You know how, when you buy things that need some assembly, they tell you what tools you would need? Well, I recommend the good folks at Sony edit their TV manuals to read, “Installation may require utility knife, skilsaw, hammer and two friends far smarter than you.”
OK, so maybe that should be just penciled in on my manual.
The need for a TV began a few months ago. My wife noted that, whenever someone was wearing red on the screen, they left this long trail whenever they moved across the screen. As a fan of Alabama football, this made games all the more interesting, especially when Bama was wearing the Crimson jerseys, as most plays turned into a psychedelic swirl on my screen.
My wife kept insisting that we need to fix it. I, of course, saw a bad television as a sign of weakness, an outright challenge to my masculinity. It would be like saying I had a bad lawn or slow car. (Wait. Crab grass + 1994 Honda Civic = bad example.)
Anywho, for weeks I denied that anything was wrong. “It’s probably just the show,” I would say. The only way that would have been the case is if we had been watching “Seizure-Inducing Red Swirl Theater.”
Eventually, I agreed to go shopping for a new TV with my wife. When we walked into the store, I tapped on the model that we needed and told my wife I would pay while she waited in the car. She then began to explain to me why we were not getting an $8,000 television, and that this is why she came shopping with me.
One factor that my wife kept in mind was size. I, of course, simply wanted the biggest possible one that could get through the front door. My wife, however, pointed out that the TV has to go in a cabinet that is built into our den wall. There is a wooden frame across the front of the opening, which gives us about 23 inches of clearance. The frame itself is about an inch high, so there is actually abut a 24-inch space, once you get past the frame. (If you follow that, more power to you. Simple terms: 23 inches, until you get INSIDE the cabinet. Then it’s 24 inches.)
The TV we picked out measures just a smidge over 23 inches tall. I assured my wife that we could wiggle, shimmy and finagle the TV into the spot, and it would be a perfectly snug fit.
When we got home, I enlisted my neighbor to help haul the TV in. Technology, it turns out, is very heavy.
When we got the TV inside, we lifted it out of the box and went to set it on the shelf. Clunk. Top of TV meet bottom of frame.
“Uh, did you measure before you go this?” my neighbor asked. I assured him I did. His look told me that he was not quite sure why I would measure, find it was too big, and still purchase the TV.
It was then I told him of my grand plans to tilt the TV and slip it under the lip. Apparently, he seemed amazed that I had no concept of living in a three-dimensional world, since I failed to consider the depth of the TV, and whether tilting it would be an option. As it turned out, it was not.
Another friend who had since been enlisted began to assess the situation. At this point, I opted for onlooker, because they were using phrases such as “load-bearing” and “support dowel” and “Mike’s a moron.”
The ultimate plan was to use a utility knife to break the glue seal and then use the saw to cut a thin slice where the frame piece connected, severing the dowels that had it secured in place. The frame would pop off, the TV would go in, and the frame could be replaced. They also insisted on taking off the doors of the cabinet. I think they were just showing off at that point.
When the frame popped off, I was amazed that the cabinet did not collapse into a pile of rubble, as it surely would have had I been helming the saw. The TV slid right in, and in no time I had a clean, clear picture streaming from my cabinet, with colors going where they are supposed to. It was a sight to behold.
The television is a nice upgrade from what we had, and I am definitely pleased that we were able to get it in place. When you get a new TV, you often don’t realize how bad the picture had been. It’s like I’m watching all new shows. Of course, “Seizure-Inducing Red Swirl Theater” is no longer must-see TV.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Me and the kinkajou
Animal control officials in Aiken nabbed a kinkajou today. It was on the lam for several hours before being collared. (It's fairly easy to catch something when it tries to climb up on anyone it sees.) When I went down to animal control to snap some pics, he hopped up to say howdy. Very cute little critter.
.
.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Pulling the rug out
Oh, well played. Well played.
Once again, my wife has duped me into an afternoon of doing her bidding, and I didn’t even realize it until I was knee-deep in furniture rearranging.
She’s very good at this, and usually I see it coming, but still comply nonetheless. My reasoning is twofold: (1) The missions she chooses for us to embark on are usually worthwhile, such as cleaning out closets or having children and (2) resistance is futile.
It happened last weekend when my wife and I were in the playroom and she made the passing comment that she wondered if the couch would look better in a different part of the room. Moving a couch is easy enough, and she just wanted to slide it a few feet forward, so no problem, I thought. Well, when you move a couch in a playroom normally utilized by two small children, the following chain of events unfolds:
1. You move the couch from the wall, and discover 94,000 toy parts behind it.
2. You go to put toy parts in closets, shelves, etc. only to find that said spaces are already full, meaning you must...
3. Clean out the toy closet, which leads to...
4. Cleaning out other closets, which leads to...
5. Leaving an “Escape from Alcatraz”-style dummy while you try and climb out of a window.
After several hours of playroom overhaul, you could see one main difference: The couch was about three feet from its previous spot. “But all the toys are cleaned up!” my wife remarked. True, but had we kept the couch in the previous spot, the toys would have still been out of sight, and therefore out of mind. For the record, I once again was vetoed when I offered up the idea that, if a toy can live behind a couch for six months and not be missed, it could easily be removed from the house entirely and not be missed.
Once we finished the playroom, we went downstairs, when my wife struck again, commenting that she did not like the way the den was set up. The rug was too small, she said. “You know what look nice in here? The rug from the dining room.”
Not even thinking, I said, “Yeah, it probably would.”
Time to start moving rugs.
Normally, moving area rugs is a fairly easy task. Roll one up, making sure you haven’t caught a kid or a dog in it, and start hauling. But before I agreed that the rug change was a must-do, I didn’t stop and think that the dining room rug had on it a dining room table and a China cabinet. When we walked in the room, my wife noticed this, too, and immediately realized she had made a misstep. She has seen me move furniture. I take the approach that sheer force and the occasionally assistance from gravity is the way you move things. (You should hear the sound of a washing machine sliding down stairs.) “Uh, why don’t I get someone to help me move the cabinet.”
Well, that right there is a challenge. I told her that it wasn’t necessary, and that I would simply tilt the cabinet while she pulled the rug out from under it. (Note to potential china cabinet movers: If you are like me, you have a habit of resting furniture on your foot between moving. Do not do this if you are barefoot. It is both stupid and painful.) After a few minutes of lifting, tilting and occasional yelping in pain, my wife was able to shimmy the carpet free. I don’t think she intended to sound as surprised as she did when she remarked, “It worked!”
Once the rug was free, I switched the den rug with the dining room rug, and my wife moved furniture two inches this way and an inch that way making it perfectly to her liking. She also recommended I no longer sit on couches she was trying to move.
When we were all done, I reflected on the rooms, expecting to see minimal impact. However, I was pleased to see that the simple change of rugs had made a nice difference, and I was quite happy with the improvement. And, upon further reflection (and repeated questioning) I conceded that the playroom was better, too. (I stopped short of agreeing that it was “cozy.”)
In the end, it was a solid day’s work that made our house look nice and my wife happy, so I guess it’s considered a success. The only thing that would have made it more of a success is if I had made it out of that window.
Once again, my wife has duped me into an afternoon of doing her bidding, and I didn’t even realize it until I was knee-deep in furniture rearranging.
She’s very good at this, and usually I see it coming, but still comply nonetheless. My reasoning is twofold: (1) The missions she chooses for us to embark on are usually worthwhile, such as cleaning out closets or having children and (2) resistance is futile.
It happened last weekend when my wife and I were in the playroom and she made the passing comment that she wondered if the couch would look better in a different part of the room. Moving a couch is easy enough, and she just wanted to slide it a few feet forward, so no problem, I thought. Well, when you move a couch in a playroom normally utilized by two small children, the following chain of events unfolds:
1. You move the couch from the wall, and discover 94,000 toy parts behind it.
2. You go to put toy parts in closets, shelves, etc. only to find that said spaces are already full, meaning you must...
3. Clean out the toy closet, which leads to...
4. Cleaning out other closets, which leads to...
5. Leaving an “Escape from Alcatraz”-style dummy while you try and climb out of a window.
After several hours of playroom overhaul, you could see one main difference: The couch was about three feet from its previous spot. “But all the toys are cleaned up!” my wife remarked. True, but had we kept the couch in the previous spot, the toys would have still been out of sight, and therefore out of mind. For the record, I once again was vetoed when I offered up the idea that, if a toy can live behind a couch for six months and not be missed, it could easily be removed from the house entirely and not be missed.
Once we finished the playroom, we went downstairs, when my wife struck again, commenting that she did not like the way the den was set up. The rug was too small, she said. “You know what look nice in here? The rug from the dining room.”
Not even thinking, I said, “Yeah, it probably would.”
Time to start moving rugs.
Normally, moving area rugs is a fairly easy task. Roll one up, making sure you haven’t caught a kid or a dog in it, and start hauling. But before I agreed that the rug change was a must-do, I didn’t stop and think that the dining room rug had on it a dining room table and a China cabinet. When we walked in the room, my wife noticed this, too, and immediately realized she had made a misstep. She has seen me move furniture. I take the approach that sheer force and the occasionally assistance from gravity is the way you move things. (You should hear the sound of a washing machine sliding down stairs.) “Uh, why don’t I get someone to help me move the cabinet.”
Well, that right there is a challenge. I told her that it wasn’t necessary, and that I would simply tilt the cabinet while she pulled the rug out from under it. (Note to potential china cabinet movers: If you are like me, you have a habit of resting furniture on your foot between moving. Do not do this if you are barefoot. It is both stupid and painful.) After a few minutes of lifting, tilting and occasional yelping in pain, my wife was able to shimmy the carpet free. I don’t think she intended to sound as surprised as she did when she remarked, “It worked!”
Once the rug was free, I switched the den rug with the dining room rug, and my wife moved furniture two inches this way and an inch that way making it perfectly to her liking. She also recommended I no longer sit on couches she was trying to move.
When we were all done, I reflected on the rooms, expecting to see minimal impact. However, I was pleased to see that the simple change of rugs had made a nice difference, and I was quite happy with the improvement. And, upon further reflection (and repeated questioning) I conceded that the playroom was better, too. (I stopped short of agreeing that it was “cozy.”)
In the end, it was a solid day’s work that made our house look nice and my wife happy, so I guess it’s considered a success. The only thing that would have made it more of a success is if I had made it out of that window.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
A deflating experience
So today’s helpful home improvement lesson: Super glue will not fix a flat tire.
Now, I know most of you, upon hearing this brilliant truism, would say, “No kidding, genius. Who would think it WOULD fix a flat?”
Well, I will tell you who: Acclaimed writer Saul Bellow, that’s who.
OK, so it was me. The upside to this, of course, is that it was not a car tire, but rather a wheelbarrow tire. Granted, I did have my entire family in it at the time of the flat.
Ha! Little joke there. There are no rides in the wheelbarrow. Not anymore. Nosirree. Apparently, SOME people in my house have a problem with children pitching in and, say, making sure nothing falls out of the wheelbarrow. And what better place to keep an eye on wheelbarrow contents than on top of the debris being hauled? Exactly. Defies reason, really.
I have actually known about the flat tire for a while. And I had dealt with it thusly: I would pump up the tire with air and try and use it as quickly as possible to before the tire went flat. Sometimes I would get two or three trips out it. And then I would pump it up and scurry about with it again.
So I had used my wheelbarrow like this for about two years when I called on it for some heavy duty action. Last year, I had six very large trees cut down in my backyard (thanks, ice storm!), and for some reason I asked the tree guy to leave the biggest oak for me to chop up for firewood. Do you realize that the bottom part of an adult oak tree is roughly the size of Vermont? Well, this immense pile of wood has stayed in my backyard since then, and my wife and I decided it was time to move it to a better place. For one thing, it was right next to the kids’ playground, and let’s be honest – a mountain of unstable logs beats a swing any day of the week, something my wife decided was just on the other side of unsafe.
So I started chopping what I could into stuff for the fireplace. After about two hours, I had filled up two very large wood piles. And the original pile of wood appeared to have actually grown. So at that point I decided I would move all of the wood to a spot in the yard where it was less enticing to children, and more easily accessible to anyone who wants firewood.
Most of the logs were big enough that I could carry them, but not exactly the things you’d want to haul across a yard all day long, so I decided to pile up the wheelbarrow with a heap of logs and cut the workload down.
When I placed the sixth log in the wheelbarrow, I looked down and saw that the wheel was flatter than usual. Apparently, the weight exceeded what I usually put in there, because even a sorta-flat wheelbarrow wheel works somewhat. I got out an electric air pump and turned it on. Odd, I thought, that it was taking so long to fill up. I turned off the pump and heard, “Sssssssssssssssssssss.”
When I moved my head closer to see if I could pinpoint where the air was coming from, I felt air blowing on my face. Pretty good sign that it was not how the tire was designed.
Turns out, there was a big roofing nail sticking through tire, which I guess is a better alternative than it sticking through my foot. Based on the amount of rust on the nail, I should probably get my wheelbarrow a tetanus shot.
I took the wheelbarrow into the garage to begin surgery. The nail was in pretty tight, so I decided that the nail was a fine addition, and I just needed to seal around it, making a permanent plug. My first choice was to use some plumber’s cement, which for some reason I own. I do not recall ever doing plumbing, so I am not sure why I own it. I opened the plumber’s cement and pulled out the stopper. When a big glob of solidified goo came out, I decided this stuff had seen its last day. Next stop – super glue. Hey, if this stuff can glue a guy in a hard hat to a steel beam, surely it can seal a little space around a nail. I dabbed the super glue around the nail and waited a few seconds. When I flipped on the air pump, the rush of super glue smell shot up towards me, and the air continued to ease out. OK, so this was a bad idea, too. I tried several other options, including my final failed attempt, which was to remove the roofing nail and replace it with a larger nail. After about an hour of trying to repair the wheel, a little voice deep in the recesses of my mind said, “Hey, genius – you can buy replacement tires.”
Sure enough, for about $20, I had a new tire, and even installed it myself with little fanfare. I guess I could have saved myself time and gone that route from the start. Of course, then I would have never known I had plumber’s cement.
Now, I know most of you, upon hearing this brilliant truism, would say, “No kidding, genius. Who would think it WOULD fix a flat?”
Well, I will tell you who: Acclaimed writer Saul Bellow, that’s who.
OK, so it was me. The upside to this, of course, is that it was not a car tire, but rather a wheelbarrow tire. Granted, I did have my entire family in it at the time of the flat.
Ha! Little joke there. There are no rides in the wheelbarrow. Not anymore. Nosirree. Apparently, SOME people in my house have a problem with children pitching in and, say, making sure nothing falls out of the wheelbarrow. And what better place to keep an eye on wheelbarrow contents than on top of the debris being hauled? Exactly. Defies reason, really.
I have actually known about the flat tire for a while. And I had dealt with it thusly: I would pump up the tire with air and try and use it as quickly as possible to before the tire went flat. Sometimes I would get two or three trips out it. And then I would pump it up and scurry about with it again.
So I had used my wheelbarrow like this for about two years when I called on it for some heavy duty action. Last year, I had six very large trees cut down in my backyard (thanks, ice storm!), and for some reason I asked the tree guy to leave the biggest oak for me to chop up for firewood. Do you realize that the bottom part of an adult oak tree is roughly the size of Vermont? Well, this immense pile of wood has stayed in my backyard since then, and my wife and I decided it was time to move it to a better place. For one thing, it was right next to the kids’ playground, and let’s be honest – a mountain of unstable logs beats a swing any day of the week, something my wife decided was just on the other side of unsafe.
So I started chopping what I could into stuff for the fireplace. After about two hours, I had filled up two very large wood piles. And the original pile of wood appeared to have actually grown. So at that point I decided I would move all of the wood to a spot in the yard where it was less enticing to children, and more easily accessible to anyone who wants firewood.
Most of the logs were big enough that I could carry them, but not exactly the things you’d want to haul across a yard all day long, so I decided to pile up the wheelbarrow with a heap of logs and cut the workload down.
When I placed the sixth log in the wheelbarrow, I looked down and saw that the wheel was flatter than usual. Apparently, the weight exceeded what I usually put in there, because even a sorta-flat wheelbarrow wheel works somewhat. I got out an electric air pump and turned it on. Odd, I thought, that it was taking so long to fill up. I turned off the pump and heard, “Sssssssssssssssssssss.”
When I moved my head closer to see if I could pinpoint where the air was coming from, I felt air blowing on my face. Pretty good sign that it was not how the tire was designed.
Turns out, there was a big roofing nail sticking through tire, which I guess is a better alternative than it sticking through my foot. Based on the amount of rust on the nail, I should probably get my wheelbarrow a tetanus shot.
I took the wheelbarrow into the garage to begin surgery. The nail was in pretty tight, so I decided that the nail was a fine addition, and I just needed to seal around it, making a permanent plug. My first choice was to use some plumber’s cement, which for some reason I own. I do not recall ever doing plumbing, so I am not sure why I own it. I opened the plumber’s cement and pulled out the stopper. When a big glob of solidified goo came out, I decided this stuff had seen its last day. Next stop – super glue. Hey, if this stuff can glue a guy in a hard hat to a steel beam, surely it can seal a little space around a nail. I dabbed the super glue around the nail and waited a few seconds. When I flipped on the air pump, the rush of super glue smell shot up towards me, and the air continued to ease out. OK, so this was a bad idea, too. I tried several other options, including my final failed attempt, which was to remove the roofing nail and replace it with a larger nail. After about an hour of trying to repair the wheel, a little voice deep in the recesses of my mind said, “Hey, genius – you can buy replacement tires.”
Sure enough, for about $20, I had a new tire, and even installed it myself with little fanfare. I guess I could have saved myself time and gone that route from the start. Of course, then I would have never known I had plumber’s cement.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Back pain gives pause to consider somersaults
Once again, I find myself in immense pain. And once again, I find myself receiving a grand total of zero sympathy.
A few months back, I told the story of a wicked back pain I had. When I went to complain to my wife about the severity of my ailment ("A hundred times worse than child birth!!!"), she reminded me that perhaps my stand-on-the-head competition with my daughter was the cause of it, and therefore the reason I was deserving of as much sympathy as someone who licks a moving fan.
But this time would be different, since I was blessed with two hurting spots in my back. My lower back felt like someone had hit me across it with a bat, while my neck felt like someone had taken the same bat, whittled it down to a fine point and stabbed me with it.
Actually, the pain did not start all at once. I woke up with the neck pain, probably because I slept hanging over the edge of the bed, which is not the ideal way to sleep, I have found. Spending six hours as if I were looking for something under the bed will generally be bad news for your neck.
The lower back pain took place on a walk I was taking with my son. Parker and I were cruising the neighborhood, having a nice time. Our walks are always fun, because I encourage him to find animals. I point out squirrels, dogs, etc. He points out tigers, alligators, etc. He either has very good vision or a very vivid imagination.
At one point during the walk, I made the foolish mistake of trying to take another step. As I stepped, my back kind of seized up, and I had three options: (1) Continue walking, and show my son that it is OK for a grown man to cry (2) stop where I was and hold this freeze-frame or (3) fall to the ground.
I opted for No. 2, which Parker thought was some pantomime performance for his enjoyment. Ah, the joys of parenting -- frozen in time, afraid to move lest knee-buckling pain overwhelm you, while your son claps and laughs and points.
After a few minutes, the pain began to ease up. Either that or the endorphins started kicking in. Either way, I as able to start creeping home, shuffling like Tim Conway's storekeeper. By the time I made it home, Parker had grown tired of my hunched-over shuffle, and was now trying to climb out of his stroller. And 2-year-olds rarely take the conventional path when getting out of a stroller. Rather, they will arch up and try and slink backwards over the top of the stroller. I decided the best way to stop him from doing this was to reason with him. Clearly, I was not thinking straight, since reasoning with a 2-year-old is comparable to reasoning with a chipmunk.
ME: Parker, please sit down. We're almost home, and Daddy's back is really hurting.
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
ME: Please?
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
ME: Just a few more...
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
Somehow, we managed to carry on this brilliant dialog for the last few blocks of our walk. When we got upstairs, I decided that the best way to let the pain subside was to lie on the ground in a manner than eased the pain. Because I was trying to ease two pains, I was twisting my body in a way that, when my wife walked in, I can only guess looked like the chalk outline of someone whose parachute had not opened.
Now, most spouses would immediately be concerned. "What's wrong?" they would ask. Mine, however, has come to expect this, and asked instead, "What now?"
I explained to her my back woes, and, without so much as stopping to consider the baseball bat theory, she said, "Well, maybe you shouldn't have been doing somersaults with Parker yesterday."
OK, so my son is learning how to do somersaults, and I felt his form was a little lacking. And once I get started, I have no choice but to show off my back-somersault-into-a-headstand. Drives the kids wild.
So looking back on this, I guess I have learned a valuable lesson. The older I get, the more it hurts to do things like headstands and somersaults. Oh, that's not the lesson. The lesson is only to do them when my wife isn't looking. And then tell her I was hit with a bat.
A few months back, I told the story of a wicked back pain I had. When I went to complain to my wife about the severity of my ailment ("A hundred times worse than child birth!!!"), she reminded me that perhaps my stand-on-the-head competition with my daughter was the cause of it, and therefore the reason I was deserving of as much sympathy as someone who licks a moving fan.
But this time would be different, since I was blessed with two hurting spots in my back. My lower back felt like someone had hit me across it with a bat, while my neck felt like someone had taken the same bat, whittled it down to a fine point and stabbed me with it.
Actually, the pain did not start all at once. I woke up with the neck pain, probably because I slept hanging over the edge of the bed, which is not the ideal way to sleep, I have found. Spending six hours as if I were looking for something under the bed will generally be bad news for your neck.
The lower back pain took place on a walk I was taking with my son. Parker and I were cruising the neighborhood, having a nice time. Our walks are always fun, because I encourage him to find animals. I point out squirrels, dogs, etc. He points out tigers, alligators, etc. He either has very good vision or a very vivid imagination.
At one point during the walk, I made the foolish mistake of trying to take another step. As I stepped, my back kind of seized up, and I had three options: (1) Continue walking, and show my son that it is OK for a grown man to cry (2) stop where I was and hold this freeze-frame or (3) fall to the ground.
I opted for No. 2, which Parker thought was some pantomime performance for his enjoyment. Ah, the joys of parenting -- frozen in time, afraid to move lest knee-buckling pain overwhelm you, while your son claps and laughs and points.
After a few minutes, the pain began to ease up. Either that or the endorphins started kicking in. Either way, I as able to start creeping home, shuffling like Tim Conway's storekeeper. By the time I made it home, Parker had grown tired of my hunched-over shuffle, and was now trying to climb out of his stroller. And 2-year-olds rarely take the conventional path when getting out of a stroller. Rather, they will arch up and try and slink backwards over the top of the stroller. I decided the best way to stop him from doing this was to reason with him. Clearly, I was not thinking straight, since reasoning with a 2-year-old is comparable to reasoning with a chipmunk.
ME: Parker, please sit down. We're almost home, and Daddy's back is really hurting.
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
ME: Please?
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
ME: Just a few more...
PARKER: OUUUUUUUTTTTT!
Somehow, we managed to carry on this brilliant dialog for the last few blocks of our walk. When we got upstairs, I decided that the best way to let the pain subside was to lie on the ground in a manner than eased the pain. Because I was trying to ease two pains, I was twisting my body in a way that, when my wife walked in, I can only guess looked like the chalk outline of someone whose parachute had not opened.
Now, most spouses would immediately be concerned. "What's wrong?" they would ask. Mine, however, has come to expect this, and asked instead, "What now?"
I explained to her my back woes, and, without so much as stopping to consider the baseball bat theory, she said, "Well, maybe you shouldn't have been doing somersaults with Parker yesterday."
OK, so my son is learning how to do somersaults, and I felt his form was a little lacking. And once I get started, I have no choice but to show off my back-somersault-into-a-headstand. Drives the kids wild.
So looking back on this, I guess I have learned a valuable lesson. The older I get, the more it hurts to do things like headstands and somersaults. Oh, that's not the lesson. The lesson is only to do them when my wife isn't looking. And then tell her I was hit with a bat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)