When it comes to handyman work, and for me it usually doesn't, I'm not so handy. However, this evening I completed the handiest chore any non-mechanical man could hope for: I replaced the pilot and thermocouple apparatus on my home's floor furnace. BOOM-Shakka-Lakka!
Enough said. This post could and should be over.
But I'm not one to starve an audience (cricket, cricket) of any succulent details involved in what folklore will soon hail as Furnace Project '07.
It all began at 8:00 this morning when my Mrs. announced her feet were "cold" because the furnace was "not on." Not one for hysterics, I nuzzled deeper into blankets snoozed 'till 8:30. Her second announcement concerning the polar condition of our home was a bit more foreboding and not unlike a threat.
"Get your skinny, white #$@* (ass) downstairs and fix our furnace! It's been off all night and I'm freezing!," she noted calmly.
After the crisp jaunt downstairs and much shivering while waiting in vain for the pilot to ignite, I scampered back to bed where it was warm - the bed that is, not the welcome of my wife.
"Is it fixed?" she asked sarcastically because she knows I can't fix a sandwich.
"No, the pilot light won't work."
"Can you make it work?" she said, still jabbing.
"No, I don't know the first thing about furnaces," I said matter-of-factly like it would be silly for me to even try since I don't have a degree in them or anything.
"What a wimp I am!" I thought. "Would dad throw in the towel if something so simple broke? Would he even THINK about calling a repair company to come fix the problem? No! He'd handyman it and keep his family warm. He'll know what to do!"
"Hello, dad?" I asked a minute later into the frost-covered cell phone. "How do you fix a furnace?"
"Well, those are tough and kind of dangerous," he said trying to mask his fear I was about to blow Sedgwick county to bits by even thinking of tampering with a real gas furnace. "Are you sure you don't just want me to drive over and help you?"
"No, Dad, I'm perfectly capable of replacing it if you'll just tell me what to do," (famous last sentence).
Then he started using big words I'd never heard before like 'copper wiring', 'wrenches', 'valves' and 'Ace Hardware'. I was lost in a deluge of real man terms.
After returning from the hardware store and assembling the pilot light and thermocouple units with my shiny, never-before-touched tools from my never-before-touched toolbox given to me on my wedding day three years previous, I had set sail on a sea of masculinity.
That all changed when flames began shooting inadvertently out the sides of my copper wiring and I tried to scurry away like a chipmunk in front of a dump truck. But I couldn't move. With my nose literally two inches from the erupting burners, I froze and pictured my face charred like a backyard grill briquette and the phrase "He Died Trying" splashed across my tombstone.
At the end of the day, Furnace Project '07 was completed and my house is now toasty. To all you wannabe handymen out there, take this advice: keep those tools wrapped in that plastic and ready for action. You never know when you might need 'em.
Next up for me? Shower Head Project '08.
BOOM-Shakka-Lakka!
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
Dental Suicide
I just attended my six month tooth cleaning and examination at my local, family-friendly dentist's office. To clarify, Tango Uniform in a dentist's chair is the number one worst place on the planet. (Number two is wrapped tightly in a heavy blanket while nearly suffocating to death). All joking aside and in all seriousness, having my teeth scraped and drilled on while I was suffocating under a large blanket would be worse than suicide by hanging.
Speaking of suicide, my daily browse of the American Dental Association Journal churned up an interesting report by Roger E. Alexander, D.D.S. concerning stress-related suicide rates among denitsts. He says,
"Although some dentists leave the profession by way of suicide or career change at time when their careers should be the most rewarding, available data on stress and its impact on suicide incidence are inconclusive and flawed."
Now, take a moment to go back and let his first line sink in.
Speaking of suicide, my daily browse of the American Dental Association Journal churned up an interesting report by Roger E. Alexander, D.D.S. concerning stress-related suicide rates among denitsts. He says,
"Although some dentists leave the profession by way of suicide or career change at time when their careers should be the most rewarding, available data on stress and its impact on suicide incidence are inconclusive and flawed."
Now, take a moment to go back and let his first line sink in.
Who 'leaves their profession' by way of suicide? Wouldn't that be better reffered to as 'leaving life'? And how about those two awesome options as a way out: suicide OR career change? Do conversations really go like that?
Lindsay: I'm just really not happy with corporate right now. I'm ready to move on.
Jill: Really? So, are you thinking job change or 16-guage through the temple?
OR
Mark: Did you hear about our old high school buddy, Fred?
Larry: No, why?
Mark: He cashed in his 401k early.
Larry: Doesn't he know he'll be penalized?
Mark: He probably doesn't care since he killed himself.
It just seems the whole death part should outweigh the job change part.
Lindsay: I'm just really not happy with corporate right now. I'm ready to move on.
Jill: Really? So, are you thinking job change or 16-guage through the temple?
OR
Mark: Did you hear about our old high school buddy, Fred?
Larry: No, why?
Mark: He cashed in his 401k early.
Larry: Doesn't he know he'll be penalized?
Mark: He probably doesn't care since he killed himself.
Larry: He should; the IRS can dock you up to 40%!
It just seems the whole death part should outweigh the job change part.
My theory: Dentists are more prone to 'leave by way of suicide' because they're mentally tormented from torturing helpless people like me every six months.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Girl
We recently had our first sonogram, or as I like to call it, the belly-lubing cinema.
Seriously, does that much K-Y® Jelly need to be used on anyone? My poor wife's navel needed a half hour benzyl and turpentine scrub to dislodge that gunk.
But it was all worth it for a glimpse of our baby girl. Although the initial images looked like nothing human, I soon saw a little butt and two little legs. "It's a girl!" I shouted, loud enough for Lisa, our smiley sonogram tech, to offer a polite "Yup. You've got a good eye, dad." Or, in nice-lady-getting-paid-handsomely-for-excessively-KY'ing words, "Thanks for the wise input and feel free not to do that again, doofus."
After a few minutes, smiley Lisa paused the fuzzy image on the sonogram monitor and left the room to get a chart. The Mrs. decided on a bathroom break.
And so it was, in a dimly lit room, that I found myself enchanted by a 13 ounce girl on a black and white screen. Only the computer's hum accompanied the song of thanks bursting forth from my racing heart. Although her shape and form remained ambiguous, her purpose was unmistakable. She was a treasure, and she was nothing less.
Songwriter Derek Webb said it best, "So could You love this bastard child, though I don't trust You to provide? With one hand in a pot of gold and with the other in Your side." How gracious and compassionate is my Father to lay upon one such as me the blessing of this child.
I suddenly felt grown up. "I have a girl, and I'm a man! I can now grow a beard and talk about fatherhood!" But then an overwhelming sense of parental and facial hair inadequacy flooded my mind.
"You, little girl, will lean on me for support? I bear the responsibility of disciplining the selfish, world-loving nature out of your life? I'm supposed to teach you? This isn't right. But I'm king of selfish! I can't be taught!"
And there she was, my girl, reacting to my muddled confusion with simplicity and quiet. She, being knit together by the Giver of all good things, will be a treasure to simplify and quiet my heart.
Seriously, does that much K-Y® Jelly need to be used on anyone? My poor wife's navel needed a half hour benzyl and turpentine scrub to dislodge that gunk.
But it was all worth it for a glimpse of our baby girl. Although the initial images looked like nothing human, I soon saw a little butt and two little legs. "It's a girl!" I shouted, loud enough for Lisa, our smiley sonogram tech, to offer a polite "Yup. You've got a good eye, dad." Or, in nice-lady-getting-paid-handsomely-for-excessively-KY'ing words, "Thanks for the wise input and feel free not to do that again, doofus."
After a few minutes, smiley Lisa paused the fuzzy image on the sonogram monitor and left the room to get a chart. The Mrs. decided on a bathroom break.
And so it was, in a dimly lit room, that I found myself enchanted by a 13 ounce girl on a black and white screen. Only the computer's hum accompanied the song of thanks bursting forth from my racing heart. Although her shape and form remained ambiguous, her purpose was unmistakable. She was a treasure, and she was nothing less.
Songwriter Derek Webb said it best, "So could You love this bastard child, though I don't trust You to provide? With one hand in a pot of gold and with the other in Your side." How gracious and compassionate is my Father to lay upon one such as me the blessing of this child.
I suddenly felt grown up. "I have a girl, and I'm a man! I can now grow a beard and talk about fatherhood!" But then an overwhelming sense of parental and facial hair inadequacy flooded my mind.
"You, little girl, will lean on me for support? I bear the responsibility of disciplining the selfish, world-loving nature out of your life? I'm supposed to teach you? This isn't right. But I'm king of selfish! I can't be taught!"
And there she was, my girl, reacting to my muddled confusion with simplicity and quiet. She, being knit together by the Giver of all good things, will be a treasure to simplify and quiet my heart.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sizeable = Suitable
The Mrs. is better looking pregnant than not. And each day of midsection enlargement brings new appreciation of her physical beauty. It's as if her stomach has become a whole new body part to (ahem) find attractive*.
Sounds reasonable, right? Well to formerly tiny and currently jumbo-sized women it doesn't sink in so quickly. During most pregnancies, a husband's pretensionless comment like, "That maternity shirt looks good on you, honey" mutates into, "Excuse me, nasty walrus woman, why don't you look petite and seductive anymore?" before it hits a wife's ears.
Unlike every message force-fed by our culture, I believe smaller is not always better. This is why Americanized beauty standards suck.
Point of truth: pregnant women turn their husbands on.
Point of instruction: husbands of the pregnant should never³* stop reminding their spouse of the unspeakable beauty surrounding an expectant woman.
Unfortunately, due to the interminable brainwashing by Hollywood culture, it takes some time to convince a woman big can equal hot. The repulsion of largeness can only be attributed to the gravitation towards self love. How depressing it must be to have married a, “I am happy because I’m beautiful because I’m smaller than the average woman because I eat apple peels twice a week before vomiting.”
This brings up another exquisite point: The Wife is not afraid to eat a hearty meal in public and is more attractive to me because of it.
To clarify (and so I don’t become a lonely man at night), I am NOT sticking up for big women because my spouse is that way in her un-pregnant state. She weighs just a hitch over a buck twenty five, looks great in a two piece on a beach and was voted “Sexiest Legs” in high school.*
*get turned on by
*never, never, never
*no way that graph gets me out of the woods
Sounds reasonable, right? Well to formerly tiny and currently jumbo-sized women it doesn't sink in so quickly. During most pregnancies, a husband's pretensionless comment like, "That maternity shirt looks good on you, honey" mutates into, "Excuse me, nasty walrus woman, why don't you look petite and seductive anymore?" before it hits a wife's ears.
Unlike every message force-fed by our culture, I believe smaller is not always better. This is why Americanized beauty standards suck.
Point of truth: pregnant women turn their husbands on.
Point of instruction: husbands of the pregnant should never³* stop reminding their spouse of the unspeakable beauty surrounding an expectant woman.
Unfortunately, due to the interminable brainwashing by Hollywood culture, it takes some time to convince a woman big can equal hot. The repulsion of largeness can only be attributed to the gravitation towards self love. How depressing it must be to have married a, “I am happy because I’m beautiful because I’m smaller than the average woman because I eat apple peels twice a week before vomiting.”
This brings up another exquisite point: The Wife is not afraid to eat a hearty meal in public and is more attractive to me because of it.
To clarify (and so I don’t become a lonely man at night), I am NOT sticking up for big women because my spouse is that way in her un-pregnant state. She weighs just a hitch over a buck twenty five, looks great in a two piece on a beach and was voted “Sexiest Legs” in high school.*
*get turned on by
*never, never, never
*no way that graph gets me out of the woods
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Always Someone Better
I'm a guitar player, although I didn't feel like much of one after taking in a Nickel Creek show this week. In fact, it would now be a stretch to call myself a musician.
Considerable appreciation should be lavished upon three such individuals who can turn heads with their vocal range while playing stringed instruments in rhythm sans percussion all while singing lyrics far superior to the underwhelming crap heard on pop stations everywhere.
Simply put: they kick ace.
And I'm not alone in my feelings. Today, a married male cohort unblushingly confessed a musical mancrush on Chris Thile. Yesterday, the Mrs. noted that the trio (http://nickelcreek.com/) is better than any three musicians on the planet.
I second both of those (mainly the second second).
Considerable appreciation should be lavished upon three such individuals who can turn heads with their vocal range while playing stringed instruments in rhythm sans percussion all while singing lyrics far superior to the underwhelming crap heard on pop stations everywhere.
Simply put: they kick ace.
And I'm not alone in my feelings. Today, a married male cohort unblushingly confessed a musical mancrush on Chris Thile. Yesterday, the Mrs. noted that the trio (http://nickelcreek.com/) is better than any three musicians on the planet.
I second both of those (mainly the second second).
Monday, November 12, 2007
It's All for The Baby
After beginning this blog, I was encouraged by a professional blogger to "Post, post, post because content drives readership!"
So, dagnabbit, I'm gonna post once a quarter if it kills me!
I've definitely taken my sweet time to get back to brickabrac, and I've a hunch the seeds of my steadfast commitment will not blossom into blogging super stardom without, well, steadfast commitment.
Big news: the wife's pregnant. Better news: I'm the dad. Bad news: the forfeiture of my side of the bed has occurred.
Am I the only one with the rocks to contend that the manly side of the bed is closest to the bedroom door; the door where thieves and murderers would obviously enter before assailing a peaceful, sleeping wife? I've been given a God-ordained duty to protect and cherish my bride. So how, might I ask, can I do this without being first to my feet, bowie knife between my teeth and .38 in my hand ready to pounce on the unsuspecting bastard as the handle reaches 3/4 turn?
My wife, on the other hand, believes my coma-like sleep to be no hindrance to the onslaught of said attackers. She always injects something about my drool and night-gas being of more protective use than my fists and weapons. She also says silly stuff like, "I need an easy way to roll my belly out of bed more times per week than when you need to protect me from rapists."
Humph, women.
So, dagnabbit, I'm gonna post once a quarter if it kills me!
I've definitely taken my sweet time to get back to brickabrac, and I've a hunch the seeds of my steadfast commitment will not blossom into blogging super stardom without, well, steadfast commitment.
Big news: the wife's pregnant. Better news: I'm the dad. Bad news: the forfeiture of my side of the bed has occurred.
Am I the only one with the rocks to contend that the manly side of the bed is closest to the bedroom door; the door where thieves and murderers would obviously enter before assailing a peaceful, sleeping wife? I've been given a God-ordained duty to protect and cherish my bride. So how, might I ask, can I do this without being first to my feet, bowie knife between my teeth and .38 in my hand ready to pounce on the unsuspecting bastard as the handle reaches 3/4 turn?
My wife, on the other hand, believes my coma-like sleep to be no hindrance to the onslaught of said attackers. She always injects something about my drool and night-gas being of more protective use than my fists and weapons. She also says silly stuff like, "I need an easy way to roll my belly out of bed more times per week than when you need to protect me from rapists."
Humph, women.
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