We have a magic trash can in our home. It's in the kitchen, oval, white, 13-gallon model.
I know it's magic because when I go out of town for a few days, you can put as much trash as you want into it and it never gets full. Ever.
No one complains, no one says anything, and no matter how much is crammed into or stacked on top or beside the magic trash can, it will still hold more. At least no one ever changes the bag.
However, the second I return, the magic trash can is full. Only when I am there. I sometimes wonder about that, because it looks to me like it must have been full before I got home. That's the magic. No one can empty the trash can but me.
I'm sure that our magic trash can was designed by professionals to be easily emptied by children, working moms, and pretty much anyone who is capable of putting trash into it in the first place. You don't have to be an engineering type or an information technology guru to figure out the process.
And yet, our trash can is never full, never in need of emptying until I am present. It's magic.
I'm not grousing over it, really I'm not. I don't have any particular aversion to bundling up the stinky garbage and carting it off to the garage. I'm happy to spread a fresh, clean bag into the trash can so that it looks empty to me, too.
I have an important role in our home. If part of that function includes taking out the trash, so be it. I will shoulder that burden gladly if it helps the family out.
Besides, if I rebel too loudly, I'm sure the subject of the magic clothes hamper will come up.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
A true Irishman is never in a hurry
I haven't been blogging much recently, and I wanted to share with you the reasons why.
No, it's important, really it is. Everyone has good, solid reasons why they haven't gotten around to doing the small, but important things in their lives, don't they? As a writer, I should be able to add writer's block to my list or something equally convincing.
Actually, writer's block has little to do with my situation. I'm currently writing the third book in my Irish trilogy, Molly O'Malley and the Pirate Queen. I'm into chapter ten at the moment, and I'm on a roll. So it's not writer's block.
I took a few days out to enter a writing contest at my work, called Art/Work: Creativity from the Cube. They expanded it to include literary categories this year, so naturally I had to give it a try. I entered in four categories, won first place in two of them and placed second in the other two. You can read about it in my News and Events on my main website.
The main reason I can point to for not blogging is that my youngest daughter is getting married on July 4th. There are LOTS of activities associated with planning a wedding: finding the church, finding the minister, finding the dress, deciding who to invite, making the invitations, making the programs, making up gift baskets, designing the table centerpieces for the reception, reserving the tux, deciding the tux that I already own can be used by renting only the shirt, tie and vest the groomsmen are getting and saving $100, finding the reception hall, planning the food for the reception, making special gifts for the bride and groom that I can't tell you about right now, reserving the limo, and so on.
A word of advice to other bloggers out there: a wedding actually gives you a lot to write about.
I know there is a lot of personal stuff associated with a wedding, and many readers really aren't that interested in my personal stuff. I'm still trying to find my niche, though, and it's possible that many readers will actually be interested in the topic, and even my take on it.
The interesting thing about this wedding is that my daughter has an Irish background and her fiance's background is Scottish. So we're going to have a Celtic-themed wedding. We've made a weddin' ba, a Scottish tradition for the children attending who are too young to catch the bride's bouquet or the garter. It's essentially a round ball-shaped pinata filled with candy and coins.
I've made a PowerPoint show with pictures of both kids growing up, using an Irish font for their names. We're sharing an Irish blessing with guests who stay at a nearby hotel. We've made custom handkerchiefs for the tux pockets out of the groom's clan tartan.
Still, you get around to doing the things you want to do. Or that your loving spouse yells at you to do because you're busy doing other things. Bottom line, procrastination is all about finding excuses for not doing things early.
Here's an example: I just save the best things for last.
No, it's important, really it is. Everyone has good, solid reasons why they haven't gotten around to doing the small, but important things in their lives, don't they? As a writer, I should be able to add writer's block to my list or something equally convincing.
Actually, writer's block has little to do with my situation. I'm currently writing the third book in my Irish trilogy, Molly O'Malley and the Pirate Queen. I'm into chapter ten at the moment, and I'm on a roll. So it's not writer's block.
I took a few days out to enter a writing contest at my work, called Art/Work: Creativity from the Cube. They expanded it to include literary categories this year, so naturally I had to give it a try. I entered in four categories, won first place in two of them and placed second in the other two. You can read about it in my News and Events on my main website.
The main reason I can point to for not blogging is that my youngest daughter is getting married on July 4th. There are LOTS of activities associated with planning a wedding: finding the church, finding the minister, finding the dress, deciding who to invite, making the invitations, making the programs, making up gift baskets, designing the table centerpieces for the reception, reserving the tux, deciding the tux that I already own can be used by renting only the shirt, tie and vest the groomsmen are getting and saving $100, finding the reception hall, planning the food for the reception, making special gifts for the bride and groom that I can't tell you about right now, reserving the limo, and so on.
A word of advice to other bloggers out there: a wedding actually gives you a lot to write about.
I know there is a lot of personal stuff associated with a wedding, and many readers really aren't that interested in my personal stuff. I'm still trying to find my niche, though, and it's possible that many readers will actually be interested in the topic, and even my take on it.
The interesting thing about this wedding is that my daughter has an Irish background and her fiance's background is Scottish. So we're going to have a Celtic-themed wedding. We've made a weddin' ba, a Scottish tradition for the children attending who are too young to catch the bride's bouquet or the garter. It's essentially a round ball-shaped pinata filled with candy and coins.
I've made a PowerPoint show with pictures of both kids growing up, using an Irish font for their names. We're sharing an Irish blessing with guests who stay at a nearby hotel. We've made custom handkerchiefs for the tux pockets out of the groom's clan tartan.
Still, you get around to doing the things you want to do. Or that your loving spouse yells at you to do because you're busy doing other things. Bottom line, procrastination is all about finding excuses for not doing things early.
Here's an example: I just save the best things for last.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Blizzard stops the Wizard
We had a freak snowstorm yesterday, Saturday March 28, 2009. I was safely nestled inside and could enjoy watching the monster flakes come down, knowing that today's forecast was for 44 degrees and sunny, drawing comfort from the thought of rapidly returning to spring.
Yesterday's five inches was not as memorable for me as the late snow thirty years ago, however. The events of that freak snowstorm are still fresh in my thoughts.
In April of 1974 I was a freshman at the University of Missouri - Columbia. My favorite class was Econ 51 - an introductory course to the study of Economics. Our professor was Dr. John Kuhlman, a legend on campus for both his humor and his take-no-prisoners approach to teaching. Dr. Kuhlman was completely aware that many students were intimidated by both the coursework and the instructor, and was equally committed to helping everyone who wanted to pass the course succeed.
Each week the professor and his staff hosted a unique opportunity for all students in the class to earn extra-credit points. Dr. Kuhlman was famous for his multiple-choice questions; they were the only format he used, and were so elegantly crafted that selecting the right answer required that you know the material. Guessing was a pure gamble. Each Tuesday we could come in after classes in the evening to take a five question multiple-choice quiz. If we got all of the answers correct, we passed, and we received the extra-credit for that week.
If we missed even one question, we failed the quiz. The teaching assistants (TAs) would only tell us that we had not passed the quiz.
On Wednesday, we could return to try it again. Slightly different quiz, of course, over the same material. If we got all five correct, we passed the quiz and received our extra-credit for the week. If we missed anything, the TAs would tell us only how many questions we missed.
On Thursday if we missed anything, the TAs would tell you which questions you missed.
On Friday, the TAs would tell you what the correct answer should have been for the questions you missed.
For those unfortunate enough to have fallen short on all four quizzes, a special makeup session was available on Saturday from 8:30 to noon. If you didn't pass on Saturday, a TA would sit down with you and cover the answers in detail, the reason for the correct answer, what was wrong with the other responses, and in short prepare you to become a productive member of society. But no extra-credit for Dr. Kuhlman's Economics class for that week.
I found Econ 51 to be a stimulating and enjoyable class, and had little difficulty passing the quizzes early each week. One week, though, I found myself struggling, and for the first and only time that semester I needed to come in and attempt the Saturday quiz.
That Saturday was the day of the freak, late-season snowstorm.
I wasn't too worried. I considered myself to be a good driver, certainly a better driver than most of the other idiots behind the wheel. Snow didn't bother me, and it was only three miles to the campus.
My ride in those days was a 1967 Camaro, mint-green and three-on-the-tree. For those of you too young to remember that car, it had rear-wheel drive, a light rear end, and was one of the worst choices you could make for challenging serious road conditions. Still, I had never had to abandon my car. Ever.
I picked up the highway route a few blocks south of my house. Right away, I could see the long hill ahead was going to be trouble. The other idiots I mentioned earlier had gotten to the hill before me and were scattered all over the roadway.
Oh, I gave it the old college try. I kept my speed constant, not giving too much gas which would start the wheels futilely spinning. But there were just too many of them, spinning in circles, veering slowly into my lane and slowing to a stop as they gunned their engines in the wet snow. I lost momentum, and my faithful Camaro could not make it up that hill.
I made the tough choice to coax the pony car to the shoulder and abandon it. In April.
My plan was to walk the mile or so home, borrow the family station wagon and hope to make it to the campus and the quiz before noon. I made it about a third of the way and realized there was not enough time. An old Volkswagon Beetle came chugging down Rollins road, handling the slippery route with ease with its rear-engine, rear-wheel drive. That's when I made my second memorable decision of the day.
I stuck out my thumb.
I had never hitch-hiked before in my life, and I never have since. I had no idea whether this guy was going to pick me up or even slow down. But miracle of miracles, he pulled over and rolled down his window. "Need a ride?" he asked.
"Sure," I replied. "I need to get back to my house, it's just a couple of blocks from here. I'm trying to get over to the University campus by noon..."
"Well, I'm heading over that direction anyway. You want me to just drop you there?"
Well, what the heck. The day's been going splendidly so far.
I hopped in and the good Samaritan dropped me off on the west side of the Quadrangle. As I raced across the snow-covered sidewalk in front of the landmark six stone Ionic Greek columns that are the symbol of the University, I could hear the Student Union bells tolling the hour. The twelve o'clock hour. Middlebush Hall was just across the Quadrangle, and I was still going to be late.
As I dashed into the testing room, I explained my situation. The TAs were quite understanding or amused, I couldn't tell which, and they agreed to let me take the quiz.
Which I failed.
After my personal tutoring session, I called my Dad at home to come and get me. We went back for the Camaro later that afternoon. The snow had stopped, and the warm weather had melted most of the slick stuff away.
It's all right, really it is. I still got a solid "A" in Econ 51, and went on to major in the subject. Despite the feelings of events floating out of my control that morning, my memories are all good ones now of meeting problems and using everything I had to solve them. Even the setbacks provided me with new life experiences.
And don't forget the preparation to become a productive member of society. It must have worked. After all, it gave me something to write about.
Yesterday's five inches was not as memorable for me as the late snow thirty years ago, however. The events of that freak snowstorm are still fresh in my thoughts.
In April of 1974 I was a freshman at the University of Missouri - Columbia. My favorite class was Econ 51 - an introductory course to the study of Economics. Our professor was Dr. John Kuhlman, a legend on campus for both his humor and his take-no-prisoners approach to teaching. Dr. Kuhlman was completely aware that many students were intimidated by both the coursework and the instructor, and was equally committed to helping everyone who wanted to pass the course succeed.
Each week the professor and his staff hosted a unique opportunity for all students in the class to earn extra-credit points. Dr. Kuhlman was famous for his multiple-choice questions; they were the only format he used, and were so elegantly crafted that selecting the right answer required that you know the material. Guessing was a pure gamble. Each Tuesday we could come in after classes in the evening to take a five question multiple-choice quiz. If we got all of the answers correct, we passed, and we received the extra-credit for that week.
If we missed even one question, we failed the quiz. The teaching assistants (TAs) would only tell us that we had not passed the quiz.
On Wednesday, we could return to try it again. Slightly different quiz, of course, over the same material. If we got all five correct, we passed the quiz and received our extra-credit for the week. If we missed anything, the TAs would tell us only how many questions we missed.
On Thursday if we missed anything, the TAs would tell you which questions you missed.
On Friday, the TAs would tell you what the correct answer should have been for the questions you missed.
For those unfortunate enough to have fallen short on all four quizzes, a special makeup session was available on Saturday from 8:30 to noon. If you didn't pass on Saturday, a TA would sit down with you and cover the answers in detail, the reason for the correct answer, what was wrong with the other responses, and in short prepare you to become a productive member of society. But no extra-credit for Dr. Kuhlman's Economics class for that week.
I found Econ 51 to be a stimulating and enjoyable class, and had little difficulty passing the quizzes early each week. One week, though, I found myself struggling, and for the first and only time that semester I needed to come in and attempt the Saturday quiz.
That Saturday was the day of the freak, late-season snowstorm.
I wasn't too worried. I considered myself to be a good driver, certainly a better driver than most of the other idiots behind the wheel. Snow didn't bother me, and it was only three miles to the campus.
My ride in those days was a 1967 Camaro, mint-green and three-on-the-tree. For those of you too young to remember that car, it had rear-wheel drive, a light rear end, and was one of the worst choices you could make for challenging serious road conditions. Still, I had never had to abandon my car. Ever.
I picked up the highway route a few blocks south of my house. Right away, I could see the long hill ahead was going to be trouble. The other idiots I mentioned earlier had gotten to the hill before me and were scattered all over the roadway.
Oh, I gave it the old college try. I kept my speed constant, not giving too much gas which would start the wheels futilely spinning. But there were just too many of them, spinning in circles, veering slowly into my lane and slowing to a stop as they gunned their engines in the wet snow. I lost momentum, and my faithful Camaro could not make it up that hill.
I made the tough choice to coax the pony car to the shoulder and abandon it. In April.
My plan was to walk the mile or so home, borrow the family station wagon and hope to make it to the campus and the quiz before noon. I made it about a third of the way and realized there was not enough time. An old Volkswagon Beetle came chugging down Rollins road, handling the slippery route with ease with its rear-engine, rear-wheel drive. That's when I made my second memorable decision of the day.
I stuck out my thumb.
I had never hitch-hiked before in my life, and I never have since. I had no idea whether this guy was going to pick me up or even slow down. But miracle of miracles, he pulled over and rolled down his window. "Need a ride?" he asked.
"Sure," I replied. "I need to get back to my house, it's just a couple of blocks from here. I'm trying to get over to the University campus by noon..."
"Well, I'm heading over that direction anyway. You want me to just drop you there?"
Well, what the heck. The day's been going splendidly so far.
I hopped in and the good Samaritan dropped me off on the west side of the Quadrangle. As I raced across the snow-covered sidewalk in front of the landmark six stone Ionic Greek columns that are the symbol of the University, I could hear the Student Union bells tolling the hour. The twelve o'clock hour. Middlebush Hall was just across the Quadrangle, and I was still going to be late.
As I dashed into the testing room, I explained my situation. The TAs were quite understanding or amused, I couldn't tell which, and they agreed to let me take the quiz.
Which I failed.
After my personal tutoring session, I called my Dad at home to come and get me. We went back for the Camaro later that afternoon. The snow had stopped, and the warm weather had melted most of the slick stuff away.
It's all right, really it is. I still got a solid "A" in Econ 51, and went on to major in the subject. Despite the feelings of events floating out of my control that morning, my memories are all good ones now of meeting problems and using everything I had to solve them. Even the setbacks provided me with new life experiences.
And don't forget the preparation to become a productive member of society. It must have worked. After all, it gave me something to write about.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Snow on the rooftop?
You'd think I could film a disaster movie just because we got four inches of snow!
Every new snowfall I am continually dismayed and amused at the number of drivers who just can't figure out that something has changed. Or worse yet, they suspect something has changed but can't seem to adapt to it.
This morning I watched a driver travel through a level intersection from a standing start. It was a front-wheel drive car, normally an advantage in slippery conditions. Her (oops, did I say that out loud?) front tires were spinning madly as she inched forward at something just shy of walking speed. She didn't seem terribly stressed about the car's lack of response to her urging, as I imagined her gas pedal was into the floor. Give it enough power, and she would eventually get where she wanted to go.
Now I don't have a degree in rocket science, but I have figured out that sometimes you can go faster by slowing down. If a runner tries to compete in a marathon by sprinting all the way, he or she will likely not even make it halfway to the finish line. You save the sprint for the end of the race unless it's a very short race.
Most things in life are not a very short race. Most of us have long-term goals. You live longer by eating fewer junk foods and drinking less alcohol. Moderation is not something to be ashamed of; it's a template for success.
This morning I was able to drive around Blue Springs - and around less adaptive drivers - by using a more moderate touch on the gas pedal. Maybe it's just because I'm getting older.
I intend to keep it that way.
Every new snowfall I am continually dismayed and amused at the number of drivers who just can't figure out that something has changed. Or worse yet, they suspect something has changed but can't seem to adapt to it.
This morning I watched a driver travel through a level intersection from a standing start. It was a front-wheel drive car, normally an advantage in slippery conditions. Her (oops, did I say that out loud?) front tires were spinning madly as she inched forward at something just shy of walking speed. She didn't seem terribly stressed about the car's lack of response to her urging, as I imagined her gas pedal was into the floor. Give it enough power, and she would eventually get where she wanted to go.
Now I don't have a degree in rocket science, but I have figured out that sometimes you can go faster by slowing down. If a runner tries to compete in a marathon by sprinting all the way, he or she will likely not even make it halfway to the finish line. You save the sprint for the end of the race unless it's a very short race.
Most things in life are not a very short race. Most of us have long-term goals. You live longer by eating fewer junk foods and drinking less alcohol. Moderation is not something to be ashamed of; it's a template for success.
This morning I was able to drive around Blue Springs - and around less adaptive drivers - by using a more moderate touch on the gas pedal. Maybe it's just because I'm getting older.
I intend to keep it that way.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
It spins clockwise north of the equator
The typical American family has 1.87 children. Numbers can be so terribly fascinating, don’t you think? Using a strict interpretation, no American family could be considered typical because children always arrive in integer quantities.
No one uses a strict interpretation in this context, however. Only writers who are obsessed with wordplay make serious attempts to create humor, interest or blogs from this type of verbal fodder.
I can tell I’m losing 74.6 percent of my audience at this point, and rightly so. Let’s get to my inspiration for today’s thoughts.
We visited relatives over the New Year’s weekend. My wife’s cousin lives in a house next door to her mother. Perhaps due to the holiday fare, it was my distinct pleasure to unplug not one, but two toilets today. One in each residence. Making this process more interesting is that these two households share a single plunger.
I don’t need to go into great detail for obvious reasons, but these are brand new homes sporting the legally-required low flush toilets. I’m probably dating myself, but the units from the old days that used more water didn’t seem to plug up as often, and were easier to unplug. One of the plugs today was particularly troublesome, requiring five minutes and several flushes to clear the blockage.
The lesson learned in 1.9 days of holiday fun? Families that have 2.3 toilets of the 1.6 GPF variety should maintain 2.2 plungers per household. At least that’s my 2.5 cents worth.
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