No, it’s not a relief. Far from it. Painting echoes toileting inasmuch as the instant you are perched precariously on the ladder, hoping the paint doesn’t splatter on the floor below, the phone rings. Of course as soon as you have descended, put the brush down somewhere other than on top of your pashmina and trotted to the phone, they have hung up. That is if you’re lucky.
This being an election year, should you pick up, the possibility exists that a robotic voice you can totally trust, exhorts you to vote for this or that candidate, for or against a ballot measure or just reminds you that if you don’t share their opinion, you are pond scum. ……. Best to stay on the ladder.
Synchronized Swimming is good training for detail painting.
The SEIU backed “occupiers” are wanting union Longshoremen to honor a picket line, and they won’t.
The Seattle school district has lost a lot of money because of their ban of junk food in vending machines, so they’re considering overturning the ban.
Bottom line: Money is more important than principles apparently. Follow the money, always follow the money. You derive much more truth in your evaluation when you understand how the money flows and affects the decision makers.
A blonde decides one day that she is sick and tired of all these blonde jokes and how all blondes are perceived as stupid, so she decides to show her husband that blondes really are smart. While her husband is off at work, she decides that she is going to paint a couple of rooms in the house.
The next day, right after her husband leaves for work, she gets down to the task at hand. Her husband arrives home at 5:30 and smells the distinctive smell of paint. He walks into the living room and finds his wife lying on the floor in a pool of sweat. He notices that she is wearing a ski jacket and a fur coat at the same time. Continue reading “Paint”→
When you own a steam cleaner, those occasional pesky spills are no problem. Just fire up the beast and you’re good to go. There are a couple of disadvantages though.
When the carpet looks OK, but the high traffic areas need a touch up, you are a fool to take it on. Once those high traffic areas are immaculate, you’ll see just how filthy the entire carpet is and you’ll be forced to change your afternoon plans in favor of cleaning the whole darned level of the house, up to the point where you can close the bedroom doors and pretend they don’t have carpet too.
The spot cleaning, with a 1:3 ammonia/water solution leaves your house smelling like an industrial accident. The neutralizer afterward, consisting of 1:3 vinegar/water makes it smell like you live inside a giant Salade Niçoise.
I would write more, but I have a hankering for some tuna and capers.
I was sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment with a new dentist. I noticed his DDS diploma on the wall which bore his fully name. Suddenly I remembered a tall, handsome, dark-haired boy with the same name who had been in my high school class some 30-odd years ago. Could he be the same guy on whom I had a secret crush, way back then?
Upon seeing him however, I quickly discarded any such thought. This balding, gray-haired man with the deeply lined face was way too old to have been my classmate. After he examined my teeth I asked him if he had attended Morgan Park High School.
“Yes, I did. I’m a Mustang,” he gleamed with pride.
Time for the little black dress and the tuxedo. Nail appointment for her, an especially thorough shave for him. Teeth well flossed, whitened. Deodorant – check. The make up artist said there was the 10 minute look and the 45 minute look. She opts for the 58 minute look, just to make sure everything is perfect.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a trilogy comprising 5 volumes at the time of author Douglass Adam’s death has received a gift. Adam’s widow has given permission to the author of the Artemis Fowl series, Eoin Colfer to pen another installment.
Part of me is really excited, part of me says, “nooooooooooooooooo.” The jury is out. I’ll just have to read it 😀
I have a routine on Sunday. I start the coffee, send off the Nielsen Homescan Data (I am to household purchasing what the Nielsen ratings are to TV), and I sit at my computer.
To be honest, most of my life runs on routine, but Sunday mornings I look forward to because
I am up before anyone else so the house is quiet
That’s when I can read Dave Barry
I have loved Dave Barry almost since he began writing. He’s formulaic, but always funny within that formula and a great deal of my quoted material comes from his columns.
I cooled on my interest when he was between wives because I suspected from his book Dave in Cyberspace, that he found his new wife in an Internet chat area and I felt sorry for the previous wife. I also thought he wasn’t quite as funny then, but it could have been my filter.
Today, pulling up his column, I knew immediately I had to send the link to my father (remember him? — he’s outstanding in his field). An avid fisherman, like his father, I knew he would enjoy the humor.
Fly fishing is not a group or even a spectator sport; it is for the soul who relishes the thoughtfulness, skill and challenge.
In my mind’s eye, I can see my father standing in a meadow where the only indication of a stream is when you come directly upon it. It is early morning, the sun barely up and mist rising from the water. He’s wearing his hat, standing tall and straight, almost motionless, except for the occasional flick of the rod; the essence of Zen.
I wish I could post this picture, but it exists only in my mind. Dad, this story is for you.
There comes a time when a man must go into the wilderness and face on of mankind’s oldest, and most feared, enemies: trout. For me, that time came recently in Idaho, where I go every summer. Many people think that Idaho is nothing but potato farms, but nothing could be further from the truth: There are also beet farms. No, seriously, Idaho is a beautiful state that offers –to quote Emmerson- “nature out the bazooty.” This includes many rivers and streams that allegedly team with trout. I say “allegedly” because until recently I never saw an actual trout, teaming or otherwise. People were always pointing at the water and saying, “Look! Trout!” But I saw nothing. I wondered if these people were like that creepy little boy in the movie The Sixth Sense who had the supernatural ability to see trout.
On a recent Idaho trip my friend Ron Ungerman- and “Ungerman” is NOT a funny name, so lets not draw undue attention to it- persuaded me to go trout fishing. We purchased fishing licenses and hired a guide named Susanne, who is German but promised us that she would not be too strict. Susanne had me and Ron Ungerman (ha ha!) put on rubber waders, which server two important purposes: (1) they cause your legs to sweat; and (2) they make you look like Nerd Boy from the Planet Dork. Then we hiked through roughly eighty three miles of aromatic muck to a spot on the Wood River that literally throbbed with trout. I , of coarse, did not see them, but I did see a lot of blooping on the water surface, which Susanne assured us was caused by trout.
To catch trout, you have to engage in “fly casting,” a kind of fishing that is very challenging and here I am using “challenging” in the sense of “idiotic.” When I was a boy, I fished with a worm on a hook, and it always worked, and I will tell you why: Fish are not rocket scientists. They see a worm, and in their tiny brains they think, “Huh! This is something have never seen before underwater! I had better eat it!”
With “fly casting,” you wade into the river and attempt to place a “fly”-a furry little hook thingy weighing slightly less than a hydrogen atom- on top of the water right where the trout are blooping. You do this by waving you fishing rod back and for the using the following rhythm, as explained to us (I am not making this up) by our guide Susanne: “CO-ca CO-la, CO-ca CO-la.” On you third Co-la, you point your arm forward, and the “fly,” in a perfect imitation of nature, lands on you head. Or sometimes it forms itself into a snarl that cannot be untangled without the aid of a chain saw AND a flamethrower. At least that’s what kept happening to me and my friend Ron Ungerman. (Yes! “Ungerman!”) We stood there for hours, waving our rods and going “CO-ca CO-la,” but most of the time we were not getting our flies anywhere near the blooping. The trout were laughing so hard at us that they considered evolving legs so that they could crawl onto land and catch their breath.
While fly fishing in Idaho, after hours of not catching or even seeing any trout, it finally happened: I got a citation for not having my fishing license with me. Really. I left the license back in the car. The Idaho Fish and Game official who cited me was very polite, and so was I, because he was wearing a sidearm. I considered asking him if I could borrow it to shoot a trout, but there’s probably some rule against THAT, too.
As the day wore on during my fly-fishing excursion, Ron’s and my efforts took on an air of desperation, because it was becoming clear that our guide Susanne, a true professional, was NOT going to lets us leave until we caught a blooping fish. So you can imagine how blooping happy we were when Ron finally managed to haul in a trout. It was not a large trout. It was the length of a standard Cheeto. But it WAS a trout, damn it, and it meant we could stop. Later, Ron and I agreed that it had been a lot of fun and we would definitely never do it again. So, to any trout reading this I say: You are safe from us. And to the Idaho Fish and Game Department, I say: You’ll never take me alive.