Burning Flesh

Tags

Humour, lessons learned, life, personal, technology

My feeble mind goes back a few years to a day when perhaps my life was spared.  I still remember the acrid scent of burning flesh and ozone, the horrified look on my son’s face after he had witnessed his father being thrown across the room by forces unbeknownst to him.  I was attempting my first minor project that involved house current, too cheap or too poor to hire someone to do the job who actually knew what they were doing.  We, meaning my former wife and I, had redone our son’s room to a sports theme, with walls painted to resemble grass, a border of various and assorted balls, shelfs lined with his collection of trophies, a sports themed switch plate.  The final touch was to add a soccer ball light fixture to the ceiling fan.

I was up to the task, a little research on how to retrofit a ceiling fan done on the internet.  Armed with YouTube handyman courage, I climbed the short metal extension ladder in the middle of the bedroom, screwdriver in hand, prepared for what I thought was the most simple task to add to my arsenal of household accomplishments.  The breaker to the bedroom was shut off, the master wall switch in the off position.  I should have been safe.

Do I even need to say how wrong I was?

The cover plate on the ceiling fan was removed easily, the wires disconnected.  I put the retrofit fixture for the light in place, attached the wires to the terminal connections then gingerly put my screwdriver on the terminals to tighten them down.

POOF!!!!!!!!

I had touched the metal of the screwdriver against the ceiling fan housing, only to discover that I should have shut off the mains at the breaker box.  Horrified, my son watched as I was launched off the ladder and across the room.  He bolted (a ironic term) out of the room to retrieve his mother, sure that his father was singing with the angels.  I came to as the scent of my own burning flesh mixed with the smell of fresh ozone.  I looked at my hand, still tingling from the trauma created by the introduction of house electricity, intrigued by the slightly smoking black spot in the side of my knuckle.  The current had entered there.  Further inspection revealed where the jolt of electricity had exited at my elbow.

I wondered if I had super powers as a result.  They have yet to emerge.

Recently, the recessed light in my shower stall ceased to work.  I knew failure was coming, since it often shut off a minute or two into a shower as the fixture overheated.  It was only a matter of time before the light quit working.  After it failed, I investigated the cause.  It wasn’t the breaker, which sometimes had to be reset after the light shut off.  It wasn’t the switch.  Replacement bulbs didn’t solve the problem.  It was obvious that either the light socket or the heat sensor on the fixture had burned out.

Crap.  I am still too cheap to pay someone to fix it.  That meant I had to risk my life again to fix it on my own.

 

This time experience was on my side, as well as a whole lot better breaker box.  Now I live in a condo, with the main power on a different floor and away from my condo unit.  Shutting off the main power was as simple to going to the condo building utility room and shutting off the main to my unit.  I connected an extension cord and utility light to a hallway outlet so that I would have light in my bathroom while performing the task of replacing the light socket.  I had decided to retrofit a LED light kit, which meant I had to cut the wires, remove the existing socket and bracket, and strip the wires to wire the new light fixture in.  I performed the task as I stood in the tub, half expecting to meet Jesus as I cut the wires.  Half surprised at the lack of response as I cut the wires, then stripped the insulation back and connected the wires with nuts, a relieved SHenry completed the task.  I inserted the next fixture into the recessed can in the shower stall ceiling, cleaned up, turned on the main power, flipped the switch.

VOILA!  Success.  Glorious success.  The new LED fixture worked without flaw and looks even better than the original incandescent light.

A friend heard of my success (bragging is never a good idea) and now wants me to replace her failed closet light.  She had better make it worth it….

But What Am I?

Tags

Humour, life, neighbors

I had an evil thought yesterday.

Yes, just one.

Then I thought a little more about what that thought entailed.  What it really would have made me was a childish tattletale.  I may be childish, but I am no tattletale snitch, no matter who I would be telling on.

Go ahead, stick your tongue out at me.  You are rubber and I am glue.

I could play the silly snitch game if I wanted to.  The opportunity is there.  The object would deserve it.  While checking with property management yesterday to see if it would cost me if I kept my daughter’s car in my garage or driveway, I did something that some people don’t do — I checked the condo association rules and answered my own question.

VII.  VEHICLE REGULATIONS

A.  Residents are provided an easement to a garage for indoor parking and to the adjoining driveway for outdoor parking.  Guest parking spaces located throughout the property are primarily for the use of guests.  Homeowners are required to use their garages and driveways for parking.

Hold on a second… my nasty downstairs neighbor parks her car in her garage, but her husband parks his truck in a guest parking spot.  He leaves her driveway open, probably so he won’t upset her delicate psyche.  THEY ARE BREAKING THE RULES!

Those naughty people.  Tsk tsk tsk.

The little devil on my shoulder tempted me to say something.  After all, she has ratted me out plenty of times in less than two years.  She DESERVES it.  After all, she continues to bang on her ceiling every time she hears a noise from above, turns on her garbage disposal when she thinks I run my kitchen faucet for too long, steps outside and yells up at me when any or most things annoy her.  She DOES DESERVE it.

No, I will not play that game.

 

Strobe

Tags

Humour, life, middle age, neighbors, personal

I hear you crawling up my front lawn

Flipped the switch and you were gone

I feel better when I turn it on

Get real simple when I make a song

Strobe (I want to tell you)

(lyrics from Adam Again’s “Strobe”)

This song occupied my waking mind this morning.  The tune is catchy, the lyrics downright comical.  Then I realized the lyrics also are eerily appropriate for me today.

I feel creepy and it feels good, the kind of creepy that creates a twisted chuckle in my gut.  It’s not Aqualung creepy, not yet at least, thank goodness.  I won’t be sitting on a park bench any time soon.

Is he out there?  No, I don’t see him.  WAIT, HE’S WATCHING US!  I heard last night from the other side of the privacy fence that faces my second floor condo.  In a minute, I would be “out there” on my deck after I finished filling a bucket with water from my kitchen faucet.  My new wood deck furniture needed to be cleaned, then treated with teak oil to protect the finish from fading, my project for the evening (it was too muddy to ride my mountain bike).  That twisted chuckle began to churn in my gut as I looked out my patio door, observed the dirty tennis shoes and bare legs gathered in front of a large gap under the privacy fence.  Those shoes and legs belonged to a group of boys from the shabby apartment complex on the other side of the fence.  They play outside in the parking lot and grassy area at the back of the parking lot, that gap under the fence one of the spooky games they like to challenge each other with.  The object seems to be to crawl under the fence, then dash through the thicket that covers the steep berm on the other side.  Each trip through the gap is always preceded with a few minutes of challenges and anticipated danger.  It’s a pre adolescent boys’ game, the imagined danger and mystery the reason for the draw, a rite of passage of sorts.  Adding to the danger is the old NO TRESPASSING sign that leans at them as they emerge through the gap.

I add to that danger, I know, the looming stranger that lurks on the other side, a middle aged monster who belches out warnings.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE?!!? 

A week or so ago was the first time I noticed the boys, already through the gap and huddled against the fence.  Judging from their confusion, it must have been their first time braving the other side.  The boys had waited for the cover of dusk, didn’t expect to be detected, yet were not quite sure what to do once they were there.  They didn’t know that I was sitting out on my deck, taking in the last few rays of daylight, enjoying the ambiance and peace, the sounds of the children playing on the other side of the fence all part of that peaceful ambiance.  I smirked when I saw the boys.  It was my chance to make their game a bit more interesting.  My question to them was just loud enough to seem serious.  I heard girlish screams from the boys, likely wetting themselves as they fought each other to flee through the gap under the fence.

One boy, the ringleader of sorts, paused in mid flight, turned and managed a weak who are you, mister? before completing his escape under the fence.  I heard muffled exclamations of delightful fear mixed with the sound of running footsteps from the other side of the fence.  I wondered if my visitors would return any time soon.  From then on, I knew I would be legend, the mean/creepy man who lives on the other side of the fence, waiting to challenge any boy who dared enter my domain through the gap in the fence.  I remember the creepy legends from my own boyhood, the small town rumors that made them seem worse than they likely were.  One such man, a clerk at the small local grocery, was supposedly a pedophile who had been caught sodomizing a canteloupe and fired, a rumor obviously fabricated as the man still worked at the grocery.  His story grew more perverted, the fear perpetuated as we all crossed the street when going past his house rather than walk directly in front, lest he grab one of us.

One late night, when my friends all camped out in their backyard tents, we gathered at the hedgerow that lined the side of the grocery clerk’s front yard, taunting each other to go knock on his front door.  A brave soul did just that, banged loudly on the screen door, then ran back to the safety of the hedge.  He reported that the front door was open.  There was no response to the knock.  Our next move was to light firecrackers on his front porch.  No response.  I was appointed to go light another firecracker.  As I rounded the hedge and began my unsteady journey across his front lawn, the dark figure of a man burst from the front door and began running at me.

WHAT’S THE MATTER, CHICKEN SH**???!!!! he screamed as he ran at me.

I turned and bolted back towards the hedge, the man nearly breathing down my neck.  As I rounded the hedge, my friends had already taken flight.  The man chased me for nearly a mile before I finally lost him.  He was pretty fast.  Not too much longer after that night, I would be setting records for the school track team.  That mile chase was probably faster than any of the records I would set running for the track team.  When I started the trek back home, I met my worried friends who had decided that maybe it was best to rescue their fallen comrade, scared that maybe I had become a canteloupe.

I wonder what kind of rumors the boys from the apartments are generating about me?  I am most definitely part of their game, now, judging from what I heard from them last night.  They returned a few minutes after the initial sighting with what seemed like a bigger crowd.  After all, the monster was lurking.  The game had become more dangerous.  By that time, I had started my task outside, had cleaned the two person wood glider out on my deck and was applying the teak oil.  The boys returned while I was kneeling behind the glider.  I listened to them, watched as faces appeared in the gap.

Is he there?

No?  Are you sure?

I don’t know.  You go first.

I started to chuckle as I witnessed the first of four boys crawl through the opening, then follow their leader a few steps through the thicket.  When I stood up, I merely smiled as the boy in front gasped at seeing me, then knocked down the three boys behind him as he scrambled over them to get away.

OH NO, HE’S THERE!!  GET OUT OF HERE!!

I am legend.

My phone rang a minute later, so I sat down in one of the chairs that I had not treated yet, amused as two faces appeared over the fence, a few more gaped at me through a space in the fence below the two faces.

I wonder who he is talking to?  Maybe it’s the police!

More sounds of running feet.  By that time, it was dusk.  After a few minutes, the faces peered over and through the fence, but I heard a mother’s voice calling the boys to come in.  The game was over, at least for last night.

I intend on establishing friendly dialogue some time soon.  After all, these are boys just like I was at one time.  I don’t want them tossing fireworks over the fence or, worse, rocks at my glass patio doors.  For now, I don’t mind fueling their legend, making the game daring fun.

For now… stay off my lawn.

Can’t Fight Crazy

Tags

Humour, lessons learned, life, neighbors, personal

Wise advice given to me several times yesterday by friends and neighbors — Steve, there’s no sense in trying to fight with a crazy person.  One friend changed the word fight to reason.  I get it.  I really do get it.  In his book, Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis said that we know what is decent behavior, we want to be decent, but each and every person fails at some point in every day.  We fail to practice ourselves the kind of behavior we expect from other people.

I am trying not to act like a crazy person.  I am dealing with the crazy person.  I so much want to fight back, but I know my friends are correct.  It really is difficult to not confront this person face to face, fight her, take her on, make her stop.  My friends tell me that I expect her to act like a decent person, in the way I expect a good person to behave, like every person is hard wired to honor what they know is the right way, unselfish.

When I returned early yesterday morning at 4 AM, after taking my daughter to the airport, the confrontation with my rude downstairs neighbor was really eating at me, enough that I slept very little during the three hours I had left to sleep.  I fumed, fought the anger inside of me that wanted to fight back, the guy who wants to be decent warring with the guy who just wants to put on the gloves.  I know what is right.  But I also know that I need to reach some kind of resolution — and that resolution needs to be my own, not hers.  It’s up to my neighbor to solve her own demons.  What I do know is that my neighbor is controlling, I have allowed myself to be controlled, have been tiptoeing around my condo when I don’t really need to.  I thought I was keeping peace, but what I really am doing is enabling my downstairs neighbor’s perpetually bad behavior.

So, I wrote her a letter, knowing that it will solve nothing as far as she is concerned.  But putting my thoughts in writing takes the guy with the gloves out of the equation, allows me to move on.  I don’t need to fight with her.  I only need to live in my condo, not worry so much (within common sense reason) how it affects the numbskull who lives in the condo below me.

I also called the property manager, as well as talked to my next door neighbors.  Each revealed a common theme — my downstairs neighbor has behaved the same way towards each owner of my condo unit.  The property manager assured me that any complaints lodged by my crazy neighbor would be dismissed.  The manager and my neighbors assured me they are on my side.

One thing I am certain of — the woman calls my daughter a whore again, the gloves come on.

My neighbor copied two pages from an old copy of our condo rules, highlighted the word ‘guests’ and ‘excessive noise’, placed the pages in front of my door yesterday.  I responded by taping my letter to her front door.

Therese,

Thanks for greeting my daughter and I in such an unpleasant, rude manner last night.  All I can say is that you should be apologizing for the behavior and attitude that you demonstrated.  I don’t anticipate that you care about good will or else you would not be behaving the way you have behaved since I moved in this past April.  I have lived in apartments, houses, condos, dorm rooms my entire life and have always had excellent relationships with my neighbors.  Sadly, I fear that is not possible with you as it currently stands.  I have never encountered such selfish, childish behavior from any neighbor.  Congratulations on being the first such neighbor that I have ever had.

For your information, the young woman with me (as she kindly explained to you) last night is my daughter.  She slept at my condo for the first time last night.  My daughter is a college senior and is completing her student teaching right now.  The reason why she stayed with me last night is so I could take her to O’Hare airport.  For the next 8 weeks, she will be student teaching at an international school in Guatemala City.  Her flight departed at 5:45 this morning, the reason that we were up at 2:30.  When you so rudely confronted us, we were on the way to my garage to leave for the airport.  It was an excellent time with her, but your behavior certainly could have put a damper on our mood.  I love my daughter, cherish the opportunities to spend time with her, so I do not appreciate someone whose behavior gets in the way of that enjoyment.

I have tried to be as polite and courteous to you as possible, including being careful about what times I use my water and appliances.  When I arrive in my condo, I take my shoes off at the door so I don’t make as much noise when I walk.  So when you yelled out your objection “you are always flushing your toilet”, I was surprised.. and maybe I should not be surprised.  Apparently you have been rude to everyone who has lived in my unit, including the same kind of complaints about flushing the toilet, etc….

Since you have not voiced any objections to my condo habits since last April, I considered them resolved.  Why you decided to voice them so angrily last night, without any discussion or warning, I don’t know.  You certainly had no reason to be angry.

I want to continue to be a courteous and polite neighbor.  I suggest you take the time to discuss your grievances with me in a calm manner.  I will listen and try to change what is possible to change.  Unfortunately, a toilet needs to be flushed, but even that I have tried to limit.  You and your husband are welcome to visit and discuss.

If you can’t deal with living in a first floor condo, may I suggest that you sell your condo and move to a place where you do not have neighbors that live above you?  Otherwise, I ask that we deal with each other kindly.  I do not plan on moving any time soon.

Sincerely,

Steve Henry

Unit G

Ban the Banshees

Tags

Humour, life, personal, stuff

I was waiting in the checkout line at my local Walgreens store after work tonight, a bag of York peppermint patties clenched tightly in my hand as a familiar stench invaded my nostrils.  The guy in front of me reeked of cigarette smoke, so much that it made me wonder if the guy had bathed in a bottle of Eau de Foulness all day.  Perhaps it was a nicotine induced hallucination, but I swear that the guy’s cigarette B.O. cloud had gathered in the shape of a hand and was giving me the half peace sign.  It was all I could do to keep from gagging into the magazine stand next to me, my hand raised casually in front of my nose in an attempt to divert the smell, my breath held.  I turned a little to see if anyone behind me was suffering along with me, only to get whacked by the same stench coming from the woman behind me.  In utter resignation, I turned and pinched my nose, my mind cursing the woman at the front of the line who was quibbling with the cashier over a few coupons.

Hurry hurry hurry, my mind begged in its oxygen deprived state.  There was no way that I was leaving.  Those peppermint patties are important to my condo’s décor, their cheery foil packages bring joyful sparkle to the crystal bowl on my dining room table.  They are a necessity, a need, not a want.  They might also be my favorite snack.  Maybe.

Finally, the cashier managed to appease the penny pincher at the front of the line, Mister Smells of Camels paid for his purchases and left.  It was my turn to pay, with only Marlboro Momma’s odor left to deal with.  The cashier greeted me with a smile and asked how I was doing.

“Ibe obe kayb”, I replied while attempting to continue to hold my breath, no longer able to hold my nose while digging my debit card out of my wallet.  She frowned and wrinkled her nose at me, obviously blaming me for the unfriendly air quality.  Winking, I turned towards the door and thumbed behind me in an attempt to implicate Marlboro Momma.  Honestly, I am not sure that the cashier believed me, but she probably did when M.M. ordered a pack of cigs as I walked away with my well earned peppermint pattie prize.  I staggered to my car, reeling from cigarette B.O. overdose, climbed in, closed the door, started the car and turned on the air conditioning.

Was Mister Smells of Camels hiding in my back seat?  In horror, I realized that my two fellow customer’s had successfully managed to permeate my clothing and person with their odor.  Lovely.  Not to waste my years of watching MacGyver, I devised the perfect fix.

It took the whole bag of Yorks….

Old Yeller

Tags

cats, Humour, lessons learned, life

I am going to tell you this right now, know that I am shooting straight (or at least straighter than a certain two cats) — it’s possible to teach an old dog new cat pee tricks.

This old dog is learning the hard way.

Dark picture. That’s a Fresh Wave container in the middle, bravely defending the room from the stink attack.

Finished with the painting of my recently purchased condo, mostly moved in, the place clean and tidy, the to do list whittled down to just a few things.  One of the things left on that to do list is to remedy the cat pee stains in the front corner of the master bedroom, where the previous owner kept the cat box.  One of the two cats was male and, being the typical male, he apparently missed the toilet now and then most of the time.  Let’s just say that it is very obvious where the litter box was placed in the room from the yellow outline in the carpet.  The stench was also obvious, not overwhelming, but not pleasant either.  Something had to be done.

Old Dog Lesson #1 — Do NOT use steaming hot water in the carpet cleaning machine when attempting to shampoo out cat urine in the carpet.

Remember that I said that the stench was obvious but not overwhelming.  After I shampooed the carpet last Saturday, the stench grabbed me by the collar and punched me in the face the next time that I walked through my front door.  To say that the scent is strong is an understatement.

Old Dog Lesson #2 — Expensive enzymatic solutions are not always the solution.

Not yet, at least.  I soaked the area with a popular enzymatic odor eliminator specifically formulated for cat urine.  I will dare to mention the brand as there are likely going to be people who read this blog who will recommend it.  Now the manufacturer will likely read it also.  The concoction I used is Nature’s Miracle.  So far, with the carpet nearly dry, there has been no miracle.  The stench might actually be worse.  I am not going to blame the cleaner.  Perhaps the fact that the area has been recently treated with shampoo caused the NM to be ineffective.  I have heard good things about NM, so I am not going to knock the stuff.  Unfortunately, the stuff ain’t helping.

If the odor isn’t gone once the cleaner has dried, I am going to try white vinegar.  If that doesn’t work, I am going to try baking soda with hydrogen peroxide and dishwashing liquid.  If that doesn’t work, I am going to buy gas masks and hand them to every guest as they walk through my front door.

This old dog is not pissed off.  Nor am I going to give up.  This does indeed suck, however.

 

Heck Might Be Too Much

Tags

Humour

I belong to a unique fraternity, a band of brothers of sorts, all of whom worked for the same company for an extended period of time with a dramatic ending for each.  That trauma gives us a unique bond, one which finds us sharing fantasies of what sort of torture should be inflicted on the specific person who orchestrated our demise, an enemy we all agree is worthy of punishment.  Each brother has a different degree of lust for revenge, dreams that at times make me flinch at their harshness.  Revenge is not my cup of tea, not something I want to allow into my mind.  While I can’t claim to perfection, my disdain for the person of disgust clear to me, I can’t bring myself to hate a person enough to want them to be harmed.  Punishment for anyone is not my responsibility.  I don’t want anyone’s unmentionables to be chopped off and fed to them, as some of my friends have intimated.

That said, I guess there could be some things I might wish on my enemies.  If I were to put together a list, the top five things I might wish on my enemies might just look like this —

1.  Chronic hemorrhoids for eternity.  I’m thinking that spending every day scootching along the carpet with the family dog might be sufficient punishment, especially if said enemy ends up in hell.  That adds a twist to the phrase “itching and burning”.
2. Bette Midler singing “Wind Beneath My Wings” and stuck in their head 24/7 for one month.  I’m thinking one day of this torture might cause the inflicted to jump off of a tall bridge.  Fllllllyyyyyyy… flllllyyyyyyYYYY….
3. Bad health insurance.  I’m pretty sure someone cursed me with this one years ago.
4. Cub fans for a lifetime.  Sadly, this one exists and some people choose this curse.  As a Cardinal fan who has known baseball heaven on earth my whole life, this punishment would indeed be hell on earth.  The only worse punishment might be the curse of being a White Sox fan for life.  Let me just say this — professional baseball should be banned from the city of Chicago (wait.. it has been for some time).
5. Put them in a minivan with three elementary age children who have just consumed three supersized frozen cokes each, make them drive a 1500 mile turnpike without exits and 100 miles between rest areas.  Bonus if the rest area toilets require $2.00 in quarters for entry.  Extra bonus if there are plenty of rivers and waterfalls to view along the way.  Heck, for added grins the van’s stereo should have Wind Beneath My Wings stuck in a loop and the off button broken.  Those hemorrhoids should burn even more as the butt cheeks clench.

I would love to hear further suggestions.  My mind is already beginning to churn out more ideas, an evil chuckle passing my lips.

⁴³ “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor^[i] and hate your enemy.’ ⁴⁴ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵ that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. (Matthew 5:43-45, NIV)

Jesus was right.  But, but, but JESUS, come on… just a few little thoughts?  You have to admit, the minivan thing is pretty good, Lord!

 

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

Tags

Humour, life, middle age, mountain biking

I hate it when my actions exceed the threshold of stupidity.

Shut up… it’s not a daily, hourly, or every minute of my life occurrence.

One of the necessities of riding a bicycle, especially when riding off road, is being prepared for a flat tire.  There are some who avoid that unpleasant experience with tubeless tires, but I am not a tubeless guy (I like my tube) so I still need to carry a spare tube, patch kit, and CO2 inflator with me when I ride.  When riding my mountain bike, I have all I need stashed in plastic bags, tucked inside my hydration pack.. right next to the baggie of folded toilet paper.

Sunday morning, I decided to venture to the trails for a BCD (butt crack of dawn) ride.  It was going to be a sweltering, humid day, thus necessitating an early ride while it was still relatively cool.  As I unloaded my bike at the trailhead, the birds chirped merrily around me, greeting me in my revelry.  This was going to be a great ride, I just knew it.  True to expectations, my body felt fantastic as I zipped up the first trail, strong and good-for-me fast.  My warm up always takes me from the front of the park to the back, roughly a mile to a water crossing that leads to a nice, challenging loop of trails.  I got to the water crossing FAST.

The water crossing was a little deep.  Hikers have been damming it up, probably so they don’t get their dainty little feet damp as they cross.  Mountain bikers, who build and maintain the trails in the park, have been removing the dams.  Back and forth, build and tear down.  It has been a dam war.  When I came to the top of the drop into the water crossing, I noticed that the hikers had built yet another little dam.  Confident that the water wasn’t too deep, I swooped down the trail and into the water, my elbow wet as the water splashed around my bicycle.

*Fssssssshhhhhht fssssssshhhhhttttttt fsssssshhhhtttt*

Oh ssssssshhhhhtttttt.  A front flat.  The hikers must have been fighting back, booby trapped the crossing.  No worries, it was a front tire flat and I had my kit with me.  I removed the wheel, whipped the tube out of the tire, took out the spare tube, replaced it, inflated the tire with CO2.

*Fsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhttttttttttttttttttttttttt*

Crud.  I thought I had inspected the tire for the cause of the puncture.  I was out of luck since I only had one CO2 cartridge and one spare tube.  I replaced the wheel, carried my bike the mile or so back to my car.  Shucks.  The birds all pooped on me as I got back to my car, blew raspberries as they flew away.

Sunday afternoon, at home, I decided to fix the flat tire.  As I pulled the punctured tube out of the tire, a thought struck me.

Is it possible that I had put the same tube, the punctured tube, back in the tire that morning?

Intrigued, I pulled the tube I had put back in my hydration pack.  It looked new and unused.

I now have a large hand print on my forehead.

 

 

Fear the Teen

Tags

family, fatherhood, Humour

Curious as to what I listen to while I write or while I pluck my nose hairs?  Probably not, but I am going to share it any hoo —

My neck hurts.  I have definitely been rubbernecking.  Don’t get that confused with necking, if any one who reads this is old enough to get the term.  I am.  And old enough that it hasn’t applied for some time now.

17 year old males are frightening.  I know there are plenty of fathers who agree with me.  We understand them, remember what we were like at that age, which frightens us even more and possibly even causes us to wet our adult diapers.  Even when I know what is coming, I am more edgy than Richard Simmons in a haunted house.

Of course, he would probably soil his running shorts.  How’s that for a visual?  You’re welcome.

You may be asking, Steve, what frightens you the most about having a 17 year old son?  Dealing with the girl question?  (No)

Zits?  (Nope, although that was a rough one)

Driving privileges?  (Nada, although that one is a source of high anxiety and so close that you’re HOT)

Video games?  (Ha, I laugh in your general direction.. while I fart, of course)

Enough questions.  If you ask more questions, I will have to marry you.

Garbage.  I swear, my son drives to the corner and back in my car and it comes back filled with enough fast food bags, candy wrappers, burrito foil, shake cups, plastic bottles, and other assorted junk food associated detritus to fill a landfill.  My son is a trash master.

I was not prepared for this condition.  When I was a teenager, I was fastidious, a lawn mower and so possessed with keeping my own car clean (and my parents’ cars) that I was hired to detail cars by neighbors and relatives.  How in the world did I spawn a refuse master?

A bit of that emerged from my gene pool when I was in my twenties, affecting me temporarily before I came back to my senses.  My bedroom for a short period of time became a bomb zone, with the rest of the house/apartment a pristine showcase that all single women adored.

I let my son drive my car last weekend, a four hour trek to Indiana for a visit to his sister at her college.  Was I frightened about him driving?  Yes.  A bit.  But not too much.  When he got home, the digital clocks in the car were messed up.  I questioned him about it.  As I suspected, he left the lights on and had to have my car jump started.  That kind of stuff does frighten me.  What shocked me more was when I entered my vehicle after he returned home.  His mother had given him too much spending money and it showed.  I cleared a path so that I could sit in the driver’s seat.  There was so much garbage, I can’t even estimate how much had to be removed.  Even worse, when I got in my car on Monday morning to go to work, more giggling bottles frolicked from under the passenger seat.

My advice to anyone with sons who are about to get their license — murder them now.  It will be worth the jail sentence.

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On another note, I am ready for tonight’s game 7 of the World Series.

Cold Feet

Tags

fun, Humour, lessons learned, life, neighbors, personal

Did I ever tell you that I live in the Chicago area?  Probably.

Did I ever tell you that I am an incurable St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan?  Undoubtedly.

Saturday night, my feet suddenly felt ice cold, as in “hell just froze over” cold.  That can only mean one thing and one thing only.  Only one.

Did I ever tell you something using the words ‘one’, ‘only’ and ‘thing’?  Of course.

The Cubs won the NLCS and are on their way to the World Series.

I was afraid to go to church last Sunday morning.  It was not because it was sell your house and follow me Sunday.  It wasn’t.  No.  There was a distinct possibility that church attendance would be drastically reduced.  After all, the rapture certainly occurred overnight and the world was about to end.

That will only occur if the Cubs actually perform the impossible and win the Series.

My next door neighbors are absolutely koo koo.  Nuts.  Hog wild excited.  The other night, they brought ‘Cub cakes’ to me — chocolate cup cakes with white frosting and a big blue W on top.  It was Be Nice To Someone Whose Team Is Not In The Playoffs For The First Time In Six Years day.  I think they were hoping their kindness would break the Cubs out of their scoring slump.  Apparently that worked.

Tonight, while I was mowing the lawn, my neighbors suddenly emerged from their house, yelling and screaming and waving a huge white W flag while marching around me.  Cub fans are a little dense.  Never taunt an angry man who is pushing a gas powered machine with whirling, sharp blades.

I joke.  I only mooned them…… (_._)

Now they have placed a little white W flag on the fence facing my house, a solar spotlight illuminating it so I can enjoy viewing it all night.  Yay.  Yippee.

Lest any one forget, I have failed miserably in raising my son.  He is a Cub fan.

I knew that this time was coming.  The Cubs were too good last season, barely missing the World Series.  I imagined escaping to a remote island on the Pacific, a refuge from the heckling, scantily clad island girls feeding me grapes and bringing me Coronas.  What I have discovered by weathering the storm is that this might be one of the most pleasant experiences that I have ever had, rivaling the celebrations I have had watching my Cardinals winning the World Series multiple times.  Seriously.  Cub fans are ecstatic, civil, giddy.. and it is truly enjoyable watching them celebrate.  I haven’t missed an inning of the Cubs’ playoff games the past few weeks, doubt that I will miss a World Series game.  This is fun.  It really is.

Don’t expect me to go overboard.  I would rather WATCH the celebration, not actually declare my love for the team.

See you at the end of the world.  It could be coming reaaaaaaaalllllll sooooooon.