-2/23/04
Saw the doctor today. She renewed my prescriptions and encouraged my tinkering with how they’re taken. She’s a dear, very concerned with how I’m doing, and she believes that no one can determine what works best for me like I can.
Contrast that with the neurologist I’ve seen before who wanted to change what I was taking and was sure the pills had to be taken at the exactly prescribed intervals. It didn’t work and for a shy guy who doesn’t want to displease anyone I abandoned his plan with an amazing lack of guilt.
What the good doctor did find was that my blood pressure was somewhat high, higher than the readings I get at home. The Super Nurse tells me its normal to get a higher reading in a doctor’s office. Regardless, since she’s gotten a high reading before she’s putting me on a blood pressure medicine.
The Good Doctor informed me that blood pressure medicine can sometimes cause problems with, ahem, The Equipment. I turned to the wife and said…I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I turned to the Holy Wife and said “Maybe it would be an answer to prayer?” Do you take me for a fool? She’s still the woman who makes me happy. I just said I’d let her be the judge of equipment failure. Smiles. If such a problem occurs the Good Doctor is to be informed and she’ll prescribe something different.
She also ordered a battery of blood tests to check Tegretol and cholesterol levels. The fun just never ends. The Good Doctor is going to see if a Gamma Knife procedure is possible for my type of pain/tumor. The insurance company would probably send me hate mail if it was willing to waste another stamp on me.
My current bright idea is that to get away from the drugs I have to get this couch potato body back into something resembling decent shape. Prior efforts have failed and I’m blaming that on a lack of structure. So I’m thinking something like aerobic activity on odd days, weightlifting on even, and Sundays off. If anybody cares to comment on the wisdom of that I’d be glad to hear it.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Friday, February 20, 2004
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
2/20/04
When I got home Train Boy and I warmed our toes in front of the living room TV. He turned it to Cartoon Network, and knowing what was coming on, asked me if I liked Hotwheels. "Hotwheels are fast, they drive like Mom does." In no time at all we saw Hotwheels being driven at 300 mph, wheelies, jumps, spins- the laws of physics and common sense were suspended. He equates that with his Mom's driving. So it isn't just me.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
2/20/04
When I got home Train Boy and I warmed our toes in front of the living room TV. He turned it to Cartoon Network, and knowing what was coming on, asked me if I liked Hotwheels. "Hotwheels are fast, they drive like Mom does." In no time at all we saw Hotwheels being driven at 300 mph, wheelies, jumps, spins- the laws of physics and common sense were suspended. He equates that with his Mom's driving. So it isn't just me.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Lunch, Spit, and Butts
Okay, why wait. Here's one that's a little more fun. It's recounting lunch with the wife and kids recently.
We gave the kids a choice of where to eat lunch after church. As they've done so often lately they chose Hy-Vee. They have their reasons. Ms. Pikachu loves crab Rangoon and claims all of them for herself. Holy Wife and Train Boy don't want theirs anyway so it's an arrangement that really works.
Trainboy just wants something served with noodles. He thinks nothing is better than slurping up noodles. Superwife just likes Chinese anything so it works for her.
While everybody else got his or her food in the Chinese Express area, I got my conventional food in the conventional area. The woman behind the counter laughed and said she didn't even need the kids to tell her what I was getting anymore, she already knew. All right, I'm in a rut, but it's only because I like the rut- meatloaf, green beans, au gratin potatoes, and pea salad. Sorry, I just do.
While eating, Miss Pikachu made a great display of smelling her food. She declared, It smells like spit! Dear God. The Super Mom protested, Spit does not smell. With great enthusiasm, way too much for the subject matter, Ms. Pikachu explained, "Sure it does. Haven't you ever bit something, or licked something, and gone back to it later and noticed it smells?" I wasn't going to argue because I agreed with her. Not that I was going to admit it, because I know who can make me happy whether she can smell spit or not.
It wasn't long before the conversation got positively surreal. The SuperWife casually observed, "The butt holds both ends of a chicken together." What? I tried to understand it- this undecipherable wisdom. No fortune cookie had been opened, so it wasn't some bizarre Chinaman's idea of profound. But it couldn't have anything to do with the chicken almond they were eating could it? I couldn't see how. She was raised on a farm and helped raise and kill chickens, but good Lord how does anything like that apply? The kids looked like she'd just uttered words handed down from Mt. Sinai. The suspense was killing me; I had to know.
"Would you mind telling me what you mean by, "The butt holds two ends of a chicken together?"" She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. All three of them started to laugh. I was obviously not in on the joke. When the laughter finally died down she explained, "What I said was, "A "but" holds two ends of a sentence together."" Oh. Having bad hearing can get you a laugh now and then. The kids are probably going to think I'm weird though.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Okay, why wait. Here's one that's a little more fun. It's recounting lunch with the wife and kids recently.
We gave the kids a choice of where to eat lunch after church. As they've done so often lately they chose Hy-Vee. They have their reasons. Ms. Pikachu loves crab Rangoon and claims all of them for herself. Holy Wife and Train Boy don't want theirs anyway so it's an arrangement that really works.
Trainboy just wants something served with noodles. He thinks nothing is better than slurping up noodles. Superwife just likes Chinese anything so it works for her.
While everybody else got his or her food in the Chinese Express area, I got my conventional food in the conventional area. The woman behind the counter laughed and said she didn't even need the kids to tell her what I was getting anymore, she already knew. All right, I'm in a rut, but it's only because I like the rut- meatloaf, green beans, au gratin potatoes, and pea salad. Sorry, I just do.
While eating, Miss Pikachu made a great display of smelling her food. She declared, It smells like spit! Dear God. The Super Mom protested, Spit does not smell. With great enthusiasm, way too much for the subject matter, Ms. Pikachu explained, "Sure it does. Haven't you ever bit something, or licked something, and gone back to it later and noticed it smells?" I wasn't going to argue because I agreed with her. Not that I was going to admit it, because I know who can make me happy whether she can smell spit or not.
It wasn't long before the conversation got positively surreal. The SuperWife casually observed, "The butt holds both ends of a chicken together." What? I tried to understand it- this undecipherable wisdom. No fortune cookie had been opened, so it wasn't some bizarre Chinaman's idea of profound. But it couldn't have anything to do with the chicken almond they were eating could it? I couldn't see how. She was raised on a farm and helped raise and kill chickens, but good Lord how does anything like that apply? The kids looked like she'd just uttered words handed down from Mt. Sinai. The suspense was killing me; I had to know.
"Would you mind telling me what you mean by, "The butt holds two ends of a chicken together?"" She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement. All three of them started to laugh. I was obviously not in on the joke. When the laughter finally died down she explained, "What I said was, "A "but" holds two ends of a sentence together."" Oh. Having bad hearing can get you a laugh now and then. The kids are probably going to think I'm weird though.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Apparently the audiologist did not fail completely. My older sister tells me she remembers our parents getting a call from the school informing them I might have problems but they should get a second opinion. The folks were distressed. And they did nothing, or at least they chose denial or wishful thinking.
Considering the number of times I had difficulty in class, it would have been a lot better if they just told me. As it was, I continued to make mistakes that made me feel inadequate academically and socially. Apparently my teachers were not informed. I don’t remember any teacher making any adjustment to accommodate me. We were always seated alphabetically and I always wound up in the back half of the class. Oh well. It’s over and done with.
Looking back at my childhood I have always remembered things that just didn’t seem quite right and told myself, “I am not going to do that to my kids.” I have managed to hold to it pretty well, and made my own mistakes instead. I’m sure the wife and kids could tell you all about them.
And I think “Sink or swim” is a fine philosophy as long as you’re not sinking.
Enough of self-absorbed stuff. Tomorrow will be fun again- Jello, movie reviews, the kids driving me nuts, maybe all of them.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Considering the number of times I had difficulty in class, it would have been a lot better if they just told me. As it was, I continued to make mistakes that made me feel inadequate academically and socially. Apparently my teachers were not informed. I don’t remember any teacher making any adjustment to accommodate me. We were always seated alphabetically and I always wound up in the back half of the class. Oh well. It’s over and done with.
Looking back at my childhood I have always remembered things that just didn’t seem quite right and told myself, “I am not going to do that to my kids.” I have managed to hold to it pretty well, and made my own mistakes instead. I’m sure the wife and kids could tell you all about them.
And I think “Sink or swim” is a fine philosophy as long as you’re not sinking.
Enough of self-absorbed stuff. Tomorrow will be fun again- Jello, movie reviews, the kids driving me nuts, maybe all of them.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
2/18
Warning- this is not a ‘happy’ post
As I neared the end of the workday, in the quiet after the public was gone, I couldn’t help noticing ear noises. I never gave them a second thought until a claimant called up a few weeks ago and complained his brain tumor was giving him ear noises. Having to listen to them made me wonder if my tumor had actually announced itself long before it was obvious.
Think. The first really unusual one was in tenth grade English class. From out of nowhere came the sound of a clarinet and I was pretty sure it was an F-flat for some reason. I would bet it was the brain tumor’s coy announcement though.
Since then there have been several instances of hearing a tone. They were always odd, but never particularly significant. Farther back…?
The strongest hearing-related memory was early primary school. Every couple of years a guy would come around and test all the kids hearing. He was probably early thirties, very business-like with a Marine buzz-cut. Prior years testing had been okay. But this year things changed.
Okay, just extend a finger when you hear a sound. Sometimes I thought I heard a sound, but wasn’t sure because it was lost in static. Depending on how sure I was I extended a finger. Other times I’d hear a sound and it just went on and on- the finger stayed up.
The tester only got more and more exasperated. He was sure I was messing with him and wanted me to stop. He said we were going to do it again.
Swallowed hard, sat very still, closed my eyes, and alright, I’ll try to do better. I strain to hear better- nothing changes. I’m listening just as hard as I can. I’m still struggling with the tones, but I can hear him getting angrier. Do better, have to do better. Just listen, just listen. It never gets any better. He’s sure I’m playing games, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve gotten an adult angry with me and I just don’t know what to do.
He told me to sit in the corner and watch the next kid get tested. He worked his machine, the girl raised her finger to his satisfaction and she was out of there in a couple of minutes. It was amazing, it was so easy for her. Perhaps assuming I was properly instructed by example, or properly embarrassed, he had me sit down again. It was the same thing all over again.
Furious, but apparently unable to think of any other way to deal with me, he sent me back to class. Everyone in class looked at me like there must be something wrong with me to come back out of order.
Recalling this made me cry. I was back on the chair, desperately trying to hear, unable to do it. Making that guy angry again. And I wanted to hold that scared little boy and tell him even if it was never all okay it wasn’t his fault and he was still a good boy. It's hard to read and type when you're crying. It was time to go home.
And I’m crying again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Warning- this is not a ‘happy’ post
As I neared the end of the workday, in the quiet after the public was gone, I couldn’t help noticing ear noises. I never gave them a second thought until a claimant called up a few weeks ago and complained his brain tumor was giving him ear noises. Having to listen to them made me wonder if my tumor had actually announced itself long before it was obvious.
Think. The first really unusual one was in tenth grade English class. From out of nowhere came the sound of a clarinet and I was pretty sure it was an F-flat for some reason. I would bet it was the brain tumor’s coy announcement though.
Since then there have been several instances of hearing a tone. They were always odd, but never particularly significant. Farther back…?
The strongest hearing-related memory was early primary school. Every couple of years a guy would come around and test all the kids hearing. He was probably early thirties, very business-like with a Marine buzz-cut. Prior years testing had been okay. But this year things changed.
Okay, just extend a finger when you hear a sound. Sometimes I thought I heard a sound, but wasn’t sure because it was lost in static. Depending on how sure I was I extended a finger. Other times I’d hear a sound and it just went on and on- the finger stayed up.
The tester only got more and more exasperated. He was sure I was messing with him and wanted me to stop. He said we were going to do it again.
Swallowed hard, sat very still, closed my eyes, and alright, I’ll try to do better. I strain to hear better- nothing changes. I’m listening just as hard as I can. I’m still struggling with the tones, but I can hear him getting angrier. Do better, have to do better. Just listen, just listen. It never gets any better. He’s sure I’m playing games, and I don’t know what else to do. I’ve gotten an adult angry with me and I just don’t know what to do.
He told me to sit in the corner and watch the next kid get tested. He worked his machine, the girl raised her finger to his satisfaction and she was out of there in a couple of minutes. It was amazing, it was so easy for her. Perhaps assuming I was properly instructed by example, or properly embarrassed, he had me sit down again. It was the same thing all over again.
Furious, but apparently unable to think of any other way to deal with me, he sent me back to class. Everyone in class looked at me like there must be something wrong with me to come back out of order.
Recalling this made me cry. I was back on the chair, desperately trying to hear, unable to do it. Making that guy angry again. And I wanted to hold that scared little boy and tell him even if it was never all okay it wasn’t his fault and he was still a good boy. It's hard to read and type when you're crying. It was time to go home.
And I’m crying again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
2/17/04 First Post
Oddly enough, there was a reaction to the Jell-O piece. Donna, a lady who works next-door to our office came by. As she walked by where I was stationed she slapped ‘The Joy of Jell-O’ on the counter. What a surprise. She reads my stuff and still talks to me. Thank you Donna.
A quick flip through the book and I was impressed. I am ready to do Jell-O now. There are eighty-six pages to do. It looks like the only thing you can’t do with Jell-O is fry it. You can cream it, drink it, cake it, pie it, mold it, flake it. Jell-O is only limited by our imaginations. It wouldn’t be surprising if there is a bizarre sect that devotes itself to better life through Jell-O. Be one with the Jell-O. Be the Jell-O. My gut doesn’t count.
No fooling, in my possession is the Jell-O Bible as brought to us by the prophet General Foods. We are ready. Bring on the funerals. We will show everyone the Way of the True Jell-O.
2/17/04 Second Post
Well this is kind of morbid. The wife told me there’s been another death- she’s already signed us up for Jell-O. Let me be clear here- I did not pray for anyone’s death, specifically or generally. As surely as “There’s always room for Jell-O” there is also always time for it. I am not the Grim Reaper swinging a jiggler.
Come Friday though, I expect to impress the little old ladies again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Oddly enough, there was a reaction to the Jell-O piece. Donna, a lady who works next-door to our office came by. As she walked by where I was stationed she slapped ‘The Joy of Jell-O’ on the counter. What a surprise. She reads my stuff and still talks to me. Thank you Donna.
A quick flip through the book and I was impressed. I am ready to do Jell-O now. There are eighty-six pages to do. It looks like the only thing you can’t do with Jell-O is fry it. You can cream it, drink it, cake it, pie it, mold it, flake it. Jell-O is only limited by our imaginations. It wouldn’t be surprising if there is a bizarre sect that devotes itself to better life through Jell-O. Be one with the Jell-O. Be the Jell-O. My gut doesn’t count.
No fooling, in my possession is the Jell-O Bible as brought to us by the prophet General Foods. We are ready. Bring on the funerals. We will show everyone the Way of the True Jell-O.
2/17/04 Second Post
Well this is kind of morbid. The wife told me there’s been another death- she’s already signed us up for Jell-O. Let me be clear here- I did not pray for anyone’s death, specifically or generally. As surely as “There’s always room for Jell-O” there is also always time for it. I am not the Grim Reaper swinging a jiggler.
Come Friday though, I expect to impress the little old ladies again.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Monday, February 16, 2004
2/15 First Post
Somebody died. That’s not surprising- obituaries are printed every day. The difference is that somebody died who was a member of our church. The difference is because the Holy Wife is a Deaconess who is in charge of putting together any luncheons, or whatever, at the church after the funeral. The family wants a luncheon.
She called the other Deaconesses to arms, or ovens, whatever the case may be. Most quickly volunteered to bring a cake. Some volunteered to bring a Jell-O salad- but not enough. She asked one woman to bring Jell-O and was told, “I do cakes, I don’t do Jell-O.” Did Nancy Reagan have a “Just Say No To Jell-O” campaign? It was kind of silly to refuse on those grounds, but that’s okay, it’s all-volunteer, nobody is encouraged to do anything that’s illegal or offensive to their sensibilities.
So the Holy Wife looks at me and says, “I’m short one Jell-O salad. Could you make one for me tonight?” Panic. The pulse races. The adrenaline pumps. No. I have never made Jell-O in my life. No I can’t. I don’t do Jell-O I do pie. But can I refuse the Super-Wife? I cannot. Sure, no problem. I love her more than Nancy Reagan, and it won’t do the kids any good to see their Dad cower from Jell-O. It’s time to start sweating over Jell-O.
2/15 Second Post
I fell asleep again and feel pretty good after a five-hour nap. Unfortunately I had no insightful dreams about Jell-O. Too much time was spent looking through cookbooks and the Internet. Surely there must be a Jell-O recipe like I want. But I cannot find one. Then comes a realization like the brightest dawn- I can call my sister. This would be the most elementary problem for her.
She doesn’t get too artsy. She says I basically have two options. Just make the Jell-O, add the fruit cocktail, and after it jells put a layer of whipped cream over it. Or wait till it becomes thick and beat the whipped cream into it. Ever the straight shooter she basically tells me to quit screwing around and get it done. The easiest way is the first.
I decided that no matter how I did the Jell-O I'd do it wrong- that's just the way it is. So I waited till she was scheduled to be off and started boiling water. If she got home late, like usual, she'd get the Jell-O, and whipped cream in layers. If she got home on time, she'd get to make a choice. She got home on schedule.
I told her I was going to make the Jell-o, add the fruit and she could put the whipped cream on top in the morning after it had cooled. Of course, that was wrong. She wanted the whipped cream and Jell-O mixed together. I told her we'd have to wait until it had at least cooled somewhat. She knew better. That’s what she gets for reading the instructions.
After dissolving the Jell-O I added the juice from the fruit cocktail. She asked me what else I was going to use for fluid, I told her 7-Up. She said there was some chilled in the fridge, got it, and I added a cup. She knew from the instructions we could use ice cubes to speed the cooling. She got some ice cubes in the measuring cup and I topped it off with more 7-up.
It wasn't long that it started to thicken. She wanted to add the whipped cream but I protested. It seemed to me that it wasn't nearly thick enough to take a beating and stay beaten- it would just dissolve into a milky-Jell-O-fruit mass. But we were not waiting. In went the whipped cream, still frozen. It floated like an iceberg. A glimmer of hope- maybe it would help cool it more. Nah, the mass of whipped cream is marginal compared to the pot of Jell-O. I went from hopeful to doubter to Thomas-had-nothing-on-me.
I held the creamberg down and shaved off its sides till it looked like pack ice on a red sea. Then the wife went to work with the electric beater. Apparently in touch with her male side- she really likes to play with her kitchen power tools. In no time at all it was beaten into dense foam.
We poured it out into a large pan and added the fruit. It seemed to me that the fruit and remaining syrup would just settle to the bottom. The bottom fruit layer wouldn't be gelled at all. It would be a runny mess. It would not be good. No matter, it's out of my hands and into the refrigerator.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Somebody died. That’s not surprising- obituaries are printed every day. The difference is that somebody died who was a member of our church. The difference is because the Holy Wife is a Deaconess who is in charge of putting together any luncheons, or whatever, at the church after the funeral. The family wants a luncheon.
She called the other Deaconesses to arms, or ovens, whatever the case may be. Most quickly volunteered to bring a cake. Some volunteered to bring a Jell-O salad- but not enough. She asked one woman to bring Jell-O and was told, “I do cakes, I don’t do Jell-O.” Did Nancy Reagan have a “Just Say No To Jell-O” campaign? It was kind of silly to refuse on those grounds, but that’s okay, it’s all-volunteer, nobody is encouraged to do anything that’s illegal or offensive to their sensibilities.
So the Holy Wife looks at me and says, “I’m short one Jell-O salad. Could you make one for me tonight?” Panic. The pulse races. The adrenaline pumps. No. I have never made Jell-O in my life. No I can’t. I don’t do Jell-O I do pie. But can I refuse the Super-Wife? I cannot. Sure, no problem. I love her more than Nancy Reagan, and it won’t do the kids any good to see their Dad cower from Jell-O. It’s time to start sweating over Jell-O.
2/15 Second Post
I fell asleep again and feel pretty good after a five-hour nap. Unfortunately I had no insightful dreams about Jell-O. Too much time was spent looking through cookbooks and the Internet. Surely there must be a Jell-O recipe like I want. But I cannot find one. Then comes a realization like the brightest dawn- I can call my sister. This would be the most elementary problem for her.
She doesn’t get too artsy. She says I basically have two options. Just make the Jell-O, add the fruit cocktail, and after it jells put a layer of whipped cream over it. Or wait till it becomes thick and beat the whipped cream into it. Ever the straight shooter she basically tells me to quit screwing around and get it done. The easiest way is the first.
I decided that no matter how I did the Jell-O I'd do it wrong- that's just the way it is. So I waited till she was scheduled to be off and started boiling water. If she got home late, like usual, she'd get the Jell-O, and whipped cream in layers. If she got home on time, she'd get to make a choice. She got home on schedule.
I told her I was going to make the Jell-o, add the fruit and she could put the whipped cream on top in the morning after it had cooled. Of course, that was wrong. She wanted the whipped cream and Jell-O mixed together. I told her we'd have to wait until it had at least cooled somewhat. She knew better. That’s what she gets for reading the instructions.
After dissolving the Jell-O I added the juice from the fruit cocktail. She asked me what else I was going to use for fluid, I told her 7-Up. She said there was some chilled in the fridge, got it, and I added a cup. She knew from the instructions we could use ice cubes to speed the cooling. She got some ice cubes in the measuring cup and I topped it off with more 7-up.
It wasn't long that it started to thicken. She wanted to add the whipped cream but I protested. It seemed to me that it wasn't nearly thick enough to take a beating and stay beaten- it would just dissolve into a milky-Jell-O-fruit mass. But we were not waiting. In went the whipped cream, still frozen. It floated like an iceberg. A glimmer of hope- maybe it would help cool it more. Nah, the mass of whipped cream is marginal compared to the pot of Jell-O. I went from hopeful to doubter to Thomas-had-nothing-on-me.
I held the creamberg down and shaved off its sides till it looked like pack ice on a red sea. Then the wife went to work with the electric beater. Apparently in touch with her male side- she really likes to play with her kitchen power tools. In no time at all it was beaten into dense foam.
We poured it out into a large pan and added the fruit. It seemed to me that the fruit and remaining syrup would just settle to the bottom. The bottom fruit layer wouldn't be gelled at all. It would be a runny mess. It would not be good. No matter, it's out of my hands and into the refrigerator.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
2/16/04 First
This morning I took a peek. It certainly had settled somewhat. It appeared to be about as dense as a sponge. From now on whenever I see a dessert like that I will only think of it as Impatient Jell-O. But maybe some people intend it that way. Maybe some people like it that way. Maybe some people just haven't a clue.
When Holy Wife comes home in a few hours, if there's any left, we'll see how it turned out. Regardless, I think using 7-Up for the remaining fluid was a good idea. It would make it kind of 'punchy.'
2/16/04 second
Her Grace is back. She's all smiles. All the little old ladies loved it. Some of them had heard of using pop, but apparently none of them had done it. I am a wild man. I am a wild man growing popular with little old ladies. Almost none of it was left. It was the 'most gone' Jell-O dessert. Looking at the pan it was apparent that the fruit had sunk to the bottom and melted some of the foam- making a red, fruit layer that actually jelled. The top half was still the red foam. Oh, so THAT'S how they do that! I had always assumed it was some laborious layering, chilling, process. I’m going to be much harder to impress with Jell-O from now on.
We shared the last couple bites and it wasn't bad. Could have used more 7-Up though, it was not exactly what I wanted. It was the price of impatience.
Here's the dirt- this was for a funeral, 55 people attended. Our Blessed Lady of Funerals made 96 ham sandwiches. Some of the people took three at a time. Sure, some of them probably got sandwiches for others, but you do the math. From her description they ate like the Dohlmans.
I don’t expect anybody outside of immediate family to understand that reference. Let me explain. The Dohlmans were a large family of large people. There’s a reason there were no all-you-can-eat buffets in our county. They were the reason. They weren’t allowed to enter county fair pie eating contests because they were professionals. Do I exaggerate? Of course, but that’s never stopped me before.
Back to the funeral. Nobody wanted to take the last sandwich. Her Holiness said some poor guy who'd kept himself busy feeding his kids hadn't had a bite for himself. She gave him the sandwich. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if the others fought him for it.
In the end, everybody liked the Jell-O. I have lost my fear of Jell-O. The Super Wife is grateful that I made Jell-O. If you’re having a funeral or some such give me a call, I’ll bring the Jell-O.
It's hard to believe I just took a shot at a bunch of people at a funeral. No, sometimes I don't think I have any shame. At any rate, when I die you can fast or famine- I won't care. Just remember what my Dad always said, "No leftovers!"
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
This morning I took a peek. It certainly had settled somewhat. It appeared to be about as dense as a sponge. From now on whenever I see a dessert like that I will only think of it as Impatient Jell-O. But maybe some people intend it that way. Maybe some people like it that way. Maybe some people just haven't a clue.
When Holy Wife comes home in a few hours, if there's any left, we'll see how it turned out. Regardless, I think using 7-Up for the remaining fluid was a good idea. It would make it kind of 'punchy.'
2/16/04 second
Her Grace is back. She's all smiles. All the little old ladies loved it. Some of them had heard of using pop, but apparently none of them had done it. I am a wild man. I am a wild man growing popular with little old ladies. Almost none of it was left. It was the 'most gone' Jell-O dessert. Looking at the pan it was apparent that the fruit had sunk to the bottom and melted some of the foam- making a red, fruit layer that actually jelled. The top half was still the red foam. Oh, so THAT'S how they do that! I had always assumed it was some laborious layering, chilling, process. I’m going to be much harder to impress with Jell-O from now on.
We shared the last couple bites and it wasn't bad. Could have used more 7-Up though, it was not exactly what I wanted. It was the price of impatience.
Here's the dirt- this was for a funeral, 55 people attended. Our Blessed Lady of Funerals made 96 ham sandwiches. Some of the people took three at a time. Sure, some of them probably got sandwiches for others, but you do the math. From her description they ate like the Dohlmans.
I don’t expect anybody outside of immediate family to understand that reference. Let me explain. The Dohlmans were a large family of large people. There’s a reason there were no all-you-can-eat buffets in our county. They were the reason. They weren’t allowed to enter county fair pie eating contests because they were professionals. Do I exaggerate? Of course, but that’s never stopped me before.
Back to the funeral. Nobody wanted to take the last sandwich. Her Holiness said some poor guy who'd kept himself busy feeding his kids hadn't had a bite for himself. She gave him the sandwich. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if the others fought him for it.
In the end, everybody liked the Jell-O. I have lost my fear of Jell-O. The Super Wife is grateful that I made Jell-O. If you’re having a funeral or some such give me a call, I’ll bring the Jell-O.
It's hard to believe I just took a shot at a bunch of people at a funeral. No, sometimes I don't think I have any shame. At any rate, when I die you can fast or famine- I won't care. Just remember what my Dad always said, "No leftovers!"
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Okay, I’ve been a lousy blogger, again. I could bitch and moan about my health but that’s not what you’re here for. No you’re here hoping for a little humor, hoping for a little ray of sunshine in an otherwise dark day. Fair enough. Here it is, true story, swear to God. (Will that get me into Vegas?)
Last Friday a guy calls me up at the office. He tells me I need to take some information down and send it on to the people making his disability decision because this is going to speed it up. (But it won’t speed up a run-on sentence.) He tells me, hold your collective breaths, his brain tumor is making his ears ring. I wanted to laugh and say, ”Yours too? If that’s the best you’ve got let me tell you about mine. Then you can get a job.”
I didn’t say anything of the sort though. I took it down and sent it on. For all I know his is malignant and he’s watching the calendar. Mine is benign. It’s almost unbelievable that anything that causes so much pain is “benign.” The difference is that one will kill you, the other can just occasionally make you wish you were dead. Well that killed the fun right there. Sorry.
Okay, try again. Oh forget that, indulge me. Let me just get it over with. As you may have guessed, the benign tumor has been giving me fits lately. Last Saturday night it hurt me badly enough that I just sat on the bed and cried for about an hour. But it didn’t hurt me to the level I knew it could. It was kind of weird to be in that much pain, fearful of it getting worse, but still grateful it wasn’t any worse.
Ms. Pikachu was a trooper. As soon as it hit she got me my pills, opened them up, and asked how many I wanted. Then she left me alone because there was nothing else she could do except make it hurt more. She acted very well, very quickly. She has probably learned how to do that by watching her mom the Supernurse in action.
Today my knees started to hurt more than normal. A couple times my left one couldn’t bear my weight as I sat down and I just dropped the last few inches to the chair. I am not that old. I shouldn’t be acting this old. But that’s probably a pretty good sign I’m getting that old.
Earlier on that same Saturday I noticed the temperature was not rising on the car’s gauge. Stopped it, looked underneath and saw antifreeze running off the front of the engine. Gotta be the waterpump. Maybe a hose, but probably the waterpump. Put more anti-freeze in, got more anti-freeze.
We brought it to the mechanic to take a look at it. Eventually the wife got the call and it was one of those good news-bad news situations. The good news was that it wasn’t the waterpump. The bad news was that it was the headgasket. This is going to be Expensive, with a capital E and that rhymes with T and that stands for Trouble.
Our usual mechanic doesn’t do headgaskets. It turned out that the place that is going to do the body work for Ms. Nascar’s last adventure has a mechanic that does them. So we drove it over to hear what he had to say. He consulted his Mechanic’s Book of Wisdom and lowly muttered, “This will be expensive.” Well yeah, we kind of figured. Please cut to the specifics oh wizened one. “It has two heads. No use taking it apart and only doing one, then having the other soon fail, and having to take it apart again. $850”
Well alrighty then, when can we get it in? Monday? Well, alrighty then.
He called the wife later and said that upon consultation with the machine shop it would be $1200 instead. Did we say “Alrighty then” too quickly? Did we fail to grumble and grouse? Before calling my wife did he call his own and say, “JACKPOT!”
We will never know, but life is like that.
What I do know is that the CheapWife, excuse me, Frugal Wife will be calling the mechanic that our usual mechanic recommends and see if she gets the same price. Don’t look at me, I’ll be at work. I’ll be interviewing people who probably think my jaw has been wired shut and that I gimp around from some terrible injury. For any that inquire I’ll tell the husbands wide-eyed not to get their wives mad. I’ll tell the women it’s old pirate injuries, and growl “would ya like to look at me scars?”
What I also think is that the headgasket is probably failing because the engine overheated this past summer when the thermostat failed. I caught it pretty quickly, but overheated is overheated. When I changed the thermostat I paid a few bucks more for a thermostat that fails open. So when it fails, and they all do eventually, instead of the engine overheating it will just take a few more minutes to heat up. Considering the expense of a headgasket it would be money well-spent to pre-emptively put such a thermostat on your vehicle. That's my humble opinion.
I have a lot of stories to catch up on and I’ve run out of time tonight. I’ll post them to the blog in groups, leave them until I update again, and then move them to the correct day.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Last Friday a guy calls me up at the office. He tells me I need to take some information down and send it on to the people making his disability decision because this is going to speed it up. (But it won’t speed up a run-on sentence.) He tells me, hold your collective breaths, his brain tumor is making his ears ring. I wanted to laugh and say, ”Yours too? If that’s the best you’ve got let me tell you about mine. Then you can get a job.”
I didn’t say anything of the sort though. I took it down and sent it on. For all I know his is malignant and he’s watching the calendar. Mine is benign. It’s almost unbelievable that anything that causes so much pain is “benign.” The difference is that one will kill you, the other can just occasionally make you wish you were dead. Well that killed the fun right there. Sorry.
Okay, try again. Oh forget that, indulge me. Let me just get it over with. As you may have guessed, the benign tumor has been giving me fits lately. Last Saturday night it hurt me badly enough that I just sat on the bed and cried for about an hour. But it didn’t hurt me to the level I knew it could. It was kind of weird to be in that much pain, fearful of it getting worse, but still grateful it wasn’t any worse.
Ms. Pikachu was a trooper. As soon as it hit she got me my pills, opened them up, and asked how many I wanted. Then she left me alone because there was nothing else she could do except make it hurt more. She acted very well, very quickly. She has probably learned how to do that by watching her mom the Supernurse in action.
Today my knees started to hurt more than normal. A couple times my left one couldn’t bear my weight as I sat down and I just dropped the last few inches to the chair. I am not that old. I shouldn’t be acting this old. But that’s probably a pretty good sign I’m getting that old.
Earlier on that same Saturday I noticed the temperature was not rising on the car’s gauge. Stopped it, looked underneath and saw antifreeze running off the front of the engine. Gotta be the waterpump. Maybe a hose, but probably the waterpump. Put more anti-freeze in, got more anti-freeze.
We brought it to the mechanic to take a look at it. Eventually the wife got the call and it was one of those good news-bad news situations. The good news was that it wasn’t the waterpump. The bad news was that it was the headgasket. This is going to be Expensive, with a capital E and that rhymes with T and that stands for Trouble.
Our usual mechanic doesn’t do headgaskets. It turned out that the place that is going to do the body work for Ms. Nascar’s last adventure has a mechanic that does them. So we drove it over to hear what he had to say. He consulted his Mechanic’s Book of Wisdom and lowly muttered, “This will be expensive.” Well yeah, we kind of figured. Please cut to the specifics oh wizened one. “It has two heads. No use taking it apart and only doing one, then having the other soon fail, and having to take it apart again. $850”
Well alrighty then, when can we get it in? Monday? Well, alrighty then.
He called the wife later and said that upon consultation with the machine shop it would be $1200 instead. Did we say “Alrighty then” too quickly? Did we fail to grumble and grouse? Before calling my wife did he call his own and say, “JACKPOT!”
We will never know, but life is like that.
What I do know is that the CheapWife, excuse me, Frugal Wife will be calling the mechanic that our usual mechanic recommends and see if she gets the same price. Don’t look at me, I’ll be at work. I’ll be interviewing people who probably think my jaw has been wired shut and that I gimp around from some terrible injury. For any that inquire I’ll tell the husbands wide-eyed not to get their wives mad. I’ll tell the women it’s old pirate injuries, and growl “would ya like to look at me scars?”
What I also think is that the headgasket is probably failing because the engine overheated this past summer when the thermostat failed. I caught it pretty quickly, but overheated is overheated. When I changed the thermostat I paid a few bucks more for a thermostat that fails open. So when it fails, and they all do eventually, instead of the engine overheating it will just take a few more minutes to heat up. Considering the expense of a headgasket it would be money well-spent to pre-emptively put such a thermostat on your vehicle. That's my humble opinion.
I have a lot of stories to catch up on and I’ve run out of time tonight. I’ll post them to the blog in groups, leave them until I update again, and then move them to the correct day.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
01/13/04
Okay, I’m the lowest of the low.
The Holy Wife had a deaconess meeting this evening. I noticed the guinea pigs were out of timothy hay. So… I asked the kids if they’d like to grab a bite at Steak & Shake. That would be Steak & Shake- the restaurant across the parking lot from the Wal-Mart that has the Thunderbolts. The kids like Steak & Shake. They were agreeable. So off we went on a little journey to satisfy my obsession.
All the T-bolts were accounted for. They still cost $35. The only difference was that somehow they got a Cobra gunship too. Cool. But we’ll have to wait and see.
While there the kids found stuff they wanted. Everybody falls under the spell of Sam Walton. Trainboy saw a box of Transformers he wanted. He asked how much they were. “$12” was my reply. “Is that a lot?” “Well, kind of. But you have $30 in your allowance account so you can buy it if you want to. That would leave you $18.” Sold.
Ms. Pikachu found more Pokemon cards. She selected a couple decks, then, “Can I buy a big box?” “Sure, you’ve got enough money in your account.” When it was clear she’d be paying for them she settled on what she’d chosen and gave up on the box. Economics can be brutal.
By way of explanation- the kids get a weekly allowance of $1/year. Currency doesn’t actually change hands; we just keep track of their balances. It’s kind of like direct deposit into the 1st Parents Bank.
We checked out and headed across the lot to Steak & Shake. While we waited for our order Ms. Pikachu decided to work on one of the paper table mats with the supplied colors. One of the projects was to complete a picture of a person. She gave it purple Japanese anime-type eyes and an open purple mouth with green teeth. On its blouse she wrote ‘Kiss the Cook.’
Another project was to complete a story by filling in the blanks with adjectives, nouns, and verbs. In her story the customer asked for 73 bowls of fish and chips, and the cook… farted. I told her she did weird stuff. She acted like she’d just received the highest compliment.
I couldn’t eat my sandwich because the facial pain kept threatening to trigger. Ms. Pikachu went up to the counter and got a box to take it home. She’s very self-confident and that makes me happy.
Then we headed for home. It seemed the prudent thing to do since the Holy Wife would be home shortly. The Holy Wife was already home. Is this an ‘uh oh?’ No, because 1. She’s a wonderful woman, and 2. She got my sandwich.
She took the kids up to bed and I fell asleep watching… something on TV, can’t remember what it was. The smart money would be on the History channel though. Then I woke up, and figured I dash this off. It took more than a dash, but I’m off to bed.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
01/13/04
Okay, I’m the lowest of the low.
The Holy Wife had a deaconess meeting this evening. I noticed the guinea pigs were out of timothy hay. So… I asked the kids if they’d like to grab a bite at Steak & Shake. That would be Steak & Shake- the restaurant across the parking lot from the Wal-Mart that has the Thunderbolts. The kids like Steak & Shake. They were agreeable. So off we went on a little journey to satisfy my obsession.
All the T-bolts were accounted for. They still cost $35. The only difference was that somehow they got a Cobra gunship too. Cool. But we’ll have to wait and see.
While there the kids found stuff they wanted. Everybody falls under the spell of Sam Walton. Trainboy saw a box of Transformers he wanted. He asked how much they were. “$12” was my reply. “Is that a lot?” “Well, kind of. But you have $30 in your allowance account so you can buy it if you want to. That would leave you $18.” Sold.
Ms. Pikachu found more Pokemon cards. She selected a couple decks, then, “Can I buy a big box?” “Sure, you’ve got enough money in your account.” When it was clear she’d be paying for them she settled on what she’d chosen and gave up on the box. Economics can be brutal.
By way of explanation- the kids get a weekly allowance of $1/year. Currency doesn’t actually change hands; we just keep track of their balances. It’s kind of like direct deposit into the 1st Parents Bank.
We checked out and headed across the lot to Steak & Shake. While we waited for our order Ms. Pikachu decided to work on one of the paper table mats with the supplied colors. One of the projects was to complete a picture of a person. She gave it purple Japanese anime-type eyes and an open purple mouth with green teeth. On its blouse she wrote ‘Kiss the Cook.’
Another project was to complete a story by filling in the blanks with adjectives, nouns, and verbs. In her story the customer asked for 73 bowls of fish and chips, and the cook… farted. I told her she did weird stuff. She acted like she’d just received the highest compliment.
I couldn’t eat my sandwich because the facial pain kept threatening to trigger. Ms. Pikachu went up to the counter and got a box to take it home. She’s very self-confident and that makes me happy.
Then we headed for home. It seemed the prudent thing to do since the Holy Wife would be home shortly. The Holy Wife was already home. Is this an ‘uh oh?’ No, because 1. She’s a wonderful woman, and 2. She got my sandwich.
She took the kids up to bed and I fell asleep watching… something on TV, can’t remember what it was. The smart money would be on the History channel though. Then I woke up, and figured I dash this off. It took more than a dash, but I’m off to bed.
Saturday, January 10, 2004
01/10
Visited the brother’s. While I was there we hit Wal-Mart for a P-47 Thunderbolt model. They’re pre-assembled, pre-finished, in 1:18 scale, which is rather huge.
List is $50, Wally World had been selling them for $40- not bad. But in their post-Christmas get-it-out-of-here frenzy they’d marked them down to $10- unbelievable.
Older Brother picked one up. I did not. I figured when I got home I’d check both Wal-Marts here, and maybe they’d have a selection of other planes too. It turns out one of the Wal-Marts here has nine P-47’s left, but they still want $35 for one. It also turns out that the P-47 is the only model Wal-Mart carried. It’s silly that it’s a $50 model on sale for $35 and I should be happy to buy one for that, but no, I want one for $10 now. This fool may not be parted with his money soon, but neither am I likely to get a T-bolt for $10. But I’ll keep checking. Since they have nine of them I ought to be able to at least get one for a better price.
If you know anybody who likes World War Two airplanes you could consider getting them one of these. They’re big models though. So big you may have to hang one from the ceiling. Just check Wal-Mart’s toy clearance aisle- long red box, with an airplane in the window.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Visited the brother’s. While I was there we hit Wal-Mart for a P-47 Thunderbolt model. They’re pre-assembled, pre-finished, in 1:18 scale, which is rather huge.
List is $50, Wally World had been selling them for $40- not bad. But in their post-Christmas get-it-out-of-here frenzy they’d marked them down to $10- unbelievable.
Older Brother picked one up. I did not. I figured when I got home I’d check both Wal-Marts here, and maybe they’d have a selection of other planes too. It turns out one of the Wal-Marts here has nine P-47’s left, but they still want $35 for one. It also turns out that the P-47 is the only model Wal-Mart carried. It’s silly that it’s a $50 model on sale for $35 and I should be happy to buy one for that, but no, I want one for $10 now. This fool may not be parted with his money soon, but neither am I likely to get a T-bolt for $10. But I’ll keep checking. Since they have nine of them I ought to be able to at least get one for a better price.
If you know anybody who likes World War Two airplanes you could consider getting them one of these. They’re big models though. So big you may have to hang one from the ceiling. Just check Wal-Mart’s toy clearance aisle- long red box, with an airplane in the window.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Have to get up and go to church. I do not fear God’s wrath half as much as I fear the Holy Wife’s. Besides, God has never pulled the blankets off of me and said, “Come on, get dressed.” I do not feel like it is all my fault. A cold room isn’t much of a motivator for getting out of a warm bed.
You see, it bothers the Cheap Wife to hear the furnace run. It seems that every time it turns on she resets it lower. Sometimes we can’t be very far away from appearing to be the Blue Man Family. But at least we aren’t wasting gas on something as unimportant as heat. http://www.blueman.com/ Of course, I’m exaggerating, hardly the first time, won’t be the last.
Anyway, the roads were quite slick from the five inches of snow we’d gotten. The NASCAR wife drove, because she sees better than I do, and she can get us there quicker because she is the, ahem, NASCAR WIFE. She made the two rights and left necessary to get to the main road a little faster than I would have but then she is who she is.
As we approached the intersection for the main road we had a red light. I need not remind you, it was slick. I’d apply the brakes about here, but then, I’m a careful driver like my Dad. Okay, if you’re not going to apply brakes how about at least getting off the gas pedal? Really, the intersection is coming up pretty quick, you have to be at least thinking of the increased braking distance here. You have years of experience, better make the decision about now.
Foot is still on gas. No way on God’s Green Earth are you going to stop a two-ton van on a slick road this fast. Oh Sh-t this is going to be interesting. It’s a slow morning for traffic, maybe we’ll just slide through and hit the median.
Foot is on brake. Like it matters now.
I’ve got news for you- ABS means Anti-lock Braking System, it does not mean Absolute Braking System. We brake in a perfectly straight line that does not stop. Look left, maybe nobody is coming. God is laughing.
It’s an old, beater of a station wagon coming around the curve. Slower, slower, but you can’t violate the laws of physics unless God tells you to. Crunch.
You know, the best places to hit a car are on the front fender, or a door, because those are easy to replace. The rear fenders are bodywork. We hit the rear fender behind the tire and creased it all the way to the bumper.
The other driver loses control and winds up straddling the median facing back in our direction. That must have been an interesting ride.
I get out. He gets out and seems amiable enough. In fact, he seems downright happy. It would seem a reasonable guess that he was concerned about what he was going to do with his beat up car and right there we put him in a situation where an insurance company will probably cash him out. He wasn’t angry at all. He probably thought God had smiled on him. I hope he was going to church.
After a quick exchange of information we’re off again for church. Only now we have time to make up. Dear God, when will it end?
We approach another intersection. We have another red light screaming “Come on, hit me with your best shot! Bring it on!” There’s a Caddie slowly pulling into the intersection from the right. We’re too damn fast. You can’t make the corner at this speed. That Caddie is toast. It’s Sunday Twofers. Our insurance agent is going to pass a brick.
Here it comes. Here it comes. Hard on the brakes, but it’s just a little late don’t you think? The old lady with hair as blue as her Caddy seems completely oblivious to the significant emotional event bearing down on her. Already I can imagine her bawling that she’s driven 70 years without an accident and hoped to die with a perfect record but not after today. No not after today, and NOW SHE’S EVEN GOING TO MISS CHURCH.
Straight line. Like an unerring arrow. We are the Scourge of God. Kawhump! We apparently hit a dry patch and we all fly forward like one of those drunk driving commercials. Sudden, instantaneous, Absolute Braking System. Apparently God just forgot to set his alarm. The Holy Wife looks beatific.
We make church on time. We make church because we left early. So why were we driving like we were trying to qualify for Daytona? I dunno. I don’t ask. Given a choice between blissful ignorance and very unblissful knowledge I’ll take blissful ignorance. I think it’s a seldom-appreciated key to a happy marriage. Or I’m just a weenie riding shotgun.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
You see, it bothers the Cheap Wife to hear the furnace run. It seems that every time it turns on she resets it lower. Sometimes we can’t be very far away from appearing to be the Blue Man Family. But at least we aren’t wasting gas on something as unimportant as heat. http://www.blueman.com/ Of course, I’m exaggerating, hardly the first time, won’t be the last.
Anyway, the roads were quite slick from the five inches of snow we’d gotten. The NASCAR wife drove, because she sees better than I do, and she can get us there quicker because she is the, ahem, NASCAR WIFE. She made the two rights and left necessary to get to the main road a little faster than I would have but then she is who she is.
As we approached the intersection for the main road we had a red light. I need not remind you, it was slick. I’d apply the brakes about here, but then, I’m a careful driver like my Dad. Okay, if you’re not going to apply brakes how about at least getting off the gas pedal? Really, the intersection is coming up pretty quick, you have to be at least thinking of the increased braking distance here. You have years of experience, better make the decision about now.
Foot is still on gas. No way on God’s Green Earth are you going to stop a two-ton van on a slick road this fast. Oh Sh-t this is going to be interesting. It’s a slow morning for traffic, maybe we’ll just slide through and hit the median.
Foot is on brake. Like it matters now.
I’ve got news for you- ABS means Anti-lock Braking System, it does not mean Absolute Braking System. We brake in a perfectly straight line that does not stop. Look left, maybe nobody is coming. God is laughing.
It’s an old, beater of a station wagon coming around the curve. Slower, slower, but you can’t violate the laws of physics unless God tells you to. Crunch.
You know, the best places to hit a car are on the front fender, or a door, because those are easy to replace. The rear fenders are bodywork. We hit the rear fender behind the tire and creased it all the way to the bumper.
The other driver loses control and winds up straddling the median facing back in our direction. That must have been an interesting ride.
I get out. He gets out and seems amiable enough. In fact, he seems downright happy. It would seem a reasonable guess that he was concerned about what he was going to do with his beat up car and right there we put him in a situation where an insurance company will probably cash him out. He wasn’t angry at all. He probably thought God had smiled on him. I hope he was going to church.
After a quick exchange of information we’re off again for church. Only now we have time to make up. Dear God, when will it end?
We approach another intersection. We have another red light screaming “Come on, hit me with your best shot! Bring it on!” There’s a Caddie slowly pulling into the intersection from the right. We’re too damn fast. You can’t make the corner at this speed. That Caddie is toast. It’s Sunday Twofers. Our insurance agent is going to pass a brick.
Here it comes. Here it comes. Hard on the brakes, but it’s just a little late don’t you think? The old lady with hair as blue as her Caddy seems completely oblivious to the significant emotional event bearing down on her. Already I can imagine her bawling that she’s driven 70 years without an accident and hoped to die with a perfect record but not after today. No not after today, and NOW SHE’S EVEN GOING TO MISS CHURCH.
Straight line. Like an unerring arrow. We are the Scourge of God. Kawhump! We apparently hit a dry patch and we all fly forward like one of those drunk driving commercials. Sudden, instantaneous, Absolute Braking System. Apparently God just forgot to set his alarm. The Holy Wife looks beatific.
We make church on time. We make church because we left early. So why were we driving like we were trying to qualify for Daytona? I dunno. I don’t ask. Given a choice between blissful ignorance and very unblissful knowledge I’ll take blissful ignorance. I think it’s a seldom-appreciated key to a happy marriage. Or I’m just a weenie riding shotgun.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Saturday, January 03, 2004
Visited the brother. We always hit Wal-Mart. If he doesn’t need something his wife does. We bitch about how Wal-Mart kills off the local retailers, and then we go back.
Stupid is as stupid does. I’m really tired of that phrase. I was tired of it before it won its Oscars, but sometimes it just fits. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
Anyway, as we were leaving Wal-Mart it was lightly snowing. I should have known right there. Should have thrown the kids in the car and headed home. I did not. We visited till rather late. We visited till there were a couple inches of snow on the ground.
Oy. You think you have problems? Try driving cross-eyed at night on slippery roads. There’s more to it than that, but God forbid I should bore you with my problems. The first 40 miles were driven at 35-40 mph. Then we were out of the snow and oh baby let’s crank it up and make it feeeeeel right. It was a long trip, but we got home safely.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Stupid is as stupid does. I’m really tired of that phrase. I was tired of it before it won its Oscars, but sometimes it just fits. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
Anyway, as we were leaving Wal-Mart it was lightly snowing. I should have known right there. Should have thrown the kids in the car and headed home. I did not. We visited till rather late. We visited till there were a couple inches of snow on the ground.
Oy. You think you have problems? Try driving cross-eyed at night on slippery roads. There’s more to it than that, but God forbid I should bore you with my problems. The first 40 miles were driven at 35-40 mph. Then we were out of the snow and oh baby let’s crank it up and make it feeeeeel right. It was a long trip, but we got home safely.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Friday, December 26, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Christmas loot, like you wanna know: 12/25
Got an aircraft calendar, a Dilbert calendar, and go ahead- ask me what day it is, go ahead, just ask!
A beard trimmer from my older brother, and I can take a hint. Thanks for not getting me a deodorant. Then I'd have to wonder if my Irish Spring ain't workin'.
RocketBoy sweatshirts from my older sister for the kids and me since we'd been shooting model rockets this past summer. She reads me, she really reads me!
But did NOT get any from the WhackoWife, not that I'm complaining, cuz there's always New Year's Day, MLK Jr Day, Valentine's Day, President's Day... and things start looking mighty thin. There are times when having two calendars is of no help at all. And yes, I am feeling a little testy.
Got myself '1339... or So, Being an Apology for a Pedlar,' and a Stevie Ray Vaughn boxed set. I've been able to make myself happy, but not satisfied. Have to remember women don't find desperation attractive, especially my woman.
Not that I'm complainin' cuz I got a box... of CD's. I've got a real good... reading... coming... up. I've got 56rt78yui4587jhmnb v56789rrtyioughjkbnvm
ouch that hurts when I bang my head on the keyboard. I hate it when I do that, I do.
When it all comes down- I'm married to an amazing woman, and have two kids so adorable and bright I should doubt their fatherhood, except they look like their Presidential-scholar mother. I am in like Flint and I know it. But I'd still like to get in a little more, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
(Things do get a little odd when I stay up too late.)
You might call me on all this and say "Whiner, what did you get your fabulous Superwife?" Thanks a lot. You couldn't just let me luxuriate in my own pity party, you had to ruin it. Yeah, thanks a lot. Well Trainboy thought she needed a Pasta Pot. No fooling, everytime he saw it on TV he said his mom needed one. We saw them in Wal-Mart and he said his Mom needed one. I had no ideas, and I'm easily swayed. So I bought her one. Are you happy now? Yes! Yes! I bought my wife a Pasta Pot for Christmas! Are. You. Happy?
Since she often makes things with noodles she's happy with it. I carry no new wounds. Or maybe she's a pacifist. But I tried, honestly I tried. I asked her what she wanted. She said slippers. I begged, I pleaded, "Honey, baby, what do you want for Christmas?" All she'd say was "slippers." My older brother asked me what she wanted, what could I say but, "slippers?"
Thus it was I was taking gift-giving advice from my six year-old son. Fortunately, he's apparently a natural. And how did he fair himself? Pretty fairly. More than fairly. Lots of loot for Trainboy. He was happy, but he wasn't too excited either. Trainboy was concerned with more than loot.
He was apparently concerned because he'd seen most of the presents under the tree before Christmas- not Santa Claus' work. The Supermom pointed out a big box I had brought up after he'd gone to bed. He looked at it and said, "Dad bought that." It was his big Christmas train set that had come in the mail. He'd seen the box, and he remembered. He was not happy. It would be safe to say we won't be making any more gingerbread cookies for Santa. It was his Christmas of Disillusion. There probably won't be any more teeth under the pillow either.
In contrast to Trainboy's fall to Earth, Ms. Pikachu was in it for the loot and was happy for it. She got a large computer graphics tablet. It's bigger than a standard sheet of paper- bought it at Aldi's. It works just fine. Since she's very artsy it makes her happy.
Of course, it wasn't really about the loot. It was about a child born to reconcile us to God. It was the beginning of a story about sacrifice, forgiveness, and the greatest love.
Enough for now.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Christmas loot, like you wanna know: 12/25
Got an aircraft calendar, a Dilbert calendar, and go ahead- ask me what day it is, go ahead, just ask!
A beard trimmer from my older brother, and I can take a hint. Thanks for not getting me a deodorant. Then I'd have to wonder if my Irish Spring ain't workin'.
RocketBoy sweatshirts from my older sister for the kids and me since we'd been shooting model rockets this past summer. She reads me, she really reads me!
But did NOT get any from the WhackoWife, not that I'm complaining, cuz there's always New Year's Day, MLK Jr Day, Valentine's Day, President's Day... and things start looking mighty thin. There are times when having two calendars is of no help at all. And yes, I am feeling a little testy.
Got myself '1339... or So, Being an Apology for a Pedlar,' and a Stevie Ray Vaughn boxed set. I've been able to make myself happy, but not satisfied. Have to remember women don't find desperation attractive, especially my woman.
Not that I'm complainin' cuz I got a box... of CD's. I've got a real good... reading... coming... up. I've got 56rt78yui4587jhmnb v56789rrtyioughjkbnvm
ouch that hurts when I bang my head on the keyboard. I hate it when I do that, I do.
When it all comes down- I'm married to an amazing woman, and have two kids so adorable and bright I should doubt their fatherhood, except they look like their Presidential-scholar mother. I am in like Flint and I know it. But I'd still like to get in a little more, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
(Things do get a little odd when I stay up too late.)
You might call me on all this and say "Whiner, what did you get your fabulous Superwife?" Thanks a lot. You couldn't just let me luxuriate in my own pity party, you had to ruin it. Yeah, thanks a lot. Well Trainboy thought she needed a Pasta Pot. No fooling, everytime he saw it on TV he said his mom needed one. We saw them in Wal-Mart and he said his Mom needed one. I had no ideas, and I'm easily swayed. So I bought her one. Are you happy now? Yes! Yes! I bought my wife a Pasta Pot for Christmas! Are. You. Happy?
Since she often makes things with noodles she's happy with it. I carry no new wounds. Or maybe she's a pacifist. But I tried, honestly I tried. I asked her what she wanted. She said slippers. I begged, I pleaded, "Honey, baby, what do you want for Christmas?" All she'd say was "slippers." My older brother asked me what she wanted, what could I say but, "slippers?"
Thus it was I was taking gift-giving advice from my six year-old son. Fortunately, he's apparently a natural. And how did he fair himself? Pretty fairly. More than fairly. Lots of loot for Trainboy. He was happy, but he wasn't too excited either. Trainboy was concerned with more than loot.
He was apparently concerned because he'd seen most of the presents under the tree before Christmas- not Santa Claus' work. The Supermom pointed out a big box I had brought up after he'd gone to bed. He looked at it and said, "Dad bought that." It was his big Christmas train set that had come in the mail. He'd seen the box, and he remembered. He was not happy. It would be safe to say we won't be making any more gingerbread cookies for Santa. It was his Christmas of Disillusion. There probably won't be any more teeth under the pillow either.
In contrast to Trainboy's fall to Earth, Ms. Pikachu was in it for the loot and was happy for it. She got a large computer graphics tablet. It's bigger than a standard sheet of paper- bought it at Aldi's. It works just fine. Since she's very artsy it makes her happy.
Of course, it wasn't really about the loot. It was about a child born to reconcile us to God. It was the beginning of a story about sacrifice, forgiveness, and the greatest love.
Enough for now.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
This morning I was having some facial pain again. The Superwife got my Tegretol and I got medicated and left for work. When I got to work I realized my bottle of pills was still at home. What to do, what to do? When pain threatens the answer is obvious, call home and ask the Superwife to bring it out. So she brought it out at lunch.
Ms. Pikachu was out of school so she came along. While we were eating the Superwife observed that Trainboy is easy to wake up in the morning. He can’t wait to get ready to go to school. He loves riding the bus, he loves his classmates, and he loves his teacher. He loves school and it shows.
What could I say? What I said was, “And this is different from someone else we know?” The WearyWife said, “Oh yeah, somebody else fights getting up every morning.” From behind us came the exasperated cry, “It’s not my fault I’m nocturnal people!”
Maybe it’s not her fault. She probably gets it from my side. But you have to play the cards you’re dealt.
This is going to be a special Christmas. Trainboy is 6 ½ and hanging onto Santa. He still believes. It will surely be the last year that he does. Each passing year will bring more knowledge, more disillusions, and more wisdom. It’s kind of silly that as he hangs on I want to help him hold on tight. As a parent I want him to grow, but the innocence of childhood is so short I want him to have it just a little bit longer.
This will be the last Christmas to put out cookies and milk for Santa. The last time he’ll go to bed expecting Santa to bring him something wonderful. And wonder how he’ll get in without a chimney.
There’s no doubt that one of the joys of having children is getting to do it all over again. Through our children we can relive the excitement and joy of Christmas. Our hearts melt with their joyful expectation of a visit from Santa and are then rent with their disillusion. Our Christmas tree is a brightly lit beacon for a Santa making his last visit.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Ms. Pikachu was out of school so she came along. While we were eating the Superwife observed that Trainboy is easy to wake up in the morning. He can’t wait to get ready to go to school. He loves riding the bus, he loves his classmates, and he loves his teacher. He loves school and it shows.
What could I say? What I said was, “And this is different from someone else we know?” The WearyWife said, “Oh yeah, somebody else fights getting up every morning.” From behind us came the exasperated cry, “It’s not my fault I’m nocturnal people!”
Maybe it’s not her fault. She probably gets it from my side. But you have to play the cards you’re dealt.
This is going to be a special Christmas. Trainboy is 6 ½ and hanging onto Santa. He still believes. It will surely be the last year that he does. Each passing year will bring more knowledge, more disillusions, and more wisdom. It’s kind of silly that as he hangs on I want to help him hold on tight. As a parent I want him to grow, but the innocence of childhood is so short I want him to have it just a little bit longer.
This will be the last Christmas to put out cookies and milk for Santa. The last time he’ll go to bed expecting Santa to bring him something wonderful. And wonder how he’ll get in without a chimney.
There’s no doubt that one of the joys of having children is getting to do it all over again. Through our children we can relive the excitement and joy of Christmas. Our hearts melt with their joyful expectation of a visit from Santa and are then rent with their disillusion. Our Christmas tree is a brightly lit beacon for a Santa making his last visit.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
-
Thursday, December 18, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
ChristmasBlog 2003.doc
If the Christmas letter doesn't open up automatically (because I'm too dumb to do it), and if you're feeling like you need some abuse, click on "ChristmasBlog 2003" up above.
The top of the letter is a picture, so give it a second, or two.
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
ChristmasBlog 2003.doc
If the Christmas letter doesn't open up automatically (because I'm too dumb to do it), and if you're feeling like you need some abuse, click on "ChristmasBlog 2003" up above.
The top of the letter is a picture, so give it a second, or two.
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
If you want more grief the following is an earlier year's Christmas letter. No picture attached, don't know what happened to it. I think it's much funnier though.
ChristmasBlog 2000.rtf
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
If you want more grief the following is an earlier year's Christmas letter. No picture attached, don't know what happened to it. I think it's much funnier though.
ChristmasBlog 2000.rtf
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
http://publicserf.blogspot.com
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Worked yesterday. Had problems feeling lightheaded- the doc calls it abnormal brain-wave activity. Since that has often meant a pain attack was coming I took a Tegretol to suppress it. Unfortunately, Tegretol, often makes me sleepy. Today was no exception. Usually I stay until the last minute. I went home earlier than that. Stuff needs to be done, but I was just too out of it.
When I got home the Superwife had prepared what I'd be tempted to call a corn chowder. It was kind of like potatoe (to throw Dan Quayle a bone) soup, but with corn, carrots, peas, and bacon. In the world of marketing we could call it Corn Chowder Ultra, or Corn Chowder Extra, or just Super Corn Chowder. When you stir it- as it goes around it's Turbo Corn Chowder! Not that it matters.
It was wonderful. More accurately- it is wonderful. Because there's a big pot of it in the fridge and I'll be eating it for days. Not that I mind. Crumble some crackers in it, sprinkle some pepper on it, and I'm in Mega Corn Chowder Heaven. So I'm ok with it.
The Superwife and Adorable Kids wanted to see the Looney Tunes Movie. So did I, but I knew I'd fall asleep during the flick no matter how good it was. Rather than sit through a white-knuckle drive and pay money to fall asleep I stayed home. Slept ten hours. Feel right pert.
Maybe I'll have a bowl of Ultra Mega Hearty and Wholesome Corn Chowder With Turbo Action! for breakfast (no PETA endorsement expressed or implied). Thus fortified I'll more than make up for my miserable performance yesterday. Slap me, I must be dreaming.
-
Whine at me: publicserf@yahoo.com
Worked yesterday. Had problems feeling lightheaded- the doc calls it abnormal brain-wave activity. Since that has often meant a pain attack was coming I took a Tegretol to suppress it. Unfortunately, Tegretol, often makes me sleepy. Today was no exception. Usually I stay until the last minute. I went home earlier than that. Stuff needs to be done, but I was just too out of it.
When I got home the Superwife had prepared what I'd be tempted to call a corn chowder. It was kind of like potatoe (to throw Dan Quayle a bone) soup, but with corn, carrots, peas, and bacon. In the world of marketing we could call it Corn Chowder Ultra, or Corn Chowder Extra, or just Super Corn Chowder. When you stir it- as it goes around it's Turbo Corn Chowder! Not that it matters.
It was wonderful. More accurately- it is wonderful. Because there's a big pot of it in the fridge and I'll be eating it for days. Not that I mind. Crumble some crackers in it, sprinkle some pepper on it, and I'm in Mega Corn Chowder Heaven. So I'm ok with it.
The Superwife and Adorable Kids wanted to see the Looney Tunes Movie. So did I, but I knew I'd fall asleep during the flick no matter how good it was. Rather than sit through a white-knuckle drive and pay money to fall asleep I stayed home. Slept ten hours. Feel right pert.
Maybe I'll have a bowl of Ultra Mega Hearty and Wholesome Corn Chowder With Turbo Action! for breakfast (no PETA endorsement expressed or implied). Thus fortified I'll more than make up for my miserable performance yesterday. Slap me, I must be dreaming.
-
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
After work I met the Superwife at the mechanic's to leave the van. Superwife drove from there on because I assume she can see better than cross-eyed me. She has always driven like a racecar driver- she drives to win. She's either hard on the gas or hard on the brakes. Everyone in front of her will be passed, and I will keep a white-knuckled grip on the arm rests.
She likes to drive the Intrepid. With the 3.5L, 16-valve engine she has said it reminds her of the Grand Prix with the 400 cubic-inch engine. Hit the gas and it accelerates right smartly. She certainly likes it.
Then we hit Kohl's because they have a two-for-one sale on sweaters. A lot of my sweaters are starting to get ratty. She decided I needed some. They had really nice sweaters at Kohl's- liked one a lot. Superwife thought it was too busy, that and maybe that even at half-off it was $27. Oh well.
So we went to K-Mart, they had some perfectly acceptable sweaters on sale for $17. So I got a couple of them. The kids got their Icees. Is everybody happy? Yes. Next up is Petco for Guinea pig supplies.
Then we hit Petco for pig supplies. As she pulled into the Petco parking spot she was way too fast for me. I yelled, "Hey!" She hit the brakes, looked at me, and said, "What's your problem? There's lots of room." I was carrying a measuring tape, so I measured the distance between bumper and lightpost- 9 inches. No doubt in my mind that if she'd waited a fraction of a second longer to brake my front bumper would have been creased into the radiator.
Then we hit Best Buy. We got the Monkees second season on DVD. Whoo hoo! Nothing else too exciting happened, and that was good.
Then we picked up the van. Changing the oil pressure sender worked- cheap fix, works for me. Since she was already driving the car Superwife continued and I got in the van. Following her on the way home I couldn't help noticing how my petite stock car driver was driving something that looked appropriate. She turned into the bank to deposit a check. I thought I'd continue home but got another half-block and thought, maybe she'd like to stop some place and eat, so I circled back to the bank.
When I pulled up beside them Ms. Pikachu was laughing and motioned for me to roll down the window. She told me to check out the back door.
Ms. Nascar had high-balled into the parking lot and side-swiped a post with my car. Hit the passenger-side mirror and scraped the paint off the rear door and fender, left a little dent. Would not be cheap. Couldn't believe it, but should have figured after the Petco incident. Fortunately for her, and me, I don't emotionally bond with my cars.
We got something to eat at an Italian place. She told me her glasses aren't doing the job, but wants to wait till next year for a replacement. Her idea is to set up a medical account for next year for the tax break and do glasses then. I told her having accidents would offset the tax savings. What if that had been a pedestrian instead of a pole? She agreed to call the optometrist today.
historical note- added to the spell-checker: Nascar, Petco, whoo-hoo, Monkees
She likes to drive the Intrepid. With the 3.5L, 16-valve engine she has said it reminds her of the Grand Prix with the 400 cubic-inch engine. Hit the gas and it accelerates right smartly. She certainly likes it.
Then we hit Kohl's because they have a two-for-one sale on sweaters. A lot of my sweaters are starting to get ratty. She decided I needed some. They had really nice sweaters at Kohl's- liked one a lot. Superwife thought it was too busy, that and maybe that even at half-off it was $27. Oh well.
So we went to K-Mart, they had some perfectly acceptable sweaters on sale for $17. So I got a couple of them. The kids got their Icees. Is everybody happy? Yes. Next up is Petco for Guinea pig supplies.
Then we hit Petco for pig supplies. As she pulled into the Petco parking spot she was way too fast for me. I yelled, "Hey!" She hit the brakes, looked at me, and said, "What's your problem? There's lots of room." I was carrying a measuring tape, so I measured the distance between bumper and lightpost- 9 inches. No doubt in my mind that if she'd waited a fraction of a second longer to brake my front bumper would have been creased into the radiator.
Then we hit Best Buy. We got the Monkees second season on DVD. Whoo hoo! Nothing else too exciting happened, and that was good.
Then we picked up the van. Changing the oil pressure sender worked- cheap fix, works for me. Since she was already driving the car Superwife continued and I got in the van. Following her on the way home I couldn't help noticing how my petite stock car driver was driving something that looked appropriate. She turned into the bank to deposit a check. I thought I'd continue home but got another half-block and thought, maybe she'd like to stop some place and eat, so I circled back to the bank.
When I pulled up beside them Ms. Pikachu was laughing and motioned for me to roll down the window. She told me to check out the back door.
Ms. Nascar had high-balled into the parking lot and side-swiped a post with my car. Hit the passenger-side mirror and scraped the paint off the rear door and fender, left a little dent. Would not be cheap. Couldn't believe it, but should have figured after the Petco incident. Fortunately for her, and me, I don't emotionally bond with my cars.
We got something to eat at an Italian place. She told me her glasses aren't doing the job, but wants to wait till next year for a replacement. Her idea is to set up a medical account for next year for the tax break and do glasses then. I told her having accidents would offset the tax savings. What if that had been a pedestrian instead of a pole? She agreed to call the optometrist today.
historical note- added to the spell-checker: Nascar, Petco, whoo-hoo, Monkees