What has happened to me?
I used to consider myself to be somewhat prolific. I used to think I had a voice, and while it didn't always say something meaningful or useful, it usually said something.
So why have I completely faltered? Falter? No, that's not the right word. To falter would imply I have made a mistake and recognize a clear path back to where I was. That is certainly not me in this case.
Probably more accurate, I have stagnated. All my ideas and all my thoughts have been blocked up and left to rot. Indeed, it seems my pool of ideas has become more of a cesspool of frustration and wasted time.
I had gotten the idea to start working on drafts for my posts, and for a little while I felt like I was really on to something. But even that has reached this murky and impenetrable quagmire of a writer's block.
Whats my point here? I'm frustrated. I'm stuck. But I'm not giving up. I'm going to find a way through this.
So, if you happen to be one of the few folks who actually keep track of my exploits here, keep keeping track. I promise, there will be something soon.
Please, let there be something soon....
Aug 27, 2009
Aug 9, 2009
Any port will do, but I would much rather have a Marina.
Inspiration comes at the weirdest times and strangest places. For example, here I sit at work, of all places, and suddenly feel like I need to post something. How weird and out of place is this sudden desire? Lets look at in laymen’s terms: I am at work, I am wearing a shirt that has always been on the side of being-too-small-to-really-be-comfortable-yet-not-to-small-to-justify-buying-another-$60-dollar-shirt, I am surrounded by co-workers whom I have relatively little in common with (therefore I really don’t have anything to talk about with, either), I’m drinking a cup of coffee that is in and of itself only coffee because it is dark and hot, and I have barely been posting more than once a week in the recent past anyway. So why the sudden desire to post something?
The sad truth is, I don’t know. I feel like the proverbial ship that is lost in a storm. And right about now, in this storm, I would take any port. And therein lies the problem. I want t put something new. But with no real compass to refer to for direction, 20-foot swells and blackout conditions, one port looks just like another.
Now, perhaps the port you choose resembles a lavish, luxury resort marina (note the departure from the work port? That’s because these uppity-uppity places can’t be associated with a one-syllable word like “port.” So we up the ante by upping the syllables. Hence, the word Marina. You know the places I am talking about. With the restaurants, the fashion stores, and the boats that resemble small floating houses. I have been to one of these types of marinas. You can’t go wrong here. The old saying, “Any port in a storm,” should really be changed to, “Man, if I have to choose any port because of this stupid storm let it resemble the Cabo San Lucas Marina!”
(And no, this is not a plug for Cabo, however they really do have a nice Marina.)
And then, of course, if there is actually some sort of Marina I would preferably land in during a storm, there must be a port I would rather avoid. In fact, I’m sure there are ports I would rather avoid. The kind of place that looks seedy. The kind of place that has one restaurant, which only a few select people go to because they have somehow hardened the linings of their stomachs and worries (such as ecoli) are reduced by their general lack of an ability to say these types of words aloud. The kind of place that is called a Port simply because Marina has too many syllables. This is the kind of port I would want to avoid.
So, having taken this extremely colorful, and probably overly lengthy, metaphor into account, I still sit here looking to post something. Anything.
Which port do I choose? I can pretty much guarantee I won't be hitting a Marina, not tonight. Not while I sit here at work, in this uniform shirt that's a little too small, and I'm surrounded by people who I don't dislike, but I don't really have anything in common either.
So its a port. I need a port.
I recently started reading a book which was recommended by J. J told me she liked the book a lot and the guy's writing style was similar to my own. This I found intriguing. So I started reading it. And sure enough, I could see myself writing some of these very things (if I were to lose some of my own personal inhibitions and have an audience that is strictly over the age of 18).
The real problem, here at work, is its nearly impossible to read in this environment. And some days would be perfect for it too. We are not horribly busy, we have enough staffing to make the small amount of work we have actually had to do seem minimal. But that lends to conversations being struck up, and for whatever reason, these conversations are loud. And people are generally talking over one another, like it was the floor of the NY Stock Exchange and DOW just jumped about 4000 points. Yeah, its that loud.
OK, so now what? I could enumerate the many things at work that annoy me. However, if I did that, we would probably need a few licensed mental health workers to be on call, and I don't know that I could swing that one.
I could talk about anything I want to. But in the end, I simply feel like I'm still at sea. I can see a few different ports twinkling in the night, but I just can't seem to land at any of them.
Maybe its time to simply light the old signal flare and hope someone comes to me?
The sad truth is, I don’t know. I feel like the proverbial ship that is lost in a storm. And right about now, in this storm, I would take any port. And therein lies the problem. I want t put something new. But with no real compass to refer to for direction, 20-foot swells and blackout conditions, one port looks just like another.
Now, perhaps the port you choose resembles a lavish, luxury resort marina (note the departure from the work port? That’s because these uppity-uppity places can’t be associated with a one-syllable word like “port.” So we up the ante by upping the syllables. Hence, the word Marina. You know the places I am talking about. With the restaurants, the fashion stores, and the boats that resemble small floating houses. I have been to one of these types of marinas. You can’t go wrong here. The old saying, “Any port in a storm,” should really be changed to, “Man, if I have to choose any port because of this stupid storm let it resemble the Cabo San Lucas Marina!”
(And no, this is not a plug for Cabo, however they really do have a nice Marina.)
And then, of course, if there is actually some sort of Marina I would preferably land in during a storm, there must be a port I would rather avoid. In fact, I’m sure there are ports I would rather avoid. The kind of place that looks seedy. The kind of place that has one restaurant, which only a few select people go to because they have somehow hardened the linings of their stomachs and worries (such as ecoli) are reduced by their general lack of an ability to say these types of words aloud. The kind of place that is called a Port simply because Marina has too many syllables. This is the kind of port I would want to avoid.
So, having taken this extremely colorful, and probably overly lengthy, metaphor into account, I still sit here looking to post something. Anything.
Which port do I choose? I can pretty much guarantee I won't be hitting a Marina, not tonight. Not while I sit here at work, in this uniform shirt that's a little too small, and I'm surrounded by people who I don't dislike, but I don't really have anything in common either.
So its a port. I need a port.
I recently started reading a book which was recommended by J. J told me she liked the book a lot and the guy's writing style was similar to my own. This I found intriguing. So I started reading it. And sure enough, I could see myself writing some of these very things (if I were to lose some of my own personal inhibitions and have an audience that is strictly over the age of 18).
The real problem, here at work, is its nearly impossible to read in this environment. And some days would be perfect for it too. We are not horribly busy, we have enough staffing to make the small amount of work we have actually had to do seem minimal. But that lends to conversations being struck up, and for whatever reason, these conversations are loud. And people are generally talking over one another, like it was the floor of the NY Stock Exchange and DOW just jumped about 4000 points. Yeah, its that loud.
OK, so now what? I could enumerate the many things at work that annoy me. However, if I did that, we would probably need a few licensed mental health workers to be on call, and I don't know that I could swing that one.
I could talk about anything I want to. But in the end, I simply feel like I'm still at sea. I can see a few different ports twinkling in the night, but I just can't seem to land at any of them.
Maybe its time to simply light the old signal flare and hope someone comes to me?
Jul 26, 2009
And I quote, "It's no big deal." Yeah right, Bill. Yeah, right.
It’s been about 10 years since I have been to Arizona. It seems like many things have changed. There are a lot more people, there are a lot more homes, and there are a lot more shopping centers. If there is one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the heat. Its hot there. Dang hot.
It’s so hot in fact, that the local news stations only label it “HOT” when the temperatures reach 110 degrees or more. Apparently, 109 is not really hot. It’s just warm. Crazy, indeed.
The solution to this dreadful heat? There are a few. For example, many places are equipped with misters outside. A constant water flow through a special nozzle creates a cool mist enjoyed by any who are near enough to feel its cooling presence. The afore mentioned shopping centers are all air-conditioned. They are cool enough that some of the stores feel good enough to sell hot beverages to thirsty consumers. Movie theatres are another escape. Dark, cool, and if you can put up with the rest of the crowds a perfect retreat from the blazing afternoon heat.
And last, but certainly not least, there is the pool.
If you live in Arizona, it seems like a no-brainer that you should have a pool. If you don’t have a pool, it seems a no-brainer that you should know someone with a pool. If you don’t know someone with a pool, it seems a no-brainer that you should know where the good public pools are.
My sister has a pool. And the boys and I spent a fair amount of time in the pool this week while visiting my sister, as did Megan and Braydon. Even when the water temperature was nearly 90 degrees, it felt so much cooler than the 110-degree weather that was outside.
So yes, we spent some time in the pool.
Now, let me rewind the tape a little. When we arrived, we were warned there might be a little pee on the seat, as my sister’s youngest is still working on his use of the potty. He is still pretty young, after all. This information alone should be enough to set the scene that is about to unfold.
It was in the early evening, my mother, son, niece and two nephews were in the pool waiting for dinnertime. It was still hot; and I mean really hot. It was easily over 100 degrees outside. The pool, however, was on the cooler side, near 85. Nice. IT was getting close to the time we would want the kids to start getting out, and mom and I were devising a plan to break the news to the kids softly that pool time for the evening was almost over.
I had given the order to the kids to find all the torpedoes in the water and get them out. My son decided he could get a better vantage point from out of the water. As he was doing so he said to me, “Dad! There is something in the pool next to the torpedo!” It was getting dark, and I couldn’t exactly see what it was, but there was definitely something there. I wasn’t wearing goggles, so when I went underwater to investigate the mysterious object it was simply a blurry little thing at the bottom of the pool.
I reached out to grab it and instantly knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. I don’t know that “slimy” is the right word. More like squishy. Soft, squishy, and all together wrong. The chemicals in the pool seemed to be doing their job in making sure it was breaking down, and I dropped it accordingly. I came to the surface of the pool, still hoping against hope that what I had found was something other than what I suspected it of being. There was a slight residue left on a part of my hand. Knowing what I was getting into, I performed a quick aroma check of the residue in question.
Poop.
Yep, it was poop. Someone had pooped in the pool. There was no need to wonder who it was, because the offending child (still working on the appropriate use of the toilet) was quick, and I mean overly quick, to blame the dog. This was the kind of blame only a guilty child throws out, thinking to deflect the oncoming barrage of trouble headed his way.
Unfortunately for him, no one believed his cockeyed story. It was wholly unbelievable. Much like a story I told my father once about a neighbor’s window I had broken, and tried to blame the dog (but that is another post that should be saved for another time).
I quickly announced that pool time was over. All the kids were to exit the pool immediately. There was a small amount of a panicked rush as everyone did his or her best to get away from the offending doodie.
In the end, we all got a bit of a laugh out of it, and mom and I decided we needed to take a shower (it was more a mental thing than anything else, but it sure made us feel better).
In a small tribute to poop in the pool, here is one of the best “poop in the pool” scenes ever captured on film:
It’s so hot in fact, that the local news stations only label it “HOT” when the temperatures reach 110 degrees or more. Apparently, 109 is not really hot. It’s just warm. Crazy, indeed.
The solution to this dreadful heat? There are a few. For example, many places are equipped with misters outside. A constant water flow through a special nozzle creates a cool mist enjoyed by any who are near enough to feel its cooling presence. The afore mentioned shopping centers are all air-conditioned. They are cool enough that some of the stores feel good enough to sell hot beverages to thirsty consumers. Movie theatres are another escape. Dark, cool, and if you can put up with the rest of the crowds a perfect retreat from the blazing afternoon heat.
And last, but certainly not least, there is the pool.
If you live in Arizona, it seems like a no-brainer that you should have a pool. If you don’t have a pool, it seems a no-brainer that you should know someone with a pool. If you don’t know someone with a pool, it seems a no-brainer that you should know where the good public pools are.
My sister has a pool. And the boys and I spent a fair amount of time in the pool this week while visiting my sister, as did Megan and Braydon. Even when the water temperature was nearly 90 degrees, it felt so much cooler than the 110-degree weather that was outside.
So yes, we spent some time in the pool.
Now, let me rewind the tape a little. When we arrived, we were warned there might be a little pee on the seat, as my sister’s youngest is still working on his use of the potty. He is still pretty young, after all. This information alone should be enough to set the scene that is about to unfold.
It was in the early evening, my mother, son, niece and two nephews were in the pool waiting for dinnertime. It was still hot; and I mean really hot. It was easily over 100 degrees outside. The pool, however, was on the cooler side, near 85. Nice. IT was getting close to the time we would want the kids to start getting out, and mom and I were devising a plan to break the news to the kids softly that pool time for the evening was almost over.
I had given the order to the kids to find all the torpedoes in the water and get them out. My son decided he could get a better vantage point from out of the water. As he was doing so he said to me, “Dad! There is something in the pool next to the torpedo!” It was getting dark, and I couldn’t exactly see what it was, but there was definitely something there. I wasn’t wearing goggles, so when I went underwater to investigate the mysterious object it was simply a blurry little thing at the bottom of the pool.
I reached out to grab it and instantly knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. I don’t know that “slimy” is the right word. More like squishy. Soft, squishy, and all together wrong. The chemicals in the pool seemed to be doing their job in making sure it was breaking down, and I dropped it accordingly. I came to the surface of the pool, still hoping against hope that what I had found was something other than what I suspected it of being. There was a slight residue left on a part of my hand. Knowing what I was getting into, I performed a quick aroma check of the residue in question.
Poop.
Yep, it was poop. Someone had pooped in the pool. There was no need to wonder who it was, because the offending child (still working on the appropriate use of the toilet) was quick, and I mean overly quick, to blame the dog. This was the kind of blame only a guilty child throws out, thinking to deflect the oncoming barrage of trouble headed his way.
Unfortunately for him, no one believed his cockeyed story. It was wholly unbelievable. Much like a story I told my father once about a neighbor’s window I had broken, and tried to blame the dog (but that is another post that should be saved for another time).
I quickly announced that pool time was over. All the kids were to exit the pool immediately. There was a small amount of a panicked rush as everyone did his or her best to get away from the offending doodie.
In the end, we all got a bit of a laugh out of it, and mom and I decided we needed to take a shower (it was more a mental thing than anything else, but it sure made us feel better).
In a small tribute to poop in the pool, here is one of the best “poop in the pool” scenes ever captured on film:
In closing, let me just say this: May your days be cool and your pools be doodie free.
Jul 15, 2009
He really stepped in a hornet's nest this time.
According to Wikipedia, the German Yellow Jacket is the most common species of wasp in the United States. First appearing in Ohio (so I'm not entirely sure why they are called "German Yellow Jackets") they have spread across the continent and are the dominant species of wasp in the U.S. They are aggressive, have a lance-like stinger with small barbs and can sting repeatedly unless the stinger is lodged in the skin and breaks free of the wasp's body. Although fairly painful, the venom in the Yellow Jacket is really only dangerous to those who are allergic to it.
My son has been stung by a bee only once, so far, in his childhood career, and his arm swelled up like a balloon.
It is with this information in mind that I begin my tale.
Sequoia Park, nestled into the outskirts of Eureka is a fair place. Towering Redwood Trees heavily populate this area and the lush ground is blanketed in all manner of shrubs and ferns. Numerous trails and paths have been carved out by the city in an attempt to maintain a suitable environment for would-be walkers, runners, hikers and generally any who simply wish to escape from the monotony of their daily lives and enter into a whole other world where nature itself is the predominant life form and we humans are nearly insignificant visitors simply passing through.
As we left the house, we had the grand idea to deviate from the beaten paths we know so well and forge new ones. Adventure, excitement, and maybe even a little danger waited as we forged ahead into areas of the unknown. We started near the house and found a small path that led into shadowy darkness. Without hesitation Ben careened into the woods, eager to find what lay ahead.
Sequoia Park, while not the size of a national park by any means, is certainly bigger than it first appears. Pushing aside branches, wiping the occasional spider web from our faces, we ventured on into the unknown. The path was hard to follow at times; every now and then we had to stop and choose a new direction in order to leave as little a footprint as we could. After all, I have taught my son the importance of enjoying nature and its beauty and leaving as little a mark as possible, so others may later enjoy the same wondrous sights we do.
Soon, we found the ground sloping before us and could hear the sound of water running at the bottom of the small ravine. This area ahead of us we know well, and it was a welcome sight to see groomed trails and benches to rest our weary feet. Together we rejoiced at our courageous effort in finding our way through the veritable labyrinth that is Sequoia Park.
And then, all hell broke loose.
Ben stepped on a small fallen log that was presumably redwood. It was covered in moss and almost entirely impossible to distinguish from the forest floor. His foot sank into it a good couple of inches, indicating it had probably been there for quite some time. At first I simply thought that a long time on the forest floor, the constant dampness of the forest and encroachment of moss had simply broken it down.
Then I heard it, a faint humming that quickly erupted into the maddened buzz of angry Yellow Jackets. I watched in horror as literally hundreds of the insects began pouring out from around his ankle and into the air around us.
Ben quickly realized he was in rather poor position. He also quickly made a point of making sure I knew he was in a rather poor position. This action, on his part, was completely unnecessary. I screamed, the scream that can only come from a father who thinks he and his only offspring are about to die, "Run!!" Together we began running up the hill. Previously, on our decent, the path had been somewhat easy to pick out. In a complete panic, however, the trail simply vanished. Darting this way and that, Ben continued to yell, something. I have no idea what. About the only thing I knew for certain was he was scared and it was up to me to get us safely away.
To an outsider looking in, I can only imagine how this must have looked. Only minutes before we had happily traipsed into the forest, excitement shining on our faces as we ventured into the unknown. Now we ran, like frightened school children (to be fair, one of us was a frightened school aged child; the other was simply acting like one), screaming for the other to run faster, darting in one direction and then the next.
At some point we stopped, panting heavily, and frantically began combing over each other's clothes making sure there were no stow-a-ways. Ben had one that looked like it wanted to crawl up the leg of his shorts. With an absurd amount of calm I went to my knees and quickly removed the offending wasp with a simple flick of the finger. After I was sure I had checked him over thoroughly I requested he do the same. Ben quickly pointed out there was one on my pant leg. The calm I had managed in removing the wasp from his clothes evaporated so quickly, one would have though it was never there. I jumped (not sure why, looking back at it, as it didn't do any good) and swatted at it to get it off my clothing. Sadly, I missed. Remember people, all calm had gone and a scared panic was now settled deeply in me. A few more flailing swats managed to extricate the insect.
We spent a few minutes standing there, both telling each other how scary that was and both deciding we simply wanted to go home, where it was safe.
Once we got home, we unanimously decided we would suspend walks in the woods for a few days. When we return to Sequoia Park, we will be sticking to paths we know so well.
Adventure and the unknown can stay just that for now, unknown, and preferably undisturbed.
My son has been stung by a bee only once, so far, in his childhood career, and his arm swelled up like a balloon.
It is with this information in mind that I begin my tale.
Sequoia Park, nestled into the outskirts of Eureka is a fair place. Towering Redwood Trees heavily populate this area and the lush ground is blanketed in all manner of shrubs and ferns. Numerous trails and paths have been carved out by the city in an attempt to maintain a suitable environment for would-be walkers, runners, hikers and generally any who simply wish to escape from the monotony of their daily lives and enter into a whole other world where nature itself is the predominant life form and we humans are nearly insignificant visitors simply passing through.
As we left the house, we had the grand idea to deviate from the beaten paths we know so well and forge new ones. Adventure, excitement, and maybe even a little danger waited as we forged ahead into areas of the unknown. We started near the house and found a small path that led into shadowy darkness. Without hesitation Ben careened into the woods, eager to find what lay ahead.
Sequoia Park, while not the size of a national park by any means, is certainly bigger than it first appears. Pushing aside branches, wiping the occasional spider web from our faces, we ventured on into the unknown. The path was hard to follow at times; every now and then we had to stop and choose a new direction in order to leave as little a footprint as we could. After all, I have taught my son the importance of enjoying nature and its beauty and leaving as little a mark as possible, so others may later enjoy the same wondrous sights we do.
Soon, we found the ground sloping before us and could hear the sound of water running at the bottom of the small ravine. This area ahead of us we know well, and it was a welcome sight to see groomed trails and benches to rest our weary feet. Together we rejoiced at our courageous effort in finding our way through the veritable labyrinth that is Sequoia Park.
And then, all hell broke loose.
Ben stepped on a small fallen log that was presumably redwood. It was covered in moss and almost entirely impossible to distinguish from the forest floor. His foot sank into it a good couple of inches, indicating it had probably been there for quite some time. At first I simply thought that a long time on the forest floor, the constant dampness of the forest and encroachment of moss had simply broken it down.
Then I heard it, a faint humming that quickly erupted into the maddened buzz of angry Yellow Jackets. I watched in horror as literally hundreds of the insects began pouring out from around his ankle and into the air around us.
Ben quickly realized he was in rather poor position. He also quickly made a point of making sure I knew he was in a rather poor position. This action, on his part, was completely unnecessary. I screamed, the scream that can only come from a father who thinks he and his only offspring are about to die, "Run!!" Together we began running up the hill. Previously, on our decent, the path had been somewhat easy to pick out. In a complete panic, however, the trail simply vanished. Darting this way and that, Ben continued to yell, something. I have no idea what. About the only thing I knew for certain was he was scared and it was up to me to get us safely away.
To an outsider looking in, I can only imagine how this must have looked. Only minutes before we had happily traipsed into the forest, excitement shining on our faces as we ventured into the unknown. Now we ran, like frightened school children (to be fair, one of us was a frightened school aged child; the other was simply acting like one), screaming for the other to run faster, darting in one direction and then the next.
At some point we stopped, panting heavily, and frantically began combing over each other's clothes making sure there were no stow-a-ways. Ben had one that looked like it wanted to crawl up the leg of his shorts. With an absurd amount of calm I went to my knees and quickly removed the offending wasp with a simple flick of the finger. After I was sure I had checked him over thoroughly I requested he do the same. Ben quickly pointed out there was one on my pant leg. The calm I had managed in removing the wasp from his clothes evaporated so quickly, one would have though it was never there. I jumped (not sure why, looking back at it, as it didn't do any good) and swatted at it to get it off my clothing. Sadly, I missed. Remember people, all calm had gone and a scared panic was now settled deeply in me. A few more flailing swats managed to extricate the insect.
We spent a few minutes standing there, both telling each other how scary that was and both deciding we simply wanted to go home, where it was safe.
Once we got home, we unanimously decided we would suspend walks in the woods for a few days. When we return to Sequoia Park, we will be sticking to paths we know so well.
Adventure and the unknown can stay just that for now, unknown, and preferably undisturbed.
Jul 13, 2009
A little car washing leads to some simple insights into my own life.
Vehicle maintenance has never been one of my strong suits. I know how to put gas in my rig (now don’t laugh, there are some out there who have no idea how to do even this simple task). I know how to change the oil. However, this is a larger task, and the work involved is far outweighed by the simple act of paying someone to do it for me. I know how to change a tire. And in the event of a flat, I know what to do.
But that’s about as far as I really ever go with any of these endeavors. There is one more point however, that I am willing to do myself. I am willing to wash it. And vehicle washing is something I enjoy doing. I like to pull my truck up behind the house, break out some cleaning supplies and listen to some music while I clean away.
The other day was just such a day. It was somewhat sunny out, the weather was warm and I had a free afternoon that seemed like the perfect time to accomplish this task. It’s therapeutic really. Rinsing. Washing. Rinsing. Drying. Discovering the little dings and scratches that seem to have appeared from out of nowhere, previously hidden by a few weeks worth of dirt. Getting out the window cleaner and later getting into the cab and realizing I was only seeing a small portion of the road over the last few weeks. Getting out the vacuum and picking up what seemed like a yards worth of small rocks and pebbles from the floor underneath my feet. Applying the Armor All to the dashboard and seeing it return from a light gray (usually associated with dirt and dust) to the dark gray that is the actual interior. And lastly, a little Fabreeze, because I love the smell of the stuff. And when I’m done, it may not look like I just drove it off the lot but it sure looks nice and feels good.
I sure wish I could apply this kind of fastidious cleaning to other aspects of my life. But there are times when even the simplest of chores seem daunting. For example, cleaning the cat boxes. This chore, which if I were being honest is one of the most important chores around my household (just ask my three cats who think they own and run the place). If you simply let the cat boxes go for too long, the blasted cats are more than happy to leave a little note in the form of a turd somewhere close by. It’s an effective reminder.
Not long ago I woke up a little late and was therefore a little rushed in preparation for work. As I was leaving I noted the smell around the cat boxes and vowed to clean them when I got home. Once in the truck I could swear I could still smell the things, like the smell was caught in my nose or something. But it seemed a little too strong for just a simple lingering odor. No, this was stronger. So I popped on the dome light and looked down at my boots. There, sticking out from under my shoe was the source of the offending odor: a turd of a soft a squishy looking nature and a rather pungent smell. Touché, Kitty Kat. Touché. It should suffice to say I got the message, and promptly took care of business when I got home.
Other areas of particular trouble: vacuuming and dusting. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in a complete pigsty. The biggest problem is with a dog, and three cats, it quickly looks like I haven’t vacuumed in a month. So it requires more than semi-regular maintenance. It’s a work in progress.
On the flip side of things, once I get into a groove, I’m a machine and get a lot done (it also helps that our particular little home is on the smaller side).
So, do I have a point to all this? Not really. I suppose one could argue I am on the lazy side at times. I myself would be more of the opinion I work too much and am therefore too tired (hey, it works for me).
But that’s about as far as I really ever go with any of these endeavors. There is one more point however, that I am willing to do myself. I am willing to wash it. And vehicle washing is something I enjoy doing. I like to pull my truck up behind the house, break out some cleaning supplies and listen to some music while I clean away.
The other day was just such a day. It was somewhat sunny out, the weather was warm and I had a free afternoon that seemed like the perfect time to accomplish this task. It’s therapeutic really. Rinsing. Washing. Rinsing. Drying. Discovering the little dings and scratches that seem to have appeared from out of nowhere, previously hidden by a few weeks worth of dirt. Getting out the window cleaner and later getting into the cab and realizing I was only seeing a small portion of the road over the last few weeks. Getting out the vacuum and picking up what seemed like a yards worth of small rocks and pebbles from the floor underneath my feet. Applying the Armor All to the dashboard and seeing it return from a light gray (usually associated with dirt and dust) to the dark gray that is the actual interior. And lastly, a little Fabreeze, because I love the smell of the stuff. And when I’m done, it may not look like I just drove it off the lot but it sure looks nice and feels good.
I sure wish I could apply this kind of fastidious cleaning to other aspects of my life. But there are times when even the simplest of chores seem daunting. For example, cleaning the cat boxes. This chore, which if I were being honest is one of the most important chores around my household (just ask my three cats who think they own and run the place). If you simply let the cat boxes go for too long, the blasted cats are more than happy to leave a little note in the form of a turd somewhere close by. It’s an effective reminder.
Not long ago I woke up a little late and was therefore a little rushed in preparation for work. As I was leaving I noted the smell around the cat boxes and vowed to clean them when I got home. Once in the truck I could swear I could still smell the things, like the smell was caught in my nose or something. But it seemed a little too strong for just a simple lingering odor. No, this was stronger. So I popped on the dome light and looked down at my boots. There, sticking out from under my shoe was the source of the offending odor: a turd of a soft a squishy looking nature and a rather pungent smell. Touché, Kitty Kat. Touché. It should suffice to say I got the message, and promptly took care of business when I got home.
Other areas of particular trouble: vacuuming and dusting. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in a complete pigsty. The biggest problem is with a dog, and three cats, it quickly looks like I haven’t vacuumed in a month. So it requires more than semi-regular maintenance. It’s a work in progress.
On the flip side of things, once I get into a groove, I’m a machine and get a lot done (it also helps that our particular little home is on the smaller side).
So, do I have a point to all this? Not really. I suppose one could argue I am on the lazy side at times. I myself would be more of the opinion I work too much and am therefore too tired (hey, it works for me).
Other than that, this has been a simple observation on my own habits, none of which I really intend to change anytime soon.
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