Almost Autumn

Saturday, September 18, 2021

Today I am grateful it’s almost autumn.  I can’t wait.  We had one or two clear, cool days, where I could open windows, actually move around without sweating and sit outside.  Then BAM, summer came back with a vengeance. 

I hate it. There, I said it.  Okay, if you hang around me, you know I say it every day.  Maybe hourly I bitch about it being hot, but geeze, this summer it seems unrelenting.  I just got back from Costco and had the windows open on the way there, even though it was already hot.  I just like the breeze and when Himself is with me the wind drives his hearing aids more crazy than I do so I don’t open them.  Much. 

By the time I parked and walked into the building I was a sweat ball.  Not a hair ball, a sweat ball, although I think I probably looked more like a hair ball.  The AC inside was moderate and I was in there a long time, spending way too much of it in the ice box that holds the fresh veggies.  Oh bliss. 

People were walking into the tundra area wearing spaghetti strapped tops, complaining and shivering.  Not me.  I was hugging the bags of broccoli, in the far corner and leaning into the AC vent like a beagle out the window of an old Buick.   I would have homesteaded there, but there was too much cart traffic as people whisked in and out before ice formed on their eyelashes.  Mine were just about feeling normal.  Blink-blink.

Stepping into Costco proper now felt hot.  Loading my crap on the belt felt hot.  And why did I only need things that weighed a ton when today I soloed?  I saw my friend, Zulul at the exit.  He was a parent in the school I worked at and he always asks after me and my family and I do the same.  Then I headed back out to the oven we call Pennsylvania.  It felt like Jakarta, Indonesia.  Again.

I loaded enough supplies for Armageddon into the back of my car, put my cart away (aren’t I a great person?) and got into the oven-on-wheels to drive home.  With the air on full and blasting me in the face. 

Still, even with the air on, by the time I got home my shirt was pasted to me like saran wrap.  “Total Woman”, my ass!  Anyone else remember that book from our youth?  “Greet your husband at the door covered in saran wrap.”  Only.  How about he greets me by turning the garden hose on me fully clothed in the driveway before I literally sweat to death?

By the time I got unloaded, the sweat was running in my eyes and when I turned fast to pick up the damned onions, which had a mind of their own it was shooting off of my hair.  Good thing I was home and not robbing a bank, because I was leaving my DNA everywhere.

I literally stuck my head under the kitchen faucet, ran water on my wrists, tried to climb into the freezer, hugged the pillow sized hamburger and put the frozen pot stickers on the back of my neck.  I’m to sexy for my groceries.

Good thing no one was here because I ripped that shirt and bra off, without any music and without the grace or form of Gypsy Rose Lee, doing a bra-toss through the pass-through to the chairs in the dining room.  Score!  Let them dry there.  I seriously don’t give a shit.

Even typing this I’m sweating like a felon on death row.  I turned our AC down so that when Himself comes home from golf he’ll complain about living in a meat locker.  Put on a parka.  Mama’s overheated!

He’ll probably find me in the recliner, my hands frozen to both remote controls. Netflix will be looping some mindless show and I’ll be speaking in tongues about how I hate the hot, humid weather and can’t wait until autumn!

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Purcellpro Painting

Thursday, September 16, 2021

Today I am grateful for Purcellpro Painting.  I can very strongly recommend this company, even though it’s taken me a while to say so.  And I feel a little bad for those of you in other parts of the country or even world, because I don’t think he travels that far.

Frank has painted the exterior of just about every house in our 55+ community.  We waited and waited before having our townhouse done, because even after 16 years it didn’t look too bad and I’m cheap. . .er, frugal.

Then another property had to have stucco remediation and every crack, fissure, nick in ours looked like a neon sign blinking, “Paint and patch it now, you fool, before you have to do a full remediation!”  I’m not deaf.  I can hear warnings from a mile away.

So, while Frank was working on our neighbor’s house, I asked if he could give me a card and do ours, too.  Guys balanced precariously on roofs, with a bucket of paint in one hand and a paint brush dangling from the other love getting questions from the ground.  He grumbled something and I left for the pool.

While I was gone, Himself, not knowing that I had already approached Frank, went outside and asked the same thing.  This time Frank responded and said, in his native Irish accent “Yea, yer dawter already asked me.”  Daughter?  Ouch!

When I got back home, Himself told me we could never use the guy to paint our house.  Then he told me what had happened and of course, I went right outside and told Frank that I thought it was the funniest thing ever, since I am Himself’s wife and he replied with, “Maybe.  But yer husband dina tink so!  And can I use your batroom?”

In that short time a bond was made.  He loved the painted walls I had done in my funky bathroom.  I showed him actual paintings I had done in the hall and kitchen and we got to talking about how he had also been an artist, but doesn’t have any of his work.   If any survived after him being gone for a lot of years, it’s still in his school in Ireland.  You know what I said to that!  “Get it!  Find out if they have it!  Get on it!”  Always the encourager.

The job he did on our house is incredible.  His crew is incredible.  I want him to paint the kitchen, but I’m waiting until he can no longer do outside work and also until he paints my friend’s interior in her new place.  She can’t hang pictures until it’s done and I can’t wait to see those pictures go up.

See how self-sacrificing I am?  Truth is I can’t decide on a color.  I was going to get rid of the terra cotta and go with a paper-bag-brown, but since everything else in the kitchen is brown, I’m looking at other options.  I don’t want the room to look like a used diaper.  Don’t you just love it when I work through my indecision where you can be part of it?  Lucky you.

I’m probably pushing my job back a bunch by recommending Frank Purcell, at Purcellpro Painting, but hey, that’s how I roll.  Finding someone you can trust to make changes to your home is often a chore.  Not with Frank.  It’s a joy.

If you do call him, tell him I sent you.  And if he does a job for you, bug the crap out of him by asking if he’s had his mum contact his old school to see if they have any of his artwork laying around.  Wait until he’s on a ladder, with one foot on a sill, trying to cut into the ceiling in a dicey corner.  Painters love that.

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Messing with Little Kids

Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Today I am grateful for messing with little kids.  Does that sound mean?  It’s really not.  It’s all about humor and humor like everything else can be taught.  Besides, my granddaughter messes with me, too.

I go over to pick her up early in the morning because day care is over and school hasn’t started.  I’ve done this several times a week.  This day she says to her mom, as she’s being ushered up the steps to get dressed, “Grammy ALWAYS wears that shirt!”  Her mom is mortified, but I’m hysterical.  She’s right, too, except I reminded her that sometimes I wear the purple one and not the blue.  Take that, kid!

Then she was in the bathroom when I was finishing my shower one day because not even grandma’s can have privacy.  Apparently.  I put gel on my hair and let it air dry.  She said, “Grammy, your hair looks a mess!  Aren’t you going to finish it?”  I explained that when it dried, I would fluff it out.  Geeze, kid, gimme a break!  I did hair behind a chair for 16 years.  I think I got this.

She wound up going to our anniversary lunch with us and grandpa had to run into COSTCO first so we waited in the car.  I had blown my hair dry and mentioned it to her, spun in the seat and looked right at her, turning my head side to side so she could see the whole thing, waiting for her review.  “It looks poofy!” she said.  Poofy?  Everybody is a critic.

I don’t feel bad, I just wait for the opportunity to “get” her.  When we got to the restaurant, I told her I needed to use the ladies room.  Of course, she came with me.  It was a single room and when I shut the door it was black as the ace of spades.  “Grammy, it’s too dark,” she said.  I laughed, flipped the switch and belted my old audition song, complete with stage movements, “You’ll be swell!  You’ll be great!  Gonna have the whole world on a plate.  Starting here, starting now, baby everything’s coming up roses!” 

I sang the entire song.  Full voice.  With both of us locked in the bathroom and doing our business.  When we got back to the table grandpa asked what had kept us and she rolled her eyes and said, “Grammy was singing the roses song!”

On our way home she asked me to sing it again.  So, I did.  In full voice.  Again.  FYI-my full voice is pretty full.  Himself was thrilled.  Hah.  Then I explained to her that I used to audition for plays and perform in them.  It’s time she learns about that side of Grammy.

“What other songs do you know?” she asked.  Oh boy.  Talk about opening the flood gates.  I pounded through a few from Funny Girl, South Pacific and Camelot.  We got home before I could do “Master of the House” from Les Miz.

Mess with me all you like, kid.  I can take it and I’m more than ready to mess with you right back.  BING!  Heartprint!

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Monday, September 13, 2021

Today I am grateful for the book, “Why I Hate Everything” (Reflections on a decade in retail), by Maggie Weber.  It’s available on Amazon and if you really want a distraction that will make you laugh, entertain and maybe feel just a little guilty, then get it.  Today!

This book was recommended to me by Maggie’s father, yet another good friend on Facebook whom I’ve never met.  It’s like my new career is gathering unknown friends.  I’m okay with that.  He is the human dad of Nacho, the wooden moose that graces his front lawn.  You might remember me writing about it.

I have a lot of people recommending a lot of different books to me all the time.  I simply can’t afford to buy them all, but the title of this one intrigued me and when I read the blurb, I figured maybe it was just what I could use right now. 

If you’ve ever held a job where you dealt with the public, then you are going to get a real kick out of this book.  I was a waitress, sold Halloween costumes and stood behind a chair as a hairdresser.  All fodder for an interesting life. 

Then I worked temp jobs and was given every single nasty task that no one who had the real job wanted to do, so they hired me, the menial peon to comply.  It sucked.  Big time.

Yet one of the temp jobs led to a real job as a property manager assistant, with good pay, a great boss and benefits.  Whoop-whoop. There I dealt with contractors, maintenance staff and tenants.  Each had their own foibles.  Maggie Weber would probably like the fact that I sent a surly contractor out of my office when he came in grumpy.  “Go and adjust your attitude and come back,” I said.  He did and we laughed about that many times.  He never showed up like a crab-ass again!

I believe that everyone of us has interesting stories from past jobs.  You will remember all of them when you read this book.  I sure did.  It’s assembled in short, pick-up-for-a-quick-read chapters.   Then you can’t wait to get to the next part so you read another chapter.  It was fun.  I needed fun.

I’m not much of a shopper, except for thrift stores and after reading this book I have a far greater appreciation for what is involved in making them function.  Far better!  I had no idea of the intricacies involved in second-hand retail.  When I donate, I’ll be more mindful and won’t shove that one nick-knack in the middle of the pillow bag.  I promise!

Maggie’s style of writing was informative, digestible and a little edgy.  Right up my alley.  I love a good colorful-language rant.  I thought I was the queen of them, but might have to turn my crown over to her, at least for a while.

If you read this book, will you discover the solutions to all of life’s problems?  Nope.  Not at all.  But you will be entertained, amused and probably even learn something.  “Why I hate Everything” did all of that for me and more.  But now I’m curious as to what jobs MY “dear readers” had that they could write a book about?  GO.

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Friday, September 10, 2021

Today I am grateful for Himself.  We’ve been married 39 years and I’m not sure how we survived.  He drives me crazy at least once every day and I’m sure vice versa.  He makes me laugh every day and I’m sure vice versa.  I love him every day and I’m sure vice versa.  I even like him most days and I hope vice versa.  What a ride!  BING!  Heartprint!

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Nurturing New Cyber Friendships

Thursday, September 9, 2021

Today I am grateful for nurturing new cyber friendships. Wow!  That’s a mouthful.  I’ve been saving this vacation post as my last (probably, unless something comes to me) because it deserves the honored spot, simply because of the risks taken.

I have a boat-load of friends on line, who would have never been in my life without social media.  I have friends all over the world, including Australia, Tunisia and Indonesia.  Some of them are new, some are continuing.  The same goes for friends all over this country.  It would be great to meet them someday, but it is also unrealistic.  Or so I thought.

I became friends with one woman when she saw my blog on another mutual friend’s page.  Ironically, I had only met that other friend a few times, but we hit it off, so there you have it.  I checked with that friend before accepting the new friendship and trusted her when she waxed poetic about my potential friend.

My new friend and I shared strong opinions on all of the same topics. . .and we weren’t afraid to say so.  I grew very close to her, private messaging whenever I needed to take something off the public site, like I’ve done with a lot of people.  You know who you are.

When we planned our trip to Wisconsin, I thought really hard for a long time before letting her know that we’d be in the area.  In the past she had said she’d love to meet me and I felt the same, but would that actuality be a burden? 

Wordsmith that I am, I couched my message with all kinds of “if it works out” or “maybe we could meet half-way” or “it’s okay if the timing is bad” disclaimers.  Hah!  As if.  She jumped at the opportunity to meet face-to-face.  Jumped!  And my heart soared.

We talked back and forth on messenger for months.  Each time I suggested a half-way point, she said, “Or you could come to our lake house.” 

Anyone who knows Himself at all, knows that he is not me, which means he’s way more guarded about people.  I knew he wasn’t going to go for the idea of spending time at someone’s house whom he had never met.  I knew.  Because I know him.  So, I told my friend that.

She was like a vacation hawker and started sending me all kinds of great pictures, possibilities and dates that would work for us to spend a couple of nights with them.  I’m condensing here, which I know you’re all shocked about, but it went on and on.  Each time she padded the coffers enough to merit another two-hour (both way) drive on top of our already long driving schedule.  To be with people we’ve never met.  Are we insane?  Yikes.

Then one day, out of the blue, she says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you that we have guest quarters on top of our toy garage.”  Guest quarters?  What does that mean?  I asked.  What she described was better than some places I’ve lived.  After staying with family and friends, it would be nice to have some private space.  But with strangers?  Except she didn’t feel like a stranger to me.  I just hadn’t met her in person.  Hahaha.

I convinced Himself to give it a try, plans were made, then when the actual day came for us to go, he balked.  “What if we don’t hit it off?  I know you think you know the woman, but what about the guy?  Do you know anything about him?  We could be murdered in our sleep.”  Ya gotta love it when he “spins”.  We went anyway and I found out later that my friend was getting similar questions from her husband.  Each of us had set up “outs” if it was a disaster.

But we two crazy women, who had never met in person, but had shared so much on social media, just felt it would be okay.  Didja hear that?  Felt it!!!  We trusted that each of us would be who we had presented ourselves to be and boy am I glad we did.

It took an entire two-seconds for all four of us to feel comfortable.  Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration.  One-second.  I have never, ever stayed with people who were more accommodating, gracious and fun to be with.  Ever.  Not even if I’ve known them for a long time and I have some pretty awesome friends.

We talked and talked and talked.  Himself shared his shaggy dog stories ad nauseum and they laughed in all the right places.  Then they did the same and we laughed.  It was like we had shared experiences we didn’t even know we had shared.  Weird, I know.

 When the guys couldn’t listen to us anymore (rookies) one fished and the other caught up on work, coming down in a half an hour asking why we didn’t take the boat out so Himself could fish in a different spot?  He got us rigged up and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking on the lake.

It was comfortable, beautiful and so easy to be together.  To take a social media friendship and make in-person friends took a lot of communicating, planning and most importantly trust.  TRUST!  I believe in trust.  Sometimes you just have to take that leap of faith and trust that all will be well.  And it was.

I’m posting a lot more pictures than I usually do, because they make it obvious a great time was had by all.  Oh, and we’re still friends, communicating regularly, so meeting didn’t squelch the on-line friendship, it enhanced it.

Take a risk.  Nurture one of your new cyber friendships and just see where it might lead!  You can never have too many friends.  BING!  Heartprint!

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Wednesday, September 8, 2021

Today I am grateful for making friends, part one.  I realized when I started writing this that I would probably get way too wordy and it would become too long for one blog, so I’m breaking it up and doing part two tomorrow.

Look, when you reach a certain age making new friends is more complicated.  Not impossible, but complicated.  Oft times we tend to trust less and some of us become more private, holding our true selves and thoughts tight to the vest.  That doesn’t bode well for good friendships.

There are also not as many opportunities to find new friends when your kids are grown and out of the house, done with local sports teams, theater, etc., or when you retire and realize your work family wasn’t really a family after all and they are moving on without including you.  It sucks, but it happens.

Many people don’t even bother reaching out for more friends and just try to hang on to the ones they have.  But sadly, the older you get, the more that theory fades, too.  People move.  People become incapacitated.  People die.  I don’t say that to be gloomy, but it’s a fact.  I’ve lost a lot of friends in the last ten years.  I love having friends and I needed more.  But where do I find them?

I joined the YMCA and found an entire set of friends in my water aerobic classes.  When we would first gather for coffee after class I pulled back, although none of them will remember that, or even believe it.  I was nervous.  I didn’t let myself be full-on-Mary, because I know I can be a bit much.  Then someone said something that triggered my wicked-humor-response and crap shot out of my mouth before I could censor myself.  What a relief that they all laughed!  Now I’m full-on all the time.  It’s way less constipating.

I’m sharing a picture of one of them today.  She is a hoot, has a similar wicked sense of humor and drives me crazy, which is my guideline for friendship.  If you never drive me crazy, we probably aren’t friends and vice versa.  Friends need to drive you a little nuts or you’re missing out on the intimacy and not sharing enough.  I’m all about an even distribution of give and take, crazy and fun, serious and wacky.

Making friends when you’re older isn’t as easy as it once was.  It’s not impossible either.  But you do have to put yourself out there.  No one is going to knock at your door and say, “Hey!  Do you want to be my friend?”  Join a club, volunteer, get involved with something, anything.  Then pick up on someone you think you’re compatible with and try to grow the acquaintance into a friendship.  It won’t work every time, but it won’t work at all if you don’t try.

I’ve met friends through friends, found friends in some of the oddest places and have made some dear friends on line.  But that’s part two. . . tomorrow’s story. 

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No more “Calm Down”

Sunday, September 5, 2021

Today I am grateful to eliminate the words “calm down” as a means to help people in crisis.  They are pointless and produce the exact opposite of their intent.  Every time.

When you have a toddler rolling on their back like a cockroach in the middle of a grocery store, screaming like a banshee and kicking at anyone or anything that gets in their zone, the words “calm down” will not help.  Trust me.

If you have an elderly mother who pitches a fit every time her caretakers in assisted living bring her meds an hour late; or the doctor won’t listen to her while she’s screaming at him; or that stupid cook doesn’t know how to serve hot food and everything is congealed, the words “calm down” won’t help.

Trust me.

And this one I have on the absolute best authority.  If I have been on a call to tech support, or an insurance company, or a credit card company and they’ve not only put me on hold a hundred times, but each person who comes back on the line wants all of the information I just gave the last ten people, wasting two hours that I will never get back, the last words I want to hear are “calm down”.  Trust me.

When someone tells me to “calm down” it is like igniting a fuse and a barrage of words, albeit very few that wouldn’t offend some people if I typed them here.  The top of my head blows off and they fly out like thrown scrabble tiles.

On a Netflix show I’m watching people are being murdered, betrayed and raped on a regular basis.  Every time there is a crisis someone says to the victim, “calm down”.  Finally, one of the characters blew and said, “Stop telling me to CALM DOWN!  There is nothing to calm down about!”  I feel her.

Many of us have faced serious trauma; waited for emergency help; saw others harmed; watched homes disappear in fires or floods; stood in waiting rooms of hospitals for news of loved ones; and lost loved ones, pets, children, friends. 

Some of us weep internally.  Others wail.  Some of us shake.  Some of us turn to stone.  Some of us can’t eat.  Some of us do nothing but eat.  Some of us drink coffee.  Some of us won’t even drink water.  Some of us drink alcohol.  Some of us take drugs to get rid of the feelings.  Some of us are more comfortable lingering in the sad feelings for a very long time.  We all have different ways of coping.  Because we are all different.

But just like the child in tantrum at the grocery store, the elderly woman in assisted living, or me on a tech call, one thing is certain.  Telling someone to “calm down” doesn’t work. 

I prefer “breathe”.  It’s a tangible, doable action, that may or may not work, but it beats “calm down” all to hell!  Breathe!

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Dad Memories

‘We found that rattle.’ (mechanic holding a baby).

Saturday, September 4, 2021

Today I am grateful for dad memories. . .about squeaking cars.  When I wrote the piece the other day about odd noises and the searching for same around the house, friends comments got me remembering how car squeaks, bumps and grinds drove my dad, Willie, crazy.  I guess it’s genetic.

Now, in order to get the full drift of this post, you should know that my dad was 5’6” tall, if you stretched him on a rack and he had shoes on with thick soles.  A relatively little guy.  With a huge personality.  He also started the trend of black socks with sandals, but that’s another story.  Everyone in town knew Willie.  Everyone.

When he worked for a used car dealership, he brought home a different loaner car every week.  He’d drive them in order to know what to say to potential customers who were interested in buying them.   At least that was his story.

When I turned 16 and got my license, he had me drive them all, too.  That’s pretty much why driving a different car doesn’t freak me out.  I was trained early on.  But I didn’t just drive them in the normal way, to a restaurant or store.  Nope, not in my house.

“Hey, kid,” my dad would say, walking in the back door, jingling the change in his pocket and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  “I needja to drive this car for me so I can crawl around and find the squeak.  It’s making me crazy and no one is gonna buy it with that noise.”

He tosses me the keys and soon I’m behind the wheel while my dad is crawling all over the front seat.  Seatbelts?  C’mon.  He disassembled all of the warning noises that indicated you didn’t have yours on.  Hated that beeping and hated the reminder and hated seat belts back then.  In later years he complied, but grudgingly and only because it became a law.

“Pull over,” he yelled, leaning halfway into the back seat.  “I don’t think that damned squeak is up front.”  Before the car is stopped, he is out the door and in the back seat.  “Go,” he says.  “Whatcha waiting for?”  Patience was not his virtue.  Humor was, but not at a time like this.

I’d drive.  Again.  He’d crawl all over the back.  Again.  Ripping at floor boards, yanking at the front seats, the back, the window handles, the upholstery.  Still the squeak would prevail.

“Gutdammit!”  Dad had a way with words.  “Pull over again!  I think it’s in the gutdamned trunk!” 

I did as I was told, trying desperately not to laugh, because laughing was definitely not allowed at times like this.  He flew out the car, popped the trunk and hopped in.  “I ain’t gonna close it,” he shouted.  “Cuz it’ll get too hot in there.  Go over some railroad tracks and don’t go too slow or it won’t rattle!”

Are you picturing it?  I am a teenager, driving a used car, with a dealer plate jammed in the back window, over railroad tracks, fast, with my dad crawling around in the trunk, leaning his ear to every corner like a surgeon without a stethoscope.  I’m glad he kept moving around or people might have thought it was a hostage situation and I was a really bad kidnapper who forgot to close the trunk.

I’m certain that folks noticed us driving all over the bumpiest roads in town, with my dad crawling around the open trunk, but they probably looked up from mowing their lawns or drinking their Schlitz on the porch and thought, “Nah, ya!  Dat’s jist Willie.”  On a normal day.

“Got the bastard!”  I heard his screams, even from the distance of the tank-sized car.  “Pull over!”

“What was it?” I asked, as he got back in the front seat, looking self-satisfied and smug.

“It was a loose lug nut on the spare tire.  Bastard was rattling to beat Billies Goat.  Wanna get a Dairy Queen?  Don’t tell yer mudder!”

Why he never wanted me to tell my mudder whenever we snuck away for ice cream is beyond me, but my guess is she would bitch that he hadn’t brought her one or taken the time to pick her up to go along or maybe he’d fear she didn’t want him to spend the money or maybe he just felt wicked and more in control.  I have no idea.  But I wanted ice cream so I didn’t tell my mudder.

It’s been many years since my dad is gone, but the memories don’t fade and I love it when someone comments on something I’ve written and triggers yet another one.  Thank you, Ineke.  BING!  Heartprint.

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Odd Noises

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Today I am grateful for odd noises.  They are driving Himself crazy.  Me, too, but I have to laugh when they get to him because he wears hearing aids and misses almost every annoying noise that drives me up the wall, including the chirping of smoke detectors, which send me right ‘round the bend.

I’ve been a little under the weather so I haven’t written much, but that hasn’t stopped me from driving Himself crazy.  Some skills are inherent and cross over time, the miseries and space.  I drove him nuts years ago when he was away for business, too.  Lucky guy. 

The other night we were getting ready for bed and I heard a growling, whirring noise.  I turned off the TV, searched the house, listened at the window, stuck a glass to the walls of both neighbors, but didn’t hear anything, which they’ll be glad to know and went outside in front and in back.  I couldn’t find it, so I told Himself.

He stopped moving, concentrated on listening, then said, “I think I know what it is.”  Off he marched to the basement and a few seconds later the noise had stopped.  “It was the dehumidifier and the way I had it set up.”

Fast forward to Monday when we spent a lot of time in the basement with the granddaughter, painting and poking through all of the cool crap that Grandma and Grandpa have in that cellar.  The kid will be a teenager before she finds everything, but this time she discovered a duck shooting game.

If I recall, and I might not be doing so correctly, but I don’t care, you stand a plastic duck up against a wall, take the popgun that has ping-pong balls for ammo in it and try to shoot at the duck’s mouth so that it makes a crazy noise.  The granddaughter loved it.  Anything that uses 400 batteries is fun for kids.  And grandpas.

That evening, I heard another noise.  This one was different than the errant dehumidifier.  I couldn’t find the source so I put the great duck hunter on the task.  “There is another noise coming from the basement and it’s driving me crazy!” I said, in my gentle, dulcet tones.

He tromped downstairs. . .again. . .but couldn’t find the culprit.  All I heard, on top of the clicking sound were the curse words and frustration of Himself, finally ending with, “There you are, you little bastard!”

It seems that neither he, nor the granddaughter had turned off the pop gun, so it was sitting in the plastic bin shooting the crap out of that poor cornered duck game.  Geeze.

Where else but here and who else but Himself would spend time hunting down odd noises and who else but me would end up writing about them?  You think that’s funny. . .yet you’re wasting time reading about it.  Hah!  Jokes on all of us.

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