The Girl From Ipanema

You may recognize the first couple of lines of this Frank Sinatra song... 

Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking.  And when she passes, each one she passes goes - ah.  

I realize that I have just settled my readers into two camps.  One found it impossible not to read this, even quietly in their head, without singing it.  The other group simply said, "eh?"  I am just old enough, I think, to be placed in the first group.  My mom is a big Sinatra fan, but I don't remember her blasting the Rat Pack leader's records on her Apple iHiFi that was the size of an over-sized bedroom dresser. (I figure everything in the future will be overrun by Apple, including the history books...so I'll just start rewriting now)

No, it is much more likely that I heard the song at my grandparents house, or even on one of the many variety shows that we watched...on one of the three channels that came in clearly.  But where I first heard it is not really important.  What is important is that I had heard of it...and most of the teachers I worked with at the time had heard of it as well.  Let me explain.

We had a new principal at our school.  The first school I worked at was not lucky when it came to keeping principals.  I think the front office had five different occupants in my ten years at the school.  That meant that we, as a staff, were exposed to a lot of different personalities...and a lot of different strategies.  (Don't worry...this will not devolve into a "teachers only" sort of story.  I promise.)  Along with these new people, and new ideas, we also found a lot of new ways to start a meeting at the beginning of the year.  The Ice Breakers were in full force at those times.  

We had Lego pieces that had to be put together a certain way, without talking.  We had to go find people who had read the most, traveled the farthest, or went to the most summer trainings.  Once, we even had to all hold hands, tied in a knot, and try to "untie" without letting go of our grips.  It was a fun and exciting time.  (does sarcasm come across in print?)

The time I am writing about today involves a song, I bet you can guess what it is!  But that is not what we were told.  We were broken up into teams.  Each team was given an envelope with multiple slips of paper in them.  Each paper had a word or a punctuation mark on it.  Each team's job was to hand out a paper to every person, discover what the entire sentence said, and then stand in a line holding our papers so that everyone could read them.  I liked this one!  I am a wee bit competitive when it comes to intellectual things.  When it comes to physical challenges I usually just cry, "UNCLE" and then curl up in the fetal position.  The teams were set.  We had our envelopes.  GO!!  Frantically we were all given a piece of paper.  Everyone wanted to be the first.  Secretly I hoped I would be given the linchpin to the whole sentence.  You know, without me and my insight the team would just be flailing about calling out random verbs, and prepositional phrases.  There, of course, would be the clue of the capitalized word.  Too easy, beginning of the sentence...not for me.  I want the meat of it!  

I turned over my piece of paper...a dot.  WHAT!?!  That's it...a dot.  And it was the smallest piece of paper there was too!  Shouldn't they have handed them out according to height?  I was disappointed.  People with more interesting papers were very excited.  The person who had "Ipanema" was positively strutting!  That was it, the key to the whole thing...when the older members of our group saw that, it was all over but the rearranging.  They didn't need me to figure it out.  And I surely didn't need to be in the mix of everything since my lowly little dot was undoubtedly at the end of the sentence.  My fate was set.  I slowly meandered toward the end of the line and waited as they hashed out whether tall or lean came first.  Others worked on the middle portion to decide where the other punctuation card, a comma, went.  At least the comma had some controversy.  Moved from this place to that..."No!  After lovely."  "Are you sure it isn't after lean!"  I would, in subsequent years. have recurring dreams where I was that comma.  It would be a happier time.  
Ahhhhhh...but I digress.

The group, and its more seasoned members, had this.  I'm not sure if the other groups were as close as ours.  If they didn't have a giveaway word like "Ipanema" then they were in trouble.  And then I got noticed.   One of the teachers in our group looked over and noticed that I was just biding my time while I waited for the heart of the project to be done so I could slide onto the end and finish the sentence off.  She was into this action and wanted the bragging rights of being the first team.  When she noticed that I was off to the side, with my tiny piece of paper, she wondered if I was being a slacker.  I was obviously disengaged from the group at large... and relaxed.  No panic.  No sense of urgency.  Nothing.  

Her part had already been assigned, she was in place, she caught my eye and asked, "What about your paper?"  
I said three simple words...and she dropped to her knees and pounded the carpet of the school's library over and over laughing hysterically.  Needless to say, that halted our progress a bit.  We were still far and away the odds on favorite for this activity (Ipanema...sheesh...they may as well have not cut the paper into pieces) but I had rendered another teacher, a member of our team, out of commission due to laughter.  I didn't mean to.  I was just bored and I wasn't part of the action intellectually so I was going to be part of the action humorectually (it's a word, you can look it up.  But it may be hyphenated.)  I am happy to report that she regained control, we fell into place, and we won the competition handily...though one of our members was wiping laughter tears from her eyes.

And now I suppose I should tell you those three words.  When she asked me what was on my card I simply turned it around, showed her my dot, and said, "I'm not pregnant."

Um, Yeah! A LOT!

I don't suppose there's anyone on the planet but that last lone Slovenian farmer (without Facebook) who hasn't heard about my ear problem, but I have been chastised for not writing in a while...so here it is.  (For the record, I do know that the world does not revolve around me and there are people who don't have me favorited on Facebook...I don't know why, but I suppose it happens...so if you'll excuse me I need to go record the last track for my album "I am the world")

It has been so long now that I cannot remember the exact dates or time frame but I have been fighting a pretty serious ear infection for some time now.  Well even that isn't accurate.  The infection has been gone for a while but the results are lingering on, and on, and on, and on...

I sound like I am a bugler for the infantry when I blow my nose.  It scares my family.  It startles strangers.  It makes my students laugh.  I've just always been exuberant when it comes to using a kleenex.  Then it happened.  I blew my nose, in the classroom, and my ear clogged.  No big deal.  It's done that before.  It will clear in a while...I thought.  About a week later, after it hadn't cleared and my tinnitus (constant ear ringing) had turned the volume up to elementary school fire alarm level, I called the doctor.  (At this point in the story I would like credit for initiating a call to the doctor.  Me, not Sylvia, Me.)  I have a fairly high tolerance for pain (not nearly as much as my dad...but I do OK) so to get me to go in is a big deal.  The good news is that they were able to see me right away.  The bad news is that by the time I finally call the doctor, I have decided that it is something bad and they should treat it with the urgency of the season finale episode of House!    The doctor thought, "This guy is a wimp and he has a boo boo...nose spray...go home."

Sylvia was not pleased.  I thought I would give it a try...and went to work the next day.  (Sylvia was not pleased about that either)  In the middle of teaching my little kiddos the calendar, first thing in the morning, my ear became uncomfortable.  A little while later it was painful.  Within the hour it hurt so bad I was nauseous.  And just before recess it was excruciating!  Just as the pain orchestra was reaching its crescendo I heard a weird noise, felt the pressure in my ear increase significantly, and then an unbelievably sharp pain that almost made me yell out in front of a room full of five year olds.  And Then !!!!  Without all of the gory details, I will just say that I could tell that I was going to either need to hold a kleenex to my ear, or have to research how to get blood out of my shirt.  I called the office, told them that I was going to have to leave work in the middle of the day (for the first time ever) because I couldn't function like this (and I have been hurt bad enough where I drove to the emergency room after I got off of work...but never left the kids).

Here we get into a little more good news/bad news.  I called the doctor on the way home, told them that I had developed a painful (and messy) turn of events, and asked to see the ear/nose/throat specialist.  The bad news, I couldn't do that because I didn't see a doctor yet...today.  The doctor I saw yesterday didn't think that my ear being plugged and infected warranted antibiotics or a trip to the specialist.  I had to go to a general doc first....today...and pay to see her.  Here's where the good news is (pay attention...it's small) The doc looked in my ear for approximately two seconds and declared, "You need to see the specialist!" (ya think!?!) So off I go to see the specialist right before he was to supposed to go to lunch.  (remember this...it becomes important)  And I paid to see him as well.

He declared that I had ruptured my eardrum and that I would need to have the procedure that little kids get to get tubes in their ears.  And then he started rummaging in a drawer while I laid on the table in his office.  I am not exaggerating when I say that it sounded like he was looking for the missing shrimp fork at the bottom of a disorganized box of silverware.

I ventured, "Do we do that procedure here?"
"Yes."
"Is it going to hurt?" (I asked simply because Jake had to have tubes when he was a little guy.  It was an ordeal.  They knocked him out.  He was down for a few days.  Let's see what the doc says about the pain.)
"Um, Yeah!  A LOT!" and then he kind of chuckled as he muttered something like, "I'll teach you to keep me away from MY corned beef sandwich!  It's lunch time dagnabbit!"

The nurse came in, he asked her to find the shrimp fork, and while she went digging the doc came over to me and said, "I'm going to give you some numbing medicine."
"Great."
"It stings and burns a lot."
"greeaaat."
"Did you know it was my lunch time Mr. Garrett?"
"What was that?"
"Nothing."

The rest of the procedure went something like this.  Dab, Sting, burn, sting, burn Burn BURN!!  (I'll never understand how, if I can feel it burning, it is "numb."  Is it like when my dad would offer to make my foot feel better by hitting me on the head?  Diversion?)

And then the shrimp fork.  I would like to point out, again, that I can put up with a lot...but the reason I started into the doc was because the pain was remarkable...now he was going to make it worse!?  He went in, cackling wildly about hunger pangs, and almost made me pass out.  The room spun, I dug my fingers into the plastic coated mattress, I lifted my legs and bent my knees, I tried to walk down the table using my butt cheeks, I tried really hard not to cry.  The doc had the nerve to say, "Just breathe naturally."  He put the shrimp fork down and said, "This next part is going to be uncomfortable."  (The NEXT PART!?!)  What he failed to mention was that the device he was getting had been used to extract information from uncooperative terrorists, spies, and drug dealers when waterboarding proved ineffective.  It had been banned by everyone, everywhere, and Hitler had been quoted as saying, "It was built to scare people...no one was supposed to actually use it! (shudder)"  My doc picked his up on ebay.

He used his new toy to try to clear my inner ear.  The pain was incredible.  The sound was unbelievable.  And the thought of what this vacuum tube was doing was unbearable.  He kept stopping and asking if that was better?  No.  Back in.  Now?  No.  More.  After about three hours (well maybe five minutes) he declared...we are not going to be able to do this now...I have to be put on antibiotics and try again in a few days.  WHAT!?!  Apparently I, and my tolerance, had worked up an uncommon infection that was just going to have to work itself out and I would be known as, "The guy with the cotton ball in his ear" for the next couple weeks.  When I did go back in a few days he decided to actually put the tube in the ear (I didn't get knocked out, a gown, or even a lollipop)  I decided that next time I would schedule my ruptured eardrum to not coincide with his lunch.  Even after a few days of medicine the ear had not improved at all.  More medicine.  More drops.  More ringing.  My tongue tasted like sheet metal (don't ask how I know what that tastes like) More Cotton.  Less hearing.  Crap.

It has now been a few weeks since that all happened.  I can now hear things in my ear...the other ear is a different story now.  The ringing is still as bad as ever in the ruptured ear, but since the 'bad' ear started clearing up, the 'good' ear has been acting weird.  If I hear any kind of low rumbling noise it is like I am being punished.  The pain in my 'good' ear in response to the bass in church, a car's stereo, even a passing truck, is disconcerting and causing people to wonder if I forgot which ear was bad since I now cover the other one!  Good thing I have several appointments to see the doc on Monday.  He wants to check my hearing and then go in to see what is happening with all of these side effects.  Don't worry, I made all of the appointments in the morning and, just in case, I'm bringing him a roast beef sandwich...and a shrimp fork!

Road Trip!

Kristiana, our daughter, is driving.  She is now a fully licensed driver.  I could use the cliches about "stay off the road" or "be careful everyone, there's a new driver out there" but I really can't and be honest at the same time.  We were blessed to have a receptive and careful learner.  She is off to a great start and, with the confidence that comes with experience, I think she will become an excellent driver.  I am already comfortable enough to sit in the back seat while she is at the wheel.  Let me tell you, as someone who used to be a professional driver and always wants to have his hands on the wheel (I think this is why flying isn't my favorite activity), that is huge!  Sylvia and I are so comfortable, in fact, that we allowed her to take our car and spend the night at a mutual friend's house to spend time with them and their adorable baby...in another city...at night...via freeway!

Today's story is not about our new driver and her mini-road-trip...but it did spark a memory that I thought you might enjoy reading about.  Today is about my sister Sue and when she was a newish driver.  She doesn't go by "Sue" now but if she is going to call me "Jeffy" then I get to call her whatever I want.  By way of explanation I should say that my sister was a decent driver.  I am not going to gush over her for three reasons...I didn't train her, I was in her car a few times when "careful" was not a word I would have used to describe her, and finally I am her brother and I am required by law to give her a hard time.

There was a time when Sue talked my parents into letting her take her car to San Anselmo (a small town about an hour from here) to see her friend. At this point I need to clear my throat to express something about our mother.  Pardon me... COUworrierGH ...OK, I'm better.  It took a fair amount of convincing to get her to allow Sue to go.  It didn't hurt that the friend she was visiting was either a minister or in the seminary to become a minister.  I think she had been ordained already but I'm a little fuzzy on the timeline.  I am not fuzzy on the fact that this was a few decades ago and the only way people could communicate to others from the inside of a car was by using the horn (or a certain finger) and neither of those was effective in reaching an hour away back to our house.  And the only way anyone was going to call someone on a handheld device was to be part of a Dick Tracy comic book.  It was all arranged and Sue had promised to call as soon as she got there.  Reasonable right?  Of course.  So off she went.

I don't remember where I was for this part of the story but, thankfully, I wasn't home to watch everything unfold.  By way of letting you all off the hook I will tell you that I spoke to my sister a week ago.  She walked to get the phone, she answered it with her left hand while waving to a friend with her right.  (the point being...she owns and enjoys the use of all of her limbs and as far as I know, she has never spent any time in a ditch)  From wherever I was, I came home to a tale of woe and worry.

It seems that it took Sue a little longer to get to her destination, there was no phone call, and mom got worried.  I just know that she waited as long as she could and then called herself to see if she just forgot to check in.  I am picturing a casual glance at the clock, then a bit of mental math, then (after realizing that she should have gotten there thirty minutes ago) a walk to the phone, and then spinning the dial on the front to dial the ten digits.  (zzzzzzp, tktktktktk, zzzzzzzp, tktktktktk, zzzp, tktk, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzp, tktktktktktktktktktk....rotary phone...what are ya gonna do?)  After the three and a half minutes it took to make a phone call mom heard the line ringing, she heard someone pick up the phone, and then nothing....  Well almost nothing...she could hear movement and possibly even breathing on the other end.  "Hello?  Hello!?  HELLO!!!!??"  No response.

So we have mom, on edge because her daughter is driving far away and late to her destination, and now when she called the house a homicidal maniac picked up the phone to torture my mom by just listening to her get more and more worried and probably more and more frantic!  So now my mom had a choice to make.  Listen for the sound of bodies being dragged to a ditch, (my mom's imaginary homicidal maniacs always chose ditches as their dumping ground of choice), or hang up and call back to see if she had somehow dialed the wrong number but that would mean losing the only connection to the house.  She decided to call again.  This time the phone was busy.  She had dialed right and the best that she could hope for was that everyone was safe, but they were bound and gagged while robbers stole everything in the house and they just didn't want to be bothered on the phone.

This went on for I'm sure what seemed like an eternity while Mom called anyone she could think of that might be able to go and save everyone from their horrible fate.  I am missing a large piece of this story now.  I think that Mom actually called a relative, the church, and possibly the police in San Anselmo to see if they could figure out what is going on.  For what I am sure was an agonizing amount of time nobody could tell my mom what was going on.  I think someone may have gone to the house, knocked on the door, and heard a dog inside but the door was locked and was not answered.  Phone calls back and forth...waiting...waiting...waiting...


(In complete fairness to my mom...had this happened to me and my daughter, I would have freaked out, lost control, and people would probably only be able to see me during visiting hours while I stared into the distance...silently)

Finally the phone rang and it was Sue and there were relatively reasonable explanations for all that had happened.  It seems that Sue drove up only to be whisked from her car by her friend who was late to a Bible study at her church.  She never even made it into the house.  When they got to the church it was either outside her ability or her memory that Mom was waiting for a call and so no call was made.  When the emotional dust had settled and Mom explained her end of the horrible day, she asked about the single event that caused panic on her end...the phone answered, but silent?  It seems that they have a dog with an aversion to the phone.  To make it stop ringing the dog had learned to knock it off the handle...but didn't even have the courtesy to say that no one was home.  Everything was well.  Sue enjoyed the rest of her visit. And made it home safely.

I'm sure that my mom had a few choice words to say about that dog.  She was not terribly happy that something so scary was started by a four legged fur bag...but the rumors that she hired a hit-man to "take care" of the dog are completely untrue.  Even though it was found soon after... in a ditch.  (just kidding)

30 Minutes Or Less

You know the joke about the guy who calls for road service to explain that he has locked his keys in the car.   I'm sure you've heard it.  When he hears that they can't come for an hour, he raises his voice and says, "Oh no!  Please hurry!  My wife and kids are locked inside!"

I'm pretty sure the person who that joke was written for, is who a local construction company is worried about.  There is a major project being built just three blocks from where I sit.  I have heard people say that they will be apartments.  I've heard some say that they will be shops with apartments on top.  I've also heard one person say that it would be a high security prison for the criminally insane/daycare nursery. (but I don't think that will happen)  The point is, there is construction going on...and it has been for quite some time.  I cannot tell you what the exact time has been.  That would take research... since I don't know, off the top of my head, how long it takes to build daycare prisons.  But I can tell you that the weather has changed from very warm and dry to very wet and cold since they started.  

We, here in the lovely city of Fremont, are no strangers to things taking a while.  It took the city council more than three hours to discuss which color the accent pieces on a building, sixty feet above the pavement, would be painted.  Just months before they tore it down.  It was riveting.  Don't think that it is strictly related to the government of the city.  We have a furniture store, on one of our main thoroughfares, that has been going out of business (according to the signs) for three decades!  Wouldn't it be great to get that kind of news from a doctor.  "I'm afraid your days are numbered...you only have thirty more years to live."  I'm not complaining.  I wouldn't want to be handed the keys to the city and told to lock up when I'm done.  I'm not mad.  Just observant.  Now where did I put my glasses?  Never-mind, they're on my nose.

In fact, the land that is being developed by the Alcatraz/Gerber construction company has been vacant for more than forty years.  It was one of the last pieces of property in central Fremont area that hadn't been turned into a building of some sort.  We Fremontinites (I'm not sure that is correct, but once again...research) had begun to assume that it would be vacant forever.  There used to be orchards all over and this, I'm sure, was no exception.  There was even a lone tree that had to, ahem, be convinced to move to another location to make room for this job.  That one sad, dormant, barren tree will probably lend its legacy to the structure.  I'm guessing Peach Wood Estates or Rolling Apricot Manor (I should really hire someone to do research for me).  

I told you all of that so I could tell you this.  There is an interesting sign at the construction site.  On the road next to the very large buildings is a sign that says, "Expect 30 minute delays."  Now my family and I have traveled all across this country.  We are no strangers to signs or delays.  There are helpful signs and strange signs.  There is even a place, in Oklahoma I believe, that had a sign stating, "Hair Cuts and Pizza!"  (we didn't stop)  During the nice weather of the summer road construction seems to be common.  The occasional sign telling us to expect delays is inevitable.  When traveling to Yosemite, here in California, there is an entrance that has been "altered" by a massive rock slide and the cars that come this route have to wait and be escorted into the park by a ranger.  There are delay signs there that tell us that we'll have to wait for up to 7 minutes.  If you've ever been to the Yosemite valley you'll know that the beauty there is worth much more than a seven minute wait.  Nothing against my fair city...but I'm thinking a 30 minute wait to get from A to B would be a little off-putting.

Again, that is not really the problem.  The problem, as I see it, is that the yellow motorized road construction sign that blinks "Expect 30 minute delays" is placed on a main thoroughfare which has about as many outlets as there are cars that travel it.  I counted six ways to leave this road starting at the sign...many more if you started planning ahead as soon as you could read the two-foot-tall letters!  Never mind that the amount of construction happening at this site is sporadic, to say the least.  The buildings are getting built...I just never see anyone there.  The fact that at any given time in your travel down this road could switch to the left or the right and only add 30 seconds to your travel time to avoid 30 minutes of delay.  In fact, the only person I can see getting stuck on this road for 30 minutes would be a myopic obsessive compulsive with clinically advanced tunnel vision.  (apologies all around if any of my readers have actually been caught in the delay.)

Perhaps I am not thinking about this correctly.  Maybe the city planners paid off this construction crew to play a psychological trick on all of us.  If we expect something bad...and then it doesn't happen...Huzzah!  It could be a tourist trick.  Who knows?  People could be thinking, "You know, whenever I travel in Fremont I get the feeling that I may be moderately inconvenienced.  And then it doesn't happen!  I will have to remember this when that company calls to ask me about which Bay Area town is the best!"  That is probably how Fremont recently got voted the best city at doing something-or-other for places that have that specific attribute that is pleasing for some reason...I really need to increase my research budget.

I'm French?!?

I'm not a huge fan of comedians who start jokes with, "Didja ever...?"  Since I am not a comedian, and this is not a joke...Didja ever see that commercial where the obviously clueless interviewee is rattling on about he is perfect for the company, all the while mispronouncing the name of the company...and the punchline is when the dignified and exasperated owner says, "It's pronounced Do MOSS." and then the camera shows his desk to show the nameplate, "Dumass".   What do you know!  A French guy!  I think that was a great commercial and, coincidentally, a word that I am familiar with.  

I don't pull it out and use it as often as the dad on That 70's Show does....but there are situations where describing someone (and their pointless and often dangerous antics) as an uneducated posterior is quite possibly the best choice.  When someone decides to try to ride a wheelie through a crowded parking lot on their motorcycle.  When someone berates an employee for a problem that was not in their control.  When someone wedges their car into a toll booth, and stops the morning commute, because they were trying to save ten seconds and cut in front of the first car in line...It just rolls off the tongue.   dumbass

I am normally not one for questionable language.  I think that people who swear are cheating themselves out of the wealth of words and nuances in the English language.  But there are times (perhaps too many) when I think this one particular exception is acceptable.  Heck!  There are times when I even think it should be a button right next to "like" on Facebook!

Having said that, and trying really hard not to offend any of my French speaking readers by mispronouncing a name in the interest of humor...allow me to tell you today's story.

When Sylvia and I bought our first house we did something that was really smart.  We negotiated.  We got the price down to what we thought was fair and then we said, "We want to keep the refrigerator."  The previous owners had already moved out, the place was empty, except for a penny on the closet shelf (yes I still have it) and a refrigerator.  We were just starting out and it looked nearly new (what do we know) so we asked for it to stay.  They agreed and we thought we had saved ourselves several hundred dollars since now we wouldn't have to go out and buy one.  Then, our awesome Realtor (not to be confused with our criminal Realtor that we had to fire...seriously) gave us a gift.

He said, as the deal was done, that he would be buying us our home warranty.  We didn't know what they were so he showed us the brochure.  It covered the pipes, the heater, the this and the that, and certain appliances.  The stove, covered.  The dishwasher, covered.  Everything else was out of luck.  We thanked him profusely and then asked why the refrigerator wouldn't be covered.  Only the built in appliances...but you can add it if you want.  The fridge looked new(ish) but why take a chance...we added it.

Right after everything was final we started to work.  We don't know what they were cooking but it took a solid week, and several solvents that had skulls and crossbones on them, to clean the cabinets.  We scrapped the hood over the stove in favor of a hood/microwave combination.  And we scoured our new refrigerator.  As I was cleaning it out I noticed that the ice maker wasn't working.  Then when Sylvia really cleaned (you have to pull it out and mop underneath...sheesh) I noticed that the icemaker wasn't working because it wasn't hooked up to a water source.  It still had the hose taped to its back, ready for some handy guy to come and hook it up.  Then I saw why they may have thought it was the problem.  The refrigerator was on the complete opposite wall from the faucet and the floor in between was a cement slab.  No water, no ice.  I'm a teacher, I know these things.  Perhaps what the people did not realize was that on the other side of the wall that held the fridge, was a bathroom...complete with running water!  (we spared no expense when we were looking for a house)

Since we never spoke to the former owners we have no way of knowing why they never thought of that.  Maybe they couldn't afford to do it.  Maybe they didn't know it was supposed to do that.  Maybe they thought that bathroom plumbing was not suitable for kitchen ice.  Maybe they just didn't like ice...Who knows!?  Me?  I like ice.  I like cold drinks.  I like to know that I can get ice whenever I need it.  And, as long as the water for the ice wasn't being taken from the bowl of the toilet, bathroom plumbing was just fine with me.  Enter Extra Ordinary Man!  Not extraordinary, extra ordinary.  I have ample supplies of ordinary-ness.

I turned off the plumbing.  Drilled a hole in the wall.  Bought all of the things I would need.  And with Sylvia's help (and roughly six trips to the hardware store) I had hooked up a filter under the sink in the bathroom that would feed the ice maker, and I was ready to turn on the water.  Slowly I turned...tested the faucet...it worked...tested the fridge...it made that satisfying shhhhhhhh sound that tells you it was pouring water into the automatic ice trays.  Success!  (sorry to disappoint you all and your expectations that I would take a shower right there in the kitchen)  We had ice!  (well in approximately three hours we did)  I am fairly certain that I mocked the previous owners of the un-used icemaker for their lack of vision...and lack of chilled beverages!  I may have even mentioned that word.  You know, the French guy.  There were no recordings.  You can't prove anything.

Then we jump ahead a few months to when Sylvia went to Germany...without me...and I stayed behind to go to college and work on the house.  I built shelves.  I painted.  I did this and that.  I missed Sylvia.  And then it happened.  In the middle of the night I heard something that sounded a ghost was being dragged through a meat grinder, while carrying a cat, who was being given a bath...by a dog...who was wearing a hideous Christmas sweater.  It was a high pitched moan, wail, scratch, pause, whine...kind of noise.    It was one of those noises that wakes you up from a dead sleep and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up! The good news, it wasn't coming from the closet.  The bad news, it was coming from our 'nearly new' refrigerator.

I opened the refrigerator door.  It was ghost, cat, dog, and sweater free, but the sound got louder.  I took out the meager contents and for some reason felt the back of the inside.  When I got to where I thought the sound was coming from I did what every red-blooded American male would do in a similar situation.  I punched it.  You have to forgive me.  I grew up watching Fonzie start a jukebox by hitting it.  I was going to try anything...in the middle of the night...when I should be asleep.  Funny thing is, it worked.  Silence, other than the hum of the motor.  I replaced everything, shut the door, and went back to bed while making a mental note that I had to activate the home warranty in the morning.

When the repair guy came out...I think his name was Ralph...he explained that the motor was beginning to fail and since it was so old, the warranty would just offer to replace it.  Excuse me?  Old?  How old exactly? Apparently it was much older than the house and the house was in its late teens.  I hereby take back, formally and in writing, everything I have previously said about the former owners...they sure knew how to take care of an appliance!  I called Sylvia and she, trusting soul that she is, told me that I could just go and pick one out.  I wisely refused.  (did I ever tell you about the time that it took us and hour to pick out the garbage can that would live under the sink?)  Then I told her that it was working and would stop working in the future.  Every time the ghost sound happened, I punched it, and the sound stopped.  Besides, if it did stop altogether, I am a camper.  I can live out of an ice chest for a few days until you get back.  She said I was silly but there wasn't a way to force me to buy one without her so I waited.

Sylvia came home and we got ready to go shopping for a fridge.

As an aside.  Let me give you this bit of advice.  When you are offering to demonstrate an unusual sound that you can turn off by punching the refrigerator, and the person you are trying to show says that they don't want to hear it...do not punch the refrigerator to make the sound happen, because that will be the one time that it does not just turn off with another punch.

We bought the biggest, ice-making-est fridge that would fit into our tiny house and even got the thing that would pee chilled water into your glass if you wanted (come on...the water was coming from the bathroom...you know I had to go there).  On the day they were going to deliver it we cleaned it out and wiped it down.  (there is no way we were going to send a dirty refrigerator to the dumps)  All of the food was out and I looked into the inside wall and noticed something that I had never seen before.  It was a little plastic do-dad that was attached near the hinge.  It looked like it might move up and down but why?  I pressed on it and I heard a sound.  Never heard that sound before.  Maybe it has to do with the auto-defrost or something.  I pressed it again.  Same sound, but different.  As I pressed it longer the sound got slightly higher pitched.  I pressed longer still...it got even higher pitched.  Keep pressing I thought, if you break it today it's no big deal!  It's leaving in an hour!

And then it hit me.  I got out a glass and held it under the plastic gadget.  I kept pressing until finally, water started pouring into the glass.  There was a reservoir inside this fridge that held water to be chilled and ready to drink whenever you wanted to press that button.  And so, after bad-mouthing the old owners, feeling so superior all these months, enjoying ice at a moments notice, it took until the last day that we owned the silly thing for me to discover...that I was part French.

Fifteen

When you see a title like "Fifteen" on a random bit of writing, you might be temped to think, "This is surely  a piece that delves deeply into the struggles of the American teenager."  Then you may double check to see that a guy is writing, and think, "It is surely about the confusion involved with being between being a boy and becoming a man.  There is probably a bit about the sorrow of surviving adolescence and the impending freedom implied with obtaining one's driver's license."  Then you might think that I would sum it up with an overall statement like, "The ever-present angst of the average male American teenager is tempered with a healthy dose of hope and promise."

Well, smartypants, I am not going to talk about teenagers at all!  No, today I am going to talk about something far more important!  I am going to talk about the fact that Bubba Gump's Shrimp Company does not serve Dr Pepper anymore!  Whew!  It feels good to get that off my chest.

Now before you (rightfully) call me petty, immature, ridiculous, and bizarre let me tell you that I have my reasons to be this worked up.  But first I need to set the ground rules.  Dr Pepper is the greatest soft drink to ever cross the lips of mere mortals...but that goes without saying.  One of my favorite vacation memories was when I traveled to Texas (the birthplace of Dr Pepper) and noticed that there were no vending machines for Coke or Pepsi...there were only Dr Pepper vending machines.  Ahhh...  These people understand me...  It was refreshing to be able to go into restaurants and just order Dr Pepper without having to ask if they had it. Of Course They Had It!  They even had it at the rodeo's we went to!  It was everywhere!  But I suspect, if Bubba Gump's was to open a restaurant, they would not have it.

Unfortunately, for this particular restaurant, I am also a movie guy.  It is my thinking that if you open a movie-themed restaurant, you should stay true to the movie.  For the most part, they do a pretty good job.  There is a bench out front with a suitcase and a box of chocolates on top.  There are even ceramic running shoes in front of the bench.  They are hollowed out so you can slip your shoes into the (I'm guessing) size 23 Nikes to take a picture.  Inside, they have memorabilia, props, reproductions, notes about location, sayings, nautical items galore, there is even part of a boat (named Jenny) built onto the ceiling.  There are license plates hanging at the table that say, "Run, Forrest, Run!" and "Stop, Forrest, Stop!" so you can signal whether or not you need something at your table.  I have to say I was fairly impressed.

We had eaten there before and the last time we were there I ordered a Dr Pepper like I was in the heart of Texas.  "I'm sorry.  We don't have Dr Pepper anymore."  What?!  Have you seen the movie!?  Look at that guy's shirt!  It says, "I Gotta Pee." Do you know why it says that?  He drank too many Dr Peppers!  They called the riot squad...I was sedated...the kids and Sylvia became very friendly with the people sitting next to us (and pretended they didn't know me)...and worst of all, I almost didn't get my fish and chips.  Ok, so maybe almost none of that happened, but I was shocked that this restaurant, who tried so hard on their memorabilia, let this one detail slip through the cracks.  I half-heartedly vowed (politicians do it all the time) to not eat there again unless they brought back Dr Pepper.  I was, of course, speaking as a drink/movie enthusiast.

I held my promise...for a number of visits to the Monterey Bay Aquarium (a block from the restaurant) but the family outvoted me this time.  We asked if they had brought back the Dr yet.  They slumped like they hear that a thousand times a day and said, "No."  On our way to the table they suggested that I speak to the manager about this and "give him a hard time" since they were tired of hearing it.  Then the waitress came over and started asking questions about the movie.  They are obviously geared toward the "I've seen the movie once" crowd.  She asked things like, "Here at BUBBA Gump's we want to know what was Forrest's friend's name?"  Bubba.
"What did Forrest name his boats?" then pointed up.  The Jenny.
"On what part of the body did Forrest get shot?"  The Buttocks.
"What war was Forrest in?"  Viet Nam.
She laughed at all the help I was giving the kids with the answers and was kind enough to not mention that this was all from a movie that was made when she was one.
We "won" her contest and said that our prize was all the toothpicks and mints that we wanted.

As a movie guy, I laughed at her easy questions.  And then I asked her a question.
"How many Dr Peppers does Forrest Drink?"
"FIFTEEN!
Which is fifteen more than I can get here because you don't serve them at all!"
(I'm sure I was her favorite customer all night)

Spots

I just looked through the writing I had done for my college creative writing class thinking I would be able to grab something that was written and then pass it off as new. (kidding)  Trouble is, it's a collection of assignments and the short stories and such are still out there in Neverland.  I can remember three stories vividly...and would love to get my hands on them to work them into a screenplay and make bazillions of dollars...but I don't know where they are.  What I did find, however, was a group of the teacher's comments on the writing I've done.  One of them turned out to be prophetic.  It said, "You do really well with things (subjects) that, to us, seem trivial."

Boy, if that doesn't sum up this blog in a sentence!  Trust me, I am not saying that I am doing really well at anything...but I do have a lot of fun talking about trivial things!  The time I hit the keys on the keyboard with my eyes shut, and wrote a post about that.  That time I spent eight paragraphs talking about some lady's tattoo.  How about when I talked about my superpower...the ability to make women have to pee from laughing.  If this isn't trivial...I don't know what is. Much like the beginning of Huck Finn...anyone trying to assign importance to this blog will be examined.  Anyone seeking deeper relevance will be sedated.  That's just really not what I am going for.  And unlike Mr. Twain...I mean it!  I did just recently have someone tell me that they didn't always agree with everything I wrote in the blog, but they enjoyed it.  Curious.  I don't think I have held too many positions that were open to anything but ridicule.  Oh well, it is also very possible that my memory is fading quickly...which is why I'd better get started on today's topic.  My teacher, and her guiding me toward subjects trivial, would be very proud of today...

I've never seen a family that didn't have them.  We all have one in our family.  Mine is fairly secure.  The kids' used to be open to variety but that time has passed.  Last but not least, fear not...Sylvia has one too.  Regular visitors have them when they come over.  My nieces just claimed theirs when they were here for Christmas.  It's funny though, even though they want them when they are here, no one has ever taken theirs home when they leave.

What on Earth am I talking about?  Spots.

This season, and the groups of people who come to the house, have me thinking about spots.  Not dalmatians, not dice, not the area on the rug visited by friends with plates of food and questionable balance or even puppies and their even more questionable bladders.  No, I am talking about places at the table.  When you read that you immediately thought of your spot.  I'm not judging.  Merely pointing out an observation.  We had quite a few people over for a meal this year and the one thing that happened, every time, when we were almost ready to sit down was for people to stand around the table and wonder where they were going to sit.

The conversation inevitably turned to "spots" and "where do you normally sit?"  At this time it is really difficult to be both OCD and polite at the same time.  Part of me wants people to feel comfortable so I always say, "Sit anywhere!  We're not formal."  Another, darker side of me needs to be restrained because it is mumbling, "Don't sit there. Don't sit there. Don't sit there."  That is when it is nice to have kids.  They always add the instructions for the music-less musical chairs.  Dad sits there.  Mom sits there.  We sit here and there.  Depending on how many people and how many sections are added to the table, the options for where to sit dwindle with each passing second.

There's always someone (me) who is ready to offer specific advice about where to sit.  Depending on who the guest is, I will offer my own brand of smart aleckness to answer the "where should I sit dilemma."  "On Your Bottom!" is a perennial favorite in my family.  I suppose the only time that would be helpful is if we had visitors from Ork (if you are old enough to remember the show then you hopefully will remember the unusual way that Mork sat down...I am nothing if not exceptionally current.  Hey!  Do you remember the episode of Three's Company where they had the misunderstanding about something!?  Funny)

OK, so I have a confession to make now.  I have been sitting (no pun intended...well maybe a little) on this particular piece of writing for a while.  I keep coming back to it and don't feel right to start another until this one is ended. (pun)  I don't want to leave a post behind. (pun)  This subject has been a pain in the...well you know what I mean.  I'm going to sign off.  Start a new topic and hopefully don't leave you sitting on the edge of your seat.

SPOTS!?!  It seemed like such a good idea at the time.