She Said: The cats’ fur does so much better when I feed them some bacon grease. I need to cook more bacon.
He Heard: You are going to get more bacon soon.
She Meant: It’s spring. The cats are shedding, and I need to help them process all of those fur balls. So, I’m going to cook bacon and feed them the grease. They’ll feel better, their coats will look better, and they won’t be throwing up so much. Oh, and I’ll be cooking with more bacon.
He Understood: Bacon for breakfast.
A very long time ago, I said that the purchase of a portable dish washer saved our marriage. It was a different time, and our first apartment didn’t have a dishwasher. Washing dishes was a point of, uh, discussion from time to time.
Our apartment didn’t have major appliances, but it did have live music every school morning; we got to listen to the Hart High marching band from across the street. Given that we were both working late nights at the time, it wasn’t a benefit, believe me.
But I digress.
Life has changed, of course, and we no longer need a portable dishwasher to add to our domestic bliss. The problem now is that I can be a dirty boy. Dirty, dirty boy.
I got cleaner, though, when I began to use a dust collector. The machine makes a huge difference in the amount of sawdust in the
garage workshop air. And, if it’s not in the air, then I do not carry the sawdust into the house, much to Velda’s relief. I have an upgraded Sears Craftsman 1-1/2 HP, model 152.213370 that eliminates dust particles down to 1 micron in size. It is great.
The dust collector gave up the ghost this week. The motor will no longer go: the on-board circuit breaker blows every time I hit start. I replaced the circuit breaker, hoping that was the issue … no joy.
This isn’t just a dirt problem, as I can’t use my drum sander or planer without a dust collector (those tools, you see, generate clouds of sawdust). I can’t easily build cutting boards without those tools. Using the other tools might be possible … but it would be dirty. Very dirty.
Luckily, I found a used, comparable replacement on Craigslist … and the motivated seller is delivering it to me today at 8am. And that, my friends, is a very good thing.
I am a part of the 1%.
I have red hair. Just like Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain, Brigham Young, Elizabeth I, Henry VIII, Calvin Coolidge, Vincent Van Gogh, Andrew Jackson, Axl Rose, Martin Van Buren, Tina Louise (her most famous character, of course, was Ginger!), Dwight Eisenhower, Ulysses S Grant, George Washington….
Well, I used to, anyway. My mother commented recently that my hair has more sawdust in it than she remembered. But it’s red. Honest.
In my heart, I am a ginger.
I’m an award-winning red head, actually, as I won the contest for the baby with the reddest hair at the Graham Street Fair. How I ever beat out Kathy Linville, I’ll never know … maybe she won an award for some other cuteness. By the time we were in elementary school and our mothers belonged to the same club, we were mistaken for twins. Why? The hair. Believe me, it was only the hair.
Today, I read that red heads are known to react differently than other people to things other than the sun. Specifically, novocaine is known to not affect people with red hair as quickly as it affects the other unlucky 99% of the population.
Perhaps that explains the time that Mom took me to the dentist – I was probably 6 years old. Old-time dentist in Savannah, MO. How long ago was this? He had a water-cooled drill, but didn’t have a suction machine to take the water out of your mouth. Think about it.
In any event, the dentist gave me a shot and dove in … and when he started to drill, I grabbed his arm and yanked his hand out of my mouth. While the drill was working on my teeth that WERE NOT NUMB.
At the time, I blamed the dentist. I still do. But maybe, just maybe, he would have blamed my red hair.
Doesn’t matter. His hand did not belong in my mouth.