Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Not your average drill team. . .

A good friend sent me this YouTube video and it cracked me up! I will never admit it openly or anything--but I think I might be starting to get old. (shhhhhh! you didn't hear that from me)

And apparently so is this men's drill team. They've still got what it takes. . . just a whole lot more of it!

I'm aghast and agog at their precision and execution. This is a minute and half of performance that I'm sure you won't soon forget if you decide to take a peak.

Now I think I'm going to find a chair and sit a spell. . .

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Blogging is cheaper than therapy. . . and keeps me 'regular'


I've heard tell that all bloggers go to Heaven. . . no, that wasn't it. . . I think it was blogging is not for the weak and simple-minded.

Wait a minute--if that were true, the blogosphere would be a huge giant void.

Perhaps it was blogging makes you go blind.  Yeah, that sounds about right.  I'm sure there are various and sundry reason why folks 'blog'. . . For me--it keeps me from doing a lot of laundry and ironing.  Not to mention,  it also saves me from having to call a shrink every now and again. . . (of course Zoloft will do the same thing)

But I digress. . .

Apparently I have some folks now who are taking my 'blogging temperature' by how frequently I blog and if I am 'regular'. . . When I fail to blog as often as 'normal', then I must be backed up.  (which is not a good thing)  And I really don't want to find out what a blogging enema would do.

If I blog too much,  then I am said to be binging and purging and that can lead to becoming a blogging bolemic.  (again not a good thing)

It's a very fine line that one must tread to find just the RIGHT amount of blogging space to take up at any one time.  I'm sure I've made some serious blogging faux pas.

And not to be distracted--but my heck!  Isn't BLOGGING a funny word?  I mean, who came up with that one?  (actually I think it was shortened back in '99 or something from 'weblog'.  Instead of folks saying 'I'm writing a web log'  it was much easier to say 'blog'.

Just like instead of saying, 'Could you be so kind as to please pass the creole gumbo casserole.' most family members will say, 'Uh, give stuff!'

OK!  Back to the topic!

I want to reassure all my little blogger fans out there that I am totally fine (as far as the incredible world of blogging goes) and have a plunger in hand and will do the virtual 'swishy' as needed to keep the blog posts flowing freely.

But what I don't put out in quantity--I make up for in quality. (yeah, that's the ticket!)  Which is why my postings may tend to ramble, not make any sense, and tend to appear randomly and for no apparent reason.

So don't be alarmed when and if you see me post something. . . or NOT posting something..  Just sit back, relax and enjoy the fact that you are only reading about my ridiculous life. . .  be thankful you are not actually living inside my poor, addled brain.

Wait!  Maybe you ARE living in there--and that's why I have to do all this blogging in the first place. . .


Saturday, February 6, 2010

Funny, sweaty furnace repairman. . . and the re-education of my husband. . .

I suppose my life just wouldn't be complete if I couldn't spend some part of my existence with a repairman of some sort.  Car mechanics, electricians, plumbers, computer geeks,  sewage specialists, tree surgeons,  roofers, grounders, rounders, looters and renegades of every kind. .

You name it--I've done some time with them.  (and what quality time that has been)  And right smack dab in the middle of winter, with college son coming home for a week for some 'quality time' with the family--of course the furnace goes out.

So naturally dear hubby is ever ready and helpful with a list of furnace repairmen of every shape and sort and wants to set me up on a play date with one of them right away.  As I'm looking through the list between several layers of clothing and blankets and trying to unthaw my eyelids so they will open properly--I made a mental note to just deal with the first guy that will actually respond and come to the house.

This is how I got to meet Fred, the furnace repairman.  Somehow I managed to move my frozen fingers enough to be able to punch in the phone number and Fred, who has a voice loud enough to set off a 3-alarm fire bell, responded that he could come over that VERY day.  Right NOW in fact.  Just needed to slip his pants and tool belt on and he'd be over before I could say arctic ice cap.

At this point--I was just thrilled we might get some HEAT!  Fred's voice and presence could warm up a vast amount of the frozen Alaskan tundra--and since we had been without a heater for 2 days and looked like ticks ready to pop with all the clothing and down jackets we were wearing--I was ready to put up with ANYTHING to get the heat back on again.

I mean, it's kinda weird when friends run into you at the store and see you putting on snow pants and goggles and mittens and scarves and boots and thermals and wool caps and ask if you are going skiing for the day or something--and you have to explain that no, you are merely getting ready to go back into your house.

Fred comes over and he is everything that a stereotypical furnace repair guy should be. . . and more.  He weighed nearly 300 pounds and of course his pants didn't fit right.  He began by yelling and cussing at the furnace to try and get it to work (which is nothing new since dear hubby usually goes through the same ritual on a nightly basis)  I left him to his pounding and shouting and pretty soon the furnace was up and running.

He called me to come in and witness the miracle.  He then asks me what my husband usually did to get our gas furnace to turn on. . . so of course I show him.  Fred, grabs my arm and stops me in my tracks with a look that would have withered a wild grizzly about to feast on a troop of boy scouts.

Fred:  EGADS, woman!  You can't start the furnace that way.  You don't stand there, turning the gas on with a scripto lighter.  What are you insane?  Do you want to end up in the hospital like my last 3 clients who dialed me up with their nubby burnt off fingers?

Me:  That's what my husband does.  He's been doing it for years that way.

Fred:  Has he ever been in the hospital?

Me:  Well, now that you mention it. . .

Fred:  We're gonna have to re-educate him.  But first, let me show you how it's supposed to work.  Does the motor make a loud noise when it's on?

Me:  No.  (of course I don't tell him that I'm used to the grinding, clanking,  retching sound that it makes when it's running so I no longer notice it)

Fred goes back to work and then calls me in again.

Fred:  What would be a loud noise to you, m'am?

Me:  (I give a blood curdling shout that knocks my youngest son out of bed upstairs and kills 2 of the neighborhood cats)  ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGH!  Now, that would be a loud noise to me.

Fred:  (picking up his false teeth off the floor)  I'll give ya that.  But your furnace is not supposed to sound like this.  This sound is too loud for a furnace.  He goes back to work.

Pretty soon he calls me back in again.

Fred:  Do you hear that?

Me:  Hear what?

Fred:  EXACTLY!  That's what your furnace is supposed to sound like.

Me:  Wow!  Is it working?

Fred:  No, but it will be.

He asks me who does the regular maintenance on the furnace--and I have to admit that it's the man of my dreams who does all the fix-it and maintenance projects around the house.  (well, not really--it's my husband--but you get the point)

Fred:  (who obviously is not impressed with my husband's furnace skills)  When was the last time your husband cleaned out the burners and oiled the motor bearings?

Me:  Do you want a specific date or will the nearest decade do?

Fred:  That's what I thought.  Here. . . watch this.

He then brings in this contraption that makes a shop vac look like a moped on a moto cross track.

Fred:  This is an industrial blower.  Don't try this at home.

Me:  But we ARE in my home!

Fred:  Hold on to something and watch.

Me:  Do I have to?

Fred fires up the 'blower/vac' and we are immediately enveloped in a sea of gray dust and debri.

Fred:  That was inside your furnace--not good.  It needs to be cleaned out every year.

Me:  (coughing and covering my nose and face with one of my innumerable blankets)  Yeah, but maybe we should tent the room first.

Fred:  And the motor bearings need to oiled once a year.  That's what that God-Awful noise was coming outta the motor--the bearings were drier than my Aunt Agnes's chicken roast.  It should purr like a kitten  being let in the back door of a tuna factory.

Me:  (listening to the nice little hum of the working motor)  You do have a point there.

But OH MY GOSH!  The house was now starting to warm up--and the heater was WORKING!  I was crying like a girl who never got asked to the prom.

Fred:  Well, my work is complete.  Please tell your husband to call ME if he needs this worked on again.  Because apparently he doesn't know anything about furnaces and you guys could end up on the front page of the news.

Me:  (kind of excited)  Really?

Fred:  Well, yeah.  For having your house go up in  a ball of flames. 

I was so doggone happy, I didn't even care.  I was just ready to pay this dude and take all these darn layers of clothing off.  I was getting a bit overheated.

Fred:  Now before I go, I'm gonna write my phone number on the door of your furnace so you can remember to call me when you have a problem.

Me:  OK

Fred:  (writing and talking)  And you don't need to take the door off to call.

Me:  I wasn't planning on it.

Fred:  Well, a lot of my customers don't have mobile phones like you do--and they just unscrew the door and take it with them to the phone.

Me:  They can't remember a 7 digit number?

Fred:  Nope.  For some people that's hard.

Me:  Well, they can't write it down on a piece of paper then?

Fred:  Ya know, I think I will have to share that information with them.  That's a good idea.  It will save me the trouble of having to put all those doors back on when I get there.

That's when I realize that it's not only repairmen who are dolts. . .

Fred was a genius in most respects. . . and oh!  The joys of having central heating back on in the house.

So that night, after dear hubby got home and realized that he no longer had to build a camp fire in the living room--I began his furnace re-education project.  Not sure if he's gonna graduate or not--but for now we have HEAT!