Things are so off for me right now, that I have no clue what to write. It isn't as if there is a lot going on, just that I have no idea what actually is happening. Take the septic work, for instance. The system is installed but it hasn't been inspected. The inspection could happen today, tomorrow, or maybe next week. Then they have to finish filling in the holes, level the ground and get their machinery out of the way. It is definitely, possibly getting done this week. Maybe. In other words, sometime this month...hopefully.
As you can tell, I am not exactly centered today. My mind is trying to go several different directions and I am not even sure where a few of them lead. All I know is that it isn't helping me write this. If I were to hold down the period key each time my mind wondered, this post would be several pages by now. The really sad part is, I have no idea where it wanders off to. All I know is that I stare at the screen for a minute with nothing going on and then I can continue to write. I think that this means that I need to stop writing today's post so that I can stare off without the pressure of trying to figure out where I was just at.
By the way, if you see my mind out and about with out its body, or vice versa for that matter, please send them home, I would appreciate it.
Thanks for reading and, as always, have a great day.
Showing posts with label happy hump day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happy hump day. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Happy Hump Day: The Joys of Parenthood?
Let me begin by letting everyone know that I passed the PFA. If you want more details, you have to comment. Now on to the meat of today's post.
Happy Hump Day! Today we are talking about the joys of parenthood. OK, who am I kidding. No matter how much we love our kids, or enjoy raising them, there is no such thing as "the joys of parenthood." Think about it. Make a list of all the activities you loved to do before you had kids. Now, start crossing off any items that you can't afford to do because of kids. Your list should be cut in half at this point. If it isn't, then either you were a really lame couple, or you were a really cheap date. Now cross off anything that you can't do with your kids either because it's illegal for them to do, or you would be a bad parent if you let them (skydiving comes to mind, but that probably went away in the first round). You should now be down to just a few activities. Now, scratch off anything that takes more than 2 hours. This is about the time you end up with after you figure out how long it will take you to get to your date location and back to the baby sitters so you don't go over that 3 hour time limit. If you are taking the kids on this event you are also limited to two hours because anything over that and you are no longer at the event, you are the event as you chase your kid in what ever direction(s) (s)he decides to go.
OK, so what you did as singles, is no longer possible with kids. That doesn't mean there is no joy, does it? I mean, you just change what activities you do. You go to age appropriate things now. All this means is that where ever you go, you end up watching the kids have fun in a sterile environment, talking to other adults without looking at them (this is mainly because you are all trying to pick out your child from the crowd to make sure they don't kill another kid), while being bored out of your mind. Oh, and the conversations all go something like the following:
"So, yeah, we found that...Bobby, you put that down!...anyway, we found that things are a bit cheaper at Walmart, but....No Bobby, you leave her alone....we prefer Target."
"I so understand....Suzy, you let go of her hair! I don't care who had it first.."
"Bobby, stop that, get over here and sit down. Go on, you were saying,"
"Yes, I really don't like Walmart either."
Not really what I would call quality conversation. It doesn't matter what you start talking about, you always end up discussing where things are cheaper, what place gives better deals, or which museum is more kid appropriate. When you do manage to have an adult discussion, you inevitably get the kid pulling on your leg and repeating, "daddy," in an ever louder voice until you scream, "WHAT?" at the poor kid. To which the inevitable reply is a "can I have, (you fill in the item)." And by the way, when you scream that at your poor kid, (s)he inevitably cries and that single lady that is "cares so much" for kids and has never had any starts giving you the look that says you are a bad parent.
The only "joy of parenthood" that I can see is when the rug rats are sleeping. Yeah, they're cute when they do that. Or, when they discover a new ability, like walking, I suppose that is pretty neat. Or how about, when they discover they can't do something by trying, like blowing on their own belly. I guess that's pretty funny. Or maybe when they snuggle up to you and tell you they love you. I suppose I might call that a joy.
Maybe it is a bit of a trade off. Sure, I can't go out with my friends every weekend. Maybe the wife and I don't get to go on long dates to fun and interesting new places. We just appreciate the quiet times together all the more. Maybe we don't go to the science museum and get to read all the exhibits and spend hours watching educational films, but watching the kids eyes light up when they get to figure out how a windmill works by blowing on it, is maybe just a little bit better. Yes, you have to find new ways to stretch the dollar, but now that every dollar counts, you find that you have a bit more to spend on what matters. Maybe you don't eat out every night, but you learned how to make awesome homemade mac & cheese.
Yup, parenting changes things. From the non-parent's point of view, it is a bad deal. From a parent's point of view, let's just say, I feel for those who don't ever want to have kids. They are a powerful influence. They are also a lot of fun to play with. If a single guy goes into a toy store and buys Nerf guns, he's a little weird. If a Dad does the same thing, he's fun. Yup, I love being a dad. I stand corrected, there are joys of parenthood, they are just different from (and I think better than) the joys of not having kids.
Hope you enjoyed today's post. Stay tuned next week for a new one. Have a great day.
Happy Hump Day! Today we are talking about the joys of parenthood. OK, who am I kidding. No matter how much we love our kids, or enjoy raising them, there is no such thing as "the joys of parenthood." Think about it. Make a list of all the activities you loved to do before you had kids. Now, start crossing off any items that you can't afford to do because of kids. Your list should be cut in half at this point. If it isn't, then either you were a really lame couple, or you were a really cheap date. Now cross off anything that you can't do with your kids either because it's illegal for them to do, or you would be a bad parent if you let them (skydiving comes to mind, but that probably went away in the first round). You should now be down to just a few activities. Now, scratch off anything that takes more than 2 hours. This is about the time you end up with after you figure out how long it will take you to get to your date location and back to the baby sitters so you don't go over that 3 hour time limit. If you are taking the kids on this event you are also limited to two hours because anything over that and you are no longer at the event, you are the event as you chase your kid in what ever direction(s) (s)he decides to go.
OK, so what you did as singles, is no longer possible with kids. That doesn't mean there is no joy, does it? I mean, you just change what activities you do. You go to age appropriate things now. All this means is that where ever you go, you end up watching the kids have fun in a sterile environment, talking to other adults without looking at them (this is mainly because you are all trying to pick out your child from the crowd to make sure they don't kill another kid), while being bored out of your mind. Oh, and the conversations all go something like the following:
"So, yeah, we found that...Bobby, you put that down!...anyway, we found that things are a bit cheaper at Walmart, but....No Bobby, you leave her alone....we prefer Target."
"I so understand....Suzy, you let go of her hair! I don't care who had it first.."
"Bobby, stop that, get over here and sit down. Go on, you were saying,"
"Yes, I really don't like Walmart either."
Not really what I would call quality conversation. It doesn't matter what you start talking about, you always end up discussing where things are cheaper, what place gives better deals, or which museum is more kid appropriate. When you do manage to have an adult discussion, you inevitably get the kid pulling on your leg and repeating, "daddy," in an ever louder voice until you scream, "WHAT?" at the poor kid. To which the inevitable reply is a "can I have, (you fill in the item)." And by the way, when you scream that at your poor kid, (s)he inevitably cries and that single lady that is "cares so much" for kids and has never had any starts giving you the look that says you are a bad parent.
The only "joy of parenthood" that I can see is when the rug rats are sleeping. Yeah, they're cute when they do that. Or, when they discover a new ability, like walking, I suppose that is pretty neat. Or how about, when they discover they can't do something by trying, like blowing on their own belly. I guess that's pretty funny. Or maybe when they snuggle up to you and tell you they love you. I suppose I might call that a joy.
Maybe it is a bit of a trade off. Sure, I can't go out with my friends every weekend. Maybe the wife and I don't get to go on long dates to fun and interesting new places. We just appreciate the quiet times together all the more. Maybe we don't go to the science museum and get to read all the exhibits and spend hours watching educational films, but watching the kids eyes light up when they get to figure out how a windmill works by blowing on it, is maybe just a little bit better. Yes, you have to find new ways to stretch the dollar, but now that every dollar counts, you find that you have a bit more to spend on what matters. Maybe you don't eat out every night, but you learned how to make awesome homemade mac & cheese.
Yup, parenting changes things. From the non-parent's point of view, it is a bad deal. From a parent's point of view, let's just say, I feel for those who don't ever want to have kids. They are a powerful influence. They are also a lot of fun to play with. If a single guy goes into a toy store and buys Nerf guns, he's a little weird. If a Dad does the same thing, he's fun. Yup, I love being a dad. I stand corrected, there are joys of parenthood, they are just different from (and I think better than) the joys of not having kids.
Hope you enjoyed today's post. Stay tuned next week for a new one. Have a great day.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Happy Hump Day: Yes, Dear.
Happy Hump Day! You'd think I'd be happier since it is my birthday. I'm not. At first, I was excited. After all, it is my birthday. Then I realized that it meant I was older. Not something I like being reminded of (especially since I am one of the older (if not the oldest) military guy in my office). Yup, I am now 37. That's right, 37 years of making mistakes and learning from them. You'd think, by now, I would have learned everything there is to know about making mistakes, but I find I keep making new ones. I have heard from some of my more learned (I'll just use that term instead of older from now on, I think it sounds better) colleagues and friends that you keep making mistakes. Something about no one is perfect. Seems to me that there can only be a finite amount of mistakes one can make. Seems logical anyway. But then you throw in the illogical (i.e. women) and the number of mistakes grow at a rapid rate.
Just when you think you have the rules figured out (usually just before puberty) you realize girls are interesting and the rules completely change. No longer is it cool to dig a hole in the ground to bury your GI Joes. No longer is that ratty game shirt worthy of wearing. No longer is it better to have your fly open than to be seen with a girl. Now, you have to figure out what it is women want. In your infinite wisdom at that age (now a teen), you think you can figure it out given enough time. By the time you realize that you'll never figure out women (and any man who claims he has is either a fool or was once one), you are either to old to be interested in them (that age right before you die), or you are married to one and the rules have changed yet again.
That's right, the rules you used to get her to date you, love you, and then marry you (though not always in that order) changed as soon as she said I do. At this point every man has a decision to make. Either you give up and roll with the punches because no matter what you do, you will anger her at least once a week and have to apologize. You don't even have to be there. Sometimes, you aren't even remotely responsible. For example, I have had days where my wife was angry at me all day because in her dreams I did something to make her mad. How the heck am I supposed to control that?! Admittedly, she has gotten better about it, now she only gets mad when my dream self blatantly cheats on her.
Oh, did I mention that half of the time, they refuse to tell you why they are mad? That's right, we have to guess. Us guys, the ones who took three weeks to take the hint that you wanted us to ask you out. The human beings that still haven't figured out that you want the toilet seat down, even though you've mentioned it for the last 20 years. Yup, we have to guess. And that just makes them madder, usually because we end up listing things they didn't know about, but mostly because we aren't telepathic and can't figure out exactly where we went wrong. Then when they finally tell us why they were mad in the first place, you find it was either something we could do nothing about, something so minor that it wasn't worth mentioning, or sometimes (a small percentage really) something legitimate. Then you factor in the rule that no rule is set in stone (except that one rule that is that you don't learn about until to late), and you are in trouble. Yup, we men can't win.
That being said, I still have a lot to learn. As is obvious from my post, I have said to much and now I have angered the one I love. At least this time I don't have to guess what I did. I just ranted on the wrong thing, exaggerated stuff she didn't find funny, and talked about women in a manner that some might say is disrespectful no matter how true. Yup, I am in trouble. Time to go home and take my licks and do the head bobbing yes dear. You know the move guys. The one where you bob your head and say, "yes, dear," in acknowledgement as the woman you love tells you just how badly you screwed up. You hope to learn from it (I obviously didn't in this case), but you listen and hope you will at least get a good night kiss out of it.
Ladies, I hope the lesson you learn from this is simply that, no matter what he says or does, you have more power over him than anybody else in the world. When you smile, you can get him to do anything. When you frown and snap, he does it faster though. Just saying.
The above was written at an attempt at humor. Only the author was harmed (hopefully) as a result of this post. Ignore all resemblance to real life as it is strictly a coincidence. Thank you. Have a wonderful day and ... what? Yes, dear.
Just when you think you have the rules figured out (usually just before puberty) you realize girls are interesting and the rules completely change. No longer is it cool to dig a hole in the ground to bury your GI Joes. No longer is that ratty game shirt worthy of wearing. No longer is it better to have your fly open than to be seen with a girl. Now, you have to figure out what it is women want. In your infinite wisdom at that age (now a teen), you think you can figure it out given enough time. By the time you realize that you'll never figure out women (and any man who claims he has is either a fool or was once one), you are either to old to be interested in them (that age right before you die), or you are married to one and the rules have changed yet again.
That's right, the rules you used to get her to date you, love you, and then marry you (though not always in that order) changed as soon as she said I do. At this point every man has a decision to make. Either you give up and roll with the punches because no matter what you do, you will anger her at least once a week and have to apologize. You don't even have to be there. Sometimes, you aren't even remotely responsible. For example, I have had days where my wife was angry at me all day because in her dreams I did something to make her mad. How the heck am I supposed to control that?! Admittedly, she has gotten better about it, now she only gets mad when my dream self blatantly cheats on her.
Oh, did I mention that half of the time, they refuse to tell you why they are mad? That's right, we have to guess. Us guys, the ones who took three weeks to take the hint that you wanted us to ask you out. The human beings that still haven't figured out that you want the toilet seat down, even though you've mentioned it for the last 20 years. Yup, we have to guess. And that just makes them madder, usually because we end up listing things they didn't know about, but mostly because we aren't telepathic and can't figure out exactly where we went wrong. Then when they finally tell us why they were mad in the first place, you find it was either something we could do nothing about, something so minor that it wasn't worth mentioning, or sometimes (a small percentage really) something legitimate. Then you factor in the rule that no rule is set in stone (except that one rule that is that you don't learn about until to late), and you are in trouble. Yup, we men can't win.
That being said, I still have a lot to learn. As is obvious from my post, I have said to much and now I have angered the one I love. At least this time I don't have to guess what I did. I just ranted on the wrong thing, exaggerated stuff she didn't find funny, and talked about women in a manner that some might say is disrespectful no matter how true. Yup, I am in trouble. Time to go home and take my licks and do the head bobbing yes dear. You know the move guys. The one where you bob your head and say, "yes, dear," in acknowledgement as the woman you love tells you just how badly you screwed up. You hope to learn from it (I obviously didn't in this case), but you listen and hope you will at least get a good night kiss out of it.
Ladies, I hope the lesson you learn from this is simply that, no matter what he says or does, you have more power over him than anybody else in the world. When you smile, you can get him to do anything. When you frown and snap, he does it faster though. Just saying.
The above was written at an attempt at humor. Only the author was harmed (hopefully) as a result of this post. Ignore all resemblance to real life as it is strictly a coincidence. Thank you. Have a wonderful day and ... what? Yes, dear.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Happy Manic Hump Monday? Huh, what?
Wow, it's already lunch. Where did the time go? I will admit I did spend a fair amount of time this morning complaining about the new Face Book lay out with the guys in the office. Turns out we all found it equally horrifying. For some reason the people that run the sight have the Navy mentality. The one that says, "If we change it, it is an improvement and we always have to improve it." Never mind that the change made it worse. It was a change and thus an improvement. Never mind that it is now next to impossible to figure out what was posted in the past 12 hours since you last logged on. It was a change and thus an improvement. Never mind that, and forgive the yelling, WE DIDN'T ASK FOR IT. It was a change and thus an improvement.
This attitude is one of the many reasons I would not go beyond 20 years of service in the Navy if I had my choice. What makes it even worse in the Navy is the fact that sometimes the change is simply adding to the current policy. It says to me, "the original policy was good enough, but if I make an additional requirement I made things better." This is not only wrong, but makes thing harder and worse. Just once I want someone to look at the policies in place, and remove requirements to make things better. The idea that you can't remove requirements that were made at your level by your predecessor because it might, and I quote here, "confuse the watch stander" is ludicrous. If removing onerous and excessive requirements would be confusing, what do you think adding on to them will do? It makes no sense, but then again, a favorite quote amongst the leaders here is, "The Navy doesn't have to make sense and usually doesn't."
I just realized that it is Happy Hump day and I am not being very happy. Instead, it appears I did a Manic Monday post. I hate it when I get angry on my happy days. Sorry, I apologize for my rant and will now penalize myself by mowing the lawn this afternoon and maybe fixing the boys' bikes. Interesting though this week has been, it just keeps getting better. There was no sarcasm in that. Rehearsal is going great and I love the part I got. I did another section on my story page. I just received a certificate entitling me to 96 hours of special liberty (a free 4 day weekend) and I am looking forward to it all. Except the mowing the yard part. I could do without that. Oh, yeah, I found out the check engine light on my truck could be a simple crack in my exhaust, a vacuum hose, or a loose gas cap. I doubt the last because of the timing, but either way, there is no real risk in taking my time to repair it. I should be able to fix it next paycheck. We'll see.
Once again, I apologize for the lack of the usual post. I will make it up to you somehow. I just am not feeling very funny right now. Have a great day and don't take yourself to seriously. No one else does.
This attitude is one of the many reasons I would not go beyond 20 years of service in the Navy if I had my choice. What makes it even worse in the Navy is the fact that sometimes the change is simply adding to the current policy. It says to me, "the original policy was good enough, but if I make an additional requirement I made things better." This is not only wrong, but makes thing harder and worse. Just once I want someone to look at the policies in place, and remove requirements to make things better. The idea that you can't remove requirements that were made at your level by your predecessor because it might, and I quote here, "confuse the watch stander" is ludicrous. If removing onerous and excessive requirements would be confusing, what do you think adding on to them will do? It makes no sense, but then again, a favorite quote amongst the leaders here is, "The Navy doesn't have to make sense and usually doesn't."
I just realized that it is Happy Hump day and I am not being very happy. Instead, it appears I did a Manic Monday post. I hate it when I get angry on my happy days. Sorry, I apologize for my rant and will now penalize myself by mowing the lawn this afternoon and maybe fixing the boys' bikes. Interesting though this week has been, it just keeps getting better. There was no sarcasm in that. Rehearsal is going great and I love the part I got. I did another section on my story page. I just received a certificate entitling me to 96 hours of special liberty (a free 4 day weekend) and I am looking forward to it all. Except the mowing the yard part. I could do without that. Oh, yeah, I found out the check engine light on my truck could be a simple crack in my exhaust, a vacuum hose, or a loose gas cap. I doubt the last because of the timing, but either way, there is no real risk in taking my time to repair it. I should be able to fix it next paycheck. We'll see.
Once again, I apologize for the lack of the usual post. I will make it up to you somehow. I just am not feeling very funny right now. Have a great day and don't take yourself to seriously. No one else does.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Happy Hump Day: Scheduled to the max
I know it is Happy Hump Day, but I have some stuff I need to get out of the way first. As I informed you yesterday...I said hold your horses, I will try and be funny in a minute....anyway, as I was saying, yesterday I informed you I tried out for a part in my churches Christmas Musical, "Annie!", I find out today if I got the part I want or a different part. I didn't get a call back, but that doesn't mean I didn't get the part. Next, I want to let you know that the link over there ------> is a link to what was formally "Joe's Story Time." I decided to change the name to the title of the story and then I added a new post to it. Check it out if you want. I actually started writing that story years ago and have since updated it to match my developing style.
Now to the funny (I hope). There is only so much you can do when you discover that life has been planning something for you with out your consent or knowledge. This has happened to me on several occasions and continues to happen regularly. I think, "hey, Tuesday is clear, I think I will mow the lawn Tuesday and enjoy today (Saturday) with the family." Good plan, at least it was to me. Then life raises its head in the guise of my lovely wife and says, "Oh, by the way, your son has soccer practice and you need to help his brothers with homework, make dinner, and there are clothes in the wash that need put into the dryer. Thanks." Your welcome. The grass isn't up to my knees yet, so I guess it's OK. It wasn't until I look back at the previous week and realize I should have seen this coming. My boy has been going to practice for 3 weeks now, so I should know the schedule. The kids did just start school, so I should have guessed they might have homework. OK, I get it, I made a bad plan. Can we just move on?
It seems that no matter what I do, that period of time from September to June (also known as the "school year"), becomes a practice of what to do when. Or more accurately, what day isn't there something scheduled. For us, it is.....let me think about this for a minute.....Oh, yeah, Saturday....no wait, we have games Saturday....Friday!.....No, that's....wait, yeah, Friday....After 4pm.....when the kids get home from school....after dinner.....so, that doesn't really work then....Sunday?....afternoon....between football and....OK, I give. I think if we skip football on Sunday (sorry dear), we might be able to get an hour or two together as a family to go out and do something.
What is it with scheduling things these days. Growing up, I felt connected and had a great time and we only had things scheduled for Sunday's and Wednesday nights. It seems these days that unless you have things scheduled for every day of the week, you are depriving your kids. Really? Do they really need to remain that busy. What happened to doing chores, cleaning house, studying, and just spending time with family? I don't think most kids could tell you what Uno is, let alone what a family game night is.
Speaking of Uno, why is it that young kids are the cruelest players? Take my 6 year old for example. We try to avoid sitting next to him because he plays any mean card he can as soon as he can. I understand that it is part of the game and most of us do it, but does he really have to giggle maniacally and then look at you so innocently afterwards? At least my 10 year old has the decency to look evil when he plays mean. My ten year old is another story altogether. He actually actively plots out who and when he is going to attack. I have actually seen him go through three wild cards to play his single blue card because it was a draw two and he really needed to play it on his brother. It was just a little disturbing. Then my 8 year old just plays to get rid of cards. He may have the basic premise down, but he tends to lose sight of the fun. Then again, he does seem to win quite often. It is amazing just how much you can learn of your kids personalities over a game.
I guess I just got lucky that I grew up in a home that loved playing games. It is where I learned how to play by the rules and accept challenges. I think that this is what I am trying to teach my sons. My wife tells me to be nice and let them win sometimes. I just can't do that. I don't recall my dad ever letting me win. I had to earn my wins. Sometimes I think my dad had to have cheated as much as he won. But now I know that he just didn't take it easy on me or my siblings. I don't think I ever beat my dad at chess and he regularly beat me at Cribbage. Dad was and is a competitor at heart. We all love games and can't wait to play again. I try and teach my boys to play games all the time. Sometimes, we just can't find the time due to schedules and life in this day and age in general.
Well, This may not have been that funny, but I enjoyed writing it. Right now, life is calling and letting me know it is time to go. Thank you for reading and keep playing. Have a great day.
Now to the funny (I hope). There is only so much you can do when you discover that life has been planning something for you with out your consent or knowledge. This has happened to me on several occasions and continues to happen regularly. I think, "hey, Tuesday is clear, I think I will mow the lawn Tuesday and enjoy today (Saturday) with the family." Good plan, at least it was to me. Then life raises its head in the guise of my lovely wife and says, "Oh, by the way, your son has soccer practice and you need to help his brothers with homework, make dinner, and there are clothes in the wash that need put into the dryer. Thanks." Your welcome. The grass isn't up to my knees yet, so I guess it's OK. It wasn't until I look back at the previous week and realize I should have seen this coming. My boy has been going to practice for 3 weeks now, so I should know the schedule. The kids did just start school, so I should have guessed they might have homework. OK, I get it, I made a bad plan. Can we just move on?
It seems that no matter what I do, that period of time from September to June (also known as the "school year"), becomes a practice of what to do when. Or more accurately, what day isn't there something scheduled. For us, it is.....let me think about this for a minute.....Oh, yeah, Saturday....no wait, we have games Saturday....Friday!.....No, that's....wait, yeah, Friday....After 4pm.....when the kids get home from school....after dinner.....so, that doesn't really work then....Sunday?....afternoon....between football and....OK, I give. I think if we skip football on Sunday (sorry dear), we might be able to get an hour or two together as a family to go out and do something.
What is it with scheduling things these days. Growing up, I felt connected and had a great time and we only had things scheduled for Sunday's and Wednesday nights. It seems these days that unless you have things scheduled for every day of the week, you are depriving your kids. Really? Do they really need to remain that busy. What happened to doing chores, cleaning house, studying, and just spending time with family? I don't think most kids could tell you what Uno is, let alone what a family game night is.
Speaking of Uno, why is it that young kids are the cruelest players? Take my 6 year old for example. We try to avoid sitting next to him because he plays any mean card he can as soon as he can. I understand that it is part of the game and most of us do it, but does he really have to giggle maniacally and then look at you so innocently afterwards? At least my 10 year old has the decency to look evil when he plays mean. My ten year old is another story altogether. He actually actively plots out who and when he is going to attack. I have actually seen him go through three wild cards to play his single blue card because it was a draw two and he really needed to play it on his brother. It was just a little disturbing. Then my 8 year old just plays to get rid of cards. He may have the basic premise down, but he tends to lose sight of the fun. Then again, he does seem to win quite often. It is amazing just how much you can learn of your kids personalities over a game.
I guess I just got lucky that I grew up in a home that loved playing games. It is where I learned how to play by the rules and accept challenges. I think that this is what I am trying to teach my sons. My wife tells me to be nice and let them win sometimes. I just can't do that. I don't recall my dad ever letting me win. I had to earn my wins. Sometimes I think my dad had to have cheated as much as he won. But now I know that he just didn't take it easy on me or my siblings. I don't think I ever beat my dad at chess and he regularly beat me at Cribbage. Dad was and is a competitor at heart. We all love games and can't wait to play again. I try and teach my boys to play games all the time. Sometimes, we just can't find the time due to schedules and life in this day and age in general.
Well, This may not have been that funny, but I enjoyed writing it. Right now, life is calling and letting me know it is time to go. Thank you for reading and keep playing. Have a great day.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Happy Hump Day: What the heck did I just write?
Happy Hump Day! yes, it's that day of the week. Doesn't seem like it should be with the shortened week, but it is. This always seems to happen when a holiday occurs. You forget that the first day of the week isn't Monday and thus you end up a day off the rest of the week. It usually takes me until about mid Saturday morning for it to finally dawn on me that it was a shortened week.
This is especially bad when it comes to weeks like Thanksgiving week. Being in the Navy, I tend to get the day after Thanksgiving off as well. This means that I end up with 4 days off straight. While I enjoy the lead up to it, I end up feeling as though I should be somewhere else on Saturday and walk around in a daze for hours until it finally sets in that I really don't have to be anywhere. I think my wife figured this out and has used it as an excuse to either schedule things or to take me shopping. Either way, I am able to skip the daze. Not that I don't like shopping or doing things with my wife, it just makes for a long day. In fact, I love doing things with my wife (I'm not just saying this because she is reading it, Hi Honey!, I really do enjoy spending time with her) and she is the one who hates shopping. I love window shopping (and the occasional purchase is good as well).
This brings me to a whole other topic. I must have the most non woman type wife in the world. I mean that in a good way. She hates spending money. The height of fashion for her is the sale rack at good will and as long as you can rig it to work it is still good. She balances me. I like to look halfway decent, can't stand it when things aren't performing or looking as well as when they were new, and love shopping. Since we actually have a savings account with money in it, you can guess who wins more often. The funny thing is, we both had similar backgrounds. Growing up, our clothes were either hand me downs, thrift store purchases, or garage sale finds. New meant we went into a store to buy it (you do have to go into a thrift store to buy it). We wore faded jeans because that's how they came (they faded naturally, we paid $2 for them while the stores had them for $50 new). When ripped jeans became the fashion we were excited, we were finally in style and we didn't have to pay outrageous sums of cash for new jeans, ours came "preventilated" (my dad's phrase) from the thrift store. Shopping meant that we were going out to get stuff we needed and that was it. I only got actual new stuff for Christmas and birthdays. It was the same for my wife.
So why is it that I like to spend money and my wife wants to hold on to it? I don't know. We both had lean times growing up, but when I had money I couldn't wait to spend it. She on the other hand held on to it. I really can't explain it and neither can she. I am glad she likes to hold onto stuff, it keeps me in check and makes it so we can have nice things (at least until the kids get a hold of them).
Yes, I sometimes complain about my wife's thrifty tendencies. Yes, I call her cheap every once in a while. Yes, we argue about money regularly. But I think that just helps me reign in my spending. I get the feeling that she complains about my spending ways just as much. She constantly reminds me that just because we have $50 in the account doesn't mean that we can go find a new knife for the kitchen (so I like cooking as well). I love her for it and maybe because of it. She carries a lot of weight around with the primary worry about money. I am usually unconcerned about the check book until I have a stack of receipts in my wallet. Add to that the ease of going to the store on my way home from work and, with out her, I would be up to my eyes in debt.
So I guess this Happy Hump day post has become a thank you to my wife. The humor may or may not be there, but this is what came out when I let my thoughts go free (I also appear incapable of sticking with a single topic, but maybe that's just ADD). Thank you for reading. Have a great day.
This is especially bad when it comes to weeks like Thanksgiving week. Being in the Navy, I tend to get the day after Thanksgiving off as well. This means that I end up with 4 days off straight. While I enjoy the lead up to it, I end up feeling as though I should be somewhere else on Saturday and walk around in a daze for hours until it finally sets in that I really don't have to be anywhere. I think my wife figured this out and has used it as an excuse to either schedule things or to take me shopping. Either way, I am able to skip the daze. Not that I don't like shopping or doing things with my wife, it just makes for a long day. In fact, I love doing things with my wife (I'm not just saying this because she is reading it, Hi Honey!, I really do enjoy spending time with her) and she is the one who hates shopping. I love window shopping (and the occasional purchase is good as well).
This brings me to a whole other topic. I must have the most non woman type wife in the world. I mean that in a good way. She hates spending money. The height of fashion for her is the sale rack at good will and as long as you can rig it to work it is still good. She balances me. I like to look halfway decent, can't stand it when things aren't performing or looking as well as when they were new, and love shopping. Since we actually have a savings account with money in it, you can guess who wins more often. The funny thing is, we both had similar backgrounds. Growing up, our clothes were either hand me downs, thrift store purchases, or garage sale finds. New meant we went into a store to buy it (you do have to go into a thrift store to buy it). We wore faded jeans because that's how they came (they faded naturally, we paid $2 for them while the stores had them for $50 new). When ripped jeans became the fashion we were excited, we were finally in style and we didn't have to pay outrageous sums of cash for new jeans, ours came "preventilated" (my dad's phrase) from the thrift store. Shopping meant that we were going out to get stuff we needed and that was it. I only got actual new stuff for Christmas and birthdays. It was the same for my wife.
So why is it that I like to spend money and my wife wants to hold on to it? I don't know. We both had lean times growing up, but when I had money I couldn't wait to spend it. She on the other hand held on to it. I really can't explain it and neither can she. I am glad she likes to hold onto stuff, it keeps me in check and makes it so we can have nice things (at least until the kids get a hold of them).
Yes, I sometimes complain about my wife's thrifty tendencies. Yes, I call her cheap every once in a while. Yes, we argue about money regularly. But I think that just helps me reign in my spending. I get the feeling that she complains about my spending ways just as much. She constantly reminds me that just because we have $50 in the account doesn't mean that we can go find a new knife for the kitchen (so I like cooking as well). I love her for it and maybe because of it. She carries a lot of weight around with the primary worry about money. I am usually unconcerned about the check book until I have a stack of receipts in my wallet. Add to that the ease of going to the store on my way home from work and, with out her, I would be up to my eyes in debt.
So I guess this Happy Hump day post has become a thank you to my wife. The humor may or may not be there, but this is what came out when I let my thoughts go free (I also appear incapable of sticking with a single topic, but maybe that's just ADD). Thank you for reading. Have a great day.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Happy Hump Day: Bad Jokes are Good?
It's Happy Hump Day. In this installment, I tell some jokes that may not make you laugh and a story that might. Here goes nothing (OK, hopefully not nothing, something, but nothing worth writing about, OK, obviously I think it's worth writing about, but.....oh never mind, just read on).
Growing up in a Christian home meant that the language and topics were always clean. This led to jokes that the rest of society usually found somewhat boring (explains a lot about my sense of humor). My dad always had a well of jokes that sometimes hurt, literally. They ranged from the head scratchers (What can go up a chimney down, but not down a chimney up? An umbrella!) to down right childish (what has 4 wheels and flies? A Garbage truck!). Dad always got a chuckle out of them. I think it was because he was watching our expressions. At least that's why I laugh half the time. Yes, I have taken to telling my dad's jokes to my coworkers and friends (they say I torture them by telling the jokes, but at least I get a laugh). In fact, I was banned from telling jokes during one underway as the Engineer said the jokes were so bad that he felt his IQ dropping just from hearing them. Sure they were dumb, but that was the point.
Admit it, you have all told jokes that were really dumb. Then you laughed afterwards. Why? Because you got to see the look of total disbelief and incomprehension cross the face(s) of the audience. That look is almost always worth a laugh. And laughter is infectious. I found the best way to ensure a laugh is to give a genuine chuckle yourself. It has to be genuine, people can tell. If you fake a laugh, you just look silly and dumber than....for lack of a better comparison, my dad's bad jokes. We still laughed at them, but looking back (and, yes telling them myself) they were (are) dumb.
I also found that my dad liked telling his jokes with themes. For instance, he might tell a series of jokes one day that were all about rabbits. Yes, he had a dozen rabbit jokes. Think of all the puns for hare and you can get a picture of what it might sound like. I hear you groaning. It was worse. Themes let you trap the unwary listener....never mind, keep reading, nothing to worry about. The only requirement for themes is that the jokes are loosely tied together in some way and there has to be at least three jokes for it to be a theme. I usually used the bad joke theme, it was the easiest one to use.
Conveniently, I forgot a lot of dad's jokes, but then again, some of them were so bad they were good. You know the ones. The ones you hear and groan immediately after the punch line and then the groan becomes a deep laugh that you just can't stop. Those of you that have had the pleasure (misfortune?) of hearing my (my dad's really) jokes, know what I am talking about.
Which makes me ask, why do people stick around and actually show interest in jokes when you tell them you have a bad joke? Seriously, I say, "want to hear a bad joke?" and the usual response is, "not really, but go ahead." Why? If you don't want to hear it, say no and leave. I'm not lying, it usually is bad. Groan and feel dumb bad. Better to bang your head against the wall bad. And yet, you listen patiently and are amazed that I actually told a bad joke. Even those of you that have been around me enough. Why? Guess they are as addictive (and sometimes as dangerous as) illicit drugs. I know I can't wait to expand my cache of bad jokes.
Thank you for reading. Let me leave you with a bad joke. Just kidding, I want to see your face when I tell it. Have a great day.
One last thing. If you look over there ------> you see a link to my other blog Joe's Story time. It is a serial story I am writing. Enjoy.
Growing up in a Christian home meant that the language and topics were always clean. This led to jokes that the rest of society usually found somewhat boring (explains a lot about my sense of humor). My dad always had a well of jokes that sometimes hurt, literally. They ranged from the head scratchers (What can go up a chimney down, but not down a chimney up? An umbrella!) to down right childish (what has 4 wheels and flies? A Garbage truck!). Dad always got a chuckle out of them. I think it was because he was watching our expressions. At least that's why I laugh half the time. Yes, I have taken to telling my dad's jokes to my coworkers and friends (they say I torture them by telling the jokes, but at least I get a laugh). In fact, I was banned from telling jokes during one underway as the Engineer said the jokes were so bad that he felt his IQ dropping just from hearing them. Sure they were dumb, but that was the point.
Admit it, you have all told jokes that were really dumb. Then you laughed afterwards. Why? Because you got to see the look of total disbelief and incomprehension cross the face(s) of the audience. That look is almost always worth a laugh. And laughter is infectious. I found the best way to ensure a laugh is to give a genuine chuckle yourself. It has to be genuine, people can tell. If you fake a laugh, you just look silly and dumber than....for lack of a better comparison, my dad's bad jokes. We still laughed at them, but looking back (and, yes telling them myself) they were (are) dumb.
I also found that my dad liked telling his jokes with themes. For instance, he might tell a series of jokes one day that were all about rabbits. Yes, he had a dozen rabbit jokes. Think of all the puns for hare and you can get a picture of what it might sound like. I hear you groaning. It was worse. Themes let you trap the unwary listener....never mind, keep reading, nothing to worry about. The only requirement for themes is that the jokes are loosely tied together in some way and there has to be at least three jokes for it to be a theme. I usually used the bad joke theme, it was the easiest one to use.
Conveniently, I forgot a lot of dad's jokes, but then again, some of them were so bad they were good. You know the ones. The ones you hear and groan immediately after the punch line and then the groan becomes a deep laugh that you just can't stop. Those of you that have had the pleasure (misfortune?) of hearing my (my dad's really) jokes, know what I am talking about.
Which makes me ask, why do people stick around and actually show interest in jokes when you tell them you have a bad joke? Seriously, I say, "want to hear a bad joke?" and the usual response is, "not really, but go ahead." Why? If you don't want to hear it, say no and leave. I'm not lying, it usually is bad. Groan and feel dumb bad. Better to bang your head against the wall bad. And yet, you listen patiently and are amazed that I actually told a bad joke. Even those of you that have been around me enough. Why? Guess they are as addictive (and sometimes as dangerous as) illicit drugs. I know I can't wait to expand my cache of bad jokes.
Thank you for reading. Let me leave you with a bad joke. Just kidding, I want to see your face when I tell it. Have a great day.
One last thing. If you look over there ------> you see a link to my other blog Joe's Story time. It is a serial story I am writing. Enjoy.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Happy Hump Day isn't very happy. ( just sorta happy)
Happy Hump Day isn't very happy. The thumb is still sore. Not as much as it was, but still sore. So, because I hate to disappoint, I will regale you with a short anecdote from this weekend. After I cut my thumb I was sitting in the ER waiting for them to figure out how they were going to treat me. They had already removed the bandage I had applied and were looking at what to do next. While they were waiting, (note that my thumb was still leaking slowly), they decided I needed a tetanus shot.
As the corpsman went to put the shot into my right arm (note that the thumb in question is the right thumb), I quipped, "aren't you afraid it's going to leak out the thumb?"
He stopped with the needle an inch from my arm and gave me a look that said, "did I just hear you right?" I just gave him my best innocent smile and he burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, that was the last of the laughter for a while, but at least I was able to keep my sense of humor (what there is of it anyway).
Hopefully that will hold you off for a while. Thank you for your support and prayers. Have a wonderful day.
As the corpsman went to put the shot into my right arm (note that the thumb in question is the right thumb), I quipped, "aren't you afraid it's going to leak out the thumb?"
He stopped with the needle an inch from my arm and gave me a look that said, "did I just hear you right?" I just gave him my best innocent smile and he burst out laughing.
Unfortunately, that was the last of the laughter for a while, but at least I was able to keep my sense of humor (what there is of it anyway).
Hopefully that will hold you off for a while. Thank you for your support and prayers. Have a wonderful day.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Happy Hump Day: I need me one of these.
Well, it's Happy Hump Day and I am not happy. Went to turn on the computer at home and it refused to work for me. No power, nothing. It was dead. So now I get to look at power supplies for it. Luckily they are pretty cheap. I should be able to fix it myself, I just have to buy the darn thing. I love going into stores and dropping dirty, dusty, non functioning items on their counter and saying, "I need me one of these."
It seems to work rather well. I have found that the nastier it is the better the reaction. I once dropped an oil and grease covered, broken water pump on the counter at a new auto parts store (it was so new that the floors were still shiny) and the look on the face of the cashier was classic. What made it even more enjoyable, was that she had no clue what it was. Have you ever seen a young lady try and pick up a water pump from a 60s era Chevy with two fingers? It wasn't until one of her coworkers came out, saw what we had, and sold us a rebuild kit (this guy was good), that she finally got it off the counter. The puddle we left behind was pretty good sized too. She didn't seem to appreciate it though.
I wouldn't recommend doing this at some stores though. Take a pet store for example. I really doubt that they would appreciate you if you came in, threw your dead dog on the counter and said, "I need me another one of those." You'd probably be arrested. Grocery stores probably wouldn't appreciate it either (I'll leave how that would work up to your imagination).
I have found that "I need me one of those", tends to get you better service than, "I need that thingamajig that (insert function here)." They may have a clue what could perform said function, but it could also be a range of things and inevitably, the first thing they suggest isn't it and is usually more expensive than what it really is. This is especially true if the store has a no returns policy. Add to that the fact that the real fix is probably buried deep in the bowels of whatever it is you are trying to fix and you may as well have an expert fix it. I had a universal remote that was out of this world. Touch screen, multiple commands, awesomeness that made most techies drool. The touch screen got broke (who would have thought with a two year old and a couple of dogs in the house?) So I decided to try and fix it. The new touch screen cost as much as a new remote! I guess sometimes you just can't win.
I remember walking into Lowe's one time knowing the name, size, use, description, and color of an item once (a spanner wrench, of all things). I just couldn't find it. Finally I found an employee and asked for the item by name. I figured, they work at the place, they should know the name, right? Wrong. The look I got back would have made an idiot look intelligent. I then described it. Same look. Ten minutes later, the guy finally led me over to a rack of tools and asked if it were one of those. They weren't it. As I spun around I finally saw what I was looking for. I picked it up and he got this aha look on his face. "Oh, you meant a pin face wrench," and he was proud that he could put a name to it. I returned his previous looks to him and read the label. It said "1-2 inch spanner wrench." Just goes to show, just because you know what you're looking for, doesn't mean anyone else does. Better to just stick with, "I need me one of these."
The thing that really gets me is when you don't actually know what is wrong with said item. You decide that , rather than have an expert (or someone who does it for a living anyway) look at it, that you can do it yourself and save a few bucks. You go into said store and describe said problem to the person working the store. You just made two mistakes. First, you assumed that the person working the floor had any knowledge of the item you are trying to fix. Secondly, you are assuming that anyone with a minimal mount of knowledge could understand your fuzzy (at best) description of the problem to diagnose the cause and give you the correct fix. What makes it worse, is that if you have actually done this once, you will return to the same store when the suggested fix fails and try again. Eventually, you will rebuild the item and get it to work and assume that the last part you installed was the cause. Never mind that you just spent the amount a new and better one would have cost you in the first place, you fixed it. That feeling lasts just as long as it takes for your wife to add up the receipts, by the way. Give up and take it to the experts and say, "it doesn't work, I don't know how to fix it, please help." You may find it humiliating, but believe me, it's better in the long run.
The best part about today's post, my wife won't get to read it until I get the computer fixed. This means that I don't have to tell her I am guessing until after I have fixed it. I get to see what it feels like to seem like I know what I am doing. You all have a wonderful day and remember, I need me one of these, is always a valid shopping plan.
It seems to work rather well. I have found that the nastier it is the better the reaction. I once dropped an oil and grease covered, broken water pump on the counter at a new auto parts store (it was so new that the floors were still shiny) and the look on the face of the cashier was classic. What made it even more enjoyable, was that she had no clue what it was. Have you ever seen a young lady try and pick up a water pump from a 60s era Chevy with two fingers? It wasn't until one of her coworkers came out, saw what we had, and sold us a rebuild kit (this guy was good), that she finally got it off the counter. The puddle we left behind was pretty good sized too. She didn't seem to appreciate it though.
I wouldn't recommend doing this at some stores though. Take a pet store for example. I really doubt that they would appreciate you if you came in, threw your dead dog on the counter and said, "I need me another one of those." You'd probably be arrested. Grocery stores probably wouldn't appreciate it either (I'll leave how that would work up to your imagination).
I have found that "I need me one of those", tends to get you better service than, "I need that thingamajig that (insert function here)." They may have a clue what could perform said function, but it could also be a range of things and inevitably, the first thing they suggest isn't it and is usually more expensive than what it really is. This is especially true if the store has a no returns policy. Add to that the fact that the real fix is probably buried deep in the bowels of whatever it is you are trying to fix and you may as well have an expert fix it. I had a universal remote that was out of this world. Touch screen, multiple commands, awesomeness that made most techies drool. The touch screen got broke (who would have thought with a two year old and a couple of dogs in the house?) So I decided to try and fix it. The new touch screen cost as much as a new remote! I guess sometimes you just can't win.
I remember walking into Lowe's one time knowing the name, size, use, description, and color of an item once (a spanner wrench, of all things). I just couldn't find it. Finally I found an employee and asked for the item by name. I figured, they work at the place, they should know the name, right? Wrong. The look I got back would have made an idiot look intelligent. I then described it. Same look. Ten minutes later, the guy finally led me over to a rack of tools and asked if it were one of those. They weren't it. As I spun around I finally saw what I was looking for. I picked it up and he got this aha look on his face. "Oh, you meant a pin face wrench," and he was proud that he could put a name to it. I returned his previous looks to him and read the label. It said "1-2 inch spanner wrench." Just goes to show, just because you know what you're looking for, doesn't mean anyone else does. Better to just stick with, "I need me one of these."
The thing that really gets me is when you don't actually know what is wrong with said item. You decide that , rather than have an expert (or someone who does it for a living anyway) look at it, that you can do it yourself and save a few bucks. You go into said store and describe said problem to the person working the store. You just made two mistakes. First, you assumed that the person working the floor had any knowledge of the item you are trying to fix. Secondly, you are assuming that anyone with a minimal mount of knowledge could understand your fuzzy (at best) description of the problem to diagnose the cause and give you the correct fix. What makes it worse, is that if you have actually done this once, you will return to the same store when the suggested fix fails and try again. Eventually, you will rebuild the item and get it to work and assume that the last part you installed was the cause. Never mind that you just spent the amount a new and better one would have cost you in the first place, you fixed it. That feeling lasts just as long as it takes for your wife to add up the receipts, by the way. Give up and take it to the experts and say, "it doesn't work, I don't know how to fix it, please help." You may find it humiliating, but believe me, it's better in the long run.
The best part about today's post, my wife won't get to read it until I get the computer fixed. This means that I don't have to tell her I am guessing until after I have fixed it. I get to see what it feels like to seem like I know what I am doing. You all have a wonderful day and remember, I need me one of these, is always a valid shopping plan.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Happy Hump Day: What Day is it?
It's Happy Hump Day, something I was just made aware of a couple of minutes ago. For some reason I thought it was Tuesday. Apparently, yesterday went so well I thought it was a Monday. This doesn't surprise me. We have all had days sneak up on us. Monday's are notorious for this. You sit there enjoying your weekend and suddenly, it's 11:00pm Sunday night and Monday whispers in your ear, "Psst. You have to get up tomorrow morning and deal with me." Sometimes he doesn't remind you and you wake up to some jerk calling you at 7:00 in the morning on the weekend to inform you that it is not, in fact the weekend and you are late for work. Monday can be a real jerk sometimes.
Then there are the days that are really devious. The sad thing is, they aren't even on the calender (unless you fork out the extra cash to for a personalized calender). That's right, Birthdays and anniversaries. I know everyone remembers their own birthday, but that isn't what I am talking about. I'm talking about the birthdays of the important people in your life. You know, the ones you have to live with. Those are the most treacherous of days. You'll be sitting around enjoying your day (your first hint should be that it is a Monday and you are enjoying it) and suddenly, you find that you are having the "you forgot something" conversation with your wife. If you are like me, this is overly vague and can be highly confusing as I tend to forget a lot of things. That doesn't matter, you are still required to guess exactly why it is that your wife is suddenly angry that you forgot something. And when you do remember, it doesn't matter because she had to remind you. Luckily, I arranged a permanent solution. I married a woman whose birthday is the day after mine and got married two days before my birthday. Thus, when I get close to my birthday, I know I have 2 other things to remember. The downside? I am now required to remember exactly how many years we've been married and I forget that.
Then there are days that are treacherous in other ways. You know, those days that are on the calender and are supposed to be fun and enjoyable, like Thanksgiving. You go into them inviting friends and family, and then find that you spend the week leading up to it cleaning house and panicking on if you have enough to feed everyone. The truth of the matter is, either no one shows up and you have to much, or everyone shows up and you don't have enough. There is no in between. You can plan all you want, put RSVP on the invitations (no one does), or ask in person, but either something comes up and they can't show, or they are suddenly free and everyone shows. I try to plan for everyone shows, after all, who doesn't like Thanksgiving leftovers? That isn't what makes the day treacherous. It's the false idea that it is a fun and enjoyable day. It starts off with the "when are we eating the turkey" conversation. You know, the one where you try and figure out what time to start cooking the turkey. Then you spend most of the day cooking the meal. Your guests inevitably arrive either hours before the turkey is done and expect to eat within minutes of their arrival, or are 2 hours late and wonder why the turkey is cold. Then you spend the afternoon with them as they yell at the TV while the game is on. It isn't until after they leave that you realize that the house you just spent 3 days cleaning is now an official disaster area that will never be the same. And that is when you realize that you have to put away the leftovers and inevitably, someone left the food they brought. Christmas isn't much better, but that is a post for another time.
In other words, when dealing with the days of the week, watch your back, they will turn on you at the slightest provocation. And don't think that Saturday and Sunday are excluded, they can be the worst. You look forward to them all week only to discover they are filled with chores and prior plans (some you don't know until your wife politely reminds you that she informed you of them during last Sunday's nap). I think I need to go, I feel Wednesday sneaking up on me. Have a great week and enjoy yourself.
Then there are the days that are really devious. The sad thing is, they aren't even on the calender (unless you fork out the extra cash to for a personalized calender). That's right, Birthdays and anniversaries. I know everyone remembers their own birthday, but that isn't what I am talking about. I'm talking about the birthdays of the important people in your life. You know, the ones you have to live with. Those are the most treacherous of days. You'll be sitting around enjoying your day (your first hint should be that it is a Monday and you are enjoying it) and suddenly, you find that you are having the "you forgot something" conversation with your wife. If you are like me, this is overly vague and can be highly confusing as I tend to forget a lot of things. That doesn't matter, you are still required to guess exactly why it is that your wife is suddenly angry that you forgot something. And when you do remember, it doesn't matter because she had to remind you. Luckily, I arranged a permanent solution. I married a woman whose birthday is the day after mine and got married two days before my birthday. Thus, when I get close to my birthday, I know I have 2 other things to remember. The downside? I am now required to remember exactly how many years we've been married and I forget that.
Then there are days that are treacherous in other ways. You know, those days that are on the calender and are supposed to be fun and enjoyable, like Thanksgiving. You go into them inviting friends and family, and then find that you spend the week leading up to it cleaning house and panicking on if you have enough to feed everyone. The truth of the matter is, either no one shows up and you have to much, or everyone shows up and you don't have enough. There is no in between. You can plan all you want, put RSVP on the invitations (no one does), or ask in person, but either something comes up and they can't show, or they are suddenly free and everyone shows. I try to plan for everyone shows, after all, who doesn't like Thanksgiving leftovers? That isn't what makes the day treacherous. It's the false idea that it is a fun and enjoyable day. It starts off with the "when are we eating the turkey" conversation. You know, the one where you try and figure out what time to start cooking the turkey. Then you spend most of the day cooking the meal. Your guests inevitably arrive either hours before the turkey is done and expect to eat within minutes of their arrival, or are 2 hours late and wonder why the turkey is cold. Then you spend the afternoon with them as they yell at the TV while the game is on. It isn't until after they leave that you realize that the house you just spent 3 days cleaning is now an official disaster area that will never be the same. And that is when you realize that you have to put away the leftovers and inevitably, someone left the food they brought. Christmas isn't much better, but that is a post for another time.
In other words, when dealing with the days of the week, watch your back, they will turn on you at the slightest provocation. And don't think that Saturday and Sunday are excluded, they can be the worst. You look forward to them all week only to discover they are filled with chores and prior plans (some you don't know until your wife politely reminds you that she informed you of them during last Sunday's nap). I think I need to go, I feel Wednesday sneaking up on me. Have a great week and enjoy yourself.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
It works fine.
This whole week has been weird and I am not sure why. First off, I didn't get to post Monday as I explained Tuesday, then Yesterday, I got sent to the other office and was unable to get on a computer to do my Happy Hump Day post. I really don't know what is going on and the sad thing is it is not a new feeling.
We have all had times in our lives where we were sent to do something and had no clue what we are doing. Most of my life has been like that. It wasn't until I was married that I realized exactly what that feeling meant. I just thought that when I was going in circles I was figuring it out. Turns out that I had no clue. Now, for some inexplicable reason, my wife expects me to know what is going on all the time. Take my recent trip to Italy for example. As we went through the various airports, my wife relied on me to guide us through safely. Never mind that I had been to them just as much as she had. Never mind that we both can read rather well. Never mind that she is the one carrying the info (she insisted). I was the one responsible when we went in circles. I was the one that got asked, "are you sure we're going the right way?" Not really, but this is the best guess I got. I'm just winging it most of the time.
I really love the question, "Are you sure you know what you are doing?" It just adds so much confidence to me. It makes me want to reply with a simple, "sure, why not?" The problem is, half the time the answer is no. It really doesn't help that when I actually break down and say I'm not sure what I am doing that my wife suddenly gets super supportive and has huge amounts of confidence in me. Usually the level of confidence she has in me just happens to coincide with how much it's going to cost us to have someone else fix it. Free to fix/replace means she is going to inevitably ask, "are you sure?" Where a hundred dollars gets me, "I know you can do it."
There is the other side though. You know, when something is working, but it is making funny noises or is not working up to its max potential. This is where my wife's confidence in me is tested. If it doesn't matter, her confidence in me is high. If there is the slightest chance that I could screw it up, I end up hearing, "are you sure you need to mess with it, it's working fine?" Never mind that you can't hold a conversation next to it when it's running. Never mind that it smokes slightly. Never mind that you have to shake it and hit it just right. "It works fine." There are buttons missing. It has a remote, it works fine. It is stuck on one setting. How many do you need, it works fine. It scares the children. Don't operate it when they're around, it works fine. Apparently, fine is all that is necessary and right is just a bonus. It drives me nuts. Anyway, I'll see you all tomorrow. I have to go to the other office now. Have a great day.
We have all had times in our lives where we were sent to do something and had no clue what we are doing. Most of my life has been like that. It wasn't until I was married that I realized exactly what that feeling meant. I just thought that when I was going in circles I was figuring it out. Turns out that I had no clue. Now, for some inexplicable reason, my wife expects me to know what is going on all the time. Take my recent trip to Italy for example. As we went through the various airports, my wife relied on me to guide us through safely. Never mind that I had been to them just as much as she had. Never mind that we both can read rather well. Never mind that she is the one carrying the info (she insisted). I was the one responsible when we went in circles. I was the one that got asked, "are you sure we're going the right way?" Not really, but this is the best guess I got. I'm just winging it most of the time.
I really love the question, "Are you sure you know what you are doing?" It just adds so much confidence to me. It makes me want to reply with a simple, "sure, why not?" The problem is, half the time the answer is no. It really doesn't help that when I actually break down and say I'm not sure what I am doing that my wife suddenly gets super supportive and has huge amounts of confidence in me. Usually the level of confidence she has in me just happens to coincide with how much it's going to cost us to have someone else fix it. Free to fix/replace means she is going to inevitably ask, "are you sure?" Where a hundred dollars gets me, "I know you can do it."
There is the other side though. You know, when something is working, but it is making funny noises or is not working up to its max potential. This is where my wife's confidence in me is tested. If it doesn't matter, her confidence in me is high. If there is the slightest chance that I could screw it up, I end up hearing, "are you sure you need to mess with it, it's working fine?" Never mind that you can't hold a conversation next to it when it's running. Never mind that it smokes slightly. Never mind that you have to shake it and hit it just right. "It works fine." There are buttons missing. It has a remote, it works fine. It is stuck on one setting. How many do you need, it works fine. It scares the children. Don't operate it when they're around, it works fine. Apparently, fine is all that is necessary and right is just a bonus. It drives me nuts. Anyway, I'll see you all tomorrow. I have to go to the other office now. Have a great day.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Happy hump day. Coffee and Me
Happy Hump Day. I can't think of a better way to say good morning than that. Especially since good morning is an oxymoron. If ever there were two words that didn't belong together it is those two. It's like trying to put a KKK member on a blind date with a black woman, the two will just never get along. What is it about waking up that angers people so much. You would think that waking up would make people a little more happy since it means you survived the night. I could understand anger at waking up if it was to a stabbing pain in your chest due to say...a stabbing. Then again, I am one of those angry morning people. At least until I get my coffee.
Speaking of coffee, why is it that it can remove my anger so completely after just one cup. It is awesome. There are times I am tempted to find out if this wonderful magic elixir works on my three year old. That little bugger is so angry when he wakes up and it takes hours for him to be happy. Some people would claim it is just because it wakes you up, but I believe there is something more. Otherwise, how do you explain the fact that there are so many coffee shops here in the wonderful state of Washington? I mean I pass a good dozen drive through espresso stands on my way to work every morning. You can't tell me that people here are that much more tired than everywhere else. It has to be a happy maker. I used to call coffee go-go juice as it helped me go-go, but I think it should be renamed to happy juice. I am only half way through my first cup of the morning and the day is already getting better. Even my wife is happier after a cup and that takes work sometimes. I'm no scientist, but I think this requires more study. I volunteer to be one of the test subjects, I could use the free coffee. Knowing my luck though, I would probably end up being part of the control group and thus denied my coffee. On second thought, just tell me the results and leave my coffee alone.
What is it about coffee that even people who don't drink coffee (why wouldn't you like coffee? I don't get it.) like the smell? It amazes me just how powerful just the smell of coffee is. I'll buy a bag of special grind at the store and the aroma permeates the car. The whole way home I'll smile and enjoy the aroma. We take it camping with us and the aroma that wafts out of the camper as we set it up, just makes the day that much better.
There is only one downside to coffee that I have found. It makes going to sleep at night a bit difficult. I hate that I have to stop drinking it 4 hours before I want to go to sleep. Have you ever had a staring contest with a coffee maker? It looks at you with that gleaming half full pot. It points out the creamer in the fridge and wafts that wonderful aroma across the house at you. It tells you that one more cup won't matter and then turns itself on to warm the remains for you. It is just so hard to ignore.
OK, I need help. By reading what I just wrote, I realize I have an addiction. Granted, it isn't one I really want to give up, I'm just pointing out the obvious before you do. Aside from the addiction, it seems that I have inanimate objects talking to me. I find that to be a bit disconcerting. Well, my coffee cup is empty and I really need to refill it. So, until next time, Have fun, enjoy yourself, and don't take life to seriously. Now, where's that coffee stand?
Speaking of coffee, why is it that it can remove my anger so completely after just one cup. It is awesome. There are times I am tempted to find out if this wonderful magic elixir works on my three year old. That little bugger is so angry when he wakes up and it takes hours for him to be happy. Some people would claim it is just because it wakes you up, but I believe there is something more. Otherwise, how do you explain the fact that there are so many coffee shops here in the wonderful state of Washington? I mean I pass a good dozen drive through espresso stands on my way to work every morning. You can't tell me that people here are that much more tired than everywhere else. It has to be a happy maker. I used to call coffee go-go juice as it helped me go-go, but I think it should be renamed to happy juice. I am only half way through my first cup of the morning and the day is already getting better. Even my wife is happier after a cup and that takes work sometimes. I'm no scientist, but I think this requires more study. I volunteer to be one of the test subjects, I could use the free coffee. Knowing my luck though, I would probably end up being part of the control group and thus denied my coffee. On second thought, just tell me the results and leave my coffee alone.
What is it about coffee that even people who don't drink coffee (why wouldn't you like coffee? I don't get it.) like the smell? It amazes me just how powerful just the smell of coffee is. I'll buy a bag of special grind at the store and the aroma permeates the car. The whole way home I'll smile and enjoy the aroma. We take it camping with us and the aroma that wafts out of the camper as we set it up, just makes the day that much better.
There is only one downside to coffee that I have found. It makes going to sleep at night a bit difficult. I hate that I have to stop drinking it 4 hours before I want to go to sleep. Have you ever had a staring contest with a coffee maker? It looks at you with that gleaming half full pot. It points out the creamer in the fridge and wafts that wonderful aroma across the house at you. It tells you that one more cup won't matter and then turns itself on to warm the remains for you. It is just so hard to ignore.
OK, I need help. By reading what I just wrote, I realize I have an addiction. Granted, it isn't one I really want to give up, I'm just pointing out the obvious before you do. Aside from the addiction, it seems that I have inanimate objects talking to me. I find that to be a bit disconcerting. Well, my coffee cup is empty and I really need to refill it. So, until next time, Have fun, enjoy yourself, and don't take life to seriously. Now, where's that coffee stand?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Late Happy Hump Day: May Cause Drowsiness
I love these weird weeks. They give me all kinds of chances to apologize for missing posts. I was off of work yesterday because I was transitioning between shifts. For that reason, I will be making my Happy Hump Day post today.
I tend to go back to my youth for so many stories, that I find it hard to believe I grew up to be this old. turns out, I had a few adventures after I joined the military as well. They tend to highlight just how stupid guys can be in large groups and they usually don't translate well between military and civilian. While a military guy might fall off his chair laughing, I have found that most civilians give me the "What does that mean" look along with a comment along the lines of, "that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard." It usually takes me a few minutes to realize that the story I just told flopped before I start explaining. It the takes almost the entire explanation for me to realize my audience really doesn't care. At that point my mind shrugs its shoulders and figures, "you went this far, may as well finish." Thus I have a reputation for being long winded and full of useless information. Kind of like this paragraph.
The story I want to tell goes back to boot camp. About halfway through I got sick. I don't remember what it was I contracted, but whatever it was was pretty nasty. I was given medication and put SIQ (sick in quarters) for a week. This meant that I wasn't allowed to leave my bunk for a week with the exception of meals and to use the restroom. That was also the first time I had really had any medication that was stronger than penicillin (at least as far as I can remember). Once again I don't remember the name of the drug, I just remember that it had some warnings that were gross understatements.
The first was, take with water. Duh, was the first thing that came to mind when I read it. Then I opened the bottle. Those pills were the size of Vienna sausages. They were huge. You had to use water to wash them down and then they soaked up every ounce of liquid in your body. I was essentially drinking from the tap as much as I could. The second understatement kept that from happening though.
The second understatement was, "May cause drowsiness." It really should have said, "will knock you unconscious, cancel all plans." I discovered this the first time I took it. I went to lunch with my division and was eating my meal. I took my medication just before I started eating. For those of you unfamiliar with boot camp meal procedures, as soon as you sat down, a sailor would come to the table and give the following spiel and mean every word, "Shipmates, you have 15 minutes and 15 minutes only to enjoy your fine, fine Navy chow. There is no talking or lolly gagging at my table. When you are done with you meal, police your area and take you plates and garbage to the appropriate areas. You have 15 minutes and 15 minutes only to enjoy your fine, fine Navy chow. Enjoy." Please note that they said 15 minutes and you weren't allowed to start eating until they finished their spiel. After 15 minutes you had to get up, scrape you plates and leave. I had no problem with this normally as my dad had taught us kids to eat quickly. If we wanted seconds, we had to. I told you this so you would fully understand just how quickly these pills kicked in. Before the time was up, my plate started looking fuzzy and I was having trouble keeping my head upright. The guys I was with noticed and were immediately alarmed. Two of them had finished already and directed me to the garbage and kitchen to take care of my tray. We then formed up outside and headed back to the barracks. As we stumbled along, I had to concentrate on the heels of the man in front of me just to walk a semi straight line. I had no clue what was happening. I was told later that halfway to the barracks a Company Commander (drill instructor for you non Navy people) stopped us and asked what was wrong with me. I was told that I simply smiled at the CC and showed him my pill bottle. I was also told that when the drill instructor asked if I had taken one, I replied, "Yup, you want one, they make the world weave." Needless to say he quickly escorted us to our barracks. I woke up several hours later to my CC looking at me as I lay on the floor.
Her first question was, "what are you doing sleeping on my floor?" By question, I mean she yelled it and it was more of an order to stand up. I tried and failed miserably. At this point I showed her my SIQ chit and medications. She gave a humph and asked me why I chose the floor over the bed. My response? "I don't even know how I got back to the barracks, ma'am."
From that point on, I made sure that if I ever got a pill that said may cause drowsiness, I waited until I wasn't planning on going anywhere for a while before I took it. Just in case.
I tend to go back to my youth for so many stories, that I find it hard to believe I grew up to be this old. turns out, I had a few adventures after I joined the military as well. They tend to highlight just how stupid guys can be in large groups and they usually don't translate well between military and civilian. While a military guy might fall off his chair laughing, I have found that most civilians give me the "What does that mean" look along with a comment along the lines of, "that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard." It usually takes me a few minutes to realize that the story I just told flopped before I start explaining. It the takes almost the entire explanation for me to realize my audience really doesn't care. At that point my mind shrugs its shoulders and figures, "you went this far, may as well finish." Thus I have a reputation for being long winded and full of useless information. Kind of like this paragraph.
The story I want to tell goes back to boot camp. About halfway through I got sick. I don't remember what it was I contracted, but whatever it was was pretty nasty. I was given medication and put SIQ (sick in quarters) for a week. This meant that I wasn't allowed to leave my bunk for a week with the exception of meals and to use the restroom. That was also the first time I had really had any medication that was stronger than penicillin (at least as far as I can remember). Once again I don't remember the name of the drug, I just remember that it had some warnings that were gross understatements.
The first was, take with water. Duh, was the first thing that came to mind when I read it. Then I opened the bottle. Those pills were the size of Vienna sausages. They were huge. You had to use water to wash them down and then they soaked up every ounce of liquid in your body. I was essentially drinking from the tap as much as I could. The second understatement kept that from happening though.
The second understatement was, "May cause drowsiness." It really should have said, "will knock you unconscious, cancel all plans." I discovered this the first time I took it. I went to lunch with my division and was eating my meal. I took my medication just before I started eating. For those of you unfamiliar with boot camp meal procedures, as soon as you sat down, a sailor would come to the table and give the following spiel and mean every word, "Shipmates, you have 15 minutes and 15 minutes only to enjoy your fine, fine Navy chow. There is no talking or lolly gagging at my table. When you are done with you meal, police your area and take you plates and garbage to the appropriate areas. You have 15 minutes and 15 minutes only to enjoy your fine, fine Navy chow. Enjoy." Please note that they said 15 minutes and you weren't allowed to start eating until they finished their spiel. After 15 minutes you had to get up, scrape you plates and leave. I had no problem with this normally as my dad had taught us kids to eat quickly. If we wanted seconds, we had to. I told you this so you would fully understand just how quickly these pills kicked in. Before the time was up, my plate started looking fuzzy and I was having trouble keeping my head upright. The guys I was with noticed and were immediately alarmed. Two of them had finished already and directed me to the garbage and kitchen to take care of my tray. We then formed up outside and headed back to the barracks. As we stumbled along, I had to concentrate on the heels of the man in front of me just to walk a semi straight line. I had no clue what was happening. I was told later that halfway to the barracks a Company Commander (drill instructor for you non Navy people) stopped us and asked what was wrong with me. I was told that I simply smiled at the CC and showed him my pill bottle. I was also told that when the drill instructor asked if I had taken one, I replied, "Yup, you want one, they make the world weave." Needless to say he quickly escorted us to our barracks. I woke up several hours later to my CC looking at me as I lay on the floor.
Her first question was, "what are you doing sleeping on my floor?" By question, I mean she yelled it and it was more of an order to stand up. I tried and failed miserably. At this point I showed her my SIQ chit and medications. She gave a humph and asked me why I chose the floor over the bed. My response? "I don't even know how I got back to the barracks, ma'am."
From that point on, I made sure that if I ever got a pill that said may cause drowsiness, I waited until I wasn't planning on going anywhere for a while before I took it. Just in case.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Hapy Hump Day: Hedge Happens
It's Happy Hump Day. Today we serve up yet another lesson in humility learned the hard way. We all have days where things seem to go exactly the way we want them. Those are the days most likely to end in a ball of flame. Usually because we decide to push our good fortune just a little bit beyond what it can handle. It is the lesson that goes like this. Just because all the hard stuff went well, don't expect the easy stuff to end well.
The day I learned this lesson was when I was a teen in Iowa. I still didn't have my license and I had just gotten permission to hunt without adult supervision. Thus it was that I headed out looking for some sport. Namely, squirrels. Early on, the day went well. I found a spot and got my limit before lunch. My dog had joined me and we started walking home. Along the way, we took sometime out and did a little target practice and continued on. It was a perfect day. After we got home, I dressed the squirrels (skinned and cut them up for you non hunters) and put them in the freezer. It was only about one in the afternoon, so I had the entire day ahead of me.
I was all smiles until dad pointed to the wood pile and informed me that we needed wood split for the next few days. I figured, that since the day was going so well, how bad could it be. I only had about 10 logs to split. For those of you who have never had to split wood, fell lucky. It is hard work. Even if you are dealing with a semi soft wood like fir, you still have to put a good amount of effort into it. This means that when you get to hard woods like oak, you have your work cut out for you. As I started splitting the wood, my spirits started to rise. That was until I got to log number five. It was only about a foot in diameter which meant I could quarter it and I would be done. It wasn't until the ax bounced off of the log and nearly hit me in the face that I noticed what kind of wood it was. Hedge. I heard that groan from those of you who have dealt with it. For those of you (once again, lucky people), who have never dealt with this particular wood, it is also called Iron Wood and for very good reason. Most wood, you could split a couple of trees before you need to sharpen your axe. Not Iron wood. You don't use and axe on iron wood, you use wedges and a 12 pound sledge hammer. Iron wood refuses to split except under extreme circumstances and you only use the chainsaw to cut it down to workable lengths if you want the chainsaw to last more than one season. That's also when I realized that the remaining 5 logs were also iron wood. I was doomed. I drug out the sledge and wedges and got to work. By supper time, I had the first log split and had two wedges buried in the second. That's when dad informed me that he was thinking about getting a hydraulic log splitter. I begged and he smiled. We never got one and to this day I can't look at a hunk of hedge with out shuddering. I have since split a lot of wood of all types, but nothing has ever been as tough as those 6 pieces of hedge. It took me almost 4 days to get it done and I learned my lesson. Just when you think things are going great and will always be easy, hedge happens.
Have a wonderful day.
The day I learned this lesson was when I was a teen in Iowa. I still didn't have my license and I had just gotten permission to hunt without adult supervision. Thus it was that I headed out looking for some sport. Namely, squirrels. Early on, the day went well. I found a spot and got my limit before lunch. My dog had joined me and we started walking home. Along the way, we took sometime out and did a little target practice and continued on. It was a perfect day. After we got home, I dressed the squirrels (skinned and cut them up for you non hunters) and put them in the freezer. It was only about one in the afternoon, so I had the entire day ahead of me.
I was all smiles until dad pointed to the wood pile and informed me that we needed wood split for the next few days. I figured, that since the day was going so well, how bad could it be. I only had about 10 logs to split. For those of you who have never had to split wood, fell lucky. It is hard work. Even if you are dealing with a semi soft wood like fir, you still have to put a good amount of effort into it. This means that when you get to hard woods like oak, you have your work cut out for you. As I started splitting the wood, my spirits started to rise. That was until I got to log number five. It was only about a foot in diameter which meant I could quarter it and I would be done. It wasn't until the ax bounced off of the log and nearly hit me in the face that I noticed what kind of wood it was. Hedge. I heard that groan from those of you who have dealt with it. For those of you (once again, lucky people), who have never dealt with this particular wood, it is also called Iron Wood and for very good reason. Most wood, you could split a couple of trees before you need to sharpen your axe. Not Iron wood. You don't use and axe on iron wood, you use wedges and a 12 pound sledge hammer. Iron wood refuses to split except under extreme circumstances and you only use the chainsaw to cut it down to workable lengths if you want the chainsaw to last more than one season. That's also when I realized that the remaining 5 logs were also iron wood. I was doomed. I drug out the sledge and wedges and got to work. By supper time, I had the first log split and had two wedges buried in the second. That's when dad informed me that he was thinking about getting a hydraulic log splitter. I begged and he smiled. We never got one and to this day I can't look at a hunk of hedge with out shuddering. I have since split a lot of wood of all types, but nothing has ever been as tough as those 6 pieces of hedge. It took me almost 4 days to get it done and I learned my lesson. Just when you think things are going great and will always be easy, hedge happens.
Have a wonderful day.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Teenagers, bowling balls, and black powder
Since I was busy yesterday, I figured that I would make up Happy Hump Day today. This week, with the 4th of July around the corner, I figured a Fireworks laden story is a must.
The year was...let's just say a few years ago and leave it at that. The setting was my home. I was young...er than I am now. We had made a trip down to Missouri and picked up the most fireworks we had ever gotten. We actually filled dad's trunk. It was impressive. We had firecrackers, bottle rockets, mortars, you name it, dad had it. We also figured that in order to do it safely we should have a bit of extra fuse. Turns out, dad ended up with 500 yards of cannon fuse. We had a great fourth and used almost every piece of fireworks we had (I think we had 3 bottle rockets and a couple strings of firecrackers left). What about the canon fuse, you ask? Yup, you guessed it, we had at least 450 yards of cannon fuse left as well. And that's where this story really begins.
The first thing you need to understand is that my dad had a memory like a rusty steel trap. By that I mean that it was usually stuck open, but would snap shut on the weirdest memories at the weirdest times. In other words, he would forget about a lot of irrelevant things and you could count on him forgetting things that held no day to day relevance (until he needed to remember it). This meant that us kids used it to our advantage. For instance, we knew that dad would forget that he had a dozen cookies and that thus we were clear to eat them. This worked most times. We just had to take note of how many dad had eaten and whether or not he might want more. And thus we knew he would forget about the roll of cannon fuse. Especially if he didn't see it every day. Thus about a month later I pulled it out from the back of the shed so my friends and I could experiment.
After determining that it was near useless as a fire starter, and that its burn rate was consistent (I can't remember what it was), we decided to use it for more interesting experiments. About that same time, my friend John found an old piece of sewer pipe in our local junkyard. It was about 3 ft long and a good 6 inches in diameter. He also discovered a small cache of used bowling balls in the same junkyard. After parting with about $20 of our combined money, we had these in our possession. At first we just stared at our new acquisitions. We already knew the bowling balls were a snug fit in the pipe, but other than that we had no idea why we bought them. That was until our friend Tom came along.
"Buildin' a cannon?" He asked innocently.
I saw John's eyes go wide just as the light came on in my head. "Yes...Yes we are." We said simultaneously.
At that point things began to happen rapidly. We decided to build the cannon in the back of John's truck as we figured we wouldn't want to lift it after it was built (we couldn't fire it at home for obvious reasons). Thus it was that with a lot of careful planning and thought (mainly a lot of guess work and nodding), we had a cannon sitting in John's truck. Allow me to describe this work of 4 teenagers with limited resources (namely what we were able scrounge up or "borrow"). The base was a 3 ft by 3 ft square of concrete 12 inches thick (turns out dad had a few scrap 2x12's sitting in the barn) with a hunk of sewer pipe sticking out of it at roughly a 45 degree angle. We had drilled a hole slightly larger than the cannon fuse we had into the pipe using a borrowed drill and drill bits. As we stared at our creation while the cement dried we discussed where to go to test fire the cannon and what to use as propellant. More precisely, whose father would unknowingly supply the propellant, since all of our fathers had black powder rifles at home. We decided that since it was a group effort, we would all contribute equally. Thus it was that we ended up in the middle of a field overlooking a pond with 6 one pound cans of black powder, 5 bowling balls, 450 feet of cannon fuse, and our homemade cannon.
The next debate which reared its head was how much powder to use. We argued for what must have been an hour before John insisted that we remove the cannon from the back of his truck prior to firing it. He used the tried and true method of getting up a bunch of speed in reverse then slamming on the brakes. The cannon managed to land upright and bury itself 4 inches into the soft field aimed in the general direction of the pond. After John had moved his truck a good 50 ft from the cannon we commenced to load it. As we poured in the powder we decided to fill it enough to cover the fuse hole and hide the concrete bottom. This amount was approximately 1 can. For those of you not familiar with black powder, a typical rifle uses less than 1/2 ounce of black powder and most cannons use maybe 1/2 pound to launch a 12 pound ball. Our bowling balls were about 11 pounds and we used a full pound of black powder. Because our fathers used black powder to hunt, we were familiar with how to load a black powder rifle and used those principles on the cannon. Thus we used newspaper as wadding between the bowling ball and the powder. After packing it in we shoved in the fuse and fed out enough so that we were behind Johns truck for the launch (turns out we were just chicken enough not to kill ourselves), and lit the fuse.
Turns out, when you are waiting for an explosion, fuses burn really slow. They also have a bad habit of reaching the explosive at the exact same time as you poke your head up to make sure it is still burning. Thus I was able to witness the 6 ft flame as the bowling ball left the cannon with a roar. It took me a few minutes to realize why the world was silent and an hour for the sound (ringing though it was) to return. The bowling ball cleared the pond which was at least a quarter mile away and landed in a cloud of dust. I observed my friends jump up and down for a few brief minutes in what I could only assume was celebration. It was then that they realized they couldn't hear either. As we inspected our cannon, we noticed that the based was not only cracked, but broken and buried in the field. The barrel still smoking with remnants of burning newspaper hanging out of it. When our hearing returned, we decided that the cannon should be returned to the junkyard from whence it came and that it was Tom's dad who lost a pound of black powder to "random events."
The year was...let's just say a few years ago and leave it at that. The setting was my home. I was young...er than I am now. We had made a trip down to Missouri and picked up the most fireworks we had ever gotten. We actually filled dad's trunk. It was impressive. We had firecrackers, bottle rockets, mortars, you name it, dad had it. We also figured that in order to do it safely we should have a bit of extra fuse. Turns out, dad ended up with 500 yards of cannon fuse. We had a great fourth and used almost every piece of fireworks we had (I think we had 3 bottle rockets and a couple strings of firecrackers left). What about the canon fuse, you ask? Yup, you guessed it, we had at least 450 yards of cannon fuse left as well. And that's where this story really begins.
The first thing you need to understand is that my dad had a memory like a rusty steel trap. By that I mean that it was usually stuck open, but would snap shut on the weirdest memories at the weirdest times. In other words, he would forget about a lot of irrelevant things and you could count on him forgetting things that held no day to day relevance (until he needed to remember it). This meant that us kids used it to our advantage. For instance, we knew that dad would forget that he had a dozen cookies and that thus we were clear to eat them. This worked most times. We just had to take note of how many dad had eaten and whether or not he might want more. And thus we knew he would forget about the roll of cannon fuse. Especially if he didn't see it every day. Thus about a month later I pulled it out from the back of the shed so my friends and I could experiment.
After determining that it was near useless as a fire starter, and that its burn rate was consistent (I can't remember what it was), we decided to use it for more interesting experiments. About that same time, my friend John found an old piece of sewer pipe in our local junkyard. It was about 3 ft long and a good 6 inches in diameter. He also discovered a small cache of used bowling balls in the same junkyard. After parting with about $20 of our combined money, we had these in our possession. At first we just stared at our new acquisitions. We already knew the bowling balls were a snug fit in the pipe, but other than that we had no idea why we bought them. That was until our friend Tom came along.
"Buildin' a cannon?" He asked innocently.
I saw John's eyes go wide just as the light came on in my head. "Yes...Yes we are." We said simultaneously.
At that point things began to happen rapidly. We decided to build the cannon in the back of John's truck as we figured we wouldn't want to lift it after it was built (we couldn't fire it at home for obvious reasons). Thus it was that with a lot of careful planning and thought (mainly a lot of guess work and nodding), we had a cannon sitting in John's truck. Allow me to describe this work of 4 teenagers with limited resources (namely what we were able scrounge up or "borrow"). The base was a 3 ft by 3 ft square of concrete 12 inches thick (turns out dad had a few scrap 2x12's sitting in the barn) with a hunk of sewer pipe sticking out of it at roughly a 45 degree angle. We had drilled a hole slightly larger than the cannon fuse we had into the pipe using a borrowed drill and drill bits. As we stared at our creation while the cement dried we discussed where to go to test fire the cannon and what to use as propellant. More precisely, whose father would unknowingly supply the propellant, since all of our fathers had black powder rifles at home. We decided that since it was a group effort, we would all contribute equally. Thus it was that we ended up in the middle of a field overlooking a pond with 6 one pound cans of black powder, 5 bowling balls, 450 feet of cannon fuse, and our homemade cannon.
The next debate which reared its head was how much powder to use. We argued for what must have been an hour before John insisted that we remove the cannon from the back of his truck prior to firing it. He used the tried and true method of getting up a bunch of speed in reverse then slamming on the brakes. The cannon managed to land upright and bury itself 4 inches into the soft field aimed in the general direction of the pond. After John had moved his truck a good 50 ft from the cannon we commenced to load it. As we poured in the powder we decided to fill it enough to cover the fuse hole and hide the concrete bottom. This amount was approximately 1 can. For those of you not familiar with black powder, a typical rifle uses less than 1/2 ounce of black powder and most cannons use maybe 1/2 pound to launch a 12 pound ball. Our bowling balls were about 11 pounds and we used a full pound of black powder. Because our fathers used black powder to hunt, we were familiar with how to load a black powder rifle and used those principles on the cannon. Thus we used newspaper as wadding between the bowling ball and the powder. After packing it in we shoved in the fuse and fed out enough so that we were behind Johns truck for the launch (turns out we were just chicken enough not to kill ourselves), and lit the fuse.
Turns out, when you are waiting for an explosion, fuses burn really slow. They also have a bad habit of reaching the explosive at the exact same time as you poke your head up to make sure it is still burning. Thus I was able to witness the 6 ft flame as the bowling ball left the cannon with a roar. It took me a few minutes to realize why the world was silent and an hour for the sound (ringing though it was) to return. The bowling ball cleared the pond which was at least a quarter mile away and landed in a cloud of dust. I observed my friends jump up and down for a few brief minutes in what I could only assume was celebration. It was then that they realized they couldn't hear either. As we inspected our cannon, we noticed that the based was not only cracked, but broken and buried in the field. The barrel still smoking with remnants of burning newspaper hanging out of it. When our hearing returned, we decided that the cannon should be returned to the junkyard from whence it came and that it was Tom's dad who lost a pound of black powder to "random events."
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Boy's VS. Bulls: Sometimes when you win, you lose.
It's happy Hump Day! So, this is a story from my teenage years. Yes, I had them and survived them...barely. As you all should know, I am an avid fisherman. What that has to do with this story is anyone's guess, but I thought I'd throw that out there. Anyway, until I got my drivers license, I was stuck fishing ponds that I could either walk to, bike to, or that my dad drove me to. Thus, my experience in fishing until I was 16 was limited to about a 5 mile radius. The problem with this was that the largest pond within 5 miles was in the middle of a pasture with one of the meanest bulls I have ever had the pleasure of running from. Let me correct that, it should read displeasure since it is kind of hard to be happy about trying to outrun 2 tons of angry beef while carrying 40 pounds of fishing tackle and poles. This probably explains why the fishing was so darn good. The good thing about the pond was that, once you got there, it was protected. There was a fence around it and the cattle weren't allowed near it. The pond was visible from the highway and we could see the fence around it. That was the reason we were determined to fish it.
I remember the first time we were actually able to fish it. It took us 3 days of trying before we were actually able to reach the pond. The first day was spent learning the speed of an angry bull. Fast, darn fast. From that data, we were able to determine just how far away the bull had to be for us to reach the fence before the bull could use us as horn ornaments. We figured that if we added on a few yards as a "safety" margin we'd be fine. The problem? All of our calculations were done while we were unladen. Turns out, we couldn't run near as fast when loaded down with the proper fishing gear. We managed to forget this until we were 100 yards into the field on the second day.
"Does he seem to be gaining on us a bit quicker than yesterday?" John managed to ask between wheezes.
"Yup," was my reply as I did a U-turn and headed back to the highway.
I still remember the how glad I was when I was finally clear of the fence and couldn't smell the stench of chewn grass. I never realized just how bad bull breath could be. I was also unaware just how easy it could be to clear a 5 foot tall barbwire fence with 40 pounds of fishing gear at full speed. When I finally caught up with John a mile down the road, we decided we had to throw out the previous days data and recalculate. Thus we spent the better part of the day on research. We were later accused of teasing the bull, in our defense, neither of us were that stupid.
Our final conclusion was that we would just have to wait until the bull was at the far side of the pasture before we attempted the crossing. That moment finally arrived about mid morning. We decided that rather than starting at an all out sprint we would make our way in a controlled fashion until the bull decided to move toward us. Thus we were halfway to the pond when we noticed the freight train en route. Within 2 steps we were at top speed and we managed to clear the fence quite quickly. We were elated, we were finally going to be able to fish this beautiful pond.
Only 2 things ruined that day of fishing. First off, after about an hour and 10 fish later, we realized the bull wasn't leaving the fence and we had no way to get back to the highway and our bikes. The second thing occurred when we were finally able to get the farmers attention and have him save us. As he was driving us out of the field, he taught us both a valuable lesson.
"You know, if you'd of asked," he said calmly, "I'd have moved ol' Brutus into the north pasture for the week. Next time just call me before you head out there."
At least we got our exercise.
I remember the first time we were actually able to fish it. It took us 3 days of trying before we were actually able to reach the pond. The first day was spent learning the speed of an angry bull. Fast, darn fast. From that data, we were able to determine just how far away the bull had to be for us to reach the fence before the bull could use us as horn ornaments. We figured that if we added on a few yards as a "safety" margin we'd be fine. The problem? All of our calculations were done while we were unladen. Turns out, we couldn't run near as fast when loaded down with the proper fishing gear. We managed to forget this until we were 100 yards into the field on the second day.
"Does he seem to be gaining on us a bit quicker than yesterday?" John managed to ask between wheezes.
"Yup," was my reply as I did a U-turn and headed back to the highway.
I still remember the how glad I was when I was finally clear of the fence and couldn't smell the stench of chewn grass. I never realized just how bad bull breath could be. I was also unaware just how easy it could be to clear a 5 foot tall barbwire fence with 40 pounds of fishing gear at full speed. When I finally caught up with John a mile down the road, we decided we had to throw out the previous days data and recalculate. Thus we spent the better part of the day on research. We were later accused of teasing the bull, in our defense, neither of us were that stupid.
Our final conclusion was that we would just have to wait until the bull was at the far side of the pasture before we attempted the crossing. That moment finally arrived about mid morning. We decided that rather than starting at an all out sprint we would make our way in a controlled fashion until the bull decided to move toward us. Thus we were halfway to the pond when we noticed the freight train en route. Within 2 steps we were at top speed and we managed to clear the fence quite quickly. We were elated, we were finally going to be able to fish this beautiful pond.
Only 2 things ruined that day of fishing. First off, after about an hour and 10 fish later, we realized the bull wasn't leaving the fence and we had no way to get back to the highway and our bikes. The second thing occurred when we were finally able to get the farmers attention and have him save us. As he was driving us out of the field, he taught us both a valuable lesson.
"You know, if you'd of asked," he said calmly, "I'd have moved ol' Brutus into the north pasture for the week. Next time just call me before you head out there."
At least we got our exercise.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Dad's 2 ton Gun
Happy Hump Day! Continuing with the theme this week, I will now regale you with more dad. The fact that my father is a plumber, electrician, and generally good guy has led to many interesting encounters. Dad has many acquaintances through this line of work and nearly all of them have the same opinion of him. This has led to a host of connections that has helped dad throughout his life. One of the most interesting to me, is his relationship with the district DNR agent.
For those of you unfamiliar with this term, the DNR agent is the person responsible for enforcing the fish and wildlife laws. In other words he makes sure hunters and fishermen don't do anything illegal (which is why most hunters and fishermen avoid the DNR agent at all costs). It's kind of like when you are driving a fast sports care, you tend to avoid the police even if you aren't doing anything wrong. Well, because dad does all of his plumbing and electrical, they know each other well.
The best example of this relationship occurred my freshman year in high school. At the time, dad had a 60 something ford truck. To say this truck was interesting, is to be kind. The previous owner had hand painted it with house paint a bright blue with a white cab. From a distance (a mile is about right) it looked OK, up close, the brush strokes really came out, which is fine on a work of art, not so much on a truck. Anyway, since the truck was built in the 60's, it was made with steel. Now-a-days safety is based on safety features (airbags, seat belts, crumple zones, etc.), but back then, it was generally believed that what made a car safe was how much damage it could drive away from. Trucks from the era could probably have taken on a bulldozer and won. Knowing this, and adding in the fact that we were usually scraping by, you can understand dad's philosophy when it came to what to do when a deer decided to step onto the road in front of him. Most people slam on the brakes and brace themselves. Not dad. When he was in that truck, he would down shift and step on the gas (if he wasn't already at top speed).
"More humane to hit 'em at high speed and go for the instant kill," was the reasoning. So it came as no surprise when dad came home with an 8 point buck in the back of the truck the night before deer season opened.
Any other day of the year, dad probably would not have informed the DNR. Since Deer season started the next day and his friend might decide to stop by and see what was being butchered, dad figured he ought to call. So he called his friend, the DNR agent. This is the only time I can ever remember him showing up at our place in an official capacity. He walked around the truck and looked over the deer on all sides. Did a lot of frowning and finally asked his first question.
"Any damage to the truck?"
Dad simply smiled and said, "Think I need to realign my head lights, but they may have been like that before I hit the darn thing."
"How fast were you going?"
"Don't really know, I was speeding up at the time."
"How many is that now?"
"I don't know, about one a year a suppose, say 5."
At this point, the DNR agent just shook his head and said, "Alright, I can tell you didn't shoot him, but I really ought to classify that truck as a hunting implement."
Dad just smiled and shook the agents hand as he left. From that day on, though, the Truck was called the 2 ton gun.
Enjoy your day and have a wonderful week.
For those of you unfamiliar with this term, the DNR agent is the person responsible for enforcing the fish and wildlife laws. In other words he makes sure hunters and fishermen don't do anything illegal (which is why most hunters and fishermen avoid the DNR agent at all costs). It's kind of like when you are driving a fast sports care, you tend to avoid the police even if you aren't doing anything wrong. Well, because dad does all of his plumbing and electrical, they know each other well.
The best example of this relationship occurred my freshman year in high school. At the time, dad had a 60 something ford truck. To say this truck was interesting, is to be kind. The previous owner had hand painted it with house paint a bright blue with a white cab. From a distance (a mile is about right) it looked OK, up close, the brush strokes really came out, which is fine on a work of art, not so much on a truck. Anyway, since the truck was built in the 60's, it was made with steel. Now-a-days safety is based on safety features (airbags, seat belts, crumple zones, etc.), but back then, it was generally believed that what made a car safe was how much damage it could drive away from. Trucks from the era could probably have taken on a bulldozer and won. Knowing this, and adding in the fact that we were usually scraping by, you can understand dad's philosophy when it came to what to do when a deer decided to step onto the road in front of him. Most people slam on the brakes and brace themselves. Not dad. When he was in that truck, he would down shift and step on the gas (if he wasn't already at top speed).
"More humane to hit 'em at high speed and go for the instant kill," was the reasoning. So it came as no surprise when dad came home with an 8 point buck in the back of the truck the night before deer season opened.
Any other day of the year, dad probably would not have informed the DNR. Since Deer season started the next day and his friend might decide to stop by and see what was being butchered, dad figured he ought to call. So he called his friend, the DNR agent. This is the only time I can ever remember him showing up at our place in an official capacity. He walked around the truck and looked over the deer on all sides. Did a lot of frowning and finally asked his first question.
"Any damage to the truck?"
Dad simply smiled and said, "Think I need to realign my head lights, but they may have been like that before I hit the darn thing."
"How fast were you going?"
"Don't really know, I was speeding up at the time."
"How many is that now?"
"I don't know, about one a year a suppose, say 5."
At this point, the DNR agent just shook his head and said, "Alright, I can tell you didn't shoot him, but I really ought to classify that truck as a hunting implement."
Dad just smiled and shook the agents hand as he left. From that day on, though, the Truck was called the 2 ton gun.
Enjoy your day and have a wonderful week.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Drivers and the odd stuff.
So it's happy hump day and I have yet to decide on a topic. I guess it just isn't coming to me. The blank is deep and wide and I just can't seem to find a way across it. Anyway, the fact is that I usually do this at work during a lull in the action (there tends to be a lot of those here), but that also means that I get interrupted and sometimes derailed by other conversations. Unfortunately, today is one of those days where the conversation is either unrepeatable and Thus I am distancing myself as much as possible, or it is on a subject I care nothing about. Either way, it isn't helping much other than to give me something to cite as unhelpful.
Let's talk about cars and the people who drive them. Seems to me that the instant someone gets a driving license they suddenly get a second personality. That nice girl who is always considerate of others becomes a rage filled speed demon that has to take the entire highway. The punk, who is always trying to find new and interesting ways to skirt the laws, is now the highway vigilante that drives at the speed limit next to the grandma who can't find the gas pedal. The law abiding neighbor suddenly finds that the horn has a nice ring to it and is trying to determine exactly the sex of the fly that died on your bumper by using his brights and getting as close as possible.. And it turns out that you are the only one on the road that knows how to drive. You commonly hear yourself saying things like, "the gas is the pedal on the right!" "Look at that speed demon!" "Get off my bumper!" Etc. The funny thing is, everyone is driving with the exact same attitude, "My way is right, your way is wrong, and get off the road." No one is immune. I like to call it, the I-Am-Right syndrome.
I believe it can be traced back to high school. This is that age where you discover that your parents are old and uncool, teachers don't know everything, the world is out to get you, and the opposite sex is worth staring at (among other things). And for some reason, we decided that this would be an appropriate time to introduce these confused, self absorbed, and egotistical beings to an automobile. Who is the idiot who thought of that. Let's put someone who thinks that they know it all, have no fear, and think they will live forever in command of a 2000 pound piece of metal and flammable materials that can go 100 mph. Who else thinks this is a bad Idea. What makes this even more absurd is that we expect people who can barely pay attention to a teacher for 10 minutes to be able to concentrate enough to operate these deathtraps on the road with other people who are the exact same way. So let me see if I got everything. Large metal object with a combustible fuel, traveling at highway speeds, requiring concentration and coordination to operate. Give it to a person that: Has no concept of courtesy, has a 30 second attention span, believes him/herself immortal, and believes that they know it all. Granted, not all kids are this way, but let's be honest, most are. If you think otherwise, try this little test. Give your kid a tennis ball and a golf ball. Have them balance them on the backs of their hands and watch a movie of your choosing. Tell them they have to keep the balls balanced on their hands and that you are going to ask 10 questions about the movie at the end. Make them watch 15 minutes of the movie and then ask them questions about the movie. Make the questions simple like what is the name of the secondary character, or what color car were they driving. This is equivalent to what you have to do while driving. I'm willing to be they can't get all 10 questions right or that they failed to keep the balls balanced. Now for the fun part. Let them do it to you. I am kind of afraid to find out how I do. Especially since I just made all of this up and have no clue how well this works. Sounds interesting though doesn't it. Have a wonderful day.
Let's talk about cars and the people who drive them. Seems to me that the instant someone gets a driving license they suddenly get a second personality. That nice girl who is always considerate of others becomes a rage filled speed demon that has to take the entire highway. The punk, who is always trying to find new and interesting ways to skirt the laws, is now the highway vigilante that drives at the speed limit next to the grandma who can't find the gas pedal. The law abiding neighbor suddenly finds that the horn has a nice ring to it and is trying to determine exactly the sex of the fly that died on your bumper by using his brights and getting as close as possible.. And it turns out that you are the only one on the road that knows how to drive. You commonly hear yourself saying things like, "the gas is the pedal on the right!" "Look at that speed demon!" "Get off my bumper!" Etc. The funny thing is, everyone is driving with the exact same attitude, "My way is right, your way is wrong, and get off the road." No one is immune. I like to call it, the I-Am-Right syndrome.
I believe it can be traced back to high school. This is that age where you discover that your parents are old and uncool, teachers don't know everything, the world is out to get you, and the opposite sex is worth staring at (among other things). And for some reason, we decided that this would be an appropriate time to introduce these confused, self absorbed, and egotistical beings to an automobile. Who is the idiot who thought of that. Let's put someone who thinks that they know it all, have no fear, and think they will live forever in command of a 2000 pound piece of metal and flammable materials that can go 100 mph. Who else thinks this is a bad Idea. What makes this even more absurd is that we expect people who can barely pay attention to a teacher for 10 minutes to be able to concentrate enough to operate these deathtraps on the road with other people who are the exact same way. So let me see if I got everything. Large metal object with a combustible fuel, traveling at highway speeds, requiring concentration and coordination to operate. Give it to a person that: Has no concept of courtesy, has a 30 second attention span, believes him/herself immortal, and believes that they know it all. Granted, not all kids are this way, but let's be honest, most are. If you think otherwise, try this little test. Give your kid a tennis ball and a golf ball. Have them balance them on the backs of their hands and watch a movie of your choosing. Tell them they have to keep the balls balanced on their hands and that you are going to ask 10 questions about the movie at the end. Make them watch 15 minutes of the movie and then ask them questions about the movie. Make the questions simple like what is the name of the secondary character, or what color car were they driving. This is equivalent to what you have to do while driving. I'm willing to be they can't get all 10 questions right or that they failed to keep the balls balanced. Now for the fun part. Let them do it to you. I am kind of afraid to find out how I do. Especially since I just made all of this up and have no clue how well this works. Sounds interesting though doesn't it. Have a wonderful day.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Pain, memories, and mobility: my first car.
As I mentioned on Monday, this has been an interesting week. Tuesday was an altogether horrid day. I went to the doctor for my shoulder and he decided to try and "fix" it with a shot. It was a mix of a numbing agent and steroids. He told me it might hurt going in as he sometimes "bounces it off the bone." I braced for the worse and didn't feel anything...until after he removed the needle. It felt as though my shoulder had a baloon being blown up inside it. Not so much painful as uncomfortable. He then told me the numbing agent would take an hour or so to fully kick in and that he wanted me to keep track of the pain over the next couple of hours. The pain didn't go away at all. In fact, about 4 hours after the shot it started to slowly build. By 6pm it felt as though someone was beating on my shoulder with a sledgehammer. So, I think the numbing agent worked to mask the pain, but the pain intensified after the shot. All I know is that my shoulder really hurt.
That was Tuesday. Yesterday, I got off work early (thus no post) to pick up the kids since Laura was in Seattle, picking up mom. I mowed the yard including weed eating. I then Trimmed the hedges and cleaned up the mess. My shoulder ached, but nowhere near the pain of the day before. Laura got home just as I finished the yard. I then left to finish my friends bathroom. That was going well, until about 10pm. I was connecting a clamp to hold the shower head in place. There was a lot of clamp to tighten so I used my drill to tighten it. It was almost tightened when my hand suddenly protested. That's when I discovered that I had managed to get my middle finger caught between the screw and the clamp. I now have something to take my mind off of my shoulder. The plumbing is done, now for the cosmetics. Should be able to finish that tonight.
Now that we got that out of the way, I will continue with what should have been yesterday's post. Since I promised to have a happy post once a week, This will be it (albeit with a slow start). It's amazing what the years do to childhood memories. Things we once remember as horrifying, embarrassing, or just plain painful are transformed into lessons we learned, funny stories to share, or maybe even a fond memory. I find this phenomenon quit interesting to say the least. Take for instance my truck. The first car I owned that I was able to drive was a Plymouth Arrow. The reason I specified the able to drive part was that my first car was actually a AMC Pacer. Dad drove it home and it never ran again, thus I never drove it. Anyway, for those of you unfamiliar with the Arrow, it is a small truck. It was Plymouth's version of the Luv. The reason you've probably never heard of it was that it was only around for a couple of years. Turns out it was a Mitsubishi truck that was re-badged was a Plymouth. All in all it was a decent truck. Or would have been, if it hadn't been re-engineered by a previous owner. Seems that the original motor gave up the ghost sometime in the 80's. So the owner replaced it with a Mazda 4 cylinder. Turns out, Mazda and Mitsubishi aren't really compatible. So to make it fit, rubber bumpers about 2 inches thick were used to align the mounting holes. Needless to say, the engine wasn't all that sturdily mounted. The other side of this is that the mechanic (and I use the term loosely) that switched engines didn't know how to make the electrical cross over either since I didn't have a tachometer or a speedometer. This made guessing my speed interesting. I tended to just get up to 4th gear and put the pedal on the floor. Since it had the approximate acceleration of a turtle on Valium, the only time I got to top speed was in a 5 mile stretch of highway between 2 towns. It wasn't until I had been driving this way for almost a year that I was informed by a friend in school that that equated to about 90 mph downhill (he had to "get up to 120 to pass me"). I really loved that truck. It was great until the day I discovered why rubber blocks do not make good engine mounts.
I was out with a couple friends driving the back roads. I was flying down a dirt road and managed to hit top speed (at the time I still didn't know what top speed was and we simply called it max RPM). As we approached an intersection we were able to see we had it clear and wouldn't need to stop. The intersection in question was on a hill. To cross it you went up a hill, crossed the road and continued up the hill on the other side. The road we were crossing was gravel and thus maintained...and level. This meant that the road we were on abruptly stopped going up, went level, then started going up again. At 90 mph you can probably guess what happened. All I got to say is, yes, you can make a 4 cylinder small truck fly for the 50 - 60 feet it takes to cross the road. Amazingly enough, we survived. The truck wasn't happy about it though. The aforementioned rubber blocks compressed as the engine bounced and drove the fan into the radiator. The shifter, being more rigidly mounted, stayed in pretty much the same position as the transmission moved with the motor bending 2 shift rods and locking the truck in 1st. It took me a few months to finally get the truck running again and on the road. That doesn't mean it ran the same. After that, it developed a "personality" and a bad one at that. It would turn itself off at will, which is fun at 50 mph on the highway. It would refuse to start for an hour then not shut off after you finally got it started. All in all, just driving it was an adventure.
Well, I hope that holds you off for a while. I thank you for this trip, however painful it may be. Have a wonderful day.
That was Tuesday. Yesterday, I got off work early (thus no post) to pick up the kids since Laura was in Seattle, picking up mom. I mowed the yard including weed eating. I then Trimmed the hedges and cleaned up the mess. My shoulder ached, but nowhere near the pain of the day before. Laura got home just as I finished the yard. I then left to finish my friends bathroom. That was going well, until about 10pm. I was connecting a clamp to hold the shower head in place. There was a lot of clamp to tighten so I used my drill to tighten it. It was almost tightened when my hand suddenly protested. That's when I discovered that I had managed to get my middle finger caught between the screw and the clamp. I now have something to take my mind off of my shoulder. The plumbing is done, now for the cosmetics. Should be able to finish that tonight.
Now that we got that out of the way, I will continue with what should have been yesterday's post. Since I promised to have a happy post once a week, This will be it (albeit with a slow start). It's amazing what the years do to childhood memories. Things we once remember as horrifying, embarrassing, or just plain painful are transformed into lessons we learned, funny stories to share, or maybe even a fond memory. I find this phenomenon quit interesting to say the least. Take for instance my truck. The first car I owned that I was able to drive was a Plymouth Arrow. The reason I specified the able to drive part was that my first car was actually a AMC Pacer. Dad drove it home and it never ran again, thus I never drove it. Anyway, for those of you unfamiliar with the Arrow, it is a small truck. It was Plymouth's version of the Luv. The reason you've probably never heard of it was that it was only around for a couple of years. Turns out it was a Mitsubishi truck that was re-badged was a Plymouth. All in all it was a decent truck. Or would have been, if it hadn't been re-engineered by a previous owner. Seems that the original motor gave up the ghost sometime in the 80's. So the owner replaced it with a Mazda 4 cylinder. Turns out, Mazda and Mitsubishi aren't really compatible. So to make it fit, rubber bumpers about 2 inches thick were used to align the mounting holes. Needless to say, the engine wasn't all that sturdily mounted. The other side of this is that the mechanic (and I use the term loosely) that switched engines didn't know how to make the electrical cross over either since I didn't have a tachometer or a speedometer. This made guessing my speed interesting. I tended to just get up to 4th gear and put the pedal on the floor. Since it had the approximate acceleration of a turtle on Valium, the only time I got to top speed was in a 5 mile stretch of highway between 2 towns. It wasn't until I had been driving this way for almost a year that I was informed by a friend in school that that equated to about 90 mph downhill (he had to "get up to 120 to pass me"). I really loved that truck. It was great until the day I discovered why rubber blocks do not make good engine mounts.
I was out with a couple friends driving the back roads. I was flying down a dirt road and managed to hit top speed (at the time I still didn't know what top speed was and we simply called it max RPM). As we approached an intersection we were able to see we had it clear and wouldn't need to stop. The intersection in question was on a hill. To cross it you went up a hill, crossed the road and continued up the hill on the other side. The road we were crossing was gravel and thus maintained...and level. This meant that the road we were on abruptly stopped going up, went level, then started going up again. At 90 mph you can probably guess what happened. All I got to say is, yes, you can make a 4 cylinder small truck fly for the 50 - 60 feet it takes to cross the road. Amazingly enough, we survived. The truck wasn't happy about it though. The aforementioned rubber blocks compressed as the engine bounced and drove the fan into the radiator. The shifter, being more rigidly mounted, stayed in pretty much the same position as the transmission moved with the motor bending 2 shift rods and locking the truck in 1st. It took me a few months to finally get the truck running again and on the road. That doesn't mean it ran the same. After that, it developed a "personality" and a bad one at that. It would turn itself off at will, which is fun at 50 mph on the highway. It would refuse to start for an hour then not shut off after you finally got it started. All in all, just driving it was an adventure.
Well, I hope that holds you off for a while. I thank you for this trip, however painful it may be. Have a wonderful day.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
A whoomph to remember, or how my dad replaced fireworks with soda cans.
So it's another happy hump day and I have just the tale for you. You see, not to long ago I was reminded of somethings that I had done with my dad and the hilarity that ensued. It all started on a fourth of July.
We had some friends over and were lamenting about the fact that fireworks are illegal in Iowa. I mean, what is the fourth of July without the opportunity to blow off several digits off of your hand or the thrill of putting out random fires with a garden hose. Anyway, as we were sitting there dad cut the top off of a soda can to make a cup to drink out of. Apparently the kitchen (not 10 ft away) was to far to go. As he looked around he noticed the post driver (a cylinder of steel with one end welded shut with about 2 inches of more steel) leaning against the porch.
For some inexplicable reason he decided to see if his new cup would fit over the end. Sure enough, it was a perfect fit. I slid on without any trouble but was tight enough to make a seal. Being the smart man my dad is, he thought, "if I had something explosive in there, I bet I could really launch this can."
I don't know if you've ever been around a man who gets an idea that only he and another man would call good, but let me tell you, you know when it happens. The eyes get big, he sits up straighter, and he takes off for parts unknown to implement said idea. The Idea was what to use for propellant. You see, my dad is a plumber and electrician. He is also a handyman. He did his own welding and steel cutting. This was before plasma cutting was popular. Thus, he had an oxy/Acetylene torch which uses two separate tanks, one of oxygen and one of acetylene. When you turn on the gas to the nozzle, it jets out the gas at the perfect mix. You are supposed to light the gas and use it to literally burn the metal apart. One of the warnings on the rig warns you to ignite said torch in adequate ventilation as it is explosive in combined spaces. Remember how I said my dad was smart? Apparently, intelligence and explosives don't go together to often.
That's when I first heard dad utter the most famous words in the male lexicon, "Hey, guys, follow me and check this out." This is the first and only time I ever heard this phrase from my dad. He proceeded to set up the post driver against the front axle of our tractor so that the open end pointed out over the field. For those of you who don't understand tractor design, the gas tank on most small tractors is above the engine in the engine housing and thus over the front wheels and within a few feet of teh open end of the post driver. Another feature of the post driver I forgot to mention is a small hole in the side about half way up, supposedly so the air inside has somewhere to go when you are slamming the driver down on some poor unsuspecting post. So dad fit his soda can over the end of the post driver that was leaning against the tractor. He then took his torch, took the tip, pressed it against the hole and commenced to fill the post driver with gas from the torch. If you can't see where this is headed bear with me.
After it was filled as he thought was appropriate, he turned off the gas took a match and held it to the hole. The Whoomph that followed, while satisfying, was not nearly as impressive as the 4ft flame and the red hot soda can that came off the end. The can landed after a few minutes (we believe it hit record heights, then again what is the record for launching a soda can from a post driver) torn in two.
One would think once was enough. I mean, a 4 ft flame not a foot from a full gas tank is a little scary right? Nope, dad and his friends (us kids included) started bringing him more cans to launch. We had a pretty steady stream of cans launching. Whoomph after satisfying whoomph. It was an unending barrage. We would recover the cans and relaunch any we thought worthy. Turns out that at the time Mt Dew had the strongest cans as we could launch them about 4 times before they were unusable. Once it got dark, it was even more fun since we could see the flame and track the glowing cans as they arched through the sky. At the time it was fun, looking back you realize why mom had that horrified look on her face for almost the entire time. I also understand now why it didn't become a Fourth of July tradition as we never again lit up the post driver soda can cannon.
We had some friends over and were lamenting about the fact that fireworks are illegal in Iowa. I mean, what is the fourth of July without the opportunity to blow off several digits off of your hand or the thrill of putting out random fires with a garden hose. Anyway, as we were sitting there dad cut the top off of a soda can to make a cup to drink out of. Apparently the kitchen (not 10 ft away) was to far to go. As he looked around he noticed the post driver (a cylinder of steel with one end welded shut with about 2 inches of more steel) leaning against the porch.
For some inexplicable reason he decided to see if his new cup would fit over the end. Sure enough, it was a perfect fit. I slid on without any trouble but was tight enough to make a seal. Being the smart man my dad is, he thought, "if I had something explosive in there, I bet I could really launch this can."
I don't know if you've ever been around a man who gets an idea that only he and another man would call good, but let me tell you, you know when it happens. The eyes get big, he sits up straighter, and he takes off for parts unknown to implement said idea. The Idea was what to use for propellant. You see, my dad is a plumber and electrician. He is also a handyman. He did his own welding and steel cutting. This was before plasma cutting was popular. Thus, he had an oxy/Acetylene torch which uses two separate tanks, one of oxygen and one of acetylene. When you turn on the gas to the nozzle, it jets out the gas at the perfect mix. You are supposed to light the gas and use it to literally burn the metal apart. One of the warnings on the rig warns you to ignite said torch in adequate ventilation as it is explosive in combined spaces. Remember how I said my dad was smart? Apparently, intelligence and explosives don't go together to often.
That's when I first heard dad utter the most famous words in the male lexicon, "Hey, guys, follow me and check this out." This is the first and only time I ever heard this phrase from my dad. He proceeded to set up the post driver against the front axle of our tractor so that the open end pointed out over the field. For those of you who don't understand tractor design, the gas tank on most small tractors is above the engine in the engine housing and thus over the front wheels and within a few feet of teh open end of the post driver. Another feature of the post driver I forgot to mention is a small hole in the side about half way up, supposedly so the air inside has somewhere to go when you are slamming the driver down on some poor unsuspecting post. So dad fit his soda can over the end of the post driver that was leaning against the tractor. He then took his torch, took the tip, pressed it against the hole and commenced to fill the post driver with gas from the torch. If you can't see where this is headed bear with me.
After it was filled as he thought was appropriate, he turned off the gas took a match and held it to the hole. The Whoomph that followed, while satisfying, was not nearly as impressive as the 4ft flame and the red hot soda can that came off the end. The can landed after a few minutes (we believe it hit record heights, then again what is the record for launching a soda can from a post driver) torn in two.
One would think once was enough. I mean, a 4 ft flame not a foot from a full gas tank is a little scary right? Nope, dad and his friends (us kids included) started bringing him more cans to launch. We had a pretty steady stream of cans launching. Whoomph after satisfying whoomph. It was an unending barrage. We would recover the cans and relaunch any we thought worthy. Turns out that at the time Mt Dew had the strongest cans as we could launch them about 4 times before they were unusable. Once it got dark, it was even more fun since we could see the flame and track the glowing cans as they arched through the sky. At the time it was fun, looking back you realize why mom had that horrified look on her face for almost the entire time. I also understand now why it didn't become a Fourth of July tradition as we never again lit up the post driver soda can cannon.
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