Labor

Someone with a civil engineering degree could tell me how much a cement floor one and a half inches thick by four feet by sixteen weights. Bucket by bucket I carried broken bites of concrete, tile and wire mesh down a flight of stairs through a kitchen and out to a trailer sitting in a garage. Dump and lug. I lost track after I shoveled nine buckets of debris. Dump and lug. And trudge back upstairs, which I interpreted as my break.

It poured all day and never got much about sixty outside, but in that upstairs bathroom I was sweating.

First business of the day was to lay ground clothes throughout the path from bathroom to garage. That was easy.

Then I went to work on the unscrewing a couple of fixtures from the wall. That too was easy. Next the boss asked me to crawl under the sink and shut off the water. Hum? As hard as I turned the water still flowed. Down in the basement I shut the water off to the house before returning to my place under the sink. I unhooked the plumbing. Not too bad.

Next I tackled the toilet. I had removed one from my own bathroom in one of my rental units. So that wasn’t too bad until I got to that last floor bolt. It did nothing but spin. My boss, swung a hammer, cracked the footing and I helped him cart it down stairs along with the vanity. Okay.

I took the sledge hammer to the vanity and destroyed the box placing the pieces in a nice flat configuration in the bottom of the trailer, going to the dump. Back upstairs it was time to remove the four by four walk-in shower insert. My instructions were to take the reciprocating saw and cut out the three walls and floor. My boss had to run to Home Depot.

My only experience with the saw involved a baseboard in my kitchen remodel. The baseboard was one of those old fashion solid pieces of wood about twelve inches wide. I never used the saw before nor had Iever seen anyone use one. It's the tool of the devil. It scared the living crap out of me. I ended up hand sawing through the wood. Took all day.

So I was a little apprehensive about this task. I was on my own. Nothing like a good prayer to get you through a task with all fingers, toes, and eyes. But I should have had hearing protection and a mask. I had the shower cut into pieces, screws removed and my mess swept up by the time he returned with coffee. I needed a drink.

Kind of proud of myself, I took the crowbar to the trim and it popped off like I was trimming my fingernails.

But then we moved to the floor. I could only manage to chew little pieces off with my crow bar and sledge hammer. With an eighteen pound bar, the boss dug into the floor and I assumed the responsibilities for lugging and dumping.

By 2:30, six hours after the start we were done with the demolishing. I folded up with drop clothes, put away the tools and dumped by body behind the steering wheel of my Jeep. Actually, I didn’t feel too bad. That was because I couldn’t feel my arms any longer.

Was this how Studs Terkel felt after his research escapades? Still waiting for the Saratogain to call me about a writing job. Mom always said college gave us options.

Outdoor Life

Before there was any whisper of a breeze on Lake George, I brushed the dust of my hiking boots at the trailhead for Prospect Mountain. The last time I wore the leather boots I shoveled six inches of snow from Dad’s driveway. It was late January, a day before I escaped to Hawaii for the rest of the winter.

A party of four arrived at the same time, parking just ahead of me. I got off a few minutes before they did, but they were soon on my heals. They passed burning too much energy on the persistent grade. Slow and steady, that is how you approach Prospect. Using this method I over took them and never saw them again until I was sitting at the top of the rocks overlooking the jewel of the upstate New York.

Moments after I stepped onto the trail I realized I forgot insect repellent. There wasn’t much breeze to keep them at bay and soon I was leading a pack of mosquitoes up the mountain. Larger than an average house cat they tried to feast on every exposed skin surface. Despite sweating profusely and hearing my heart thump loudly in my ears I dared not stop for I feared I go insane. I can only say I was fortunate enough to be in good shape so I didn’t suffer too much and the size of the beasts made them equally easy targets. However, I became so frustrated with their persistence that it was with some satisfaction that I began to leave the smeared carcasses on my arms and legs, much like a gunslinger notches the handle of his pistol.

On an exposed rock, I took one small break. A spec of sunshine warmed the granite surface enough to keep most of the blood feeders at bay. Basically, I inhaled a gooey peanut bar while I struck two more buzzards from the sky. It took fifty seven minutes to reach the top. But now the warmed air stirred a breeze and the mosquitoes disappeared, replaced by a swarm of black flies.

They are a thousand times—no a million times—worse than mosquitoes. I have never had a mosquito fly up my nose, in my eye, down my ear canal or crawl into my shirt. And when a black fly bites, I don’t notice the bite until hours later when there is a swollen itchy lump the size of a walnut inflamed on my neck, behind my ear, between my shoulder blades or half way up my pant leg.

As I write I so want to dig into the nape of my neck.

As I arrived at the top a bus load of Brooklynites tumbled out of a tour bus. Geez. So much for a bit of solitude. But I took pleasure in their innocent delight of the panoramic view of the Adirondacks. Looking through the viewfinders, they exclaimed, “I can see the water, the mountains, the trees.” I guess in New York City I would awe, “I can see the Washington Bridge, the Empire State Building, even New Jersey.”

A group of five took pictures of themselves. I offered to take a group photo.

“Oh thank you so much. We are from and don’t expect people to be so nice.” One of the young girls said.

“Hey, I know you guys. You have a reputation, but I know better. It’s all show.”

After a few minutes of fresh air at this dizzying altitude they were ready to hit the Village and do what all tourist do, shop.

Print Proof

There is such a satisfying feeling when the writing comes together. Kind of like the sweet feel of crushing a home run or smacking a golf ball straight and long down the fairway, two things I have never done. But I can imagine.

I was still writing this afternoon when Diablo’s constant crying at the front door drove me crazy. I put her on the leash and brought her outside. Her antics made me lose my concentration and stirred up the back flies, which almost made me lose my wits.

Since arriving back in New York, I have applied for four jobs and landed two. “What recession?” You might ask. I have landed two, but both leave me underemployed, but I don't care. One job I applied for was a human resources manager. I’m not holding my breath and would have strong mixed feelings about seriously pursuing and landing it.

I must remind myself that just days ago it was 30 degrees. A job in upstate New York for the next three to five years would be a personal sacrifice of epoch proportions. So it would have to be one damn good job. Hell, I have the “I can do anything attitude” when it is 70 degrees outside and the sun rises before 5 AM and sets after 8. So easy to forget chipping ice off the windshield, listening to the empty crank of the starter and not the engine, continuously fighting involuntary cramping of cold feet, and I’m not even mentioning paying New York State taxes.

But nothing to worry about until or if I have to cross that bridge. One more overdue doctor bill and I’m here.

Anyway, on Tuesday I’m going to meet with Steve the Master Bath dude, who has a bath remodel job starting on Wednesday. His unusual listing on Craig’s List prompted me to pull together a resume detailing the experiences I have had in remodeling my apartment kitchen and making landlord repairs to roofs, walls, floors, not to mention plumbing and electrical work. Toss in paint experience and I was pretty impressed with my own resume. He was looking for ex-military women. Claims women on the job are neater. You think? We talked and we will see. Since helping Dad hang new insulation in the garage ceiling the other day, my sore muscles are still recovering.

The other job is as a Peace Officer at the track. Of course anyone who can basically fog a mirror and tie their shoes can get this job. But few can look the part. I can look the part and talk it too.

There is a ten hour training course and a test, but if it is anything like the training for security guard and I imagine it will be, then I won’t have to worry about a need for heavy breathing to cloud that mirror. Training isn't until mid-July, but the Captain swore me in on Tuesday. There is a need for a boat load of us in Belmont on June 6. It’s a $225 gig that starts and ends with a long bus ride. Time consumed probably will be close to twenty four hours. So what is that per hour?

My only concern is my fingerprints. For the third time they have been taken. (Not stolen.) Last year I never got m security license because they couldn't be processed. This time I was told mine are kind of faint. Must be all that typing I do. Apparently, they can wear away. Am I smelling a life of crime as my next career move?

"You'll never catch me copper."

Andrew's Graduation

After the ceremony there is nothing left to do but cut the cake.















Enough white shirts that one doesn't have to do laundry for a year. (Well, almost)







Andrew M. Perez with Melissa. After four years of hard work, he decides to return to school for another undergraduate degree. Pre-Med option, maybe?

PhotoLog

Another tree. Someday, I'll have a coffee table book of tree stumps.

Need a Hat?

I asked Adam if I could take his photo. He was a little shy about it, but said yes. He wanted to know if I was a photographer. Easy to assume that after I whipped out my Canon Rebel xsi with that fancy black neck strap that boldly sports EOS in white letters.

"No, I'm not a photographer. I do however, pretend to be a writer. Maybe you have heard of The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin?"

Adam said his mom taught him how to crochet. Since this is Mother's Day, I'm posting Adam on my blog. Salute to all mothers who taught their children well. And if you find yourself walking in downtown Kona and in need of a hat before you take off to the summit of Mauna Kea, see Adam.

Up Service Prices

Now that all the US Post Offices are closed for the weekend, with few exceptions, I’ll remind you that the Forever 42 Cent Stamp will be never more come Monday, May 11th. Okay, not a big deal. Just fork over an extra two cents for the first class letter. Besides, who sends out that many letters anyway?

Apparently my sister, Jennifer, does.

Remembering at quarter ‘til twelve on Saturday, that the price to mail a letter rises 5% (That’s not much, but wouldn’t you like your retirement portfolio do so well?), my sister dashed down the road to the Post Office before it closed at noon. In the little rural Post Office located on Route 9, she found two other people cued and waiting. No one was behind the counter. The clock was ticking. In the mysterious recesses which every post office is mandated to have, she heard the shuffling of letters being deposited into the little metal cubicals that line the walls.

A few minutes passed. One patron coughed.

“Is someone out there?” Drifted a muffled voice from the mandatory recesses.

My sister and the person ahead of her, looked to the person at the head of the line, giving him the unspoken responsibility to answer the voice.

“Ah, yeah?” He called out. “Maybe there should be a bell on the door,” he whispered.

“Oh Hello." The post mistress said coming around the corner. “May I help you?”

From the head of the line, “I need a book of stamps.”

“We don’t have any.”

“What?” My sister squeaked.

By now a forth person joined the line, a big lumberjack of a dude, from Harlem maybe? “What’s she mean she ain’t got no stamps? Don’t she print’em here? Like the banks prints money?”

My sister checked her laughter. Taking a quick look at him, she suspected he was serious.

“If you have a letter to mail, I can stamp it for you. But I am all out of stamps.”

“Must be a run on the Post Office. Like them failing banks.”

“I need stamps. Is there another Post Office open somewhere?” my sister asked.

“There’s a Post Office on Washington Ave. It’s open until 2. I can call to see if they have any.”

My sister made the trip into town to buy all the stamps they had. That was $630 worth of stamps. She would have bought more if they had them.

I do all my bill paying, banking and most correspondence on line. Recently I had to mail a couple of forms back to my financial planner and a change of address form to the IRS. I told them I moved out of the country. I don’t know how long it would take for me to go through 1500 stamps. I’m guessing forever. When Jennifer says forever, she means it.

You can still get the 42 cent stamp on line if you hurry. It will cost $1.00 (regardless of the quantity you purchase) for handling. I don’t know why? After all , isn’t the postman coming by on Monday with a stack of bills anyway?

I ordered $82.00 worth. I figure that will last me for “my forever”. If not, I know where I can get a few stamps

The Gift

Since it is Mom's birthday, here is a story about her dog Rusty. I wrote it a couple years ago and never shared it with anyone.

With the same excitement of a ten-year-old Florence, my Mom, blurted the news, “I got a dog and I’m going to name him Rusty.”

“Oh no,” I said. I envisioned a snarling beast lurking my mother’s kitchen. I cradled the phone’s receiver on my shoulder. “Dogs with that name bite more people than any other. How about Lucky?” I suggested. After all, as my mother described the circumstances he seemed to be one lucky dog.

“No,” she insisted. “You should see his coat. It’s thick. It’s so shiny.” So, Rusty it was.

Mom loved dogs, but Shelties held a special place in her heart. For eleven years she owned a blue merle named Holly. Mom and Holly often took walks around the rural block to meet and socialize with the other dogs in the neighborhood. Or they went to a nearby state park where Holly could run through the woods barking at grey squirrels—real or imaginary—while Mom strolled around the park’s quiet lake.

After my father, Manuel, retired my parents set off in their RV across North America and Holly patiently sat behind Mom’s seat through thirty-five states and three countries. In Mexico, she kept the Federales at bay when they insisted on searching the vehicle. They changed their minds when they heard the dog’s growl inside the motor home. If they had seen her diminutive size, they would have laughed and torn the RV apart from top to bottom.

Holly had been a lifesaver. More than once the little dog woke Dad to alert him that Mom suffered an insulin reaction. But Holly had passed away the previous spring and Mom mourned the loss of her faithful companion. Every night she prayed that when the right time came, she’d have another dog.

Then one Sunday morning after church service, Mrs. Williams approached my mother. “Florence, do you want a dog?” She explained, “I can’t take him. It doesn’t seem right to let such a nice dog roam loose.” The elderly woman leaned on her cane and repositioned the worn Bible clutched to her chest. “I don’t know what to do with him. He mysteriously showed up one cold day. He’s a Sheltie.”

When he didn’t leave, Mrs. Williams felt guilty and fed him. Three months later and deep into winter, she knew something had to be done if the dog were to be able to survive until spring. With anyone else, Mrs. Williams might have had to beg, but my mother didn’t hesitate. Mom knew God had answered her prayers.

Snow blew across the road when Mom and Dad went to get the Sheltie the following morning. The stray jumped right into their car. He appeared a little thin, but wore the thick coat of his sheepdog ancestors. Such a coat shielded the herding dogs from the stinging sleet and snow carried by the Scot Highland winds. The little dog’s matted and tangled hair captured residue of every muddy ditch, shallow stream, and salty road he had wandered. His cream-colored underbelly and petticoats, the long tresses of hair that grew on his hind hocks, were a grimy brown. Old burrs were embedded deep within his wool-like coat. And he stunk.

Mom arranged for Rusty to have a check up and bath at the local veterinarian. When the vet’s assistant brought Rusty out, the bounce in his gait made his clean coat dance. The luxurious blend of the black-and-tan hairs shone and his well-groomed petticoats floated behind him like angel’s wings.

Mom loved her new dog. Dad, more reserved in his affection for pets, admired the beauty and easy temperament of the little dog.

Karen, who had been Holly’s vet, asked to speak to Mom. “He’s in remarkably good shape for living outdoors for who knows how long. Maybe he could use an extra pound or two; otherwise, he seems healthy. Blood and stool samples results will be back in a few days. Let’s start his shots next week.” Karen cleared her throat and asked, “Where did you say you got him?”

“Over in Gansevoort. A friend from church found him.”

“That’s some distance from Glens Falls,” Karen said, “but he looks an awful lot like this dog.” She handed Mom a flyer of a lost Sheltie dated five months earlier. “We always keep them on file,” she explained. “I thought the dog looked familiar.” The grainy black-and-white photo captured a remarkable resemblance.

“Can’t be the same dog,” my mother denied. “Besides, he’s mine now.” She ruffled Rusty’s lion-like mane. The chain on his new collar jangled.

Dad studied the flyer. “That’s clear on the other side of the Hudson River, about fifteen miles to the nearest bridge. How did he cross the river?” There was no explanation.

“Take the flyer. It has the number if you decide to call.”

That night, with her new dog settled down beside her bed, Mom lay awake tormented by the dilemma. Housebroken and well-behaved, this dog had belonged to someone, but Mom reasoned she now owned Rusty. God gave him to me. He’s mine. I took him in when he did not have a home. Nobody else wanted him. Yet, she knew if he had been her dog and had lost him, she would want him back.

How had he safely crossed the Hudson? The nearest bridge spanned a remote area over the river on a heavily traveled Interstate highway called the Northway. If Rusty didn’t take that bridge, the next one was in South Glens Falls. It too would have been equally treacherous to cross without getting struck by a car. But for the hardest question, she had no answer. Lord, how could you answer my prayers and then take this beautiful gift away? In the silent darkness of her room, she heard nothing, except a deep sigh from the Sheltie.

A fresh snow fell during the night and left the backyard a white blanket that glistened in the early morning sun. As Mom washed the breakfast dishes, she stared out of the kitchen window. The undisturbed snow stretched into the woods behind the house. It was just last winter that Holly’s tracks cut across the perfect surface.

Chickadees made their endless flights back and forth to the feeder. As she watched them tirelessly carry one seed at a time to the snow-laden pine bows she thought of Matthew 6:26: "Look at the birds of the air; they do not reap, or sow or store away in barns and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable then they?"

She knew what had to be done. A tear ran down her face, fell into the dishwater, and disappeared. Rusty wandered into the kitchen his toenails clicking on the linoleum-covered floor. In just two days he had already made himself comfortable in his new home. His deep black eyes met hers and he cocked his head as if he knew Mom had something to do. “You’re my dog,” she cried, bending down to hold the dog’s wedge-shaped muzzle in her wet palms. Her hand shook as she dialed the number.

A pleasant voice on the other end of the line answered and identified herself as Nancy. When Nancy learned the reason for the call, she didn’t sound overjoyed with the news. Mom asked, “Can you describe him?”

“It’s been months. Wait a minute. Let me get my husband, James.”

James and Nancy could not recall any distinguishing marks on the Sheltie, but they offered to come over later that evening. Mom hung up the phone. “Rusty they can’t even remember the droopy tip on your right ear. You can’t be their dog.”

When James pulled into the driveway just before dinnertime, he came alone. Rusty barked when he heard the truck drive up. “He’s going to make a good watch dog,” Dad said. He went to the front door and invited James to come in. A tall man in his late thirties, he dressed casually—a worn LL Bean barn jacket, faded blue jeans and heavy farm boots.

Rusty immediately recognized James. The Sheltie twirled in circles, barked and wagged his tail. Doubt disappeared when the man dropped to his knees and received a squirming dog into his arms. “Hi ol’ Boy.”

James declined the offer to stay for chicken and biscuits. The three stood in the kitchen with the Sheltie roaming around them. James told my parents the six year old Sheltie was named Lucky. When the Sheltie had disappeared, James’ two sons searched for days, going door to door, hanging posters in storefronts and on telephone poles at intersections. They solicited the help of their middle school friends and teachers. He and his wife had placed ads in the local papers and sent flyers to animal shelters and veterinary clinics. But no one had seen Lucky. The boys were devastated over the lost dog they had grown up with.

James could not figure out how the Sheltie got so far from home. Even the river crossing baffled him.

With the true identity of the owner verified by Rusty himself, the small talk completed, and dinner waiting on the stove, there wasn’t much left to do, except for James to claim his dog. An awkward silence fell in the room. James made no move toward the door. “You know, I think Lucky found a good home here. I can see he’s safe and loved.”

Tears welled up in my mother’s eyes. “Oh yes. We love him,” she whispered in disbelief, as her hands rose to her lips.

“I appreciate your call,” James said.

Mom watched him swallowed an emotion that surged up from a place inside, where men keep their feelings confined. “My wife and I haven’t told the boys. After all this time, we believed that if Lucky….” He cleared his throat before continuing, “I mean Rusty, found a good home and you want him, maybe it was suppose to be.”

He knelt before the Sheltie, and quietly gave his last command to his dog, “Take good care of Florence, ol’ Boy.”


And he did.

Halobama

In response to the National Prayer Day article mentioned in the comment section of yesterday's blog: I couldn't let this one pass. President Obama may "pooh-pooh" the day, but the press sure doesn't miss an opportunity to glorify him. This photo appeared on the front page of West Hawaii Today.

Note: the perfect halo effect! It is an AP photo from Charles Dharapak. I hope Chuckie is laughing his head off. I can almost hear the angels sing.

Islam Day: Are you Kidding Me?

Just this afternoon while I was pulling some hard strokes in the pool, I kicked myself for writing some lame blogs. No passion, no fire and not too much humor. Okay, you have been working on the book. Sure, but I wouldn’t brag about that progress either.

Back at the condo I downed a mocha banana smoothie and scanned through the West Hawaii Today. I hadn’t been sure I really wanted to buy it this morning. I had only two dollars in my pocket, $29 on my debt card and my tenants’ rent checks hadn’t hit the bottom line in my bank account. Two dollars can get three papaya and a bunch of bananas. I bought it anyway and settled for just the bananas.

On page five, the headline smacked me upside the head, sending a chill through me that I couldn't attribute to the smoothie. Lawmakers Back Creation of “Islam Day.” Muslim Religion Will Be Celebrated on September 24.

I believe that is thirteen days after September 11. What the hell is this about? The bill recognizes “the rich religious, scientific, cultural and artistic contributions” that Islam and the Islamic world have made.

Oh yeah? Let me count the ways.

World Contributions: The Humanities

• On page four, same paper, same day. Pakistan: ‘It’s an all-out war there’. Eight years after the September 11, 2001 attacks, the area remains a haven for al-Qaida and Taliban fighters blamed for spiraling violence in Pakistan and Afghanistan. (But I am sure we are going to blame this on George Bush, and “the not- founded-on-Christian-principles America.”)


• April 6th Pakistan: A young woman was brutally flogged 46 times in a street for walking with her father-in-law. The poor girl was laid flat on her back, held like an animal for slaughter by two men, and then flogged. That means she got this in the face. Like it makes a difference.


• A man who raped a Muslim woman because she showed an interest in Christianity was jailed for five years by a Sydney, Australia court. If she had shown interest in a Muslim country she would have been killed, along with the Christian. And their killings "would be halal" - meaning the killer would go to heaven. I believe in the real world he’d go to Hell, or at least be reincarnated as a pig.


• In Buffalo, NY a particularly gruesome killing, the beheading of a woman, after her husband — an influential member of the local Muslim community — reported her death to police. Her husband the founder and chief executive officer of Bridges TV, which he launched in 2004, amid hopes that it would help portray Muslims in a more positive light was charged with second-degree murder.

World Contributions: The Sciences

• No matter what the cultural or language differences, science is more or less guided by scientific principles—except in many Islamic countries, where it is guided by the Koran.


• Islam has this strange alliance within that shuns modern science. The modernist decided to neglect and overlook the consequences of Western science, either philosophical or religious and felt that Islam could handle the matter much better than Christianity. They felt that there was something wrong with Christianity which buckled under the pressures of modern science and rationalism in the nineteenth century. Yes nineteenth century – makes it tough to call them modernist, but that is what they are referred to. The other group, the religious scholars of Islam disdained science completely. This cuts across the Islamic world, all refuse to have anything to do with modern science.

World Contributions: The Arts

• Aiming to eliminate idolatry from Afghanistan, the Taliban religious militia destroyed two soaring statues of Buddha. The two Buddhas, 175 feet and 120 feet tall, were hewn from the side of a mountain in Bamiyan. The taller statue was thought to be the world's tallest standing Buddha. The pair were carved in the 3rd and 5th centuries. Officials said they had already eliminated two-thirds of the country's statues.


• Under strict Islamic Law children's toys, including dolls and kites; card and board games; cameras; photographs and paintings of people and animals; pet parakeets; cigarettes and alcohol; magazines and newspapers, and most books are banned. Applause is even forbidden -- a moot point, since there's nothing left to applaud!

In The United States of America, which includes Hawaii by the way, the country's founding principles of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness are highly valued. It is tough to imagine celebrating a “religion” that bans music, movies and television, computers, picnics, wedding parties, New Year celebrations, any kind of mixed-sex gathering. Probably would even ban the very newspaper this article appeared in.

Just in case you decide to celebrate this day here are a few rules.

1. Women must stay home all day.
2. If you dare venture outside to wish someone a “Happy Islam Day” women best be covered from head to toe in a burqa.
3. You must be accompanied by a male family member (not an in-law family member).
4. Of course, there will not be a party to celebrate this event.
5. Allah forbid, no bell tolling, no fire crackers.
6. Men over there.
7. Women over here.
8. No toys, no music, no applauding. No parade.
9. Men should not shave their beards. You have from now until September 24 to make this happen.
   

Come to think of it? What's an Islamic celebration anyway? Shooting guns off in the street and yelling "Death to America"?

If you feel prone to recognize this day because of the great contributions to the world that this religion has made in the far and distant past, think twice. If America now finds fault with great American leaders like George Washington for owning slaves, why would we celebrate a religion for what it currently does?

Proponents of this Islam Day say we must be tolerant. Funny how Islamic Law isn’t too tolerant. Funny how the hi-jackers on 911 weren’t too tolerant.

Dare I say we have a day of celebration for Christians? Before you toss up that Christians have Christmas might I remind you that the civil liberty nuts are taking Christ out of Christmas, demanding equal time or at least equal square footage on the community lawn for Anti-Christian displays? Stores order employees to say “happy holidays.” Well, there you go – holidays: throw the Muslims into that pot and forget September 24.

JMJ!

Another freaking flat tire! I think that second wire I pulled the other day really did puncture the inner tube. I have three patches covering four holes on the rear tire! Think I need a new one?

I think I need new tires, new shoes, new cleats.....

or a scooter?

Out of Shape

I am so out of “Cleaning Shape”, the “get down on your hands and knees and scrub the floor Cinderella kind of cleaning shape. Its not that the condo is filthy or anything, but my up coming departure requires more than a lick and a promise. I don’t want the geckos, roaches, ants, moths, mongoose and other critters to decide that the place has residential potential in my absence. It faired well while I was gone last summer. I returned to find only a few dried-up centipedes.

After spending an hour wiping the bamboo floor and cleaning the baseboards in the living room, I was ready to break out for the pool. The next morning, during my run (One good thing about returning to New York will be that I don’t have to get up at 5 AM to “beat the heat of the day.” Hell, I can get up at noon and go running.) I noticed my butt muscles were sore. What was up with that? The only thing I did differently was squat and clean the floor. As the day progressed, I got sorer and sorer.

The bedroom and office began to feel like monumental tasks, but I tackled them too, along with the Venetian blinds. I am not talking about dusting. I’m talking about cleaning. One window later, I had enough of that. The person who invents an easy way to clean these blinds will make a mint. Such a hassle, I have come close to just going out and buying new ones. Vertical, forget horizontal.

After being on my hands and knees, I have decided my wrists hurt. So I quit writing.

Too much domestic stuff for me.

D.C. Newman Collins

It just took two years to get up the nerve to experiment with the design of my blog. I was scared to death I’d lose something or get trapped in a position where I got so confused about the code that I couldn’t go forward or backwards. Hung out in no man's land without a blog or pieces of a blog.

I experimented with two of my other blogs. I figured Phoenix and Diablo would not be any of the wiser if I messed up their blog. My only worry was that Diablo is Twittering and has forty followers (I have eight. Stupid cat.) and she might get a little upset if I screwed it up. But I figured she is in New York and I’m in Hawaii so what could she do to me? Scatch me?

I had to do some research on the how to’s and found better information at Bloggers’ community pages than in the site's information pages. This is always the case. Next I had to design a background, so that meant whipping out my Abode Photoshop skills. My skills are not that sharp, kind of like cutting a tomato with a table knife. After a few attempts I began to get the rust off the blade.

Now that it is done I discovered I need to change the vertical banner. Bound needs a capital B. Later.

For extra practice, I fooled around with my ValeriePerez blog site. Not to be confused with ValeriePerez website, which will be a whole other block of time to be consumed. (I should be cleaning, packing and writing.)

I kept searching my photos for a good background photo. Couldn’t find the perfect one, until I stumbled on a painting by D. C. Newman Collins, titled Sail Boating. I like the picture. D.C. Newman Collins (1865-1953) was an accomplished civil engineer and architect. He studied art in Philadelphia as a young man and became gifted in painting, drawing, woodworking, metalworking, and photography.

Making the changes to this site was a little more complicated than SouthBound Cats and Valerie Perez. The layout is different and required more that one line of code changes. A little trial and error and few more adjustments to the JPEG files and Ta-Da.

I hope you like.

Check out South Bound Cats. And if you twitter, follow me or follow Diablo. She has more time to waste than me.

The Sky Is Falling!

Front page of the West Hawaii Today reports that over the weekend the first probable cases (3) of Swine Flu reached the most isolated metropolitan area in the world*. ...But all three patients have already recovered. That story has about as much drama and interest as mine about changing my bike tires!

*Okay, that's Honolulu, in case you didn't know.

Grease Monkey

The other day as I headed out the door to the pool I noticed a huge thorn protruding from my front tire. Rats. Being an experienced tire repairer I didn’t panic. This would put me a little behind schedule. Yes, I don’t do anything all day long, but I can get behind schedule. You figure it out.

I pulled the thorn and listened to psssss. Ah, the stale smell of inner tube. I dropped the wheel from the fork and settled in to leisurely change the tire. My good fortune has been to have all my flats at the house. If needed I can sit in the shade and drink a cold one.

I finished the chore, put the wheel back on the front fork, adjusted the brake and inspected the rear tire. Not one but two thin pieces of wire struck out from the rubber tread. So small the wire I suspected I might get off scot-free. It took my needle nose pliers to remove one of the wires. I listened. Heard nothing. But for a faint tickle of air I felt on my nose, which dripped with sweat, I would not have known the tire was punctured. Changing the rear tire is no more difficult that the front once you get past the gears, the derailleur and all that road grime.

I had to put the inner tube in the sink to precisely locate the puncture. I suspected three holes. Another one due to embedded glass. But only found one. I patched it, re-inspected the tires for the smallest of foreign objects and was on the road to the pool in less than an hour. Certainly not record breaking time. No sense working up a sweat about going to the pool.

Chillin'

Just when I was getting kind of spoiled, pretending I was standing in a pine forest of the Adirondacks when I was actually in the middle of a hot flash and standing directly in front of the air conditioner, which resembles a vintage R2D2 of the Star Wars movies, it choked, kicked a little and quite spitting cold air on my sweltering body. What the heck?

I turned around to notice one red-eye blinking LED. A series of thirteen highly pitched beeps came crying out of my little machine. Alright already.

I snatched up the remote control and punched some buttons. No response. I know nothing about air conditioning systems. This little thing is on wheels and attached to the window by way of a hose similar to a clothes drier. How complicated could it be? I whirled my nonresponsive robot around to examine its backside.

At the bottom, in fine print, never noticed in the 16 months that I have owned the thing (just goes to show how much I don’t use it) I saw directions about draining the compressor. Hum?

I wasn’t going to fall for that trick, so I went to the kitchen and got the oven’s roasting pan out (also something I have owned for 16 months and have never used) and placed it near the drain nozzle, which can be hooked up to a hose, but in this case isn't. Seems to me I have seen that hose around someplace?

My little robot did his business in the pan. I patted him on the head. Such a good housebroken unit. Once the plug was back in place I fired him up and he went back to humming away cooling the condo to 82.

Hate Crime

It wasn’t even at a picnic. Been bitten by any ants lately? Count me in for three, at least. The nasty little buggers have been herding their aphids up and down the areca palms. I assume their aphids. While I rooted in the dirt for snails, they unsuspectingly nailed me.

The first bite hurt, but I never saw the culprit. Like a little-ass bee sting. The second one I found chomping down in the folded skin on the top of my knuckle.Wouldn’t let go. Its Rottweiler death grip caused me to examine the crime in progress, but not for long. Amazed but pained. A mere brush against my pant leg didn’t deter him. I actually had to grabbed the pest by the collar before he let loose. Of course, no mercy. I rolled him between my fingers and turned him into a memory, except for the sting which later turned to an itch…for days.

Considering "insecticiding" the whole garden place before I leave. Between ants, mealy bugs, aphids, snails and some worm that chews leaves and then uses them to make little cocoon-like abodes the place has been a pain to monitor.

But the plants do look nice and I am surprised that I didn't lose a single spindly plant during the last year.