Painting Time

Momma's Little Baby Helps Momma Paint

Sunday, Bennie and I decided to paint the exterior basement window wells. Every fall I do some cleaning and prepping so that during the semester, I don't have to work as hard. And I've been down lately, so I've been trying to keep busy. I also had Bennie fixed last Wednesday, so he's been mopey and sad. So I let him go out on his leash near me. I say "near" because Bennie's very protective around me. In fact, he got mad at me while my parents were here. It was about 100 degrees out, and Mom and I wanted to drink wine in the cool side yard.

"Stay with Bennie, Dad. Just pet him and keep him company while you watch TV." Only Dad's not an animal person and ignored Bennie, who unbeknownst to Dad was saying, "I've got to take a dumper, Grampa. I need to go outside," and then shit on the floor, creating an interesting mosiac design in the kitchen as I stepped in it.

So anyway, there I am Sunday painting. "Bennie, stay there. Sit." And he sits and watches me paint for awhile. An hour later, as I'm sweating in the heat and applying the second coat of paint, he gets bored.

"What'cha doin' Momblee?" he asks.

"Stay. Sit. Sit and stay," I warn him. But as I start to get up off the ground and stretch my legs, Bennie divebombs the paint can with his side, coating himself with about a cup of white exterior latex paint.

"Sonovabitchcrapshitstain, are you freaking serious Bennie?"

"What Momblee?" he says innocent as a lamb. "I just playin'."

"Sonofabitchcrapshitterstain!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I exclaim and do my "not happy" dance then spend twice as long washing Bennie's paint off him than I did painting.

A 3 year old Bichon is no different than a kid. I swear.

The Invisible Man

How does one Become an Invisible Man?

Get really close to a woman. Get to REALLY, REALLY know her. Don't jump into the sack with her. Shower her with genuine kindness. Make her laugh her head off. Talk hours on the phone. Talk even more hours in person, laying under the night clouds and holding hands. Be one of those "rare guys" that everyone admires. Keep no secrets and share your inner thoughts. Tell her that jumping into the sack clouds your judgement and you want to start off as "friends first" because you "really like" her and moreover, you respect her. Then, once you get really, really close and meet both sets of parents and things are going GREAT, then start to freak out. Pull back, shut your phone off and just freak out. Better still, freak out in the dark while the phone is ringing and you know it's her. Whatever you do, don't pick up that phone and call her. Distance from her is exactly what you need so you do not risk getting hurt.

I've been thinking about how I could make an angle out of it that's funny. Got any ideas?

Getting Hurt
I have my Ph.D in this from Cactus Man University. But have you ever been so UPTIGHT about the fear of getting hurt that it's limited (crippled) you? Doesn't everyone have this degree? Most people have at least an associate's degree. Unfortunately, I got a doctorate and graduated Magna Cum Laude from it.

The shitty thing about really getting to know someone, really spending time with him (like I've been doing this summer), is that the crummy stuff starts rearing its head and you have to decide if you can take the heat. And if you can take the heat, then can he?

I wish it could go like this on the first date.

"Carefully read all of the above and check the boxes that apply," I say as I hand the man who's "applying for my love" a clipboard as if he's at the doctor's and not on a date. "Put your hand here," I say as he must take a sworn oath in front of a judge that I've rented for the occasion. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

The Applicant nods, "Yes."

"Have you ever been in bankrupcy, beaten or hit a woman?"

"No, and no."

"Have you ever cheated on a girlfriend?"

"No, (stammmer)."

"May I remind you that you are under oath," replies the judge.

"Only once and that was many years ago."

"How many is many?"

"Ten years ago."

"Are you suffering from any sort of mental illnesses, including but not limited to: Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Pyschotic episodes, Depression, Severe Depression, S.A.D., Bi-polar? Yes, or no. Remember you just took an oath."

"Well, I do get tiny bouts with depression," says The Applicant.

"How tiny is tiny?" I ask. The judge reminds The Applicant that he is under oath.

"Manageable." The judge again reminds The Applicant that he's under oath. "OK. I get in severe funks. I won't hit you or anything, but I will turn invisible and dissappear for a week at a time. I will freak out if we get too close. I will become indignant if pressed upon and will not care about your needs or feelings."

"NNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEXXXXX"XXXXXXTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" I yell, and the bailiff leads The Applicant out of the room and leads in a new Applicant.

If only it were that easy. But who ever comes clean early on before you don't have anything emotionally invested? Past hurts, ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, cheating, pain. I realize we ALL have our baggage that has hurt our hearts. I understand that. Yet can't we just move on?

We can't just stand there, stymied, terrified. If I can survive Cactus University and LIVE, LIVE to tell the tale, why can't a good man be just as strong as me and move forward? Sigh.

What if Cars Ran Like Computers? Pt. II

I had to get back to this question. What if they did? What if cars had all the hangups of computers and all their unreliabilities?

You'd go out to your car, put the key in the ignition, and guess what would happen? Nothing. No turn over. No engine starting, just nothing. "Oh, it's just a glitch in my car again," you'd say to yourself, so you'd take the keys out of the ignition and go have another cup of coffee then try again later and hope for the best. Maybe your car just wouldn't "feel" like starting that day. Just like a computer. Or maybe you'd have to "turn" your car off and on several times to get it working.

Unreliable.

Imagine if cars really did run like computers. Horror movies would cease to exist, because as the zombies stream out of the shopping mall, chasing after the poor victims who are headed for their cars to escape, none of them would start. Hence, the zombies would eat everyone. End of movie. The horror genre would cease to exist.

Also, if cars ran like computers, the term "get-away car" would also become obsolete, since if cars ran like computers, then you couldn't count on them. Of course, the upside would be there'd be less bank robberies, since if cars ran like computers, there'd be many a would-be robber sitting in his car thinking, "Great, I guess it's jail time for me since my car doesn't 'feel' like starting today."

Since it's been about 3 years since I've had to work on my bedroom PC, here's some nifty things I've forgotten about it.

1. Constant pop up window saying, "Do you want to debug now?" If you hit "yes" it goes into some nonsensical screen and starts "debugging" which ties the computer up for several hours and doesn't seem to improve the peformance of the machine anyway. If you hit "no" then it just pops up again assuming you're an idiot and just forgot the question, "Do you want to debug now?" it asks again. There is, unfortunately, no "FUCK YOU--NO!" tab to click on. Yesterday, I counted how many times that window came up while I was trying to get into my Yahoo account. 23 times. 23 fucking times I had to hit "No, asshole. I do NOT want to de-bug now."

2. Screen freezing up for no apparent reason.
Sometimes, the Yahoo email screen unfreezes itself, other times not and I have to hit Ctrl + Alt + Delete to escape. And the long email I've typed up for an hour a half also disappears as I jump up and do an amazingly little dance around my computer emitting a colorful tapestry of cuss words, including newly invented cussword combinations ("mutherfuckerfaceshitbrain asshole!")

3. The vanishing space bar function key. It's also about to wear out.
Sometimes it works, and sometimes I'll end up with a linelikethisandhavetogoinandputallthespacesbackin. Neato.

But I'll hang in there until I can find a fairly reasonably-priced crook, I mean techie, to fix my old laptop.

Sigh.

What if Cars Ran Like Computers?

OK, I see I've been remiss in my blogging. Reasons? Steamy affair? I wish! I still haven't told ya about the man I will nickname "The Invisible Man (which pretty much says it all)." More later. The reasons I haven't blogged include--1. Rally 2. Parents' visit. Pretty exciting. But there will be more "Camp Tales" later, so hold on to your hats, folks.

I type this new, facinating news-filled blog today on my 2000 model Dell "Dimension" series with Windows 98 on a big disco monitor. I'm so hip. Why am I on this slow relic that should be sitting in the Smithsonian?

The Christmas present Cactus Man gave me in 2008, his used laptop, is on the fritz.

What's wrong with it?

Well, firstly, it was a gift from Cactus Man, which should sort of say it all. Remember, it came to me basically wiped out with no software, and Basement Man had to reinstall everything. Secondly, at first the power cord shorted out, two weeks ago, which caused me to run, panicked to Microsolutions to discuss new cords. After picking myself up from the floor, receiving a mild concussion once they told me a new power cord was almost $80, they sold me a used one for $30.

"But this will only fix one of your problems with your laptop," said the sales manager quite gravely. "I'm afraid you have a compound problem."

"What else is wrong?" I grimly ask.

"Your backdoor gram-o-meter, power outlit version #56492100a.s.s.h.o.l.e is shot."

"Shot?" I repeat, dollar signs tentatively dancing above my head. I notice a sign taped on the wall that says, "$90 an hour minimum repairs fee."

"Of course we could sauter the sauerkrauter part #45588726255aaaafart back onto your mother board."

"Great. How much?" I ask. He points to the taped sign behind him.

"It's only a 10 min. job but we gotta charge you $100 for the labor and $50 for the dot of sauter." What is sauter, made outta gold or something?

"$150 bucks just to sauter one little doodad?" I reiterate tersely, spittle flying from my mouth.

"Of course, you could just buy a new 'used' laptop from us," he noted.

"How much?" I ask, my blood pressure hitting new and alarming levels.

"Ooooooooh," he says. "Anywhere from $200-400," he says.

"I'll think about it. I've gotta go rob a bank first." I pay for my power cord and run out the door.

So what am I gonna do? You know damned well a new "used" laptop isn't going to cost just $200 with all the hidden fees and add ons. What about all the file transfers, the software, getting it set up for the internet?

Why, I'll use my antique computer in the bedroom, that's what I'll do (even though it won't open up any kind of attachments anymore and can't open most internet sites). Until I get paid next. I was going to rant and rave and compare old cars to computers, but I'll save it for the next post. Oh, and my bleak dating situation with The Invisible Man is a real knee-slapper. Hang tight.

Camp Tales XIII: Day Camping: "Wait, wait, don't shoot me!"

Back in the old newspaper days with Gaylord, we invented a new kind of camping we coined "Day Camping." It's when, after a wicked work week, and limited "free" time, you go to the lake, hills, trails, whatever, and mimic camping without actually having to lug all the gear and stay overnight. It frees up extra time to squeeze in other fun crap on your two days off, OR one "token" day off if you're stuck on nights at the paper.

Only camping in eastern Nebraska SUCKED, as you already know, especially during hunting season particularly IF you are NOT a hunter.

The Seduction of a Quiet Piece of Land

Driving in the country, we found a public area that shockingly didn't have any RV's, braying campers or screaming children. It was even pretty, in a flat-n-sticker-bush sort of way, the only sounds of a few meadowlarks. We thought we'd hit paydirt.

Only one thing sort of confused us. There were no BBQ pits, nor picnic tables which was VERY odd for a picnicing site.

Not to worry, (we thought) because we were away from annoying campers, yay!

"What was that alarming noise?" Gaylord asked as he flipped a burger on the portable grill we lugged next to Yahoo Lake (there really is a town in Nebraska called Yahoo--or Wahoo what's the diff?-- aptly named by local yahoos).

"Folks, it sounds alarmingly like we're getting shot at," I announced into the hand-held microphone of a cassette player. We were making a tape of our adventure for Dooder back in Minneapolis.

"Preposterous," Gaylord snorted, in his best Ignatious-voice (Confederacy of Dunces). "This is public land! I pay taxes!! We're at a recreational area!"

"Ping, pop," went a few bullets whizzing over our heads.

"ARRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh," we screamed in unison.

"I think we need to get outta here. I think it's hunting season," I said pointing to a sign we amazingly neglected to read. It read, "No LEAD AREA. Public Walk In."

"Doesn't that mean, WE walk in and BBQ?" Gaylord sniffed in indignation.

"I think it means, they shoot, and we crawl outta here."

"But I haven't finished grilling the burgers," Gaylord lamented salting the raw hamburger.

"Ping, pop," sung a few bullets over our head.

"Aaarrrgghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," we screamed again.

The next ten minutes were a mixture of us imitating infantry soldiers, complete with bullets zinging merrily over our heads as we performed an amazingly complicated dance, hunching over while carrying rucksacks with gear falling out, dumping coals and partially cooked burgers on the ground, and dragging the necessities with us out of the war zone: hammocks, books and beer.

"YIKES! Dooder! They're shooting at us. Enemy fire has opened on our camp!" I shriek into the microphone as we hunch/crawled to the car feeling like something out of Full Metal Jacket.

"Operation fucked up evac. Over and out," I say to Dooder in the mike.

Needless to say, we didn't "Day camp" at Lake Yahoo again anytime soon. Amazingly, when recently asked, Dooder says she doesn't remember listening to our "War Sounds" cassette----sigh. All that exciting journalism for naught.

Years later, I found out there's a nifty thing you can buy called a gazetteer that shows you exactly where the HUNTING public areas are vs. the picnicing areas.

So remember folks. Next time you're day camping, make sure to check out that nifty spot in the gazeteer you think is so cute and secluded before you end up fodder for another Cormac McCarthy sequel to No Country For Old Men.

Don't worry. I'm lookin' out for us all.

Camp Tales XII: Camp Tipi-canoey

This is Alma, Nebraska, which I didn't really camp/canoe at, but I didn't have any pictures of Shit Lake where I did. However, if I DID, it'd look like this only: no trees whatsoever, just weeds lining the lifeless brown lake and a copious scattering of ticks everywhere.

How to Properly Turn over Your Canoe like a Drunken Sailor


Remember Gaylord of the "Pringles Incident"? It was in late March, and the hints of spring were momentarily in the air. Pancake-flat Nebraska, unlike the Rockies, actually has a season called "Spring," which amounts to a gradual cessation of snow, warming climes and budding flowers. This is rather a delightful experience, compared to the Rockies where it's blizzard one day, 95 the next. We were sick of winter, and while it was only 50 degrees, Gaylord had an idea.

"Let's get the canoe out and go to Shit Lake and BBQ," asked Gaylord one Sunday morning back in March.

"Isn't it a bit early for that?" I asked warily sipping my coffee.

"It'll be FUN. We'll get some smoked brats, chips and dip, baked beans and buns and beer."

The only thing better than bribing me with food, is bribing me with both food AND BEER.

"OK, you're on."

Ahhhhh, nothing beats springtime on the Nebraska plains. Ticks sucking your scalp, biting flies busily nipping your ears. The delightful first mouthful of brats and onions washed down with a cold brew is a religious experience.

Only we planned this particular excursion backwards that day.

We decided that we should canoe across the lake, set up the grill, drink beer, BBQ, and drink more beer. I was a little alarmed when I saw Gaylord pop his fifth beer and we hadn't even eaten yet.

"You going to be OK to paddle back?" I asked.

"Why of course!" he exclaimed, beer can held high. "Shit Lake is only 8 feet deep. It's not like we're canoeing across Yellowstone Lake or anything," he merrily added. That was a good point, I thought.

But here's where the flaw in our plan came in. We should have organized it like this: canoe for a while, canoe back to the dock near the car, drink beer, BBQ and drink more beer. Only we didn't. So you see where this is going?

I can see it all in slow motion.

After grilling and gorging, Gaylord announced that since the temperature had suddenly dropped about 8 degrees, and a winterly wind had blown in, that we should pack up the canoe and head back to town. Of course we brought too much stuff: a cast iron Hibachi, giant cooler, chairs, pads, blankets, etc. We loaded up the canoe, which suddenly seemed fuller and heavier and pushed off.

We were about 1/3 across the lake, when Gaylord decided that he wanted us to pick up the pace. He slowly and rather alarmingly, dug in his oar, throwing all of his body weight to the side of the canoe. Which is actually not the wisest maneuver.

Like in a dream, I call out, "N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, you're too far over the side of the b-o-o-a-a-a-t."

Only it was too late, the canoe tipped precariously, and me, in proper train-wreck watching form, just sat there, sort of mesmerized, sort of frozen, anticipating the inevitable avalanche of cold water, flowing over my head.

Nothing is colder than spring water in a lake. Miraculously, I spared my 35mm camera from getting wet, and got my buttpack before it floated off.

The charcoal and heavy grill, vanished to the bottom of the lake as did other miscellaneous items. The next five minutes were a whirl uprighting the canoe and grabbing things as they floated by and throwing them in.

I don't remember getting back into the canoe in water-logged clothes or the tapestry of cusswords out of Gaylord's mouth. It was rather sobering.

We made it back to the car in about 8 minutes, squeezed excess brown water out of our clothes, plucked the algae out of our hair and jumped in the car, heater blasting.

I don't think we said more than 3 words on the drive home. My vintage WW1 combat boots were trashed with mud, the leather ruined. And in the car, for kicks, I snapped a picture of Gaylord, with his sopping wet Gilligan's Island hat sitting askewed his head, sour faced, but I have no idea where it went.

Morale of the story:
1.plan the copious beer-drinking AFTER the canoeing excursion, when you're on the side of the lake near your car.
2. It's a canoe, not a rowboat
3. don't over pack the canoe
4. a "designated rowist" is probably a good idea.

Camp Tales XI: Showers? Who Needs Showers?

While I was in Utah, going on day 4 without a shower, I made a note in my camp journal to blog about how you go about not taking a shower for 7 days and live to tell the tale.

Check out this picture. So realistic.
I like the way she's not only showering in her bikini, but actually appearing to have a happy little orgasam while doing so.

So how did I manage to go 7 days without a shower?

First of all you gotta look at this reasonably. My friend, Paulie, thinks that you should find only campsites with adequate, and quite clean and inviting bathhouses so you can clean up in the evenings (including blow drying, stylying hair and applying a pedicure), then go to happy hour followed by dancing per say, and out for dinner. But this isn't camping. What it is, I'm not exactly sure.

The BEST sites, meaning sites with the most stellar views, the sites away from the ANNOYING YAHOOS (see Latino note in earlier camp tale), the most pristine places in America, are NOT going to have a bathhouse anyway, let alone a crapper. Want a hot shower? Then stay at a Bates Motel. Speaking of Bates, did I tell you about Dinosaur, Colorado? (OK, I will later).


Soooo, here are some tips for staying stellar while camping:

1. Pack the Razor--Nothing makes you feel chirpier than having tidy legs, especially when you're bedding down in your mummy.

"Dude, the sign says no bathing at the water station," Dooder noted.

"I'm NOT bathing. I'm shaving," I replied quite confident that if they meant "Shaving" then they'd put that on their sign. Ahh, the next best thing to fresly shaved legs are legs that are still attached to your body, so in bear-country, shave using scentless lotion; otherwise, Johnson's Baby Creme is great.

2. Pack copious pairs of undies--
And pack a few extra. Nothing sucks more than having to go undie-less because you had an accident running to the bathroom in the middle of the night (Irritable Bowl Syndrome).

3. Toothpaste and toothbrush are a MUST--
I don't care if you're climbing Denali, you MUST keep your fangs clean. No one wants to smell your bowel-breath after you nailed that entire box of garlic-flavored Triscuits, trust me. HOWEVER, Doooder and I had a dillema over this in bear country.

"What if bears are attracted to toothpaste scent?" I asked Dooder one afternoon. Dooder blinks, both of us imagining a jealous bear ripping through our tent, angerily not able to trace the scent of toothpaste, then slowly realizing it's emanating from our mouths. We still haven't figured that one out other than to make sure to rinse your mouth really well or use baking soda.

4. Obligatory "do-rag" or baseball cap is mandatory--
No one really wants to see themselves in the reflection of your shiny hair grease, so these two items come in really handy as does pigtails, which are really snappy if you have long hair like I do.

5. Hospital-style nail brush and bar of soap--
ALWAYS keep your fingernails clean. No one wants to eat something you cooked over the flames if your fingernails look like you went number two and wiped with your hands.

6. Sea Breeze astringent and cotton balls--
You'd be amazed at how clean you feel--and smell. I don't think bears are attracted to Sea Breeze. If so, I'm so screwed.

7. And finally . . . Baby Wipes--
For all the other purposes you can imagine. From wiping the grease spilled down your chin after biting into that keilbasa, to wiping your rear. You can't go wrong here.

Don't worry. I've got it all covered. Follow these 7 camping secrets, and you'll be smelling like a rose in no time.