Posts
Having recently rejoined the HighRise Horde I once again have the luxury of shooting all the way to the top of the building via elevator each morning. The elevator means I don’t have to trudge up 17 flights of stairs, so color me pro-elevator. If I had to climb 17 flights of stairs to get to work I’d probably just quit.
Unfortunately, it appears my elevator etiquette is a bit rusty. Each morning I’m finding it hard to totally ignore the fact that I’m sharing 16 square feet of floor space with 5 strangers and, as we all know, that is the key to successfully navigating a highrise – pretending no one exists but you.
I’ve made all sorts of mistakes lately like looking people dead in the eye, hitting the wrong button and (blatantly) getting off on the wrong floor. All big no-nos. Just last week I got off on 16 by mistake (I was thinking about dinosaurs), then back on to go up to 17 and everybody in the elevator audibly sighed when I hit the button. Sorry to waste your 12 seconds, buttholes.
Give me a break.
I may make the occasional faux-pas, but I’m never just plain elevator-rude. I don’t, for instance, blatantly pick my nose (poorly executed “roundabout” between floors 12 and 14 by a lady in a green jacket on Tuesday). Lady - no matter how fast you cram your finger in your nose and back out again – it still counts! And the question remains: what do you do with a booger so horrible that couldn’t wait 38 seconds? I definitely don’t want it.
I also don’t wink and change into gym shorts between floors either (thanks for that Mr. Tall Asian Guy in basketball shoes) for a split second I thought you were going to try and plunder my carnal treasures. Thanks for not. Hearing the totally unprovoked stranger behind you drop his pants on an elevator is just plain unsettling. If you don’t have enough alone time built into your day to change your pants solo: join the priesthood and get the hell out of my elevator.
My personal favorite is the loud phone talker who got on with me; then proceeded to loudly coordinate drinks with her girlfriend all the way to the ground floor, hang up, loudly announce “Ok. I’m that girl. I know it’s so rude to talk in an elevator” and stomp off. By the time she waddled out of the elevator I was the one who needed a drink.
Let me point out that saying something is rude while you’re doing it actually doesn’t make it less rude - it just proves that you’re an insufferable bunghole and I hope a big eagle swoops down and eats you.
Interesting stuff, I know; but what I really want to talk about is this: the door-close-button. IT DOESN’T CLOSE THE @#$#@$ DOOR.
I’m 31 years old and in that entire time I have never, not one time, period, ever seen the door-close-button work and yet, as soon as someone pops through the not-yet-fully-opened door, there is instantly a logjam of grimy pointer fingers miserably scrabbling to get that button pushed.
WHY?!?!?!? Is there a place in the world where the hurry-up-and-close-the-door button works and everybody else in the world has been there but me??? Wait. Am I dead? Is this Hell? I need to go to that happy place because the unwavering faith which led me to unyieldingly engage that button for the first 28 years of my life nearly drove me mad. My New Years’ resolution in 2008 was to never push that Devil-spawned button again and by god I haven’t.
But it kills me.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The Singed Shingler
Having been a bit slack on the up-keep lately (job change, house change, two weeks of vacation) let me just say: I’m back.
In the last two months I’ve started smoking (meats on the grill), assembled an AR-15 rifle entirely from scratch, cut down two trees, applied for a permit to hunt alligators like "Swamp People", cleaned my workshop, stole an entire aluminum boat from my Uncle John and, the most significant accomplishment of my summer: I signed my wife up for shotgun-shooting competitions and boxing classes.
Ahthankyou.
Having been married approximately zero times in the past – the surprises keep on a’ rolling in. It’s been a month of ups-and-downs. Last week I was shocked and saddened to find that some sort of rodent snuck into the house during an exterior door renovation project and made merry with my turkey feather collection – eating the entire top off my most favorite gobbler beard.
That’s not the big shock though, so hang on; everyone who read the TurkeyRat post knows that rodents think turkey parts are candy. The shocker is this: Tyler didn’t care. What she DID care about is that there was a mouse in the house at some point. I’m standing there in torment, I mean truly suffering over the loss of this magnificent dangly turkeybeard, and all she can do is squeal shrilly over the presence of a larcenous mouse.
I call that INSENSITIVE.
To make matters worse: I also had some of my favorite gear stolen out of my truck this month. Clearly some jaundiced, hell-bound bag of garbage thought he needed some of my favorite hunting and fishing stuff more than I did. Congratulations, sir, you are the owner of several fine things for free. I salute you.
I suffered manfully through the shocking waves of loss and violation that washed over me for a number of days after the sanctity of my vehicle had been violated, then I finally took a break from moping around the house just long enough to clean out the gutters. Unfortunately, I got a late start - so it was over 100 degrees on the roof by the time I got up there.
I knew it was hot, but I practiced mind-over-matter and ignored the scorching heat radiating off the black shingles; the long-term impact of which was: I managed to burn my butt. I mean my right cheek literally looks
like you took a belt sander to it.Seriously - it is raw.
I’ve made everyone who expressed disbelief in the present condition of my terribly singed buttocks take a look for themselves, so you don’t have to take my word for it – drop by anytime.
In the last two months I’ve started smoking (meats on the grill), assembled an AR-15 rifle entirely from scratch, cut down two trees, applied for a permit to hunt alligators like "Swamp People", cleaned my workshop, stole an entire aluminum boat from my Uncle John and, the most significant accomplishment of my summer: I signed my wife up for shotgun-shooting competitions and boxing classes.
Ahthankyou.
Having been married approximately zero times in the past – the surprises keep on a’ rolling in. It’s been a month of ups-and-downs. Last week I was shocked and saddened to find that some sort of rodent snuck into the house during an exterior door renovation project and made merry with my turkey feather collection – eating the entire top off my most favorite gobbler beard.
That’s not the big shock though, so hang on; everyone who read the TurkeyRat post knows that rodents think turkey parts are candy. The shocker is this: Tyler didn’t care. What she DID care about is that there was a mouse in the house at some point. I’m standing there in torment, I mean truly suffering over the loss of this magnificent dangly turkeybeard, and all she can do is squeal shrilly over the presence of a larcenous mouse.
I call that INSENSITIVE.
To make matters worse: I also had some of my favorite gear stolen out of my truck this month. Clearly some jaundiced, hell-bound bag of garbage thought he needed some of my favorite hunting and fishing stuff more than I did. Congratulations, sir, you are the owner of several fine things for free. I salute you.
I suffered manfully through the shocking waves of loss and violation that washed over me for a number of days after the sanctity of my vehicle had been violated, then I finally took a break from moping around the house just long enough to clean out the gutters. Unfortunately, I got a late start - so it was over 100 degrees on the roof by the time I got up there.
I knew it was hot, but I practiced mind-over-matter and ignored the scorching heat radiating off the black shingles; the long-term impact of which was: I managed to burn my butt. I mean my right cheek literally looks
like you took a belt sander to it.Seriously - it is raw.
I’ve made everyone who expressed disbelief in the present condition of my terribly singed buttocks take a look for themselves, so you don’t have to take my word for it – drop by anytime.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Fall Ain't So Bad
We forayed out into the wilds of Brookhaven this week to participate in a High Museum Young Patron's get together at Pour wine market and one of those drink-wine-while-painting places.
As a recently-married man, I can say confidently: The Fall sneaks up on you.
I hadn't been confronted with how far I'd trundled down the road to married complacency until I realized, too late, that I had just paid $40 to enter a room filled with 25 easels, 23 women, 32 (open) bottles of wine and a cheese tray. No man I consort with would stoop to purchasing a cheese tray. He might show up at your house with a block of cheddar and a pocketknife, but definitely not a cheese tray.
It was a hard moment for me, facing that.
I used to own jean shorts, oakley sunglasses and a superfast boat and here I am in khaki pants, a golf shirt and a smock with paint all over about to sip wine from a plastic cup and paint a tree with purple budding flowers.
Then I looked down and realized: I'm carrying my wife's purse. My shame was complete.
Like I said: it was a dark moment. There was a bright spot, though. When we pulled up to park, my lovely wife flounced leggily out of the car, bent down, popped back up and said "oooooh! look what I got!!" and handed me a wadded up $20 bill she found laying in the parking lot.
I was ecstatic but she, seeming generally unsurprised, shrugged and said, "yeah, this happens to me all the time."
Heh!! If I had a skill like that I'd put it on my resume: "Can Be Counted On to Find Free Money Often".
The fall ain't so bad, I guess - depending on where you land.
As a recently-married man, I can say confidently: The Fall sneaks up on you.
I hadn't been confronted with how far I'd trundled down the road to married complacency until I realized, too late, that I had just paid $40 to enter a room filled with 25 easels, 23 women, 32 (open) bottles of wine and a cheese tray. No man I consort with would stoop to purchasing a cheese tray. He might show up at your house with a block of cheddar and a pocketknife, but definitely not a cheese tray.
It was a hard moment for me, facing that.
I used to own jean shorts, oakley sunglasses and a superfast boat and here I am in khaki pants, a golf shirt and a smock with paint all over about to sip wine from a plastic cup and paint a tree with purple budding flowers.
Then I looked down and realized: I'm carrying my wife's purse. My shame was complete.
Like I said: it was a dark moment. There was a bright spot, though. When we pulled up to park, my lovely wife flounced leggily out of the car, bent down, popped back up and said "oooooh! look what I got!!" and handed me a wadded up $20 bill she found laying in the parking lot.
I was ecstatic but she, seeming generally unsurprised, shrugged and said, "yeah, this happens to me all the time."
Heh!! If I had a skill like that I'd put it on my resume: "Can Be Counted On to Find Free Money Often".
The fall ain't so bad, I guess - depending on where you land.
Improvisation
I noticed this photo in a recent report on Art In The Park in Sandy Springs:
and you know what? This kid is playing with a dead fish.
The use of an improvised toy brought back memories. When I was a kid we were so broke - if a branch didn’t fall off a tree in our yard overnight I didn’t have anything to play with all day.
This kid’s folks have gotten even more thrifty and creative: it’s a pet, it’s a toy – its dinner! Genius. That right there is stretching a recession dollar.
It's nice to see parents these days taking a page from my parents' book. One Christmas I didn’t get anything that didn’t come from a garage sale. Later in life Mom used to tell people that and laugh “Heh, heh. He never even wondered why nothing came in a box and everything had scratches on it! Heh, heh.” She thought that was hilarious.
The joke was on me I guess. I was also allergic to milk and eggs – so, I got to be the weird dietary kid without new toys.
Thanks a lot, God.
You could be the lumpy weird kid that smelled like curry and talked about unicorns and if you had cool enough stuff to play with – everybody was your friend. You’d get home from school and four kids would be standing in your front yard waiting on you to break out the radio-controlled cars (I still want one). Chances are good you drove right past me in my front yard frantically waving a magnolia limb over my head.
Later in life this kid’s own parents will almost certainly tease him with this photo, but the joke’s still on them: you should be really nice to the kid who’s going to pick out your retirement home.
and you know what? This kid is playing with a dead fish.
The use of an improvised toy brought back memories. When I was a kid we were so broke - if a branch didn’t fall off a tree in our yard overnight I didn’t have anything to play with all day.
This kid’s folks have gotten even more thrifty and creative: it’s a pet, it’s a toy – its dinner! Genius. That right there is stretching a recession dollar.
It's nice to see parents these days taking a page from my parents' book. One Christmas I didn’t get anything that didn’t come from a garage sale. Later in life Mom used to tell people that and laugh “Heh, heh. He never even wondered why nothing came in a box and everything had scratches on it! Heh, heh.” She thought that was hilarious.
The joke was on me I guess. I was also allergic to milk and eggs – so, I got to be the weird dietary kid without new toys.
Thanks a lot, God.
You could be the lumpy weird kid that smelled like curry and talked about unicorns and if you had cool enough stuff to play with – everybody was your friend. You’d get home from school and four kids would be standing in your front yard waiting on you to break out the radio-controlled cars (I still want one). Chances are good you drove right past me in my front yard frantically waving a magnolia limb over my head.
Later in life this kid’s own parents will almost certainly tease him with this photo, but the joke’s still on them: you should be really nice to the kid who’s going to pick out your retirement home.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
New Blog
I've recently started writing a little blog column for Sandy Springs Patch. So, I've re-run some of this blog's entries and I also write some new material here and there too.
Now I can piss people off in two separate venues! It's all so very exciting.
http://sandysprings.patch.com/blog_posts/in-marriage-there-is-no-ice-cream
Now I can piss people off in two separate venues! It's all so very exciting.
http://sandysprings.patch.com/blog_posts/in-marriage-there-is-no-ice-cream
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Beau Slocumb Has Left The Building
My first cousin, Burke Lowe Slocumb, IV (“Beau” or “Hey You”) had the unmitigated gall to get critically ill the day before my 2nd 30th birthday. Going forward nobody in our family is allowed to get extremely ill on or near my birthday month or at Christmas. Any other time you want to shuffle off this mortal coil you go right ahead; I’ll be along presently.
I told Beau if he sullied the memorial of my birth for all time by giving up the ghost on my most hallowed day of days - I'd be forced to sift his ashes down Ryan Newman's gas tank.
The threat to his good friend and favorite NASCAR driver’s fuel lines seemed to keep him off the heavenly registry for a bit; but it was not quite as long as we'd have liked. On April 8, 2011 with 8 minutes to go in the last lap - Car #8 left us all in the dust.
Boy does it suck when people die.
I got to tell Beau I loved him before it was all over and, surprisingly enough, it didn't even feel that gay. He said "Huh? Is that a new watch?"
I took it as a compliment.
I know Beau didn’t want to be the first grandkid to set sail on the afterlife with Granddad to greet him at the pearly gates and who could blame him? You and I both know nobody's Granddad is about to manage his own television set when he’s got a grandkid handy; and eternity is an awful long time to spend changing the channels for somebody else. I’m just glad it wasn’t me or we might have all ended up in purgatory for swearing.
From a family standpoint we’re not at all unfamiliar with loss and the aftermath; but the upside is - I don’t think any of us are particularly afraid to "go" anymore.
I know I’m not. Bring it on!
I’m serious. I plan for ‘em to find my freckled corpse next to the dead body of the lion that killed me. If I’m in a loincloth: even better. No need for the undertaker, thanks, just call my taxidermist.
If you think about it – birth and death are the only things you’ll ever have in common with 100% of the rest of the world. That’s depressing, so I spend a lot of time ignoring the certainty of it all, but buddy it’s coming - and that’s as sure a thing as I know of.
It's inescapable. Everybody is engaged in at-risk behavior, but you still never see the train coming until you're wrapped around the whistle. Beau, for instance, did his utmost to kill himself with sheer, wicked, mind-numbing velocity for 25 years - boats, cars, trucks, atvs, motorcycles - you name it - and what got him? Cancer.
Something, one day, it could be soon, it might not, who knows?, is going to get us all. If you’re lucky, you might get some warning, but that's about the best you can hope for.
You can Bible-it-up all you want and you still can't even exactly look forward to the afterlife because nobody has the foggiest idea of exactly what's going on up there (or down there if you're the unlucky sort) - or if it's any fun at all. And that's not blasphemy on my part - go give Revelation a spin and get back to me. I'll give you a hint: IT'S NO HELP (unless you love dragons).
Ever been on a date with somebody who doesn't get what's funny? You think that was bad? What if God doesn't have your sense of humor? This is ETERNITY we're talking about! We're not even certain if you get a real, live, body back sometime and, honestly, I need to know. If I have to spend eternity as some sort of spiritual mist I'm going to be furious.
The whole thing is a huge depressing mystery and you can't get ready for it and you can't take anything with you. We're talking about the single most important trip you'll ever go on - and you can't pack for it.
The only bit of "estate planning" I've ever heard that made sense came from Dad and all he said was "I plan for my last check to bounce." Now, that is something I can get behind. A man with my innate spending abilities was not put here to stockpile money, that's for sure.
Granddad at least went into it with his boots on, metaphorically speaking. The week he finally killed himself with pork products he looked at me over his second breakfast at 10:45AM and said “Let’s go eat lunch. You drive.”
We headed down to a local seafood place on Pawley’s Island and had a bowl of she-crab soup. We talked over a number of important things a man might talk over with his Grandfather; then mid-way through our meal he looked up and said “I just want you to know – I’m not afraid to die. I can’t wait to see my parents again. I’m 68 years old and I still miss my mother.”
The waitress walked off.
“Well. Ok Granddad" I replied, brilliantly.
A few days later I went to Macon to take him fishing, did something else instead - which pissed him off, I went home; then the next day he made a to-do list (mostly to-do's for other people), went to bed and died.
That was that.
After years of provoking each other out of our immense similarity: I take great comfort in knowing I managed to aggravate him just one last time.
Dad always says funerals are for the living – not the dead. He reckons the dead have too much else going on to worry much with us and I guess he’s probably right.
But Beau: just in case you are reading this - as if failing to leave me anything at all in your will wasn't bad enough – I am forced to concede to you for the final win. You got the last laugh. With you, Mom and Granddad all gone ahead and my sister pregnant with the ultimate abomination - a GREAT-Grandkid; now I'll never claw my way up to Ultimate Favored Golden Grandkid status. You got us. No matter what any of the remaining grandkids do - they'll always wonder if you wouldn't have mayyybee just done it a smidge better, richer, faster, or funnier.
You probably would have.
So ride on, Beausie - we love you and we miss you, but we'll catch back up soon.
Until then - do me a favor and tell 'em we all said "Duh Huh."
I told Beau if he sullied the memorial of my birth for all time by giving up the ghost on my most hallowed day of days - I'd be forced to sift his ashes down Ryan Newman's gas tank.
The threat to his good friend and favorite NASCAR driver’s fuel lines seemed to keep him off the heavenly registry for a bit; but it was not quite as long as we'd have liked. On April 8, 2011 with 8 minutes to go in the last lap - Car #8 left us all in the dust.
Boy does it suck when people die.
I got to tell Beau I loved him before it was all over and, surprisingly enough, it didn't even feel that gay. He said "Huh? Is that a new watch?"
I took it as a compliment.
I know Beau didn’t want to be the first grandkid to set sail on the afterlife with Granddad to greet him at the pearly gates and who could blame him? You and I both know nobody's Granddad is about to manage his own television set when he’s got a grandkid handy; and eternity is an awful long time to spend changing the channels for somebody else. I’m just glad it wasn’t me or we might have all ended up in purgatory for swearing.
From a family standpoint we’re not at all unfamiliar with loss and the aftermath; but the upside is - I don’t think any of us are particularly afraid to "go" anymore.
I know I’m not. Bring it on!
I’m serious. I plan for ‘em to find my freckled corpse next to the dead body of the lion that killed me. If I’m in a loincloth: even better. No need for the undertaker, thanks, just call my taxidermist.
If you think about it – birth and death are the only things you’ll ever have in common with 100% of the rest of the world. That’s depressing, so I spend a lot of time ignoring the certainty of it all, but buddy it’s coming - and that’s as sure a thing as I know of.
It's inescapable. Everybody is engaged in at-risk behavior, but you still never see the train coming until you're wrapped around the whistle. Beau, for instance, did his utmost to kill himself with sheer, wicked, mind-numbing velocity for 25 years - boats, cars, trucks, atvs, motorcycles - you name it - and what got him? Cancer.
- Uncle Buster can’t climb off a tractor without ending up in crumpled heap under it
- My cousin Ashley breathes in strange women’s foot-dust all day at her shoe store
- I can’t understand Uncle John on the phone without a cigar in the outboard corner of his mouth, and
- Uncle Robert hasn’t taken a deep drag of air he can’t see since 1960.
Something, one day, it could be soon, it might not, who knows?, is going to get us all. If you’re lucky, you might get some warning, but that's about the best you can hope for.
You can Bible-it-up all you want and you still can't even exactly look forward to the afterlife because nobody has the foggiest idea of exactly what's going on up there (or down there if you're the unlucky sort) - or if it's any fun at all. And that's not blasphemy on my part - go give Revelation a spin and get back to me. I'll give you a hint: IT'S NO HELP (unless you love dragons).
Ever been on a date with somebody who doesn't get what's funny? You think that was bad? What if God doesn't have your sense of humor? This is ETERNITY we're talking about! We're not even certain if you get a real, live, body back sometime and, honestly, I need to know. If I have to spend eternity as some sort of spiritual mist I'm going to be furious.
The whole thing is a huge depressing mystery and you can't get ready for it and you can't take anything with you. We're talking about the single most important trip you'll ever go on - and you can't pack for it.
The only bit of "estate planning" I've ever heard that made sense came from Dad and all he said was "I plan for my last check to bounce." Now, that is something I can get behind. A man with my innate spending abilities was not put here to stockpile money, that's for sure.
Granddad at least went into it with his boots on, metaphorically speaking. The week he finally killed himself with pork products he looked at me over his second breakfast at 10:45AM and said “Let’s go eat lunch. You drive.”
We headed down to a local seafood place on Pawley’s Island and had a bowl of she-crab soup. We talked over a number of important things a man might talk over with his Grandfather; then mid-way through our meal he looked up and said “I just want you to know – I’m not afraid to die. I can’t wait to see my parents again. I’m 68 years old and I still miss my mother.”
The waitress walked off.
“Well. Ok Granddad" I replied, brilliantly.
A few days later I went to Macon to take him fishing, did something else instead - which pissed him off, I went home; then the next day he made a to-do list (mostly to-do's for other people), went to bed and died.
That was that.
After years of provoking each other out of our immense similarity: I take great comfort in knowing I managed to aggravate him just one last time.
Dad always says funerals are for the living – not the dead. He reckons the dead have too much else going on to worry much with us and I guess he’s probably right.
But Beau: just in case you are reading this - as if failing to leave me anything at all in your will wasn't bad enough – I am forced to concede to you for the final win. You got the last laugh. With you, Mom and Granddad all gone ahead and my sister pregnant with the ultimate abomination - a GREAT-Grandkid; now I'll never claw my way up to Ultimate Favored Golden Grandkid status. You got us. No matter what any of the remaining grandkids do - they'll always wonder if you wouldn't have mayyybee just done it a smidge better, richer, faster, or funnier.
You probably would have.
So ride on, Beausie - we love you and we miss you, but we'll catch back up soon.
Until then - do me a favor and tell 'em we all said "Duh Huh."
Friday, March 25, 2011
Precipitation Possible.....Sometime.
Turkey season opens tomorrow. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s the closest thing we have to lion hunting in Georgia. Terribly exciting.
I checked the weather and was somewhat disconcerted to find an estimated precipitation of 60%. I was crestfallen at first, but I rallied. What does 60% mean anyway? Initially it sounds like it’s probably going to rain, but is it? It might rain. That’s all I know. We have an entire system devoted to weather prediction and all I can tell you based on my usage of that system is: it may or may not rain tomorrow.
I wish I had a job with zero accountability for my projections. If I wandered into my boss’s office right now and said “you know what – I bet those numbers I gave you this morning are probably at least 40% correct” he would have something non-congratulatory to say about it.
This isn't about the weather man himself, as a person though. I actually grew up with the weatherman’s son. He was a prince of a character, as was his dad. All I'm saying is: I do recall that when his wife asked him when he’d be ready for dinner – he didn’t give her a band of percentages and likely times, or draw a sunny smiley face with clouds over it; he said “six o’clock.”
But ask him if it’ll rain?
“Oh it might.”
You know what the most often quoted percentage is on the weather channel? 50%* A 50% chance means “it may or may not rain. Who knows? We give up!”
That’s quite a tip.
I find it offensive that, technologically speaking, we can put a man on the moon, drive around in vehicles propelled by millions of tiny controlled explosions, speak chinese, domesticate crocodiles, and communicate telepathically and yet nobody is really sure what the weather will do 12 hours out. It might rain. It might not. Who knows?
Even worse: our one weather authority has the audacity to resort to percentage likelihoods that essentially communicate "based on our years of recorded history, satellites literally orbiting the earth, and various scientific techniques: we have absolutely no idea what might happen tomorrow. We hope its not bad."
We’ve spent billions on lunar landings and space stations. Are we allocating our resources to the right places? Really? Are you sure? That ziplock baggie full of moon rocks the space program has generated is neat and all, but would I trade it for knowing whether or not to lug a rainsuit around all day tomorrow?
Absolutely.
Right now all I can do is switch off the weather channel, walk outside, then ask myself: "Self: are you getting wet? If yes – congratulations - we have made a discovery: it IS definitely going to rain."
As long we’re talking about moon rocks here, I’d like to point out that the only reason I’m somewhat dubious about our having actually landed on the moon is this: we haven’t completely destroyed the moon yet.
Now tell me honestly: as an American, how long do you really think we can have access to an unspoiled landscape and not strip mine it or something? Not long I don’t think. History seems to indicate that if you give us access to somewhere new: we’re going to kill everything, then pave it.
I bet there is a rich white guy in Washington right now building a slide deck describing how he wants to take more of those rocks right up there and bring them here - right down here to this rock for fun and profit. Get ready for it.
Last time I checked we hadn’t dug up anything serious on the moon; I guess that's good, but when we do – I hope they employ our tried and true American method of exploration: dig until something terrible happens, then stop.
At least I'm sure it won't rain on them while they do it. Well, pretty sure.
*I have no basis for that statement.
I checked the weather and was somewhat disconcerted to find an estimated precipitation of 60%. I was crestfallen at first, but I rallied. What does 60% mean anyway? Initially it sounds like it’s probably going to rain, but is it? It might rain. That’s all I know. We have an entire system devoted to weather prediction and all I can tell you based on my usage of that system is: it may or may not rain tomorrow.
I wish I had a job with zero accountability for my projections. If I wandered into my boss’s office right now and said “you know what – I bet those numbers I gave you this morning are probably at least 40% correct” he would have something non-congratulatory to say about it.
This isn't about the weather man himself, as a person though. I actually grew up with the weatherman’s son. He was a prince of a character, as was his dad. All I'm saying is: I do recall that when his wife asked him when he’d be ready for dinner – he didn’t give her a band of percentages and likely times, or draw a sunny smiley face with clouds over it; he said “six o’clock.”
But ask him if it’ll rain?
“Oh it might.”
You know what the most often quoted percentage is on the weather channel? 50%* A 50% chance means “it may or may not rain. Who knows? We give up!”
That’s quite a tip.
I find it offensive that, technologically speaking, we can put a man on the moon, drive around in vehicles propelled by millions of tiny controlled explosions, speak chinese, domesticate crocodiles, and communicate telepathically and yet nobody is really sure what the weather will do 12 hours out. It might rain. It might not. Who knows?
Even worse: our one weather authority has the audacity to resort to percentage likelihoods that essentially communicate "based on our years of recorded history, satellites literally orbiting the earth, and various scientific techniques: we have absolutely no idea what might happen tomorrow. We hope its not bad."
We’ve spent billions on lunar landings and space stations. Are we allocating our resources to the right places? Really? Are you sure? That ziplock baggie full of moon rocks the space program has generated is neat and all, but would I trade it for knowing whether or not to lug a rainsuit around all day tomorrow?
Absolutely.
Right now all I can do is switch off the weather channel, walk outside, then ask myself: "Self: are you getting wet? If yes – congratulations - we have made a discovery: it IS definitely going to rain."
As long we’re talking about moon rocks here, I’d like to point out that the only reason I’m somewhat dubious about our having actually landed on the moon is this: we haven’t completely destroyed the moon yet.
Now tell me honestly: as an American, how long do you really think we can have access to an unspoiled landscape and not strip mine it or something? Not long I don’t think. History seems to indicate that if you give us access to somewhere new: we’re going to kill everything, then pave it.
I bet there is a rich white guy in Washington right now building a slide deck describing how he wants to take more of those rocks right up there and bring them here - right down here to this rock for fun and profit. Get ready for it.
Last time I checked we hadn’t dug up anything serious on the moon; I guess that's good, but when we do – I hope they employ our tried and true American method of exploration: dig until something terrible happens, then stop.
At least I'm sure it won't rain on them while they do it. Well, pretty sure.
*I have no basis for that statement.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
So Cute
Hey – guess what? It is true. I’m 30 for the second time, still married – and I’m still mostly alive.
Thanks for wondering.
I’m also getting older every day, I found a gray hair on top of my head instead of just near my ears, I have a few liver spots on my hands and I recently had a nose hair grow so long that I could stretch it all the way to the other nostril.
I thought that nose hair was worth waking Tyler up at 2AM to look at.
She did not.
The point is: I am officially out of control.
You wonder how a grown man lets himself go to the point he has a small cabbage patch of wiry hair growing from each ear hole and a vague arrangement of multi-day crumbs on his shirt? This is how it starts.
Also, for the record - we are not pregnant.
But your little heart leapt in your chest at the thought of it though, didn’t it? Ha! Sucker. Rest easy - nobody around here is getting pregnant except my sister who is 100% pregnant already and couldn’t possibly be pregnant-er. Want to talk pregnant? Call her up. Nothing doing over here.
Tyler spent the night with her sister and our young niece recently, came home and announced “I’m not ready for kids”. Generally a situation like that should lead you as a husband to immediately act like you DO want whatever it is your wife doesn’t want (in this case - kids) BADLY – which ordinarily solidifies in the woman’s mind how badly she doesn’t want what you now supposedly DO want – thereby keeping you safe just a bit longer.
I tried that tactic by immediately saying – “Aaawwww!! Well, they are just so cute though! I think maybe we want one next year!”
Based on her statement about not wanting kids yet - I expected a long litany of reasons why kids are a terrible idea, which I would slowly allow to convince me that it's true - kids are a terrible idea.
That did not happen.
Instead, she immediately responded “ok next year sounds good” and flounced off; leaving me stricken and dumbfounded - having overplayed my hand in the most dangerous poker game of all: kid negotiation. Yet another miscalculation on the short road to complete lack of autonomy.
I tried to recover by spending the last two weeks smugly pointing out the petulant wail of every newborn we come across in a restaurant and highlighting for Tyler the miserable, grim faces of its loathsome parents - to no avail.
"Awww he's so cute though" she says.
Thanks for wondering.
I’m also getting older every day, I found a gray hair on top of my head instead of just near my ears, I have a few liver spots on my hands and I recently had a nose hair grow so long that I could stretch it all the way to the other nostril.
I thought that nose hair was worth waking Tyler up at 2AM to look at.
She did not.
The point is: I am officially out of control.
You wonder how a grown man lets himself go to the point he has a small cabbage patch of wiry hair growing from each ear hole and a vague arrangement of multi-day crumbs on his shirt? This is how it starts.
Also, for the record - we are not pregnant.
But your little heart leapt in your chest at the thought of it though, didn’t it? Ha! Sucker. Rest easy - nobody around here is getting pregnant except my sister who is 100% pregnant already and couldn’t possibly be pregnant-er. Want to talk pregnant? Call her up. Nothing doing over here.
Tyler spent the night with her sister and our young niece recently, came home and announced “I’m not ready for kids”. Generally a situation like that should lead you as a husband to immediately act like you DO want whatever it is your wife doesn’t want (in this case - kids) BADLY – which ordinarily solidifies in the woman’s mind how badly she doesn’t want what you now supposedly DO want – thereby keeping you safe just a bit longer.
I tried that tactic by immediately saying – “Aaawwww!! Well, they are just so cute though! I think maybe we want one next year!”
Based on her statement about not wanting kids yet - I expected a long litany of reasons why kids are a terrible idea, which I would slowly allow to convince me that it's true - kids are a terrible idea.
That did not happen.
Instead, she immediately responded “ok next year sounds good” and flounced off; leaving me stricken and dumbfounded - having overplayed my hand in the most dangerous poker game of all: kid negotiation. Yet another miscalculation on the short road to complete lack of autonomy.
I tried to recover by spending the last two weeks smugly pointing out the petulant wail of every newborn we come across in a restaurant and highlighting for Tyler the miserable, grim faces of its loathsome parents - to no avail.
"Awww he's so cute though" she says.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Who's Your Indian
Having finally lost all patience with the "Townhouse" situation and my complete lack of accessible workshop space - I proposed a trip to the Tandy leather store for some supplies and a little arts and crafts project suitable for miserable confined Townhouse living.
I wasn't really paying attention as the man helped us check out, but I noticed the salesman trail off a bit midway through his recital of my purchase, "belly leather, punch set, snaps, leather dye......children's moccasin kit..." and I looked up to find him staring quizzically at me.
"Is this yours, sir?" he asked. I started to respond in the negative when I caught sight of a hand flapping from across the store "Halloooo!!!" Tyler trilled, grinning over a mountain of leather skins. "Ummm. Those little shoesies are for meeeeee!"
I looked at the package which said "no instructions needed" in bold type and shrugged at the salesman who, girded in his heavily-tooled leather belt, and disgusted, I'm sure, with our amateur purchases - continued ringing me up.
Then, entirely too fast for her to have walked all the way across the store, I heard hissed directly in my ear: "Ah. Can we find a bathroom?" Startled, I turned to find Tyler standing directly behind me twisting around in her shoes with a look of intense concentration on her face.
"Whoa! How did you get over here that fast?"
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"What? There is a bathroom right there in the back of this store. I can see it."
"No I don't want to go in that one."
"Why?"
"Because. I don't. Also, it says 'employees only' on it. Let's find a Chick fil a."
"What? What are they going to do? Arrest you? Really? A fast food restaurant? What is wrong with you? Go in there."
"No. I can make it until we get home."
"Home is 30 minutes away. Just a second ago you said you had to find a bathroom immediately. I am confused. What dark magic is this? "
"Well, now I can make it. Lets go home."
From that I can only assume that anytime she has to find a restroom - all I have to do is argue with her and everything is fine.
I am up to that challenge.
Last night we began our leatherworking attempt. I stood at the counter in the kitchen lost entirely in my own thoughts and plans for my little leather pouch, but I periodically heard various frustrated musings coming from the direction of the couch and the rawhide moccasin sewing attempt occuring thereon. Finally, after about 45 minutes of silence, I heard Tyler D. Ewing, 1/16 Cherokee Indian, grumble to herself from the wreckage of a maimed children's moccasin set:
"Argh. I must not be an Indian after all."
I wasn't really paying attention as the man helped us check out, but I noticed the salesman trail off a bit midway through his recital of my purchase, "belly leather, punch set, snaps, leather dye......children's moccasin kit..." and I looked up to find him staring quizzically at me.
"Is this yours, sir?" he asked. I started to respond in the negative when I caught sight of a hand flapping from across the store "Halloooo!!!" Tyler trilled, grinning over a mountain of leather skins. "Ummm. Those little shoesies are for meeeeee!"
I looked at the package which said "no instructions needed" in bold type and shrugged at the salesman who, girded in his heavily-tooled leather belt, and disgusted, I'm sure, with our amateur purchases - continued ringing me up.
Then, entirely too fast for her to have walked all the way across the store, I heard hissed directly in my ear: "Ah. Can we find a bathroom?" Startled, I turned to find Tyler standing directly behind me twisting around in her shoes with a look of intense concentration on her face.
"Whoa! How did you get over here that fast?"
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"What? There is a bathroom right there in the back of this store. I can see it."
"No I don't want to go in that one."
"Why?"
"Because. I don't. Also, it says 'employees only' on it. Let's find a Chick fil a."
"What? What are they going to do? Arrest you? Really? A fast food restaurant? What is wrong with you? Go in there."
"No. I can make it until we get home."
"Home is 30 minutes away. Just a second ago you said you had to find a bathroom immediately. I am confused. What dark magic is this? "
"Well, now I can make it. Lets go home."
From that I can only assume that anytime she has to find a restroom - all I have to do is argue with her and everything is fine.
I am up to that challenge.
Last night we began our leatherworking attempt. I stood at the counter in the kitchen lost entirely in my own thoughts and plans for my little leather pouch, but I periodically heard various frustrated musings coming from the direction of the couch and the rawhide moccasin sewing attempt occuring thereon. Finally, after about 45 minutes of silence, I heard Tyler D. Ewing, 1/16 Cherokee Indian, grumble to herself from the wreckage of a maimed children's moccasin set:
"Argh. I must not be an Indian after all."
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Goodbye Black Widow
Last month the painters managed to unplug my carport freezer - effectively destroying everything in it; in particular: my best preserved specimen of a HUGE female black widow spider. It was the size of an average pecan and she'd been in there on ice for a number of years.
I feel like that says something about me, but I'm not sure what.
I feel like that says something about me, but I'm not sure what.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
It Is Not Good For Man To Be Alone
A real man is a complex, many-splendored creature. He is rough and unrefined, yet fits comfortably in a tuxedo. His mane of glorious chest hair bespeaks kinship with God’s lesser creatures, yet he is not bound by it. God made him different. Rather than spend a lifetime pinching fleas, he developed technology, culminating in the electric beard trimmer, in order to subdue those obvious ties to the animal kingdom.
A man is competent, capable, potentially dangerous, strong. A man is not a delicate flower. A man does not loofah. A man does not know about soap varieties or why you should wash a towel that serves only to dry water off a clean person.
A real man smells of lye soap and leather and fury and brimstone.
A man is why we have razor wire. A woman would take one look at 14-foot-high barbed wire and think “I’ll keep looking” – not a man.
A man spends his first 20-30 years of life evolving into a unique organism entirely capable of caring for himself and dominating his environment (after a fashion). One day, convinced that he alone is in control, he seeks out a mate to affirm his dominance who, impressed with his manliness and general ability to destroy; chooses him as a life partner.
All is well.
Shortly after the elaborate yoking-together process is complete, everything changes. After months of subjection to the dark, mysterious, arts of womanhood; a man finds himself sitting alone in a townhouse on a Tuesday night weakly staring down a sackful of Krystals, no television, no internet, no workshop, and no wife to entertain him with lively jokes and knowledge of where stored foodstuffs are located in the mysterious kitchenette area. Two aligned synapses fire weakly in his primitive brain and the man realizes – “God would look upon this and say 'it is not good'.”
Suffering with the pain of his abdicated manliness, the man mutely stumbles about the chilly townhouse, blindly grasping at air and throwing in an occasional JUDO CHOP for good measure until finally he tires, lowering his body to sit upon the sofa. Suddenly, mid-crouch, he freezes and hears in his mind a distant female voice whispering “you are not supposed to sit upon that couch." Instead, he plunks down upon the floor, next to an empty couch, all alone.
As he sits on the floor, next to the couch that must not be sat upon, gazing into the emasculating stack of gas logs that passes for a fireplace and upon which things must not be burned or roasted; he realizes: “I am no longer in control.”
He remains, allowing the realization to wash over him. All appears lost.
Suddenly he reaches out and nudges a bowl of "company-only" pistachios off the coffee table; watching gleefully as they bounce and rattle across the floor. Satisfied, he gets up and puts himself to bed.
That bowl of nuts should never have crossed him.
A man is competent, capable, potentially dangerous, strong. A man is not a delicate flower. A man does not loofah. A man does not know about soap varieties or why you should wash a towel that serves only to dry water off a clean person.
A real man smells of lye soap and leather and fury and brimstone.
A man is why we have razor wire. A woman would take one look at 14-foot-high barbed wire and think “I’ll keep looking” – not a man.
A man spends his first 20-30 years of life evolving into a unique organism entirely capable of caring for himself and dominating his environment (after a fashion). One day, convinced that he alone is in control, he seeks out a mate to affirm his dominance who, impressed with his manliness and general ability to destroy; chooses him as a life partner.
All is well.
Shortly after the elaborate yoking-together process is complete, everything changes. After months of subjection to the dark, mysterious, arts of womanhood; a man finds himself sitting alone in a townhouse on a Tuesday night weakly staring down a sackful of Krystals, no television, no internet, no workshop, and no wife to entertain him with lively jokes and knowledge of where stored foodstuffs are located in the mysterious kitchenette area. Two aligned synapses fire weakly in his primitive brain and the man realizes – “God would look upon this and say 'it is not good'.”
Suffering with the pain of his abdicated manliness, the man mutely stumbles about the chilly townhouse, blindly grasping at air and throwing in an occasional JUDO CHOP for good measure until finally he tires, lowering his body to sit upon the sofa. Suddenly, mid-crouch, he freezes and hears in his mind a distant female voice whispering “you are not supposed to sit upon that couch." Instead, he plunks down upon the floor, next to an empty couch, all alone.
As he sits on the floor, next to the couch that must not be sat upon, gazing into the emasculating stack of gas logs that passes for a fireplace and upon which things must not be burned or roasted; he realizes: “I am no longer in control.”
He remains, allowing the realization to wash over him. All appears lost.
Suddenly he reaches out and nudges a bowl of "company-only" pistachios off the coffee table; watching gleefully as they bounce and rattle across the floor. Satisfied, he gets up and puts himself to bed.
That bowl of nuts should never have crossed him.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Simple Simon
I enjoy cooking periodically. I don’t do it all the time, but when I do – I like to make a production of it. I also like to experiment. There have been a few noteworthy failures as well as the occasional success, but what stands out most vividly in my mind is the general shock and amazement our friends exhibit when I do chance upon a winning combination in the kitchen.
I like to cook and I couldn’t possibly care less about football. The horrible truth is out.
Someone asked me not long ago how it came to be that an individual so completely incompetent in so many other domestic areas came to know his way, comfortably, around the kitchen. I hadn’t thought much of it, but when she asked I realized there actually was a turning point. I wasn't born with it. I had an epiphany that led my otherwise peanut-butter-and-jellied feet into the kitchen many years ago – and I guess it just stuck.
In approximately 1991 Mom suggested I assist in snapping the ends off some green beans. I had been reading several historical accounts of pioneer and Native American families about that time so, I calmly responded with “I would, but that is women’s work.”
Did you ever say the wrong thing?
It happened to me.
That afternoon I found myself dropped off smartly at the front of the grocery store with a children’s recipe book in one hand, a fistful of grubby singles in the other and strict instructions not to come out until I had everything I needed to cook dinner for 4 – 5 if I wanted to eat too.
Later that evening I turned out 10 of my signature “Simple Simon Pies” – biscuit dough baked over the cups of an upended muffin tin and filled with a sautéed beef-and-ground-cheese concoction - canned green beans to garnish and $1.38 left over after coupons. Dad was, to put it mildly, “amused” at her diabolical punishments for chauvanism; hypocritical, I think, for a man who grew up with a cook and housekeeper and to this day prepares meals consisting of not more than one food group at a time.
Cooking alone (Mom retired to the couch with a book on parenting) was a bit of a challenge for an 11-year-old as I had to stand on a small footstool to reach the stovetop, but I learned to get around pretty sharp in there. Anyway - I had to…..every Tuesday night that summer.
I guess Mom’s the one to blame.
I like to cook and I couldn’t possibly care less about football. The horrible truth is out.
Someone asked me not long ago how it came to be that an individual so completely incompetent in so many other domestic areas came to know his way, comfortably, around the kitchen. I hadn’t thought much of it, but when she asked I realized there actually was a turning point. I wasn't born with it. I had an epiphany that led my otherwise peanut-butter-and-jellied feet into the kitchen many years ago – and I guess it just stuck.
In approximately 1991 Mom suggested I assist in snapping the ends off some green beans. I had been reading several historical accounts of pioneer and Native American families about that time so, I calmly responded with “I would, but that is women’s work.”
Did you ever say the wrong thing?
It happened to me.
That afternoon I found myself dropped off smartly at the front of the grocery store with a children’s recipe book in one hand, a fistful of grubby singles in the other and strict instructions not to come out until I had everything I needed to cook dinner for 4 – 5 if I wanted to eat too.
Later that evening I turned out 10 of my signature “Simple Simon Pies” – biscuit dough baked over the cups of an upended muffin tin and filled with a sautéed beef-and-ground-cheese concoction - canned green beans to garnish and $1.38 left over after coupons. Dad was, to put it mildly, “amused” at her diabolical punishments for chauvanism; hypocritical, I think, for a man who grew up with a cook and housekeeper and to this day prepares meals consisting of not more than one food group at a time.
Cooking alone (Mom retired to the couch with a book on parenting) was a bit of a challenge for an 11-year-old as I had to stand on a small footstool to reach the stovetop, but I learned to get around pretty sharp in there. Anyway - I had to…..every Tuesday night that summer.
I guess Mom’s the one to blame.
Monday, January 17, 2011
A Most Costly Miscalculation
I rarely ever get sick, but on the odd occasion it happens – its bad. I fall completely apart, my mind goes blank and I devolve into a flailing gelatinous blob of misery. My coping wheels come completely off and I end up, emotionally speaking, deep in the bottomless ditch of ultimate human suffering cursing the fates for bringing me to such low station. In extreme cases I may even stoop so low as to attempt what, for a man, is the ultimate sign of submission: an immersion bath.
If I had a large readership I might not ordinarily divulge this information, but here goes: this is the only situation in which I can be killed. And yes, that's a hat. And no - I don't want to talk about it.
I’ve been basically well for about 5 years so I guess I was due for a bout of nameless typhoid. Any other day in 2010 you couldn’t have killed me with an axe, but a few Fridays ago I realized I didn’t feel well, so I got in bed and I stayed there…..
....until Wednesday.
I tried everything Tyler could think of to make me feel better, but only one thing worked: Tyler’s full, complete, unwavering, mind-altering focus on my every need.
A man faced with his own mortality can't be confronted with simple daily tasks like toweling himself off after a shower or pouring his own water. Even that brief lack of focus on getting better and I may well have died. Advanced typhomasticolitosis is no laughing matter.
How long has it been since someone brushed your teeth for you? For me it’s about two weeks. It’s that sort of attention to detail that made the difference in my tenuous hold on life and I’m not ashamed to tell you – my singular ability to focus and carry on in the face of immense illness and adversity is why I’m alive today.
I made one ill-fated foray into the land of the living in order to pick up a prescription from the CVS drive-thru, but I coughed and moaned so loud Tyler got embarassed at the window and took me back home.
After 5 days treading the gray bordelands between Sandy Springs and the Hereafter; my gynecologist, Uncle John, was able to intervene with a timely application of antibiotic and I began the long, slow, arduous process of improvement.
As I sprawled in bed on Wednesday looking back on the immense amount of trouble and misery I caused my lovely young wife during the period of my life-threatening illness - I felt generally satisfied. Without even intending to - I had set the behavioral stage for a lifetime of spousal indentured servitude during bouts of common illnesses. I, James G. Ewing, Jr. spent an entire 5 day period completely unencumbered by any of the daily tasks completed by an ordinary person with a modicum of self-respect.
Life was good.
Then, on my last day of horrific illness - shortly after my bedside lunch, but before my afternoon pillow-fluffing and hot tea; I sallied forth on a strength-building mission into the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs I overheard the hushed tones of my lovely wife talking with a friend on the phone and I stood frozen, paling in the realization of my first gigantic marital strategic error.
I heard:
"Yeah. He's been a huge pain all week. It's embarassing really. He's had a bad cough and a headache. That's about it, but you'd think he was knocking on death's door by the gigantic nuisance he's made of himself."
(pause)
"No. He's fine. At one point I actually put a cold cloth on his forehead. It was pitiful. He claims he hasn't been able to come downstairs, but I can tell by the cushions he lays around down here on my clean couch when I leave."
(silence. friend talks for a moment).
"What? No. are you kidding me? I've looked after him every minute for the last few days. Hand and foot. You think I'm missing an opportunity like this?"
"When I'm pregnant he's going to be my slave."
All is lost.
If I had a large readership I might not ordinarily divulge this information, but here goes: this is the only situation in which I can be killed. And yes, that's a hat. And no - I don't want to talk about it.
I’ve been basically well for about 5 years so I guess I was due for a bout of nameless typhoid. Any other day in 2010 you couldn’t have killed me with an axe, but a few Fridays ago I realized I didn’t feel well, so I got in bed and I stayed there…..
....until Wednesday.
I tried everything Tyler could think of to make me feel better, but only one thing worked: Tyler’s full, complete, unwavering, mind-altering focus on my every need.
A man faced with his own mortality can't be confronted with simple daily tasks like toweling himself off after a shower or pouring his own water. Even that brief lack of focus on getting better and I may well have died. Advanced typhomasticolitosis is no laughing matter.
How long has it been since someone brushed your teeth for you? For me it’s about two weeks. It’s that sort of attention to detail that made the difference in my tenuous hold on life and I’m not ashamed to tell you – my singular ability to focus and carry on in the face of immense illness and adversity is why I’m alive today.
I made one ill-fated foray into the land of the living in order to pick up a prescription from the CVS drive-thru, but I coughed and moaned so loud Tyler got embarassed at the window and took me back home.
After 5 days treading the gray bordelands between Sandy Springs and the Hereafter; my gynecologist, Uncle John, was able to intervene with a timely application of antibiotic and I began the long, slow, arduous process of improvement.
As I sprawled in bed on Wednesday looking back on the immense amount of trouble and misery I caused my lovely young wife during the period of my life-threatening illness - I felt generally satisfied. Without even intending to - I had set the behavioral stage for a lifetime of spousal indentured servitude during bouts of common illnesses. I, James G. Ewing, Jr. spent an entire 5 day period completely unencumbered by any of the daily tasks completed by an ordinary person with a modicum of self-respect.
Life was good.
Then, on my last day of horrific illness - shortly after my bedside lunch, but before my afternoon pillow-fluffing and hot tea; I sallied forth on a strength-building mission into the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs I overheard the hushed tones of my lovely wife talking with a friend on the phone and I stood frozen, paling in the realization of my first gigantic marital strategic error.
I heard:
"Yeah. He's been a huge pain all week. It's embarassing really. He's had a bad cough and a headache. That's about it, but you'd think he was knocking on death's door by the gigantic nuisance he's made of himself."
(pause)
"No. He's fine. At one point I actually put a cold cloth on his forehead. It was pitiful. He claims he hasn't been able to come downstairs, but I can tell by the cushions he lays around down here on my clean couch when I leave."
(silence. friend talks for a moment).
"What? No. are you kidding me? I've looked after him every minute for the last few days. Hand and foot. You think I'm missing an opportunity like this?"
"When I'm pregnant he's going to be my slave."
All is lost.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Christmas Comes Whenever It Wants
Christmas comes early and often for the Ewing family. Santa forced his chubby butt down our chimney in the wee early morning hours this Sunday and he's coming back on the 25th. Its two solid weeks of Christmas revelry.
We've kept him unusually busy over the years for the simple reason that we're not afraid to sidle one of the holidays out of its normal spot if it serves us - we make them work for US, not the other way around.
I believe it was about 1989 that Dad got sick of hauling wrapped presents all the way to Macon, unwrapping them, then loading them all back up so, Mom just up and moved Christmas. Does that mean we get an excessive amount of Christmas booty and we should be ashamed of our wanton destruction of Christmas and its substitution with a day marked by the expression of greed in its purest form?
No, of course not.
But it was unprecedented. No one in our family knew what to expect. Could Santa still find us? "Was he even ALIVE?"; a question Uncle Robert casually intoned into the keyhole of the coat closet where he'd locked me to think about it.
1989 was an emotional year, full of uncertainty and doubt. Would I get everything I wanted like a good American always should? "Did Santa allocate gifts in direct proportion to the size of your house (small houses - small gifts)?" "Was "Santa" really an anagram for "Satan" and was I certain "Santa" didn't take anything when he "broke into" our house?" - all questions thoughtfully posed by Uncle Robert.
No one seemed to have the answers, but my cousins and I agreed - smoking one last Carlton Menthol purlioned from Gma's purse would be the least of our naughty-list worries. Plus, we knew she'd fib for us if we got nabbed by humorless parents and do-gooder aunts; staunchly claiming she "gave us" a few Christmas cigarettes and not to worry, "they're ultralights" - just to keep us out of trouble.
It was my older cousin, Seth, who executed a perfect smoke ring from his perch on the highest peak of Gma's roof and sagely suggested that Santa was like God and Granddad - immortal and always watching. Then, he stubbed out the glowing coal on an asphalt shingle and casually flicked the butt high over my head. Impressed with his technique, I watched it fly across the roof rapidly losing speed and falling in a perfect arc -straight down the chimney. It disappeared from sight; immediately thereafter (we were told) to drop two stories straight down, bounce twice across the hearth and roll to a stop in the center of the den floor - right in front of the television.
We didn't know we were pinched until we heard Granddad's voice bellowing up the brick flue "I'VE TOLD YOU TO STAY OFF THE ROOF. YOU ARE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN AROUND MY EARS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOU."
It's a good thing Christmas comes twice.
We've kept him unusually busy over the years for the simple reason that we're not afraid to sidle one of the holidays out of its normal spot if it serves us - we make them work for US, not the other way around.
I believe it was about 1989 that Dad got sick of hauling wrapped presents all the way to Macon, unwrapping them, then loading them all back up so, Mom just up and moved Christmas. Does that mean we get an excessive amount of Christmas booty and we should be ashamed of our wanton destruction of Christmas and its substitution with a day marked by the expression of greed in its purest form?
No, of course not.
But it was unprecedented. No one in our family knew what to expect. Could Santa still find us? "Was he even ALIVE?"; a question Uncle Robert casually intoned into the keyhole of the coat closet where he'd locked me to think about it.
1989 was an emotional year, full of uncertainty and doubt. Would I get everything I wanted like a good American always should? "Did Santa allocate gifts in direct proportion to the size of your house (small houses - small gifts)?" "Was "Santa" really an anagram for "Satan" and was I certain "Santa" didn't take anything when he "broke into" our house?" - all questions thoughtfully posed by Uncle Robert.
No one seemed to have the answers, but my cousins and I agreed - smoking one last Carlton Menthol purlioned from Gma's purse would be the least of our naughty-list worries. Plus, we knew she'd fib for us if we got nabbed by humorless parents and do-gooder aunts; staunchly claiming she "gave us" a few Christmas cigarettes and not to worry, "they're ultralights" - just to keep us out of trouble.
It was my older cousin, Seth, who executed a perfect smoke ring from his perch on the highest peak of Gma's roof and sagely suggested that Santa was like God and Granddad - immortal and always watching. Then, he stubbed out the glowing coal on an asphalt shingle and casually flicked the butt high over my head. Impressed with his technique, I watched it fly across the roof rapidly losing speed and falling in a perfect arc -straight down the chimney. It disappeared from sight; immediately thereafter (we were told) to drop two stories straight down, bounce twice across the hearth and roll to a stop in the center of the den floor - right in front of the television.
We didn't know we were pinched until we heard Granddad's voice bellowing up the brick flue "I'VE TOLD YOU TO STAY OFF THE ROOF. YOU ARE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN AROUND MY EARS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOU."
It's a good thing Christmas comes twice.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
I Wish I Could Draw
I find myself in need of a better form of graphic communication than I can personally produce. I’m constantly in situations wherein if I could just DRAW a picture of what is actually going on compared to what I see in my mind – you would understand.
Instead, I'm forced to resort to snapping poorly-framed photos of things on my crummy blackberry thing. Now that I think about it - I wish I could use my Blackberry to take a photo of how crummy my Blackberry is right now, but I believe that’s a thought loop; isn’t it? Now I’m thinking about Eternity and what it feels like to know that you can’t die and now I’m thinking about what I’m going to look like dead, but alive in eternity. I hope I look like my 20yr old self. Now I wonder what dog food is made of, exactly, because its definitely not all meat even though dogs are carnivores.
That’s me.
But usually, instead of a good thought picture – you get junk photos like this:
That’s my special little deer hunter, dead asleep in a deerstand leaning against my left leg and completely destroying my circulation. When the pins-and-needles got to be too much - overcoming my entire being in waves of shrieking dead-limb sensation - I shifted. Slightly.
"Ack! Quit jittering around" she said. "I'm trying to sleep!"
Ok. What about this:
If you have to stamp “DELICIOUS” in italics on the outside of your food packaging – I immediately know it tastes like toe joey poached in dishwater. Get it away from me.
No amount of italics or “Delicious” or “Scrumptious” wording is going to fool me. You could say EAT THIS AND EVERYTHING YOU THINK OF WILL TURN INTO AN ASTRONAUT MADE OF CHEESE and, even though that would be fascinating and I would LOVE to go to and fro throughout the earth creating astronauts made of cheese; I wouldn't touch it. It's communist. It’s communist packaging. This company is telling you what to think and you better think its delicious OR THEY WONT GIVE YOU THE ANTIDOTE.
Classic case of communism at work.
How about this one: Gunbearer Newest Ewing in a Glock hat toting my custom deer rifle out of the woods:
YES.
GO TEAM AMERICA!! She was not pleased about this picture. Tough lighting apparently.
She also generally refuses to be photographed around weapons or dead animals; but at the same time she is physically incapable of not grinning for the camera - a very exploitable trait.
Or this:
This appears to be a tough night out on the hot Macon, Ga street scene for some young hellion - sure to be followed by an exciting morning spent plumbing the depths of that porcelain-no-man’s-land at the front of the toilet with his chin bone. I hope the concert was GREAT because it has almost certainly left a mark. I also bet you dont know where your car is. Yes you do. It was impounded wasn't it? Again.
I just cover too much ground in a week of being me to get it all down in crayon.
Instead, I'm forced to resort to snapping poorly-framed photos of things on my crummy blackberry thing. Now that I think about it - I wish I could use my Blackberry to take a photo of how crummy my Blackberry is right now, but I believe that’s a thought loop; isn’t it? Now I’m thinking about Eternity and what it feels like to know that you can’t die and now I’m thinking about what I’m going to look like dead, but alive in eternity. I hope I look like my 20yr old self. Now I wonder what dog food is made of, exactly, because its definitely not all meat even though dogs are carnivores.
That’s me.
But usually, instead of a good thought picture – you get junk photos like this:
"Ack! Quit jittering around" she said. "I'm trying to sleep!"
Ok. What about this:
If you have to stamp “DELICIOUS” in italics on the outside of your food packaging – I immediately know it tastes like toe joey poached in dishwater. Get it away from me.
No amount of italics or “Delicious” or “Scrumptious” wording is going to fool me. You could say EAT THIS AND EVERYTHING YOU THINK OF WILL TURN INTO AN ASTRONAUT MADE OF CHEESE and, even though that would be fascinating and I would LOVE to go to and fro throughout the earth creating astronauts made of cheese; I wouldn't touch it. It's communist. It’s communist packaging. This company is telling you what to think and you better think its delicious OR THEY WONT GIVE YOU THE ANTIDOTE.
Classic case of communism at work.
How about this one: Gunbearer Newest Ewing in a Glock hat toting my custom deer rifle out of the woods:
YES.
GO TEAM AMERICA!! She was not pleased about this picture. Tough lighting apparently.
She also generally refuses to be photographed around weapons or dead animals; but at the same time she is physically incapable of not grinning for the camera - a very exploitable trait.
Or this:
I just cover too much ground in a week of being me to get it all down in crayon.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Technically Family
I haven't quite gotten used to being technically "married" yet, so when the full magnitude of marriage hit me on the way to the mountains for my first Officially Sanctioned In-Law-Event - I suddenly I looked at Tyler and blurted "do you realize we're family now."
She blanched.
Who knows what mental image being in my "family" conjures for her? I'm sure a snapshot of my Uncle Robert sitting in his recliner at 3AM clutching a gallon of ice cream, gray hair to his shoulders and only one shoe on; lighting a fresh Benson and Hedges off the butt of another flashed through her mind at least once.
"People keep calling me Mrs. Ewing and I feel panick-ey. I may be having an identity crisis" she coughed, blowing a handful of slobbery BBQ sunflower seeds into my passenger-side air conditioner vents.
"Lets not talk about it."
Then, after a brief pause and a slurp at her Diet Dr. Pepper:
"Have you added me to your checking account yet? I need $200."
We continued on through Dawsonville in a fog of life-merger technicalities and headed northeast for Blue Ridge.
On arrival my mother-in-law greeted me with "I heard you're on a diet. Can I get you a beer?"
God bless her. Good mothers-in-law don't just grow on trees.
The next day we awoke bright and early to the sound of cheerful toe-music and slamming refridgerators outside our bedroom door. As newlyweds - the lowest rung on the family ladder, we have been supplied with the only bedroom that opens directly into the kitchen. Its a sink-or-swim family indoctrination process that serves a dual purpose: 1). keeping me as fat as possible so I can't run away and 2). ensuring that we don't miss any conversation going on in the house - no matter what the time.
After a lovely breakfast we forayed into the wilds of North Georgia in search of a producing apple orchard that might allow us to sample their wares.
Wouldn't you know it? We found some.
Unfortunately, so did 98% of the toothless denizens of the county. Never let it be said that dentures and fresh fruit don't mix. Apparently we Georgians have developed a new technique for gumming an apple to death.
My father-in-law, Duane, and I agreed - we got lucky - the apple orchard was entirely wrapped in signs boldly announcing "Closed For U-Pick"; a bit of redneckery we understood to mean they didn't want us picking our own apples. I thought to pick a few anyway, just to prove that I'm an American and I'll pick an apple any-damn-where I please; but the scarecrow they had hanging by his neck in the front yard next to a cheerful sign in red proclaiming "APPLE THIEF" took the wind out of my sails. There are few places left in the world where you can hang a threatening man-sized effigy off the ground with a noose around his neck and not end up in the paper. This is one of them.
Tyler handled this crushing bit of no-apple-picking news with her usual aplomb and immediately tugged me into the country store. The indoor scene was a brisk business in pre-picked apples ("non-u-pick" apparently is the technical name) and hot breaded apple desserts sold to relieved Dads from all over the state. We dove into the crush of sharp-scented humanity for a peek at the non-u-picked wares. Somewhere towards the back of the building my lovely wife cheerfully flounced her ponytail at me and promptly disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Granny Smiths; leaving me quite alone by the fresh-fried pork skins.
I lingered for a bit until several irritated stares suggested I was blocking ingress to the rock candy section, so I flung myself back into the river of rednecks and floated along, carried around the store by a wave of sticky-fingered rat-tail exhibitors.
I thought I could manfully power through until I found my wife, but I could only take so much. I clawed my way back through the crowded throng and burst into the parking lot just as my will to live shattered.
I collected myself, taking a deep breath and blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, then I heard a cheerful "Yoooo hooo!! Ohhh whooo hoo hooo! Hallooooo!!" floating out over the crowd behind me. I turned to see Tyler standing half way back in the snaking checkout line energetically hoisting a large sack of apples over her head and grinning.
"Um! Heyylooo!!" she chortled. "Look whattt I founddddd!!! AAAPPPLLEEESS!!"
"Did you bring your wallet?"
She blanched.
Who knows what mental image being in my "family" conjures for her? I'm sure a snapshot of my Uncle Robert sitting in his recliner at 3AM clutching a gallon of ice cream, gray hair to his shoulders and only one shoe on; lighting a fresh Benson and Hedges off the butt of another flashed through her mind at least once.
"People keep calling me Mrs. Ewing and I feel panick-ey. I may be having an identity crisis" she coughed, blowing a handful of slobbery BBQ sunflower seeds into my passenger-side air conditioner vents.
"Lets not talk about it."
Then, after a brief pause and a slurp at her Diet Dr. Pepper:
"Have you added me to your checking account yet? I need $200."
We continued on through Dawsonville in a fog of life-merger technicalities and headed northeast for Blue Ridge.
On arrival my mother-in-law greeted me with "I heard you're on a diet. Can I get you a beer?"
God bless her. Good mothers-in-law don't just grow on trees.
The next day we awoke bright and early to the sound of cheerful toe-music and slamming refridgerators outside our bedroom door. As newlyweds - the lowest rung on the family ladder, we have been supplied with the only bedroom that opens directly into the kitchen. Its a sink-or-swim family indoctrination process that serves a dual purpose: 1). keeping me as fat as possible so I can't run away and 2). ensuring that we don't miss any conversation going on in the house - no matter what the time.
After a lovely breakfast we forayed into the wilds of North Georgia in search of a producing apple orchard that might allow us to sample their wares.
Wouldn't you know it? We found some.
Unfortunately, so did 98% of the toothless denizens of the county. Never let it be said that dentures and fresh fruit don't mix. Apparently we Georgians have developed a new technique for gumming an apple to death.
My father-in-law, Duane, and I agreed - we got lucky - the apple orchard was entirely wrapped in signs boldly announcing "Closed For U-Pick"; a bit of redneckery we understood to mean they didn't want us picking our own apples. I thought to pick a few anyway, just to prove that I'm an American and I'll pick an apple any-damn-where I please; but the scarecrow they had hanging by his neck in the front yard next to a cheerful sign in red proclaiming "APPLE THIEF" took the wind out of my sails. There are few places left in the world where you can hang a threatening man-sized effigy off the ground with a noose around his neck and not end up in the paper. This is one of them.
Tyler handled this crushing bit of no-apple-picking news with her usual aplomb and immediately tugged me into the country store. The indoor scene was a brisk business in pre-picked apples ("non-u-pick" apparently is the technical name) and hot breaded apple desserts sold to relieved Dads from all over the state. We dove into the crush of sharp-scented humanity for a peek at the non-u-picked wares. Somewhere towards the back of the building my lovely wife cheerfully flounced her ponytail at me and promptly disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Granny Smiths; leaving me quite alone by the fresh-fried pork skins.
I lingered for a bit until several irritated stares suggested I was blocking ingress to the rock candy section, so I flung myself back into the river of rednecks and floated along, carried around the store by a wave of sticky-fingered rat-tail exhibitors.
I thought I could manfully power through until I found my wife, but I could only take so much. I clawed my way back through the crowded throng and burst into the parking lot just as my will to live shattered.
I collected myself, taking a deep breath and blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, then I heard a cheerful "Yoooo hooo!! Ohhh whooo hoo hooo! Hallooooo!!" floating out over the crowd behind me. I turned to see Tyler standing half way back in the snaking checkout line energetically hoisting a large sack of apples over her head and grinning.
"Um! Heyylooo!!" she chortled. "Look whattt I founddddd!!! AAAPPPLLEEESS!!"
"Did you bring your wallet?"
Friday, November 19, 2010
Voodoo Lunch Magic
In some families I think its probably hard for the husband to tell when the wife is mad at him. I don't know that for certain, but I guess its probably so. There's a certain personality type that hides irritation, anger, and various forms of silent fury quite well. I guess it probably shows up in husband/wife interaction from time to time.
Then, there are the sort of wives who put this in your lunch (double click, then enlarge to read):
Poison is such a historically over-used method for tumbling despots that I'm surprised it showed up so rapidly in my lunch. Surely there are much subtler tools available.
Obviously, this sort of situation adds a whole new twist to the ancient voodoo concept of "reading the bones." One can't simply crack open the lunch bag and dive right in - the contents require a certain amount of study and life-application. I suspect a careful evaluation of the contents of this bowl could well predict the future; at least the immediate future - the part between home arrival and bedtime. This particular casting of the bowl (so to speak) did not bode well; and it turns out: it was spot-on.
Did I deserve it? Sure.
Was it an adventure?
Absolutely.
Then, there are the sort of wives who put this in your lunch (double click, then enlarge to read):
Poison is such a historically over-used method for tumbling despots that I'm surprised it showed up so rapidly in my lunch. Surely there are much subtler tools available.
Obviously, this sort of situation adds a whole new twist to the ancient voodoo concept of "reading the bones." One can't simply crack open the lunch bag and dive right in - the contents require a certain amount of study and life-application. I suspect a careful evaluation of the contents of this bowl could well predict the future; at least the immediate future - the part between home arrival and bedtime. This particular casting of the bowl (so to speak) did not bode well; and it turns out: it was spot-on.
Did I deserve it? Sure.
Was it an adventure?
Absolutely.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Crowding My Action
The problem with having a blog is: ultimately your entire family wants to horn in on your action. It's not enough to have ONE person try to be funny - you post up a blog and pretty soon you've got a flock of half-crazed mini-Steve-Martins running around and it's complete chaos. There should only be ONE funny person at a time. The rest of you should clean up after the ONE funny person and generally take care of him and laugh at everything and make sure he's happy and well-primed with funny and red meats and cheeses.
Unfortunately, this is reality. Instead of an Andy Griffith life wherein everything is basically ok and you run the show and get to smoke cigarettes on the front porch while Aunt Bea washes up; you have to periodically allow a guest-post on your blog and, periodically, that guest poster will be your wife. I will grudgingly admit that occasionally she will reflect the light of your glorious funny in a somewhat-dimmer-rendition of you, and thereby also appear funny.
See below, but bear in mind: SHE'S ONLY FUNNY BECAUSE OF ME!!, so don't get distracted.
Upon returning from our honeymoon and realizing that the lovely housekeeper from the hotel didn’t come home with us; JGE and I decided to split our familial chores between us. It was our first family caucus because, apparently, “two people don’t warrant paying for a maid” in his mind.
Does that mean adding kids to our newly formed family does? My sources were unclear on that.
Basically, I agreed to the traditional womanly chores (kitchen clean up and dishwasher duty, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, laundry, etc) by uttering the simple word “yes” in agreement to the proposed bylaws. In taking on these chores, I took a giant leap back in time for all you liberated women from the 1970s who worked so hard to achieve equality among men and women.
Oops.
We decided that Jimmy’s chores would consist of the traditional manly household duties that involve tools or trash, as well as anything money, tax, or car-related, or dealing with workmen or household help of any kind.
Fair enough.
This agreement has worked out quite nicely un-altered except that Jimmy has added dishwasher duty to his chores. He acquisced during a minor evening meltdown on my part brought on by raging hormones and a white hot bolt of sheer fury at the dishwasher.
He also agreed to fix me breakfast every morning - for LIFE. WHA HA HA AHAAA!!!! Put one on the board for the home team.
All in all, we have been carrying on well. Married life is fabulous.
I do laundry every 1 to 1.5 weeks so we generally always, or almost always, or usually sometimes have clean clothes. The problem is putting away these clothes - not to mention the hunting clothes which require separate washing in non-scented detergent.
Basically, our laundry situation has slowly devolved into a massive slough of laundry despair and I have been in complete denial. I almost realized it when every single one of our laundry vestibules were unavailable, but I figured it counts if they’re clean, right?
We finally ran out of places to throw our dirty clothes because all the dirty-clothes-holders were full of clean clothes. It was an embarassment of riches, so we came up with the short-term solution of just throwing our dirty clothes in the hallway at the base of the staircase leading to the laundry room.
This solution was actually awesome. I’d come in from a run (a "run" is when I'm alone - when JGE accompanies me its a "forced march"), disrobe in the hallway, toss my clothes in the dirtystash and jump in the shower.
It was a well-oiled machine. Then, we were out of town for three weekends in a row and the generally-manageable pile suddenly turned into a massive out-of-control pile that may or may not attract wild animals.
By Tuesday morning, it was really bad. As I left for work that morning I passed the mountain of dirty clothes and made a mental note to start a load of laundry that night. I figured I'd worry about where to stash those suckers later.
While pecking away at my computer, I received a call from a cheery realtor who wanted to know if she could show my townhouse in 3 hours. This is good news. We chatted for a bit about logistics then hung up.
Suddenly, my palms began to sweat. I envisioned the dirty laundry pile. Then there were the clean piles that were everywhere, not to mention the clean clothes strewn across our bedroom from searching through the clean piles. Then I remembered breakfast…the smell of turkey sausage, fried eggs and toast was probably still lingering in the kitchen. And the guns and gear from the hunting trip that past weekend were stacked in the living room. It looked like the Branch Davidian compound if the women had gone on strike.
I immediately gchatted Jimmmay, who clearly didn’t grasp the severity of the situation:
Me: OH CRAP. Just got a call. Our house is being shown around 3:30-4:00 today. I have to go home and clean it up it's a wreck!!! and smells!!!
Me: Um, Hallloooo?
Jimmy: WHOAOAOAOA. oh man oh man oh man that is neato man oh man oh man house showings yayyyy wowwwyyy.
(and he swears that he doesn’t drink on the job)
Me: Oh man. Ooooh man. This is not good.
Jimmy: We've not been THAT messy really. Don't worry about it.
Me: Well I hope they love it! Oh CRAP. The vents in the two guest rooms are still half hanging from one screw. I thought you were going to fix those! I tried pushing them up last week but they need another screw
and our laundry. This is so bad - and I’m swamped at work today
Jimmy: Take two toothpicks and break them in half
Me: Huh?
Jimmy: Stuff them in the screw holes of the vent then rescrew the screws and the toothpicks will take up space in the hole and help provide substance for the threads to grip.
Me: One screw is missing, plus - I ain't got toothpicks.
Jimmy: Did you try to tighten the one screw? Ok, use a matchstick with head broken off instead of toothpick.
Me: Oh man. I have no matchsticks.
Jimmy: Clearly, you are not a man. Ok, I’ll fix it with my handy bucket o' screws that Gene Maddux gave me.
Me: I may just tape it. Tape will have to do.
Jimmy: No tape. Just pull a screw out of another vent.
Me: Gaaah! Ok, I’m running home, I’ll be back.
Apparently a constant litany of bootleg solutions are my husband's plan for holding up his end of the domestic bargain. We are in trouble.
What happens when one day our child falls out of a tree and sprains an arm? Am I going to come home to my child’s arm wrapped up around a chainsaw bar and Jimmy saying that’s all he could find to stabilize the arm?
As I pulled into the garage, I realized the situation was much more serious than I realized. The garage was full of wedding presents still in their boxes. I walked in and was greeted by even more wedding presents that lined the entire staircase up the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about those.
The next approximately 32 minutes involved me running around the house like a maid on crank - cleaning up the living room, stashing things here and there, airing out the definitely smelly kitchen, moving all of the presents to what hopefully resembled a neatly organized stack in the garage, emptying approximately 2/3 of a Glade air freshener can all over the house (God bless Glade), moving guns to the garage and discovering that, based on the immense amount of camo covered gear now in there, the garage closet has now apparently become our hunting closet. I was on warp speed.
Then there was the laundry. I have never stuffed that many piles of clean clothing in so many drawers, hidden shelves, the armoire, and any other location I could think of that wasn’t a logical space where a potential home buyer would feel bold enough to open. An armoire is personal, right? That doesn’t come with the house so they shouldn’t be looking in there. Thank goodness for my extra-tall bed. You better believe things got stuffed under there.
As for the pile of dirty laundry, that was relocated to the inside of both the washer and dryer, full to the brim. It took three trips to get all of the clothes up to the laundry room.
And the vents, you ask? Turns out, not only was a screw missing in each of the two vents, but we also don’t seem to have a screw driver in the house (I thought husbands came with tool kits?). I therefore had to use a dull knife to unscrew a screw from a floor vent and attempt to stuff it in the ceiling vent, which of course didn’t work. I resorted to my grand idea of tape. But all I could find was flimsy scotch tape, which doesn’t take to ceilings too well. In the end, one vent was temporarily fixed and one vent was hopeless. I said a prayer that the potential homebuyers just wouldn’t look up when they entered the room.
As I finished the world’s fastest and most amazing house cleaning job, I surveyed my work, arms akimbo, as I gasped for air. I must say I was quite pleased.
Later that evening, when I returned home to my shiny, clean, good-smelling, organized house, I discovered the realtor never came.
...And I apparently misplaced someone's "favorite deer rifle."
Editor's note: I found my very expensive, highly accurate, custom 7mm-08 deep-woods rifle, literally, hidden under a throw pillow.
That settles it: The Natural Born Hunter is being domesticated.
Unfortunately, this is reality. Instead of an Andy Griffith life wherein everything is basically ok and you run the show and get to smoke cigarettes on the front porch while Aunt Bea washes up; you have to periodically allow a guest-post on your blog and, periodically, that guest poster will be your wife. I will grudgingly admit that occasionally she will reflect the light of your glorious funny in a somewhat-dimmer-rendition of you, and thereby also appear funny.
See below, but bear in mind: SHE'S ONLY FUNNY BECAUSE OF ME!!, so don't get distracted.
Upon returning from our honeymoon and realizing that the lovely housekeeper from the hotel didn’t come home with us; JGE and I decided to split our familial chores between us. It was our first family caucus because, apparently, “two people don’t warrant paying for a maid” in his mind.
Does that mean adding kids to our newly formed family does? My sources were unclear on that.
Basically, I agreed to the traditional womanly chores (kitchen clean up and dishwasher duty, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, laundry, etc) by uttering the simple word “yes” in agreement to the proposed bylaws. In taking on these chores, I took a giant leap back in time for all you liberated women from the 1970s who worked so hard to achieve equality among men and women.
Oops.
We decided that Jimmy’s chores would consist of the traditional manly household duties that involve tools or trash, as well as anything money, tax, or car-related, or dealing with workmen or household help of any kind.
Fair enough.
This agreement has worked out quite nicely un-altered except that Jimmy has added dishwasher duty to his chores. He acquisced during a minor evening meltdown on my part brought on by raging hormones and a white hot bolt of sheer fury at the dishwasher.
He also agreed to fix me breakfast every morning - for LIFE. WHA HA HA AHAAA!!!! Put one on the board for the home team.
All in all, we have been carrying on well. Married life is fabulous.
I do laundry every 1 to 1.5 weeks so we generally always, or almost always, or usually sometimes have clean clothes. The problem is putting away these clothes - not to mention the hunting clothes which require separate washing in non-scented detergent.
Basically, our laundry situation has slowly devolved into a massive slough of laundry despair and I have been in complete denial. I almost realized it when every single one of our laundry vestibules were unavailable, but I figured it counts if they’re clean, right?
We finally ran out of places to throw our dirty clothes because all the dirty-clothes-holders were full of clean clothes. It was an embarassment of riches, so we came up with the short-term solution of just throwing our dirty clothes in the hallway at the base of the staircase leading to the laundry room.
This solution was actually awesome. I’d come in from a run (a "run" is when I'm alone - when JGE accompanies me its a "forced march"), disrobe in the hallway, toss my clothes in the dirtystash and jump in the shower.
It was a well-oiled machine. Then, we were out of town for three weekends in a row and the generally-manageable pile suddenly turned into a massive out-of-control pile that may or may not attract wild animals.
By Tuesday morning, it was really bad. As I left for work that morning I passed the mountain of dirty clothes and made a mental note to start a load of laundry that night. I figured I'd worry about where to stash those suckers later.
While pecking away at my computer, I received a call from a cheery realtor who wanted to know if she could show my townhouse in 3 hours. This is good news. We chatted for a bit about logistics then hung up.
Suddenly, my palms began to sweat. I envisioned the dirty laundry pile. Then there were the clean piles that were everywhere, not to mention the clean clothes strewn across our bedroom from searching through the clean piles. Then I remembered breakfast…the smell of turkey sausage, fried eggs and toast was probably still lingering in the kitchen. And the guns and gear from the hunting trip that past weekend were stacked in the living room. It looked like the Branch Davidian compound if the women had gone on strike.
I immediately gchatted Jimmmay, who clearly didn’t grasp the severity of the situation:
Me: OH CRAP. Just got a call. Our house is being shown around 3:30-4:00 today. I have to go home and clean it up it's a wreck!!! and smells!!!
Me: Um, Hallloooo?
Jimmy: WHOAOAOAOA. oh man oh man oh man that is neato man oh man oh man house showings yayyyy wowwwyyy.
(and he swears that he doesn’t drink on the job)
Me: Oh man. Ooooh man. This is not good.
Jimmy: We've not been THAT messy really. Don't worry about it.
Me: Well I hope they love it! Oh CRAP. The vents in the two guest rooms are still half hanging from one screw. I thought you were going to fix those! I tried pushing them up last week but they need another screw
and our laundry. This is so bad - and I’m swamped at work today
Jimmy: Take two toothpicks and break them in half
Me: Huh?
Jimmy: Stuff them in the screw holes of the vent then rescrew the screws and the toothpicks will take up space in the hole and help provide substance for the threads to grip.
Me: One screw is missing, plus - I ain't got toothpicks.
Jimmy: Did you try to tighten the one screw? Ok, use a matchstick with head broken off instead of toothpick.
Me: Oh man. I have no matchsticks.
Jimmy: Clearly, you are not a man. Ok, I’ll fix it with my handy bucket o' screws that Gene Maddux gave me.
Me: I may just tape it. Tape will have to do.
Jimmy: No tape. Just pull a screw out of another vent.
Me: Gaaah! Ok, I’m running home, I’ll be back.
Apparently a constant litany of bootleg solutions are my husband's plan for holding up his end of the domestic bargain. We are in trouble.
What happens when one day our child falls out of a tree and sprains an arm? Am I going to come home to my child’s arm wrapped up around a chainsaw bar and Jimmy saying that’s all he could find to stabilize the arm?
As I pulled into the garage, I realized the situation was much more serious than I realized. The garage was full of wedding presents still in their boxes. I walked in and was greeted by even more wedding presents that lined the entire staircase up the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about those.
The next approximately 32 minutes involved me running around the house like a maid on crank - cleaning up the living room, stashing things here and there, airing out the definitely smelly kitchen, moving all of the presents to what hopefully resembled a neatly organized stack in the garage, emptying approximately 2/3 of a Glade air freshener can all over the house (God bless Glade), moving guns to the garage and discovering that, based on the immense amount of camo covered gear now in there, the garage closet has now apparently become our hunting closet. I was on warp speed.
Then there was the laundry. I have never stuffed that many piles of clean clothing in so many drawers, hidden shelves, the armoire, and any other location I could think of that wasn’t a logical space where a potential home buyer would feel bold enough to open. An armoire is personal, right? That doesn’t come with the house so they shouldn’t be looking in there. Thank goodness for my extra-tall bed. You better believe things got stuffed under there.
As for the pile of dirty laundry, that was relocated to the inside of both the washer and dryer, full to the brim. It took three trips to get all of the clothes up to the laundry room.
And the vents, you ask? Turns out, not only was a screw missing in each of the two vents, but we also don’t seem to have a screw driver in the house (I thought husbands came with tool kits?). I therefore had to use a dull knife to unscrew a screw from a floor vent and attempt to stuff it in the ceiling vent, which of course didn’t work. I resorted to my grand idea of tape. But all I could find was flimsy scotch tape, which doesn’t take to ceilings too well. In the end, one vent was temporarily fixed and one vent was hopeless. I said a prayer that the potential homebuyers just wouldn’t look up when they entered the room.
As I finished the world’s fastest and most amazing house cleaning job, I surveyed my work, arms akimbo, as I gasped for air. I must say I was quite pleased.
Later that evening, when I returned home to my shiny, clean, good-smelling, organized house, I discovered the realtor never came.
...And I apparently misplaced someone's "favorite deer rifle."
Editor's note: I found my very expensive, highly accurate, custom 7mm-08 deep-woods rifle, literally, hidden under a throw pillow.
That settles it: The Natural Born Hunter is being domesticated.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Feeeeeeelllinngggssssss, Oh So Wond'rous FEEEEELLLINGGGSSSS!!
We had an ongoing pre-wedding disagreement about Tyler’s wedding-day performance. She feared she would suffer from giant wracking sobs while walking the plank, err – aisle; and embarrass herself.
Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.
I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.
Ruined it.
I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.
I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."
To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.
BWAH HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.
I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.
Ruined it.
I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.
I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."
To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.
BWAH HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Live Short and Prosper
A brief follow-up word on The New Regime under which I have been duped and enslaved:
Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.
Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.
Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”
The new life will “help me live longer.”
The question is: do I want to?
Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.
Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.
Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”
The new life will “help me live longer.”
The question is: do I want to?
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