Hey, all! Sorry for the lack of updates, but I have been VERY busy. I do appreciate all the phone calls and emails complaining about my lack of updates, though!
Now, I have much to say, but pressing matters take priority.
In light of the massive destruction and heartache left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, there are TWO ways you can help the American Red Cross and your fellow citizens. Well, three if you count saying a prayer...
The first, is to make a donation. If you can spare some cash, please click here:
Red Cross Donation
They are accepting any amount. They are just desperate for your help. If you prefer giving blood, please call 1-800-448-3543.
But there is something else you can do that would greatly aid the Red Cross in the future: You can be better prepared.
Look, there will be plenty of time to analyze why so many people failed to heed the warning and flee this massive storm that was heading their way. I have a feeling this event will serve as a lesson for all. But disasters can strike anywhere at any time. A hurricane or tropical storm down South. A tornado or a blizzard here in the Midwest. An earthquake out West. Sometimes, disasters strike without warning or circumstances prevent a person's ability to flee.
As you watch the futility of rescue workers attempting to help those in need coupled with dwindling supplies you have to be struck by how much less pain there might have been if only people would have heeded the Red Cross BEFORE the storm. You can't rein in nature, but you can be better prepared.
How prepared would you be if you faced a natural disaster tomorrow? Even if you maintained a roof over your head, how would you and your family fare in a sudden absence of fresh water, phone service and electricity? Do you have any nonperishable food supplies in reserve? How about an emergency medical kit that someone hasn't pilfered all of the bandages out of? Do the batteries in your flashlight work?
Go here:
Be Prepared!
Everything you need to know to be prepared is right there. While this horrible disaster and the human suffering is still foremost in your mind, take some time this weekend and put a kit together. Collect what you need and put it in a plastic storage container that you can tuck away in the basement so that when disaster strikes your world, your family will have a fighting chance. And you might be one less victim for the Red Cross to have to worry about in the short-term aftermath of a major disaster.
More later!
Mark
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Friday, August 05, 2005
Blast, Part 2
I have been thinking a lot about life and change lately.
My new gig, essentially laying around the house, has provided me ample time to reflect. And I discovered that I still am learning lessons, even at the ripe old age of 45.
Now, I've always felt that I was in a state of evolution. Sure, like most people, I knew everything when I was 20. Somehow, I still managed to become editor of a daily newspaper by 29, married at 37, publisher by 42 and semi-retired at 45. Along the way, I have always amazed myself by my capacity to learn. Now I have this rare gift: Time to pause and actually put aspects of my life in some perspective.
When this year began, neither Mary nor I expected to end up at home. We're both workaholics, fiercely competitive and each have had some kind of regular job to go to since our teens. Yet, the two pushy know-it-all-control-freaks - either of whom could easily have harpooned the other with a paint stick just seven years ago - have somehow evolved into a supportive, enduring, loving, attentive couple. Despite the office pools, we've stuck it out and will observe our 8th anniversary later this month.
Yeah, it's almost sickening. For better or worse? This experience is something in-between. But if it has to be, in the words of the great Paul Williams, "you and me against the world," we kind of like the odds. We wouldn't have it any other way. Well, at least I wouldn't.
Hence we have been bravely embarking on a series of home projects in our free time, which we manage to find nearly every day. We took two days to restain the pool deck. We're renovating our third bathroom - and changed light fixtures in two. We built four deck chairs and Mary is making new drapes and valances. Certain episodes aside, calm has reigned. Now, maybe it is because we aren't shoe-horning a project in between 10-hour-a-day jobs and weekend events, but we have even found some, er, joy in shopping at Lowe's together, choosing paints and appropriate accoutrements.
I'm sure people see us holding hands and skipping down the aisles and just presume we're drunk...
That said, not all has been without incident. The other day, Mary assisted me as we built a "space saver" (the polite way to refer to those shelves that fit around and over toilets) and I became extremely angry. My pet peeve in any project in which I am required to build some furniture-thingy, is when the instructions are wrong. Well this particular item, from the fine folks at Target, had 13 steps and the very first one was clearly WRONG! It was instructing me to put the cam screw where the wooden guide rod was supposed to go and vice versa.
Now Mary had a simple solution: Just reverse them. Voila! My solution was a tad less impetuous, the result of years of putting together crappy wooden furniture. I sought a studied approach requiring a careful examination of all of the steps in the instructions to make sure that reversing the placement of those beginning steps would not render the entire toilet shelf (the impolite way to refer to those shelves that fit around and over the commode) obsolete. First I had to have a screaming, crying, curse-filled rant invoking God's wrath to bestow all sorts of ills upon anyone who has ever worked at Target and their families. And their pets. And the future fruits of their respective loins.
Screaming fits make a lot of women nervous, Mary included. But if prayers are answered, God has something pretty bad in store for anyone who has ever had anything to do with Target.
I'm off an a tangent. Sorry.
Eventually, that project was back on track and the finished product looks fine in the newly renovated master bathroom that I am not allowed in.
Earlier in the week, we had another small detour in the road to typical household calm. Mary had gone upstairs to prepare that same bathroom for painting. I had gone to run errands and do some banking. I arrived home to discover Mary was no longer working on the bathroom, but, instead, was working on recovering an ottoman. Thinking nothing of it, I sat down in my chair to watch Judge Judy give someone what-for. No one gives good what-for like Judge Judy. Something caught my eye and I looked toward the ceiling to see giant wet spots.
I was pretty confident that they weren't there in 1998 when we bought the house or even earlier that morning before the errands...
"Honey, why is the ceiling wet?" was my reasoned query. She gave a sheepish look as she came into the room. "Oh, THAT. A bucket of water fell off the toilet and spilled..."
Notice it "fell." It wasn't pushed or the result of any human intervention. Much of the water poured into the air grate in the floor and some how leaked from a duct into the family room ceiling, I surmised. In reality, it looked at first like some bigger disaster occurred rather than mere water dribbled from a bucket. I've attached an illustration of what I really think happened, though I have no proof. The good news: Much of it dried and disappeared within a few hours.
In the old days, this could have been the setting for a fierce battle royale. Now? I simply said: "This is the last time I let you and your friend Viv install a shower." Seriously, so great is my love for this remarkable woman, the teasing all-but ended within 24 hours!
So here is what I learned at 45: Lots of things can happen to you in a lifetime. Ferris Bueller summed it up pretty well: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." I am grateful for this time to look around and even more grateful to have this wonderful person with which to enjoy it.
Mark
My new gig, essentially laying around the house, has provided me ample time to reflect. And I discovered that I still am learning lessons, even at the ripe old age of 45.
Now, I've always felt that I was in a state of evolution. Sure, like most people, I knew everything when I was 20. Somehow, I still managed to become editor of a daily newspaper by 29, married at 37, publisher by 42 and semi-retired at 45. Along the way, I have always amazed myself by my capacity to learn. Now I have this rare gift: Time to pause and actually put aspects of my life in some perspective.
When this year began, neither Mary nor I expected to end up at home. We're both workaholics, fiercely competitive and each have had some kind of regular job to go to since our teens. Yet, the two pushy know-it-all-control-freaks - either of whom could easily have harpooned the other with a paint stick just seven years ago - have somehow evolved into a supportive, enduring, loving, attentive couple. Despite the office pools, we've stuck it out and will observe our 8th anniversary later this month.
Yeah, it's almost sickening. For better or worse? This experience is something in-between. But if it has to be, in the words of the great Paul Williams, "you and me against the world," we kind of like the odds. We wouldn't have it any other way. Well, at least I wouldn't.
Hence we have been bravely embarking on a series of home projects in our free time, which we manage to find nearly every day. We took two days to restain the pool deck. We're renovating our third bathroom - and changed light fixtures in two. We built four deck chairs and Mary is making new drapes and valances. Certain episodes aside, calm has reigned. Now, maybe it is because we aren't shoe-horning a project in between 10-hour-a-day jobs and weekend events, but we have even found some, er, joy in shopping at Lowe's together, choosing paints and appropriate accoutrements.
I'm sure people see us holding hands and skipping down the aisles and just presume we're drunk...
That said, not all has been without incident. The other day, Mary assisted me as we built a "space saver" (the polite way to refer to those shelves that fit around and over toilets) and I became extremely angry. My pet peeve in any project in which I am required to build some furniture-thingy, is when the instructions are wrong. Well this particular item, from the fine folks at Target, had 13 steps and the very first one was clearly WRONG! It was instructing me to put the cam screw where the wooden guide rod was supposed to go and vice versa.
Now Mary had a simple solution: Just reverse them. Voila! My solution was a tad less impetuous, the result of years of putting together crappy wooden furniture. I sought a studied approach requiring a careful examination of all of the steps in the instructions to make sure that reversing the placement of those beginning steps would not render the entire toilet shelf (the impolite way to refer to those shelves that fit around and over the commode) obsolete. First I had to have a screaming, crying, curse-filled rant invoking God's wrath to bestow all sorts of ills upon anyone who has ever worked at Target and their families. And their pets. And the future fruits of their respective loins.
Screaming fits make a lot of women nervous, Mary included. But if prayers are answered, God has something pretty bad in store for anyone who has ever had anything to do with Target.
I'm off an a tangent. Sorry.
Eventually, that project was back on track and the finished product looks fine in the newly renovated master bathroom that I am not allowed in.
Earlier in the week, we had another small detour in the road to typical household calm. Mary had gone upstairs to prepare that same bathroom for painting. I had gone to run errands and do some banking. I arrived home to discover Mary was no longer working on the bathroom, but, instead, was working on recovering an ottoman. Thinking nothing of it, I sat down in my chair to watch Judge Judy give someone what-for. No one gives good what-for like Judge Judy. Something caught my eye and I looked toward the ceiling to see giant wet spots.
I was pretty confident that they weren't there in 1998 when we bought the house or even earlier that morning before the errands...
"Honey, why is the ceiling wet?" was my reasoned query. She gave a sheepish look as she came into the room. "Oh, THAT. A bucket of water fell off the toilet and spilled..."
Notice it "fell." It wasn't pushed or the result of any human intervention. Much of the water poured into the air grate in the floor and some how leaked from a duct into the family room ceiling, I surmised. In reality, it looked at first like some bigger disaster occurred rather than mere water dribbled from a bucket. I've attached an illustration of what I really think happened, though I have no proof. The good news: Much of it dried and disappeared within a few hours.
In the old days, this could have been the setting for a fierce battle royale. Now? I simply said: "This is the last time I let you and your friend Viv install a shower." Seriously, so great is my love for this remarkable woman, the teasing all-but ended within 24 hours!
So here is what I learned at 45: Lots of things can happen to you in a lifetime. Ferris Bueller summed it up pretty well: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." I am grateful for this time to look around and even more grateful to have this wonderful person with which to enjoy it.
Mark
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Blast from the past...
Happy August!
Now, I'm not doing this because I am lazy. No, really. Seriously. I have a method to my madness this time. In order to make a larger point in my next blog, I need to take you back seven years to May 1998. Back then, I had a weekly column for the Northwest Herald and I devoted one missive to my account of Mary and Mark's first joint home improvement project: Painting the basement.
My usual attempts at Thurberian embellishments aside, it is pretty close to a detailed, factual representation of every married couple's (or, at least, husband's) worst nightmare. Enjoy! And come back Friday for the sequel!
Mark
From 1998:
Those home improvement shows on TV represent the single, greatest threat to any marriage.
I stumbled onto this fact on my third day of being a homeowner, in hour No. 3 of the six-hour basement-painting marathon, just as we were renouncing our wedding vows.
Now, who was at fault and why she was at fault is irrelevant. What is important is what we learned from this episode: Namely, that those home shows can lead to far more violence than ‘‘COPS.’’
The scenario is as such: Folks watch these half-hour shows on stations such as cable’s ‘‘The Home & Garden Channel.’’ In less than 30 minutes, the show’s host is able to undertake and complete a project like installing a new foundation to a home or remodeling an entire kitchen. He or she completes the task without breaking a sweat, making any mistakes, or even running to the store, since he or she seemingly has an endless supply of everything needed for such a project.
Now, some people who watch these shows believe they are seeing reality and are inspired by the ease by which these projects can be accomplished. Of course, like most things television, this so-called ‘‘ease’’ is a big, fat lie. They don’t show the show’s staff trudging down to Sear’s Hardware to get all the stuff for the prima donna host. They edit out all the mistakes he or she makes. Make-up artists stand-by between shots to mop the seat from the host's brow. Time-lapse photography makes hours seem like seconds. You cannot, for instance, re-tile an entire shower stall in less than 30 minutes, complete with a catchy show theme and commercials. I’m sorry if I just shattered any illusions out there. My informal poll tells me the viewers are mainly women, but I am sure some guys watch, too, though I’d rather not meet any guy who does
Marital strife occurs when those inspired by these shows drag their unsuspecting spouses into projects better left to professionals. Worse, these same people, even though they’ve never actually undertaken projects themselves, are now instant experts because they saw it done on TV.
This is when good marriages can turn bad.
Now, I had never painted an entire finished basement before Memorial Day. Nor had I previously used a paint-stick. All I knew was that the wife had seen some show where all this was done with ease and she had confirmed the ease in conversations with other women, presumably those who had seen the same show.
And, to be honest, I wanted the basement bar to be another color other than purplish gray, which is, by the way, a very strange color to paint an entire basement. This does make me a willing accessory to the entire episode, I admit.
After wasting some time with the wrong paint (bought after consulting with a hardware store employee who answered my query of ‘‘What do you know about paint?’’ with ‘‘Everything!’’ which also turned out to be a lie) we began our respective tasks. I was to run the paint-stick roller while she taped and trimmed.
Covering purplish gray with antique white is probably not the best of ideas but darned if I was was gonna put a primer coat down over the entire basement. So, as I gained experience confidence with the paint stick, I gradually came to the conclusion that most areas were gonna have to take two coats. Also, I learned paint looks less even until it dries, when all artistic ills seemingly evaporate.
As I toiled, my expert spouse made several comments (‘‘It doesn’t look even....’’ ‘‘Maybe if you painted more slowly....’’ ‘‘You are destroying the entire basement, you moron!’’ ‘‘As God is my witness, you will rot in Hades, you bumbling jerk!’’ Or something to that effect...) that eventually pushed me over the edge.
‘‘I never said I was the best painter,’’ I finally yelled. ‘‘I said I was the best painter YOU could afford.’’
Hours later, I realized I had subconsciously stolen that line from my father, having found himself in a similar confrontation with his own painting expert.
Eventually, we were done. I noticed that my expert’s high painting standards seemed to subside once she finished the taping and actually began to trim and realize how hard it is to cover purplish gray with antique white.
We resolved – for the sake of our marriage – to never undertake such a project again – at least not together. The basement looks great, though. In fact, maybe we’ll find that spare half-hour this weekend to remodel the kitchen...
Now, I'm not doing this because I am lazy. No, really. Seriously. I have a method to my madness this time. In order to make a larger point in my next blog, I need to take you back seven years to May 1998. Back then, I had a weekly column for the Northwest Herald and I devoted one missive to my account of Mary and Mark's first joint home improvement project: Painting the basement.
My usual attempts at Thurberian embellishments aside, it is pretty close to a detailed, factual representation of every married couple's (or, at least, husband's) worst nightmare. Enjoy! And come back Friday for the sequel!
Mark
From 1998:
Those home improvement shows on TV represent the single, greatest threat to any marriage.
I stumbled onto this fact on my third day of being a homeowner, in hour No. 3 of the six-hour basement-painting marathon, just as we were renouncing our wedding vows.
Now, who was at fault and why she was at fault is irrelevant. What is important is what we learned from this episode: Namely, that those home shows can lead to far more violence than ‘‘COPS.’’
The scenario is as such: Folks watch these half-hour shows on stations such as cable’s ‘‘The Home & Garden Channel.’’ In less than 30 minutes, the show’s host is able to undertake and complete a project like installing a new foundation to a home or remodeling an entire kitchen. He or she completes the task without breaking a sweat, making any mistakes, or even running to the store, since he or she seemingly has an endless supply of everything needed for such a project.
Now, some people who watch these shows believe they are seeing reality and are inspired by the ease by which these projects can be accomplished. Of course, like most things television, this so-called ‘‘ease’’ is a big, fat lie. They don’t show the show’s staff trudging down to Sear’s Hardware to get all the stuff for the prima donna host. They edit out all the mistakes he or she makes. Make-up artists stand-by between shots to mop the seat from the host's brow. Time-lapse photography makes hours seem like seconds. You cannot, for instance, re-tile an entire shower stall in less than 30 minutes, complete with a catchy show theme and commercials. I’m sorry if I just shattered any illusions out there. My informal poll tells me the viewers are mainly women, but I am sure some guys watch, too, though I’d rather not meet any guy who does
Marital strife occurs when those inspired by these shows drag their unsuspecting spouses into projects better left to professionals. Worse, these same people, even though they’ve never actually undertaken projects themselves, are now instant experts because they saw it done on TV.
This is when good marriages can turn bad.
Now, I had never painted an entire finished basement before Memorial Day. Nor had I previously used a paint-stick. All I knew was that the wife had seen some show where all this was done with ease and she had confirmed the ease in conversations with other women, presumably those who had seen the same show.
And, to be honest, I wanted the basement bar to be another color other than purplish gray, which is, by the way, a very strange color to paint an entire basement. This does make me a willing accessory to the entire episode, I admit.
After wasting some time with the wrong paint (bought after consulting with a hardware store employee who answered my query of ‘‘What do you know about paint?’’ with ‘‘Everything!’’ which also turned out to be a lie) we began our respective tasks. I was to run the paint-stick roller while she taped and trimmed.
Covering purplish gray with antique white is probably not the best of ideas but darned if I was was gonna put a primer coat down over the entire basement. So, as I gained experience confidence with the paint stick, I gradually came to the conclusion that most areas were gonna have to take two coats. Also, I learned paint looks less even until it dries, when all artistic ills seemingly evaporate.
As I toiled, my expert spouse made several comments (‘‘It doesn’t look even....’’ ‘‘Maybe if you painted more slowly....’’ ‘‘You are destroying the entire basement, you moron!’’ ‘‘As God is my witness, you will rot in Hades, you bumbling jerk!’’ Or something to that effect...) that eventually pushed me over the edge.
‘‘I never said I was the best painter,’’ I finally yelled. ‘‘I said I was the best painter YOU could afford.’’
Hours later, I realized I had subconsciously stolen that line from my father, having found himself in a similar confrontation with his own painting expert.
Eventually, we were done. I noticed that my expert’s high painting standards seemed to subside once she finished the taping and actually began to trim and realize how hard it is to cover purplish gray with antique white.
We resolved – for the sake of our marriage – to never undertake such a project again – at least not together. The basement looks great, though. In fact, maybe we’ll find that spare half-hour this weekend to remodel the kitchen...
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