Category Archives: Opinions

Day 2 – Beale AFB, California

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We slept extraordinarily well last night, even though I failed (I failed) to pack the cord for my CPAP machine which caused concern for both of us. Me, because snoring gives me a sore throat, and Diane because she was fearful she’d have to keep kick-starting me all night long. Neither happened, so maybe it’s OK for me to start breathing fresh air at night once again.

It was interesting that our motel room was 111. Eleven is a number that shows up in our lives repeatedly, so we see it as a good omen.

At the motel, we ate a bit of breakfast, filled our coffee cups in the lobby, and took off. We crested the Siskyou Summit at 9:44 am, and crossed the border into California at 9:48. It’s now 9:54 and we’re coasting in to the border control station at Hornbrook so we can tell the guards that we are not trying to sneak non-California fruits into their state. That’s important to them.

Whew! We made it past the crossing guard station … she was a hottie in shorts.

At the moment, we’re grinding along behind an RV who, in turn, is grinding along behind a semi-truck because the lanes are restricted. They’re working on 2 miles of the downhill side and we’re going uphill. Dang.

During this pause, some of the quaint little place names we’ve passed ate flitting through my little head. One, in particular, reminds me of an old trucker song we used to hear all the time. It’s Wolf Creek Pass which is a little north of Grants Pass. Another favorite is Jump Off Joe Creek, near the bitty town of Wolf Creek, is a name that causes me to envision all kinds of goings on to cause a group of concerned people to christen the place with such a descriptor. Do you think his name was really Joe? Do you think he really jumped, or was he pushed? Or, was this a place where Sam was actually on Joe and the snap of a nearby twig startled them, causing Sam to nervously jump and Joe compounded the visual effect by pushing Sam up and away. Bill, an innocent bystander, the twig breaker, having followed Joe and Sam to this secluded location because of concerns he had for the sanctity of heterosexual activity, witnessed the event and, since not a lot happened in that area of the woods, rushed willy-nilly to the nearest saloon to report that he had just seen Sam Jump Off Joe down by the Creek. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

It’s now 10:12 am and we’re cruising by exit 753 which is next to Mt. Shasta. The mountain is virtually naked … just a few spots of snow and ice are scattered sparsely around it’s tippy top.

I’m still think about Sam and Joe, and wonder if they were forced to flee Wolf Creek for warmer climes near San Francisco where they struck on the idea of starting a commune where they could spread the joy they found with each other to those seeking satisfaction in a similar manner. My search of the internet hasn’t revealed any concrete evidence to support this theory, but I think I’ve seen vague references about an obscure little rod and gun club that was opened in 1898 near the corner of Haight & Ashbury.

This, of course, is unfounded discourse,
making me wonder why
someone of my gender would
seek solace in another guy.

OK. That was a lame attempt at a bit of poetry and a disclaimer that what I’m sharing is pure figments. Still, there’s evidence throughout history that this kind of activity has been going on for pretty much ever. I’ve always thought it was one of God’s way to keep the population in check. One might wonder what the world would be like today if everyone had remained staunchly heterosexual throughout history. Just think about all that extra begetting that would have been going on. I suspect there’s a formula somewhere that could compute the difference in population density between the two different lifestyles.

Any guesses?

It’s 10:55 and we’re almost to Shasta Lake. First stop of this leg is Redding for gas and Gas (lunch).

Now I must pause and navigate before I get into trouble. Again.

Hey there … it’s 1:23 pm and we just left the Win River Casino in Redding where we had a very nice lunch. And we didn’t gamble even though we each received $5 on our Players cards so we could get the lunch special at a discount. We figure we made $18 with the free money and discounted lunch. That works.

It especially works because the gas tank lady was telling Diane it’s time to fill up so we stopped at the first station after leaving the freeway. I know, dumb thing to do, but we both thought the safe thing to do was fill up sooner than latter. As you may have guessed, we paid $4.30 a gallon instead of $4.00 had we waited a little bit.

It’s 90 degrees here. And mostly brown. Not pretty like home.

It’s 7:13pm, now. We’ve had a Subway supper and are ensconced in our Visiting Airmen barracks room on Beale AFB. We arrived about 4:00pm. It would have been about 3:30, but Diane let me drive for the last couple of hours and didn’t navigate me very well. The difference was that, instead of going around the right side of the base, to the main gate, I took a left at a sign that read Beale AFB, with a very distinct arrow pointing to the left. The Wazer program didn’t seem to object, except for a distinctive “BEEP”, so I thought everything was just fine. But, we had to drive all the way around the runway to a back gate.

Beale AFB is about the size of Vermont and is covered, mainly, with dried up fields that appear to have been cut and bailed. Very tidy. As we made our way across many miles to the correct side of the base, we watched high altitude spy planes landing. They look like gliders and are the modern day version of the U-2 Gary Powers was flying when he was shot down over Russia in 1960. At that time, the U-2 was running under CIA control. Perhaps they still are. I do not know. But, they are super quiet, and glide along slow as a bird.

Now, about our our barracks room … it’s really nice, actually, something I would expect for the Air Force. They always get the best housing while the Navy always got the best ships. That’s seems fair.

Our room is one of four access from a common area that is about the size of a large hotel room with a living room and a full kitchen. That’s where I’m currently sitting, watching the Seattle/Green Bay game, as I type. Two of the other rooms are occupied … one by a male sergeant, and the other by a female Lt. Colonel. The sleeping rooms are large, with their own TVs, with Dish Satellite. We can’t find anything wrong with the place and, it would be dumb to do so, because the room only cost us $34. Nice. There really is a benefit for spending half your life in the military.

Tomorrow I’ll keep another diary, whether or not you want me to, and finish it up from the Navy Lodge at Lemoore Naval Air Station. That’s going to cost more than tonight, I’m sure.

Creavolution

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I’ve decided to be a philosopher. I made this decision after reading “A Brief History of Time”, by Stephen Hawking. One of my classmates, Dr. Eddie D., recommended it to me after listening to me postulate about my opinion that there are valid arguments for both creation theories, and evolution. I say that, in that manner, because theories, I learned, cannot be proven and evolution is a fact. I believe that all things are the result of “creavolution”, a new word that I just made up.

That’s what I thought until I looked it up on the internet and found that I’m not the first. Dang! It didn’t surprise me that the person under whose name I found it used it for the same reason I did.

According to my readings (which are few), and delvings (which are numerous), I’ve determined that I agree with most of the scientists and theologians who have espoused their theories and thoughts in countless publications throughout history. I can only believe all of them do this in their tireless efforts to convince everyone else that their beliefs, and/or theories are the only correct ones. Once in a while a few of them will agree and gang up on anyone who doesn’t “buy” their view of “things”.

Most of those who agree do so because of empirical evidence which cannot be disputed. We call the majority of those people scientiests. Some of the more well known scientists have the added benefit (in my opinion) of believing that some things are just beyond our comprehension, and that’s OK. Sadly, lots of those folks will take a header off the deep end of the universe in their efforts to define theoretical events in a logical manner. They can see the results of an “event”, but they don’t know what the event is, or was and it drives them nuts, crazy, whacko.

Because of that tendancy I’ve abandoned all efforts to prove those theories. Instead, I just make up theories. I have lots of them, but they’re hard to remember. Only one comes to mind, at this moment in time, and it isn’t one that I’m normally allowed to share because Diane frowns on it. But, I’m going to tell you anyway, and perhaps one of you adventurous folks who read this will step up and go about proving it. Personally, I’m just going to leave it as a theory for someone else to ponder …

The Napkin Theory: Most meals come with napkins which we teach our children to place neatly in their laps to ensure food does not soil their clothing and which they should use to dab away stray bits of gravy, or other food from their lips, or the backs of their hands. We do this because that’s what we were taught to do by Emily Post. I propose that it you eat your napkin after every meal, and the napkin is of a very good quality, and tastes worthy of being eaten, you would never need toilet paper as the napkin would be the last thing out, cleansing both the digestive tract as well as the difficult to reach parts of our anatomy, to which bits of processed food adhere, as it exits our body.

Think about that a bit. The only problem I can see with it is that prodigious eaters may have two or three napkins transiting their innards at any given time. But, if this theory is proven, and the napkins are really, really good, it may well be the solution to overeating because there would be no between meal snacking. The napkins can be engineered to ensure that that undesireable eating gene is removed by breeding it out of the human race. That smacks a bit of evolution, but that’s OK. We do that. Everything does that.

I do not expect anyone to take this up as a challenge because it’s a bit beyond unbelievable … at least for now. That’s because napkins are either made to break down quickly in a damp environment, or they’re made to be washed after being used. I suppose my theory could be proven by using a washable napkin, but what’s the point of that, unless their going to be shipped to a different country after being washed. I don’t think I’d be using one of those more than once having the knowledge of how it was used the last time. Perhaps some of you think differently about that, but I truly doubt it. Unless your freakishly weird.

So, most theories cannot be proven, or there aren’t enough people willing to prove them publicly, which would move them into the empirical category, which brings me to theologians.

Theologians thrive on theory which is, perhaps, why their title uses most of the letters in that word … theo. I actually know a person named Theo which causes me to wonder if he’s just someone that can’t be proven, or if he’s someone who can’t prove he exists. I shook his hand, and I talked with him, so I believe he exists. But wait! Was he just a figment of my imagination, of which I have many, or was he trying to prove to himself that others could actually see and touch him? I may never know because at this moment all he is is a memory. Perhaps that’s all he ever was. Maybe I’m the only person in the entire universe and everything I feel, do, see, taste, smell, hear, or whatever, is just my mind making stuff up. Yeah, that’s it. It has to be …

The reason, of course, is because there is no emperical evidence that explains how all this, the stuff around us, other people, earth, planets, etc., began. Big Bang? Probably, but what was there before that?

In conclustion, there’s comfort in the belief of a higher being, perhaps God, and that it’s OK to treat everyone with respect and kindness. It’s unfortunate that all the bad in the world, at least the worst of the bad, is the result of misguided religious beliefs.

Perhaps each of us conjures up everything in existence, and we all see it just a little differently through our chosen lens and belief system.

Perhaps each of us, in our own way, is a bit of God that was scattered all over the place during an experiment gone wrong that resulted in the Big Bang.

Perhaps the end result of all this is that we will eventually find our way back to wholeness when the universe collapses into a singularity … and we realize what it’s all about … just before it blows up again.

Random Thoughts From An Active … on look! there’s a chicken! … Mind

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Greetings fellow space travelers. As I write, we are hurtling through the void at the un-godly speed of 155 miles per second. I know that’s true because I read it somewhere. Honest. I did.

Today, during this journey, Diane and I did some weeding in the back yard. We worked until the earth rotated enough to expose us to the unbearable heat of our nearby sun. It must have been in the hundreds of degrees by the way my body was shedding it’s water content all over the place. Most of it seemed to be going into my eyes which caused me great discomfort because of the high salt content of my excretions. The hat on my head was soaked, as were my clothes, before it was determined I was nearing my expiration date at an unexpectedly fast pace. Because of that I was encouraged to stop expending energy and seek comfort, and food, inside our living facility.

Upon entering, I was forced to disrobe, to rid my body of the soaked clothing, and then take a cleansing, antiseptic, drenching in our interior bathroom. Stated in that manner may cause one to think we also have an exterior bathroom, which we do if you count the RV. But, it’s actually within the confines of the RV wall structure, so it, too, is an interior bathroom, excluding it from the exterior category. I find this topic confusing so will move on to something more  … logical …

“What,” you may ask, “is logical to such a severely demented and damaged mind?”

“Why,” I may reply, “I find many things to be logical that others, with their twisted, warped, sense of normalness, find to be excruciatingly complex and morose.”

For example … here I am, doing what I do, which I think is just totally logical, while many of you, I’m sure, wonder what can possibly be logical to someone with such a severely demented and damaged mind. See? We all perceive things at slightly different angles which influences the way data is infused into our brains. I find that logical while you’re sitting there wondering what I’m talking about.

Actually, I sit here, many times, and wonder what it is I’m talking about. As you know, I typically give free reign to my fingers and just let the words flow out. I do not edit anything. What you see on all of these entries is a first run. I don’t edit for the same reason that I have a really difficult time deleting photos I’ve taken that have absolutely no meaningful value. Some because there is no reference about where the picture was taken, it’s blurred, or it’s one of one of many duplicates I’ve created over the years. Deleting words I’ve written, or photos I’ve taken, seems wrong to me. That’s just the way it is.

I keep small pieces of wood, that I’ve removed from larger boards, for the same reason. The small piece was sacrificed for the larger one so there’s just something inherently wrong with summarily thowing it into the burn pile. I’m getting better about that. Now I at least get rid of the sawdust, which was becoming a safety issue in my shop. It was ok until Diane stopped giving me her Avon boxes for storage. After that, there was sawdust everywhere.

That’s not true, of course. I can have all the Avon boxes I want. Every Saturday two of them arrive at our house with “things” inside that I never see. I never see it because I never look. It holds no interest for me. It’s makeup mostly. Now, if it was a pair of Avon Crocs, it might be a little different. I used to get those when the old ones wore out, but haven’t had any for 2-3 years. Now I must go barefoot, causing my feet to get dirty. The rocks hurt, too.

My eyes burn, it’s almost 11, and I have to go golfing tomorrow morning at the mind altering time of 0830. So, I must depart and get my sleep on.

Cheers.

Wife Bashing, in general …

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Today was bust as far as getting anything done around the house. And, it’s late enough in the day that anything we need to do is just going to have to wait until tomorrow morning.

On a positive note, it rained last night so mowing the lawn yesterday gives me genius-like decision-making qualities, something I rarely have. Diane will agree.

About the Title … I’ve mentioned this before, but need to do it again so I can refresh my memory, about how my early blogs were deemed to veer toward “wife bashing” because of the way I shared information about my life. I pleaded my case, explaining that what I said was far, far, away from wife bashing, and much closer to self criticism because of my need for supervision on most of the things I attempt to accomplish during my daily routine. OK, I don’t have a routine. I’m so spontaneous that some days I’m sure I’m just going to ignite and flitter away on a breeze. Normally I call my actions ‘reactive’ because that’s what I do. Nothing is planned. I just kind of richochet through my days changing directions as obstacles get in my way. Many times (most times) this requires guidance, redirecting me toward the initial goal. Sadly, by the time guidance is provided, that goal is long forgotten. Hence the need for supervision. Well, it’s not really supervision … it’s more like just having someone around to call for help should I need it and can’t do it myself. Lydia’s babysat me in the past, so age isn’t a factor. Anyone who can dial can do the job.

Now, is that wife bashing? I think not. It’s an admission on my part of faults I perceive in how my mind and body operates. Sometimes they aren’t in sync and ‘things’ just happen. I’ve been fortunate over the years and have never broken a bone, like Jack has. Or cut the tips of my fingers off with my riding lawn mower, like Jim has … we still point this one out as a major, major programming issue when we all gather. No, I just cut, scrape, bend, jam, bang, and bruise various parts of my body during the course of pretty much any task I attempt. Diane could tell folks that she got me at the ‘Ding and Dent’ sale at K-Mart and not be far off. Perhaps she’s already done that – I don’t know, nor would I presume to assume she has. But, if I were her, I’d do that.

That last bit makes me wonder if what I’ve said about Diane in the past is ‘transference’ behavior on my part. If so, all my past sins of this nature are simply the result of a mild form of mental illness for which I should bear no responsibility. Or, maybe it’s not so mild. Maybe it’s really, really invasive, wiggling it’s way deep into my brain, making my ears ring, my eyes scum over, and my nose drip. I limp, too, among other things. Perhaps all of these symptoms are related to this new illness I’ve diagnosed.

It needs a name. While I’m thinking about that, I’ll share my medical term for why people get constipated – their craparatus is broken, or jammed. Obvious, huh? So, what’s the right name for Jerrie’s Mental Illness? Hmmmm. I’ll have to think longer on this one, but the longer I ponder, the less inclined I am to submit to the dreadful reality that I’m mentally ill. What a quandry. I guess that means if I just quit pondering it, I’m cured, and will have to be responsible for all of my actions. That’s the adult way to go, I suppose, but lots less fun.

Time to stop. Jeff just alerted us that all the girls are awake, so we’re off to see what Jerrie Anne Diane looks like in this, the beginning of her 2nd year of existance. No doubt she’s just a little bit cuter, as she is each day. Just like her older sisters who, if they would just hold still for a second, I would photograph and show you. But, they won’t.

Hunger Games vs. Twilight

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I’ve decided to become a book critic, maybe even a movie critic, at least for a short time. Perhaps for just this one time only because the fact that I’m going to base my opinions solely on whether or not I like something instead of how much money they made, will be too much of a radical change to what you may be used to. It’s kind of like the price of gas and how the speculators determine what it will be. You know, if they’re running short of a little pocket change, they’ll bet the price of gas will be going up and, guess what?! The price of gas goes up! How convenient for them. I can’t recall any times that they speculate the price will go down. Then again, maybe they do which means that I just don’t know how that system really works. Which I really don’t. So, what I just did was state an opinion base solely on my dissatisfaction with the price of gas. But, you know what? When Diane and I lived in Italy from 1970-1973 the price of gas there during that time was over $3 a gallon. Now it’s about $10. That doesn’t mean what we’re paying is OK, but it kind of puts it in perspective.

Now, about being a critic …

I’ve read all the Twilight books, seen the movies, and took little note of how many zillions of $$$ they made for whoever gets that money. No one ever tells us that part. All they say is such and such movie grossed $15 gazzillion over the weekend. What does that really mean except that’s how much money theaters gathered from eager viewers to see whatever movie was playing? They, being the media, don’t mention how much it costs for any given theater for the rights to show that movie. So all the theaters combined, that were allowed to show the movie, grossed what amounts to the total worth of, say, Greece, but it’s just a number. It’s misleading. I want to know how much the 3rd Gaffer in the scene from Forks, Washington made that weekend. Or, the guy that really drove the Volvo to a squirreling stop in the Olde School parking lot in St. Helens to rescue Belle. That’s relevant data. There I go again, flying down one of the tangents that rule my life … sorry.

Twilight was about a young girl torn by her love for two totally different males. Throughout the story line she waffles back and forth between the two, finally choosing the one with the cold body.

Hunger Games is about a young girl torn by her love for two totally different males. Throughout the story line she waffles back and forth between the two, finally choosing the one … wait … have you read all three of these books, yet? Perhaps not. I’m almost done with book three and really don’t know how this part ends, so, in all honesty, the part of me you all know best, I cannot do anything except speculate beyond this point. But you get my drift, right?

The difference between the two is that in Twilight, Belle is a decent teenager forced to go live with wolves and vampires in Forks, Washington, while Hunger Games, Katniss is about a decent teenager who is forced to enter a fight to the death with 23 other folks, of various ages. I mean, how much more alike can they be? There are too many similarities, except for the death and dying in Hunger Games, to discount the possibility that they were authored by the same Apple discount store employee who is only allowed to work the night shift because no one wants to see him. Ever! So, he makes things up. First thing he makes up is to change his pen name gender from male to female, which is a really good move because the love scenes are more believable if the author is a woman. Coming from a guy author would lend one to believe he was a deviant, or a molester, or something.

So, where were we? I forget because I had to go out and look for the big black dog, Ziva. Apparently I let her and Panzee outside, when I put the cat out, and forgot. Panzee came right back, from the back yard, but Ziva is remaining incognito, running somewhere in the night in the surrounding neighborhoods. Hunting vampires. That’s what she does. So now, thanks to her, I’m in deep kimchi until she returns because I’m the one that turned the door knob. Like I can control her desire to stick around in the yard by standing on the deck with a tiny little flashlight. I admit, it seems to have worked in the past, but I don’t know how. It’s just a little thing. But, it’s really bright. Has LEDs instead of the other kind.

I’m sure everyone will be happy to learn that the ditch I dug worked like a charm during the last downpour we had. There was no standing water in the driveway like normal. It’s kinda nice and only makes me wonder why I didn’t do that a long time ago. Actually, it doesn’t make me wonder at all. That’s just something I hear often. From other people. No, that’s not true at all. I just think that’s what I’m “going” to hear from other people once they find out what a success my ditch was. Then, they’ll be wanting me to come over a dig ditches for them, even if they don’t need one.

It’s now 22:22, which means it’s late and, but the many twists and turns of the foregoing, evident that I should have quit about nine paragraphs ago. But, I have no control over how things in my brain are interpreted by my fingers. Sometimes I’m only vaguely aware that my keyboard is producing actual words. Most of the time I’m unconscious and everyone knows a person isn’t responsible for things that happen when they’re unconscious.

I mentioned that I would take a picture of the cat scratch but I don’t know where my camera is. Besides, it’s not as bad as I thought. Regarding the cat … we need a name. It’s got to have a “z” in it, an no more than two syllables. Any suggestions?

Teaching Dogs New Tricks

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It started snowing yesterday morning and has been snowing for weeks, now. The prediction for accumulation was from 2-3 inches, depending where you happened to be at any given time, but we only have about a foot. Before it got too bad, I thought I’d take the dogs into the yard and teach them how to spell their name in the snow. Turns out they don’t know how to spell, at all. So, I just gave up and let them scribble a bit. Maybe you can figure out what they were attempting to share.

Diane felt the need to make a cake for a memorial service scheduled for tomorrow at church. To continue being a church lady, she MUST bake a cake for every memorial service, whether or not she knows the person being memorialized. In this case, however, we know him. So, it will be an extra special cake.

The trip into town went without mishap. The only roads with snow on them are in front of our house. It will never be plowed because it’s not a city street, and it’s a dead end. So, the only way our street becomes passable is when someone drives on it. Usually, that’s George, a neighbor, who runs his 4-wheel drive rig up and down the street. He didn’t have to do that today, however, because the temperature went up to about 34 and the falling snow turned to really, really heavy snowflakes. The noise they made when they hit the snow on the ground was incredible, and it quickly pounded the accumulation down to an inch or so.

Tonight it’s going to freeze, then snow all night. Tomorrow’s commute is going to  be a ton of fun to watch. I wish for all of them to be safe in their journey. Still, the State Troopers will be non-stop busy catering to the idiots who think they’re bullet proof.

Our little dog, Ozzie, isn’t himself lately. He’s being terribly antisocial, hiding out in his kennel, and rarely going outside. I thought he might be constipated and thought about giving him some mineral oil. Instead, we took him to the vet for a checkup where they took X-rays, poked & prodded him a little, and told us he was constipated. The doc said to give him mineral oil for a few days and to bring him back if things didn’t improve. Then they charged us $157 for the service. Hmmmm. Maybe I should have been a vet.

Ozzie’s problem is also psychological. As I said, he hangs out in his kennel pretty much all the time, never plays any more, and doesn’t talk to us about what’s troubling him. We plead with him to let us know what’s going on but he just stares at us with his glossed over eyes, looking through us, not at us. We’re beginning to think he has a drug problem, but can’t find any evidence of that in his kennel. All we can do is focus on his behavior. I considered gathering a group of his friend to have an intervention, but I’m afraid he might bite someone. Lately he’s prone to being a little gnarly and growly. Maybe if I was constipated like him, I’d be a little gnarly and growly, too. Might even bite someone.

I’m waiting for all that mineral oil to kick in and evacuate Ozzie’s innards. I have this vision of all 6 pounds of him humped up in the yard for the big moment. When it happens, the discharge is so powerful that it propels his rear into the air and his nose into the snow. I’m keeping the video camera handy, just in case.

I hope everyone is staying safe and warm.

Babysitting & Other Stuff

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Since I last wrote, Diane attained the age where her Medicare card is legal and we went to a memorial service. To offset those events, we hired out to babysit the kids. Today is the second time this week that we’ve had six of them at one time.

Pictured, left to right, back to front, are Lydia, Cedric, Jeran, Gilligan, Jerrie Anne, and Baylee. What you see is the extent of Diane’s and my involvement with the babysitting effort. The three big kids took over the chore making it a pretty easy event for us. They especially had fun playing catch with Jerrie Anne. Baylee spent a great deal of time dancing to an annoying saxophone playing Santa. There were also many sessions of hide-n-seek. I’m not very good at that any more because I can’t hide in very small places. I can’t hide in very big places, either.

The memorial service was for Jeff Kuiper. Jack was the main speaker and it wasn’t easy. The church was packed. Jeff will be missed by a lot of people.

We put the Winnebago away today, too. It’s in a rented garage that’s just big enough to get it in, but not quite big enough to open the door to get out of it very easy. I had to go on a very quick starvation diet in order to extricate myself from the garage. Once I got out Diane, thought it would be a good idea to put some chemical water absorbent stuff inside, so I had to go back in. Thankfully, I wasn’t too thick to get back into the unit, and barely thin enough to get in the RV door. I only spilled a little absorbent on the counter and floor, and it took longer than I had anticipated, so I almost puffed up too much to get out again. I was almost to the point of kicking out the back window when I decided to ingest some of the absorbent material. Don’t ask what turned me that direction because I just don’t know. Turns out that works pretty well to slim you down because it makes you puke a great deal. Not good for you, normally, but it’s great for getting you out of tight places. I’m surprised there isn’t something written on the package about this benefit. Instead, it mentions various reasons why it’s not a good thing to eat it.

Our driveway looks naked without the RV out there. So … empty … and bare. Tomorrow I’ll resurrect the pickup and move it up from the lower 40. It really should be closer to the house. Even though the battery is usually dead.

Baylee discovered the joy of spinning in a chair until you almost barf. She got really mad when I quit spinning her before that happened. I knew it would make Diane mad. She’s out getting pizza and I figured it would upset her in a major way to come home and have to clean up the mess. That’s what would have happened because I don’t do messes very well. When I try to clean them up I just wind up moving stuff all around and really don’t make any progress. At least that’s the way it is with my work bench.

Today was absolutely beautiful. It was sunny all day. I laid out on the deck for a few hours and caught some rays. I probably should have left my shirt and pants on because I nearly froze my buns off. It was only 12 degrees, or so. It’s warmed up to 42, now, but it’s dark.

“What”, you may ask, “did Jerrie learn today?”

I learned that MOM upside down is WOW. How appropriate it that?

Random Thoughts

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Yesterday I got all maudlin and started writing what it was like being the skinniest kid in the world. Thankfully, I didn’t press “Publish” on that one and saved all 4 of you a truly boring read. Instead of “truly” boring, this one will be just “kinda” boring.

I really don’t know why I said that because I really don’t know if it’s going to be boring or not. I have no control over what comes out of my fingers so don’t know where this is going. Sometimes I think my fiddly fingers have a mind all their own. So, where do we go from here?

How about weather?

It was really cold here in NW Oregon today. It’s been cold for the last week, actually. But, no precipitation, except a wee bit of rain. Since this is Oregon, rain doesn’t count. We’re used to being wet.

Today looked like snow weather and it was 33 most of the day. Fortunately, the weathermen all agreed that it wasn’t going to snow, so it didn’t. There’s no guarantee on how long they will all think the same way, however. Once one or two of them shift their thinking, any kind of weather is possible. In 1995 none of them could agree and we had a terrible ice storm that caused major power outages. I was working for Portland General Electric at the time, and have the shirt to prove it.

After that storm, all the weathermen formed a union, of sorts, and agreed to promote the same weather, ensuring that nothing bad ever happened again. What skews that process is when one of the old guys moves on, or retires, and a new weatherman, or woman, enters the scene. Women give weather an entirely different spin.

Some of you may think this is going to be some sort of sexist comment against women, but those who really know me, know that I’d never do that. I think it’s just great that there are weatherwomen because they bring color to a rather dull subject. Nice bright dresses, good makeup, pretty scarves, and flashy fingernails. It’s hard for the guys to compete with their kind of presentation. Add to that the fact that most men have no idea what the weather is all about, once the broadcast is over, because they were too busy checking out the software.

Aw, there I went and did it. Sorry. If I could that that back, I would, but I have a policy that writing it, thinking it, or saying it is pretty much the same. Once it’s done, it’s done. I know, I could back up and erase that, thanks to the wonderful technology we have, but that wouldn’t be fair. You who waste your valuable time reading this deserve to see it all.

Back to women … I’m all for equality. In fact, I’m all for more than equality. I say let women do everything and leave the men home to do the laundry, housework, and cooking. I’d even clean out the litter box, if we had a cat, which we don’t, so it’s easy for me to say that.

Speaking of laundry … I haven’t been allowed to do laundry since 1993 when I tossed one of Diane’s really nice chenille sweaters into the dryer, and later picked about 90% of it out of the lint trap. That wasn’t a good day, but it got me out of the laundry business. Since then, I’ve been the vacuum cleaner guy. One of these days something will go wrong to get me out of that one, too, but I fear what might replace it. I’m already banned from loading the dishwasher because I do it wrong. I cook once in a while, but it hasn’t been added to my list of duties … so far it’s a voluntary thing. I also help change the sheets, when asked. I never volunteer for that one because I don’t see the need to do it more than once a month. Diane thinks otherwise. Sometimes she does it and I don’t know it until it’s time for bed. Then  I have to take time to shower so I don’t mess them up.

Back to laundry … I that was my main chore it would be so easy. I’d have 7 shirts, 7 pairs of pants, 7 pairs of socks and 7 pair of underwear. When I put on the 7th sent I’d wash all the rest so I’d be ready for the next day. I’ve often thought living like Jack Reacher would be OK, too. He buys cheap clothes and when they get dirty he buys new ones and throws the old ones away. Jack Reacher isn’t a real person, I don’t think. He’s a character in novels by Lee Child.

I hear commercials on the living room TV which means that Diane is asleep on the couch. If she was awake she’d be buzzing through the commercials with the fast forward button on the DVR. I think DVR means digital video recorder. It’s like a VCR with no tape. I forget what VCR stands for.

My ears are ringing loudly so it’s time for me to knock this off and get to bed. The noise is always better in the morning. It’s something that just gets louder as the day goes on. Doc said they don’t know why it happens, and there’s nothing they can do about it. The underlying message there is, “live with it”. So, I do. Though annoying, I’d rather have ringing in my ears than a migraine.