It's Here, It's Finally Here!

Before                               After

For days now I have seen on television and read in the newspaper about the sudden and unusual polar cold front that was moving through the country. Very odd to have temperatures in the teens in Chicago, in November. Some places dropped into single digits and measureable snow fell across the north. Meanwhile here in Florida, the temperatures remained in the mid eighties during the afternoon for the last week. Almost too warm. Yesterday I looked at the thermometer and saw that it was seventy four degrees outside, cool enough to do some painting. So I got out the green paint, the paint brushes, and all the other tools I would need to spruce up the house. I began by painting my front tenant's door. Halfway through painting that door, sweat started rolling down my face, and my pits began to moisten up. The thermometer had risen to seventy seven degrees. I forged on despite the heat. When I finished the tenant's door I worked on the front gate that was also to be painted green. Halfway through painting the front gate I noticed that the wind had picked up, and before I knew it the temperature was dropping rapidly. The big cold front had finally arrived in Florida. I quickly finished painting the gate, and packed it in for the day because the temperature had dropped to a bone chilling sixty six degrees. Brrr.... I'm still not completely sold on moving back north next year, and this isn't helping.

Boss

I'm a big guy, two hundred pounds. I pay the mortgage, I pay the electric bill, I pay for a lot of crap around here. Mark is big enough, over a hundred pounds of snarling, New Jersey attitude. And then there is Chandler, my big boy dog. You would think we would all be near the top of the food chain in this house. We are not.

 I was in the my office doing some serious business on the computer when I heard the plaintive whines of Chandler coming from the living room. I put the card game on hold and took a peek around the corner. There was my eighty pound mutt trembling in fear, and giving me his most desperate 'Come and save me' look. On the floor was eleven pounds of fury in a fur coat, and on the sofa was Chandler trying to get past her. Bette had Chandler trapped. This is nothing new, Bette rules this house. If Bette doesn't want Chandler to get on the bed, Chandler can't get on the bed. If Bette wants to play tug of war with a squeaky toy, Chandler has to play or he gets his ankles and ears chewed on. It's not just Chandler who is bossed around by little Bette, Mark is on her shit list too. If Chandler isn't available for play she attacks Mark, running up to him and nipping at his pant leg. As for me, I am her humble servant. I do not get nipped at, or attacked with a squeaky toy. I am there to feed her, walk her, and make sure her every need is met. I get to change the puppy pee pads in her personal bathroom, which we used to call the sun room. I pick the burrs out of her fur, and the ticks off her ass. I am also available to save Chandler from her, which is what I did. I picked her up and held her while Chandler managed to escape. I then carried her into the bedroom where Mark was, and told her to have at it.

Tool Time

When I was a kid, I remember my dad spending a Saturday down in the basement organizing his tools and his workbench. When he was done, his workbench was clean and uncluttered, and on the wall was a pegboard with all his tools hung neatly from it. Each tool had its place, and to be sure that each tool would be replaced in the correct spot after their use, Dad had drawn the outline of that tool with one of my crayons. That lasted about a week. One child needed the hammer, probably to crack walnuts, another borrowed the big wrench to hammer on things because the hammer was being used elsewhere, and another took the hand drill to drill holes in things just because it was fun to drill holes. Nothing was put back where it was supposed to go. Within a short time tools were scattered across the workbench and on the wall was the pegboard holding only those tools which were too high up for little hands to reach.

Some years ago I bought a nice metal tool cart. The kind with all the drawers that rolls around on wheels. I stored that tool cart in the hallway closet, and in that tool cart I carefully arranged all my tools so that I would know where to find each one quickly. It actually stayed in good order for a while, but one day I came home to find Mark busily trying to assemble some piece of crap that he had bought. Over in the hallway was my tool cart, drawers open, looking like a burglar had rifled through them. Just as human kind was defined by  the discovery and use of tools, Mark had evolved into a do it yourself tool user. Mark had found my tools. Since then I have walked into the hallway dozens of times to find those drawers open. And over the last few years my carefully arranged tool cart has turned into a free for all. Paint brushes cohabiting with screwdrivers, hammers and electrical parts shoved in together. Worst of all, millions of loose screws, nails, and washers covered the bottom of each drawer. So this past Saturday I spent the whole day cleaning out my tool cart, arranging all the tools neatly and carefully in the drawers, and labeling each drawer so that Mark would know where to replace whatever he had taken out of there. I'm gonna give it about a month, just about a month before I open that hall closet door to find the caulking gun fraternizing with rolls of masking tape in the wrong drawer with the screwdrivers.

The Puffy Floor Episode

Is there some law of nature that I'm not aware of? Could it be that for every moment that you think everything is just peachy keen, you must live another moment of frustration and exasperation?

Yesterday morning broke clear and beautiful, a cloudless blue sky with a bright and cheerful sun poking up over the horizon. Around seven in the morning when I get up to walk the dogs, the sun is streaming through the bathroom window and down the hallway floor into the living room. But yesterday morning I noticed something different. Something was wrong with the floor, the new laminate floor that I put down just last year. The laminate floor that I bought to replace the laminate floor that was ruined by a leaky water line. The new floor was puffing up at the seams exactly like the previous one had. The search was on, where was the damn water coming from this time? After a bit of searching I found that the central air conditioning evaporator coil was clogged, and water was dripping steadily onto the floor. So this means I have to spend money to clear out the evaporator coil, and I have to spend money to replace the flooring that was ruined. I'm considering doing one of those Kickstarter things to pay for it. That's where you beg for money from the public to fund your whacked out project. I'll have to come up with a catchy name and premise though. Maybe, "The Puffy Floor Project". I'll call it an art project where I create floors that look like a ship's deck, just like pirates used to walk on.

Hate

Christmas 2012

Christmas back in the 1950's was a magical and special time for me. I was a little kid with no worries other than the possibility that my bladder wouldn't hold out through the night. I loved the colors, lights, and smell of Christmas. Sure, once in a while dad would explode into one of his profanity laden tirades in the days leading up to the big day, but now as an adult I fully understand why that happened. Yes, Christmas was special back then. My mom would bake cookies, and cakes. She would supervise the decorating of the house, do the gift shopping, gift wrapping, cook a huge Christmas dinner, and then clean it all up. I loved Christmas back then.

Two weeks ago this is what I heard from Mark, "I have a Christmas list with all the stuff I want on it."

"So where is it? Let me see it."

"I put it on Amazon."

"You mean a wish list, an Amazon wish list?"

"Yes."

So I went on Amazon and ordered the top four things Mark had on there. Today a large package arrived. As I carried the big box through the house Mark asked about it. I informed him that it was his Christmas crap. Minutes later this is what I heard from the bedroom.

"No, no, no. Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Buy those things off of my wish list? That waffle iron was supposed to be for you."

"Well then why the hell was that waffle iron on your goddamned wish list? A wish list is shit you wish for, not for shit that you want me to have so that I'll make you waffles."

It got ugly very quickly. The conversation soon veered off into the fact that I have given Mark numerous Christmas gifts that he has never used. I informed him that I honestly have come to hate Christmas. I dread Christmas and all the  pressure to buy the right gift, and to make Christmas morning special. It never will be. Brightly wrapped boxes are torn open in minutes, with a quick "Oh, how did you know what I wanted? I love it." Just as quickly it's all over, with the afore mentioned gift immediately forgotten. Other than the cookies, cakes, liquor, and food, I can do without Christmas. I don't want any gifts, I don't want any of the pressure, I don't want to spend two days decorating the house and two days in March taking it all down. I literally hate Christmas. Sometimes though, I think I might like it again if I could somehow get the experience of my childhood back. That would be nice, except I don't think my mom would be up for it now.