D.P. Davidson's Blog, page 8
February 3, 2017
Obsessed Much...
My favorite movie in the whole entire world forever and ever is Jim Henson's The Dark Crystal. It has been my favorite since it came to the theater when I was but a mere slip of a girl. I watched it in the actual honest to goodness theater and everything. I remember jumping in surprise when Fizzgig jumped out the first time, and how Kira was the most beautiful puppet I had ever seen. I cried when Jen held her close amid the chaos of their world falling apart after the crystal was healed. Aughra's removable eye gave me nightmares and the Chamberlains whimper is forever burned in my memory. I was enamored with the extremes between the deaths of the Mystics who peacefully faded away and the Skeksis who crumbled to dust and then scattered in the wind (in the middle of the castle, but so what). The Dark Crystal was my childhood.
I have other favorites to be sure, but none have held so long as this one. We had a viewing party last month with friends who had actually made it to adulthood without ever having seen this movie. Or Labyrinth. I almost choked on my Diet D.P. when they admitted this erroneous gap in their existence which I endeavored immediately to correct. If there are more of you out there, please don't tell me. My life is far too busy to re-educate all of you.
Anyway, there is a company that makes these figures called POP! They are bobbleheads whose heads don't actually bobble. Which is fine because most of them will never see the outside of the boxes they came in. Babe got me a Glen from the Walking Dead on a business trip. He stood alone on our dresser for many years until he was joined by The Predator, from Alien vs. Predator (another favorite). Babe has Donkey, from Shrek, and Groot, from Guardians of the Galaxy, at work. They excel in keeping him entertained. He has another one there, too, but I can't remember who it is. I swear this is relevant, just bear with me.
Christmas this year will forever be known as "The Year of the Bobblehead" because our collection increased exponentially. Glen and the Predator were joined by Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman from, what movie was that, oh, Batman vs. Superman with a sprinkling of Wonder Woman. Wakko and Yakko joined the crew because even though Babe wasn't a super fan of Animaniacs, it kind of got away from him in high school. No joke, the man had several Animaniacs t-shirts when we got married. It was out of control, ya'll.
And then I opened my gifts.
Why yes, that is the entire cast of the Dark Crystal!
My birthday was less than two weeks later and I got this.
I didn't know this was a thing.
Have I reached my limit of Dark Crystal memorabilia? Nay! I have not yet begun to collect!
Which brings me to a story I find quite humorous. There was woman in our church who collected frogs. When one entered her home, they would find any and all forms of frog paraphernalia from dishes and towels to figurines in different dance poses. One of my brothers brought a coin pouch made from a frog's head back with him when he came home from the Philippines, especially for her.
He went to her house and gave her the gift. She looked at it and smiled. Then she said, "Can I tell you something?" My brother nods and then she says, "I hate frogs! My husband started telling people I liked frogs as a joke."
And that, folks, is how she came to have her home filled with frogs and my husband found himself with a collection of Animaniac t-shirts.
I have other favorites to be sure, but none have held so long as this one. We had a viewing party last month with friends who had actually made it to adulthood without ever having seen this movie. Or Labyrinth. I almost choked on my Diet D.P. when they admitted this erroneous gap in their existence which I endeavored immediately to correct. If there are more of you out there, please don't tell me. My life is far too busy to re-educate all of you.
Anyway, there is a company that makes these figures called POP! They are bobbleheads whose heads don't actually bobble. Which is fine because most of them will never see the outside of the boxes they came in. Babe got me a Glen from the Walking Dead on a business trip. He stood alone on our dresser for many years until he was joined by The Predator, from Alien vs. Predator (another favorite). Babe has Donkey, from Shrek, and Groot, from Guardians of the Galaxy, at work. They excel in keeping him entertained. He has another one there, too, but I can't remember who it is. I swear this is relevant, just bear with me.
Christmas this year will forever be known as "The Year of the Bobblehead" because our collection increased exponentially. Glen and the Predator were joined by Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman from, what movie was that, oh, Batman vs. Superman with a sprinkling of Wonder Woman. Wakko and Yakko joined the crew because even though Babe wasn't a super fan of Animaniacs, it kind of got away from him in high school. No joke, the man had several Animaniacs t-shirts when we got married. It was out of control, ya'll.
And then I opened my gifts.
Why yes, that is the entire cast of the Dark Crystal!
My birthday was less than two weeks later and I got this.
I didn't know this was a thing.
Have I reached my limit of Dark Crystal memorabilia? Nay! I have not yet begun to collect!
Which brings me to a story I find quite humorous. There was woman in our church who collected frogs. When one entered her home, they would find any and all forms of frog paraphernalia from dishes and towels to figurines in different dance poses. One of my brothers brought a coin pouch made from a frog's head back with him when he came home from the Philippines, especially for her.
He went to her house and gave her the gift. She looked at it and smiled. Then she said, "Can I tell you something?" My brother nods and then she says, "I hate frogs! My husband started telling people I liked frogs as a joke."
And that, folks, is how she came to have her home filled with frogs and my husband found himself with a collection of Animaniac t-shirts.
January 31, 2017
Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together...
That's me and Babe. We compliment each other in our strengths and weaknesses. We are two oars in this canoe called life. One oar isn't more important than the other and if we both tried to be on the same side we'd only go in circles.We are pretty equally yoked, he and I.
Except in how we build and/or repair the various and sundry things that need building and repairing in the course of life. I think I have chronicled before that he is a "directions reader." He unfolds the paper instructions, counts each of the pieces of hardware and makes sure he has the necessary tools before he begins a project. I, however, am a "reckless abandon," kind of character. I don't think it's necessary to read the directions for putting together a bookshelf. It's pretty straight forward. However, not every project is a bookcase so my aversion to reading directions is sometimes a problem. Always. It's always a problem.
And that, dear friends, is why he only has to do something once while I problem solve along the way and end up building things twice, if I'm lucky. I like to think of my style as "half-assed." For those of you with weak constitutions, "half-a***d." It also works well as a verb, as in "if it weren't for my constant half-assery, I'd have only had to build this bookcase once." Wait a sec, Babe tells me my use of half-assery in the last sentence made it a noun. I guess I half-assed that one. Verb! HA!
Here is a perfect example: The water pump in our toilet cracked last Sunday eve leaving us with one toilet for four girls and two boys. Well that's not completely true, we just had to turn the water off after flushing to avoid Niagara Falls in the bathroom. Anyway, Babe decided to take Monday off so he could fix said toilet. I coulda done it, but let me illustrate why it was better that I stand a respectful distance from the work site.
Babe's first order of business was to remove the towels from the shelf behind the toilet. Then he moved everything else including the shelf itself. Already he was ahead of where I would be. My plan would have been leave everything on the shelf. Once the towels had fallen into the toilet, and I had channeled my inner sailor, I would remove everything, but the shelf. I would only move the shelf after I was thoroughly vexed and over my potty word budget for the year.
Babe removed the water from the tank with a sponge and gloves. My answer would have been to shove whatever towels hadn't landed in the toilet into the tank. Then, after what was left of the water flooded out onto the floor, I would dip into next years potty word budget and probably start throwing things.
Lastly, Babe attempted to remove the pump. Here's where things get kinda iffy. The plastic ring wouldn't budge so he went to the garage and brought back a hacksaw. "Ima cut it off," he tells me and my heart swelled with pride! He has finally begun to embrace the Bad Idea plan! Every Bad Idea comes with a trip to the CareNow as well as one to the Home Depot for supplies to repair the mistake that inevitably follows on the heels of the Bad Idea.
The Bad Idea plan is the number one go-to plan for anyone from my blood line. I think we learned our poorly thought out decision making paradigm from our father. I will call him G. Prickett or perhaps George P. He was (and still is, I guess) the master half-asser. My brothers have followed his plan so closely that one of my sister's in law no longer runs to the garage when she hears an explosion. No joke. Her exact words were, "if he's dead I don't want to see that. If he's alive he'll find his way inside." This same brother is the exact cause of the stitches each one of us has ever gotten.
My other brother confines his own version of creative building to making play things for his children. Much less dangerous, and that sister in law has never worried about an explosion in the garage, that I know of. My last brother was very young when our dad left so I think he just missed the window of tomfoolery.
Anyway, because he's Babe and not a Prickett, he managed to saw that pipe off without breaking the tank or cutting off his hand. He has out Pricketted the Pricketts by showing us it can be done without damage to ourselves or the project. Dang! He's never gonna let that one go.
Addendum:
Babe wants the record to show that he only spent $12 and that was for the actual part. Good job, Babe!
Except in how we build and/or repair the various and sundry things that need building and repairing in the course of life. I think I have chronicled before that he is a "directions reader." He unfolds the paper instructions, counts each of the pieces of hardware and makes sure he has the necessary tools before he begins a project. I, however, am a "reckless abandon," kind of character. I don't think it's necessary to read the directions for putting together a bookshelf. It's pretty straight forward. However, not every project is a bookcase so my aversion to reading directions is sometimes a problem. Always. It's always a problem.
And that, dear friends, is why he only has to do something once while I problem solve along the way and end up building things twice, if I'm lucky. I like to think of my style as "half-assed." For those of you with weak constitutions, "half-a***d." It also works well as a verb, as in "if it weren't for my constant half-assery, I'd have only had to build this bookcase once." Wait a sec, Babe tells me my use of half-assery in the last sentence made it a noun. I guess I half-assed that one. Verb! HA!
Here is a perfect example: The water pump in our toilet cracked last Sunday eve leaving us with one toilet for four girls and two boys. Well that's not completely true, we just had to turn the water off after flushing to avoid Niagara Falls in the bathroom. Anyway, Babe decided to take Monday off so he could fix said toilet. I coulda done it, but let me illustrate why it was better that I stand a respectful distance from the work site.
Babe's first order of business was to remove the towels from the shelf behind the toilet. Then he moved everything else including the shelf itself. Already he was ahead of where I would be. My plan would have been leave everything on the shelf. Once the towels had fallen into the toilet, and I had channeled my inner sailor, I would remove everything, but the shelf. I would only move the shelf after I was thoroughly vexed and over my potty word budget for the year.
Babe removed the water from the tank with a sponge and gloves. My answer would have been to shove whatever towels hadn't landed in the toilet into the tank. Then, after what was left of the water flooded out onto the floor, I would dip into next years potty word budget and probably start throwing things.
Lastly, Babe attempted to remove the pump. Here's where things get kinda iffy. The plastic ring wouldn't budge so he went to the garage and brought back a hacksaw. "Ima cut it off," he tells me and my heart swelled with pride! He has finally begun to embrace the Bad Idea plan! Every Bad Idea comes with a trip to the CareNow as well as one to the Home Depot for supplies to repair the mistake that inevitably follows on the heels of the Bad Idea.
The Bad Idea plan is the number one go-to plan for anyone from my blood line. I think we learned our poorly thought out decision making paradigm from our father. I will call him G. Prickett or perhaps George P. He was (and still is, I guess) the master half-asser. My brothers have followed his plan so closely that one of my sister's in law no longer runs to the garage when she hears an explosion. No joke. Her exact words were, "if he's dead I don't want to see that. If he's alive he'll find his way inside." This same brother is the exact cause of the stitches each one of us has ever gotten.
My other brother confines his own version of creative building to making play things for his children. Much less dangerous, and that sister in law has never worried about an explosion in the garage, that I know of. My last brother was very young when our dad left so I think he just missed the window of tomfoolery.
Anyway, because he's Babe and not a Prickett, he managed to saw that pipe off without breaking the tank or cutting off his hand. He has out Pricketted the Pricketts by showing us it can be done without damage to ourselves or the project. Dang! He's never gonna let that one go.
Addendum:
Babe wants the record to show that he only spent $12 and that was for the actual part. Good job, Babe!
Wag the Dog...
...is used in politics. It's when an item of minor importance dominates a situation. For example let's say a country (any country, just pick one) is on the verge of war, but the news is focused on the leader of that country (any leader, no fingers) and his dalliances with some kind of intern. This is an instance of the tail wagging the dog. There happens to be a movie called Wag the Dog. The phrase came before the movie not after, just FYI, and I thought it was about a dog named Wag. It is not.
Anyway, let me just reassure you this entry isn't about politics. It is about tails and the dogs they are attached to. At least until this afternoon.
I have mentioned my pup, Gus, in previous posts. In a world where I can't stand dogs, I love this dog. I am stupid for this dog. I have spent more time and money on him than on every pet that has ever passed though my door. Admittedly that wasn't much, but it is a chunk of change for him.
I took him to a puppy training class where he graduated and I took a picture of him wearing a graduation cap. It is the home screen on my phone. I buy him lots of treats. They are in a big tin in my room. I let him sleep in my room (until his snoring made it impossible to sleep), and I even take him for walks.
One of my favorite parts of Gus is his tail. It had, until Friday, this darling white tip. However Gus has a raging case of Happy Tail Syndrome. He wags that tail with reckless abandon, slamming it against walls, corners, doors, even his own side. He doesn't seem to feel the damage he does because he won't stop swinging it. We thought it had been resolved before he was neutered last month, but that surgery started him right back up.
We tried everything. I bandaged his tail in medical tape. When he chewed that off, I wrapped it in duck tape. I covered the bandaged end in Bitter No Chew. He loved it! I have this nasty nail polish I use on my own nails to keep me from biting them. It didn't stop him. I gave him a taste of Tabasco sauce. He lapped it up like it was lemonade. In the end (boo) I had to have the sweet white tip and another inch amputated from his tail.
That was Friday.
Saturday morning, I come out of my room to a scene from a bloody murder. There was blood everywhere. Not a little blood, a LOT of blood. I was beside myself. I hustled my dog back to the vet and it was decided it was in Guster's best interest that his tail be completely removed. I reluctantly gave the okay and that is why he now has a nubbin. It looks okay. I miss his white tipped tail but it's nice that I no longer worry about my home looking like a mass murder.
Epilogue
I wrote this post two years ago, but never published it. I publish it now at the request of my friend Laurie.
Anyway, let me just reassure you this entry isn't about politics. It is about tails and the dogs they are attached to. At least until this afternoon.
I have mentioned my pup, Gus, in previous posts. In a world where I can't stand dogs, I love this dog. I am stupid for this dog. I have spent more time and money on him than on every pet that has ever passed though my door. Admittedly that wasn't much, but it is a chunk of change for him.
I took him to a puppy training class where he graduated and I took a picture of him wearing a graduation cap. It is the home screen on my phone. I buy him lots of treats. They are in a big tin in my room. I let him sleep in my room (until his snoring made it impossible to sleep), and I even take him for walks.
One of my favorite parts of Gus is his tail. It had, until Friday, this darling white tip. However Gus has a raging case of Happy Tail Syndrome. He wags that tail with reckless abandon, slamming it against walls, corners, doors, even his own side. He doesn't seem to feel the damage he does because he won't stop swinging it. We thought it had been resolved before he was neutered last month, but that surgery started him right back up.
We tried everything. I bandaged his tail in medical tape. When he chewed that off, I wrapped it in duck tape. I covered the bandaged end in Bitter No Chew. He loved it! I have this nasty nail polish I use on my own nails to keep me from biting them. It didn't stop him. I gave him a taste of Tabasco sauce. He lapped it up like it was lemonade. In the end (boo) I had to have the sweet white tip and another inch amputated from his tail.
That was Friday.
Saturday morning, I come out of my room to a scene from a bloody murder. There was blood everywhere. Not a little blood, a LOT of blood. I was beside myself. I hustled my dog back to the vet and it was decided it was in Guster's best interest that his tail be completely removed. I reluctantly gave the okay and that is why he now has a nubbin. It looks okay. I miss his white tipped tail but it's nice that I no longer worry about my home looking like a mass murder.
Epilogue
I wrote this post two years ago, but never published it. I publish it now at the request of my friend Laurie.
My Kingdom For A Pencil Sharpener...
I like to take little breaks, when writing, to contemplate the story arc or resolve some conflict or just to get out of my head (it gets crowded in there). I have various and sundry activities I like to do during these breaks, crocheting, knitting, staring into space, etc. Right now my activity of choice is coloring.
Yes, I like to color. In coloring books.
My favorite are the color by number because I don't have to worry about what colors to use, because I'm lazy like that. Right now I'm really into mosaic coloring books because the picture magically appears as I color and I am easily amused. I was so excited the day I saw Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox on my paper! It also made me realize that I've neglected to teach my youngest about Tall Tales.
My coloring tool is the colored pencil. There are lots of reasons to love the colored pencil, but I'll spare you the details. Anyway, colored pencils require sharpening and when you're using them to death, they require frequent sharpening. This is where the pencil sharpener comes in.
We live in an age where pencils as a whole have become nearly extinct, thus pencils that require sharpening are almost wholly unheard of. As a consequence, pencil sharpeners come in two forms only: expensive or crappy.
Expensive sharpeners give the pencil a nice sharp tip with the appropriate ratio of wood to lead. One knows one's pencil sharpener has ceased to fulfill its purpose when one's pencils come out of the sharpener more wood than lead. It is a sad day indeed. My own pencil sharpener went the way of all the world just last week.
I can't color without my pencils and I can't use my pencils when they are dull, so I went in search of a replacement sharpener. I found myself at Wal-Mart. I know stopping there was asking for trouble but that was where I chose to start, so I only had myself to blame when I ended back in the same place the next day to return the sharpener that came out of the package doing the same craptastic job my dead sharpener did.
My sweet husband, recognizing my plight, purchased a box shaped manual sharpener to tide me over. Here's the thing with the manual sharpener. No matter the brand every manual sharpener more breaks the wood than shaves it. This leaves a chunk of unsupported lead that then breaks off leaving one with far less pencil. I could gnaw the wood off and get better results, but I appreciated his effort.
The next day, I had my chauffeur, I mean, daughter, drive me to Hobby Lobby. Why did I ask her to drive? Because I can and it is frowned upon to play on the phone when one is driving. That is called having your cake and eating it, too! I digress.
At the Lobby, I chose two pencil sharpeners because if I had to come back it would be for more than one thing, dangit! I chose a battery powered sharpener and a manual sharpener just to test the theory that every manual sharpener breaks the wood. Theory proven. Also, battery powered sharpeners are ridiculous. Why are they even a thing?
Displeased with both of my choices I tried once more. I was wandering forlornly through the aisles of Target when a lovely white electric sharpener caught my eye. I wondered if I was making a mistake and adding another disappointing sharpener to my growing collection, but I took a leap of faith and brought it home. It. Is. Magnificent! My sharpener woes have come to an end and now I can focus on other more pressing matters, like what to color next.
Peace Out!!!
Yes, I like to color. In coloring books.
My favorite are the color by number because I don't have to worry about what colors to use, because I'm lazy like that. Right now I'm really into mosaic coloring books because the picture magically appears as I color and I am easily amused. I was so excited the day I saw Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox on my paper! It also made me realize that I've neglected to teach my youngest about Tall Tales.
My coloring tool is the colored pencil. There are lots of reasons to love the colored pencil, but I'll spare you the details. Anyway, colored pencils require sharpening and when you're using them to death, they require frequent sharpening. This is where the pencil sharpener comes in.
We live in an age where pencils as a whole have become nearly extinct, thus pencils that require sharpening are almost wholly unheard of. As a consequence, pencil sharpeners come in two forms only: expensive or crappy.
Expensive sharpeners give the pencil a nice sharp tip with the appropriate ratio of wood to lead. One knows one's pencil sharpener has ceased to fulfill its purpose when one's pencils come out of the sharpener more wood than lead. It is a sad day indeed. My own pencil sharpener went the way of all the world just last week.
I can't color without my pencils and I can't use my pencils when they are dull, so I went in search of a replacement sharpener. I found myself at Wal-Mart. I know stopping there was asking for trouble but that was where I chose to start, so I only had myself to blame when I ended back in the same place the next day to return the sharpener that came out of the package doing the same craptastic job my dead sharpener did.
My sweet husband, recognizing my plight, purchased a box shaped manual sharpener to tide me over. Here's the thing with the manual sharpener. No matter the brand every manual sharpener more breaks the wood than shaves it. This leaves a chunk of unsupported lead that then breaks off leaving one with far less pencil. I could gnaw the wood off and get better results, but I appreciated his effort.
The next day, I had my chauffeur, I mean, daughter, drive me to Hobby Lobby. Why did I ask her to drive? Because I can and it is frowned upon to play on the phone when one is driving. That is called having your cake and eating it, too! I digress.
At the Lobby, I chose two pencil sharpeners because if I had to come back it would be for more than one thing, dangit! I chose a battery powered sharpener and a manual sharpener just to test the theory that every manual sharpener breaks the wood. Theory proven. Also, battery powered sharpeners are ridiculous. Why are they even a thing?
Displeased with both of my choices I tried once more. I was wandering forlornly through the aisles of Target when a lovely white electric sharpener caught my eye. I wondered if I was making a mistake and adding another disappointing sharpener to my growing collection, but I took a leap of faith and brought it home. It. Is. Magnificent! My sharpener woes have come to an end and now I can focus on other more pressing matters, like what to color next.
Peace Out!!!
January 13, 2017
Holy Cow!!!
It's been a long time since I blogged! Time sure flies when you're being unproductive. I was going to open this post with today's near death experience, but that's kinda where I left you. I'd like to say I've become more graceful in my advanced age, but that would be a lie. A dirty, dirty lie.
So what have I done with myself these last two years, you ask? I'd tell you, but frankly, I'm embarrassed. Also, I don't remember. It's been two years.
Anyways, if any one was still waiting around for the emerging of D.P. Davidson...I've emerged.
That's all I gots for right now.
So what have I done with myself these last two years, you ask? I'd tell you, but frankly, I'm embarrassed. Also, I don't remember. It's been two years.
Anyways, if any one was still waiting around for the emerging of D.P. Davidson...I've emerged.
That's all I gots for right now.
February 10, 2015
D.P. The Graceless Wonder...
I am accident prone. Like give myself a black eye with the toilet seat prone, or kick a stump and break my foot in three places prone, or step on a drill and skewer my foot.
That one happened last week.
It was a Thursday and it started out like any other day. That's our elective day at Front Room Academy which basically means I play chauffeur all day. We finally arrived home and I walked through my bedroom and into my bathroom where I saw that my closet had, once again, vomited it's contents all over the floor.
Lemme 'splain somethin'. I have rehung that dang rod and it's stupid counterpart, the shelf, no less than three times. The first time the closet collapsed in the middle of the night. Scared the ever loving beans out of me. I cried and cursed (G rated) and then hammered and nailed that bugger back into place.
The second time, it fell while we were in class. Once again, I jumped at the noise and upon studying the mess cried less and cursed more (PG this time). I changed out the rod and reinforced the shelf with an extra piece of wood and three angled rod holders.
The third time it fell while we were out, but that time I didn't cry. I did move on to a PG-13 rant. I drilled, and screwed so many holes into the wall it was ridiculous. I even GLUED the shelf into place, and added two more rod thingers. There was no way that thing was falling down without taking half the wall with it, but I was prideful. I over estimated my skill in the face of the closets sheer will...and it fell again.
I would like to state here, that this time there were no tears or sentence enhancers, no sir. There was steely resolve. This time I was doing something completely different.
Mr. D and I went to the hardware store and picked out a closet shelving set. We brought it home and I set to work putting it together the next day. I enlisted Meenie to help me in the task, for bonding. Things were clicking along quite nicely. This closet kit was wondrous! It had dry wall anchors and the rods were fastened to a shelving unit in the middle, distributing the weight of my swag more evenly. It was wonderful.
So Meenie and I brought the first half of the unit into the closet and fastened it to the wall. I put my drill on the floor and we walked the second half of the shelf in. At some point the drill fell over. I hit it with my foot and shoved it back until it hit the wall at which point it had now where else to go but in...to my foot. In the meaty sensitive part. Also, it was the 1/16 size drill bit which is pretty much needle thin. The cussing I had avoided before came streaming forth and I moved into R-rated territory. I'm ashamed to admit I kiss my husband with this mouth. I have soiled my lips with sailor talk, but it hurt so bad. I couldn't decide if I wanted to pass out or scream. My daughters tried to be helpful, but I wanted an adult so I called for my sister. She came and cleaned and bandaged my wound, and I spent half the day with my foot elevated before I could suck it up and continue with my task.
The poke was small but it hurt for days, mostly because of the inexplicable bruises that now cover the bottom and side of my foot. My sister and my friend felt I was being a pansy until the bruises showed up. Bruises hurt, too, people!
I've had several near misses as of late so I guess it was time for an epic clusterfudge. Maybe I should start wearing armor.
That one happened last week.
It was a Thursday and it started out like any other day. That's our elective day at Front Room Academy which basically means I play chauffeur all day. We finally arrived home and I walked through my bedroom and into my bathroom where I saw that my closet had, once again, vomited it's contents all over the floor.
Lemme 'splain somethin'. I have rehung that dang rod and it's stupid counterpart, the shelf, no less than three times. The first time the closet collapsed in the middle of the night. Scared the ever loving beans out of me. I cried and cursed (G rated) and then hammered and nailed that bugger back into place.
The second time, it fell while we were in class. Once again, I jumped at the noise and upon studying the mess cried less and cursed more (PG this time). I changed out the rod and reinforced the shelf with an extra piece of wood and three angled rod holders.
The third time it fell while we were out, but that time I didn't cry. I did move on to a PG-13 rant. I drilled, and screwed so many holes into the wall it was ridiculous. I even GLUED the shelf into place, and added two more rod thingers. There was no way that thing was falling down without taking half the wall with it, but I was prideful. I over estimated my skill in the face of the closets sheer will...and it fell again.
I would like to state here, that this time there were no tears or sentence enhancers, no sir. There was steely resolve. This time I was doing something completely different.
Mr. D and I went to the hardware store and picked out a closet shelving set. We brought it home and I set to work putting it together the next day. I enlisted Meenie to help me in the task, for bonding. Things were clicking along quite nicely. This closet kit was wondrous! It had dry wall anchors and the rods were fastened to a shelving unit in the middle, distributing the weight of my swag more evenly. It was wonderful.
So Meenie and I brought the first half of the unit into the closet and fastened it to the wall. I put my drill on the floor and we walked the second half of the shelf in. At some point the drill fell over. I hit it with my foot and shoved it back until it hit the wall at which point it had now where else to go but in...to my foot. In the meaty sensitive part. Also, it was the 1/16 size drill bit which is pretty much needle thin. The cussing I had avoided before came streaming forth and I moved into R-rated territory. I'm ashamed to admit I kiss my husband with this mouth. I have soiled my lips with sailor talk, but it hurt so bad. I couldn't decide if I wanted to pass out or scream. My daughters tried to be helpful, but I wanted an adult so I called for my sister. She came and cleaned and bandaged my wound, and I spent half the day with my foot elevated before I could suck it up and continue with my task.
The poke was small but it hurt for days, mostly because of the inexplicable bruises that now cover the bottom and side of my foot. My sister and my friend felt I was being a pansy until the bruises showed up. Bruises hurt, too, people!
I've had several near misses as of late so I guess it was time for an epic clusterfudge. Maybe I should start wearing armor.
October 8, 2014
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished...
Let me tell you a little bit about my upbringing. My mom had the worst habit of running out of gas. My brothers and I learned to wear shoes every time we went out because the chances were good that we'd be walking back. Most people wear shoes anyway, but that's beside the point. It came to the point that I never worried about running out of gas because it was pretty much a given: if we were in the car, we'd soon be walking though my mom had a knack for making it fun..ish.
As an adult I've run out of gas once, yet my oldest was constantly worried it would happen. When it finally did we were half a mile from home, and a gas station, had a gas can in the back, and a daddy four minutes away. Also, there was a dude outside mowing his lawn, and he gave us the tablespoon of gas we needed to get around the corner. We never had it that good as kids.
Anyway, I was heading to a friends house a month back when I had a flashback to my childhood as I passed a van stopped on the shoulder. I flipped a u-y and headed back around. Eight children with no shoes (amateurs) spilled out of the van which had run out of gas. They'd been on the side of the road for ten minutes, and the mom had just decided to gather her chick and walk to the nearest gas station (five miles up the road) when I showed up. I loaded the van with offspring (one was an infant-there was no car seat) and took the kids home where we also picked up a gas can.
We left the kids in the car of the oldest boy and went to fill the gas can. At the gas station I offered to fill the three gallon can as it was clear they were low on funds, and I'm glad I did because that gas can had a faulty cap which I found out after we reached her van.
I started to smell gas as we neared her van, and when I opened my trunk to get the gas, I found that the can had tipped over. This shouldn't have been a problem as the cap should have kept the contents inside of the can, but it didn't so most of the gas spilled into the back of my van.
It was awesome.
Thankfully there was enough left that she could get her van to the gas station, but I was out of luck. I scrubbed the back with soap and water, covered it in baking soda, vacuumed it out and tried kitty litter, pulled out the foam under the carpet, scrubbed with soap and water again, tried Fabreeze, left the windows rolled down...My last option was to pull out the carpet, but that's a level of white trash I never want to revisit.
All hope was abandoned as I had just about made my peace with my new gasoline perfume when a friend showed up with an ozone machine. This machine is used to remove the smell of smoke and pets from a house. Wouldn't you know, it removed the smell of gasoline, too!
Every once in a while I still catch a whiff of gas, but I think it might be because the smell is burned into my olfactory.
Or maybe it's just there as a reminder to never help anyone ever again.
Just kidding...mostly.
As an adult I've run out of gas once, yet my oldest was constantly worried it would happen. When it finally did we were half a mile from home, and a gas station, had a gas can in the back, and a daddy four minutes away. Also, there was a dude outside mowing his lawn, and he gave us the tablespoon of gas we needed to get around the corner. We never had it that good as kids.
Anyway, I was heading to a friends house a month back when I had a flashback to my childhood as I passed a van stopped on the shoulder. I flipped a u-y and headed back around. Eight children with no shoes (amateurs) spilled out of the van which had run out of gas. They'd been on the side of the road for ten minutes, and the mom had just decided to gather her chick and walk to the nearest gas station (five miles up the road) when I showed up. I loaded the van with offspring (one was an infant-there was no car seat) and took the kids home where we also picked up a gas can.
We left the kids in the car of the oldest boy and went to fill the gas can. At the gas station I offered to fill the three gallon can as it was clear they were low on funds, and I'm glad I did because that gas can had a faulty cap which I found out after we reached her van.
I started to smell gas as we neared her van, and when I opened my trunk to get the gas, I found that the can had tipped over. This shouldn't have been a problem as the cap should have kept the contents inside of the can, but it didn't so most of the gas spilled into the back of my van.
It was awesome.
Thankfully there was enough left that she could get her van to the gas station, but I was out of luck. I scrubbed the back with soap and water, covered it in baking soda, vacuumed it out and tried kitty litter, pulled out the foam under the carpet, scrubbed with soap and water again, tried Fabreeze, left the windows rolled down...My last option was to pull out the carpet, but that's a level of white trash I never want to revisit.
All hope was abandoned as I had just about made my peace with my new gasoline perfume when a friend showed up with an ozone machine. This machine is used to remove the smell of smoke and pets from a house. Wouldn't you know, it removed the smell of gasoline, too!
Every once in a while I still catch a whiff of gas, but I think it might be because the smell is burned into my olfactory.
Or maybe it's just there as a reminder to never help anyone ever again.
Just kidding...mostly.
Thanksgiving. Months Later...
So it's been a couple of months, (almost a year) but I believe that feeling sorry for ones self is better done in private. I think I'm done now.
Anyway, Thanksgiving.
First off let me say that I love my Gramma. She is feisty, and independent, and the only reason we still see our family at least once a year.
But she cannot cook a turkey. She obliterates it.
It's always been dry, but this year I almost choked to death. Deserts have more moisture. We've all tried to help take some of the "responsibility" for the meal off of her shoulders, and she has agreed to a point. The turkey and stuffing are hers. She refuses to hand them over. The stuffing was a frightening brown this time. I wouldn't touch it to save my life. We drive to my gramma's house every Thanksgiving without fail. We don't go for the food.
This year our day at Gramma's was cut short as we had to get on the road. My mother-in-law's uncle had passed (the first week of October) and we were headed to N.C. for the funeral. We made it to our first destination without a problem. We left 80 degree weather and the next morning it was forty. That was fun. And that was when the adventure began.
The van wouldn't start the next morning. We made a new friend so we could get a jump start. By the time we were on the way home, Mr.D. refused to turn the van off even when we stopped for gas. I was certain we would die in a fiery explosion of unnecessary caution.We had jumper cables, man! On the plus side the trip home was filled to the gills with anticipation. Also, it took six forevers to get home.
Anyway, Thanksgiving.
First off let me say that I love my Gramma. She is feisty, and independent, and the only reason we still see our family at least once a year.
But she cannot cook a turkey. She obliterates it.
It's always been dry, but this year I almost choked to death. Deserts have more moisture. We've all tried to help take some of the "responsibility" for the meal off of her shoulders, and she has agreed to a point. The turkey and stuffing are hers. She refuses to hand them over. The stuffing was a frightening brown this time. I wouldn't touch it to save my life. We drive to my gramma's house every Thanksgiving without fail. We don't go for the food.
This year our day at Gramma's was cut short as we had to get on the road. My mother-in-law's uncle had passed (the first week of October) and we were headed to N.C. for the funeral. We made it to our first destination without a problem. We left 80 degree weather and the next morning it was forty. That was fun. And that was when the adventure began.
The van wouldn't start the next morning. We made a new friend so we could get a jump start. By the time we were on the way home, Mr.D. refused to turn the van off even when we stopped for gas. I was certain we would die in a fiery explosion of unnecessary caution.We had jumper cables, man! On the plus side the trip home was filled to the gills with anticipation. Also, it took six forevers to get home.
Words Are Hard...
That's my new motto which is ironic because I'm a writer.
I've been having a difficulty with words for some time now. I just can't get them out, or I can't remember the word I'm trying to use. It usually shows up when I'm tired, or anxious, or awake. It can be frustrating. Sometimes when the word won't come I end up describing it instead. For example "stop with the thing!" I find the kids usually know what "the thing" is so further explanation is unwarranted.
Apparently words are hard for everyone.
My kid sister is in college. She came home in a tizzy of frustration the other day, and explained that one of her classmates had asked "what is Grot-es-que?".
"We're in college!" she exclaimed. "We're only at TCC! It's not that hard!" Ha!
Another of my favorites happened on my trip to Utah wherein I noticed that the people of the state have some kind of grudge against the letter T. They live in the moun-ains, and wear shirts with brown bu-uns. I went to a store for some quil-ing supplies. T's were not meant to be ignored. T is so impor-ant that button has two and yet both are ignored.
Then there are the words that somehow collect letters like "warsh". Or how about the words that just get mangled completely. Realator. R-E-A-L-L-Y? Homer Simpson works at a nucular power plant. How about when someone calls in the Calvary. They call in the...mountain is Israel?
I understand sometimes words just come out wrong, but how about when they're said that way on T.V. How do they miss that? Lines are gone over multiple times with multiple shots of each scene. C'mon guys! You're making us look bad.
My sweet Minney has creative ways of saying words. Chipalot (Chipotle) or chipotle for Gringos, gibberish with a hard g, other ones I can't remember right now. That kid cracks me up.
Here's another thought. Last names. I mangle last names as frequently as I mangle other parts of the English language, but have you ever heard a character ask another character how to say their last name. I was watching a program the other day and one of the characters' last name was Gerace. Everyone could say the name without hesitation. I can think of at least three ways I would have said that name and none of them would have been correct. So they can say strange last names without a problem, but other words...not so much.
This isn't a rant so much as a comical observation. I find it amusing. Almost as amusing as I find people who lose their minds over the same thing.
Let me end with the funniest thing I've ever heard come out of my father-laws mouth. One day, he and his older son were sparing as they do. His son (not my husband) was giving him grief about not having a job. This son was in the same boat of unemployment, a fact that seemed to have escaped him. I watched from the sidelines as I make it a policy not to get involved in other people's arguments because I do all my own stunts.
Anyway, after several minutes he'd had enough, and in the middle of his son's tirade he blurts, "what's that, pot boy!" I died laughing.
Therefore, I am not calling the kettle black so much as observing just how cracked we all are.
I've been having a difficulty with words for some time now. I just can't get them out, or I can't remember the word I'm trying to use. It usually shows up when I'm tired, or anxious, or awake. It can be frustrating. Sometimes when the word won't come I end up describing it instead. For example "stop with the thing!" I find the kids usually know what "the thing" is so further explanation is unwarranted.
Apparently words are hard for everyone.
My kid sister is in college. She came home in a tizzy of frustration the other day, and explained that one of her classmates had asked "what is Grot-es-que?".
"We're in college!" she exclaimed. "We're only at TCC! It's not that hard!" Ha!
Another of my favorites happened on my trip to Utah wherein I noticed that the people of the state have some kind of grudge against the letter T. They live in the moun-ains, and wear shirts with brown bu-uns. I went to a store for some quil-ing supplies. T's were not meant to be ignored. T is so impor-ant that button has two and yet both are ignored.
Then there are the words that somehow collect letters like "warsh". Or how about the words that just get mangled completely. Realator. R-E-A-L-L-Y? Homer Simpson works at a nucular power plant. How about when someone calls in the Calvary. They call in the...mountain is Israel?
I understand sometimes words just come out wrong, but how about when they're said that way on T.V. How do they miss that? Lines are gone over multiple times with multiple shots of each scene. C'mon guys! You're making us look bad.
My sweet Minney has creative ways of saying words. Chipalot (Chipotle) or chipotle for Gringos, gibberish with a hard g, other ones I can't remember right now. That kid cracks me up.
Here's another thought. Last names. I mangle last names as frequently as I mangle other parts of the English language, but have you ever heard a character ask another character how to say their last name. I was watching a program the other day and one of the characters' last name was Gerace. Everyone could say the name without hesitation. I can think of at least three ways I would have said that name and none of them would have been correct. So they can say strange last names without a problem, but other words...not so much.
This isn't a rant so much as a comical observation. I find it amusing. Almost as amusing as I find people who lose their minds over the same thing.
Let me end with the funniest thing I've ever heard come out of my father-laws mouth. One day, he and his older son were sparing as they do. His son (not my husband) was giving him grief about not having a job. This son was in the same boat of unemployment, a fact that seemed to have escaped him. I watched from the sidelines as I make it a policy not to get involved in other people's arguments because I do all my own stunts.
Anyway, after several minutes he'd had enough, and in the middle of his son's tirade he blurts, "what's that, pot boy!" I died laughing.
Therefore, I am not calling the kettle black so much as observing just how cracked we all are.
October 7, 2014
Stan
I can't believe I almost forgot the most awesomest news!
My fourth book, Stan, is now available in e-book and paperback at Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/Stan-D-P-Davids...
Stop in and take a look!
P.S. The covers come in matte format now, and they look A-MAZE-ING. Check it out if you're looking for something to read, and then leave a review.
I do love reviews.
My fourth book, Stan, is now available in e-book and paperback at Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/Stan-D-P-Davids...
Stop in and take a look!
P.S. The covers come in matte format now, and they look A-MAZE-ING. Check it out if you're looking for something to read, and then leave a review.
I do love reviews.
