The Troubleshooter
>
>
> MY Pookie, God love her, spends her every waking moment
> doing chores, thinking up chores to do, or thinking up
> chores for me to do. On a weekend night when its time for
> normal people to wind down she will curl up on the sofa with
> a magazine and a sleepy look in her eye. I will be in my
> chair, almost drooling with non productivity, which to her
> Protestant way of thinking is one of the seven deadly
> sins. She, on the other hand will look up at me with a
> lascivious look in her eyes and say: "This Magazine I'm
> reading says right here in the home maintenance section that
> you should check your dryer duct to make sure a bird doesn't
> build a nest in it and burn the house down.
>
> Of course I'm thrilled to hear this revelation because
> I have often wondered why all of our houses keep burning
> down. I know better than to say something smart so I act
> bemused to hear this interesting tidbit of home owner
> information. Also, I'm acutely aware that if I make a
> wisecrack, six months later a bird will build a nest in our
> dryer duct and burn our house down. So I act interested.
>
> But all I am interested in at the time is watching the Suns
> Play the Blazers while I'm surfing the internet on the
> laptop to find out more about my cholesterol. I make an
> interesting discovery. Stress is what raises your
> cholesterol. Also, stress can give you a heart spasm and
> make you croak. I'm more determined than ever to stay
> relaxed now. To me relaxation is being productive in a very
> manly way because it ads years to your manly life.
>
> Moments later she pipes up again. "It says here that
> you can go to this cool website and type in "handyman
> tips" and watch a video of a handyman explaining how
> to do all kinds of household projects from pluming a kitchen
> sink to remodeling a house." Apparently she has
> forgotten about the last thing I tried to plumb.
>
> Now she has lost the sleepy look in her eye and is
> enthusiastically thumbing through the pages. "How
> many minutes did you use your text messaging this month? she
> asks.
>
> "Not very many, but I did just use it." A friend
> of ours texted me to reminded me it was our anniversary
> Friday, I neglect to tell her that part because I already
> made sure she knew I remembered our anniversary. We made
> plans. I just didn't think it prudent to mention how I remembered.
>
> "So would you say you use it five, maybe six times per
> month?
>
> Actually, I wouldn't say, because I don't want to think at
> the moment. "Yeah, give or take."
>
> "It says right here that I could save up to seven
> bucks a month if I canceled our unlimited texting. I never
> use mine"
>
> It is tempting to suggest that she should start right now but
> I'm on shaky ground here because I don't want to lose my
> unlimited texting privileges. It's very handy to text
> when you don't have time for an actual phone call or you don't
> want to have a phone conversation that could turn into a
> detailed dialog when you just want to send a quick message,
> or if your in hot water. Convincing her to keep the
> unlimited texting is doable but it would require me coming
> up with all kinds of provocative thoughts and lawyerly
> arguments which would be stressful. Also the game looks
> like it could go into overtime.
>
> I need to come up with something because it has been my
> experience, that if I don't have unlimited texting and have
> never needed it anyway, for some reason in the near future I will most likely be using up texting minutes faster than the rate at which the
> national debt is tallied and suddenly there will be an
> emergency and I will need to send a quick text such as
> "house on fire" and my texting minutes will
> immediately expire.
Therefore I will have to call and try to
> explain to her why I didn't rush out and check the dryer duct
> the moment she brought it up months ago. I will remind her
> that if she wouldn't have canceled my immortal texting
> minutes we wouldn't be having this argument, which, by
> the way, could give me a heart spasm.
Luckily the leak from my last plumbing project will extinguish the fire, a small victory for me which will settle the score. The score is Blazers 106, Suns 103, Cholesteral 199, National debt: negative five hundred
> trillion, Pookie: positive five hundred trillion,
> me two, Unlimited texting zero, Marriage: 15 years.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
March: The Year of the Cat
When I was in High School in the seventies there was this song that was a major hit called The Year of The Cat by Al Stewart. I dont really know what the song was about but it must have been deep and very meaningful because in March of 2009 some scant thirty years later my wife couldnt keep our darned cat out of the house! Yeah, I always hated that song too.
The amazing thing to me about the wife verses cat scenario is that Pookie is normally the standard bearer for savvy home /farm /business interactions and has no trouble whatsoever in dealing with livestock or people in general. Take today for instance. We were in the barn when our neighbor pulled up in is dump truck, intorduced himself and offered to remove a gigantic mountain range of large rocks that decorates our property (about eight dump truck loads worth) for the sum total of eight hundred dollars.
"Six hundred" were the first words out of her mout. No hesitation, No stammering.
I swallowed my bung hole. These people dont even know each other yet the man comes uninvited to my home, makes an elaborate proposal, and The Pookstress slaps him right up side the head with: "Six Hundred." Ha, Ha, Ha, she said. Ha, Ha, Ha, he said. Gulmp I said.
I was glad they were yucking it up adding levity to the situation and all because my standard comeback to such a proposal would be to freeze in a frozen position and become all serious and say: "I'll see what my wife says." Or if I'm feeling special sporty and confident I might come back with : "A thousand, and you've got yourself a deal!" So without my teliprompter I'm pretty much stuck with the standard, I'll see what my wife says type answer for ALL situations. I think I'm this way because I've been taught by well meaning preachers and Sunday school teachers since my youth that my job here in this life is to convert everybody I come in contact with to Christianity. Also, it was sometimes implied by the Powerful Religeous Implyers to Children Union (PRICU) that it could definately, possibly be your fault should an average aquaintance burn in Hell for all of eternity. So I'm slightly self concious about always being perfect when meeting someone. Its a great strain but now, as an adult, I've learned to deal with the stress by returning to my home and yelling at the children.
But Pookie could give a fat rats fanny about what you or me or anybody else thinks about her. I admire this trait in her often, sometimes with my jaw dropped. She can talk down a health insurance billing type person by meer persistance and even be quite blunt and think nothing of it. I can assure you we have not paid one penny extra on any of our bills and often get a discount because of her schrewdness. Sadly, none of the billing people are converted to Christianity that I know of thanks to Pookie and her go to hell attitude.
If I was left to do the bill paying I would probobly pay extra to avoid conflict and make sure any people encountered along the way were convinced I was a nice guy so they would convert to my religion. I doubt I have any conversions to my credit using this technique but it is engrained in my phsychy. Therefore I have a little trouble because I try to get people to like me and sometimes they take advantage of me because I am what is commonly refered to as a people pleaser. But Pookie has no trouble with the concept of people not liking her. Rather, she invites it, but people seem to like her anyway. She looks out for herself (and me) and the kids and we always get the best deal and makes sure no one takes advantage of me. Like I say, she's savvy.
But she is a total moron when it comes to keeping the cat out of the house. She should know better. She grew up with animals, has a Bachelers degree in animal science, has opereated large horse breeding facilites, trained horses proffesionally and most recently has kept an entire squardran of my sons uninhibited chickens from pooping on aproximately ten billion square feet of asfalt that composes our driveway. (As a sidenote I've neuterd pigs. Actually, I just watched as Gary Detwyler, when we were seventh graders, neutered a flock of piglets with no adult supervision while I held them down. He sprayed purple stuff on 'em when it was over. I know this is about Pookie but I didnt want her to get all the glory).
My point here is that this women should know a little bit about animal psychology. But that cat has her number. The cat can sense when we are leaving and Pookie wants her out of the house. Pookie emmits these intense, womenly brainwaves that all women send out when they are leaving their home. These brainwaves say ok I'm leaving therefore my house must be perfect when I return or I will be incomplete as a human. At this point the cat understands that these preliminary brainwaves are merely ornamental serving only to ignite the primordeal switch in the women that excites her to clean, do the laundry and vacume the entire stratosphere before any leaving takes place. About the time I turn off the remote and stand to leave when Pookie hollars "Load Up! to the kids, and remembers the cat, Ol' Butterscotch squirts under the bed where she is innaccecible to an enraged women who is suddenly in a hurry. Even more amazing is the fact that this women is the ultimate planner when it comes to activities. In February She'll plan for an event that will take place in June with an urgancy that would suggest that its happening today. "Lets see, we better make reservations because Saturday mornings can be swamped at the Pancake house in the third week of June. I'll give them a call, hand me the phone. Hurry."
But as important as it is that there is no cat in the house during her absence Pookie refuses to plan cat evacuation operations untill the very last minute. To make things worse, Pookie panics when when she tries to catch the cat. She often uses the same language the dad in Christmas Story uses when he tries to fix the furnace. Its uninteligible. "Concarn melmfing Patafinga!" she hollers.
So its at times like these, as the head of the household I "step up to the plate" as father and leader to take care of the cat procceedings on our home. I can do this from my chair. When the little woman begins emmitting the womanly rays I pick up on the situation almost immideately because in fifteen years of marriage you lean to read these imperceptible que's with uncanny accuracy. Also she begins vacuming in front of the TV. I'll signal one of the kids over and say, "Gracy, baby, would you please put the cat out. Gracy will walk into my bedroom where the cat is preening herself on my bed. Picking up the cat who remains as limp as a wet bathtowel Gracie plops her outside with no effort whatsoever.
Upon whitnessing this event Pookie, the rule maker extrodinare of the household will make a decree throuout the living room that "from here on out the cat shall remain an outside cat sleeping in the barn and performing other barn cat type chores such as catching and consuming mice for her room and board." What she doesnt know is that at precicely the moment of said decree Charlie is in the other room letting the cat back in the house. Or sometimes the Queen herself will, in a fit of cat empathy, let the cat back in on a cold night resulting in an entire new cycle. The cycle is never ending, only intereupted when the cat pees on our bathroom little rug, always the south rug, never the north, like clockwork. If the cat finds out that she is engaged in an actual fued, in the rare event she does spend the night out of doors she will "hold it" untill Charlie lets her back in through the forbidden living room window. The cat will run into our bathroom, with its legs crossed, barely making it in time to pee. It never ends.
I was awakened the other morning by the sounds of Pookie grabbing an armload of firewood at o 'dark thirty, when I heard the familiar mutering that signals the begining of a cat eposode. "You stupid cat, dont you do it, GET BACK HERE PADAFIINGA! (sound of an armload of firewood being dropped all over the floor) A few seconds later I hear the sound of little paws as the cat gallops by my bed where she vanishes out of reach. I make no attempt at hiding my myrth and even holler out a few barbs in jest at my hapless wife who is now blowing the hair out of her eyes and picking up the mess on the floor. She has to laugh, only because the scene has replayed itself so often at our house that it has become ironic. An hour later I'll walk by silently with a limp, purring cat, strutting by as if to say, "whos your daddy?" and gently plop the cat outside. Poor Pookie. Where would she be without me?
The amazing thing to me about the wife verses cat scenario is that Pookie is normally the standard bearer for savvy home /farm /business interactions and has no trouble whatsoever in dealing with livestock or people in general. Take today for instance. We were in the barn when our neighbor pulled up in is dump truck, intorduced himself and offered to remove a gigantic mountain range of large rocks that decorates our property (about eight dump truck loads worth) for the sum total of eight hundred dollars.
"Six hundred" were the first words out of her mout. No hesitation, No stammering.
I swallowed my bung hole. These people dont even know each other yet the man comes uninvited to my home, makes an elaborate proposal, and The Pookstress slaps him right up side the head with: "Six Hundred." Ha, Ha, Ha, she said. Ha, Ha, Ha, he said. Gulmp I said.
I was glad they were yucking it up adding levity to the situation and all because my standard comeback to such a proposal would be to freeze in a frozen position and become all serious and say: "I'll see what my wife says." Or if I'm feeling special sporty and confident I might come back with : "A thousand, and you've got yourself a deal!" So without my teliprompter I'm pretty much stuck with the standard, I'll see what my wife says type answer for ALL situations. I think I'm this way because I've been taught by well meaning preachers and Sunday school teachers since my youth that my job here in this life is to convert everybody I come in contact with to Christianity. Also, it was sometimes implied by the Powerful Religeous Implyers to Children Union (PRICU) that it could definately, possibly be your fault should an average aquaintance burn in Hell for all of eternity. So I'm slightly self concious about always being perfect when meeting someone. Its a great strain but now, as an adult, I've learned to deal with the stress by returning to my home and yelling at the children.
But Pookie could give a fat rats fanny about what you or me or anybody else thinks about her. I admire this trait in her often, sometimes with my jaw dropped. She can talk down a health insurance billing type person by meer persistance and even be quite blunt and think nothing of it. I can assure you we have not paid one penny extra on any of our bills and often get a discount because of her schrewdness. Sadly, none of the billing people are converted to Christianity that I know of thanks to Pookie and her go to hell attitude.
If I was left to do the bill paying I would probobly pay extra to avoid conflict and make sure any people encountered along the way were convinced I was a nice guy so they would convert to my religion. I doubt I have any conversions to my credit using this technique but it is engrained in my phsychy. Therefore I have a little trouble because I try to get people to like me and sometimes they take advantage of me because I am what is commonly refered to as a people pleaser. But Pookie has no trouble with the concept of people not liking her. Rather, she invites it, but people seem to like her anyway. She looks out for herself (and me) and the kids and we always get the best deal and makes sure no one takes advantage of me. Like I say, she's savvy.
But she is a total moron when it comes to keeping the cat out of the house. She should know better. She grew up with animals, has a Bachelers degree in animal science, has opereated large horse breeding facilites, trained horses proffesionally and most recently has kept an entire squardran of my sons uninhibited chickens from pooping on aproximately ten billion square feet of asfalt that composes our driveway. (As a sidenote I've neuterd pigs. Actually, I just watched as Gary Detwyler, when we were seventh graders, neutered a flock of piglets with no adult supervision while I held them down. He sprayed purple stuff on 'em when it was over. I know this is about Pookie but I didnt want her to get all the glory).
My point here is that this women should know a little bit about animal psychology. But that cat has her number. The cat can sense when we are leaving and Pookie wants her out of the house. Pookie emmits these intense, womenly brainwaves that all women send out when they are leaving their home. These brainwaves say ok I'm leaving therefore my house must be perfect when I return or I will be incomplete as a human. At this point the cat understands that these preliminary brainwaves are merely ornamental serving only to ignite the primordeal switch in the women that excites her to clean, do the laundry and vacume the entire stratosphere before any leaving takes place. About the time I turn off the remote and stand to leave when Pookie hollars "Load Up! to the kids, and remembers the cat, Ol' Butterscotch squirts under the bed where she is innaccecible to an enraged women who is suddenly in a hurry. Even more amazing is the fact that this women is the ultimate planner when it comes to activities. In February She'll plan for an event that will take place in June with an urgancy that would suggest that its happening today. "Lets see, we better make reservations because Saturday mornings can be swamped at the Pancake house in the third week of June. I'll give them a call, hand me the phone. Hurry."
But as important as it is that there is no cat in the house during her absence Pookie refuses to plan cat evacuation operations untill the very last minute. To make things worse, Pookie panics when when she tries to catch the cat. She often uses the same language the dad in Christmas Story uses when he tries to fix the furnace. Its uninteligible. "Concarn melmfing Patafinga!" she hollers.
So its at times like these, as the head of the household I "step up to the plate" as father and leader to take care of the cat procceedings on our home. I can do this from my chair. When the little woman begins emmitting the womanly rays I pick up on the situation almost immideately because in fifteen years of marriage you lean to read these imperceptible que's with uncanny accuracy. Also she begins vacuming in front of the TV. I'll signal one of the kids over and say, "Gracy, baby, would you please put the cat out. Gracy will walk into my bedroom where the cat is preening herself on my bed. Picking up the cat who remains as limp as a wet bathtowel Gracie plops her outside with no effort whatsoever.
Upon whitnessing this event Pookie, the rule maker extrodinare of the household will make a decree throuout the living room that "from here on out the cat shall remain an outside cat sleeping in the barn and performing other barn cat type chores such as catching and consuming mice for her room and board." What she doesnt know is that at precicely the moment of said decree Charlie is in the other room letting the cat back in the house. Or sometimes the Queen herself will, in a fit of cat empathy, let the cat back in on a cold night resulting in an entire new cycle. The cycle is never ending, only intereupted when the cat pees on our bathroom little rug, always the south rug, never the north, like clockwork. If the cat finds out that she is engaged in an actual fued, in the rare event she does spend the night out of doors she will "hold it" untill Charlie lets her back in through the forbidden living room window. The cat will run into our bathroom, with its legs crossed, barely making it in time to pee. It never ends.
I was awakened the other morning by the sounds of Pookie grabbing an armload of firewood at o 'dark thirty, when I heard the familiar mutering that signals the begining of a cat eposode. "You stupid cat, dont you do it, GET BACK HERE PADAFIINGA! (sound of an armload of firewood being dropped all over the floor) A few seconds later I hear the sound of little paws as the cat gallops by my bed where she vanishes out of reach. I make no attempt at hiding my myrth and even holler out a few barbs in jest at my hapless wife who is now blowing the hair out of her eyes and picking up the mess on the floor. She has to laugh, only because the scene has replayed itself so often at our house that it has become ironic. An hour later I'll walk by silently with a limp, purring cat, strutting by as if to say, "whos your daddy?" and gently plop the cat outside. Poor Pookie. Where would she be without me?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
April, Barn Raising Month
The warm weather and the long days are like an interveneous shot of antidepressants to my soul, empowring me to, once more, to head out to the barn and dig some holes and plant some posts and raise some beams, and yell at the chickens (will you guys SHHUUTTT UUPP!!!) (sound of me pulling my hair out) etc, untill at last the barn is complete and my life has reached its ultimate destiny and I can, with clear conciounce, hurl myself off a cliff.
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