add it in separate amounts, alternating with sour cream, until it was all "incorporated."  Finally, I got to add the flavor extracts.  Her final instruction was to let the whole thing mix on high for two minutes.

The purpose behind this mixing was to incorporate air into the batter.  Not too much, but enough to make the cake rise up "proudly" in the 10-inch tube pan.  Said pan had been "prepared" using a disk of parchment paper on the bottom and copious amounts of Pam baking spray. 

Let me take a side moment to mention that I was extremely nervous about using the tube pan.  Any time I have used a "molded" pan in the past, my results have been mixed.  Oh, the cake turns out fine, but the de-panning process usually is disastrous, with chunks of cake coming out separately resulting in a heap of large crumbs.

In between all this mixing, adding and preparation, I didn't even think to grab a camera.  Even if I had, it would hardly have been beautiful.  I suppose I could have captured a shot of Lena who followed me like a shadow and pawed at my leg incessantly despite my numerous attempts to engage her with toys and treats.  Now that I think about it, this is the first time that I have done any serious baking since Lena came to live with me (in February), so her confusion is not that surprising.

Once I had finished the batter and poured it into the pan (being sure to let it "lava" itself around), I put it in the oven for 90 minutes.  That's right - 90 minutes.  Sounds unheard of in baking, right?  If the instructions had not been so adamantly clear, I may have doubted it, but I put my trust in the written word and resolutely left my cake to bake undisturbed for an hour and a half. 

Turns out, 90 minutes was perfect.  After 23 minutes cooling in the pan, during which time an alarming sound of deflation nearly caused me to jump through the roof (it sounded alarmingly like a ghost), I followed the detailed instructions for de-panning.  Guess what?  It worked.  Truly, this was the most amazing part of the experience for me. 

Once it was finally cool, I put it in my cake-save.  Then, I decided that I should probably try a tiny piece, just to be sure it didn't taste like chalk.  I was suitably impressed. 

So this morning, me and my cake-save marched into the office to try out the recipe on my favorite guinea pigs:  my coworkers.

The verdict was unanimous:  yum.  Everyone was pleased that I was returning to the world of experimental baking.  Perhaps I will keep it up, although I have no intention of making it a weekly routine.  I like to keep them guessing, and if I set up expectations, they will only be more disappointed when I decide I have to quit for lack of time, energy or funds for ingredients.

Now, if I was your average food/cooking blog writer, I would not only have shared pictures, I would now share the recipe.  But alas, you are to be disappointed.  Not that it is a complicated or proprietary recipe, it's just that I feel that the author, Melissa Gray, did such a good job with her instructions that I feel it would be unfair to deprive you of her words. 

Never gonna stop

Sometimes I wonder if as I age, my hearing will be the first to go.  I always assumed it would be my eyes, or more likely than that, my brain. 

Today, I was speaking with someone about State Fair experiences and she informed me that she almost purchased a "camel hat."  At least that is what I thought she said.  This did not seem odd to me.  I imagined it to be something like my old Daisy Duck hat from Disneyworld. 

But alas, no.  I misheard the word "camel."  She actually said that she almost bought a "camo hat."  Camo, as in camouflage. 

A sad reflection of my hearing abilities to be sure, but it sparked an odd coincidental anecdote on my part.

Many many years ago, I did purchase a camo hat. 

Why?  Well.

Back in the day, my best friend and I were known to kick it around town in her super sweet mid-90's model teal/green Pontiac Sunfire.  It was a two-door vehicle, with no power upgrades whatsoever and it was manual transmission.  This meant that I could never drive it, but I was more than happy to be the eternal passenger in our missions.

When we were in our early 20's, both single and somewhat carefree, we really did have a lot of fun.  I will perhaps highlight some other escapades in another entry, but I think that I will keep this one to the story of the camo hat.

At this point in time, my friend's baby brother, Kevin, was working at the local Gander Mountain store.  He was still in high school, I think.  We were (of course) at least 21 years of age. 

After some sort of outing that involved eating and drinking, we decided to pay little Kevi-poo a visit.  Honestly, what high school aged guy wouldn't be thrilled to see his sister and her slightly buzzed best friend saunter into his place of work to chat?  Kevin, that's who.

I believe we made some inquiries (in jest) about firearms, but we were denied on this front.  We then examined their tent collection, even going so far as to lay in one of the displays. 

Once it became clear that our 10 minutes were up, we decided that we were going to make honest purchases after all.  My friend selected a lovely woodsy sweater and I chose a brimmed camo hat from the bargain bin.  Never mind that it was size XXL.  I have a large head.

Purchases in hand, we returned to the Sunfire.  (I feel I should again reiterate that I was the only one buzzed in this story.  My driver was NOT.) 

As it was summer and the weather was fine, we elected to forgo the air conditioning.  We did, however, make use of the Sunfire's one high tech feature:  the CD player.

My friend and I are known to have somewhat divergent tastes in music.  However, when one spends a great deal of time in a car with someone, one learns to appreciate different genres.  Or one does not have as much fun.

In this instance, at this point in our history, one of our top songs was Rob Zombie's "Never Gonna Stop."

OK.  I know.  Your head is spinning right now.  Rob Zombie?  Me?  You never knew I was that hard core scary rock, did you?  Next I will be telling you that I love Insane Clown Posse. 

Worry not.  Other than this song, I am not terribly familiar with Mr. Zombie's work and do not listen to it on a regular basis.  I don't think I have ever even downloaded it on iTunes.  But now I might.  Just for old time's sake.

Anyway.  Picture this:  two blonde girls in their early 20's, sitting in a small teal two-door Pontiac Sunfire, windows down, speakers blaring "NEVER GONNA STOP ME!!!!  NEVER GONNA STOP!!!" along County Road 42 in Burnsville.  One is sitting upright wearing shades.  The other is slightly reclined in her seat (low-riding) with a broad-brimmed camouflage hat pulled down over her eyes.  Both are bobbing their head to the beat.

Are you impressed?  You should be, because it was totally bad-ass.  I wish I could say that the story only escalated from there, but that's basically it.  Maybe we managed to freak out a few Squares, or maybe we impressed a few of the fellas we passed on the road.  You never know. 

Fast forward to nearly a decade later.  My best friend is married.  She just recently purchased a new car and SOLD the Sunfire.  I would like to hope that the Rob Zombie CD is still in her possession, but I haven't really ever thought to ask. 

One thing I do know for certain is that the camo hat is still with me.  It sits perpetually perched and ready for action on the back of a chair in my room.  Maybe someday I will revive it and take it back out into the wild.  Or at least as wild as I am willing to get with the hearing aid I will no doubt be purchasing soon.  Is there any correlation between the time spent blaring Rob Zombie and my current hearing problems?  Good question.