We've all seen them. The commercials that show the following:
A man, his late 40's maybe, wearing Khaki pants and a Polo Shirt with his hair meticulously combed and styled. He is sitting on the floor next to his wife. She is dressed in a black mini dress, black heels, perfect makeup and hair. They are both installing wood floors. Cut to several photos of them unpacking tools, pulling up old floor, hammering, scraping undercoating, sharing a fine chardonnay, etc. The final photo is of them sitting on the couch, the new floor beneath them, fireplace in the foreground, the lights are dim......she looks lustily at him as if to say "rip my clothes off and take me NOW" and the voice over says, "Home repairs, if you can't do them yourself....you're not a man!"
Yea, my ego goes straight to the toilet with that one. As a general rule, the most 'home repair' I achieve is changing a light bulb. This in contrast to my brother...who (seriously) is like McGuyver - minus the hair. Within the depths of this 'shop' I've seen him create a range of things from a simple bar stool to a fully functional chemical plant. I stand in awe of his ability...I also usually stand several yards away since I rarely have HAZMAT equipment with me when I visit. **Seriously...He is an amazing talent. I wish I could do just some of the things he does.
But I see these commercials and I HAVE to respond. So on Saturday morning I go to the Home Despair Center. You know the place...they are typically the size of two or three football fields, crammed to the hilt with every possible item that can break in your house and, on a typical Saturday morning, staffed with as many as 5 helpful employees. I enter and begin to look around for something I would recognize as broken in my home. After several moments, I forget that and begin to look at the other people who apparently saw the same commercial as I did...although there is something not right about what I see.
Person 1
Male / 50ish / Ironed Khaki shorts / Pressed Polo Shirt
He is carrying several miles of electrical cable, along with various boxes, nuts, connectors, insulators, harnesses, drills, grommets (whatever the hell that is), pliers, switches, and plates. "Little Remington" he explains, "was recently accepted in the School for Children of Pretentious Parents so we are rewarding him with a new media room that once was our kitchen. I should finish in time for he and the other pre-schoolers to play on Monday afternoon."
Person 2
Female / 30ish / Blue Jeans (so tight I can hear them scream for help) / Ironed Pastel Shirt / Heels
She is carrying 25 bags of "Spread This and Run" Fertilizer, 15 large pots, various shovels, spreaders, hoes (no, not that kind...the other kind), rakes, and 123 different plants. "I just got so tired of the mundane" she says wearily, "so before Hobart and I jet off to Europe on Tuesday morning I am going to replant the entire front yard."
Why does this interest me? Why do I care? BECAUSE THEY ARE BOTH LIARS! They are just like me....they are paying someone to do the repairs. On Friday the contractor who they hired to do these things left a list of items they "had better have ready on Monday" or else! At least I can admit I am repair challenged....even though I know my wife won't want me NOW (there are those stretches of time where she doesn't want me at all...so I'm used to it) I do the best I can.... at what I can do.
I don't feel so bad about buying my light bulbs.
This is not the way I wish to be remembered.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Hurricane man!
Many of you may remember Hurricane Gustav. It came through the Baton Rouge area in 2008 and truly made a mess of things....mostly in and around my yard. Anyway....because I believe in 'roughing it' and didn't want to spend 14 hours trying to drive 8 blocks on the interstate I secured the needed supplies to ride out the storm at home.
Several hours later....the proverbial waste matter hits the oscillating air mover.
I don't mind wind. I do mind wind that makes noise. That's what we were getting. Just like in the movies...only louder. I'm looking out the window at the trees bending and random items being blown across the yard (chairs / balls / the wicked witch of the west) and I'm thinking, "wow, this is getting serious." Of course, realizing the serious nature of the moment I did the only logical thing....I went outside to 'get a better look.' My 17 year old son goes with me. We look outside at the large oak in the front yard and determine many of the lower branches are going to break and possibly go hurling into the neighbors window. This would be bad for community relations. Thinking about my options, I decide I must find a way to minimize the possible impact of broken tree limbs...and I must do this in 60 mph winds and horizontal rain. My son, thinking like a true...what's the word here....don't know, but he says , "I got this Dad".
So, Hurricane Man jumps into action. He runs out into the front yard, CLIMBS THE TREE, and begins to jump on the branch. (think monkey here).
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm going to break the branch so it doesn't fly off"
"You idiot (hey, that's the word I couldn't think of earlier) you are STANDING on the branch. You are going to fall with it."
(making a face at me that tells me he wonders why someone with my limited intelligence has been allowed in public) "Dad, really? I'm holding on to this branch above it."
So he jumps and the branch falls....so does he. I stopped laughing long enough to make sure he got up off the ground. My wife opens the door and sees him. After explaining what happened she rolls her eyes and goes back inside...only after 5 minutes does she return and say, "is he alright, because the ambulance won't come out in a storm and he'll have to just lay there". Such caring is beyond words.
So we stand on the porch and notice the mailbox. It's definitely going to be blown off the support. With the wind direction we determined it would go directly into the rear window of my neighbors brand new Camry. Once again, Hurricane Man jumps into action. Out he dashes to the mailbox.
"Just take the mailbox off the post" came instructions from Hurricane Man's trusty sidekick. (standing safely on the front porch)
"It's not coming off"
"Can't be hard son...I know, I nailed it up"
"Not happening...but (he utters his catch phrase) I GOT THIS."
He begins to pull the entire post out of the ground. Of course, it's not coming up either. It's a 6 foot post with at least 2 feet in the ground. Now, the wind is still blowing at 60 mph and the rain is still falling horizontally...but there is Hurricane Man in the street running in circles trying to loosen the mailbox post.... on a few revolutions he loses his grips and falls, he occasionally slips and falls, and once he slammed his hand with the mailbox door. All of this is happening while his trusty sidekick is on the front porch laughing so hard he is choking. (I later found out my neighbors were doing the same thing)
After several minutes, the post is dislodged and Hurricane Man places it on the front porch out of the wind.
Standing in front of me, dripping wet, winded, and making a face he says (in a sarcastic tone) "See....I GOT THIS".
Whatever it is he got...I hope he grows out of it.
Several hours later....the proverbial waste matter hits the oscillating air mover.
I don't mind wind. I do mind wind that makes noise. That's what we were getting. Just like in the movies...only louder. I'm looking out the window at the trees bending and random items being blown across the yard (chairs / balls / the wicked witch of the west) and I'm thinking, "wow, this is getting serious." Of course, realizing the serious nature of the moment I did the only logical thing....I went outside to 'get a better look.' My 17 year old son goes with me. We look outside at the large oak in the front yard and determine many of the lower branches are going to break and possibly go hurling into the neighbors window. This would be bad for community relations. Thinking about my options, I decide I must find a way to minimize the possible impact of broken tree limbs...and I must do this in 60 mph winds and horizontal rain. My son, thinking like a true...what's the word here....don't know, but he says , "I got this Dad".
So, Hurricane Man jumps into action. He runs out into the front yard, CLIMBS THE TREE, and begins to jump on the branch. (think monkey here).
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm going to break the branch so it doesn't fly off"
"You idiot (hey, that's the word I couldn't think of earlier) you are STANDING on the branch. You are going to fall with it."
(making a face at me that tells me he wonders why someone with my limited intelligence has been allowed in public) "Dad, really? I'm holding on to this branch above it."
So he jumps and the branch falls....so does he. I stopped laughing long enough to make sure he got up off the ground. My wife opens the door and sees him. After explaining what happened she rolls her eyes and goes back inside...only after 5 minutes does she return and say, "is he alright, because the ambulance won't come out in a storm and he'll have to just lay there". Such caring is beyond words.
So we stand on the porch and notice the mailbox. It's definitely going to be blown off the support. With the wind direction we determined it would go directly into the rear window of my neighbors brand new Camry. Once again, Hurricane Man jumps into action. Out he dashes to the mailbox.
"Just take the mailbox off the post" came instructions from Hurricane Man's trusty sidekick. (standing safely on the front porch)
"It's not coming off"
"Can't be hard son...I know, I nailed it up"
"Not happening...but (he utters his catch phrase) I GOT THIS."
He begins to pull the entire post out of the ground. Of course, it's not coming up either. It's a 6 foot post with at least 2 feet in the ground. Now, the wind is still blowing at 60 mph and the rain is still falling horizontally...but there is Hurricane Man in the street running in circles trying to loosen the mailbox post.... on a few revolutions he loses his grips and falls, he occasionally slips and falls, and once he slammed his hand with the mailbox door. All of this is happening while his trusty sidekick is on the front porch laughing so hard he is choking. (I later found out my neighbors were doing the same thing)
After several minutes, the post is dislodged and Hurricane Man places it on the front porch out of the wind.
Standing in front of me, dripping wet, winded, and making a face he says (in a sarcastic tone) "See....I GOT THIS".
Whatever it is he got...I hope he grows out of it.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Good Morning Mr. President
George W. Bush wrote in his book Decision Points that one of the many things he would miss about the White House is waking up in the morning and having someone say, "Good Morning Mr. President, what can I do for you today?" I wonder if he'd miss a morning like this:
(4:00am) - I feel a small, wet sensation on the bottom of my feet. Thinking a child has wandered in my bed again and had an accident, I leap out of the bed and throw the covers back. What I discover is the dog. Looking at me as if to say "I'm sorry, were you sleeping? Well, I have to pee so since you're up let's go." Of course, my wife...ever vigilant....rolls over and mumbles something about "the covers" and returns to snoring. I have on more than one occasion wanted to respond (just to see if she was awake), "sorry dear, I used them to put the fire out...but it's all good now goodnight." The reason I haven't done that is because if she were awake and responded it would be difficult for me to get back to sleep with an alarm clock shoved in my ass. Anyway.....to continue with my morning.
(4:11am) - The dog, having finished his business and his patrol of the yard sits at the patio door and begins a series of small, high pitched yelps. This is his code for "I'm done, let me back in."
(4:20am) - Having been unable to ignore the noise, I get out of bed and let the dog back in.
(4:24am) - Now I have to pee
(4:39am) - The other dog, who sleeps in a kennel because she has the tendency to crap on peoples shoes in the middle of the night....now begins to whine.
(4:56am) - I hear the patio door open and close. Knowing my wife has not moved, and I am still in bed, I think "I'm glad the dog knows how to open the door".
(4:57am) - Realizing dogs have no opposable thumbs, I get up to see who the opened the damn door.
(5:00am) - After stopping in all the rooms on the way to the den (this is to be sure someone isn't actually robbing me through the patio) and finding everyone, except me, is fast asleep. I conclude my 8 year old woke up and let the dog out. My assumption is correct when I check the door and find it locked....but not closed.
(5:15am) - Not satisfied the yard in safe, the dog begins to bark at random air molecules around her. Just FYI, this dog is a Beagle. So the bark is more of a deep howl...the kind you'd hear from one of those old dogs you see on Hee Haw.
(5:20am) - Fearing a neighbor will hurl a brick over the fence at my house because of the noise...I get out of bed and make the dog come back inside.
(5:30am) - The alarm on my wife's Blackberry (the one with the steel drums) goes off. She promptly ignores it, but let's it continue to go off every 45 seconds for the next 15 minutes.
(5:45am) - My alarm goes off....time to get up and start my day.
I wonder if the President would miss that?
(4:00am) - I feel a small, wet sensation on the bottom of my feet. Thinking a child has wandered in my bed again and had an accident, I leap out of the bed and throw the covers back. What I discover is the dog. Looking at me as if to say "I'm sorry, were you sleeping? Well, I have to pee so since you're up let's go." Of course, my wife...ever vigilant....rolls over and mumbles something about "the covers" and returns to snoring. I have on more than one occasion wanted to respond (just to see if she was awake), "sorry dear, I used them to put the fire out...but it's all good now goodnight." The reason I haven't done that is because if she were awake and responded it would be difficult for me to get back to sleep with an alarm clock shoved in my ass. Anyway.....to continue with my morning.
(4:11am) - The dog, having finished his business and his patrol of the yard sits at the patio door and begins a series of small, high pitched yelps. This is his code for "I'm done, let me back in."
(4:20am) - Having been unable to ignore the noise, I get out of bed and let the dog back in.
(4:24am) - Now I have to pee
(4:39am) - The other dog, who sleeps in a kennel because she has the tendency to crap on peoples shoes in the middle of the night....now begins to whine.
(4:56am) - I hear the patio door open and close. Knowing my wife has not moved, and I am still in bed, I think "I'm glad the dog knows how to open the door".
(4:57am) - Realizing dogs have no opposable thumbs, I get up to see who the opened the damn door.
(5:00am) - After stopping in all the rooms on the way to the den (this is to be sure someone isn't actually robbing me through the patio) and finding everyone, except me, is fast asleep. I conclude my 8 year old woke up and let the dog out. My assumption is correct when I check the door and find it locked....but not closed.
(5:15am) - Not satisfied the yard in safe, the dog begins to bark at random air molecules around her. Just FYI, this dog is a Beagle. So the bark is more of a deep howl...the kind you'd hear from one of those old dogs you see on Hee Haw.
(5:20am) - Fearing a neighbor will hurl a brick over the fence at my house because of the noise...I get out of bed and make the dog come back inside.
(5:30am) - The alarm on my wife's Blackberry (the one with the steel drums) goes off. She promptly ignores it, but let's it continue to go off every 45 seconds for the next 15 minutes.
(5:45am) - My alarm goes off....time to get up and start my day.
I wonder if the President would miss that?
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Clean up on aisle 7
So....OK, I actually enjoy going to the grocery store. There is something exciting about traversing the various aisles looking for Sun Dried Tomato and Basil Triscuits. Look...they are sale...SCORE! Yes!
Not that I don't have a life (I don't)...not that I am boring (I am)....grocery store outings are sometimes an adventure. Let me share one recent trip that was with my son.
My son was 19. If you haven't met him or seen him the best way to describe him is in this manner. Ready? Close your eyes and clear your mind. Mind clear? (how can you see that question if your eyes are closed?)
Anyway...clear your mind. Think 70's television. Think family sitcoms. Think 'Full House'.
Think...John Stamos.
That's him. Complete with the hair.
Anyway...we are checking out and of course the register is staffed with teenage girl. She is cute, and notices my son almost immediately. I go first and start to put things on the belt to be scanned, my son is behind me. The next few minutes go like this....
(me - to girl) How are you?
(girl - to my son) Hey, what's up?
(son - while whipping his hair back and giving her the 'head nod') Sup?
(girl - to my son) Do you have a Saver Card?
(son ) No, I don't
(me - to anyone who will listen) I use my phone number.
(girl - to my son) What's your phone number?
(me) It's 222-555-1212
(girl - looking at my son while typing in the number) Thanks
(girl - to my son - while smiling coyishly) Do you want your milk in a bag?
(son - being cool) Nah, I got it
At this point I should let you know that I could have left the building and no one would have noticed.
The ridiculous facial expressions, half garbled sentences, and coy eye contact were flying between them.
(girl - to my son) What's your phone number again?
(me - loudly) IT'S 222-555-1212
(girl - looking at me annoyed) OK
So, then she looks at me and says "$42.17 is your total".
Oh, now you acknowledge the adult...someone needs money. So I did what any ignored, self respecting Dad would have done. I made a stupid facial expression, whipped my graying hair back, gave her the 'head nod', pointed to my son and started to push the basket towards the door. Why the hell should I pay? I was seriously waiting for him to ask me to buy them both a cigarette.
At this point my son came face to face with harsh reality...he's not John Stamos.
Once out of the store (and out of eyesight of the girl) he says:
"Dad, you messed up my Mojo"
Your what?
"My Mojo...you know, my groove"
Son, you don't have either
"Yes I do...she was totally in to me.
Of course she was "in to you". She's the freaking check out girl. She's making sure you don't steal things.
"And you gave her our phone number....I wanted to do that. How cool would it have been for me to say this chick asked for my phone number? She asked ME for my phone number."
She gets paid to ask EVERYONE for their phone number....not just you. Are you serious? She was doing her job.
"No Dad...this was real"
No son, you are a moron.
If this is how dating begins these days.....I fear for our future.
Not that I don't have a life (I don't)...not that I am boring (I am)....grocery store outings are sometimes an adventure. Let me share one recent trip that was with my son.
My son was 19. If you haven't met him or seen him the best way to describe him is in this manner. Ready? Close your eyes and clear your mind. Mind clear? (how can you see that question if your eyes are closed?)
Anyway...clear your mind. Think 70's television. Think family sitcoms. Think 'Full House'.
Think...John Stamos.
That's him. Complete with the hair.Anyway...we are checking out and of course the register is staffed with teenage girl. She is cute, and notices my son almost immediately. I go first and start to put things on the belt to be scanned, my son is behind me. The next few minutes go like this....
(me - to girl) How are you?
(girl - to my son) Hey, what's up?
(son - while whipping his hair back and giving her the 'head nod') Sup?
(girl - to my son) Do you have a Saver Card?
(son ) No, I don't
(me - to anyone who will listen) I use my phone number.
(girl - to my son) What's your phone number?
(me) It's 222-555-1212
(girl - looking at my son while typing in the number) Thanks
(girl - to my son - while smiling coyishly) Do you want your milk in a bag?
(son - being cool) Nah, I got it
At this point I should let you know that I could have left the building and no one would have noticed.
The ridiculous facial expressions, half garbled sentences, and coy eye contact were flying between them.
(girl - to my son) What's your phone number again?
(me - loudly) IT'S 222-555-1212
(girl - looking at me annoyed) OK
So, then she looks at me and says "$42.17 is your total".
Oh, now you acknowledge the adult...someone needs money. So I did what any ignored, self respecting Dad would have done. I made a stupid facial expression, whipped my graying hair back, gave her the 'head nod', pointed to my son and started to push the basket towards the door. Why the hell should I pay? I was seriously waiting for him to ask me to buy them both a cigarette.
At this point my son came face to face with harsh reality...he's not John Stamos.
Once out of the store (and out of eyesight of the girl) he says:
"Dad, you messed up my Mojo"
Your what?
"My Mojo...you know, my groove"
Son, you don't have either
"Yes I do...she was totally in to me.
Of course she was "in to you". She's the freaking check out girl. She's making sure you don't steal things.
"And you gave her our phone number....I wanted to do that. How cool would it have been for me to say this chick asked for my phone number? She asked ME for my phone number."
She gets paid to ask EVERYONE for their phone number....not just you. Are you serious? She was doing her job.
"No Dad...this was real"
No son, you are a moron.
If this is how dating begins these days.....I fear for our future.
Bow Wow Wow Yippie Ti Yi Yay
Dogs are interesting pets. If you own a dog (or as in my case two dogs) you begin to wonder about the processing power of their dog brains. I mean, don't get me wrong I enjoy having dogs...and they are much like children...only they pee outside.
There are a lot of folks who think dogs are not very intelligent. My two dogs exhibit stellar feats of thought processing on a daily basis. Such amazing things as:
Barking for 45 minutes at what looks like a person in the front yard, but is actually the trash can. They do this every Sunday night....EVERY Sunday night.
Running full speed across the yard to capture a squirrel that has wandered within sight. Of course the squirrel is on top of an 8 foot fence, so the dogs conclude that running INTO the fence at full speed might dislodge the squirrel from its perch. It doesn't work.
Sitting in the middle of the backyard and barking (at 2 in the morning) at beings from other dimensions seen only by dogs.
After waking up in the morning, and having to 'go outside' take off running full speed from the bed and hitting the same door (face first) that is always closed because the human that is supposed to open it wants coffee first....and by damn you're a dog, you can wait a minute.
I am fortunate to have had very deep discussions with my dogs. Granted it is after several glasses of Merlot...
(me - looking at the dog) (out-loud) You know, they need to do something about the traffic on the highway.
(dog - looking at me) (thinking) I wonder if he's going to give me some food now.
(me - still looking at the dog) It takes too long to get across town at 5:00
(dog - still looking at me, now licking his chops) Surely he's going to give me some food now.
(me - looking at a blurred spot I think is the dog) I burn at least a half tank of gas just sitting in traffic.
(dog - still looking at me, but now also looking around as if to say "is someone else here besides this idiot?) I'm wanting some food now.
(me - speaking to various air molecules around the blurred spot) Do you know how much gas is a gallon?
(dog - walking into the kitchen) Fine, I'll get something myself.
Now before you roll your eyes, I know dogs don't have any idea how much gasoline costs per gallon. Most dogs drive a diesel.
So for those who think dogs aren't that intelligent, I'd say you're probably right.
I'd also say at times dog owners aren't too intelligent either.
There are a lot of folks who think dogs are not very intelligent. My two dogs exhibit stellar feats of thought processing on a daily basis. Such amazing things as:
Barking for 45 minutes at what looks like a person in the front yard, but is actually the trash can. They do this every Sunday night....EVERY Sunday night.
Running full speed across the yard to capture a squirrel that has wandered within sight. Of course the squirrel is on top of an 8 foot fence, so the dogs conclude that running INTO the fence at full speed might dislodge the squirrel from its perch. It doesn't work.
Sitting in the middle of the backyard and barking (at 2 in the morning) at beings from other dimensions seen only by dogs.
After waking up in the morning, and having to 'go outside' take off running full speed from the bed and hitting the same door (face first) that is always closed because the human that is supposed to open it wants coffee first....and by damn you're a dog, you can wait a minute.
I am fortunate to have had very deep discussions with my dogs. Granted it is after several glasses of Merlot...
(me - looking at the dog) (out-loud) You know, they need to do something about the traffic on the highway.
(dog - looking at me) (thinking) I wonder if he's going to give me some food now.
(me - still looking at the dog) It takes too long to get across town at 5:00
(dog - still looking at me, now licking his chops) Surely he's going to give me some food now.
(me - looking at a blurred spot I think is the dog) I burn at least a half tank of gas just sitting in traffic.
(dog - still looking at me, but now also looking around as if to say "is someone else here besides this idiot?) I'm wanting some food now.
(me - speaking to various air molecules around the blurred spot) Do you know how much gas is a gallon?
(dog - walking into the kitchen) Fine, I'll get something myself.
Now before you roll your eyes, I know dogs don't have any idea how much gasoline costs per gallon. Most dogs drive a diesel.
So for those who think dogs aren't that intelligent, I'd say you're probably right.
I'd also say at times dog owners aren't too intelligent either.
Monday, February 21, 2011
80 easy monthly payments......
People ask me why I don't own a new car. Have you ever listened to a conversation on car lot between a shopper and a salesperson? You can say almost anything to a car salesman and he wouldn't care what it was if it means he can 'go and get the keys' for you. You could tell him anything:
So, what brings you folks to our lot today?
Well, little Buford has gas and we figured we'd go someplace wide open to help diffuse the smell.
That's great. So what kind of vehicle were you looking to ride little Buford around in?
Something that won't explode when full of methane would be nice.
Well I think the new Oldsmabuick Swoosher 2000 can keep little Buford safe.
Think? Why don't we let him finish off that beef jerky....lock him inside and see?
You bet! Just let me go and get the key.
Of course, this does not happen. Everyone knows no self respecting car sales person would get a key to a vehicle without first knowing your name, address, phone number, reason for living, mother's maiden name, and the capital of Assyria. They teach them that in 'Sales Training School'.
Cars seem to come in two varieties.
Those that are approximately 2 city blocks long and have enough room inside to fit an entire NFL football team (offense and defense - including the athletic trainers), come equipped with runway lights and a helipad, and get an astounding 7 miles per gallon...provided you coast downhill to many of your destinations. These have colorful names like the Chevrolet Kingdom, the Toyota Destroyer, and the Honda Fiefdom. Then there are the smaller or 'mid sized' cars. These seat at least 4 comfortably (provided you all hold your breath) offer the 'open floor option' which means you can drop your feet under the car and push without leaving your seat (think Flintstones) and can be folded neatly and placed in your wallet. These have names like the Kia Gnome, the Ford Speck, and the Buick Tourniquet.
I am one of those people who don't need or want a car that talks to me, starts for me (without me actually being in the car), navigates for me, or makes my 'driving experience more meaningful' by setting all my favorite seat positions, mirror positions, A/C controls and radio stations after identifying me by scanning my corneas via an electric eye in the rear view mirror. It is not important if it has a genuine leather interior, dual video players and a 38 CD changer with 64 channel equalizer. Why don't I care about these things? Because that car will cost (and I being serious here) more than my first house. I just want a well built car that seats 5, is moderately priced, gets fairly good gas mileage, and is not prone to mechanical problems. Of course, this car does not exist. Which is why I don't own a new car.
My 2000 Chevrolet Venture Van is looking just fine right now.
So, what brings you folks to our lot today?
Well, little Buford has gas and we figured we'd go someplace wide open to help diffuse the smell.
That's great. So what kind of vehicle were you looking to ride little Buford around in?
Something that won't explode when full of methane would be nice.
Well I think the new Oldsmabuick Swoosher 2000 can keep little Buford safe.
Think? Why don't we let him finish off that beef jerky....lock him inside and see?
You bet! Just let me go and get the key.
Of course, this does not happen. Everyone knows no self respecting car sales person would get a key to a vehicle without first knowing your name, address, phone number, reason for living, mother's maiden name, and the capital of Assyria. They teach them that in 'Sales Training School'.
Cars seem to come in two varieties.
Those that are approximately 2 city blocks long and have enough room inside to fit an entire NFL football team (offense and defense - including the athletic trainers), come equipped with runway lights and a helipad, and get an astounding 7 miles per gallon...provided you coast downhill to many of your destinations. These have colorful names like the Chevrolet Kingdom, the Toyota Destroyer, and the Honda Fiefdom. Then there are the smaller or 'mid sized' cars. These seat at least 4 comfortably (provided you all hold your breath) offer the 'open floor option' which means you can drop your feet under the car and push without leaving your seat (think Flintstones) and can be folded neatly and placed in your wallet. These have names like the Kia Gnome, the Ford Speck, and the Buick Tourniquet.
I am one of those people who don't need or want a car that talks to me, starts for me (without me actually being in the car), navigates for me, or makes my 'driving experience more meaningful' by setting all my favorite seat positions, mirror positions, A/C controls and radio stations after identifying me by scanning my corneas via an electric eye in the rear view mirror. It is not important if it has a genuine leather interior, dual video players and a 38 CD changer with 64 channel equalizer. Why don't I care about these things? Because that car will cost (and I being serious here) more than my first house. I just want a well built car that seats 5, is moderately priced, gets fairly good gas mileage, and is not prone to mechanical problems. Of course, this car does not exist. Which is why I don't own a new car.
My 2000 Chevrolet Venture Van is looking just fine right now.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
First Entry - That'll be $16 please....
Every parent has the same event in the lives of their children. The time where, for a mere $16 (payable to your local state Office of Motor Vehicles) your child will be authorized to operate a moving machine of death....in our case otherwise known as a 1992 Honda Passport. After long and thoughtful scrutiny at the hands of a highly qualified and motivated state employee at the DMV, this person, who went an entire day wearing pants backwards, was now driving a car. Of course, knowing that we packed her younger brother in the car with her and sent her to "the store".
We of course explained the dangers of driving, told her to be careful and to take our new "cellular phone" with her in case of emergency. We were clear to specify 'in case of emergency' because at that time cell calls were charged at $46 per minute (including the time spent dialing the number) and powered by 4 powerful 12 volt batteries conveniently located in the trunk.
Krogers is located on 12th Street. It's been there for as long as I can remember. Instructions were simple:
Go to the end of our street.
Turn Right
Stay straight. You will notice the street numbers getting smaller....17, 16, 15, 14 until you reach 12.
There is a red light.
Turn left. Keep the railroad tracks on the side of you....stay straight till you see Kroger.
Simple right? 45 minutes later the phone rings and here is the conversation (my wife's side is in bold)
I can't find Kroger.
Where are you?
The water treatment plant.
The water treatment plant? There's no water treatment plant on 12th street.
I'm looking at it.
(to me) Where is the water treatment plant?
(me) It's on 18th street. How did she get to 18th street?
How did you get to 18th street?
I'm looking for Kroger on 12th street.
You're looking for Kroger on 12th street by driving on 18th street?
There's some sketchy people here too.
TURN AROUND!
After several stressful minutes she found 12th street and successfully obtained the much needed milk and bread for the household. Arriving home she calmly explained "I don't know how I did that. I followed the directions just like you said. Maybe your directions were wrong."
Maybe I should have checked to see if her pants were on backwards.
We of course explained the dangers of driving, told her to be careful and to take our new "cellular phone" with her in case of emergency. We were clear to specify 'in case of emergency' because at that time cell calls were charged at $46 per minute (including the time spent dialing the number) and powered by 4 powerful 12 volt batteries conveniently located in the trunk.
Krogers is located on 12th Street. It's been there for as long as I can remember. Instructions were simple:
Go to the end of our street.
Turn Right
Stay straight. You will notice the street numbers getting smaller....17, 16, 15, 14 until you reach 12.
There is a red light.
Turn left. Keep the railroad tracks on the side of you....stay straight till you see Kroger.
Simple right? 45 minutes later the phone rings and here is the conversation (my wife's side is in bold)
I can't find Kroger.
Where are you?
The water treatment plant.
The water treatment plant? There's no water treatment plant on 12th street.
I'm looking at it.
(to me) Where is the water treatment plant?
(me) It's on 18th street. How did she get to 18th street?
How did you get to 18th street?
I'm looking for Kroger on 12th street.
You're looking for Kroger on 12th street by driving on 18th street?
There's some sketchy people here too.
TURN AROUND!
After several stressful minutes she found 12th street and successfully obtained the much needed milk and bread for the household. Arriving home she calmly explained "I don't know how I did that. I followed the directions just like you said. Maybe your directions were wrong."
Maybe I should have checked to see if her pants were on backwards.
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