So, I was pulling into my parents’ driveway when I smelled what I thought was antifreeze.
Weird, I thought.
I reasoned it this way: I had cut my air conditioner on for the first time this year. That must be what caused it.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking – what does your air conditioner have to do with antifreeze? To which I answer – I have no clue. But I needed cause and effect.
I got out of the car and went to the front. The smell was stronger. And my engine was steaming. And hissing. And there was a small puddle developing under the car.
Most likely not the air conditioner, I brilliantly concluded.
I went on inside and was talking to my dad. “I think my car’s broken,” I said. He asked what was wrong.
I told him it was steaming and dripping from the radiator.
He stared at me much in the same way you would stare at someone who had just intentionally stuffed a fork in his own eye.
It was evident that this was not the kind of thing you merely walk away from, shrug and hope it fixes itself.
I went back outside and popped the hood.
Normally, with car repair, I might as well open the back door and look for the problem because I have no idea what to look for.
The only way I would have been able to fix it is if there was a large button that read “PUSH TO MAKE RADIATOR STOP LEAKING.”
Surprisingly, I was able to notice something that was amiss. There is a large container under the hood, with the phrase “Radiator coolant” on it.
It was right next to the windshield wiper fluid reservoir, so I was well versed in opening this complex device.
I popped it open and noticed that it was bone dry. I went back inside and told my dad it was dry.
“Should I put water in it?” He said yes, but I feel certain his brain was screaming, “No, genius, fill it with mustard.”
When I got home, I called a neighbor over to take a look.
He knows way more about cars than I do, and even has those ramp thingees that you drive your car up on so that you can climb under it for some reason.
I popped the hood and handed him a flashlight. He asked me if I had checked the radiator fluid.
At that point, I realized that there was another place to put water directly in the radiator, in addition to the reservoir.
I opened it up and noticed it, too, was quite dry.
I filled it up with water and cranked the car.
Based on the spewing water and the developing puddle underneath my car, one might surmise that the leak had not magically fixed itself.
At that point, I called my brother-in-law, who is a mechanic. I explained to him what was wrong.
“You need a new radiator.” I asked him if I could fix the leak. “No, you need a new radiator.”
After about the 11th question, I think he was growing tired of saying, “No, you need a new radiator.”
The next day, I called around several places to get estimates.
Apparently, installing a radiator is the mechanical equivalent of tying a shoe.
Everyone I spoke to told me that they could do it, that it would only take a few hours, and that they would most likely do it during a nap break since it was such a breeze.
Sure enough, in a couple of hours (and a few hundred dollars later), my car was fixed, and there was no longer a smelly puddle underneath my car every time I stopped.
While I would rather not have had to spend the money, it was nice to know it could be fixed with relative ease. Next time something like this happens, maybe I should try to fix it myself.
I could even borrow those ramp thingees. For some reason.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
St. Parker's Day, 6
The Dude is now 6.
Yesterday, we celebrated St. Parker’s Day, the famed celebration of the Patron Saint of Being Born on St. Patrick’s Day.
So, I offer these few Parker tidbits:
• We had our annual breakfast tradition of Waffle House before school. There is no better way to start the day than a waffle and a Cherry Coke.
• His favorite song in the world is the “Boom De Ya Da” commercial for Discovery Channel. If you have not seen it, YouTube it. I challenge you not to feel a little better after seeing it.
• His second favorite song is a commercial for a video game, a song that offers the chorus of, “Oh Know You Didn’t!” My sister finds it less than delightful that Parker has taught his 2-year-old cousin to sing this. In the middle of Wal-Mart.
• Parker blazes his own fashion trail. At this age, I see no problem letting kids dress themselves and set their own style, as there is little chance of being labeled “That Kid” for the way you dress. Of course, I may be labeled “That Parent,” in particular “That Parent Without A Hairbrush for His Child.”
• He’s the bug-huntingest dude you will ever meet. Case in point: The other day, at my parents’ house, he asked for me to come up with a scavenger hunt list for him. One of the things I put on the list was a bessie bug. It took him roughly eight seconds to produce one. He would have rocked on “Let’s Make a Deal.”
• He is very much a little brother. I try to explain this to his sister. At one point, I said, “Allie, ask your aunts what I was like when I was a kid. I was the same way.” She seemed shocked by this. “You were ... mean to them?” I explained to her that “mean” was a kind term for what little brothers can be, and that the best defense is a locked door.
• But he also looks up to his big sister. One of the best sounds in the world is on a Saturday morning when the kids wake up, and Parker heads into Allie’s room with a book, asking her to read to him. (The following sounds are then either additionally sweet or tragically screeching, based on her decision on whether to read.)
• He’s a momma’s boy sometimes, and that’s OK. Sometimes, when you skin a knee or someone hurts your feelings, you need your momma.
• But he’s a tough dude, too. The other day, he came home from school with a note explaining the enormous knot on his head (he and a classmate bonked; she won). For the next few days, Parker made sure his hair did not cover up the nasty bruise on his forehead. Always show off the cool stuff.
• Gotta love his imagination. The other day, we were playing pirate in the den. He had brought his pirate ship downstairs, along with a few toys. How did it end? Jack Sparrow drove Clark Kent’s Daily Planet truck onto the ship and then used a lightsaber to catch a pterodactyl. Top that ending, Disney!
• He clearly differentiates between good and evil. Whenever he sees a Star Wars character, he asks, “Daddy, is he a good guy or bad guy?” He is not grasping the gray area of “bad but awesome,” known as the Boba Fett exception.
• I still get a chuckle when he shares his favorite snack with Grandpa – pickled herring. Not many kids knock back a jar of pickled herring on a regular basis. At least not non-Viking children.
I’m looking forward to year 7, which will include milestones such as starting first grade, losing teeth, painting the dog (just a hunch). I certainly hope it will be a good year, and it will be exciting to see him grow up. Of course, you always hope a part of him stays a kid. After all, somebody’s gotta catch the pterodactyls.
Yesterday, we celebrated St. Parker’s Day, the famed celebration of the Patron Saint of Being Born on St. Patrick’s Day.
So, I offer these few Parker tidbits:
• We had our annual breakfast tradition of Waffle House before school. There is no better way to start the day than a waffle and a Cherry Coke.
• His favorite song in the world is the “Boom De Ya Da” commercial for Discovery Channel. If you have not seen it, YouTube it. I challenge you not to feel a little better after seeing it.
• His second favorite song is a commercial for a video game, a song that offers the chorus of, “Oh Know You Didn’t!” My sister finds it less than delightful that Parker has taught his 2-year-old cousin to sing this. In the middle of Wal-Mart.
• Parker blazes his own fashion trail. At this age, I see no problem letting kids dress themselves and set their own style, as there is little chance of being labeled “That Kid” for the way you dress. Of course, I may be labeled “That Parent,” in particular “That Parent Without A Hairbrush for His Child.”
• He’s the bug-huntingest dude you will ever meet. Case in point: The other day, at my parents’ house, he asked for me to come up with a scavenger hunt list for him. One of the things I put on the list was a bessie bug. It took him roughly eight seconds to produce one. He would have rocked on “Let’s Make a Deal.”
• He is very much a little brother. I try to explain this to his sister. At one point, I said, “Allie, ask your aunts what I was like when I was a kid. I was the same way.” She seemed shocked by this. “You were ... mean to them?” I explained to her that “mean” was a kind term for what little brothers can be, and that the best defense is a locked door.
• But he also looks up to his big sister. One of the best sounds in the world is on a Saturday morning when the kids wake up, and Parker heads into Allie’s room with a book, asking her to read to him. (The following sounds are then either additionally sweet or tragically screeching, based on her decision on whether to read.)
• He’s a momma’s boy sometimes, and that’s OK. Sometimes, when you skin a knee or someone hurts your feelings, you need your momma.
• But he’s a tough dude, too. The other day, he came home from school with a note explaining the enormous knot on his head (he and a classmate bonked; she won). For the next few days, Parker made sure his hair did not cover up the nasty bruise on his forehead. Always show off the cool stuff.
• Gotta love his imagination. The other day, we were playing pirate in the den. He had brought his pirate ship downstairs, along with a few toys. How did it end? Jack Sparrow drove Clark Kent’s Daily Planet truck onto the ship and then used a lightsaber to catch a pterodactyl. Top that ending, Disney!
• He clearly differentiates between good and evil. Whenever he sees a Star Wars character, he asks, “Daddy, is he a good guy or bad guy?” He is not grasping the gray area of “bad but awesome,” known as the Boba Fett exception.
• I still get a chuckle when he shares his favorite snack with Grandpa – pickled herring. Not many kids knock back a jar of pickled herring on a regular basis. At least not non-Viking children.
I’m looking forward to year 7, which will include milestones such as starting first grade, losing teeth, painting the dog (just a hunch). I certainly hope it will be a good year, and it will be exciting to see him grow up. Of course, you always hope a part of him stays a kid. After all, somebody’s gotta catch the pterodactyls.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Locked in and out
Had I been considering a career in burglary or safecracking, I would have to think again.
It all started a few weeks ago when I went to leave the house. We have dead bolts on our doors, and you need a key to open them. We had them installed when we moved into the house some eight years ago. While keeping bad guys out is one perk, the main reason we got them was to keep little ones in. I have heard the story of, when I was 3, having pushed a chair up to our front door, unlocking the chain and moseying out into traffic. Next time you drive past Blockbuster, think of me circa 1975, quite a few unpleasant motorists backed up on Silver Bluff Road and my mother in a dead sprint toward me, possibly saying something that started with “You little ...”
So anywho, back to the keys. I went to our usual spot where they live. Nothing there. No surprise. They often migrate away, to coat pockets, counter tops, inside of a kangaroo puppet’s pouch. Usual stuff.
Eventually, I was able to find a key to open the locks, which is good because you don’t really want to have to take your child into school late and sign them in with the reason “locked self inside house.” But one set of keys did not emerge during the quest. And, unfortunately, this was the set that had a key to the lock on the pool gate. I searched and searched, to no avail. So, I did what any sane person would do, and, in a bit of a huff, dragged a drill out at 9:30 at night and tried to break into my own pool gate.
I know what you’re thinking – Mike, why not just call a locksmith? Or find some bolt cutters? Or ... simply not do that? And the answer is simple: because my wife was not home.
The reason I opted for the drill is because I had successfully employed that method a few years back. I remember it being quick and easy. I think my memory is skewed. Donning some work gloves (safety first!) I began to drill out the lock. I recalled that the last time, I simply put the drill bit where the key would go, gunned the drill and click – open sesame. Apparently, however, this lock was made with some otherworldy metal that’s impervious to regular drills.
I assumed that the drill bit I had was simply the wrong size, so I switched it out with a smaller one, thinking maybe I just needed to needle my way in there. Sure enough, putting some muscle into it, I was able to start grinding out the center of the lock. In no time, I figured, this sucker would be open. After about 10 minutes, I saw the drill bit crawl out of the top of the lock. I backed the bit out of the lock and gave it a tug. Still locked. Grrr.
Clearly, another bit was necessary. I went into my tool chest and found a masonry bit. If it’s good enough for concrete, it good enough for a lock. (Tremendous logic, huh?) After about five minutes, I had proceeded to make the hole in the lock slightly bigger, the masonry bit slightly bent and the lock still completely locked.
Because it was getting late (and well past most communities’ outdoor drilling-into-metal ordinances), I opted to hang it up for the night. The next day, I went around the neighborhood asking for bolt cutters. Surprisingly, no one had any. I tried several other approaches, one in which involved ruining a perfectly good pair of hedge trimmers. I also tried using a hacksaw. I am pretty sure the lock actually chuckled at that attempt. I tried to pry it off, when it occurred to me that would more than likely pry off the gate hinge, not the lock.
As a last-ditch effort, I decided to get the largest drill bit I could find. At the very least, I would carve out more of the lock, potentially removing some of its clearly dark soul.
I grabbed the lock, put the drill bit to the bottom and squeezed the drill’s trigger. Click. Lock open. Uncle. Mercy. Call it what you will. I call it victory. And I think we can all take away a very important lesson from this: If I ask to borrow your hedge trimmers, say no.
It all started a few weeks ago when I went to leave the house. We have dead bolts on our doors, and you need a key to open them. We had them installed when we moved into the house some eight years ago. While keeping bad guys out is one perk, the main reason we got them was to keep little ones in. I have heard the story of, when I was 3, having pushed a chair up to our front door, unlocking the chain and moseying out into traffic. Next time you drive past Blockbuster, think of me circa 1975, quite a few unpleasant motorists backed up on Silver Bluff Road and my mother in a dead sprint toward me, possibly saying something that started with “You little ...”
So anywho, back to the keys. I went to our usual spot where they live. Nothing there. No surprise. They often migrate away, to coat pockets, counter tops, inside of a kangaroo puppet’s pouch. Usual stuff.
Eventually, I was able to find a key to open the locks, which is good because you don’t really want to have to take your child into school late and sign them in with the reason “locked self inside house.” But one set of keys did not emerge during the quest. And, unfortunately, this was the set that had a key to the lock on the pool gate. I searched and searched, to no avail. So, I did what any sane person would do, and, in a bit of a huff, dragged a drill out at 9:30 at night and tried to break into my own pool gate.
I know what you’re thinking – Mike, why not just call a locksmith? Or find some bolt cutters? Or ... simply not do that? And the answer is simple: because my wife was not home.
The reason I opted for the drill is because I had successfully employed that method a few years back. I remember it being quick and easy. I think my memory is skewed. Donning some work gloves (safety first!) I began to drill out the lock. I recalled that the last time, I simply put the drill bit where the key would go, gunned the drill and click – open sesame. Apparently, however, this lock was made with some otherworldy metal that’s impervious to regular drills.
I assumed that the drill bit I had was simply the wrong size, so I switched it out with a smaller one, thinking maybe I just needed to needle my way in there. Sure enough, putting some muscle into it, I was able to start grinding out the center of the lock. In no time, I figured, this sucker would be open. After about 10 minutes, I saw the drill bit crawl out of the top of the lock. I backed the bit out of the lock and gave it a tug. Still locked. Grrr.
Clearly, another bit was necessary. I went into my tool chest and found a masonry bit. If it’s good enough for concrete, it good enough for a lock. (Tremendous logic, huh?) After about five minutes, I had proceeded to make the hole in the lock slightly bigger, the masonry bit slightly bent and the lock still completely locked.
Because it was getting late (and well past most communities’ outdoor drilling-into-metal ordinances), I opted to hang it up for the night. The next day, I went around the neighborhood asking for bolt cutters. Surprisingly, no one had any. I tried several other approaches, one in which involved ruining a perfectly good pair of hedge trimmers. I also tried using a hacksaw. I am pretty sure the lock actually chuckled at that attempt. I tried to pry it off, when it occurred to me that would more than likely pry off the gate hinge, not the lock.
As a last-ditch effort, I decided to get the largest drill bit I could find. At the very least, I would carve out more of the lock, potentially removing some of its clearly dark soul.
I grabbed the lock, put the drill bit to the bottom and squeezed the drill’s trigger. Click. Lock open. Uncle. Mercy. Call it what you will. I call it victory. And I think we can all take away a very important lesson from this: If I ask to borrow your hedge trimmers, say no.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Twitter tweet
I’m having Twitter issues.
Namely, I can’t figure out what in the world Twitter is.
I have heard the term Twitter used on occasion, but just assumed it was something that I could continue to ignore and be fine, much like oil changes for my car.
Then I learned you could Twitter the Aiken Standard website. Or it was being Twittered. Or something involving Twittering, whatever that is.
Following the links, I was escorted to a page where I could sign up for Twitter. After entering a few fields I was signed up. For something I don’t understand. And can’t figure out how to use. Yea, me!
I asked several people to explain Twitter. No one could do it. I was directed to a “Daily Show” segment on it, which was funny, but still shed no actual light. So I went to the one source for accurate information on internet issues: Wikipedia.
The beauty of Wikipedia is that it is correct because it was put on the Internet by someone who claims to have knowledge of something. Good enough for me.
So Wikipedia says this of Twitter:
Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that allows its users to send and read other users’ updates (known as tweets), which are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length.
So there you go. It is an avenue for me to say things. Short things. How long is 140 characters you ask? Exactly this many, as I determined by typing it into the Twitter site, which counts down the number of characters you have left to post:
Exactly how many characters are made up in a 140-character post on Twitter? The answer may surprise you. Also, my Master Card number is 3340
Oooh. So close.
So basically Twitter is currently a character countdown machine. I type, and a little “140” on the screen counts down as long as I type. I suspect there is more intended by this.
Apparently, there are “followings” and “followers” on Twitter. I think I am supposed to follow the Twitterings of other people, and they are encouraged to follow me. I am a rather self-involved person, so I think I will focus more along the follower route.
But alas, how do you find people to Twitter with? Supposedly there are millions of people using Twitter. Surely I will know some of them, right? After all, my entire high school is on Facebook, which I still barely understand, so this can’t be too different, right?
Shocker – I found no one. I even went to the part of their site where they will automatically search your e-mail address book to see if any of your contacts are on Twitter. And I willingly entered in my e-mail address and password and sat there dumbly as it searched.
I think it’s a brilliant idea just to randomly go entering your e-mail passwords on websites. After all, I use the high-tech security program known as “hoping for the best.”
I later received a rather exasperated tutorial from a couple of newsroom Twitter experts. They explained to me that it could give me a constant news feed, from any site I choose, be it aikenstandard.com or cnn.com or espn.com or ... well, you get the picture. From any Twitter-friendly site.
“Can’t I just go to those sites?” I asked.
Based on the sighs and shaking of the heads, that is not the point. The point is...something. I think that it’s a NEW way to get an aggregation of news fed onto my computer screen (and apparently my phone, should I so choose).
If you care to see how it plays out, follow along with my tweets (look for StandardMike) and find out just how exciting my day can be. I plan to log a solid day of tweets today. I know you can’t wait to experience it. I look forward to your thoughts about it. All 140 characters of them.
Namely, I can’t figure out what in the world Twitter is.
I have heard the term Twitter used on occasion, but just assumed it was something that I could continue to ignore and be fine, much like oil changes for my car.
Then I learned you could Twitter the Aiken Standard website. Or it was being Twittered. Or something involving Twittering, whatever that is.
Following the links, I was escorted to a page where I could sign up for Twitter. After entering a few fields I was signed up. For something I don’t understand. And can’t figure out how to use. Yea, me!
I asked several people to explain Twitter. No one could do it. I was directed to a “Daily Show” segment on it, which was funny, but still shed no actual light. So I went to the one source for accurate information on internet issues: Wikipedia.
The beauty of Wikipedia is that it is correct because it was put on the Internet by someone who claims to have knowledge of something. Good enough for me.
So Wikipedia says this of Twitter:
Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that allows its users to send and read other users’ updates (known as tweets), which are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length.
So there you go. It is an avenue for me to say things. Short things. How long is 140 characters you ask? Exactly this many, as I determined by typing it into the Twitter site, which counts down the number of characters you have left to post:
Exactly how many characters are made up in a 140-character post on Twitter? The answer may surprise you. Also, my Master Card number is 3340
Oooh. So close.
So basically Twitter is currently a character countdown machine. I type, and a little “140” on the screen counts down as long as I type. I suspect there is more intended by this.
Apparently, there are “followings” and “followers” on Twitter. I think I am supposed to follow the Twitterings of other people, and they are encouraged to follow me. I am a rather self-involved person, so I think I will focus more along the follower route.
But alas, how do you find people to Twitter with? Supposedly there are millions of people using Twitter. Surely I will know some of them, right? After all, my entire high school is on Facebook, which I still barely understand, so this can’t be too different, right?
Shocker – I found no one. I even went to the part of their site where they will automatically search your e-mail address book to see if any of your contacts are on Twitter. And I willingly entered in my e-mail address and password and sat there dumbly as it searched.
I think it’s a brilliant idea just to randomly go entering your e-mail passwords on websites. After all, I use the high-tech security program known as “hoping for the best.”
I later received a rather exasperated tutorial from a couple of newsroom Twitter experts. They explained to me that it could give me a constant news feed, from any site I choose, be it aikenstandard.com or cnn.com or espn.com or ... well, you get the picture. From any Twitter-friendly site.
“Can’t I just go to those sites?” I asked.
Based on the sighs and shaking of the heads, that is not the point. The point is...something. I think that it’s a NEW way to get an aggregation of news fed onto my computer screen (and apparently my phone, should I so choose).
If you care to see how it plays out, follow along with my tweets (look for StandardMike) and find out just how exciting my day can be. I plan to log a solid day of tweets today. I know you can’t wait to experience it. I look forward to your thoughts about it. All 140 characters of them.
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