Today would have been Nana's birthday. It has been a special day my whole life. While Nana has been gone from us for a long time; today is still a special birthday.
Today is Shelley's 21st birthday. It's a big deal.
Shelley doesn't drink, so it's not a big deal for that. But it's still a big deal.
At 21, Shelley is growing up. She's one of the grownups to the little kids. She's an adult.
Truth is, though; she's just a babe.
Context is important. Matthew says Shelley's a babe, too, but he uses the term quite differently than I do. When I say she's a babe it's just that.
Shelley - for all of her grownup-ness - is just a babe. We're going to celebrate her special day when she is with us in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, we celebrate this day from a distance. Happy to celebrate her birthday - even though she's still just a babe.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Monday, April 21, 2014
They say they need my help...
I recognize the tremendous economic impact a successful professional sports team can have on a community. The economic benefit extends far beyond the team's ownership group to include the venue's employees, local restaurants and bars, parking garages and mass transit entities. While my rant focuses on Milwaukee's current arena battle; no city with a major or minor league sports franchise is exempt from the problem.
The Milwaukee media has been bombarding us for years about the need to replace the "aging" BMO Harris Bradley Center; a multi-sport venue in downtown Milwaukee. The facility is over 25 years old and is - or so we've been told - so antiquated and deficient that it's a hindrance, rather than a benefit, to the community. They have threatened that the NBA's Milwaukee Bucks will leave Milwaukee if we don't come up with a new arena.
Lest I get too far off course, I do want to point out that these are the same Milwaukee Bucks that finished last in the NBA with a whopping 15-67 record. The same Milwaukee Bucks who, despite what the "announced attendance" figures would lead one to believe, haven't drawn decent crowds for years. Yes, the same Milwaukee Bucks that just sold last week for a little over half a billion dollars.
Yes, you saw that right - the worst team in the league sold for HALF A BILLION DOLLARS!!! That's $500,000,000-plus!!! (Kind of makes you wonder what a "real" team would be worth, doesn't it?)
No sooner had the sale been announced than the media started anew on their propaganda blitz that we (the taxpayers) simply MUST get behind the effort to build a new arena or risk losing this "valuable community asset" to some other city.
Really? (Now I freely admit that I despise basketball. I really don't care if Milwaukee has a basketball team or not. However, I am consistent in that my opposition to my tax money being used to make team owners even richer is not limited to those sports I despise.)
The voters in southeast Wisconsin bought into all of the fear mongering years ago when the five county region enacted a sales tax to pay for a new stadium for the Milwaukee Brewers. This "temporary" sales tax to build a new stadium started in 1996. Current projections have it ending as late as 2020. Unfortunately, the tax revenues also go toward some improvements, etc. which, in essence, means that it could go on forever. The crowd behind building a new arena for the Bucks tout the continuation of the tax as one means to pay for that, too.
Anyone who can pay half a billion dollars for a sports franchise can build their own arena as far as I'm concerned.
"But they'll leave Milwaukee," the Chicken Littles cry out.
I say, "Then let 'em go!"
"But the city needs a great venue for sports and concerts," they say.
"Then let the people who own and promote those events pay for the venue," is my reply.
"But the private sector needs a vibrant sports scene and downtown in order to thrive," they blather on.
Well, if a new arena is that important to the private sector, then let the private sector pony up the money. They will see a huge return on their investment if the venue is even half as successful as they claim it will be.
We need to be on our guard, though. Some cities have used what I believe to be deceptive tactics to build new sports arenas "without tax money."
Reallly?
Look at San Antonio, they say.
San Antonio redirected parking revenues to pay for a new arena. They made the claim that the parking revenues from people going to the games paid for the new arena and it was not put onto the citizens as a whole.
Wrong!!!
I suppose you can pull the wool over people's eyes with a story like that if they're bad at math or don't understand how government works.
The citizens still have to pick up the costs of those services the parking revenues used to pay for. So, while the local politicians can claim that they didn't make the public pay for the new stadium - that's exactly what they did; they just disguised it in such a way that many of their (dare I say, less informed) constituents - who may have vehemently opposed public money for a new sports venue - are paying the tab without even realizing it.
Unfortunately, this cycle will not stop as long as the politicians keep preying upon the public's unfounded fears. The public - whether in southeast Wisconsin now or any of the dozens of other regions faced with the same issues - must stand up once and for all and declare that we will no longer be held hostage by ridiculously wealthy sports franchises, no matter how important they may be to the community.
I can hardly afford to attend more than one or two baseball games per year. Why should I be forced to pay for a stadium to showcase men making more in one year than I will make in my lifetime just for playing a game; or to stroke the egos of the men and women who pay hundreds of millions of dollars to join the elite club of major sports team owners?
Quite simply - I shouldn't be forced to pay for it.
Let them pay for it themselves.
I'll get off of my soapbox now...
The Milwaukee media has been bombarding us for years about the need to replace the "aging" BMO Harris Bradley Center; a multi-sport venue in downtown Milwaukee. The facility is over 25 years old and is - or so we've been told - so antiquated and deficient that it's a hindrance, rather than a benefit, to the community. They have threatened that the NBA's Milwaukee Bucks will leave Milwaukee if we don't come up with a new arena.
Lest I get too far off course, I do want to point out that these are the same Milwaukee Bucks that finished last in the NBA with a whopping 15-67 record. The same Milwaukee Bucks who, despite what the "announced attendance" figures would lead one to believe, haven't drawn decent crowds for years. Yes, the same Milwaukee Bucks that just sold last week for a little over half a billion dollars.
Yes, you saw that right - the worst team in the league sold for HALF A BILLION DOLLARS!!! That's $500,000,000-plus!!! (Kind of makes you wonder what a "real" team would be worth, doesn't it?)
No sooner had the sale been announced than the media started anew on their propaganda blitz that we (the taxpayers) simply MUST get behind the effort to build a new arena or risk losing this "valuable community asset" to some other city.
Really? (Now I freely admit that I despise basketball. I really don't care if Milwaukee has a basketball team or not. However, I am consistent in that my opposition to my tax money being used to make team owners even richer is not limited to those sports I despise.)
The voters in southeast Wisconsin bought into all of the fear mongering years ago when the five county region enacted a sales tax to pay for a new stadium for the Milwaukee Brewers. This "temporary" sales tax to build a new stadium started in 1996. Current projections have it ending as late as 2020. Unfortunately, the tax revenues also go toward some improvements, etc. which, in essence, means that it could go on forever. The crowd behind building a new arena for the Bucks tout the continuation of the tax as one means to pay for that, too.
Anyone who can pay half a billion dollars for a sports franchise can build their own arena as far as I'm concerned.
"But they'll leave Milwaukee," the Chicken Littles cry out.
I say, "Then let 'em go!"
"But the city needs a great venue for sports and concerts," they say.
"Then let the people who own and promote those events pay for the venue," is my reply.
"But the private sector needs a vibrant sports scene and downtown in order to thrive," they blather on.
Well, if a new arena is that important to the private sector, then let the private sector pony up the money. They will see a huge return on their investment if the venue is even half as successful as they claim it will be.
We need to be on our guard, though. Some cities have used what I believe to be deceptive tactics to build new sports arenas "without tax money."
Reallly?
Look at San Antonio, they say.
San Antonio redirected parking revenues to pay for a new arena. They made the claim that the parking revenues from people going to the games paid for the new arena and it was not put onto the citizens as a whole.
Wrong!!!
I suppose you can pull the wool over people's eyes with a story like that if they're bad at math or don't understand how government works.
The citizens still have to pick up the costs of those services the parking revenues used to pay for. So, while the local politicians can claim that they didn't make the public pay for the new stadium - that's exactly what they did; they just disguised it in such a way that many of their (dare I say, less informed) constituents - who may have vehemently opposed public money for a new sports venue - are paying the tab without even realizing it.
Unfortunately, this cycle will not stop as long as the politicians keep preying upon the public's unfounded fears. The public - whether in southeast Wisconsin now or any of the dozens of other regions faced with the same issues - must stand up once and for all and declare that we will no longer be held hostage by ridiculously wealthy sports franchises, no matter how important they may be to the community.
I can hardly afford to attend more than one or two baseball games per year. Why should I be forced to pay for a stadium to showcase men making more in one year than I will make in my lifetime just for playing a game; or to stroke the egos of the men and women who pay hundreds of millions of dollars to join the elite club of major sports team owners?
Quite simply - I shouldn't be forced to pay for it.
Let them pay for it themselves.
I'll get off of my soapbox now...
Friday, April 18, 2014
14,545
Fourteen thousand five hundred and forty-five.
Depending on what you're talking about, that could sound like a very big number or a very small number.
That number of dollars would have bought you quite the sweet car not all that long ago. It would have bought you a pretty nice home not too much longer before that. It would barely buy you a nice used car today.
A number's significance, or insignificance, is largely based on its context.
Fourteen thousand five hundred and forty-five is one of those numbers.
Dad was born on August 26, 1934.
He died on June 22, 1974.
He died on the 14,545th day of his life.
That makes today a rather significant day; for today marks the 14,545th day since Dad died.
He has been gone for as long as he lived.
There comes a certain hollow feeling with knowing the significance of that number. It is even more poignant when I reflect on the fact that this day falls on Good Friday.
Fourteen thousand five hundred and forty-five days have done nothing to soften how much I miss him.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
All Grown Up
Joseph has been living at home since he graduated from college. We all thought that it would be a good idea for him to build up some financial stability before taking on the responsibility and expense of having his own place. The arrangement worked great for the first two years since he worked full time at a bank about ten to fifteen minutes from home and only part time at the church an hour from home.
That all changed when he went full time at the church on January 1 of this year. So, for the last three and one half months, Joseph has driven about an hour each way every day while looking for an affordable housing option closer to the church.
That time appears to be upon us.
I took Tuesday afternoon off work to meet Joseph at an apartment he was looking at. The apartment is only about fifteen minutes from his church. It's even on the same road so even Joseph can't get lost going back and forth to work!
He filled out an application and should hear whether he got the apartment within the next couple of days. If all goes well, we will load Joseph's belongings into my truck on the first weekend of May to move him into his own place.
His first, own place.
While we have enjoyed having Joseph living with us; it is time. He's ready to be in his own place. He needs to be closer to his job and ministry.
We are very excited for him.
He's all grown up.
That all changed when he went full time at the church on January 1 of this year. So, for the last three and one half months, Joseph has driven about an hour each way every day while looking for an affordable housing option closer to the church.
That time appears to be upon us.
I took Tuesday afternoon off work to meet Joseph at an apartment he was looking at. The apartment is only about fifteen minutes from his church. It's even on the same road so even Joseph can't get lost going back and forth to work!
He filled out an application and should hear whether he got the apartment within the next couple of days. If all goes well, we will load Joseph's belongings into my truck on the first weekend of May to move him into his own place.
His first, own place.
While we have enjoyed having Joseph living with us; it is time. He's ready to be in his own place. He needs to be closer to his job and ministry.
We are very excited for him.
He's all grown up.
Monday, April 14, 2014
What A Difference Two Weeks Makes...
Two weeks isn't a lot of time, but it's amazing how much can change in such a short time.
With two weeks left in the regular season, the Blues were in the driver's seat. They were atop the league standings and well on their way to clinching, at a minimum, the top spot in the Western Conference if not the President's Trophy.
What a difference two weeks can make.
Instead of being atop the league, or even the conference, the Blues ended the season tied for the fourth most points in the league. A long fall in such a short time.
We can try to blame injuries - for we certainly have suffered more than our fair share in the last couple of weeks. We can try to blame goaltending - because it certainly has not been what we were expecting when we traded for Ryan Miller. We can try to blame coaching - because the staff couldn't seem to get the mix and match line combinations motivated to perform. We can try to blame management - because we didn't have the organizational depth to deal with the sudden rash of injuries (what club would?).
The reality is, though, no one really cares who or what you try to blame. The only thing that matters is that we faltered when we should have charged.
A run deep into the playoffs will cause everyone to forget the last two weeks. A quick exit will have everyone pointing fingers for the next five months.
The beauty of the NHL playoffs is that everything is new. This could still be our year.
We have our work cut out for us, though.
With two weeks left in the regular season, the Blues were in the driver's seat. They were atop the league standings and well on their way to clinching, at a minimum, the top spot in the Western Conference if not the President's Trophy.
What a difference two weeks can make.
Instead of being atop the league, or even the conference, the Blues ended the season tied for the fourth most points in the league. A long fall in such a short time.
We can try to blame injuries - for we certainly have suffered more than our fair share in the last couple of weeks. We can try to blame goaltending - because it certainly has not been what we were expecting when we traded for Ryan Miller. We can try to blame coaching - because the staff couldn't seem to get the mix and match line combinations motivated to perform. We can try to blame management - because we didn't have the organizational depth to deal with the sudden rash of injuries (what club would?).
The reality is, though, no one really cares who or what you try to blame. The only thing that matters is that we faltered when we should have charged.
A run deep into the playoffs will cause everyone to forget the last two weeks. A quick exit will have everyone pointing fingers for the next five months.
The beauty of the NHL playoffs is that everything is new. This could still be our year.
We have our work cut out for us, though.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Lola's 1011011th Birthday
Today is a big day in the our home - for today we celebrate Lola's 1011011th birthday.
That's 91 in binary, but 1011011 looks a whole lot cooler! Besides, telling people she's 5B (91 in Hex) or 91 doesn't sound nearly as old as 1011011.
However you look at it, though, 91 is very old.
Lola still gets along remarkably well for someone that age, but she definitely shows the signs of living that many years. The few friends she has are younger than her; her original circle of friends largely having already died. There is much that Lola can't do any more; even though she thinks she is doing just fine. That work falls on Diane.
Lola passes her time reading, playing solitaire, napping and watching television. We bought her a headphone amplifier and headphones for Christmas a few years ago. She had to have her television on so loud for her to hear it that we could clearly hear it through the firewall between her living room and the main house (the wall that used to be between the garage and house before we remodeled), across the house and down a floor. The headphones allow her to turn it up as loud as she wants without disturbing the neighbors. Okay, maybe the disturbing the neighbors part is a slight exaggeration, but it certainly allows her to hear her television without disturbing us!
I suppose she does okay for someone turning 1011011. As for me, I hope I never reach 1011011 unless I'd still be able to hunt and fish and putter around the house and go shooting and... Not that I actually expect to live to 1011011. Brader men simply haven't had that kind of longevity.
The women in Lola's line do, though. Lola's mom lived to be 96; although much of her last decade was spent in declining physical and mental health to the point where she didn't recognize anyone for the last few years of her life.
For now, Lola is still going pretty strong for someone her age. She has battled through various hospitalizations over the last few years. Several times, Diane has steeled herself for the inevitable news that Lola had come up against something she couldn't beat this time; yet each time she has somehow beat the odds and survived whatever infection, surgery or illness had struck her.
We recognize that the day will come when she just doesn't wake up one morning, or she runs headlong into some health issue that she can't beat. Until then, we just deal with each day, and the challenges it brings.
Tonight, though, we plan on gathering together to celebrate Lola's 1011011th birthday.
That's 91 in binary, but 1011011 looks a whole lot cooler! Besides, telling people she's 5B (91 in Hex) or 91 doesn't sound nearly as old as 1011011.
However you look at it, though, 91 is very old.
Lola still gets along remarkably well for someone that age, but she definitely shows the signs of living that many years. The few friends she has are younger than her; her original circle of friends largely having already died. There is much that Lola can't do any more; even though she thinks she is doing just fine. That work falls on Diane.
Lola passes her time reading, playing solitaire, napping and watching television. We bought her a headphone amplifier and headphones for Christmas a few years ago. She had to have her television on so loud for her to hear it that we could clearly hear it through the firewall between her living room and the main house (the wall that used to be between the garage and house before we remodeled), across the house and down a floor. The headphones allow her to turn it up as loud as she wants without disturbing the neighbors. Okay, maybe the disturbing the neighbors part is a slight exaggeration, but it certainly allows her to hear her television without disturbing us!
I suppose she does okay for someone turning 1011011. As for me, I hope I never reach 1011011 unless I'd still be able to hunt and fish and putter around the house and go shooting and... Not that I actually expect to live to 1011011. Brader men simply haven't had that kind of longevity.
The women in Lola's line do, though. Lola's mom lived to be 96; although much of her last decade was spent in declining physical and mental health to the point where she didn't recognize anyone for the last few years of her life.
For now, Lola is still going pretty strong for someone her age. She has battled through various hospitalizations over the last few years. Several times, Diane has steeled herself for the inevitable news that Lola had come up against something she couldn't beat this time; yet each time she has somehow beat the odds and survived whatever infection, surgery or illness had struck her.
We recognize that the day will come when she just doesn't wake up one morning, or she runs headlong into some health issue that she can't beat. Until then, we just deal with each day, and the challenges it brings.
Tonight, though, we plan on gathering together to celebrate Lola's 1011011th birthday.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Don't Want To Go There
I don't know what the fascination is with "Throwback Thursdays." My Facebook feed is bombarded every Thursday with pictures from years, sometimes decades, ago; all tagged with some form of #TBT. (I don't get into hashtags, either, but that's a different topic entirely.)
I can't believe the pictures that some people post.
I mean, really???
I have looked at pictures from when I was a kid. Most of them are goofy. There is nothing about the pictures that make me want to dwell on them other than the personal memories that a few of them may evoke. Notice that I said personal memories. I don't deceive myself into thinking that anyone else would enjoy them as much as I do.
There is certainly nothing about the pictures that make me want to show them to the world. People see them, notice what a cute kid I was and immediately begin to question what happened in the intervening years to turn me into what I look like now.
I take enough flak from my friends without giving them additional ammunition!
I was there when the picture was taken. I really don't want to go back there again. I'll be content to occasionally look at a photo from the past and reflect on it without giving my friends even more reason to give me flak.
I can't believe the pictures that some people post.
I mean, really???
I have looked at pictures from when I was a kid. Most of them are goofy. There is nothing about the pictures that make me want to dwell on them other than the personal memories that a few of them may evoke. Notice that I said personal memories. I don't deceive myself into thinking that anyone else would enjoy them as much as I do.
There is certainly nothing about the pictures that make me want to show them to the world. People see them, notice what a cute kid I was and immediately begin to question what happened in the intervening years to turn me into what I look like now.
I take enough flak from my friends without giving them additional ammunition!
I was there when the picture was taken. I really don't want to go back there again. I'll be content to occasionally look at a photo from the past and reflect on it without giving my friends even more reason to give me flak.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Just Leave It Alone!
This week has been a frustrating one at work, to say the least. It's bad enough when people do something, shall we say, less than wise that causes me more work and frustration. It's even worse when that person is a one of your bosses.
I got a call while I was on my way to work Monday morning. His computer wouldn't boot up.
No big deal, right? I'll get in there and figure it out and get him on his way.
Well, that's how it is supposed to work.
I was presented with some strange options when I sat down in front of his computer. He proceeded to tell me that he had, "clicked on some things I thought would help," while he was awaiting my arrival. I'm not really sure what all he clicked on, but whatever it was, my only recourse was to completely restore the system to its factory state.
That means I basically "got to" reformat his hard drive and start all over with reloading his operating system, programs, drivers, files, etc. etc. etc.
No fun at all! It's not like I don't have anything else to do this week.
Well, to make a very long story as short as possible, I still have not finished his computer. I keep getting sidetracked with other things that require my time. I put his old computer back onto his desk so he could at least keep working while I tackle this task.
Sometimes I think only geeks should be allowed to touch computers...
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
It's Not "Plain"
My favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla.
Vanilla is used in many recipes and, as many people have discovered to their horror, forgetting to add it ruins the recipe.
I'm surprised, then, when so many people (including a very special person in my life who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are Diane Brader) refer to anything vanilla as "plain." The term "plain vanilla" is used - often in a derogatory fashion - to describe something that is boring.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Vanilla is aromatic and delicious. It is one of the few substances that enhances virtually everything.
It is far from "plain."
Diane will offer ice cream as dessert in the evening. She rattles off a laundry list of flavors she has accumulated in the freezer. I usually, but not always, choose vanilla. This often starts an interrogation where Diane asks me about specific other flavors she has offered, but I stay with vanilla. I am then, of course, mocked for wanting "plain" ice cream.
Diane and I visited our nephew Brad's Orange Leaf frozen yogurt store when we were in Missouri last month. He has sixteen flavors available every day.
I chose vanilla.
"Don't you want something with flavor," Diane asks?
Vanilla is a flavor; and a remarkably deep and delicious one at that.
There is nothing "plain" about my favorite ice cream flavor.
Vanilla is used in many recipes and, as many people have discovered to their horror, forgetting to add it ruins the recipe.
I'm surprised, then, when so many people (including a very special person in my life who shall remain nameless, but whose initials are Diane Brader) refer to anything vanilla as "plain." The term "plain vanilla" is used - often in a derogatory fashion - to describe something that is boring.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Vanilla is aromatic and delicious. It is one of the few substances that enhances virtually everything.
It is far from "plain."
Diane will offer ice cream as dessert in the evening. She rattles off a laundry list of flavors she has accumulated in the freezer. I usually, but not always, choose vanilla. This often starts an interrogation where Diane asks me about specific other flavors she has offered, but I stay with vanilla. I am then, of course, mocked for wanting "plain" ice cream.
Diane and I visited our nephew Brad's Orange Leaf frozen yogurt store when we were in Missouri last month. He has sixteen flavors available every day.
I chose vanilla.
"Don't you want something with flavor," Diane asks?
Vanilla is a flavor; and a remarkably deep and delicious one at that.
There is nothing "plain" about my favorite ice cream flavor.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Lola's Table
Diane's mom has lived with us since March of 2000. For those of you bad at math, that means she has lived with us for just over fourteen years.
Trust me - fourteen years is a very long time to have your mother-in-law living under your roof. I call her Lola. Her real name is Loretta, but she made the mistake of telling us one time that she had dreamed of being a showgirl when she was young. She had already chosen her stage name.
You guessed it - Lola.
So while she's Loretta, or Lo, to most people; she's Lola to me.
Lola uses a flimsy, cheap bed table as a primary piece of furniture in her living room. She eats most of her meals while watching television in her living room, so the table serves as her dinner table. It also serves as her solitaire table, side table, library table, etc. In short; she uses the table constantly.
We bought the table for Diane's dad while he was largely confined to a chair; or, later, a hospital bed in their living room during the final months of his life. It was really flimsy and cheap when we bought it and it certainly hasn't gotten any sturdier in the last thirteen-plus years.
The table is quite unstable. Lola tips it over at least once a week; sending her juice, books, snacks, etc. to the floor. She made several attempts at rigging up some sort of lip around the table's edges to help keep her from pushing things off the edge to the floor.
The table, though, is well beyond its expected lifespan. (Of course, so is Lola...) Last week, Diane asked me to take a look at it to see if there was anything I could do to make it a bit sturdier. I tightened down all of the screws and bolts, and added a brace on the suspended end, but the table is simply beyond repair.
Diane started looking for a replacement online. It's amazing how expensive cheap tables are!
I mentioned to Diane that it would probably be no more expensive to just build her a new table instead of buying another cheap, flimsy table. Plus, building one would allow us to size it to her needs and install quality casters.
Great idea, right?
Diane decided that a new table would make a wonderful gift for her 91st birthday. The problem is that this idea came about in the middle of last week. Lola's 91st birthday is this coming Friday. That left a very short time to do a lot of work.
Actually building the table wouldn't be the hardest part. Finishing it would be. For anyone not familiar with woodworking, the sanding, staining, topcoating, letting it cure, sanding again, putting on a second topcoat, letting it cure, sanding again and then putting on a third topcoat and letting it cure is not something that can be rushed. Building the table and finishing it traditionally simply can't be finished by Friday.
Diane is undeterred.
We bought the wood last Wednesday and I put it into the basement shop to acclimate for a couple of days to prevent warping and twisting. We cut the pieces Friday and prepared for the initial sanding and assembly when a problem reared its ugly head. We had picked a mix of oak and maple for the various components. Diane decided, though, that she didn't like the wood we had chosen for the table top.
That took us back to the lumberyard Saturday morning to get more oak to replace several pieces that were originally going to be maple. Once there, I found a finish I've never used before that will allow me to sand and recoat in as few as six hours.
Maybe Friday isn't completely out of the question after all.
Lola doesn't know we're building her a new table. She thinks I'm working up some scheme to build a new lip around her current table. (My blog entry doesn't really risk spoiling the surprise since Lola, like most 90 year olds, doesn't go on the Internet.)
Come Friday afternoon, we'll head into Lola's living room and tell her I need to take her table downstairs to put the new lip on it. After a delay to make it seem like I'm actually doing something, we'll bring in her new table.
She said we are not supposed to give her gifts since she's over 90. I suppose I could tell her that the gift is really for Diane so she doesn't have to come in and clean up the spills caused by her unstable table.
Trust me - fourteen years is a very long time to have your mother-in-law living under your roof. I call her Lola. Her real name is Loretta, but she made the mistake of telling us one time that she had dreamed of being a showgirl when she was young. She had already chosen her stage name.
You guessed it - Lola.
So while she's Loretta, or Lo, to most people; she's Lola to me.
 |
| The Old Table |
We bought the table for Diane's dad while he was largely confined to a chair; or, later, a hospital bed in their living room during the final months of his life. It was really flimsy and cheap when we bought it and it certainly hasn't gotten any sturdier in the last thirteen-plus years.
The table is quite unstable. Lola tips it over at least once a week; sending her juice, books, snacks, etc. to the floor. She made several attempts at rigging up some sort of lip around the table's edges to help keep her from pushing things off the edge to the floor.
The table, though, is well beyond its expected lifespan. (Of course, so is Lola...) Last week, Diane asked me to take a look at it to see if there was anything I could do to make it a bit sturdier. I tightened down all of the screws and bolts, and added a brace on the suspended end, but the table is simply beyond repair.
Diane started looking for a replacement online. It's amazing how expensive cheap tables are!
I mentioned to Diane that it would probably be no more expensive to just build her a new table instead of buying another cheap, flimsy table. Plus, building one would allow us to size it to her needs and install quality casters.
Great idea, right?
Diane decided that a new table would make a wonderful gift for her 91st birthday. The problem is that this idea came about in the middle of last week. Lola's 91st birthday is this coming Friday. That left a very short time to do a lot of work.
Actually building the table wouldn't be the hardest part. Finishing it would be. For anyone not familiar with woodworking, the sanding, staining, topcoating, letting it cure, sanding again, putting on a second topcoat, letting it cure, sanding again and then putting on a third topcoat and letting it cure is not something that can be rushed. Building the table and finishing it traditionally simply can't be finished by Friday.
Diane is undeterred.
We bought the wood last Wednesday and I put it into the basement shop to acclimate for a couple of days to prevent warping and twisting. We cut the pieces Friday and prepared for the initial sanding and assembly when a problem reared its ugly head. We had picked a mix of oak and maple for the various components. Diane decided, though, that she didn't like the wood we had chosen for the table top.
That took us back to the lumberyard Saturday morning to get more oak to replace several pieces that were originally going to be maple. Once there, I found a finish I've never used before that will allow me to sand and recoat in as few as six hours.
Maybe Friday isn't completely out of the question after all.
 |
| The New Table Awaiting Finish |
Come Friday afternoon, we'll head into Lola's living room and tell her I need to take her table downstairs to put the new lip on it. After a delay to make it seem like I'm actually doing something, we'll bring in her new table.
She said we are not supposed to give her gifts since she's over 90. I suppose I could tell her that the gift is really for Diane so she doesn't have to come in and clean up the spills caused by her unstable table.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Tick, Tick, Tick
As we sit here waiting for some future manifestation of Spring in Wisconsin, I am reminded that "tick season" will soon be upon us. There are few things that elicit as violent of a reaction from Diane as even the thought of a tick. I'm sure that even the mention of a tick in my blog has sent shivers down her spine and caused her to verbalize some form of, "Eewwwww!"
I don't believe I have ever met anyone as grossed out by - and afraid of - ticks as my lovely bride.
Now, I'm not saying that I like ticks; they just don't really bother me. I can't begin to count the number of them that I have pulled off of dogs, kids, myself, etc. I like to do things that require me to go into places where ticks thrive. I figure ticks just go with the territory and that I'm going to have to check for ticks if I want to continue fishing, hunting, wandering in the fields and woods, walking the dog or working in the backyard.
Okay, I suppose I'm willing to stop working in the backyard to eliminate that risk, but the other activities are here to stay.
Ticks were a bigger deal when I was a kid. Today, they're just a nuisance. A potential disease-carrying nuisance, perhaps, but just a nuisance nonetheless. I don't freak out if I find one crawling up my leg or embedded somewhere on my body; I just flick it off or pull it out. Done and done.
Not Diane, though. No, Diane freaks. One would think that all of nature had unleashed its fury on my lovely bride if she sees a tick. You can just imagine what happens if she finds one that has embedded.
That happened a few years ago and, the circumstances surrounding it, caused me more stress than a man should have to endure.
It was Easter morning and Diane and I had headed to church very early so I could set up an overflow area at church. I was working to get the sound and projection working when Diane came into the room with a stricken look on her face and said, "Scott, I need you to check something."
My heart nearly stopped, because the look and words were identical to the situation just a few years earlier when she asked me to check the lump she felt in her breast. That one moment was the precursor to six months of torture for her.
That's the only thing I could think of as she led me into the women's restroom (there was no one else in the building, yet). My panic was quickly alleviated, though, when she pulled her skirt up a bit, pointed to a black dot on her thigh and asked, "Is that a tick?"
I was SO relieved!!! It wasn't a lump! It was just a stupid little tick!
I checked and, yes, it was a tick.
Diane's response was immediate and violent.
"Get it out of me!!!!"
I struggled to keep myself from laughing at what was, to me, an extreme overreaction to a simple tick. To her, though, this was a huge deal.
I pulled the tick, flushed it down the toilet and instructed her to wash the area off well and forget about it. Diane was certain that she would soon come down with every tick-borne disease known to man; including those only carried by African species of ticks.
She didn't, of course, but that did nothing to lessen her future responses to the humble little arachnid. So now I am preparing myself for yet another season of Diane's tick-paranoia as the clock ticks ever so slowly toward Tick Season.
I don't believe I have ever met anyone as grossed out by - and afraid of - ticks as my lovely bride.
Now, I'm not saying that I like ticks; they just don't really bother me. I can't begin to count the number of them that I have pulled off of dogs, kids, myself, etc. I like to do things that require me to go into places where ticks thrive. I figure ticks just go with the territory and that I'm going to have to check for ticks if I want to continue fishing, hunting, wandering in the fields and woods, walking the dog or working in the backyard.
Okay, I suppose I'm willing to stop working in the backyard to eliminate that risk, but the other activities are here to stay.
Ticks were a bigger deal when I was a kid. Today, they're just a nuisance. A potential disease-carrying nuisance, perhaps, but just a nuisance nonetheless. I don't freak out if I find one crawling up my leg or embedded somewhere on my body; I just flick it off or pull it out. Done and done.
Not Diane, though. No, Diane freaks. One would think that all of nature had unleashed its fury on my lovely bride if she sees a tick. You can just imagine what happens if she finds one that has embedded.
That happened a few years ago and, the circumstances surrounding it, caused me more stress than a man should have to endure.
It was Easter morning and Diane and I had headed to church very early so I could set up an overflow area at church. I was working to get the sound and projection working when Diane came into the room with a stricken look on her face and said, "Scott, I need you to check something."
My heart nearly stopped, because the look and words were identical to the situation just a few years earlier when she asked me to check the lump she felt in her breast. That one moment was the precursor to six months of torture for her.
That's the only thing I could think of as she led me into the women's restroom (there was no one else in the building, yet). My panic was quickly alleviated, though, when she pulled her skirt up a bit, pointed to a black dot on her thigh and asked, "Is that a tick?"
I was SO relieved!!! It wasn't a lump! It was just a stupid little tick!
I checked and, yes, it was a tick.
Diane's response was immediate and violent.
"Get it out of me!!!!"
I struggled to keep myself from laughing at what was, to me, an extreme overreaction to a simple tick. To her, though, this was a huge deal.
I pulled the tick, flushed it down the toilet and instructed her to wash the area off well and forget about it. Diane was certain that she would soon come down with every tick-borne disease known to man; including those only carried by African species of ticks.
She didn't, of course, but that did nothing to lessen her future responses to the humble little arachnid. So now I am preparing myself for yet another season of Diane's tick-paranoia as the clock ticks ever so slowly toward Tick Season.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Little Sisters
Little sisters have a way of getting on your nerves sometimes. I don't know if they do it on purpose or if it just comes naturally to them. I'm guessing the latter.
I sat near the back of the room in seventh grade homeroom. The room normally served as the science classroom, so it was equipped with two-person tables instead of the standard desks. The class wasn't overly large, but I was pretty far away from the chalkboard. My table-mate wore glasses. We were goofing off one day, as seventh grade boys were wont to do, when he gave me his glasses to "throw Mrs. Buck off a bit." Much to my surprise, I could see the chalkboard clearly while wearing his glasses.
I reported the vision issue to Mom when I got home and she immediately scheduled an appointment for me to see the eye doctor. She scheduled Beth for the appointment slot after mine; and thus created the situation for Beth to get on my nerves.
The nurse called my name and Mom, Beth and I made our way to the examination room where the nurse went through all of the initial screening before the doctor would come in. I went first.
Mom and Beth sat in chairs beside me.
I don't recall ever having been to an eye doctor before that fateful day, so I'd never been subjected to the torture of the dot test. The nurse handed me a small book as I sat in the examination chair; opened it and asked me what number I saw on the first page.
What was wrong with this woman?
Was she nuts?
What number do I see...
Really?????
There was no number on the page; there was just a jumbled mess of dots that made up a larger dot!
That's when it started.
I heard Beth start to quietly giggle.
The nurse turned the page and asked me what I saw on the next page.
More dots.
Beth's giggles became more pronounced. Apparently she and the nurse were in cahoots and "saw" things in the dots. (They have special doctors for people who "see" things; and both Beth and the nurse apparently needed to pay the doctor a visit.)
The nurse pointed to the jumbled dots on the next page and asked me again what I saw.
Dots! Just dots!
At this point Beth's giggles turned to laughs and she asked Mom, "What's wrong with him? Doesn't he know his numbers?"
The nurse had pity on me and ended the torture session early by putting the book away while there were still many pages that had, what I can only presume to be, more pictures of dots. Beth was quite entertained by my failure and proceeded to tell me what "numbers" were supposedly hidden in the jumbled dots.
Right...
Well I got a prescription for glasses that day that allowed me to see the board clearly, but while I have visited the eye doctor many times since that fateful day, I have yet to see any of the imaginary numbers they have supposedly hidden in the jumbled dots. Still; they hand me the little book every time and ask me what numbers I see on several pages before they give up.
I think it's a trick question.
I sat near the back of the room in seventh grade homeroom. The room normally served as the science classroom, so it was equipped with two-person tables instead of the standard desks. The class wasn't overly large, but I was pretty far away from the chalkboard. My table-mate wore glasses. We were goofing off one day, as seventh grade boys were wont to do, when he gave me his glasses to "throw Mrs. Buck off a bit." Much to my surprise, I could see the chalkboard clearly while wearing his glasses.
I reported the vision issue to Mom when I got home and she immediately scheduled an appointment for me to see the eye doctor. She scheduled Beth for the appointment slot after mine; and thus created the situation for Beth to get on my nerves.
The nurse called my name and Mom, Beth and I made our way to the examination room where the nurse went through all of the initial screening before the doctor would come in. I went first.
Mom and Beth sat in chairs beside me.
I don't recall ever having been to an eye doctor before that fateful day, so I'd never been subjected to the torture of the dot test. The nurse handed me a small book as I sat in the examination chair; opened it and asked me what number I saw on the first page.
What was wrong with this woman?
Was she nuts?
What number do I see...
Really?????
There was no number on the page; there was just a jumbled mess of dots that made up a larger dot!
That's when it started.
I heard Beth start to quietly giggle.
The nurse turned the page and asked me what I saw on the next page.
More dots.
Beth's giggles became more pronounced. Apparently she and the nurse were in cahoots and "saw" things in the dots. (They have special doctors for people who "see" things; and both Beth and the nurse apparently needed to pay the doctor a visit.)
The nurse pointed to the jumbled dots on the next page and asked me again what I saw.
Dots! Just dots!
At this point Beth's giggles turned to laughs and she asked Mom, "What's wrong with him? Doesn't he know his numbers?"
The nurse had pity on me and ended the torture session early by putting the book away while there were still many pages that had, what I can only presume to be, more pictures of dots. Beth was quite entertained by my failure and proceeded to tell me what "numbers" were supposedly hidden in the jumbled dots.
Right...
Well I got a prescription for glasses that day that allowed me to see the board clearly, but while I have visited the eye doctor many times since that fateful day, I have yet to see any of the imaginary numbers they have supposedly hidden in the jumbled dots. Still; they hand me the little book every time and ask me what numbers I see on several pages before they give up.
I think it's a trick question.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Changing Colors
If there's one spruce up project that I absolutely detest, it would be painting. There's nothing fun about it! The prep and the cleanup invariably take longer than the project itself, and the task almost always leads to an argument. We repainted virtually our entire interior about a decade ago. I informed Diane that either she would be solely responsible for future painting projects or we would hire someone to do it because I was finished. I would never paint again.
Diane and I rarely argue.
When we do, there's a good chance we've been painting together.
I suppose I don't understand the desire to repaint walls. I am, after all, a color blind guy who - Diane is convinced - has no fashion sense whatsoever.
None.
I still think purple and brown make a wonderful shirt and pants combination and all of the walls in our home should be painted Aztec Gold.
Diane doesn't let me wear purple and brown together and none of our walls are painted Aztec Gold. What does she know??? They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and my eyes - flawed as they may be - behold those to be beautiful colors.
But I digress...
Some time ago Diane decided that "we" needed to repaint our kitchen, dining and living rooms. She picked Crisp Linen - which is really just a fancy name for some variety of off-white - for all of the walls except the west wall of living room. For that wall, she picked some brownish color that she says is burgundy, or some such thing.
Diane and Matthew wanted to make sure the kitchen and dining room walls were painted before Shelley came to visit at Christmas. Matthew was Diane's helper, but - as often seems to be the case - he managed to find some very important things that forced him to abandon his post after a very short stint. So, the guy who swore he would never paint again was once again forced to take up a roller.
It took two coats of Crisp Linen to cover whatever the grayish color previously covered the walls. I "got to" roll virtually all of both coats.
What fun!
Diane decided she was no longer so sure of the colors she had picked for the living room after seeing the paint on the walls in the kitchen and dining room. Mind you, we had already purchased enough paint to do all three rooms, but that is not important.
We - well to be honest, she - decided to charge on and paint the brownish/burgundy wall last Saturday. I got everything prepped. I'll spare you all of the details, but it turned into a typical painting project. After two coats (with a third still needed due to a, shall we say, "difference" in painting technique) the wall is temporarily finished. The living room's other walls have not yet been repainted because Diane is not so sure she likes the Crisp Linen paint against whatever color the brownish/burgundy wall is.
I'm not in a big rush for her to decide to paint the rest of the walls because I know I will, in all likelihood, be enlisted to take up a roller again. I would, though, like for it to be finished because I can't finish the trim and box beams on the ceiling until after the walls have been painted.
So I sit idly by while Diane peruses paint chips and decorating websites looking for the "perfect" color. (I'm pretty sure Aztec Gold would look awesome beside the brownish/burgundy wall, but Diane has not, to date, asked for my opinion.)
In the meantime, I have nearly two gallons of Crisp Linen in the basement if anyone is looking to paint their walls with some version of off-white with a really fancy name.
Diane and I rarely argue.
When we do, there's a good chance we've been painting together.
I suppose I don't understand the desire to repaint walls. I am, after all, a color blind guy who - Diane is convinced - has no fashion sense whatsoever.
None.
I still think purple and brown make a wonderful shirt and pants combination and all of the walls in our home should be painted Aztec Gold.
Diane doesn't let me wear purple and brown together and none of our walls are painted Aztec Gold. What does she know??? They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and my eyes - flawed as they may be - behold those to be beautiful colors.
But I digress...
Some time ago Diane decided that "we" needed to repaint our kitchen, dining and living rooms. She picked Crisp Linen - which is really just a fancy name for some variety of off-white - for all of the walls except the west wall of living room. For that wall, she picked some brownish color that she says is burgundy, or some such thing.
Diane and Matthew wanted to make sure the kitchen and dining room walls were painted before Shelley came to visit at Christmas. Matthew was Diane's helper, but - as often seems to be the case - he managed to find some very important things that forced him to abandon his post after a very short stint. So, the guy who swore he would never paint again was once again forced to take up a roller.
It took two coats of Crisp Linen to cover whatever the grayish color previously covered the walls. I "got to" roll virtually all of both coats.
What fun!
Diane decided she was no longer so sure of the colors she had picked for the living room after seeing the paint on the walls in the kitchen and dining room. Mind you, we had already purchased enough paint to do all three rooms, but that is not important.
We - well to be honest, she - decided to charge on and paint the brownish/burgundy wall last Saturday. I got everything prepped. I'll spare you all of the details, but it turned into a typical painting project. After two coats (with a third still needed due to a, shall we say, "difference" in painting technique) the wall is temporarily finished. The living room's other walls have not yet been repainted because Diane is not so sure she likes the Crisp Linen paint against whatever color the brownish/burgundy wall is.
I'm not in a big rush for her to decide to paint the rest of the walls because I know I will, in all likelihood, be enlisted to take up a roller again. I would, though, like for it to be finished because I can't finish the trim and box beams on the ceiling until after the walls have been painted.
So I sit idly by while Diane peruses paint chips and decorating websites looking for the "perfect" color. (I'm pretty sure Aztec Gold would look awesome beside the brownish/burgundy wall, but Diane has not, to date, asked for my opinion.)
In the meantime, I have nearly two gallons of Crisp Linen in the basement if anyone is looking to paint their walls with some version of off-white with a really fancy name.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Play Ball!
There is still snow in my yard, yet they are playing baseball.
Yep, that's opening day in Wisconsin!
I remember having to wear a winter coat to games over Memorial Day weekend before Miller Park opened. While I still think the roof should be opened for every game unless it is raining; I must admit that it is very nice to have the roof so we never have to worry about a rain out.
I'm ready to cheer my Redbirds on as they defend their National League Championship. I only hope that we take that final step this year and win the World Series again.
It's nice to hear the announcers say that it's time for baseball again.
Yep, that's opening day in Wisconsin!
I remember having to wear a winter coat to games over Memorial Day weekend before Miller Park opened. While I still think the roof should be opened for every game unless it is raining; I must admit that it is very nice to have the roof so we never have to worry about a rain out.
I'm ready to cheer my Redbirds on as they defend their National League Championship. I only hope that we take that final step this year and win the World Series again.
It's nice to hear the announcers say that it's time for baseball again.
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