The Workout Video

I asked for an easy, brief workout video for Christmas—something I could do in maybe 15 minutes a day without raising a sweat. I figured that, given those two requirements, Doris wouldn’t be able to find any that qualified. It was a safe request that would be impossible to fulfill. I could virtue-signal my “desire” to get in shape, without worrying about actually having to follow through with it.

My sweet wife took me seriously. Except for the “15 minute” and “without raising a sweat” parts. Those provisos she seemed to ignore. So, she actually did give me a workout video for Christmas. Ho ho ho. They say that the best gifts have layers of meaning behind them. Not sure I want to do the excavation on this one. After attempting the first round today, I’m wondering if it has something to do with my life insurance.

I should have known I was in trouble when the DVD jacket said this guy was a former Combat Controller who trains US Special Forces operators. Unfortunately the DVD didn’t come with a bell so I could ring out.

The fellow leading the workout is bald. That, by the way, is the only thing we have in common. This guy out-atlases Charles Atlas. His sculpted shoulders are the size of my cheeks, and I’m not talking about the ones on either side of my nose. He is also completely without mercy.

The DVD comes with a seven-minute warm-up video. By the time that was over, I was completely gassed. The next segment was just an evaluation workout, to see whether I should go into the level 1 beginner track, or advance to level 2 or beyond. Let’s just say I failed the evaluation video with flying colors—not only do I not qualify for level 1, I couldn’t even complete the evaluation workout. Perhaps for the next month or so, I should just do the warm-up and cool-down videos, and skip everything in between.

All the literature associated with this program trumpets the fact that you don’t need a gym or any weight equipment. His exercises simply use your own body weight. I figure if I can get my total body weight down to maybe 30 pounds, I’ll be able to do the workouts.

It’s called the 90 day challenge. I’m gonna be challenged to complete the basic evaluation workout in 90 days. Next Christmas I’m asking for Crunch Munch.

The Clothes Horse

“Surely you’re not leaving the house like that. That tie doesn’t go with your shirt.”

These are among the most dreaded words a husband hears, normally spoken by his wife as a formula: “that <piece of clothing A> doesn’t go with that <piece of clothing B>.” I must confess, I hear these words frequently.

“What are you talking about?” I rejoined. “Of course the tie goes with the shirt. I’m wearing both of ‘em, so where ever I go the shirt and tie come too. The tie goes with the shirt just fine,” I insisted, knowing that I was fighting a losing battle. As surely as the day is long I was about to be sentenced to return to the bedroom to examine the contents of my closet and try again.

“That’s not what I meant,” she clarified. “I mean they don’t match.”

All I can figure is that there is this comprehensive color and pattern matching program running somewhere in every woman’s brain. There’s no other way to explain why she can dismantle in a glance what took me ten minutes of staring blankly into my closet to assemble.

Apparently there is this mystical rule book wholly unknown to the male species, a book containing an exhaustive list of what fabric patterns “go together,” and which do not. How else could someone come up with such an arbitrary rule that says plaids don’t go with polka dots? Why not?

Part two of the book contains the same sort of mysterious information about colors—which ones go together well, and which ones trigger an epileptic seizure if used together. To make matters worse it uses weird names for colors that men have never heard of, like mauve and puce.

But there is hope, men. After thirty years of indecision I have finally solved the sock problem. Simply buy black socks, maybe ten identical pairs. First, that limits your choices, shaving perhaps twenty minutes off your daily pondering of what will pass inspection. Second, as an added bonus, since your washing machine always eats just one sock (never both socks), just throw the single into your sock drawer, knowing it has eighteen more identical friends in there.

I also have helpful information about suits. The really great thing about a suit is that you don’t have to decide which jacket will go with your trousers. That decision has been made for you. Hurray!

But the really bad thing about suits is that, it is, after all, a suit. You never get near as much work done wearing a suit as you do in a pair of jeans. And besides, suits are magnets for catsup, pizza, and spaghetti. Your wife might make you wear a bib with your suit when you’re eating.

But of this you can be assured: the bib will match the suit. Perfectly.

The Oil Change

“I wouldn’t publish that story, if I were you,” my wife said, raising her eyebrows. It’s a look she reserves for when I’m about to do something really dumb.

“I don’t know why not. After all, it’s true.”

“Yes, but people might think you’re stu—.” She caught herself and didn’t finish. Somehow I knew the missing word wasn’t ‘stupendous.’

“Ah, c’mon, babe. They already know I’m not a car guy. My Dakota, er, Ranger proves that.”

I decided to publish anyway, which I reckon I don’t need to tell you since you’re reading it at the moment.

So the Dak—, um, Ranger needed an oil change. Actually it needed it about four months ago so I figured I’d better get right to it, rather than putting it off. I do like to be timely about these things.

I drove it over to the oil change place, and found that I was the only customer—a bit of luck I would later be quite thankful for. So they guided me right into the service bay and began their interrogation.

“So how are your wipers, sir?”

“Wipers are fine, don’t bother with ‘em.”

“And how about your transmission fluid?”

“Fluid’s fine, leave it alone.”

“We’re running a special on flushing your radia—”

“NO thank you! Just want the oil changed.”

“Your cabin air filter is looking a little dingy.”

“Oil. Change. Just change the oil,” I said, feeling a little snippy. “I don’t want anything else.”

“I understand that, sir, but we just want to make sure that you’re aware of all our services. Would you like your lawn mowed?”

I just glared at him and didn’t answer.

He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Got it. Oil change.”

He shoved a little box in my face. “Keys. Put ‘em in there.”

What? Do they think I’m stupid? Do they think I’d really start the truck when their head is under the hood? Anyway, I frowned at him and dropped my keys in the little box.

“Pop the hood, please, sir.”

I reached down and pulled the release. Nothing happened. I groaned. I seemed to remember that this had happened before and I’d had a dickens of a time releasing the hood. I yanked the release again. Nothing. Again, harder. Nothing.

So I reached way under the dash, curled my fingers around the cable trying to exert more force on it than the lever did.

Nothing.

After being so grouchy about the oil change I felt a little sheepish. I poked my head out the window. “I’ve had trouble with this before. Could you bang on the hood?” So while they waled away at my hood I grabbed the lever and pulled again and again.

Nothing.

Finally I got out of the truck, stood on the front bumper, put my full weight on the hood, and sort of bounced on it. The mechanics all kind of backed away from me at that point.

Nothing.

Oh, well. We all jointly decided that the oil change would have to wait for another day. They gave me my keys back, and started motioning for me to drive away. I think they really wanted me to leave. I started the truck, reached for the emergency brake release and—oops. No wonder the hood didn’t pop up.

Feeling really stupid, I turned off the truck, reached for the hood release lever, and the hood popped up as nice as you please.

I didn’t bother to explain. It was at this time I was very thankful there were no other customers in the store. Wouldn’t want anyone to know about this anyway. I’d never live it down.

When I was finally driving away, it occurred to me: the hood release problem I thought I remembered? It never happens on the truck. It happens on my Ford Vue.

Darke County Update #6

[Editor’s Note: Some portions of the following might be true, though the author claims plausible deniability.]

So here I was, sitting in my Dakota, waiting for the light at Aldi’s to turn green. That darn light changes with glacial speed. While waiting I was enjoying the latest round of global warming, shivering and watching my breath freeze to the inside of my windshield. Was wearing gloves so my fingers wouldn’t stick to the steering wheel. That stoplight is so slow I began to worry that my truck just might freeze itself solid to the pavement whilst waiting for the green. If that did happen and I wasn’t able to pull forward when the light turned, the people in the two-car rush-hour backup behind me would be pretty unhappy.

On the other hand, if I did get frozen to the pavement I’d only miss one turn of the light. The next time it turned green it would probably be sunny and 70. So I should be okay.

Speaking of the weather, the latest cold snap has got me thinking that global warming must really be true. Apparently the way it works is that all the regions of the world collect their coldest air and send it through some sort of polar vortex right into Darke County, Ohio. Meanwhile, everyone else gets all the warm air. If my understandin’ is correct, then it’s gettin’ warmer everywhere but Darke. So it truly is Global Warming, combined with a mite bit of Darke County Cooling. Aren’t we lucky.

Which reminds me of squirrels, although I’m not sure why it should.

I am engaged in a cold war with the squirrels. I suppose you could say it’s a “cold war” because of the Darke County Cooling we are experiencing. But truth be told, it’s a “cold war” because I haven’t started shootin’. Yet.

But I am seriously contemplating going nuclear. That would be twelve-gauge nuclear. Don’t tell the Sheriff I said that.

In any case, those darn squirrels have gotten into my birdseed again. I’ve got a cake feeder hanging from a pole with one of those allegedly squirrel-proof baffles around the middle of the pole. Supposed to keep the furry rodents from climbing up the pole and getting to the birdseed cake.

Have you ever tried to put one of those allegedly squirrel-proof baffles together? I don’t advise it. The consarned thing comes in two halves (otherwise you couldn’t thread it onto the pole). Each half possesses some sort of system of alternating plastic tabs that interlock just so with the other half. I am quite sure the patent on this impossible device was secured by the same guy who designed the Rubiks Cube. You need four hands all working in perfect coordination, while you are simultaneously eyeballing the contraption from above and below, so you can get all those interlocking tabs to interlock with the interlocking tabs on the other half. It’s just not going to happen. Not without a substantial loss of your sanctification, at any rate.

When you finally get the silly thing together for the second time (it takes twice, because the first time you forget to assemble it with the stupid pole on the inside) and you are lying prostrate on the frozen ground in contented exhaustion, you experience a momentary giddy feeling (probably best characterized as madness). This arises from the misplaced confidence you feel, to wit: if it took you, an intelligent human being, three hours to assemble this thing then the dumb squirrels will never figure out how to disassemble it. Victory at last! The war is won! The seedcakes are safe!

Until you watch those rascally creatures take that doggone thing apart in less than five minutes, grab the seedcake and run up a tree with it, chuckling all the while. That, my friends, is when I headed for the shotgun. Gonna turn this cold war hot.

And that’s the news from Greenville.

Darke County Update #5

[Editor’s Note: Some of the following could maybe be true, though I wouldn’t put any money on it myself.]

There’s an important expression writers use. Whenever you hear someone teaching writing, or talking about the process of writing, someone’s gonna say it: “less is more.”

Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Down right contradictory. But it’s true. Less is more. Leastwise, it is if you’re not talking about cash or wearing clothes. I can testify about the cash part. Less is definitely not more.

As regards clothing, I think some of the young folks get confused about that expression. Maybe their English Composition teachers didn’t tell ‘em, “Hey, we’re just talking about writing. Adverbs, adjectives, the passive voice. Words. That sort of thing.” These young people appear to believe it has something to do with how much clothes one wears. Less is more, right? In any case, there’s some young folks givin’ that saying a whirl when they dress for school.

I was talkin’ to Claudette the other day. And it really did threaten to take most of the day. The conversation, I mean. Talking to Claudette mostly involves listening—it’s sort of one-way. Claudette is one of those folks you wish applied the “less is more” principle to her conversation. Was gonna say I wish she applied it to her yacking but being as how I don’t want to upset my wife, we’ll just stick with conversation.

Claudette always has plenty of conversation. I do believe that lady could talk the hind leg off a mule. When you run into Claudette, you don’t check your watch, you check your calendar.

As I was saying, I was talking to Claudette and she was sharing, well, prayer requests about her neighbors. Leastwise, that’s what she called ‘em. Funny how those prayer requests were givin’ me a lot of information that I had no business knowing and she had no business telling.

So I was trying to distract her onto safer territory. “Say,” I says, “did you know Melvin’s sow had piglets?” Which is true. Melvin’s sow really did have her piglets.

Claudette snorted, “Oh, tosh! Josephine told me that two whole days ago. But you probably haven’t heard that Melvin’s wife was shouting at him in their backyard yesterday. Josephine thinks we should pray for their marriage and I agree.”

“Actually, Claudette, Melvin’s wife was shoutin’ at him because he forgot where he put his hearing aids and that’s the only way she can get his attention when he’s not wearin’ ‘em. Don’t you go tellin’ stories about Melvin and his wife. You want to pray for something, pray that he finds those hearing aids.”

She wasn’t interested in Melvin’s piglets or his hearing aids, so I decided I’d best figure out how to move on before she started telling me about Roy’s son getting kicked out of college for dropping a cherry bomb down the toilet. He’d probably have gotten off with just a warning, except for the dormitory bathroom he bombed was on the fifth floor and by the time they got the water under control the first two floors had flooded. I’d already heard that story from Josephine myself.

Well, she was warmin’ up to another tale and I could see the whole day passin’ right before my eyes if I didn’t do something quick. So I dug my smartphone out of my pocket and pretended to be texting Claudette’s latest prayer requests to my wife. But actually, I confess that I was really dialing my own number. I answered it when it rang and acted like it was my wife calling me home because my son accidentally drove over the neighbor’s mailbox. Which wasn’t true of course—I was just desperate to get away from Claudette. After I disentangled myself from the dear woman and was driving home it hit me that it was not a good idea to lie to Claudette. First because lies don’t please the Lord and they always come back to haunt you anyway. And second, because by the end of the day half of Greenville will be praying for my neighbor’s mailbox.

Less is more. Certainly true in this case. The less time I spend listening to Claudette, the more thankful I am.

And that’s the news from Greenville.

Darke County Update #4

[Editor's note: Some of the following is probably true.]

Love Darke County. Darke has your typical mix of Democrats and Republicans. We love our politics, but at least we fight fair around here. Its not like some places I’ve heard about. Was talking to a fellow who just moved here from California. He said their Board of Elections back in San Fran delivers absentee ballots to the local cemetery. He told me that California people consider places like Darke County to be flyover country. I figure they surely must be right: whenever my wife and I go on a picnic during the summer, there’s always flies over us.

Darke County is the home of a lot of good folks. And a lot of really unusual good folks. I don’t mean that they are unusually good, but just good and unusual. Yes sir, we’ve got a strange bird or two in the area. Or three.

For example, I know one fellow that heats his home with wood. Insulates it with wood, too. On the outside. Must be something like R300 by now. He’s probably got twenty, thirty cord of wood stacked around his house, goin’ from the exterior wall to the very edge of his property. Sorta looks like one of General Anthony Wayne’s palisades.

Then there’s another boy I know that loves snow. A good friend. Has got him one of those self-propelled snow blowers that throws snow maybe sixty feet. Snowed last night, and this morning he’s out, throwin’ snow clear into the next neighborhood, plowing neighbor’s driveways, sidewalks, lawns, the street—anywhere there’s snow. He was enjoyin’ it too. I know it because his face was frozen into a grin.

And then there’s Eli, another friend. When Eli needs his family vehicle repaired, he takes it to John Deere. He’s the only guy I know that brings his groceries home on a twenty-foot flatbed. But if you want honest quality work done, whatever it might be, call Eli.

Sam likes guns. No, actually, Sam loves guns. I’ve seen his basement, and it’s not a basement, it’s a cotton-pickin’ armory. Sam could outfit every member of the 82^nd Airborne with long rifles and handguns, complete with enough ammunition to invade a small country, like maybe Australia. I'm surprised Sam hasn't got an M1A1 Abrams parked in his front yard. Hmm, come to think of it, I've never checked his garage.

And then, of course there’s me. I’m diverse all by my lonesome. For example, I love running. Well, that’s not exactly true: I love to hate running. I love to hate running so much, that when I can’t run, I really miss hating it. Which makes me want to run. Even though I hate it. Like I said, I’m a one-man diversity crew.

I like to call what I do “running,” but in fact it’s just a jog. A slow jog. Okay, a really vigorous waddle. When you see a slow-moving ambulance followed by a couple of buzzards and maybe a lawyer or two, they’re probably following me on one of my runs, hoping for an opportunity. I don't take it personal. In any case, so far I haven’t given ‘em one.

Yeah, Darke County’s got it’s own collection of pretty unusual people. But it’s home and I seem to fit right in.

And that’s the news from Greenville.

Darke County Update #3

[Editor’s note: Some portions of the following could possibly be true.] [Or not.]

Best place for free exercise in Greenville is our large indoor mall. It’s got miles and miles of aisles. In fact, I’ll bet one lap around the inside is probably close to 3.1 miles—the equivalent of a 5k. Only problem is if you jog instead of walk you run the risk of bowling over shoppers. Besides, you’ll probably get stuck behind some little old lady with a slow cart. But still—it’s indoors and a lot nicer than running out in the weather.

Wait a minute, you object. Greenville doesn’t have an indoor shopping mall!

Sure it does. Right across the street from Krogers. If you squint your eyes just right, it sort of looks like one. If you squint a little harder, the sign kind of looks like “Mallmart” if you use just a tad of imagination. And it surely has the same outdoor features: massive parking lot with all the spaces near the entrance already taken, cars prowling around racing each other for spots recently abandoned by shoppers leaving, the obligatory eighteen-wheelers idling on the perimeter, an occasional pickup truck camper staying in the same place for two weeks.

And then on the inside, just think of the different departments as individual little stores. When you think about it, hard enough, it’s just like an indoor mall. Big enough for one, certainly.

Yeah, well, if it’s a mall where's the food court?

Cookie aisle, of course.

So anyway, I was at Mallmart doin’ my laps when I ran into Wilson. Literally. I was trying to jog the straight stretch between the Hunting Store and the Shoe Store. Poor Wilson popped out from the Seasonal Aisle and I sort of knocked him over, his cart over, and some guy I didn’t know. Bread and milk went flying, but thankfully the milk didn’t burst open. The stranger’s fall was broken by Wilson’s five loaves of bread—good for him. Not so good for the bread. Sorta flattened it.

Anyway, after apologizing profusely and picking up the stranger (who was more than a little agitated at me, not sure why) and getting Wilson set back on his feet, I tried to make a joke: “Fancy running into you here, Wilson.” He didn’t laugh, just kinda glared at me as he picked up his squashed bread. “So, what’s with all the bread and milk?” I asked.

“Snow storm coming,” he grumbled.

“You planning on eating all five loaves by yourself?” Wilson is a confirmed life-long bachelor. Tends to the cantankerous side, which could explain his single sojourn.

“Just want to be ready,” he muttered as he retrieved the four gallon jugs of milk.

“The forecast is for flurries, Wilson. I don’t think you’re gonna get snowed in.”

“You never know. So what are you getting ready for, the Olympics?” he asked sarcastically, eyeing my running shoes.

“Nah. The Ansonia Firecracker,” I answered.

“That’s six months away, genius. Don’t you think you could wait a month or two and run outside when the weather’s better, rather than knocking people over in here?”

“Just want to be ready,” I said, winking at him. “Well, I’d better, you know,  run along.”

“Maybe you oughta walk,” he said over his shoulder as he pushed his cart toward the snow shovel store in Mallmart..

And that’s the news from Greenville.

Darke County Update #2

[Editor’s note: Some portions of the following are probably true]

Took the car to Splash & Dash on Saturday (not my Dakota—that whole truck would probably disappear right down the drain if I ever dared wash it). Drove away feeling wonderful--like I’d had a shower. Might have something to do with the fact that several of the windows weren’t closed all the way.

If there is another town on planet Earth, other than Greenville, that has a Splash & Dash car wash, I surely don’t know what it might be. Never seen one before I moved here. Haven’t seen one anywhere else since. Love it. It’s another advantage to living in Greenville, and you can add it to last week’s list of local cultural attractions: we have the world’s greatest car wash.

But I’m not talking about dirty cars this week. Want to talk about signs. I always figured the whole point of signs was to communicate something—and if I’m not mistaken, the whole point of communicatin' is to communicate. If you get my drift.

Ever seen this sign? 

Now what exactly does it communicate? Says that I need to limit my Dakota to 20 mph during restricted hours (which in principle is no great problem, seeing as how the last time I exceeded 20 in that wonderful truck was when I got out and pushed). But I’m curious. What hours are restricted? Am I supposed to know? Did I miss this lecture during driver’s education? Well, that's probably an unfair question.  My driver’s ed had more to do with whether I was drivin' a two-horse or four-horse team, and the proper way to park at a hitching rail.

Anyway, do those restricted hours change during a two-hour delay? Or during the summer? Or on Saturday?

How about this sign?

When children are present? What does that mean? What if they are a hundred yards away in the playground—does that count as present? Does present mean when they are sitting in the building? Does present include when two kids are strolling down the sidewalk on Sunday afternoon? And if they're not present at that point, what are they? Absent?

Does present mean when the traveling-all-scholastic nerf-ball team is unloading from the buses at midnight after their return from Columbus, where they just won the state championship?

Only good thing about these signs is that I’m thinkin’ so hard, trying to figure out what they mean, that I have to slow down anyway. I can’t think and drive at the same time. Leastwise, that’s what my wife tells me.

Seems like somewhere (else, not Greenville) I remember seeing signs that say, “Speed Limit 20 when lights are flashing.” Now that would probably do the trick. I think even I could figure that one out.

Ever seen this sign north of Walmart?

Speed limit 35? 

Why? Ain’t nothing there but fields!

Now this here is my favorite speed-limit sign. It’s located on northbound Greenville-Celina Road just north of the flashing yellow light.

There’s no sign there!, you object.

Um-hmm. That’s why I like it.

And that’s the news from Greenville.

Darke County Update #1

[Editor's note: some portions of the following are probably true.]

Wasn’t from anywhere till I moved here, mostly because I was from everywhere. Moved around a mite. Now I’m from somewhere and have been for fifteen years. Admittedly, it’s a somewhere that’s nowhere as far much of the world is concerned. Greenville is typically a waypoint, not a destination, on most people’s GPS. But Greenville’s fine by me. It’s home.

Fellow was showing me around ‘fore I moved into town. Said there was no place in Greenville more than five minutes from any other place in Greenville. Sounded to me like he was apologizing, but I took it as one of its selling points. I don’t like big. Far as I am concerned, Dayton can stay thirty minutes south. Don’t want it here.

As far as culture goes, we’ve got Memorial Hall, the Darke County Courthouse, a great library, and the finest traffic circle this side of the state line. And where else will you find the birthplace of Lowell Thomas, the shootin’ range of Annie Oakley, and a Maid Rite all in one little town? Okay, Thomas was born in Woodington, but it’s real close. A hair more than five minutes away.

Speaking of Thomas, did you know he moved to Victor, Colorado when he was eight, and spent some time there as a gold miner? And did you also know that the whole mining district around Victor—which includes Cripple Creek—is still producing gold to this day? Been thinking about following in young Lowell’s footsteps. But I digress.

So I was sitting in my trusty Dodge Dakota at the stoplight at Aldi’s. For about two hours. Or so it seemed.

That is the slowest stoplight in Darke County—which is quite a feat, I might add. I was trying to make a left from Shawnee and head north. Decided to turn off the truck to save gas while I was waitin’ on the light, when it finally turned green. Somebody had to wake up the driver behind me. Fell asleep waiting on that light.

Traffic in Greenville is never much of a problem. Might have five cars or so build up at the light at McDonalds during the height of rush hour. More of a problem are the folks who persistently refuse to use the middle turn lane for their left turns, and instead come to a full stop in the traffic lane, waiting for a golden invitation to turn left. Wonder what they think that middle lane is for?

And then there’s Jezebel. That’s what I call the light at Krogers. Always turns red when I approach it, even when there’s no one on the side street. Always turns red. Doesn’t matter time of day or night. Doesn’t stay red long, just long enough to get its two cents in, I suppose.

Greenville is now on the green-energy map. We have acquired three lovely wind turbines. Whirlpool says those turbines are there to power the factory, but I have a different theory. The green folks have never allowed City Hall to control the goose situation at City Park, geese being more important than people after all. So the wise folks at City Hall approved those wind turbines, as long as they were placed in the main goose flyway. Figured that it might cut down on the population a mite. The greens couldn’t hardly argue with wind turbines, them being green energy and all. Kind of placed ‘em in a catch-22. That’s my theory anyway.

One last thing. Heard rumors that when Mr. Brown turned on his Christmas lights this year, the generator on turbine #2 went up in smoke. Don’t know if it’s true, and I reckon they fixed it. My lights still dim, though, when he turns on his display. Gotta love those lights. It’s the only part of Greenville visible from the International Space Station. Kinda puts us on the map. We are definitely somewhere.

And that’s the news from Greenville.

My Garbage disposal is indisposed

[Editor's Note: The following story is true. Mostly true. Okay, somewhat-but-not-too-greatly embellished. Names have been changed to protect the incompetent.  Any resemblance to someone you know is purely accidental. No garbage disposals were harmed in the following account. Well, not too much, anyway.]

"What is that?" you ask.

IT'S THE EVIL EYE!

No, really, it’s an award-winning photograph looking down the maw of my voracious garbage disposal. Only I haven’t really won any awards with the picture. I keep hoping Better Homes and Gardens will see it.

Anyway, my garbage disposal is indisposed, is no longer voracious, and therefore I am, well, disposing of it. In a moment of inexplicable madness, I decided to do the job myself. I never learn. 

It doesn’t help my confidence when Step #1 tells me to use a qualified installer. Oh well. At least one-twentieth of the instructions are in English—surely this can’t be too hard! I can do this, even if it does have seventy-four steps and a release of legal liability I need to sign. No sweat.  

I convince myself that the hardest part of the task will be getting to the disposal. The valuable contents under my kitchen sink would probably fill two Mayflower moving vans. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little—the contents aren’t really that valuable.

Anyway, I am psyching myself up for this job. I want to see how long it takes me, so I’m setting the calendar app on my phone to time myself. Not sure whether I should choose the “week” display or the “month” display. I’m optimistic, so I’ll choose “week.” Ready, set GO!

Oh, brother. The first problem is Mandy. As I’m trying to unload the contents under the sink into a spare 40’ shipping container on the driveway, Mandy wants to explore. Under the sink. Go away, cat!

I removed enough glass vases to stock a flower shop well into the 22^nd century. Some of those vases were big enough to plant a large sapling in. If you need any glass vases, give me a call. I’ll pay you to take ‘em.

There were enough cleaning supplies under there to sanitize Love Canal. Oh, wait, most of you probably aren’t old enough to get that reference. Never mind.

When I finally wheeled away the stuff that was stored under my sink I had enough room to chase down the little troll that lives under there. I boxed his ears and told him to go live in the basement drain. 

Wait, sorry, overactive imagination. There is no troll under my sink. But there are probably a few orcs under there. . . .

As I get deeper into this complex job, the number of tools on the jobsite grows. I later discovered that I didn't need the shovel. But I have a feeling I might need the crowbar. For . . . something.

See this little guy right here. He’s crucial for the job. He’s also a little life-threatening, especially if you happen to be a certified jack-leg (which I am). You see, there’s this little collar that holds your disposal up to the bottom of the sink. The little funny-shaped wrench is what you use to turn the collar and release the disposal.

I figured that after sitting there disposing of garbage since the 1960’s, that little collar would be frozen solid. So I wormed around, contorting my 6’2” frame into a space designed for one of the Seven Dwarfs, put that wrench on that collar and applied some real potatoes to it (you know, like enough to open a file drawer). That baby's got to be frozen solid.

Nope. That ol' garbage disposal came down like a satellite reentering the earth’s atmosphere. I wasn't ready for it. It crashed into the (rotten) cabinet floor and I was sure it would keep going all the way into the basement, and crush the poor troll (who by this time, had wisely relocated to where he thought he would be out of harm’s way). (Guess again, sucker!)

Anyway, glad it didn't hit me on the way down. Whew! After playing dodge-ball with the old disposal, I discovered this in the new disposal's box. Wish I'd seen it earlier.

Finally, got the flotsam and jetsam cleaned up. Discovered a significant fact in cleanup: did you know that when you’ve disconnected all the plumbing under your double sink, and then run some water to assist with cleanup, that water doesn’t go where you think it’s gonna go—even if you run it into the side that didn’t have the indisposed disposal?

After cleaning up the mess and having survived heavy fallen objects and other artifacts of ineptitude, I am finally ready to install the new disposal.  I look at my timer. Good! The calendar page hasn’t flipped yet! We're still in the same week! After shooing Mandy off the instructions I dive in. Hmm. I wonder what plumber’s putty is?

Finally get most all the pieces parts in their proper place (I am ignoring the ones remaining—obviously the manufacturer must have shipped spares). It is now time for the big moment. Somehow I need to lift this ninety-pound disposal with only one hand while laying on my back and using the other hand to guide it into place, while I use my OTHER hand to tighten the little ringy thing that keeps the whole assembly from falling on me (like a satellite reentering—you remember). This is the other place where that funny little wrench comes into play.

Wait. I’ve just got two hands, and neither (nor both together) can lift this boat anchor into place whilst on my back.

Houston, we have a problem.

This requires some thought.

The final solution (disturbing phrase, that) was to wedge myself under the cabinet with the disposal resting on my knee (glad I’ve been running—plenty of strength there), and leverage it up with my knee while my two hands guide the beast into place and turn that bloomin' collar, desperately trying to prevent the monster from duplicating the reentry descent of the old one.

It worked. Whew. The disposal is secure.

Now for the electrical. This I can do, no problem, as soon as I figure out why some wires are white and the others black. Do opposites attract? Or is it birds of a feather? Oh whatever! Just hook ‘em up and worry about color later . . .  

After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, interspersed with multiple trips to Lowes, a few calls to my psychiatrist, and totally redoing the plumbing under the sink, I finish the task. Probably not in record time, though. Doesn't matter. My disposal disposes. That's what counts.

That moment when you realize you're an idiot.

Have you ever had one of those “aha!” moments in which an aspect of your own behavior you had thought wise is revealed to be utterly foolish?

Having preached on wisdom this morning from Proverbs 2, this is a particularly embarrassing “aha.” More like an “oops.” Or perhaps a “well, duh!” Maybe even a “you bonehead!”

‘Twill be a bit complicated to unwind this thing, so bear with me. It’s about my books [I write books you’ve never heard of, okay?]. It’s about trusting in the Lord, or rather, misplaced trust. No, I must be honest here: it’s about sheer, fire-engine red, fog-horn-blasting stupidity. On my part.

Maybe I’d better back up and start over. I write books. I like to write. I write great stories [just ask me—I’ll tell you]. But I hate marketing. So I figured to be religious about this marketing business: “If the Lord wants my books to sell, He’ll make it happen.” Sounds very spiritual, doesn’t it? Sounds like real confidence in the Lord, right? It’s super-spiritual, wise serenity, right?

Well, yeah. Of course it is  . . . At least, it sounds that way.

Until we apply that logic elsewhere. Allow me to demonstrate:

“If the Lord wants this field to grow my crops, He’ll plant the seed.”

“If the Lord wants me to pay my bills, He’ll bring in the money whether or not I work.”

“If the Lord wants me to be a marathon runner, He’ll give me the cardio, the leg muscles, and the absolute foolishness [wait, I didn’t actually say that, did I?] to run 26.2 miles. [Don’t forget the point two, otherwise you ain’t crossin’ that finish line, Bubba.]

We pause now for theological identification . . .

The theology in the prior paragraph is known as Keswick theology, and is usually identified by the mantra “let go and let God.” While there is a time and place in which that saying has good credibility (such as, I’m going to let go of my dream of a pain-free life, and let God work through me even in the midst of my suffering), in most cases it winds up meaning, “I’m going to stop sweating it and sit back in my rocker and let God sanctify me.” The problem is that many purveyors of this theology forget to ever get out of the rocker, i.e. they missed the memo that said, “DISCIPLINE thyself to godliness” (1 Timothy 4:7).

We now resume our normal programming . . .

So, there I was, letting go and letting God, trusting Him to not only cause the growth but cultivate and plant the ground as well. I have been doing NOTHING at all about marketing these six excellent stories I have written. It finally struck me the other day that though I profess the biblical view of sanctification, when it came to my books I am a functional Keswicker [is that even a word?].

That’s gonna change. I still HATE MARKETING. But I see now that I need to work hard at it, and THEN trust the Lord for the results. So for the near future, there’s gonna be less writing and more marketing. [Sigh. I really, really don’t like marketing . . .]

Editor of the Babylon Bee stung in early morning raid

Muleshoe, TX – In a stunning pre-dawn raid, a strike team composed of EPA and FDA agents arrested Calvin Johns, editor of the Babylon Bee. He was charged with butchering sacred cows without a license and was taken into custody. A federal judge refused to set bail, indicating Johns had not displayed the slightest remorse.

“Johns has been butchering sacred cows for several years,” the lead agent for the FDA claimed. “He’s left carcasses all over the place. It’s a health risk. When you witness the heartbreak and disillusionment experienced by the poor owners of those sacred cows, it’s a wonder that Justice does not charge him with hate crimes.”

Millennials Michael Servetus and his wife Arminy were standing over their deceased bovine, weeping, but agreed to comment on the arrest. “It’s about time someone arrested that guy. He’s so cruel! We loved our sacred cow. We worshiped our sacred cow,” Servetus said, dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. Mrs. Servetus interrupted, “No, not worshiped, Michael. Venerated. We venerated our cow. There is a difference.”

“Oh, right. We venerated Bossie.” The couple refused further comment and got into their vehicle, intending to shop for another sacred cow.

The EPA agent at the scene was disgusted. “This is another Love Canal. There’s doctrine rotting all over the place. The smell is awful. At the very least, Johns could have cleaned up his mess. Instead, he just left the guts of sacred cows right where they lay, for all to see. It’s ugly, you know?”

PETA was reportedly filing an amicus brief with the court, asking the prosecutor to press for the death penalty. “Sacred cows have just as much right to life as any human,” the spokeswoman said. “Johns is setting a terrible precedent here. Not only is there the problem of all these poor butchered cows, but we are also concerned that people could start abandoning their cows. Those poor cows could starve to death without proper attention. Johns is clearly bovinophobic. The planet would be better off without him.”

Unnamed sources claimed that Johns was pressing for a plea bargain, in which he would agree to stop slaughtering cows so long as he could gore oxen. Prosecutors are refusing to comment.

Running Commentary, Part Two

Ran 3 miles today. Bluetooth headphones worked great this time. I identified my problem from before - it was a BUOD (pronounced Boo odd), also known as a one dee ten tee (a 1D10T). Might take some of you a bit to translate, but maybe if I unwind BUOD it will help: Bad User On Device.

In any case, Strava did not do much better today. I disabled the auto-pause function and was able to get rid of the running pause/running resumed problem. But the User Interface is not very intuitive. I have a feeling much of the problem is my phone: a Samsung Galaxy Proclaim. You know how the Android operating systems are designated by a cute little confectionary, like Gingerbread, Jelly Bean, or Lollipop? Well, mine is Okra. Or Eggplant. Early, early days. It's so bad that if you want to make a phone call at 11, you need to start dialing at 10:30.

So Strava is getting a bad rap on my DumbPhone. But I will say this: for all its problems, RunKeeper actually works on my DumbPhone. Strava seems to be really struggling.

Running Commentary

Okay, I ran today. It was an experience. I’m the only person you know who can turn a simple thirty minute jog into a ninety minute technological nightmare. Wanna shake my hand?

Anyway, let’s get to the good news first. I ran.

Now, on to the bad news . . .

Okay, there was more good news. I successfully carried my Christmas snacks, all of ‘em, around my three-mile course, without dying of a heart attack. That’s really good news. On the other hand, I was sufficiently apoplectic over my technology problems that it was far more likely a stroke would take me than an exercise-induced heart-attack. So I suppose I can add that to the good-news side of the ledger: I died neither of stroke nor heart attack, and at the moment of this writing remain in the land of the living.

I did, however, lose my sanctification. If anyone sees it laying beside the road, would you please catch it and drop it by the house?

That was the beginning of the bad news. Pray, continue.

Today I got to use my new Bluetooth headphones for the first time. Maybe the last time. I am seriously considering uninstalling them and reinstalling the tin cans and string that preceded them. Using these headphones requires an intelligence quotient I haven’t seen since college.

The right earpiece comes with five controls allowing me to control my music and to use the telephone—which I am bound and determined to never do. In my opinion, telephones are designed to be seen and not heard, but that’s another story: back to the music.

No one told me two essential pieces of information: first, it requires the fingers of a concert pianist to hit “volume up” rather than “dial the telephone,” especially when you are simultaneously lugging your Christmas cookies around the block.

My inability to hit the proper button perturbed me significantly until I landed upon yet another insight—the second piece of information about which I was not informed: these headphones randomly reassign the buttons to different functions as you run. Ha! Two minutes ago that WAS the volume-up button. Now it’s the “skip this song” button!

This was not a pleasant discovery. You see, part of the fun of running—wait, no, let me phrase that more accurately—part of that which makes running slightly more tolerable than a root canal is listening to music as I haul my cookies over the landscape. And because I am mostly deaf, I need a slightly elevated volume when I run. You know, sort of like the teenager who pulls up next to you at the light, music blaring so loud the vibrations readjust your mirrors? Yeah, that’s me when I’m running.

So the first mile I’m running with my fingers in my ear, punching buttons, frantically trying to get my music to a rock-concert decibel level where I can hear it. No dice. Very faint, barely audible. I found the “skip this song” button, the “dial this phone” button, the “volume down” button, but no “volume up” button.

Due solely to the fact that it is very wearisome (not to speak of embarrassing) to run with your finger in your ear, I gave up and slogged the next mile with nothing more than the faintest whisper of music.

Somewhere in mile two I decided to try again. Wouldn’t you know it, the button randomizer had assigned the volume-up function to the “volume up” button. Oh, thank you, thank you! I adjusted the volume to where it was setting off car alarms as I ran past, and I was happy as a clam.

Until mile three. When [running paused] Strava, my running program on my smartphone [running resumed] decided to flake out. Every ten [running paused] seconds it [running resumed] was telling me that the [running paused] pause function had [running resumed] kicked in. Honestly, I was not going [running paused] that slow. [running resumed]! The only advantage [running paused] was that [running resumed] it made your favorite songs [running paused] last longer be-[running resumed]cause it paused the song with each announcement.

It did this little pause/resume thing for the rest of my run. Very tiresome. To add insult to injury, I couldn’t get Strava to exit when I finished my run. Finally just turned off the stupid phone. Rock concert was over, anyway.

Next time I run, I’m leaving the headphones and telephone home. Wish I could leave the cookies home, too.

[Editorial note: this is a true story, only slightly embellished He’s still looking for his sanctification.]

Windshield Washer Wars

Have you ever been driving down the Interstate in tight traffic when the guy in front of you decides to wash his windshield (usually on a cloudless, sunny day)? Suddenly arcing over his car is a spray so thick you can see rainbows in it, and it all falls on your windshield, so you get to wash yours, too. Some vengeful people will actually speed up, go around Mr. Inverted Niagra, and return the favor.

I, of course, have never done that! It wouldn’t be sanctified. And besides, my windshield washer behaves more like a cheap squirt-gun on empty. Not only will it not shoot over my windshield, it hardly dribbles. I spit more preaching than that thing does when it’s going full-bore. Oh, that was too much info, wasn’t it? Sorry.

Anyway, Doris comes home on Wednesday—we are one hour from leaving for Iowa for Thanksgiving—and announces that the windshield washer has quit even its spittin’ and would I please fix it? Hope against hope, I check the reservoir. Maybe it will be empty, and I can heal the bloomin’ thing by simply filling it up. No such luck. It was full to the brim. Well, there goes Monday. . . .

Monday—that would be today—was now scheduled with an impossible task: fixing the windshield washer thingy. I am neither a mechanic nor the son of a mechanic, although I do possess a relatively unique mechanical skill: I can stretch a 30 minute, one-screwdriver job into a deep-level excavation requiring all day and every socket, wrench, hammer and crowbar that I own. Knowing of my unique skill set, I hope fervently that today will be my lucky day. If I am really lucky, I start and finish on the same day. If I am not really lucky, I am walking to work tomorrow.

What I do best is talk, so I decided this morning to start with a little counseling. I sat down with the Vue, and in a kind, non-threatening, non-judgmental way tried to convince the car to resume dispensing windshield washer fluid. Just start the fluid coming again, and nobody gets hurt.

Might as well have been speaking to a dumb post. Out come the tools. Oh, my, there’s this thingy connected to that thingy, and this bundle of things is in the way, and . . . . 

If you’ve not been under the hood of a modern automobile, it’s kind of like this: to work on anything more complex than fueling the automobile, you need hands the size of a two-year-old attached to arms the length an NBA center's, and possessing the strength of a WWF wrestler. Actually, you need about four of those hand/arm/strength assemblies, plus a normal guy to hold the flashlight.

 

Working on a car is really good for my prayer life, because I pray like crazy that I’ll remember to reconnect everything to the proper connection. So, I start praying and removing parts. It does not matter what you want to remove, something else is in the way. So when you try to remove the something else, then there’s a new something else in the way. You pretty much need to disassemble the entire vehicle. 

I was accumulating a good sized pile of parts, and was wishing I could pray in tongues because I didn’t know what to call the widgets I was removing from the automobile, and even if I did know, I'd be unable to pronounce their names.

Meanwhile, time is moving on. Finally, sometime in the afternoon, I unearth the windshield washer reservoir (this is after I drained it all over the floor). The battery is now out of the car, and disconnected. The coolant overflow reservoir is now mostly unassembled, and almost out of the car. Hoses A through M have been disconnected, and, Oh, Lord, help me to remember to reconnect Hose G with Pipe G, and not Tank H!

Ah. The offending widget – the windshield washer pump – or, I suppose, the automatic transmission fluid pump, although I hope not.

 I drop the offending part in my pocket, and head for the auto parts store, confident that I can buy the part and finish this job in a mere six hours.

Not so fast, Speedy Gonzales. The parts store does not have the part and cannot get it. Okay, where can I get it? The kind parts man gets on the phone and starts dialing around. Advance Auto can order it and have it here by 4PM. I’ll take it. I come back at 4PM. It’s not here yet, maybe 6PM. Fine, the day is already wasted, what’s another two hours? I come back at 6PM, and the part is there as promised.

Have a good day, the nice auto parts man says. Thanks, I says, I will if I can finish this big job. Big job, he asks, looking at my little windshield washer pump. He’s trying hard not to chuckle. Well, yeah, I says, you’ve got to move all this stuff out of the way, the battery, the overflow, the . . . . I trail off, suddenly realizing that these guys are mechanics and that my big job would take them, maybe, ten minutes. Big jobs to these people are the ones where after you’ve removed the engine, overhauled it, and resized the piston bore, you install a new transmission kind of thing. Those big jobs take ‘em maybe thirty minutes. 

Having thoroughly embarrassed myself, I beat a hasty retreat. I get home and open the box of my brand new pump and find that the instrucciones are not much help.

 It is now dark in my garage, so I put a halogen work light on top of the engine to give me enough light. I wrap the extension cord around the license plate, so that I don’t accidentally pull the lamp off of the engine.

 I am reinstalling the whatzit and connecting it to the somthing-er-other, and sustain a devastating injury to my hands. Doris manages to convince me that I won’t bleed out for another sixty years at the current rate of hemorrhage. I ask her to kiss it and make it better, but she wants no part of it. Ah, my suffering. . . .

 At long last I am able to close the hood of my automobile without sitting on it, and figure that I must have everything back in place. An optimist, I decide I better back out of the garage before I try out my newly installed inverted Niagra windshield washer. As I am backing out of the garage, I notice with some bemusement that my halogen work light is following me out of the garage. Oh, boy. Forgot about that.

Now, if someday I am following close behind you on the Interstate in my Saturn Vue, go ahead. Try your windshield washer. Make my day.

Winter Storm Warning

Radar shows this nice mega-mass of precip headed our way. Supposed to get 7+" out of this little number, possibly as much as 10".

Temps a little warm at present. 32.6 on my back porch. Been thinking about emptying the ice tray into the back yard, to help out a little bit. Need to shave that 6/10 of a degree off the thermometer, and quick. Show-time should begin in about an hour, gets really heavy after midnight (an inch an hour).

Doris is making a batch of her awesome chicken-corn-chowder. Yummy stuff. We are about to play a round of Carcassonne, and then watch The Hobbit a little later. She even made a batch of cookies. Neither of us have to go to work tomorrow. Going to be Winter's last blast, and we're going to enjoy it, every last snowflake.

Have some church members about to leave for PA to assassinate Punxsutawney Phil, the groundhog. Seems that the little whistle-pig got his forecast a mite confused. Wonder if he was thinkin' of last year? Anyway, the only resident of Ohio not yet sick of winter is yours truly. Maybe I'm lucky they're not coming after me. 

Hmm. Never thought of that. Think I'll go lock the door and draw the curtains . . .

Waiting on Guhsnow in Greenville  [which usually never comes. Pardon the obscure literary allusion]

PC

My wild Virginia women

Want to tell you about my wild Virginia women. All three of 'em.






No, no, not her.

That's my wild Iowa woman, aka Doris, aka Football Momma.

She's my favorite wild woman.

Hasn't done as much damage as the other three, though. Not yet, anyway.












No, my three wild Virginia women are Isabelle, Irene, and Sandy.

Now, Isabelle came into my life about . . . hmm. Let me think. Been so many of 'em.

Oh, yeah. It was 2003. Here's a picture. Isn't she just the prettiest thing you've ever seen?



This one was taken by NASA. I've got a raft of my own pictures, but they're there and I'm here so they aren't handy. They're in Ohio, I mean, and I'm in Virginia. Waitin' on the next wild woman, name of Sandy.

Oh, wait. Forgot to tell you about Irene. She wasn't as wild as Isabelle, but it was still an experience.


She produced a pretty big storm surge.



You can read all about my adventures with Irene, here.

Anyway, now I'm waitin' on Sandy to show up. Typical woman. Takes her a long time to put it all together. She's out in the Atlantic somewhere, gettin' ready, wants to make a real splash when she shows up. You know, grand entrance and all that.

So yesterday we left Ohio, headed for Virginia, me and my faithful navigator.



No, you've got it wrong. My navigator's on the left, just over my hand, name of Garmin. That's my copilot on the right.


Anyway, it was a good day for ducks and hurricanes. Pretty sloppy weather.













Doris drove a bit, so I got a little work done on Falcon Down.
 

 But she didn't want to take on the West Virginia Speedway, I mean, Turnpike. So I had to take on the wild West Virginia drivers.


Still a dash of color in Virginia. The weather had cleared up a bit, too.


So, it's Sunday morning. I've spent some time with Luke, the beloved physician. And now I'm watching the rain on the river, waiting for that wild, wild woman, Sandy.