“Just for your information, this is the last banana,” Dad informed me this morning while fixing his bowl of cereal. “You told me several months ago that you’d be in charge of getting your own bananas,” I shot back. “Seems like that was the last time I heard about that though.” “Well, they’ve been appearing regularly,” he said. Yeah, because I’ve been stopping at the grocery store on my way home from work to keep him supplied. There is no banana fairy any more than there’s a fairy to vacuum, cook, wash dishes, mow the grass, etc. Someone has to make sure that those things are taken care of “regularly”. It’s obviously not going to be him.
Dad eats a banana with his morning cereal every day except Sunday when we go out to breakfast. He’s picky about his bananas, like Goldilocks and the 3 bears. The bananas shouldn’t be too green or too ripe, they should be just right. It’s hard to buy a bunch of bananas that will ripen individually to suit Dad’s taste. When he complained about the number of bananas I brought home at once, I pointed out to him that I didn’t particularly care to visit the grocery store on a daily basis. I’d prefer not to have to go at all, but my ideal schedule is no more than once a week. Dream on. I haven’t been able to accomplish that since he moved in.
In order to persuade me to buy fewer bananas at one time, he said he’d take care of keeping them stocked. That lasted for about 1 week. The last time he ran out of bananas, he went out and got ham biscuits for breakfast. The smart thing to do would have been to stop by the grocery store and pick up bananas as well. That thought never occurred to him. “Be careful what you say around here, Dillon,” he griped.
While he was out and about this morning, he did stop by the grocery store and pick up bananas. The first Food Lion he went to was having trouble with their cash registers, so they couldn’t check anyone out while he was there. Heaven forbid that he should have to wait, so he went to the other Food Lion. Their bananas weren’t at exactly the right stage of ripeness, but he bought them anyway. I notice he came home with 5. According to his standards, that’s too many bananas to buy at one time. I guess he doesn’t want to have to go to the store every day either. When he complained about how much trouble he had at the grocery store, I simply told him, “Welcome to the real world”, the one without fairies.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
How can we help you, sir?
Dad stopped by Angel’s Closet yesterday. Angel’s Closet is a local outreach project sponsored by the Catholic Church. They accept donations of food, clothing, furniture, and household items. The goods are then stocked on shelves and display racks in a former auto showroom. Individuals seeking assistance can pick out what they need at no charge.
The founder of Angel’s Closet saw the need when he was working as a counselor at the local elementary school. Although the project is now run under the auspices of the Catholic Church, Gilbert is still heavily involved in the day-to-day operations. He gave Dad a guided tour. What I’m wondering is, when Dad walked in the door, did Gilbert think he was there to give or seek assistance?
Dad has the waif look down. He’s still wearing the same jeans that probably fit him 5 or 6 years ago, but are now way too big and held up by suspenders. He has some nice shirts, but again, they’re also on the large size these days and they’re usually overshadowed by the jeans and suspenders. He bought a new pair of black athletic shoes, but to my knowledge the only time they’ve been out of the box is the 5 minutes that he spent wearing them around the house to make sure they fit. He continues to wear his old pair, which are badly scuffed and beginning to fall apart. I’m sure that some of the Angel’s Closet clientele wear better fitting clothes.
Dad came away impressed with the place. He plans to take his donations there from now on. Of course, at the moment, everything he’s intent on donating seems to be mine. Fortunately, he was wise enough to ask before he started loading things up. Otherwise, he might genuinely find himself in need of assistance.
The founder of Angel’s Closet saw the need when he was working as a counselor at the local elementary school. Although the project is now run under the auspices of the Catholic Church, Gilbert is still heavily involved in the day-to-day operations. He gave Dad a guided tour. What I’m wondering is, when Dad walked in the door, did Gilbert think he was there to give or seek assistance?
Dad has the waif look down. He’s still wearing the same jeans that probably fit him 5 or 6 years ago, but are now way too big and held up by suspenders. He has some nice shirts, but again, they’re also on the large size these days and they’re usually overshadowed by the jeans and suspenders. He bought a new pair of black athletic shoes, but to my knowledge the only time they’ve been out of the box is the 5 minutes that he spent wearing them around the house to make sure they fit. He continues to wear his old pair, which are badly scuffed and beginning to fall apart. I’m sure that some of the Angel’s Closet clientele wear better fitting clothes.
Dad came away impressed with the place. He plans to take his donations there from now on. Of course, at the moment, everything he’s intent on donating seems to be mine. Fortunately, he was wise enough to ask before he started loading things up. Otherwise, he might genuinely find himself in need of assistance.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Fit for a King
If I'm not mistaken, this is a Monarch butterfly. Isn't it lovely? It flew in for a visit around lunch time today. I have a great view of the butterfly bush from my kitchen window. I've really enjoyed watching the butterflies flitting around it. It seems like there's been an increase in the number of butterfly visitors over the past couple of weeks.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
In a heartbeat
The problem with being the first morning walker on the trail is that you’re the one blazing the path. In this case, that doesn’t mean swinging a blade through vines, branches, and overgrowth. The trail bed itself is clear. Rather it means that you’re the one getting hit in the face with the spider webs that have been spun across the path overnight. If I see them in time, I duck or veer to the side or use a stick to swipe them away. I don’t always see them in time.
Like any sane human being, I dislike spiders. In the house, they’re dead meat if they’re within reach and a Kleenex is handy. Outside, I try to adopt a live and let live approach. I seem to recall that the experts claim that spiders serve a useful purpose, eating flies, mosquitoes, and such. Since I find those insects annoying, I give the spiders outside a pass if possible. You stay out of my way and I won’t smash you to a pulp.
Yesterday, Dillon and I were enjoying our morning walk when I ran into yet another spider web. As I was attempting to brush the sticky web off my face and arms, I suddenly realized that more than just the web was attached to my arm. A big black and yellow spider was perched on my shoulder. Yikes! I’m not a screamer. I’m the type that swiftly inhales a breath with such force that it makes a whistling sound. I sucked in a big breath of air and started flailing away, attempting to swipe the spider off my arm as quickly as humanly possible. In the process, I dropped the leash.
I carry a retractable leash. When I let go, the plastic handle/casing went hurtling towards Dillon. This scared the poor dog to death. In the same situation, Katie would have embraced the sudden freedom and made a run for it. Dillon started spinning in circles, finally coming to a stop, partially crouched in fear, looking back at me. By this time, my stick and hat were also on the ground. I’m sure we made quite a picture. Thankfully, there was no one else around to witness the spectacle.
The spider seemed to have disappeared, so I calmed myself and reached for the leash. Then I dusted off my hat, picked up my stick, and we continued on our way. I was thanking my lucky stars that Dillon is a pancake dog instead of a free at last type. Instead of mentally composing lost dog posters, as I would have been doing for Katie, I just had to keep an eye out for any more spider webs.
Dad got a big laugh out of our adventure. “I guess that’s the end of your walks,” he commented. Please, does he think that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me during a walk? “Why don’t you walk with your stick up?” he asked, thinking that would clear the spider webs out of my path. I always do that when walking between the cedar and pine trees behind our fence to the power line right-of-way because there’s almost always a web there. I hold the stick out in front like the actors in horror movies holding their crosses out to ward off vampires. It’s not practical, plus it would look foolish, to walk like that the entire length of the trail. Besides, look at the increased aerobic benefits I gained when my heart started beating faster in response to the spider scare. It’s good exercise.
Like any sane human being, I dislike spiders. In the house, they’re dead meat if they’re within reach and a Kleenex is handy. Outside, I try to adopt a live and let live approach. I seem to recall that the experts claim that spiders serve a useful purpose, eating flies, mosquitoes, and such. Since I find those insects annoying, I give the spiders outside a pass if possible. You stay out of my way and I won’t smash you to a pulp.
Yesterday, Dillon and I were enjoying our morning walk when I ran into yet another spider web. As I was attempting to brush the sticky web off my face and arms, I suddenly realized that more than just the web was attached to my arm. A big black and yellow spider was perched on my shoulder. Yikes! I’m not a screamer. I’m the type that swiftly inhales a breath with such force that it makes a whistling sound. I sucked in a big breath of air and started flailing away, attempting to swipe the spider off my arm as quickly as humanly possible. In the process, I dropped the leash.
I carry a retractable leash. When I let go, the plastic handle/casing went hurtling towards Dillon. This scared the poor dog to death. In the same situation, Katie would have embraced the sudden freedom and made a run for it. Dillon started spinning in circles, finally coming to a stop, partially crouched in fear, looking back at me. By this time, my stick and hat were also on the ground. I’m sure we made quite a picture. Thankfully, there was no one else around to witness the spectacle.
The spider seemed to have disappeared, so I calmed myself and reached for the leash. Then I dusted off my hat, picked up my stick, and we continued on our way. I was thanking my lucky stars that Dillon is a pancake dog instead of a free at last type. Instead of mentally composing lost dog posters, as I would have been doing for Katie, I just had to keep an eye out for any more spider webs.
Dad got a big laugh out of our adventure. “I guess that’s the end of your walks,” he commented. Please, does he think that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me during a walk? “Why don’t you walk with your stick up?” he asked, thinking that would clear the spider webs out of my path. I always do that when walking between the cedar and pine trees behind our fence to the power line right-of-way because there’s almost always a web there. I hold the stick out in front like the actors in horror movies holding their crosses out to ward off vampires. It’s not practical, plus it would look foolish, to walk like that the entire length of the trail. Besides, look at the increased aerobic benefits I gained when my heart started beating faster in response to the spider scare. It’s good exercise.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
No good deed
“Do you know what your good housekeeping dog did this morning?” Dad asked as I entered the kitchen to begin fixing lunch. “I gave him the ice cream bowl after I finished, and then I caught him sticking his nose in the couch cushions.” I wondered for a moment who had been eating on the couch and what Dillon had been in search of. “He was wiping off his snout,” Dad continued. “Well, you should have wiped it off for him after he finished the ice cream,” I said. “I did.” “You obviously didn’t do a good enough job,” I countered.
“Not only that, he likes to rub his entire body down the length of the cushions. He starts at the end and then rounds the corner and goes all the way down the front too,” Dad said. “All my dogs have done that,” I informed him. "That’s why there’s a beige streak down the side.” “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day,” Dad said smugly. “What, by telling on him?” I asked. “Yes,” Dad laughed as he left the room.
He has a very skewed idea of what constitutes a good deed. All he did was dump a perceived problem in my lap. How does that equal a good deed? By his low standards, I should qualify for sainthood. I actually attempt to solve problems as opposed to simply foisting them off on someone else. Now, where did I leave my halo?
“Not only that, he likes to rub his entire body down the length of the cushions. He starts at the end and then rounds the corner and goes all the way down the front too,” Dad said. “All my dogs have done that,” I informed him. "That’s why there’s a beige streak down the side.” “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day,” Dad said smugly. “What, by telling on him?” I asked. “Yes,” Dad laughed as he left the room.
He has a very skewed idea of what constitutes a good deed. All he did was dump a perceived problem in my lap. How does that equal a good deed? By his low standards, I should qualify for sainthood. I actually attempt to solve problems as opposed to simply foisting them off on someone else. Now, where did I leave my halo?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Springing into action
Friday night, I had just settled down in my study to watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Dillon was curled up asleep in his bed. Suddenly I heard a huge crash. The sound seemed to have come from the garage end of the house. Dillon sat up and looked startled and apprehensive, as if he’d heard a huge clap of thunder, except there was no storm. I ran for the garage, sure that I was going to find Dad lying on the floor, trapped by some large object.
When I opened the door to the garage, everything looked normal; nothing was out of place. I crossed to Dad’s room and looked inside. He was asleep in his chair. I closed the door and went back into the house, searching for the source of the crash. I went out front to see if something had crashed into the garage door or Dad’s car. Both looked fine. I checked the bedrooms. Everything was where it was supposed to be. I went down to the basement. Other than the fact that Dad had left the light on, everything was as it should be. The only place I didn’t check was the attic. Since the ceilings in every room were still intact, I didn’t see how the sound could have come from up there.
I finally gave up and sat back down to watch The Colbert Report. Dillon settled down behind my chair, still in pre-thunderstorm mode. When Dad came in to go to bed later that night, I told him what I’d heard. Naturally, he’d heard nothing and had no idea what it could have been.
Saturday afternoon, I got in my car to go run a few errands. I punched the garage door opener. The door started to go up, but stopped a foot or two off the floor. I punched the button again. The door went down. I got out of the car to see what was blocking the sensor. I didn’t see anything. Then I looked up. One of the springs was broken in two. That was the noise I heard last night. Those springs are big and thick and a tremendous amount of force is released when they break. I went inside to tell Dad I’d discovered the source of last night’s crash. I knew I wasn’t crazy, but Dad had been wondering if the noise had come from one of the neighbors.
It was nice to solve the mystery, but now I had a problem. My car was stuck in the garage. Dad offered to let me take his, but that was only a temporary solution to the problem. I got lucky and found a garage door company that answered the phone on the weekend. The man came and got the door up so I could get my car out. He’s coming back on Wednesday to replace the springs. I took the garage door opener off my car visor so I won’t punch it out of habit every time I back into the driveway. It’s enough that the springs have to be replaced, no point in burning up the lift motor too.
When I opened the door to the garage, everything looked normal; nothing was out of place. I crossed to Dad’s room and looked inside. He was asleep in his chair. I closed the door and went back into the house, searching for the source of the crash. I went out front to see if something had crashed into the garage door or Dad’s car. Both looked fine. I checked the bedrooms. Everything was where it was supposed to be. I went down to the basement. Other than the fact that Dad had left the light on, everything was as it should be. The only place I didn’t check was the attic. Since the ceilings in every room were still intact, I didn’t see how the sound could have come from up there.
I finally gave up and sat back down to watch The Colbert Report. Dillon settled down behind my chair, still in pre-thunderstorm mode. When Dad came in to go to bed later that night, I told him what I’d heard. Naturally, he’d heard nothing and had no idea what it could have been.
Saturday afternoon, I got in my car to go run a few errands. I punched the garage door opener. The door started to go up, but stopped a foot or two off the floor. I punched the button again. The door went down. I got out of the car to see what was blocking the sensor. I didn’t see anything. Then I looked up. One of the springs was broken in two. That was the noise I heard last night. Those springs are big and thick and a tremendous amount of force is released when they break. I went inside to tell Dad I’d discovered the source of last night’s crash. I knew I wasn’t crazy, but Dad had been wondering if the noise had come from one of the neighbors.
It was nice to solve the mystery, but now I had a problem. My car was stuck in the garage. Dad offered to let me take his, but that was only a temporary solution to the problem. I got lucky and found a garage door company that answered the phone on the weekend. The man came and got the door up so I could get my car out. He’s coming back on Wednesday to replace the springs. I took the garage door opener off my car visor so I won’t punch it out of habit every time I back into the driveway. It’s enough that the springs have to be replaced, no point in burning up the lift motor too.
What's next?
They say that dogs are creatures of habit. They like routine. They find security in knowing that they can expect certain things to happen at certain times each day. Dillon has our daily routine pretty much down pat and he obviously knows what’s supposed to happen on Sunday mornings as well. I feed him his breakfast and then he hangs out in the den with Dad while I take a shower and get dressed. When I come back to the den, I take him outside for one last bathroom break. At this point, Dad is supposed to get out of his chair, gather up the sections of the newspaper that he’s going to take to breakfast, and start for the car. When Dillon and I come back inside, he gets a dog biscuit and I go out the front door.
Except this morning, when we got back inside, Dad was still seated in his chair and was just beginning to take his second newspaper out of the plastic sleeve. Dillon was sitting at my feet, gazing up expectantly, and waiting for his dog biscuit. Which I couldn’t give him until I was ready to leave. I was ready, but Dad obviously was not. “You’re screwing up our routine,” I informed him. “What?” he asked. “Dillon and I are ready to go,” I said. He looked confused. “We’re taking Dillon with us?” “No, but he knows when we come back inside, we’re ready to go, so he gets a dog biscuit. His butt is on the floor and he’s waiting, but you’re not ready.”
Dillon knows he’s supposed to be seated before he gets a treat or is fed. He tries, so his butt hits the floor, but he generally pops back up as soon as the food starts being lowered to his height. This morning, he was wiggling in place, trying hard to stay put, and wondering what was holding up his dog biscuit. Frankly, so was I. Dad never touches the Herald until after breakfast. Weren’t the stories in the N&O interesting enough this morning?
Assured that Dillon was not going to Oscar’s with us, Dad finally gathered up the sports section of the N&O and headed for the door. I gave him a brief head start and then finally gave a confused Dillon his long-anticipated dog biscuit. It’s too bad I can’t train Dad like Dillon. I find comfort in knowing what to expect next myself. When someone doesn’t play their part, it’s disruptive.
When we got to breakfast, our table was set with the heavy ceramic mug I like and the plastic tea cup Dad prefers. Most of Oscar’s patrons like the ceramic mugs, so that’s the default place setting. Dad usually has to wait for the waitress to go unearth a plastic tea cup especially for him. Upon seeing the cup at his usual place, he smiled and remarked that they were expecting him. Joanne stuck her head in the door and called across the room, “Do you want your usual?” I assured her that we did.
When she brought the food to the table, I told her what Dad had said about the cup. She gave a pleased laugh. I knew she’d gone to some trouble to have it ready for him, so I wanted to be sure to acknowledge the gesture. Dad of course looked confused and after Joanne left, he wanted to know what I’d said. He just shook his head when I told him. Given that he was the recipient of the gesture, you’d think he could have acknowledged it himself.
As we got up to leave, he realized that he’d placed the check in a puddle of water where his water glass had sweated. He tried futilely to dry the check off. Then he dropped the tip in the exact same spot. I snatched it up while scolding him, “Well don’t put the tip in the water.” He just laughed. If I was Joanne, he’d be drinking cold coffee out of whatever mug happened to be on the table from now on.
Except this morning, when we got back inside, Dad was still seated in his chair and was just beginning to take his second newspaper out of the plastic sleeve. Dillon was sitting at my feet, gazing up expectantly, and waiting for his dog biscuit. Which I couldn’t give him until I was ready to leave. I was ready, but Dad obviously was not. “You’re screwing up our routine,” I informed him. “What?” he asked. “Dillon and I are ready to go,” I said. He looked confused. “We’re taking Dillon with us?” “No, but he knows when we come back inside, we’re ready to go, so he gets a dog biscuit. His butt is on the floor and he’s waiting, but you’re not ready.”
Dillon knows he’s supposed to be seated before he gets a treat or is fed. He tries, so his butt hits the floor, but he generally pops back up as soon as the food starts being lowered to his height. This morning, he was wiggling in place, trying hard to stay put, and wondering what was holding up his dog biscuit. Frankly, so was I. Dad never touches the Herald until after breakfast. Weren’t the stories in the N&O interesting enough this morning?
Assured that Dillon was not going to Oscar’s with us, Dad finally gathered up the sports section of the N&O and headed for the door. I gave him a brief head start and then finally gave a confused Dillon his long-anticipated dog biscuit. It’s too bad I can’t train Dad like Dillon. I find comfort in knowing what to expect next myself. When someone doesn’t play their part, it’s disruptive.
When we got to breakfast, our table was set with the heavy ceramic mug I like and the plastic tea cup Dad prefers. Most of Oscar’s patrons like the ceramic mugs, so that’s the default place setting. Dad usually has to wait for the waitress to go unearth a plastic tea cup especially for him. Upon seeing the cup at his usual place, he smiled and remarked that they were expecting him. Joanne stuck her head in the door and called across the room, “Do you want your usual?” I assured her that we did.
When she brought the food to the table, I told her what Dad had said about the cup. She gave a pleased laugh. I knew she’d gone to some trouble to have it ready for him, so I wanted to be sure to acknowledge the gesture. Dad of course looked confused and after Joanne left, he wanted to know what I’d said. He just shook his head when I told him. Given that he was the recipient of the gesture, you’d think he could have acknowledged it himself.
As we got up to leave, he realized that he’d placed the check in a puddle of water where his water glass had sweated. He tried futilely to dry the check off. Then he dropped the tip in the exact same spot. I snatched it up while scolding him, “Well don’t put the tip in the water.” He just laughed. If I was Joanne, he’d be drinking cold coffee out of whatever mug happened to be on the table from now on.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Guilty Pleasure
I find the TLC network reality show Say Yes to the Dress oddly fascinating. There's just something horrifyingly entertaining about watching women agonizing, fighting, crying, and insulting each other while trying to find the perfect wedding dress. I haven't yet figured out why all women, no matter their size, seem to think that their wedding dress should be skintight. I also don't understand the appeal of the strapless bodice that not only displays your cleavage, but pretty much all the rest of your breasts as well. Do they glue them in or just pray they won't fall out?
The original Say Yes show is based in New York. They've added a southern version based in Atlanta which isn't nearly as polished, but has it's moments. Last week's show featured a woman who was small-breasted, so wanted to make the most of her best feature, her booty. I've always thought it best to minimize a big ass, but she not only flaunted hers, she had a special undergarment called the booty bump designed to accentuate it even more. You can't make this stuff up.
If you want to join the fun, both shows air on Friday night. It's sort of like a comedy/horror movie double feature without the blood.
The original Say Yes show is based in New York. They've added a southern version based in Atlanta which isn't nearly as polished, but has it's moments. Last week's show featured a woman who was small-breasted, so wanted to make the most of her best feature, her booty. I've always thought it best to minimize a big ass, but she not only flaunted hers, she had a special undergarment called the booty bump designed to accentuate it even more. You can't make this stuff up.
If you want to join the fun, both shows air on Friday night. It's sort of like a comedy/horror movie double feature without the blood.
Social climbers
There was this vine growing up the chair on my porch. I found it amusing to see how much more of the chair it had wrapped its tendrils around each day. It started from the heart-shaped leaves at the center top of the first picture.
From there it climbed up the trellis screening the base of the porch to the metal chair shown here. I had the camera out, so Dillon was convinced it was doggie portrait time. He's such a ham.
This morning when I checked the vine's progress, I was expecting it to eventually engulf the chair and head for my rocker, it looked rather sickly. A closer look revealed about 50 small worms/caterpillars apparently feasting away. They'd already eaten through the vine and were hard at work devouring the remains. So much for my fantasy of a vine covered chair. I hope the vine wasn't just an appetizer and they don't plan on starting on my impatiens for the main course. The impatiens are volunteers. They completely surprised me by sprouting at the site of last year's plantings.
From there it climbed up the trellis screening the base of the porch to the metal chair shown here. I had the camera out, so Dillon was convinced it was doggie portrait time. He's such a ham.
This morning when I checked the vine's progress, I was expecting it to eventually engulf the chair and head for my rocker, it looked rather sickly. A closer look revealed about 50 small worms/caterpillars apparently feasting away. They'd already eaten through the vine and were hard at work devouring the remains. So much for my fantasy of a vine covered chair. I hope the vine wasn't just an appetizer and they don't plan on starting on my impatiens for the main course. The impatiens are volunteers. They completely surprised me by sprouting at the site of last year's plantings.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Breaking News
So, I’m getting ready to sit down for lunch yesterday, looking forward to enjoying my chicken and asparagus pasta, when the tv news reporter announces, “Breaking news. There’s been a fatal accident on I-95 near the Nash/Wilson County line.” My heart stops and I race to the tv to see the pictures from Sky 5, the news helicopter. Because that’s within range of the section of I-95 that Dad would be driving on. I was relieved to see that it wasn’t a Ford Taurus station wagon lying upside down on the highway.
Then the camera pans out as the reporter announces, “All traffic in the northbound lanes has been stopped. The back up goes on for miles. Northbound lanes will be closed while troopers clear the scene and investigate the accident.” They still hadn’t said exactly where the accident was. Wouldn’t you think they could give a mile marker or exit number as reference? Because now that I knew Dad wasn’t involved in the accident itself, I was picturing him stuck in traffic for hours and imagining the foul mood he’d be in when he finally got home. Assuming of course that he wasn't arrested for trying to drive down the shoulder of the highway to get to the nearest exit. Dad isn’t good at waiting.
After repeatedly checking both the tv station’s website, and the highway patrol’s website, I finally found the exact location of the accident. Fortunately, it was south of Dad’s location, so it wouldn’t affect his travel. That was a relief. He has a cell phone, but never turns it on, so there was no way to warn him of the potential traffic nightmare. So much for enjoying my morning off.
Speaking of breaking news, have you noticed how tv stations increasingly turn almost everything into breaking news? It’s no longer reserved for really momentous events of national or international importance. Now every accident, murder, car chase, or fire, essentially anything that comes over the police scanner, qualifies as breaking news. It doesn’t matter if it’s actually newsworthy or whether any facts are known, if it generates a 911 call, it’s breaking news.
They’ve also begun rerunning the same stories repeatedly over the course of several newscasts. I’ve seen a taped segment run several days in a row, each time presented as current news. I think they should be required to announce some type of disclaimer along the lines of, “And now for a repeat of a story we’ve already shown you…” I mean fair is fair. If they want to generate fake urgency by announcing the immediacy of one news item, they should provide a similar timeline for the rest, particularly the tired news story that they’re recycling for the third or fourth time.
I mainly watch the local news for the weather and the pet of the day. All of the rest is pretty much background noise. It’s our version of dinner music.
Then the camera pans out as the reporter announces, “All traffic in the northbound lanes has been stopped. The back up goes on for miles. Northbound lanes will be closed while troopers clear the scene and investigate the accident.” They still hadn’t said exactly where the accident was. Wouldn’t you think they could give a mile marker or exit number as reference? Because now that I knew Dad wasn’t involved in the accident itself, I was picturing him stuck in traffic for hours and imagining the foul mood he’d be in when he finally got home. Assuming of course that he wasn't arrested for trying to drive down the shoulder of the highway to get to the nearest exit. Dad isn’t good at waiting.
After repeatedly checking both the tv station’s website, and the highway patrol’s website, I finally found the exact location of the accident. Fortunately, it was south of Dad’s location, so it wouldn’t affect his travel. That was a relief. He has a cell phone, but never turns it on, so there was no way to warn him of the potential traffic nightmare. So much for enjoying my morning off.
Speaking of breaking news, have you noticed how tv stations increasingly turn almost everything into breaking news? It’s no longer reserved for really momentous events of national or international importance. Now every accident, murder, car chase, or fire, essentially anything that comes over the police scanner, qualifies as breaking news. It doesn’t matter if it’s actually newsworthy or whether any facts are known, if it generates a 911 call, it’s breaking news.
They’ve also begun rerunning the same stories repeatedly over the course of several newscasts. I’ve seen a taped segment run several days in a row, each time presented as current news. I think they should be required to announce some type of disclaimer along the lines of, “And now for a repeat of a story we’ve already shown you…” I mean fair is fair. If they want to generate fake urgency by announcing the immediacy of one news item, they should provide a similar timeline for the rest, particularly the tired news story that they’re recycling for the third or fourth time.
I mainly watch the local news for the weather and the pet of the day. All of the rest is pretty much background noise. It’s our version of dinner music.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Back seat driver
I was still drinking my coffee this morning when Dad announced that he was going to Rocky Mount. “I won’t be back for lunch,” he concluded. Hooray! A day off for me! I inwardly cheered. “Okay,” I replied calmly to him. Of course, I’ve reached the point where when he goes off somewhere without me, I feel like the parent of a teenager.
You know that car commercial, I think it’s Subaru, where the father is leaning in the car window telling his daughter not to get on the highway, not to talk on her cell phone while driving, call me when you get there, etc.? There’s an adorable little girl sitting in the driver’s seat saying, “Daddy, okay.” When the camera pans in again, she’s morphed into a teenager, not the toddler her father still sees in his mind’s eye. Love that commercial. The little girl just nailed the line, “Daddy, okay….”
I feel like that father when Dad goes off alone. Who knows what may happen without Mom or me in the car, telling him how to drive? He's perfectly capable, just like the teenage girl, but you still think of all the things that can happen that obviously you could prevent, were you only there to watch every move they make and offer advice, loudly and emphatically.
You know that car commercial, I think it’s Subaru, where the father is leaning in the car window telling his daughter not to get on the highway, not to talk on her cell phone while driving, call me when you get there, etc.? There’s an adorable little girl sitting in the driver’s seat saying, “Daddy, okay.” When the camera pans in again, she’s morphed into a teenager, not the toddler her father still sees in his mind’s eye. Love that commercial. The little girl just nailed the line, “Daddy, okay….”
I feel like that father when Dad goes off alone. Who knows what may happen without Mom or me in the car, telling him how to drive? He's perfectly capable, just like the teenage girl, but you still think of all the things that can happen that obviously you could prevent, were you only there to watch every move they make and offer advice, loudly and emphatically.
Bringing home the bacon
Katie was an excellent watchdog; she barked at everything. Dillon, much to Dad’s delight, rarely barks at anything except me. When I come home, he’s usually waiting on the other side of the door, barking at me to hurry up. He’s particularly vocal on Sunday mornings when he knows I’m bringing him bacon. Oscar’s puts 3 pieces of bacon on the plate and I always save 1 piece for Dillon. If he thought that everyone who rang the doorbell was bringing him bacon, he’d bark loudly at them too. As it is, he’s generally quiet when the doorbell rings. I have to rely on his size and color to intimidate people.
Last week, I opened the door to find a couple of Mormon missionaries standing on the front steps. Dillon had uttered a single loud bark, more than his usual greeting to strangers. I had a firm hold on his collar, more to prevent him from ambling out the door to greet the visitors than to restrain any aggression on his part. The simple act of holding back an eager dog can make visitors just as wary as holding back an aggressive one. It’s all in the presentation. The missionaries kept a cautious eye on Dillon and never moved closer to the door. I informed them firmly that I was a Methodist and had no desire to change affiliation. I saw no point in recounting my attendance record or the fact that I could more properly be classified as a lapsed Methodist. They weren’t inclined to linger.
Last night, or more accurately this morning, since it was 3:30 a.m., Dillon sprang up off the floor barking like one of the hounds of hell. I don’t know what got him started, but he kept it up for about 5 minutes. Naturally, Dad never heard a sound, but when I was telling him about it this morning, he asked if I found out what set Dillon off. I didn’t even try to determine the source of his agitation. After my heart started beating normally again, I just turned over and tried to go back to sleep. I figured if we did have an intruder that Dillon had a better chance of running them off from the other side of a closed door. He sounded ferocious. If he actually encountered an intruder, he was more likely to lay down in submission and possibly roll over for a belly rub. Everything still looked in order this morning, so I guess my strategy was a success.
Last week, I opened the door to find a couple of Mormon missionaries standing on the front steps. Dillon had uttered a single loud bark, more than his usual greeting to strangers. I had a firm hold on his collar, more to prevent him from ambling out the door to greet the visitors than to restrain any aggression on his part. The simple act of holding back an eager dog can make visitors just as wary as holding back an aggressive one. It’s all in the presentation. The missionaries kept a cautious eye on Dillon and never moved closer to the door. I informed them firmly that I was a Methodist and had no desire to change affiliation. I saw no point in recounting my attendance record or the fact that I could more properly be classified as a lapsed Methodist. They weren’t inclined to linger.
Last night, or more accurately this morning, since it was 3:30 a.m., Dillon sprang up off the floor barking like one of the hounds of hell. I don’t know what got him started, but he kept it up for about 5 minutes. Naturally, Dad never heard a sound, but when I was telling him about it this morning, he asked if I found out what set Dillon off. I didn’t even try to determine the source of his agitation. After my heart started beating normally again, I just turned over and tried to go back to sleep. I figured if we did have an intruder that Dillon had a better chance of running them off from the other side of a closed door. He sounded ferocious. If he actually encountered an intruder, he was more likely to lay down in submission and possibly roll over for a belly rub. Everything still looked in order this morning, so I guess my strategy was a success.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Read all about it
Dad spends a good part of his days reading. He keeps the library busy with his lists of requested books. It seems like they call the house at least once a week to announce that they're holding one or more books for him. Last Friday he came home with a puzzled look on his face and held out two books for my inspection. "I didn't request these books," he said. "Did you ask for them?" "Nope, wasn't me," I replied. "Well then why did they give them to me?" he asked. "Maybe they're trying to broaden your horizons," I said.
He just kept shaking his head, convinced that the librarian had made a mistake and given him someone else's books. He seemed personally insulted, as if they'd forced him to bring them home. He was so appalled at the writing of one of the authors that he couldn't believe the man was even published once, much less multiple times.
Yesterday I stopped by the library on my way to work to return a DVD. I picked up a book while I was there. The librarian who was checking me out wanted to know if my father had picked up his books. I told her he'd been by Friday and picked up some. She glanced under the counter and said he must have gotten them then. "I stuck in a couple of extra books. I thought he might like them," she said.
So that's where they came from! I told her he'd come home asking why the library had given him two books he hadn't requested. "They seemed like authors he might like, and if he didn't, no harm done," she replied. "Well, you succeeded in confusing him," I informed her, laughing. "I'm good at that," she laughed in return.
I told Dad the story when I got home last night. He just kept shaking his head. "You have to watch out for helpful people," he mourned. "I think it's nice that they're looking out for you." "Did you tell her what I thought of the books?" "Nope. I leave that to you." You never know what might happen to your reading list if you insult the librarian.
He just kept shaking his head, convinced that the librarian had made a mistake and given him someone else's books. He seemed personally insulted, as if they'd forced him to bring them home. He was so appalled at the writing of one of the authors that he couldn't believe the man was even published once, much less multiple times.
Yesterday I stopped by the library on my way to work to return a DVD. I picked up a book while I was there. The librarian who was checking me out wanted to know if my father had picked up his books. I told her he'd been by Friday and picked up some. She glanced under the counter and said he must have gotten them then. "I stuck in a couple of extra books. I thought he might like them," she said.
So that's where they came from! I told her he'd come home asking why the library had given him two books he hadn't requested. "They seemed like authors he might like, and if he didn't, no harm done," she replied. "Well, you succeeded in confusing him," I informed her, laughing. "I'm good at that," she laughed in return.
I told Dad the story when I got home last night. He just kept shaking his head. "You have to watch out for helpful people," he mourned. "I think it's nice that they're looking out for you." "Did you tell her what I thought of the books?" "Nope. I leave that to you." You never know what might happen to your reading list if you insult the librarian.
Monday, August 16, 2010
What linen and okra have in common
If you bring either into my house, you should be prepared to deal with them yourself. I have nothing against linen or okra. In fact, I'm a big fan of both. I love the comfort of linen on a hot summer day and the taste of a serving of hot, crisp fried okra. The problem is that both things are labor intensive. I have no interest in preparing either to suit someone else's schedule or taste.
When Dad used to put a shirt in the laundry hamper that Mom didn't like to iron, he generally didn't see it in his closet again for weeks. Most of his shirts come out of the dryer ready to wear. His linen shirts, he has two, come out of the dryer looking like they've never seen an iron. So far, he's been lucky and I've been in a generous mood when they came through the laundry, so I've ironed them and given them back within a few days. He'd better not push his luck though or it may be next summer before it suits me to iron them again.
I feel the same way about okra that Mom felt about linen shirts. You can bring it home, but you can't make me cook it until I'm good and ready. Dad's been bringing it home from the farmer's market every Saturday. You'd think he'd have noticed at some point that it's not appearing on the table on a weekly basis. In fact, I've been throwing away a good bit of it. He wouldn't notice that though because he never empties the kitchen trash can no matter how full it gets. Just another chore that apparently falls within the category of woman's work.
I like fried okra, but unlike most other vegetables, it's fairly labor intensive. You can't just stick it in a pot of water and walk away. You have to heat oil in a frying pan and then stand over it, getting popped on, while the okra browns. It can't be done in advance and you can't freeze it or serve leftovers. It's one and done.
This past week when Dad asked if there was anything I didn't want from the farmer's market, I told him there was no need to bring home any more okra. Then when I fried some of last week's batch on Saturday, and had to wait for it to brown after everything else was on the table, I informed him that was why I disliked okra, because it was a pain in the ass. He didn't say a word, but he did have seconds. I guess he got the message that he might not be seeing it again this summer.
When Dad used to put a shirt in the laundry hamper that Mom didn't like to iron, he generally didn't see it in his closet again for weeks. Most of his shirts come out of the dryer ready to wear. His linen shirts, he has two, come out of the dryer looking like they've never seen an iron. So far, he's been lucky and I've been in a generous mood when they came through the laundry, so I've ironed them and given them back within a few days. He'd better not push his luck though or it may be next summer before it suits me to iron them again.
I feel the same way about okra that Mom felt about linen shirts. You can bring it home, but you can't make me cook it until I'm good and ready. Dad's been bringing it home from the farmer's market every Saturday. You'd think he'd have noticed at some point that it's not appearing on the table on a weekly basis. In fact, I've been throwing away a good bit of it. He wouldn't notice that though because he never empties the kitchen trash can no matter how full it gets. Just another chore that apparently falls within the category of woman's work.
I like fried okra, but unlike most other vegetables, it's fairly labor intensive. You can't just stick it in a pot of water and walk away. You have to heat oil in a frying pan and then stand over it, getting popped on, while the okra browns. It can't be done in advance and you can't freeze it or serve leftovers. It's one and done.
This past week when Dad asked if there was anything I didn't want from the farmer's market, I told him there was no need to bring home any more okra. Then when I fried some of last week's batch on Saturday, and had to wait for it to brown after everything else was on the table, I informed him that was why I disliked okra, because it was a pain in the ass. He didn't say a word, but he did have seconds. I guess he got the message that he might not be seeing it again this summer.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
9-5
I'm starting slow today, but aiming for a big finish. It's just wrong that mornings, when it's cooler, the grass is still too wet to mow. I'd like to get that chore out of the way early in the day as opposed to having it hanging over my head all day long. At least this weekend I only have to mow the lawn, not the South 40.
Yesterday I think Dad learned why my working part-time is better for him. When I took the job, he wasn't exactly enthusiastic. Apparently, he considers anything less than full employment to be unsatisfactory. I don't think he realized how dramatically his daily life would change if I was working 9-5. We had 2 people out for vacation yesterday, actually 3 if you count one of the attorneys as well, so I filled in to try and help the day go a bit more smoothly for those left behind.
The last thing Dad asked as I headed out the door yesterday morning was whether he'd need to feed Dillon. I don't know how often he thinks Dillon eats or how long he was expecting me to be gone, but I'd already fed Dillon breakfast and I planned to be home in time to feed him supper. I assured him that Dillon wouldn't starve to death. He probably wishes he'd received the same assurance.
I told Dad he was on his own for lunch because I had no idea what time I'd be getting lunch. I grabbed McDonald's at around 1:45. When I got home at 5, I was still full and tired. I fed Dillon, being without opposable thumbs he receives a pass on self-service, and informed Dad that there was pimento cheese in the fridge and he could make his own sandwich whenever he was ready. He gave me an incredulous look, but my answering glare and swift departure from the room apparently convinced him that I was serious. I heard the sound of the ice dispenser about an hour later, so I guess he found something to eat.
He'd been sitting in his chair reading when I left that morning and was doing the same when I arrived home that evening. The only noticeable difference was more dirty dishes sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be washed. If there was true justice in the world, he'd have been fixing my supper, not waiting to see what I was going to serve him. Of course that thought would never cross his mind. If I had a few minutes alone with my grandmother, we'd have a talk about how she raised her sons.
Most household chores are gender neutral. Cooking and cleaning aren't tied to genetics and the fact that I'm female doesn't make me any more capable than him. Well, actually that's not true. Obviously I'm a lot more capable, but if he'd apply himself, I'm sure he could manage. Getting out of the chair would be a good start.
Yesterday I think Dad learned why my working part-time is better for him. When I took the job, he wasn't exactly enthusiastic. Apparently, he considers anything less than full employment to be unsatisfactory. I don't think he realized how dramatically his daily life would change if I was working 9-5. We had 2 people out for vacation yesterday, actually 3 if you count one of the attorneys as well, so I filled in to try and help the day go a bit more smoothly for those left behind.
The last thing Dad asked as I headed out the door yesterday morning was whether he'd need to feed Dillon. I don't know how often he thinks Dillon eats or how long he was expecting me to be gone, but I'd already fed Dillon breakfast and I planned to be home in time to feed him supper. I assured him that Dillon wouldn't starve to death. He probably wishes he'd received the same assurance.
I told Dad he was on his own for lunch because I had no idea what time I'd be getting lunch. I grabbed McDonald's at around 1:45. When I got home at 5, I was still full and tired. I fed Dillon, being without opposable thumbs he receives a pass on self-service, and informed Dad that there was pimento cheese in the fridge and he could make his own sandwich whenever he was ready. He gave me an incredulous look, but my answering glare and swift departure from the room apparently convinced him that I was serious. I heard the sound of the ice dispenser about an hour later, so I guess he found something to eat.
He'd been sitting in his chair reading when I left that morning and was doing the same when I arrived home that evening. The only noticeable difference was more dirty dishes sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be washed. If there was true justice in the world, he'd have been fixing my supper, not waiting to see what I was going to serve him. Of course that thought would never cross his mind. If I had a few minutes alone with my grandmother, we'd have a talk about how she raised her sons.
Most household chores are gender neutral. Cooking and cleaning aren't tied to genetics and the fact that I'm female doesn't make me any more capable than him. Well, actually that's not true. Obviously I'm a lot more capable, but if he'd apply himself, I'm sure he could manage. Getting out of the chair would be a good start.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Undocumented labor
I haven't mowed the grass on the power line right-of-way for several years now. My neighbor, John, loves to mess around back there on his tractor and riding lawnmower, so he's kept it mowed. Which is terrific because although the top of the hill isn't bad to mow, going down the slope to the dam is tough. It's rough and uneven, the slope is steep enough to be a real challenge to push a mower up, and there are large rocks in a couple of sections. I was happy to let someone else keep my path mowed.
Unfortunately, John went on an extended vacation this summer. Had he left a few weeks earlier, before we got a couple of inches of rain, it wouldn't have been a problem. The grass wasn't growing then. That little bit of rain acted like Miracle Grow and suddenly the grass shot up. I knew if I didn't mow it soon, it was going to be really tough to do and I'd be wading through grass up to my knees. The perfect environment for ticks and snakes. Mowing seemed the lesser of 2 evils.
Dad bought a yard machine mower from Sears a couple of years ago especially to mow the right-of-way. It's got bicycle wheels on the rear and instead of a blade, it has cord, like a weed-eater on wheels. It'll go through grass up to your knees and it doesn't matter if you mow over a rock. Unlike my regular mower, it's not self-propelled and it's heavy, so using it really gives you a workout. Which is why I normally don't use it. I prefer to work out in the comfort of my study with the A/C going, not in the blazing sun sweating buckets.
Sunday morning I decided to bite the bullet and mow the right-of-way. We're looking at temperatures in the high 90's for the rest of the week so if I didn't do it then, it wouldn't get done. I got the machine out of the shed and filled the gas tank. Dad instructed me to check the oil. I couldn't get the oil cap off. He said it shouldn't be that hard. I stood back to let him demonstrate and was secretly pleased to see that he practically couldn't get it off either.
That done, he started telling me how to operate the machine. It has a throttle, an engine speed control knob, and a handle that has to be pulled back to keep it going. He showed me the instruction manual which listed 3 steps. None of the steps were related to actually starting the mower. Dad's instructions were contradictory. First he told me to pull the handle back, then he said I didn't have to do that. Well, which was it? I didn't want to do the wrong thing and have to pull the cord extra times to get the engine started. That'll wear you out before you even start mowing.
I planned to take the mower out to where I wanted to mow before I started it. Dad said I should start it in the yard because I'd be mad if I got all the way out there and it didn't start. I was going to be mad if it didn't start no matter where it happened. I was also going to cuss which is better done out of his earshot. To satisfy him, I started the mower inside the fence with him standing to the side watching every move I made.
My lawnmower starts on the first pull. This mower took at least 8 pulls before it even sputtered. It took 4 or 5 more after that before it kept running. By that point, I'd abandoned caution and uttered my favorite string of curses. I didn't care if they blistered Dad's ears. Fortunately, he'd turned his hearing aids down in preparation for the roar of the mower.
Then I headed for the right-of-way. Once there, I pushed the engine speed knob forward to engage the cutting head. The head started spinning, the string started cutting, and grass started falling. That was all good. Except that when I wanted to move forward, I could only push the mower with one arm because I had to keep the engine speed knob depressed with the other hand to keep the head spinning. That made propelling the mower rather difficult. It seemed like a huge design flaw. Who mows with one arm? I persevered and mowed the top of the hill, all the way down to the dam and back up again. Frankly, I surprised myself when I managed to get the mower back up the hill.
Then I moved on to the grass behind our fence. I hadn't planned to mow that since I don't walk there, but the unkempt look bothered Dad. I was already hot and sweaty, but I hadn't collapsed yet. I knew if I ever stopped, that would be it. I didn't plan on cranking that contraption up again anytime soon. Just as I started that section, I notice someone moving in John's garden. My jaw dropped when I realized it was John.
If I'd known he was back, I wouldn't have half killed myself to mow. I'd have simply waited for him to take care of it. I hope he doesn't get any ideas that I plan to share in the upkeep from now on because I definitely do not. He does all his mowing while sitting down and depressing a gas pedal with his foot. That's like comparing driving a car to pedaling a bike with no gears uphill. While I was pleased to discover that I could still do it, my workouts have obviously paid off, I have no desire to make it a regular part of my routine. No point in pushing my luck.
Once finished, I put the machine away, went inside and got a glass a water, and collapsed on the floor mat in front of the back door. My shirt and shorts were soaked with sweat and that was the only place I could figure out to sit where I wouldn't stain anything. I was sitting there when Dad wandered in from the garage. Once I'd started the mower, he'd apparently gone inside to watch one of his tv shows. What if I'd collapsed back there? I guess he'd have noticed when supper didn't appear on the table.
I told him I was done. He asked didn't I think the yard machine was a great tool. I informed him that it had a serious design flaw. It was hard to mow with only one arm. He shook his head in disbelief. According to him, the engine speed knob will stay engaged if your press it all the way forward. It would be nice if he'd pointed that little fact out before I finished the job. I swear I pushed it all the way forward and it never stayed down. He couldn't believe I'd managed to mow with only 1 arm. Pretty impressive, huh? Physically anyway, I'm not sure what it says about my intelligence and mechanical ability.
Like most instruction manuals, the one that came with the mower was less than thorough. It left out lots of information on how to operate the machine. Do you suppose the technical writers in China or Korea or India or wherever they are, sit back and laugh hysterically picturing the idiot Americans trying to figure out how to operate something with the deliberately inadequate instructions included in the package? I'm convinced that they do. It's their way of getting back at us. They'd have really enjoyed watching me mow on Sunday.
Unfortunately, John went on an extended vacation this summer. Had he left a few weeks earlier, before we got a couple of inches of rain, it wouldn't have been a problem. The grass wasn't growing then. That little bit of rain acted like Miracle Grow and suddenly the grass shot up. I knew if I didn't mow it soon, it was going to be really tough to do and I'd be wading through grass up to my knees. The perfect environment for ticks and snakes. Mowing seemed the lesser of 2 evils.
Dad bought a yard machine mower from Sears a couple of years ago especially to mow the right-of-way. It's got bicycle wheels on the rear and instead of a blade, it has cord, like a weed-eater on wheels. It'll go through grass up to your knees and it doesn't matter if you mow over a rock. Unlike my regular mower, it's not self-propelled and it's heavy, so using it really gives you a workout. Which is why I normally don't use it. I prefer to work out in the comfort of my study with the A/C going, not in the blazing sun sweating buckets.
Sunday morning I decided to bite the bullet and mow the right-of-way. We're looking at temperatures in the high 90's for the rest of the week so if I didn't do it then, it wouldn't get done. I got the machine out of the shed and filled the gas tank. Dad instructed me to check the oil. I couldn't get the oil cap off. He said it shouldn't be that hard. I stood back to let him demonstrate and was secretly pleased to see that he practically couldn't get it off either.
That done, he started telling me how to operate the machine. It has a throttle, an engine speed control knob, and a handle that has to be pulled back to keep it going. He showed me the instruction manual which listed 3 steps. None of the steps were related to actually starting the mower. Dad's instructions were contradictory. First he told me to pull the handle back, then he said I didn't have to do that. Well, which was it? I didn't want to do the wrong thing and have to pull the cord extra times to get the engine started. That'll wear you out before you even start mowing.
I planned to take the mower out to where I wanted to mow before I started it. Dad said I should start it in the yard because I'd be mad if I got all the way out there and it didn't start. I was going to be mad if it didn't start no matter where it happened. I was also going to cuss which is better done out of his earshot. To satisfy him, I started the mower inside the fence with him standing to the side watching every move I made.
My lawnmower starts on the first pull. This mower took at least 8 pulls before it even sputtered. It took 4 or 5 more after that before it kept running. By that point, I'd abandoned caution and uttered my favorite string of curses. I didn't care if they blistered Dad's ears. Fortunately, he'd turned his hearing aids down in preparation for the roar of the mower.
Then I headed for the right-of-way. Once there, I pushed the engine speed knob forward to engage the cutting head. The head started spinning, the string started cutting, and grass started falling. That was all good. Except that when I wanted to move forward, I could only push the mower with one arm because I had to keep the engine speed knob depressed with the other hand to keep the head spinning. That made propelling the mower rather difficult. It seemed like a huge design flaw. Who mows with one arm? I persevered and mowed the top of the hill, all the way down to the dam and back up again. Frankly, I surprised myself when I managed to get the mower back up the hill.
Then I moved on to the grass behind our fence. I hadn't planned to mow that since I don't walk there, but the unkempt look bothered Dad. I was already hot and sweaty, but I hadn't collapsed yet. I knew if I ever stopped, that would be it. I didn't plan on cranking that contraption up again anytime soon. Just as I started that section, I notice someone moving in John's garden. My jaw dropped when I realized it was John.
If I'd known he was back, I wouldn't have half killed myself to mow. I'd have simply waited for him to take care of it. I hope he doesn't get any ideas that I plan to share in the upkeep from now on because I definitely do not. He does all his mowing while sitting down and depressing a gas pedal with his foot. That's like comparing driving a car to pedaling a bike with no gears uphill. While I was pleased to discover that I could still do it, my workouts have obviously paid off, I have no desire to make it a regular part of my routine. No point in pushing my luck.
Once finished, I put the machine away, went inside and got a glass a water, and collapsed on the floor mat in front of the back door. My shirt and shorts were soaked with sweat and that was the only place I could figure out to sit where I wouldn't stain anything. I was sitting there when Dad wandered in from the garage. Once I'd started the mower, he'd apparently gone inside to watch one of his tv shows. What if I'd collapsed back there? I guess he'd have noticed when supper didn't appear on the table.
I told him I was done. He asked didn't I think the yard machine was a great tool. I informed him that it had a serious design flaw. It was hard to mow with only one arm. He shook his head in disbelief. According to him, the engine speed knob will stay engaged if your press it all the way forward. It would be nice if he'd pointed that little fact out before I finished the job. I swear I pushed it all the way forward and it never stayed down. He couldn't believe I'd managed to mow with only 1 arm. Pretty impressive, huh? Physically anyway, I'm not sure what it says about my intelligence and mechanical ability.
Like most instruction manuals, the one that came with the mower was less than thorough. It left out lots of information on how to operate the machine. Do you suppose the technical writers in China or Korea or India or wherever they are, sit back and laugh hysterically picturing the idiot Americans trying to figure out how to operate something with the deliberately inadequate instructions included in the package? I'm convinced that they do. It's their way of getting back at us. They'd have really enjoyed watching me mow on Sunday.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Any port in a storm?
Dad greeted me this morning with, "If Dillon survived last night, he can make it through anything." Since Dillon was happily following me down the hall in anticipation of breakfast, he didn't appear overly traumatized. Which is remarkable because you know the storm was bad if it woke Dad.
We had a huge thunderstorm last night. There was one crack of thunder so loud that it shook the house. I began to think Dillon's fears might be justified and the world was actually coming to an end. Hiding underneath the bed was tempting, but I'd have needed Dillon to shovel it out for me first. Since he was safely hunkered down in his crate, I was left to huddle under the covers alone. I turned up the volume on my audiobook to try and drown out the noise and mask my own anxiety.
I was worried that if Dillon sensed my fear, he'd get upset, but it must have been too noisy for him to concentrate on anyone other than himself. He just lay in his crate, unmoving, until the storm was over. I'm not sure if he was resigned to his fate, reassured by the familiar confines of the crate, or catatonic. Whatever his true state of mind, he didn't try to dig his way out. I guess we've hit on the best method to see him safely through the storms.
We had a huge thunderstorm last night. There was one crack of thunder so loud that it shook the house. I began to think Dillon's fears might be justified and the world was actually coming to an end. Hiding underneath the bed was tempting, but I'd have needed Dillon to shovel it out for me first. Since he was safely hunkered down in his crate, I was left to huddle under the covers alone. I turned up the volume on my audiobook to try and drown out the noise and mask my own anxiety.
I was worried that if Dillon sensed my fear, he'd get upset, but it must have been too noisy for him to concentrate on anyone other than himself. He just lay in his crate, unmoving, until the storm was over. I'm not sure if he was resigned to his fate, reassured by the familiar confines of the crate, or catatonic. Whatever his true state of mind, he didn't try to dig his way out. I guess we've hit on the best method to see him safely through the storms.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
An evening visitor
Butterflies are self propelled flowers -- R. H. Heinlein
This butterfly spent about an hour flitting from one bloom to another on my butterfly bush yesterday. He was out there so long that I had time for 2 separate photo sessions. One before supper and one after! Dillon didn't understand my fascination, but he waited patiently, as always!
Katie was convinced that butterflies were just another flying pest. She went into attack mode when one was around.
This butterfly spent about an hour flitting from one bloom to another on my butterfly bush yesterday. He was out there so long that I had time for 2 separate photo sessions. One before supper and one after! Dillon didn't understand my fascination, but he waited patiently, as always!
Katie was convinced that butterflies were just another flying pest. She went into attack mode when one was around.
Monday, August 2, 2010
What next?
Within 10 minutes of arriving at work today, I was involved in 2 mini-crisis, only 1 of which was my fault. I shut down my computer on Friday with no problems. This afternoon when I got to my desk, instead of the normal Windows desktop screen, there was a pop-up window saying that a program was waiting for instructions from me. The option presented was whether or not I wanted the program to end. I clicked on yes because I couldn't do anything until the window went away and I didn't have any programs running. Other people in the office do sometimes use my computer, so someone else may have had a program running, but since they were no longer there, I wasn't worried about that.
After I clicked yes, the message box went away. Unfortunately, so did every icon on my desktop. It wasn't the blue screen of death, but it might as well have been. I was left with a completely blank desktop. I tried control/alt/delete and nothing happened. I tried right clicking on the desktop. Nothing happened. I was afraid to try a hard shut-down unless there was no other option. I didn't have any other options, but I thought Cindy, the office manager, might.
When I got to Cindy's office, her son was visiting. He offered to take a look at my computer, but Cindy came out to see what she could do. Cindy can usually fix anything. She opted for doing a hard shut-down and when the computer came back on, everything was where it was supposed to be. Crisis averted.
I went to make the copies that Tom wanted. The copy machine ate one of my originals. I had missed 1 staple and the auto-feeder objected. I managed to retrieve almost all of the original, but there was 1 corner, a section about 2" by 2", missing. It didn't contain any critical information, but it was just enough to jam up the auto-feeder so that the machine balked and beeped every time I tried to put another piece of paper through.
There was a tech working on the postage meter. Carol was waiting to make copies. I asked the tech if he knew anything about copiers and had any advice on how to get the piece of paper out of the machine. He used to repair copiers, so he took a look. Carol spotted the corner when he had the cover up and carefully pulled it out. Problem solved. That left me waiting for disaster number 3.
I'm still waiting. Thank heavens, that was the end of my office-related equipment malfunctions. The other Nancy asked if there was some kind of negative force field surrounding me. I suggested she keep her distance, just to be on the safe side.
In the middle of my computer crisis, there was a bright spot. While Cindy was seated at my desk, Bill came over with something he wanted us both to hear. He'd gone in Cindy's office and asked her son where she was. Her son responded, "She's helping the skinny girl with the short hair." He made my day. I don't know which I liked better, being described as skinny or referred to as a girl. Both were nice to hear. Especially since I was wearing a tight pencil skirt that left nowhere to hide and I'm old enough to be his mother. I'm going to savor that comment for a long, long time.
After I clicked yes, the message box went away. Unfortunately, so did every icon on my desktop. It wasn't the blue screen of death, but it might as well have been. I was left with a completely blank desktop. I tried control/alt/delete and nothing happened. I tried right clicking on the desktop. Nothing happened. I was afraid to try a hard shut-down unless there was no other option. I didn't have any other options, but I thought Cindy, the office manager, might.
When I got to Cindy's office, her son was visiting. He offered to take a look at my computer, but Cindy came out to see what she could do. Cindy can usually fix anything. She opted for doing a hard shut-down and when the computer came back on, everything was where it was supposed to be. Crisis averted.
I went to make the copies that Tom wanted. The copy machine ate one of my originals. I had missed 1 staple and the auto-feeder objected. I managed to retrieve almost all of the original, but there was 1 corner, a section about 2" by 2", missing. It didn't contain any critical information, but it was just enough to jam up the auto-feeder so that the machine balked and beeped every time I tried to put another piece of paper through.
There was a tech working on the postage meter. Carol was waiting to make copies. I asked the tech if he knew anything about copiers and had any advice on how to get the piece of paper out of the machine. He used to repair copiers, so he took a look. Carol spotted the corner when he had the cover up and carefully pulled it out. Problem solved. That left me waiting for disaster number 3.
I'm still waiting. Thank heavens, that was the end of my office-related equipment malfunctions. The other Nancy asked if there was some kind of negative force field surrounding me. I suggested she keep her distance, just to be on the safe side.
In the middle of my computer crisis, there was a bright spot. While Cindy was seated at my desk, Bill came over with something he wanted us both to hear. He'd gone in Cindy's office and asked her son where she was. Her son responded, "She's helping the skinny girl with the short hair." He made my day. I don't know which I liked better, being described as skinny or referred to as a girl. Both were nice to hear. Especially since I was wearing a tight pencil skirt that left nowhere to hide and I'm old enough to be his mother. I'm going to savor that comment for a long, long time.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
A brief reprieve
We've had a beautiful weekend. It's been cool and gray with the occasional shower of rain. Yesterday, I was driving around with the sunroof open and the A/C off. My sunroof usually stays closed during the summer months except when the car is parked. Then I leave it tilted up to vent the hot air. I see some people with convertibles driving around in the heat of the day with the top down and can't understand how they do it. I'd be roasting and sweating rivers.
Since it was cool today, there were actually other walkers on the trail. We've been walking early in the morning and don't generally encounter anyone. Today we walked around 11 a.m. and ran into a bunch of folks. I hadn't seen Martha and her goldens, Brandy and Honey, since before Katie died. Her dogs immediately realized that Dillon was new, but I had to introduce him to Martha. She was very impressed that he stayed on all 4 feet. In the past, she was the recipient of Katie's enthusiastic greetings and kisses.
Tomorrow it's back to more seasonable temperatures. We're headed for the 90's again. I was in Michael's yesterday and they already had fall/Halloween merchandise out and were discussing shelving for Christmas displays. Right now, dreaming of Christmas sounds pretty appealing. Christmas doesn't usually involve sweating and at the moment, shoveling is a very distant memory. On the other hand, I do love shorts and sandals. Why are we never satisfied with the season we're living in?
Since it was cool today, there were actually other walkers on the trail. We've been walking early in the morning and don't generally encounter anyone. Today we walked around 11 a.m. and ran into a bunch of folks. I hadn't seen Martha and her goldens, Brandy and Honey, since before Katie died. Her dogs immediately realized that Dillon was new, but I had to introduce him to Martha. She was very impressed that he stayed on all 4 feet. In the past, she was the recipient of Katie's enthusiastic greetings and kisses.
Tomorrow it's back to more seasonable temperatures. We're headed for the 90's again. I was in Michael's yesterday and they already had fall/Halloween merchandise out and were discussing shelving for Christmas displays. Right now, dreaming of Christmas sounds pretty appealing. Christmas doesn't usually involve sweating and at the moment, shoveling is a very distant memory. On the other hand, I do love shorts and sandals. Why are we never satisfied with the season we're living in?
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