Jerry's Surprise Collection

Some people have collections.  Stamps.  Thimbles.  Salt and pepper shakers.  Souvenir spoons.  Turns out my husband is a collector, too, but his collection is quirkier than your run of the mill coins or even cigar bands.  

I stumbled upon his secret treasure when I was cleaning out the cabinet under the sink in our basement bathroom.  Why does he keep it there?  Because he is collecting Q-tips.  

"Don't put anything smaller than your elbow into your ear."
- Mrs. Sweeney, my third-grade teacher
(See?  I WAS listening!)

When you think about it, Q-tips are the perfect thing to collect.  No burglars will break in and steal them and adding to the collection won't break the bank.  Nobody had to file bankruptcy because of a Q-tip habit!  I'm glad my husband collects Q-tips.  He could be buying antique cars or even small airplanes. His collection doesn't even require garage space - although, now that I think about it, I could store it in his toolbox.  On second thought, if I did that, he'd just buy more.

Happy swabbing, Jerry.

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

The Sharp Shooter

Three of our neighbors just finished a mandatory gun safety course.  Then if they pass a test they can "concealed carry" as they call it.  As grateful as I am that I am friends with all of these men, I feel better being on good terms with my own husband.   Here's why...

Christmas two years ago we were in Michigan and, on a whim (or high from the eggnog), I made one of those stupid pronouncements that later I come to regret.  This one was along the lines of, "It would be fun to learn to shoot a gun."  What was I thinking?  Yeah, that it was one of my more moronic statements, I admit.  My son-in-law who, as it turns out, has more guns than I have silverware, hopped on that idiotic idea like a flea onto a very hairy dog and he ran with it.  Before the words had even finished tumbling out of my mouth, he had called and scheduled us a time for the next morning.  Turns out he had a friend who owned a rifle range.  (Gun gallery?) My husband Jerry decided to come along just for the fun factor.

I'll admit I was kind of excited. When I was a kid I used to shoot tin cans with BB guns and as an adult I enjoyed playing "Duck Hunter" on Nintendo, too.  I smugly thought I was a pretty good aim and was ready to prove it.  I didn't even try to worm out of the deal.  I just got up the next morning and got in the car with the guys.

The owner of the operation was there and brought me out a pretty little gun like a woman might carry in her purse.  He was very professional and gave me detailed instructions on how to stand, how to hold my arms and was teaching me all about gun safety when the place opened up for business.  People were pouring in and suddenly I realized I was surrounded by muggers-in-training.  (Did I mention we were in Detroit?)

It was about now that the owner realized the delicate gun I'd been practicing with was malfunctioning.  He went to fetch me another weapon but became distressed with the selection.  He toyed with the idea of giving me a much bigger gun but said it had "a much larger kick and you're gonna need to be prepared for that."  The more he thought about it, the more concerned he got and the more concerned he got, the less enthusiast I got.  Ultimately we jointly decided that I should postpone my debut as Annie Oakley.

Instead, I went into the shooting arena (which was like a bowling alley with targets hanging above where the pins would be) to watch Jerry and Brent shoot.  As soon as we got in there, I realized I was standing next to a very short person - a very short person with a gun in his hand.  I'm a very short person myself but, unlike me, this short person didn't look like he had achieved double digits yet.  There was a child standing next to me. The child was holding a gun.

I left.

When the guys were finished they picked me up in the lobby.   Brent was saying what a "badass" Jerry was.  (His word, not mine.)  Brent showed me Jerry's paper target.  Jer had fired three times and the shots had hit dead center of the bullseye yet I only saw two holes.   Brent had to spell it out for me.  "Two bullets went through the same hole, Chris."  He said.

Turns out my husband is a sharp shooter.  He knows it. Our son-in-law knows it.  All those mugger wanna-be's in Detroit know it.  You know it - and I know it too.


Mild-mannered Grampy or sharp-shooter?

Yes, I'm gonna try to stay on the best possible terms with my husband.  Oh, and I think I might take up archery.  

       



Getting Dressed

You know how sometimes you get up super early and it's really dark out and you don't want to wake your husband up, so you just get dressed in the dark and sneak out of the bedroom?

Well, that didn't happen to me today.  I got up well after dawn - my husband was long gone - so I dressed leisurely in a room that was full of light.  

I was half way through yoga class when my instructor mentioned to me that my yoga pants were on inside out. 

I have no explanation for this.

The Perfect Porch Color

Even though my house is usually a cluttery mess, I am a very picky person.  If we hang a picture a fraction of an inch off, it drives me crazy.  If we move it so it's right and it leaves a visible nail hole in the wall, that drives me crazy too.  Crazy, crazy. 
Usually when choosing paint colors, I am all over it.  I get color samples, stress over what goes with what, ask three or four artistic friends, sleep on their advice then cautiously proceed with the decision.  I buy a paint sample, paint a piece or two of poster board, hang it on the wall and see how it feels living with it.  After a couple of days, I allow myself to get a gallon of paint and take the plunge.    

This approach to paint selection was born by experience about three years ago when we had to repaint a wall.  There's this certain shade of red that's vibrant and exciting and I wanted it as an accent color in my dining room.  It falls on the orange side of the red family and it's tricky.  Tinted one shade too orange and it would be like living inside Cinderella's coach.  That's the exact color we painted onto our dining room wall - and painted over two days later.  With that mistake corrected, all the colors in the house were perfect!

We were so in love with those colors that we painted stripes of them on a yardstick and brought it with us to our newest home.  Since we already had the colors we wanted, painting this house was a breeze.  I guess that's why I let my guard down.

Last weekend while I was moving furniture all around and cleaning out closets, my husband was looking for something to do outside to avoid getting sucked into my project. He hit upon the idea to stain the porch, the deck and the stairs going up the hill.  He asked me to go help pick out the stain, but I said no, I trusted his judgment.  What was I thinking?

Jerry was gone a long time and when he came back, he was smoke-billowing-out-his-ears mad.  He had purchased a five gallon bucket of pumpkin colored stain - in your face pumpkin - and paid a premium for the privilege. This was a serious error on his part and he knew it.  That this color was never going to see the bristle end of one of our paint brushes was beyond obvious to us both.  That it was a "custom color, non-returnable" was also clearly evident to anyone who could read.

The literature that came with the stain said that it was guaranteed to last for nine years.   After reflecting upon what it would be like living in the third ring of Hell with me for nine long years, my husband wisely decided to take the stain back and throw himself on the mercy of the paint clerk.

Later, much later, he arrived home once again.  Dark tint had been added to the orange stain.  I didn't think enough tint could ever be put in there, but Jer painted a sample board to check.  By this time it was twilight so we couldn't really see the results well enough to decide.  Jerry had already prepped the porch though so we rolled the dice, took our chances and painted it.  In the morning, we climbed up our driveway to survey our paint job from afar.

A miracle had occurred!  Somehow, bumbling fools that we clearly are, we'd managed to buy the perfect porch color, in spite of ourselves.  People will marvel at our clever choice!  This porch will never look dirty because we stained it the exact color of South Carolina mud.  

Crazy, crazy.

The Answer

And the answer is….

Thirty-nine.


The question:

How many golf balls did my husband find in our woods after reading yesterday's post?

Lunch at home

Yesterday the rain gently fell. It's been a long time since this has happened here. The earth was parched and fissures large enough for a toddler to drive his big wheels into began appearing. The rain was definitely welcome. At least before lunch.

My husband is the kind of guy who doesn't brown bag his lunch. I'm not saying he won't, just that we've been married over thirty years and he hasn't yet. This last move from OH to SC, we bought a house so close to his office that if traffic is light and he eats fast, he can come home for lunch. Not only is this a cost effective measure (as I see it), it has the added benefit of better nutrition as well and no one is arguing about that. It's just a fact and we both know it. It's pleasant too and kind of breaks up the day for us both. He's not able to come home every day, but he does when he can and yesterday he did.

I have no idea what we ate, which seems odd since it was only twenty-four hours ago. I do know we were eating watermelon when we heard the first loud boom. Boom! Bang, bang, bang. A limb from a tree fell, not remarkable in itself since we live in the woods, but worthy of note because it fell on Jerry's car. We didn't see this but we heard it and knew at a glance what had happened. The limb wasn't large - the diameter was about the size of a lady's forearm but it did a lot of damage. The point of impact is unclear, but the roof is smashed in, the windshield shattered and the hood and the side panel over the wheel are all dented pretty badly.

A tree limb altered how I spent my afternoon. Instead of doing laundry, I called my insurance agent, filed an insurance claim, talked with an auto glass repair shop, conversed with our assigned insurance adjuster and made an appointment with an auto body shop. I was assured that this claim wouldn't significantly raise our insurance rates, since we haven't had other claims with this company and they consider this an act of God. I prefer to think of it as an act of Mother Nature rather than God. In my mind, God isn't spending lunch hour throwing branches at cars, but, of course, I cannot be certain.

Today (instead of doing the laundry) I spent the morning at the auto body shop getting an estimate. This shop has insurance people on staff, so my claim was expedited and I now know that the repairs for the vehicle will run $2,005.00, which means the insurance company and the Zimmermans will split the bill almost 50/50 because we have $1,000.00 deductible.

While the gentleman was appraising the damage, he point out to me that the car had sustained significant hail damage somewhere along the way as well. There are tiny dings everywhere. He said that these can be fixed using some paintless procedure but that it will probably cost in excess of $2,500.00 and it is a separate claim, thus necessitating another $1,000.00 expenditure on our part and, of course, if we file another claim so soon, it will raise our premiums.

I'm not quite sure what I am going to do with this new-found knowledge on hail damage to my husband's car. He hasn't noticed these dings himself yet. Jer's pretty fond of his vehicles and I think if he knew, it might drive him nuts. Nuts!! That reminds me! The adjuster said the damage might be caused by nuts falling out of trees and bouncing off the car. If that's the case and we get the car fixed before all the nuts fall....

How many lunches could a person buy for two thousand dollars? Maybe it's not so cost effective to serve lunch here at home after all.