Beverly Hillbillies, Part Deux

[m3a1]

I'm betting, by now, some of you are expecting that I will whip up some painfully long, nonsense about how cold it is. Since I can count my readers on one hand, 'two of you' counts as 'some of you'. See how that works? If you don't like the result, move the bar.

I will not claim that what is going on here in Boerne Texas counts as being exceptionally cold. We managed 12 degrees last night and today it's a balmy 32 degrees at mid day and the sun is shining and if the meteorologists are right, this should be our last day of wind. Wind always makes things seem worse. By comparison, my home town woke up to minus 5 with a wind chill factor that works out to be (add 17, divide by 3.14, carry the 9) ahh... MINUS 32 degrees. They have snow and snow drifts and a tremendous pile up on the Ohio Turnpike nearby. We have leaves and leaf drifts and freeze-dried doggy doo-doo. Other parts of Texas have snow. Several days from now, we'll all be walking around in T-shirts. God bless TEXAS!

Cold isn't interesting. What people do to get ready for cold, IS.

My preparations for this windy cold snap consisted of moving the outside Christmassy things (things that would get blown over) into the party tent for safe-keeping. Bill and I blocked the vents in the foundation with cut cardboard, wrapped the single spigot with towels and raked a bunch of leaves over that. That was the easy stuff. The big job began because of one smallish black and white cat. PK (don't ask me what it stands for because I don't know) is the mother of the infamous Terrible Trio and I'm ashamed to say, it was a teenage pregnancy. After the triplets were born and nursed for the bare minimum amount of time, PK went completely insane and she no longer plays well with others which is, quite possibly, the understatement of the year. So, while the other outdoor cats are sensible enough to want to come in when it is really cold (by Texas standards), PK continues to be a jerk about things. 'Detente' is not in her vocabulary. I'm the only person she will associate with and that is only because I bring the food and because she likes to go on walks with me and my dog.

My garage has been without a side door for some time. The previous owner had installed a door which opened inward and with the amount of stuff I pile in there, an inward opening door is really a non-starter for me. So, I removed it many years ago and every sort of critter comes and goes as they please. I once found a baby deer in there who was looking embarrassed and mighty lost. The garage is the one place the outdoor cats can reliably get out of the weather. So, the plan became (1) to put a small heater in the garage, (2) find a cheap, second-hand door (at the rummage place), (3) install a clear plastic cat-door in it and (J) just kinda jam the door into the door frame. A simple, yet elegant solution.

Before I buttoned up the garage, I put down food and water and a towel by the food so PK could eat without freezing her little cat feet. I brought the laundry in from the dryer along with anything else I might need and then bid farewell to the garage for a couple of days till the cold weather passed. Later, I observed PK going in and out through the cat door so she had it all figured out. Perfect.

Then, out of the blue The Good Doctor decided that THIS was the time she needed something from the pantry. She went out, pulled the door out of it's space, got what she wanted and then just kinda leaned the door back in the door frame. After that, cold air just poured into the garage defeating the whole purpose of the door, ending the test period of the heater and all my work. The cold air easily overwhelmed the small space heater. Naturally, she didn't say one word to me about it and I had to find out about it by accident, much later on. When the temp began to drop, I went out to make a quick check of the heater for safety's sake and see if it was going to do its job against the cold. Finding the door ajar, that was anyone's guess. Grrr! I fixed that by putting the door back in the door frame PROPERLY and then set two deck screws into the gaps on either side. Done and done! I wouldn't need to go back in until the following day to put down more cat food.

Night came and WHAMMO...the temperature dropped precipitously. I got comfortable, surfed the web, enjoyed a cuppa, watched some YouTube and the cats (all seven of them) finally began looking for a place to settle down for the night. Heigh HO, Heigh Ho, it's off to bed they go!

On Loki, On Toto, on Poo Bear, on Bond, on Punkin' on Buster, on Truffles, on Cooper (my dog)...
They heard Pet Dad exclaim, as they dove out of sight...
Merry Christmas to all and to all, a GOOD night.

However, Buster (who keeps very regular hours and who expects me to do the same) was lagging behind all the other cats and staring at me very obviously and very intently from across the living room. I knew what he wanted but I was trying to finish watching a particularly interesting YouTube presentation. I began to notice that there was a growing chill in the house and the air handler hadn't shut off for quite some time which is very unusual for this new HVAC system. So. I checked the most obvious thing; the filter in the air return. It was filthy and it was choking off my HVAC's airflow...

and the replacement filters were out in the garage...

and it was now 16 degrees outside.

I opened the back door, stuck my head out in order to better assess whether or not this game would be worth the candle. There was PK, sitting on the sidewalk, out in the cold and the wind, OUTSIDE the garage, staring intently at the cat door. Nope! NOPE! I am NOT doing this! She'll figure it out...or she won't...

and in the meantime, I'll just throw another blanket on the bed and wake up to a small herd of cats camped out on me. That'll be warm enough.

Cheers,
TJ

[Mr. Recovery]

We have "FREEZE" warnings here in New Port Richey Florida. I have to bring my 2 Pineapple plants inside.

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[rickf]

It is 9:45 pm and 9 degrees out with 25 mph steady wind and 40 mph gusts. Wind chill somewhere around -12. The temps are supposed to bottom out around 04:00 in the negative figures, Still with the wind. I have not been able to find a contractor to work on my house for three years now. I can no longer do it myself. My doors are shot and the air blows around them. My insulation is nonexistant and my siding is in desperate need of replacement. NOBODY wants to work nowadays. Well, except for the ones that advertise all the time and send out flyers ALL the time. Yea, I fell for that once with a window replacement. Never, ever again. Local contractor or it does not get done!!! I have the wood stove roaring and a big assed kerosene heater on standby if needed. Generators are ready for power to go out which I am sure it will do. Next few days are not going to be fun.

At one time long, long ago I used to like cold weather.

[Mr. Recovery]

" At one time long, long ago I used to like cold weather. "

I hear you Rick, My dislike of the cold started about 29 1/2 years ago when I turned 50!

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[rickf]

When you were 50? Wow, I think I was just getting out of high school!!!

[Hambone]

We have "FREEZE" warnings here in New Port Richey Florida. I have to bring my 2 Pineapple plants inside.

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When those grow up, we can make an umbrella drink, Down to 7 degrees at my house in So. Ark. Thurs. night, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you guys.

[m3a1]

I just completed a Chex Mix recipe my wife found on the internet. The internet author of said recipe stated very plainly that this was far less expensive than buying the pre-made stuff. HA! Not hardly.

I suspect this is a bit like growing your own pineapple.

Live and learn.

Cheers, and Merry Christmas. Hope Santa will be good to you all.

TJ

[Mr. Recovery]

Internet says 16 to 24 months to grow a pineapple, this will be #3 and 4, they have been running right at 18 months grown from the cut off top of the last pineapple.

Merry Christmas to all.

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[de officiis]

TJ, back during my miguided youth, I worked for a local company that specialized in providing seasonal displays and decorating for malls. These packages, which included themed animations and villages, as well as mall decorating, were proposed to, and then rented to the malls. Two or three 24 foot U-Haul trucks would be required for a large mall. We designed and built our own animations, village store fronts, large ornaments, etc. On staff were carpenters, artists, electricians, welders, painters, etc. We had a very large vacuum form machine to make almost anything. The company owned the display goods, which were stored on the upper floor of our facilty, sorted by holiday and theme. Packages were pulled and inspected prior to the season and repairs were made. Christmas, Easter and Back to School were our gig with malls. I don't think much has changed since then as malls don't have the staff to pull this off themselves. I worked with a lot of creative people back then and learned many skills. And you all thought I only knew about army trucks. Now you can ponder other things as you fight the sleep demons.

That must've been a lot of hard work...but fun.

[raymond]

Got down to -10F here the other night

Good thing we have global warmi....er... I mean climate change, or it might have got down to -10.5F

Al Gore still ignores my requests to help me split wood

[m3a1]

WELL! What a way to start the day. I start my day after playing Cat Farmer to our many cats. We have a total of seven cats IN the house at the moment (rather than the usual four) and another two pan-handlers plus one former Inside Cat with a bad attitude, OUTSIDE the house. Extra kitties are inside because of the cold spell and all that is involved in tha...

BUSTER! YOU PUT THAT ROLL OF TOILET PAPER RIGHT BACK WHERE YOU GOT IT!

I knew something was wrong when I heard the commotion in the bathroom. (Buster just came out of the loo, playing hockey with a roll of TP like he was Wayne Gretzky.) NEVER a dull moment around this place.

But, let's get back to what I was going to say which is, getting the BAD news about MuttGuru dumped in my lap before I even took the first sip of my morning coffee wasn't what I was hoping for today. So, I switched tabs on the the computer. The wife says I keep too many tabs open all the time (which is nonsense) and sent Ken an email; one that I hope will lift his spirits. Heart attacks are no laughing matter.

Ask me how I know.

ANYhoo...

Every morning, I wake up, put my farming clothes on (overalls for most of the year and coveralls for the few cold days we have) along with my muck boots and I saunter into the rest of the house like Farmer John in order to do Cat Chores. Why, you ask? Well, because the cats have been at it all night. Never less than six participate in the mayhem. Cooper, who is supposed to be a herding dog, just lays on his bed with Bond snuggled up to him. So much for trusting Coop' to keep order while I'm unconscious.

Some mornings I wake up to Buster stomping on me in order to wake me up. Sometimes I get up to find the whole house rearranged. Buster's alibis are certainly not air tight. I know him too well. Other mornings, only 'important things' have found their way off the tables and onto the floor. This year, one cat in particular has taken a keen interest in pruning my first-ever and only aluminum Christmas Tree (with predictable results). Yup. BUSTER (aka The Great Catsby) is never far from the epicenter of things....often surrounded by little bits of tinsel.

I have been playing the Cat Game long enough I know to zip-tie the bubble lights onto this year's Christmas Tree and skip the ornaments entirely. I have been fascinated by bubble lights my entire life. They are one of man's greatest inventions. (Thank you, Carl W. Otis! YOU are The MAN!) The second-hand rotating base I got works well to keep the cat(s) from focusing on any one spot on the tree but The Good Doctor turns that function off when I'm not looking (because, she says, it makes noise). HMPH! So, Buster is free to work his Cat Magic on one specific area of the Catsmas Tree while no one is looking and I have to shoo him away when I catch him at it.

PUT ONE PAW ON MY BUBBLE LIGHTS, MISTER, AND YOU'RE A DEAD DUCK!

With this many cats, I have to muck out the litter box (which is located in the front bathroom) at least three times a day. At night, 'things' happen. I have to sleep SOME time! One member of our cat herd is so huge he doesn't fit well in the litter box. That would be Poo-Bear, a very sweet, plus-sized, black Burmese male (who has very questionable bathroom manners).

If I want him to use the litter box, I have to leave the top of it off. Poo-Bear isn't fat. He's just a huge cat. In order to help you appreciate his size, think of the litter box as a normal parking space with normal-sized cats being regular cars. No troubles there. Comparatively, Poo-Bear would be a semi truck. So, half the time he just uses the bathtub....which is why I call Panther (that's his real name), Poo-Bear. Disgusting behavior, I know, but as a result, I clean that bathtub a lot more than most normal human beings clean their bathtub. Until Panther cleans up his act, I will continue to refer to him as Poo-Bear and I will continue to clean that tub.

Stupid cat. Big, black, beautiful STUPID cat! Could be worse, though. Check out THESE crazy people!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lwp6Ni5Hndw&t=7s

NOPE! Thanks but no thanks!

Doctor Smith provides us with top quality litter (made out of ground walnut shells treated with a clumping agent and some mysterious deodorizing chemical approximating OdoBan) so, happily, there is no stink...but there are a lot of stray bits of ground walnut shell all over the bathroom floor...because, no top on the box and one much-oversized cat. Even the best litter mats (yeah, we have TWO of those) don't catch it all. Every morning, the front bathroom looks like the cats had been tossing hand grenades into the litter box all night. I sweep and vacuum that bathroom floor not less than 4 times a day. Sometimes more.

Cat Farming can be a lot of work.

Thankfully, once I am up and about, the cats pretty much mind their manners and behave like regular cats instead of the wretched little hobgoblins they are at night.

Having mentioned Carl W. Otis, inventor of the bubble light, I am reminded that there are quite a few people out there; people we way not even know, who have enriched our lives and made life so very much better for the rest of us. Ken is also one of those special folk.

Ken, I am thinking about you and I'm having a few polite conversations with The Lord on the matter of your successful recovery. Hang in there, buddy!

Cheers,
TJ

[m3a1]

Well, I had hoped to have something worthy of reporting but as yet, 2023 has been little more than a series of odds and ends.

My Christmas ended up with a small 'bang'. Skippy the Kid and I have been in negotiations on the matter of that little ol' Suzuki dirt bike all through the latter half of 2022. That dam finally broke when Skippy gave it to me as a Christmas gift. (many thanks, Skippy!)

I gave him a very fine set of 1970s vintage Ford truck manuals (covering anything truck-like) which were made available to me by Rick (many thanks, Rick!). Skippy digs collecting pretty much anything automotive so, that set was right up his alley. I also gave him his very first engine stand which was the used one I found some time ago and improved by making it a four-wheeler, rather than the tricycle-geared model it had been. Sooner or later he will use it and hopefully, (since he is only a fledgling mechanic) he will quickly come to realize that inexpensive and/or used tools can take you a VERY long way. The lesson was the gift and the engine stand was the package the gift came in.

The sooner he comes to embrace that lesson, the more money will remain in his pocket.

In turn, Skippy gave me the old Suzuki dirt bike as a Christmas gift. Neither of us has made any effort to analyze its actual condition so, I'm looking forward to 'unwrapping' my 'present' and seeing what I've got to work with. Could be a keeper. Could be a klinker.

Antici.......

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...pation!


I am STILL deep in the throes of getting Christmas decor back in the boxes it came in. Can you believe it? I'm taking up miles of extension cords, cutting 54,389 zip ties, coiling up enough garland to reach Dodge City, Kansa (via Amarillo) and moving through the Christmas Tent like I'm on safari because it has been transformed into a warehouse for all the Christmas paraphernalia.

Compounding the matter of TAKING DOWN is the fact that every year, we buy a few more choice decorations to PUT UP and the real problem is I fail to cull stuff out on the back side of Christmas...so the mountain of stuff gets bigger, and bigger. Don't recall if I mentioned I bought Home Depot's animated reindeer this year. Got it at a bargain price. It came up lame because some moron parked its moving head next to some immovable object. Everything inside it is making small electric motor noises just as it should do so, my guess is several gears need my help. Once I have more Christmas packed away, and the tent is less like a jungle of boxes and totes I'll perform the necessary surgery and we'll see what I've got. Getting stuff that actually WORKS.....

...well, where's the fun in THAT?

Was Santa good to me? Well sure! Santa brought me a lovely little LP gas-powered outdoor fire pit since apparently we can no longer be trusted with having open campfires for fear of burning down the rest of the world, and a really generous tent outdoor enclosure that is meant to encompass the South end of a Northbound Jeep Wrangler and provide me with some general protection from the elements. I also got a nice set of el-cheapo fog lights for the YJ, not because I drive in fog but because there are two mounting holes on the front bumper of the Jeep that need to be filled. I used to do a lot of back-country driving and camping. Maybe there's one last hurrah left in me?

Okay, I have got to get back to packing up all the stuff. Hope everyone had a nice Christmas and will have a happy and prosperous 2023.

Cheers,
TJ

[m3a1]

I am STILL dismantling Christmas Party stuff. The Good Doctor has had some days off (long stretches in which I had better drop what I'm doing and stand at parade rest until she tells me exactly what she wants to do). I've been dragged off to eat at some frou-frou restaurant every night (Kripes!...can we afford this?!...and if we can, how come I'm being kept on a tight budget?!) and every one of these upscale restaurants is far less satisfying than a good, cheap steak at Texas Roadhouse. Actually, I'm a burger and fries kinda guy and I eat in places where I know I'm going to get an amount of gustatory satisfaction that is equivalent to the price I'm being made to pay for the meal.

The Billmeister has joined us on several of these uppity outings and he, being a hot-to-trot, wannabe Bon Vivant, has been driving me nuts with his nonsensical, nonstop commentary about the quality of the wine(s) and the food served to us. The Doc partakes and often shares a bottle with Bill, while I do not care for anything wine-ish...or liquor-ish for that matter, not because I am a teetotaler, but because the stuff tastes like paint remover smells and THAT smells like Cherry Cordial-flavored cough syrup.

Couple that with an annoying fake Sommelier who brings a bottle of the stuff and goes through the equally annoying wine-presentation ritual while mumbling something that sounds only vaguely like French and you'll find me just about out of patience before the first drop is poured into the glass. The only thing missing from this charade is a pencil thin mustache; one that is drawn on with an eye liner pencil. The Sommelier performs his duties trés correct and is always bien habillé but I know the very moment he gets home, he'll shuck his duds and leave them on the floor. Then he'll light a Marlboro and put a cheap mac and cheese into the microwave, pop the tops on a six pack of Lone Star beer (all at once) and slump into a busted up recliner to watch The Sponge Bob Squarepants Marathon while lounging in his shot-out BVDs.

How does one master a fake French accent? By repeating the Spongebob classic Three Hours Later phrase over, and over.....and over....

....and you thought watching Sponge Bob Squarepants was a waste of time.

I had a mother who would literally submerge me in 'Cherry Cordial'-flavored cough syrup at the first sign of a sniffle. It's like a rule... or something. That's what mothers in Ohio do when they want to make a preemptive strike and ensure that little Timmy never misses a single day of school. Not because school attendance is particularly important but because having the kid out of one's hair is like a tiny vacation from parenthood...if only for a few hours. Cherry Cordial-flavored cough syrup is neither cherry-flavored, nor does it show the least bit of cordiality to kids unless it is consumed in larger quantities. Then it puts kids to sleep. Wether Timmy is at school, or doped into unconsciousness; either way, it's like a tiny little vacation from parenthood.

Cherry Cordial cough syrup - MOTHER APPROVED!

As for Bill's commentary which (oddly) is ALSO sleep inducing, well....his BS commentary piles up so quickly at the table, you need wings to stay above it. (I didn't come up with that 'wings' line, but I wish I had). His stupid commentary about the quality of the food (or the drink) is ladled on so thickly it literally drips off the edge of the table and gathers at our feet like spilled beef bourguignon.

Blah-blah-blah.

This came to a head when we gathered at a small town pizzeria in a slowly dying Texas community appropriately named SMITHVILLE. It has a main street that is all of two blocks long, flanked with the typical two-story brick buildings with large plate glass display windows on the first floor with tall sash style widows on the second floor. When the railroad no longer stopped there, the whole downtown kinda hung out a CLOSED sign and eventually, the main street shoppes (spelled with two 'p's and an 'e' just to be inviting to Bon Vivants, like Bill) were resurrected and reorganized to become antique stores...most likely because the rent is more affordable than anywhere else on the face of the planet.

Well, it didn't take long for us to browse through what little antiquing Smithville had to offer and lunchtime was soon upon us. It was going to be pizza for lunch because, well, the pizzeria was right around the corner....we were hungry....and we also thought maybe NOT eating there in Smithville might be the straw that breaks Smithville's financial back. I didn't want that kind of blame laid at my feet...especially because my surname is Smith. If Smithville folds, it ain't gonna be my fault, fellas.

Now, I had been to Smithville before and I had tried their pizza. It was good, but not truly note-worthy; in point of fact, as pizza goes, it was really nothing special, unless you happened to BE from Smithville in which case it may very well be the best darned pizza in town (or within a 40 mile radius, for that matter) because Smithville is smack dab in the middle of NOWHERE.

Their pizza paled in comparison to the two best pizzas I ever had, which were procured at (1) a drive-in movie and (2) a bowling alley. At either of those places, you could count on being served a pie that required a mop and a bucket just to sop up all the excess greasy-red goodness. It was sloppy goodness, meant to be consumed on the spot and not built to be put in a box and taken home as many pizzas are. It would be topped with sauce with a kick, coated with the cheapest pepperoni & cheese and then baked in an oven that was just a little too hot so there were always crispy points here and there.

There was none of this fancy pants, deep-dish, cheese-filled crust gimmicky junk topped with curious stuff you've never even heard of, either. It was dead flat, piping hot and dripping with enough grease to generously lubricate a Greyhound bus. We teenagers gobbled it up so fast we burned the roof of our mouths and never complained. THIS, by the way, is exactly how you describe pizza. It's described in simple language because it's food for simple teenagers who, as we know, don't know doodly squat and didn't yet have the vocabulary to describe it even if they did. In short, pizza ain't haute cuisine. It's cuisine bourgeoise...food for commoners.

Now, imagine how good pizza could be if it were served at a bowling alley with a drive-in movie out back. HOLY COW! Anywhere teens congregate for cheap pizza, you can absolutely count on the pizza being gooooooood....and you can skip the commentary entirely.

So, there we were eating our Smithville pizza and Bill is making 'thoughtful' noises. Not 'yummy' noises. 'Thoughtful' noises. Thoughtful noises start with an 'H'...like, Hmm. Yummy noises start with an 'M', like Mmm. Oh pleeeease God....NO. Bill wants everyone to know that he is considering his food. His body language suggested he was about to bust wide open. This time, louder. HMMmm! I put my chin on my chest and shut my eyes. Bill doesn't take notice that I'm trying extra hard to take no notice.

HMMmm!

(Apparently, God has not heard my plea.)

and.....THAR SHE BLOWS!

Bill begins gushing about the fine qualities of This Very Excellent Pizza. Flavor-this...and, Texture-that...and, Aroma-the-other...and something about Arugula. Arugula isn't Dracula's younger brother but it might just as well have been, for all I cared. I just wanted to eat my simple pizza in peace. I knew he was about to comment about his pizza's appearance because he was holding up to eye level and studying it with one eyebrow elevated and the other eye at a squint like sighting down the barrel of a gun.

I interrupted him and it was the Arugula that did it. Arugula pushed me over the edge and I interrupted him because I had had enough.

"Bill," I said, "This is a small town and we are sitting in a do-nothing, pizza joint. If you say one more word about your pizza, or the Arugula...(I was gently waving my plastic fork back and forth in front of his eyes like a Cobra)...I will gouge your eyes out of your head with this here fork like they were two ripe olives and I will stuff them into your mouth, along with that slice of pizza you're holding...just to shut you up." Bill lowered his pizza slice from eye level to mouth level and finished his pizza in relative silence and then carefully studied his wine glass. Poor, sad, little Bon Vivant.

It was an awkward moment. I admit, I felt bad about saying what had to be said and I was sure Bill was a bit put off by it, chiefly because he knew I wouldn't actually gouge his eyes out like they were two ripe olives (quail's eggs perhaps, but I thought the haughty tone associated with quail's eggs would be curiously out of place, all things considered) but he also knew I could absolutely be counted on to choke him out right there in front of God and everybody, with or without a plastic fork....

and we wouldn't want that.

Cheers,
TJ

[m3a1]

My bad back (my naughty, NAUGHTY back!) has finally reached a stage of decomposition where sitting on our ancient couch/double recliner is no longer an option. It was once a pretty nice couch; leather, with three established seating places with recliners at either end. We have had this couch since our kids were pre-teens and it knows a few things, because it has seen a few things. Namely, it has seen El Giganté, my son who spent many a happy hour playing video games from the couch, which is to say that he spent many a happy hour excitedly leaping to his feet and then just as excitedly slamming himself back down onto the seat...over and over and over again..with predictable results.

ATOMIC BOMB DROP!

The end result of this nonsense was that the reclining seats would no longer provide enough support for a human being to be remotely comfortable. Sitting on our couch was an embarrassment when I had friends over because it was just about like sitting on a toilet with the seat up. I had been making up for the deficiencies by sitting on the worst side and filling in the divot with some thrift store throw pillows. I finally gave up on that and began wheeling my office chair from The Command Post into the living room for 'Movie Night'. The Command Post is my place at the kitchen table where I deconstruct life as I know it and reassemble it into the tongue-in-cheek satirical drivel you are meant to enjoy with your morning cuppa.

You're welcome, by the way.

Now, The Command Post Chair is a former office chair which, like every other important piece of furniture around here, does double duty by being a very suitable and enjoyable scratching post for The Terrible Trio....and the cats (and I) are running out of chair. The poor thing is getting whittled down to a nubbin. I know this without even looking because there is a small pile of chair renderings on the floor of the kitchen every morning. Between those bits of chair and the bits of OOM-NOM-NOMs that inevitably find their way out of the cat food bowl after the trio has enjoyed a boisterous meal, my kitchen floor is a wreck. Add to that the Lego bits that the cats pluck off my wife's Lego builds every night for a rousing game of midnight hockey.

During the day, my kitchen is the best-swept room in the house, but at night....all bets are off.

There is an added benefit to having Legos scattered about the house, by the way. At night (when I'm up for the 32nd time) I like to take a stroll from the bedroom to the kitchen for a little taste of something or maybe just a glass of milk. There is nothing quite like it. Not the food.... The stroll. I have developed some madly novel and legit martial arts moves from stepping on Legos in the dark. Wikipedia says, "There are hundreds of different styles of Chinese martial arts, each with their own sets of techniques and ideas. The various movements in kung fu, most of which are imitations of the fighting styles of animals, are initiated from one to five basic foot positions: normal upright posture and the four stances called dragon, frog, horse riding, and snake."

Snakes have feet? GET OUTTA DODGE!!!

I won't waste your time naming all the martial arts styles, or naming MY style for that matter...mainly because mine has no name but, step on a Lego in the dark and, well, you can imagine the rest. The thing that comes closest to describing my footwork is - The Scooby Doo Bongo Routine. It's a bit like Scooby Doo getting ready to run away. One simply rises into the air by pedaling one's feet so fast that a cushion of air is created between feet and floor (which is precisely where the cats keep their stray Legos). Forward momentum is then created by flailing one's arms at the speed of light; a flailing technique I developed by walking through spider webs outside.... at night.... in the shop area.... in utter darkness.

Jet Li ain't got nuthin' on me. I'm the Master of my very own martial arts style.

ANYhoo I'm a notorious cheapskate and there was a time when I'd get along with the most awful furniture imaginable until the last dog died but my back simply can't take any more of that darned couch! Plus the kids are all grown and moved out so, I told The Good Doctor that it was high time we shopped for a chair that suited me and me alone. Having a dedicated OLD GUY CHAIR meant a serious overhaul of the seating arrangements in our tiny living room because that ol' couch, when flanked by some rather generous-sized end tables totally dominated the landscape.

Why large end tables? Well, with cats in the house, the end tables become their preferred lounging spaces and as an added bonus, our cats do a pretty fair job at keeping them dusted so there is THAT. Acquiring an OLD GUY CHAIR would mean having to forget about having a couch. Instead, we would have to go with a love seat and we would have to delete one of our lovely little antique end tables.

It recently occurred to me that there are waypoints in our lives that are indicative of our age and oncoming frailty. Needing and acquiring a specific chair so that one can comfortably sit down for an extended period IS one of those waypoints. In fact, one of the questions put to me when I was going to the Orthopaedist (OOH! Fancy spelling! ) for the very first time was, "Do you have a favorite chair?" YIKES! Technically, I did. (I spend a lot of time in The Command Post Chair as it was the only chair that offered sufficient support.) OOF! That hit home.

But it's not my age, fellas....it's the mileage.

So, Doc agreed that a change was required and she and I went shopping. First stop, Sam's Wholesale Club, home of the bestest, cheapest hot dogs known to mankind. Only $1.48 each! They are absolutely fabulous and they are on my concise list of things to save from being ravaged by the zombie apocalypse. Sam's had only one flavor of a known brand power recliner chair and it was not only relatively inexpensive but it was almost comfortable. Next stop, Rooms To Go. With a name like that, how bad could it possibly be? Now, my furniture shopping expertise was (and still is) sorely lacking.

The first thing I learned was, do everything in your power to be rid of the salesperson. They gaggle up by the front door and each one has a little iPad-looking gadget which, from my perspective didn't seem to be of any use whatsoever...at least it wasn't to the sales guy who latched onto me like a Remora. Maybe they play games on 'em while waiting to pounce on customers. I told him we were only tire kickers. He didn't go away. So, I tried another tactic. I began asking him questions. Hard ones. Things that no salesperson could possibly know. Things like what was the thread count of this particular fabric? and was the batting guaranteed to be hypoallergenic? and was the material in frame of the chair declared to be carcinogenic by the State of California? and what was the actual penalty for taking the little tag off if one wasn't the purchaser? Has ANYONE ever been prosecuted for that? Eventually, he slipped away to look for more charitable customers and we finally got some GD peace and quiet.

This particular Rooms To Go had a floor model special which was really not quite what I was hoping for but it did fall neatly into a growing list of possibilities. Unfortunately, they were rather standoffish about parting with their closeout items and made no effort to close the deal. In fact they made it darned hard for me to say, "I'll take it" and I'm glad I didn't. Doc needed to go home and place her orders for patients so, we called it a night.

The Billmeister and I visited several other stores the following day and because salespersons were always defending the front door like linebackers, we developed a routine. In one scenario, Bill would pose as the customer while I shopped, unmolested. In another, Bill would walk in first, announce that I was the customer and when the salesperson greeted me, I would tell him that Bill was the actual customer and that Bill had told him I was the customer because he didn't want to be disturbed....or that I might be lying. This worked out very well because at that point, the salesman wisely left us BOTH alone and we shopped in peace.

Several days later Doc and I got back to it and visited yet ANOTHER Rooms To Go store where I learned something else. All furniture stores under one name are not necessarily pushing the same products. We walked in expecting to find nothing we hadn't already seen. I gave the salesman my latest salutary greeting - "We came to sit on things and talk with one another about furniture, but not to buy." He did the right thing and told us to have a look around and if we DID find something, to please ask for him. Extra points to him for being smart enough to read the room. I went maybe 60 feet, turned right and THERE IT WAS...

The Perfect Chair....

And I do mean it was PERFECT. It was traditional, it looked masculine, very businesslike, was covered in leather and it had all the usual power recliner functions. More important, it also came with a lumbar adjustment which I hadn't seen on any other recliners (that option had me sold, right there) and it had something kinda extra special that none of the other chairs had. A Zeroing Button. Push the button and every function went back to where it started which is a bit like taking all your tools out and having a butler to tidy up. VERY uptown and you didn't have to sit there like a decrepit old fool, zeroing the chair before getting up! But best of all, the chair was undeniably comfortable.

Great. I had given the salesman the brush-off and now I needed him. Figures!

A bit embarrassed, I went and gave him the good news. On the way to check out, I nudged The Good Doctor and suggested that, since we were feeling lucky, perhaps we should look for the love seat to accompany the chair. So, we turned right around and kept the salesman in tow. Turned out Doc had some fairly firm ideas about that love seat and she had one picked out in under fifteen minutes and then a tiny little end table as well. I was informed (pay attention fellas, because this may be important to you at some point) if I provided a Doctor's scrip to show a bonafide need for a chair, I would pay no tax on that portion of the purchase. Niiiiiiice.

So, now we have lovely new furniture, my back is WAY happier and the cats are nervous about the new stuff in the living room... but not so nervous that every one of them hasn't already picked out a new favorite corner to sleep in. Luckily, I put covers over the new furniture FIRST THING because I KNEW that was coming. Cooper The Wonder Dog isn't happy because he has been forbidden from being up on either piece of furniture because he's well and truly overdue for a bath. Oh, I bet he'll sneak up there tonight while I'm fast asleep. Dog's gonna do what a dog's gonna do.

Cheers,
TJ

[rickf]

I have to copy this to my phone for future reference!!!

I began asking him questions. Hard ones. Things that no salesperson could possibly know. Things like what was the thread count of this particular fabric? and was the batting guaranteed to be hypoallergenic? and was the material in frame of the chair declared to be carcinogenic by the State of California? and what was the actual penalty for taking the little tag off if one wasn't the purchaser? Has ANYONE ever been prosecuted for that? Eventually, he slipped away to look for more charitable customers and we finally got some GD peace and quiet.


I usually just get obnoxious and tell them to leave me the hell alone and if they do not I will leave. Problem is that does not work out well in the bargaining process to follow if I do find something.

How long before claw marks appear on the new chair?