When the Husband Cooks

I have some friends whose husbands do all the cooking and I think they're as lucky as jackpot lottery winners.  It's not that I don't like to cook, I do - but if you multiply all the days of my adult life by three that's a lot of meals, even if you factor in all times we've eaten out. The point is, it's nice to have a break once in a while.

Last evening was one of those nights.  Jerry made us a fantastic supper while I was downstairs fiddling around with technology.  Okay, I was goofing around on Pinterest, but you knew that, didn't you?

After eating, I did a quick kitchen clean up.  Jerry can cook with minimal mess.  It's part of his mystique.  Whereas I routinely use every pot, pan and utensil at my disposal, he seems to be able to whip up a gourmet meal using only a salad fork and a toothpick.  It's actually a pleasure to wash dishes after he's cooked because there aren't many so progress is rapid. That's a plus when you have the limited attention span that I do.

But lest you think my husband is always a godsend in the kitchen, let me set the record straight.  During the night, I wandered out to the kitchen to get a glass of water.  That's when I noticed a greasy skillet on top of the refrigerator.

I'll never understand the male mind.

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

A laundry crisis

Yesterday, we bought a new washer and dryer.  They were almost exactly half the cost of the thirteen- year-old pair we were replacing, so we felt pretty pleased about the whole experience.  Of course we were shopping at "Scratch and Ding City" which is where we get all of our appliances - this explains part of the savings.  Why would I care if my dryer has a dent in the side?  It's housed in our basement,  and, like a surly teenager living in a basement room, our friends rarely see it.  When the clerk tried to sell us a maintenance package, I stuck up my nose.  Everyone knows those things are a giant waste of money.

Sooooo….this morning, I decided to do my first solo load of laundry.  I threw in the darks, dumped in the soap and off I went.  About two minutes later, I heard a giant thumping noise.  I tried to use the "if you ignore it, it will go away" principle but it didn't.  Not knowing what else to do, I turned off the washer, opened the door and peered in.  The clothes were now saturated and heavy.  Maybe it was a zipper that I'd left open?  Before I restarted the load, I gave it a sort of half-hearted shake.  In my mind, if it were off balance that would solve the problem.

For a while, everything seemed okay.  Just about the time I was about to get smug, the thumping was back and as bad as ever. At this point, I was experiencing some mental conflict.  Do I tell Jerry or just try to live with it?  He will not be thrilled to have to borrow a truck to return the appliance to the store.  On the other hand, it is only 24 hours old and the noise is profound.  I rued my decision to blow off the five dollar a month maintenance fee.

I turned off the washing machine again.  When I opened the door this time, I found that, in addition to our dark clothing, I was washing a whisk broom.

Crisis averted.

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The Scales

"Nothing good ever comes of stepping onto the scales."  ~ Josh Zimmerman

My baby sister's changing her diet and having fantastic results.  I'm so excited for her that it's made me pay more attention to what I, myself, am eating.  When I weighed myself this morning, I got a big, happy surprise, like confetti shaped hearts and happy faces floating down from heaven, just for me!  I weighed substantially less than I had the last time I stepped on the scales….which was yesterday.

Unwilling to surrender the fabulous feeling of the electric thrill that was coursing through the entirety of my being by pausing to apply common sense (what a wet blanket THAT is!),  I did something ridiculously stupid.  Rarely do I feel exuberance associated with the number on the scales.  That is my defense for what I did next:  I weighed myself again.  

The roller coaster plummeted, taking that beautiful, small number on the display with it and replacing it with something far more substantial - an ounce or two less than yesterday's readout to be sure -- but massive compared to the results of my initial weigh-in. 

I didn't want to let go of the fantasy quite yet, so I moved the scales to a different spot in the bathroom and hopped on again.  A new number flashed in red.  I shifted my weight forward and re-weighed.  I shifted my weight backward and reweighed. I balanced my weight in the middle and reweighed.  None of the shifting seemed to make any difference so I moved the scales a quarter turn, then another, and another…

All told, I weighed myself twelve times.  I got six different weights, with a span between the lightest and the heaviest of 2.8 pounds.  

Around this time, a (semi) respected member of my inner circle said to "stop obsessing about my weight."  I took umbrage.  I wasn't obsessing about my weight.  I was obsessing about the accuracy of my scales.  

I'm glad to have publicly set the record straight.

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

The Moose

Last week I had the pleasure of spending time alone with my daughter-in-law, Susan.  We shared a room at the Mount Rainier Lodge in Paradise, WA. (Where, by the way, there is no cell phone service or wifi.  I had to use a pay phone make a call.  I didn't know pay phones even existed any more!  But that's another story…)

Taking this picture was scary for me.  That is a dramatic ledge in the foreground.

On Saturday, we took a five-hour hike at high altitude.  We had a blast slipping and sliding through deep snow and drinking in spectacular vistas.  We truly do live in America, the beautiful.

Snow…in July?

 Back at the lodge, we plopped down on our beds and began reading.  Soon though, I fell asleep.

In addition to her other skills, Susan is an accomplished animal tracker.

When I awoke, Susan was so excited.  "I heard a moose!!"  she said.  "I jumped up to look out the window but I couldn't see it.  So I tracked the sound to its source and I found…
…..it was YOU."

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Ode to Friendship

September 11, 1976, was one of the luckiest days of my life.  I had my first baby that day AND I met a lifelong friend.

As they were wheeling me down the hallway after my surgery, Margaret Large was sending a fervent prayer to GOD that the raucous lady on the stretcher would NOT be deposited in the empty bed next to hers.  God, in his infinite wisdom, ignored her.  That's how we ended up laughing so hard that our stomachs hurt.  We've laughed a lot during our friendship.  And cried some, too.  Life is like that.  

Margaret is the reason that I became a vegetarian.  She gave me a book called The Supermarket Handbook and that did it for me.  She never quite made the switch but that didn't stop me from trying.  She's also the reason that I eat spaghetti, but that's a story too gross to tell...

Because of Margaret, I own my very favorite jacket, a boiled wool classic that has seen years of use, with no end in sight.  "It's too expensive!" I lamented.  "It's classy.  Buy it." she said.  So I did.  Everyone needs a sensible friend like that.

Because our friendship spans decades, the stories go on, on and on.  We never lived near each other, but back in the day, our families would both go to her parents' house in North Vernon and spend weekends together there. It was a quieter life there than we led, and the people worked a lot harder too.  A trip to the Suhre farm meant lots of laughter and lots of great food!  Our visits always were mentioned in the grapevine section of the local paper which was a huge thrill for the kids.

An avid quilter, Margaret would say, "If I could just get you to try it, I know you'd love it as much as I do!"  The day came when she arrived for a visit, bringing two sewing machines and demanding that we make my first quilt together.  I consented to make a lap quilt and she told me I'd regret not making it big enough to put on a bed. You know what?  She was right.  It's so beautiful; I treasure it!  When we were finished though, we both knew that would be my only quilt.  She gave it the old college try though!

Meanwhile, Bob, her big, huggable teddy bear of a husband sat on my deck and cheerfully read novels.  That was Bob, quiet and steady - he and Margaret had been in love since grade school.   

We stayed in touch year after year, through happy and sad - and there were some big happies and some really big sads.  That's what friends do.  Margaret and her husband Bob were our friends.  The really, really best kind. My life has been better because of our friendship. 

"When God wants me, there is no man who can stand in his way." (I think that was said by Beth in one of the film versions of Little Women.)  Yesterday, God wanted my dear friends Bob and Margaret.  I would have stood in his way if I could have.  I'm not alone, either.  

 There are no words to express the sadness that everyone who knew them feels.

Jerry only dances with close male friends

PS  To the idiot reporter who covered their car accident, 66 IS NOT ELDERLY!!!

Feeling the Heat

Jerry and I are walking around downtown Salt Lake City and it feels hotter than yesterday - and yesterday it was 103 degrees.  Then, we pass a woman who's wearing black jeans and - this is no lie - a bulky black sweater.  Later we saw another gal in blue jeans and a sweatshirt wearing the hood up.  Wow. 

Downtown we saw so many men wearing suits that we got bored taking pictures.

We may be hicks living in the deep south, but at least we know how to dress for hot weather.  

There is only one possible explanation.  They're aliens.  From. Another. Planet.

From the Archives

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Preferences

I've been married almost four decades.  That's eons in dog years and a fairly long time even for humans.  Still, I find out new things about my significant other every day.

Recently, for example, I realized that it drives Jerry cah-ray-zee that I leave the stickers on the avocado skins when I pitch them into the compost bin.  At least that one's an easy fix.  Done.  Check that one off my list.

Just this past Monday, Jer mentioned to me that he really doesn't like wearing undershirts with v-necks.  Again, interesting but not earth shattering.  He has always bought his own unmentionables, so that's why this tidbit has never come to light before now.  

Also, turns out that my husband likes matchy-matchy furniture. Who knew? Nobody, nobody who ever set foot in our house would have guessed that.   

But it gets worse.  Jerry recently admitted that he does not like antiques.  He thinks of them as just "old."  He specifically dislikes antique dressers.  "The drawers stick," he said.
   

How Chris feels about the dresser

How Jerry feels

Jerry admitted he prefers something more modern, not "used junk."  Something made of pressed cardboard, sawdust and feathers instead of real wood, perhaps?

For eighteen years we lived in historic homes and guess how they were furnished?  We brought that same furniture with us here so my husband has apparently suffered in silence for longer than it takes a baby to reach the age of maturity.   

Oddly enough, under our beautiful, antique, hand-carved double bed from the 1800s, was a queen size bed from IKEA that we are storing for our daughter. You don't get much more modern than that.

Since we also were storing the matching dresser and bookshelf in our garage, it was easy to decide to take the high road and change the bedroom furniture. (But, as is evidenced by this blog, the altitude was not high enough that I'm not whining about it.  In truth, I guess I took the middle road.)  After a lot of carrying furniture from one floor to another (by Jerry, of course), we now have an IKEA bedroom suite, all matching, all finished in the same black/brown espresso color.  

Although the stuff is technically still "used," Jerry is very pleased.  Whenever I open the door though, I feel like I'm stepping into a Motel Six.

(He's soooo worth it.)

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

Shoes

While I was on my recent vacation up north, my sister and I were cruising through the store everybody shops at but nobody admits going to. (Don't pretend you don't know where I was.  If I hadn't been out of town, I probably would have run into you there.) 

When we got to the children's section, there was an aisle display of tiny shoes with heels on them.  As an adult, I am appalled that they sell these to children. They are not being sold as "dress up," they are being marketed as shoes - and by a manufacturer that I used to buy baby shoes from.  It horrifies me. 

As a child, my reaction would have been different. I'm certain I would have thrown a tantrum worthy of prime-time television right on the floor in front of that display in an effort to secure a pair of these babies for my very own.  (It might have just worked, too.)  

Decades ago, I recall begging my mother to buy little high heels for me that were sold with the cheap toys in the grocery store.  They had high black heels, silver soles and black elastic over the top.  When I was lucky enough to finally score a pair, the heel broke off the first time that I put weight on it.  That was not enough to keep me from coveting a new pair next time, but it was enough to keep my mother from buying me them.  

My mother had an entire closet devoted to shoes alone, so I come by my love of footwear honestly.  (Yes, Kate, I am aware that I wore only Crocs for a decade, but that was because I broke my foot and only Crocs were comfortable.)

When I was a preschooler, Mom took me to get a new pair of summer shoes. We went all over town trying on different pairs, and each time I told her that they hurt my feet.  Mom drove to a neighboring town and experienced more of the same results, a crabby Chris with sore feet.  After I'd complained bitterly over and over that all the shoes I'd tried on hurt, we arrived at the final store and the clerk brought out one last pair for me to try on.

When I saw him approaching me, I couldn't contain my delight.  "That's what I wanted," I exclaimed, "RED shoes!" 

I'd be wearing these today if only they were my size!

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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.

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On the Canyon Rim

This is a picture of me, Chris Zimmerman, meditating serenely while sitting calmly in the great outdoors.

Or is it?

No, that's definitely not what was going on.  Great big, ugly fear had wrapped icy fingers around my heart and I was trying to calm myself by sitting down, breathing deeply and closing my eyes.

Why?

...Because I was sitting three feet from the rim of a canyon.  You see that brown dirt in the foreground?  Step off of that and you die.

Why I consented to yet another hiking trip in a canyon is beyond me.  Apparently I'm a slow learner.  Cloudland Canyon was horrible and visiting the Grand Canyon was THE WORST.  Maybe visiting a canyon is like childbirth.  The torture of going through it fades with the beauty of the results.  A couple of years later, you voluntarily sign up to do it all again.

Enthusiasm is catching, so when Josh called sounding all excited and invited us to Bryce Canyon, I ignored my inner demons and said yes. (It's easy to agree to something that's happening in the nebulous future. My son knows this, so he booked the cabin immediately after he hung up from talking to me. He's a sly fox, that boy.)

Don't get me wrong.  It was breathtaking.  It's just that if you make one misstep, you walk off the edge and plunge to your death. Your. Death.  This is not a joke.  People actually do this.  (The number two cause of death in this National Park is by lightning.  That idea did not excite me either.  They suggest that you go inside during storms.  Great advice - except for when we were two hours into a hike when a storm blew in.  There was no "inside" to go into.)    

After our arrival, we decided to take a quick evening stroll on the rim.  Everyone was encouraging me like I was a three-year-old.  "Come on, Mom!  You can do it."  "You're doing great!"  "Nice job, Mom."  "Just a few more minutes."  That sort of thing. Jerry even held my hand.

We climbed higher and higher and the path got narrower and narrower.  Soon even the cheerleading wasn't producing its desired effects upon me.  I felt dizzy and sick and decided to stop.  I blamed it on altitude, sent the others on ahead then sat down under the tree and tried to talk some sense into myself. When I see the picture, I'm kind of proud that I wasn't actually holding on to the tree. 
I'm pretty sure that thought crossed my mind.

As they were coming back down from the lookout point, the family stopped right near me and Josh took out his camera.  Then it happened.  He was right in front of me, just inches from the edge himself when I heard this strange tone in his voice.  "Don't move, Mom." he said sternly.  I panicked.  I knew there must be a snake coiled up behind me and apparently the snake fear trumps the fear of heights fear, because I jumped up, toward the abyss.

"Why did you do that?" my son said.  "I just told you not to move."

"The tone of your voice scared me," I replied.  "Where's the snake?"

"What?"  He was mystified.  "I told you not to move because the canyon was reflected in your sunglasses and I thought that would be an interesting picture."

Our next vacation together better involve water.  And sandy white beaches.

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Cruise Control

I took friends to the airport and drove Jerry's space car with all the bells and whistles because it has easier access for luggage.  I got lost once (no surprises there), turned around and since I was then coming from the opposite direction, I failed to recognize the turn-off, so I drove right past it.  (That could've happened to anyone.)  In fairness to me, my guests were extremely entertaining so I was distracted.  Eventually they arrived at the terminal with plenty of time to wander around.  I think we were all relieved!

I decided to take the scenic route home, the same choice I always make.  I'm well acquainted with all the turns and there is little traffic.  Win, win. The ride in Jerry's car is so smooth it feels like you aren't moving at all so the only potential dark cloud was that I might end up accidentally speeding.  In our family circle I'm well known for driving prudently (think little old lady) and a ticket would lead to endless merriment and years of teasing at my expense.  I could do without that.  

Jerry's car has cruise control, so it seemed prudent to use it.  That way, I could sail right by any speed traps without concern.  The controls are on the front of the steering wheel and I fumbled around and pressed various buttons but nothing happened.  Since I was already driving, I really couldn't fiddle with them too much so I let the whole idea go and drove on.

A couple of minutes later, I glanced at the speedometer and was horrified to see that I was going over 70!  Of course I slowed right down to 45.  It's not in my nature to speed but it seemed like I was barely moving.  "That's how great the ride in Jerry's car is," I thought.  

It happened again.  This time, I was only going sixty though.  Still, 60 in a 45 would be a major ticket.  I have other ways I'd prefer to spend our money so  I slowed back down.  A short time later, I chanced to look in my rear view mirror and, much to my astonishment, there was a line of cars behind me. One brave soul passed me - even though he had to cross double yellow lines to do it.  The lady in the passenger seat seem to glare at me as they went by.  

This is one of my pet peeves, that people seem angry at those of us who obey the speed limit laws.  I was mulling over this phenomena when I realized, yet again, that I was going 55 in a 45 zone.  "It's a speed limit!  That means don't exceed it!" I chastised myself.  It's really so unlike me to go too fast. Normally I just stay a couple of miles under what the law allows and even then I feel guilty if I see a policeman driving behind me.

The speed limit was changing to 35.  To be safe I slowed down to 30.  It was amazing to me how my speed just kept creeping up.  This is just not a problem that I usually have.  I decided to keep closer tabs on it.  The line behind me kept growing and that was upsetting, too.  

The next speed check, I noticed it.  Right beside the digital numbers was a "km/h" display written in red. Underneath that it said (in letters so tiny that it would take an elementary school child to read), "Press to change to mph". When I pressed there, my speed magically changed from 34 km/h to 21 mph.

Wow.  When I had been driving 70 km/h, I was actually driving 44 mph - and when I slowed down to 30, I was going 19!   

No wonder people were glaring at me.

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Estimating is a Math Skill

I asked Jerry if he thought I could clean up the kitchen in fifteen minutes.

"No." he said.

Way to show support!  I decided to accept the challenge. I turned the timer on to fifteen minutes to prove him wrong.  It buzzed.  I kept working.  Two and a half hours later, I finally finished.

"How did you know it would take me longer than fifteen minutes?" I asked.

"You seriously underestimated how messy it was."  he replied.

Seriously.

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Mysteries

I have finally finished washing ALL our laundry, a feat so rare that I could write an entire blog about it alone.  I would too, if it weren't for those hilarious little men I call my grandsons.  They keep doing silly stuff that makes me laugh like I mean it and all I want to do is pass on the joy.  

But first, for you skeptics, here's a picture of the last toasty-warm load to come out of the dryer:

You can see from the background that it's still daytime!

Every piece of dirty laundry has now been washed and for one glorious moment, I bask in the glow of a (mundane) job well done!  Then questions creep into my mind; the kind of questions that can only pop up when every piece of clothing is clean simultaneously. 

Where's my favorite teal sweatshirt?  (Did I donate it and then forget?  Or did I leave it at that Italian restaurant?)  Why do I own eight black tee-shirts? (Am I a ninja-in-training?)  I used to have an entire bureau drawer of underwear but now I only have three pair!  What happened to the rest?  (That's the weirdest question of all.)

I'm not going to over think it.  I'm just going to go out and buy more.

* * *

Thinking of buying things brings me back to the grandson story.  I had the delicious pleasure of being with the boys at bedtime and Brody was sitting up on his mommy's bed in his superhero pj's, holding a small baby doll on his lap. How adorable is that, right?

Brody decided to feed his baby doll but he didn't have a bottle.  He solved the dilemma to his own satisfaction by stuffing the trunk of his toy elephant into her mouth.  

Pleased with himself, he looked up at his mother and said, "Where's my baby sister?"  To which Jessica responded, "You don't have a baby sister.  You have a baby brother."

Brody sat quietly for a moment, digesting this information.  Then decided he wasn't quite done with this conversation yet.  "Mommy," he said, "You need to go to the grocery store and buy me some sisters."

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Words of Wisdom

Grandson on the table!

Like his Auntie Kate before him, our Grayson, now nearing two years old, is a climber.  If you so much as blink, he will have ascended upward like a mountaineer in search of a summit.

While we were visiting this weekend we were temporarily distracted.  When we refocused, Grayson was standing on the table.  He saw his mother looking at him with THE EYES so he smiled sheepishly.

Grandson as advisor

Meanwhile Brody, who was sitting nearby, looked up and assessed the situation.
"Take a deep breath, Mommy," he said.

Sounds like good advice to me.

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Icky Sickies!

I'm a hypochondriac.  At least I think I am.  Fortunately, Jerry enjoys excellent health and hasn't even thrown up since 1975.  Until now.  

Germs are the zucchini of the pre-school set.  There is always a bumper crop of 'em and kids give them freely to everyone they see - and there's still plenty left over at home.  We have two pre-schoolers in our extended family.  Enough said.

Sunday we visited the Grands.  Grayson had been barfing earlier in the day, but he's a one-and-a-half year old; they barf all the time. We really didn't pay any attention to it.  He rallied just as we arrived and he seemed fine.  Later, while Jerry was holding him, he let loose again and blew chunks all over his Grampy.  Ewwww!!!  (I get nauseated when I think of it.  That's just who I am.)

The next evening, a friend from Michigan and her little girl were visiting our daughter's family.  We all met at a local pizza place and enjoyed catching up.  Brody, who was sitting on Grampy's lap, looked glassy eyed.  

Sure enough, during the night he, too, threw up.  So did his father.  Jerry spent a sleepless night himself, but vomiting was not his problem.  

Tuesday morning Jerry texted me to tell me he'd just hurled in a customer's parking lot.  Being a guy, he did not come home immediately.  He said he felt better (remember Grayson's rallying?) and decided to power through the day. Although he made a heroic effort, he was halfway through a meeting when he had to excuse himself and make a hasty exit. 

He dragged in around three p.m. and as he  opened the garage door he yelled at me to vacate the area, which I was happy to do - but not before I saw he was carrying a black bucket.  Later though, I did notice that our bathroom smelled heavily of bleach.  

Jerry spent the night praying to the porcelain god while I slept on the couch.  "You've already been exposed to these germs," he said.  I agreed that we'd already been introduced, but I didn't feel the need to become intimately acquainted with them.

The next morning, Jessica called and said her friend was "lying on my laundry room floor."

It was a solid twenty-four hour bug and everyone is recovering nicely.  

Me?  I never caught it, but I was sick all week.

    

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Trials and Tribulations

Kiss My Glass!

"I thank God for all my trials and tribulations," said the fidgety man behind the counter.  I should have turned and run out of the store right then but I just answered, "I prefer mine vicariously."  Turns out, we both got what we asked for.

I handed the fellow my picture and asked him to replace the glass with a non-glare piece.  "But first," I said, "I have two questions.  Will my 40% coupon work and can you recycle the piece of glass that's currently in there?"

"I think so." he said.  He wrote up a quote which turned out to be quite pricey but with the discount it would be about twenty dollars.  Even that seemed high to me - but then again, I remember when gas was thirty-seven cents a gallon.  Maybe the days of reasonably priced glass went the way of the dinosaur, too, and I just wasn't paying attention.  Perhaps twenty dollars isn't so out of line after all; I just don't know.

After taking careful measurements, the man disappeared through the open doorway into the custom framing area that was in the room behind him.  When he returned a few minutes later, he was wearing thick rubber gloves just like the ones I use when gardening.  "Sometimes the glass likes to bite me," he said.  When he slid the glass into the frame, it was about an eighth of an inch too short.  

"Oops!"  he said, mildly flustered. As he was re-measuring, he said, "You won't have to pay for my mistake.  I can use it later."  I was happy on both counts.  As he left me waiting again, Jerry joined me.  Minutes ticked by.  Then we heard the distinctive sound of breaking glass.  More time elapsed.  More glass breaking.  Things just weren't going well back there.

A frustrated employee reemerged.  "There's something wrong with the machine," he declared.  "There must be a shard stuck in it."  He turned around and vanished.  

The third time's the charm!  Not for this guy - we heard a series of loud crashes this time. While I was thinking how lucky it is this man has on thick gloves, Jerry was thinking differently and softly chuckling. The more noise we heard, the harder it was for Jer to keep his composure.  Finally he lost his battle entirely and walked away laughing out loud.  Minutes later I could still hear the sound of Jerry's muffled laughter a couple of aisles away.

Just as things were getting almost unbearably awkward for me, another employee cruised by.  He was wearing a RED vest, unlike my helper who was in BLUE, so I took this to mean he was an AUTHORITY FIGURE.  

"Can I help you?" he asked from behind the counter.

"Can you cut glass?" I responded.  

So it was that Mr. RED went in to lend a hand to Mr. BLUE.  Together the two guys broke two more pieces of glass.  You have to admire their persistence. 
Eventually they emerged, triumphant.  They gently placed the glass into the frame and it fit perfectly.  

It fit.  It just didn't look like non-glare glass.

The finished product.  Glare or Non-glare?

They assured me that it was only the high-intensity lighting in the store causing the illusion of glare.  As Mr. BLUE is ringing me up, I say, "Remember my coupon."  Mr. RED says, "Oh, you can't use those for custom-cut glass."

As we are walking out to our car Jer looks at me and says, "Yah know we just paid $36.58 for this glass and there's a 50/50 chance that it's the same piece we brought in."

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At the Gym

Speaking of New Year’s Resolutions, I joined a NO COMMITMENT gym.  That’s what they call it when you don’t have to pay a fee to leave.  NO COMMITMENT!!  I liked the sound of that.  Plus, they serve pizza on Monday nights AND there is a big bucket of tootsie rolls by the cash register.  I am very, very fond of tootsie rolls.

Tootsie Rolls after a workout -- a perfect idea!

It only costs $10 a month and I am happy to pay the $10 to NOT be committed to going to the gym regularly.  Occasionally, I will drop by and, when I go there, the first thing I do is seek out Vivienne, the on-staff personal trainer.  (I think the name Vivienne is SUPER COOL.  Vivienne…. Vivienne…. It sounds so exotic.  It reminds me of Chocolat, my favorite food group.)

If I can find Vivienne, she will give me a tour of the gym.  She will tell me WHICH MACHINES to AVOID so I don’t hurt myself.  That’s kind of a personal goal for me.  Once I picked up a free weight and I was sore for a WEEK! 

Avoiding injury is key for an old person who’s exercising.  We don’t mind making limited APPEARANCES at the gym, but we really don’t want to hurt ourselves. 

 

So one day as Vivienne was wrapping up another equipment tour with me she asked me out of the clear blue sky if I were a white member or a black member?  I’m thinking, has she had a mini-stroke or something?  Clearly I’m WHITE.  Anyone can SEE that!  And so I said, “Vivienne….I’m WHITE.” 

…but she continues.  "For only ten dollars MORE a month, you can get UNLIMITED TANNING and be BLACK..."

I tell her I’ve been white all my life and there’s no sense changing at this late date. 

…but she goes on.

“AND,” she says, “You get access to the hydro-bed and massage machines!” 

Now you’re talking my language, baby!!!  I signed up on the spot and, to sweeten the deal, she gave me a black TEE SHIRT!!!

So now, I’m officially a BLACK member and there’s a special area of the gym where only black members can go and I go there.  I like it so much, I decide to make a special trip sometime JUST TO GO THERE.

All over this gym there are signs painted on the wall.  They say “NO JUDGMENT ZONE.”  So I naively think that means there’s no judgment.  One day, just as I planned, I make a special trip to my no commitment gym not to work out, but to lie on the hydro-bed and sit in the massage chair.  Wooo Wooo Woooo!!!

Wouldn’t you know ON THIS DAY, I run SMACK into a neighbor who’s clearly just finishing up her workout!!  (I know this because I can see beads of perspiration on her forehead.)  She’s going into the special “black members only area” too. 

Well, I’m a talker – shocker, right?  And we get to chitty chatting about people we know and la la la la la.  Too soon our time on these miracle machines is up.  As we are leaving, she looks at me and says, “Chris.  I can’t for the life of me figure out how you can work out and not have ANY SWEAT on you anywhere!!”

What could I say?  

“Good genes.”

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