My response to a review of a random movie that I watched this morning.

 I read this article and tried to post this comment, but they wanted me to join their secret club to post. I didn't wan to, but also didn't want to have wasted my time writing it. Therefore it gets posted here. 

https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/the-map-of-tiny-perfect-things-movie-review-2021

There was a time in my past that I wanted to write stories, People that read my stories encouraged me to pursue writing and when I was young I genuinely wanted give it a try. I realized later, however that I wanted to make stories that help me to escape my own reality. I wanted to write a hero, that does the things I wish I had the strength or fortitude to do. Does that mean that I like stories that give my own desires primacy? Probably. I am male. I like the idea of happiness. My vision of happiness includes the desire to experience a relationship with a person that cares about me equally. Does my happiness and my journey to achieve it somehow cancel my significant other's journey to reach the same? I don't know. Maybe it does. Can a story written from a male perspective be honest about what a male wants without invalidating what is wanted by his partner? I suppose I don't know the answer to that one either. Is it equally unfair to tell a story from a female perspective that gives her desires primacy?

I do know that I spent most of this movie secretly dreading what I predicted would be a tragic twist. Honestly, the happy ending was a pleasant and welcome surprise. People don't make pleasant happy-ending stories for adults as often as I think they should. Generations of critics have picked those stories apart and told us that we shouldn't like them. They have taught us how ignorant we are that we could be taken in by their inevitable predictability. Happy endings to happy stories are evidently unwelcome and don't reflect reality. These stories have no room in our current "I'm the smartest person in my own room" mentality.

What if, though we consume these stories honestly as the author intended. What if we avoid trying to pick apart their flaws? They may give us a glimpse of an idealistic reality, which might inspire us to emulate it in our own small way. What if the the repetition of old tropes reconfirms lessons that we forget when real life becomes a misery? I see characters in a happy story and I think to myself -I should be a better husband, I should be a better father, I should be a better man, I should care about others more than I care about myself. I interact differently with my family and the people that I associate with when I feel like I should be better. How many of us have lost sight of these things? This two star movie made me feel like being a better person. It has value to me.

I don't write. If I did, I would be tempted to write stories like this one and I'd try my best to earn that 2 star rating.

A Pixie Stick Continuation

So I didn’t cover the complete gambit of my experience with pixie sticks earlier and I feel that it’s my duty (Haha! “dooty”) to complete the post. There’s a reason, but it’s boring and I’m not going to tell you about it. We’ll just call it a two-parter and none of you will ever speak of this again.

First of all – after presenting Carol with an Easter basket containing a rather pathetic amount of pixie sticks (See 4/24/09 for a full confession outlining my rather unfortunate pre Easter binge) I decided that I was not entirely finished with the forbidden dust. My lunch hour on the Monday following Easter was spent on a quest for more of those tasty little straws and as always, the Chesterfield Maverick was all too happy to accommodate my self destructive needs. Upon returning to work I settled into what I imagined was going to be a pleasant, fun, and Pixie-filled afternoon.

I threw back a few… Shared some with a couple of close friends and then settled in for another not-so-proud 15 minutes of hard pixie straw consumption. After a while I began to sound like I had a mouth full of saltines. I can only assume that my blood sugar eventually reached a record high because at one point I managed to surprise myself.

Note: For those of you who don’t know, it’s harder than you might think to surprise yourself. You see… You know all of your secrets. Any element of planning inevitably ruins the surprise so you never really know when you’re going to catch yourself off guard. Trust me I’m a professional; I surprise myself all the time. If you’re interested in a surprise of your own, I recommend consuming about 35 little paper straws full of flavored sugar. It worked for me.

I was busy throwing caution to the wind with sugar straws when the aforementioned surprise occurred. I confess, I was caught totally unprepared for the repercussions (By “Throwing caution to the wind” I mean that I was attempting to pour 2 pixie sticks into my mouth simultaneously; one in each hand like some sort of maniac.) Sure it was reckless and stupid, but I have a reputation to uphold. We all know that if any of my many female admirers thought that I was a Pixie stick sipper, I’d look weak and they’d lose all respect for me.
Anyway I lost my grip on Pixie stick #2, missed my mouth entirely and shot pixie dust into my face and up my nose. So surprised was I, to be suddenly covered in tasty magical dust that I inhaled sharply… Aaaand sucked the contents of the Pixie Stick #1 into my lungs.

You’ve never felt such a burn.

It sent me into such a tizzy of laughing, coughing and weeping that I frightened several of my co-workers who, I’m sure, thought I had finally lost it. It took about 5 minutes before I was sure that I was not going to die (What a way to go though!) and I somehow managed to sputter my way back to work.

Stay tuned for a future post that just occurred to me. I intend to title it “Duties that I do, do.”

My First Snowmobile Trip

There was a time in my life that I absolutely lived for the noble sport of snowmobiling.

I completely adored everything about snowmobiles! Here is this crazy looking vehicle lounging on the ground on it's stomach like a lazy house cat. Yet that house cat could somehow carry a person quickly and effectively uphill through deep snow into territory wholly untouched by human influence! It was just about the coolest thing that my 16 year old head could conceive!

The first snowmobile that I ever took apart was a 1970s Chaparral Thunderbird 440.

It belonged to my friend George. I'm pretty sure he picked it up for free. ...Since it was about 20 years old and  didn't run at all, free was just about the right price. I had just started my second year of a small engine's class in high school and I was looking for a new project. My first year of small engines involved tearing down an old lawn edger that George gave me to work on. The edger ran when I was finished, though I couldn't tell you why. All I did was take it apart and reassemble it. Ether way, my dubious success with the edger served the purpose of impressing George enough to convince him to turn over his shiny new snowmobile for my year 2 project. (liberal quantities of sarcasm may be applied to both of the words "shiny" and "new" in the preceding sentence for reasons that will become apparent momentarily.) My small engine teacher Mr Cutrer nearly wet himself he was so pleased when I rolled in with a snowmobile. He was always harping on us to ask anyone and everyone for engine projects to work on in class. I clearly didn't need to go further than George.To this day George still has an endless supply of things to tinker with in his cavernous garage :) Needless to say,  I was Mr Cutrer's poster boy for the ideal small engines student after that.

I remember it took me several days in class before I managed to access the engine compartment.  Chaparral in their infinite wisdom had screwed a shroud over all of the important bits under the hood. The engine, carburetor, clutch, ignition, starter, and other vital items were effectively trapped beneath the shroud. Thus, the items that you may need to access for a field repair were severely restricted with a ton of hidden ,rusted out, and severely seized dome headed screws. (did I mention infinite wisdom?) Chaparral had tried covering the screws with caps, presumably to keep them dry, but all that accomplished was to trap water that seeped in under the caps to keep the screw heads nice and moist. The result was a rusty mess. I stripped the first 3 screws out completely trying to pry them loose. We had to drill them out in the end. It was a misery.

I can only assume that Chaparral's motivation for the stupid shroud was to strand people at the top of mountains unable to perform simple repair work in order to keep them from returning to tell everyone what a lemon the machine was.

The actual "hood" was a wonky u shaped rig that only allowed you to access a portion of the engine bay containing such useful items as the exhaust pipe, and the steering column. How in Sam Hill was one even supposed to replace the belt for crying out loud? We used to buy belts by the gross because those old clutches would gleefully consume them every time we ventured out for longer than a half hour.

Not the exact model, but similarly shrouded.  So very annoying. 

I remember spending ages with an impact screwdriver trying to work those gnarly screws out. Come to find out, I hadn't really needed to access the engine at all. The main problem with the sled turned out to be about 2 gallons of water and dirt that had been swilling around in the gas tank. (Those old machines always had leaky gas caps). Since water and dirt are not terribly effective boosts for combustion, we removed them and replaced them with actual gasoline. Shockingly the old girl started right up! I wish I could take credit for the fix, but someone else had the brilliant idea to test the gas before I dove too far into disassembly.

I have to admit, as soon as I heard that engine fire with that distinctive sort of whistly yet throaty rumble I was legitimately hooked. Nothing sounds like a snowmobile.. It's possible that they just randomly start snowmobiles in heaven just to give the angels a little thrill now and again.

George invited me to take a ride up to his cabin with a couple of friends after we got it running. It was my first and arguably most exciting trip up to the top of Lambs canyon near Park City. We rode up there in the crappiest poo-brown van in America. It ran on 7 out of 8 cylinders and overheated at the drop of a hat. In order to manage the overheating issue we had to keep the heat on full blast the whole way. It was about 800 degrees in that van by the time we arrived at the mouth of the canyon and I thought I was going to dry out and become a tumble weed. Interestingly enough, we had loaded the 2 sleds that we brought with us shoebox style inside the van (something that could never be done with the wider sleds now.) and they were both leaking gas in the van as well. Between the heat and the fumes it was a very exciting ride!

We had brought with us a smooth purple and black 1974 Arctic Cat Panther 440cc (the muscle)

...and the Pièce De Résistance - A vintage 1969 Wankel Rotary 300cc Arctic Cat Panther with leopard print seat accents and an abundance of late 60's attitude.

 I love the rotary engine in the '69. Wankel rotary engines have a very distinct throaty sound to them. I can still hear it in my mind. "Whhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" The three of us mounted up and set off in the darkness to find George's Cabin. The 440 had to blaze a trail for the '69 panther because it was so anemic and the track was so ineffective that it could not venture off on it's own in any depth of powder with any prayer of maintaining forward motion. Jared and Brian were on the 440 and I followed up on the 300. It was glorious! I had never done anything like it before! Being in the snow blazing a trail through terrain that was untouched by other people felt otherworldly to me. The snow-covered trees and heavy powder creates a feeling of being completely alone in the world. When the snowmobiles were not running there was this palpable quiet that combined with the blueish light of the moon reflecting off the snow that was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

The sleds were clearly old and not exactly capable without hard packed snow to give their tracks some grip.  A recent snow had blanketed the area that evening, so powder reigned. Riding a late model snowmobile through deep powder is akin to mowing a swimming pool with a lawn mower. Sure it throws a lot of material around at first, but in the end you know you're just going to sink.  The steeper the trail became, the less progress we made in those sad old machines. Ultimately we started parking the snowmobiles and walking out in front of them to pack the snow down a little bit for extra traction. It would get us a little head start and we could go for a little while until the powder stole our momentum again and we were forced to repeat the process. After a short while the whole walking ahead bit became really tedious.  It was then that we decided if we were going to be walking most of the time anyway, why drag the sleds along with us? We agreed unanimously to abandon them and we ventured off on foot. We walked about a mile in powder varying from knee deep to waist deep. It was slow and grueling. As I recall. I chose to wear a vintage pair of moon boots (I know right? I literally ooze style! I always have!) with grocery bags filling in for the original waterproofing liners that had disintegrated years earlier. Unsurprisingly they were a miserable failure at keeping me warm, comfortable, or dry. After what seemed like an eternity, we finally crested the top of the climb and started going downhill toward the cabin. My relief was palpable.

The cabin consisted of the remaining 2 walls of a collapsed former cabin that had succumbed to heavy snow years earlier. George had gathered up the usable wood from the collapsed walls and and built onto the remaining walls and formed a tiny single room cabin  shack about the size of a modern bathroom. We trudged up to the door exhausted, cold and hungry and entered what I came to think of in the following years as one of my favorite places on earth . It was a wee space with enough room for a small work bench style table with a Coleman stove on it, a couple of re purposed chairs a small couch and and a big brown wood burning stove. On the floor was a glorious remnant of green shag carpet that was inexplicably full of pins and needles. I think it must have come from someone's sewing room or someone spilled a bag of tetanus on it at some point in it's former location. Either way it was a hazard. I somehow managed to avoid getting stuck up the moon boot with any pins though. Probably because those boots were designed to navigate the friggin' moon! We started a fire in the stove and waited for the cabin to warm up. I confess, it was the first time I had actually heard of "white gas" (which for the layman is the gas used in Coleman lanterns and the like) and also the first time I had seen it used to start a fire. It was impressively effective. WHOOSH! We have fire!

..And warm up the cabin did! The stove was an old cast iron rig that just quietly soaked up the heat from the fire and spat it out into the room room with dogged and surprising efficiency. Soon the cabin had surpassed the temperature of the crappy brown van and we began to shed coats and sweatshirts. Not long after we there was an impromptu striptease as one of us decided that underwear was the most comfortable clothing in a ludicrously hot cabin. Yes I realize that 3 dudes in a small room in the woods with widely varying degrees of clothing on sounds pretty sketchy, but I assure you. It was pure survival. that little room was sweltering! George had an old thermometer on the wall and it was reading about 135 degrees. We were essentially slow roasting ourselves and may have ended up as Jerky if we hadn't been pro-active about staying cool. The extreme heat was a stark contrast from the frigid walk from the snowmobiles to the cabin so at least it was a welcome change.

I should mention at this point that there was a family of mice hiding in the walls that were also enjoying the warmth. They would peek out at us when they thought we weren't looking. We would pound on the walls and send them scurrying away from us whenever we spotted them. For me it was high adventure! Snow, shacks in the woods, beady-eyed vermin, I loved it!

I remember Brian laying his socks on the stove to dry them at one point. It was so hot that in no time at all they had become toasted a lovely golden brown. They looked good enough to eat and I told him so. He immediately took a bite of one and assured me that they were delicious. It was so unexpected that it struck me funny! I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pass out. It's possible that it was late and I was giddy from being frozen, then overheated  multiple times and exhausted but I swear it was the funniest damn thing I had seen in my entire life.

Outside the cabin and up a wooden ladder through a trap door was a shallow loft with room for a couple of mattresses laying on the floor side by side. The roof of the loft was about 4 feet high at it's tallest point tapered down to the floor like a lean-to. Shingle nails were poking down through the roof making me worried about sitting up fast in the night and impaling my head on one of them. What's a little more tetanus among friends right?

Sometime around midnight we heard the tell-tale sound of a snowmobile engine coming down the road towards the cabin.  George, driving the newly repaired Chaparral had finally come with the food! I had become a little concerned that we were not going to have anything to eat and then we would have to trudge back to the abandoned snowmobiles in the morning with no food. Food aside though, the Chaparral had made it all the way to the cabin! I was extremely proud. My pride was to be short lived though, because on the last stretch, just as George was gunning it to reach the door of the cabin the engine threw a rod and died right there on the spot, never to run again! Such a bummer! Rest in peace you poorly engineered lemon!

Prior to leaving, we had taken a trip to the "little store", which was a damaged food outlet that sold dented canned food.  We all picked out some cans to bring with us. My mother was highly concerned about the damaged food store, but it was all part of the adventure to me. You could get a mangled can of ravioli for like 15 cents! It was awesome! I remember that Brian selected generic canned spaghetti which George immediately re-named "worms in cheese sauce" I am pleased to say that despite my mother's concerns, we all dodged the botulism bullet that night, but I'm still not sure how Brian ate those cheesy worms. Nasty crap!

We spent the night in the 1000 degree loft. Brian decided to roll over George on his way in yelling "STEAMROLLER!" George was trapped in his sleeping bag and couldn't defend himself. Any day George can be steamrolled is a good day in my book. Soon we were all rolling around in our sleeping bags yelling "steamroller" trying to crush each other risking life while limb with pointy shingle-nail stalactites above our heads waiting to claw at our eyes. not sure what time we finally got to sleep, but I just remember laughing until my sides hurt.

When morning came, we got up and ate a hearty breakfast of oatmeal made with melted snow and topped with dented canned peaches. George had gotten up early and made the trek back to the snowmobiles and managed to get the old 69 panther to run. The Chaparral had blazed enough of a trail that the Panther made it up to the cabin and we were sort of back in business...ish!  The 74 panther was not interested in playing anymore and stubbornly would not start. Nobody had thought to bring any starting fluid, so we just tugged on its pull rope impotently until we were all exhausted. At this point we had 4 guys and a single working, very old and gutless snowmobile. Strangely enough,  I don't think I was even worried about it . I was far too busy enjoying myself.

After spending half the day messing with snowmobiles and playing with fire barrels - George threw a cup of white gas into the rusty fire barrel on the deck outside the cabin and blew the bottom right out of the thing when he threw a match in it. It made him yelp and jump back. Also one of the funnier things I had experienced in my young life. At this point George began to complain that Brian and I did nothing but stand around laughing. This sentiment did nothing to deter us. I believe we responded by laughing at him.

Eventually the fuel line for the '69 panther froze or got pinched or clogged or something. I can't remember what happened exactly, but we weren't getting fuel into the carburetor at all. We were back to 0 out of 3 running sleds and a 8 mile trek to the cars. Luckily George is a mad genius. His solution to getting us down the mountain was to have two of us sitting on the seat, one standing on the back holding the shoulders of the second guy on the seat and one guy leaning off the side of the snowmobile, holing on to a handle bar with one hand and squirting gas from a squirt bottle into the carburator every few seconds with the other hand. Zoom! We were off! We did this little clown car act for 8 miles all the way down to the trucks and made it home safely.

It was beautiful from start to finish and I easily one of the best weekends of my life. I couldn't wait to go snowmobiling again!

How to wire a GFCI Outlet for people who have more confidence than skill.

GFCI GCFI CGFI... Whatever.  They may save your life someday, but they're friggin annoying.

A Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter outlet became the bane of my existence for a bit last week. It all started when my daughter came to me with a dead hair dryer. "It just stopped." she said. I hauled myself up to my feet and determined that the GFCI outlet in our master bathroom had tripped. That outlet is connected to the kid's bathroom and therefore no hairdryer. I reset the outlet and went back to blissfully trolling Reddit.

About 2 minutes later she came back saying that the hair dryer stopped again. with a sigh I instructed her to be careful not to plug anything else into the outlet and went to reset it again.

No dice. It would not reset. Ugh. I sent her to an outlet in her room to finish up her hair while I started hunting for that GFCI outlet that I bought last year, but never ended up using.

I am pleased to report that I located the outlet without even trying hard (those who know me will understand how impressive this feat is.) I grabbed a couple of screw drivers and a pair of needle nose pliers and went to work.

At this point I feel like I should pause to tell you that it took me over a week to get the outlet working again. By the end I was so frustrated I wanted to climb up on the roof and refuse to come down until someone explained to me why I was so ridiculously lame that I couldn't connect 5 wires to 5 screws correctly.

The outlet that I removed was configured differently than the new one but both outlets were clearly marked with "Line" and "Load" so it should not have required any critical thinking skills to replace. Whew!  I took a quick photo of the configuration of the old outlet to serve as a reminder and labeled the wires with a sharpie for good measure. Then I removed the wires one by one as I wired up the new outlet according to the line and load markings etched onto it. I even took great pride in going old school and wrapping the wires around the screws rather than take the shortcut method because I Huckleberry Hotbody am no slouch!

-Yes OSHA. I shut off the power at the breaker and confirmed that the power was off with a multi-meter before monkeying with anything. I have been bitten by the angry pixies before and didn't develop any super powers so why bother trying again?)

I flipped the breaker back on and went in to test the outlet... It had a little red light on the bottom that was blinking red, but other than that - It didn't power up my sophisticated outlet testing equipment (bedside lamp). I was perplexed! It took an embarrassingly long time for me to remember that it might be a good idea to press the reset button on the switch to activate it. Eureka! That's the problem!  Nope. It wasn't! Grr!

I immediately assumed that I had somehow gotten the wires turned around as switched from the old wiring configuration to the new one. The old outlet had the line on the bottom and the load on top. The new one had line on top and load on the bottom. Seems simple, but I'm well known to be quite capable of playing the moron role when asserting my manly household repair persona.  I did find it odd that that the little red light would manage to blink if I had wired the outlet up backwards, but I am always willing to believe in my own ability to screw up repair jobs so I snapped another pic of the new configuration and pulled the outlet off to get a better look at things.

All signs pointed to me having wired the stupid thing correctly in the first place! Mmpf. At this point my wife came to me to complain about the internet being down. It was getting late and rebooting a router sounded like a much more satisfying project to me at that point, so I abandoned my GCFI woes and went on to the new project.

The next day I went in search of training. Good morning YouTube! Ugh! The internet is still down!? Boo! Way to suck Comcast! I was looking up Comcast's connection status on my phone when it occurred to me... maybe my rogue GFCI outlet was protecting an outlet that served some vital part of my internet connection equipment. I went on a hunt and found the culprit. An outlet in my garage was on the same circuit and my cable signal booster had no power. I moved it to another outlet and voila Internet restored! Hooray!

So Mainly I was looking to learn how to confirm which wires were "line" wires and which ones were "load" wires. I could find the hot line wire easily enough. it is the one with mains power flowing into it. The others were less obvious.

After way too many YouTube videos failed to tell me this information I got frustrated and gave it a rest. It was not until that evening after work that I tried again. Just as I was getting into a promising video my wife informed me that the ice cream in the garage refrigerator was feeling a little soft.

Yep! You guessed it. The garage refrigerator was plugged into the same outlet as the cable amplifier! Why didn't I re-route the refrigerator plug to a working outlet while I was re-routing the amplifier? I CAN CLEARLY ONLY SOLVE ONE DAMN PROBLEM AT A TIME! ...So yes. I am stupid. We got the fridge working and I went back to trouble shooting.

Ultimately I discovered that the line and load wires are grouped in the outlet box together. No surprise there. Problem is - that information just served to confirm that I had once again wired the outlet properly in the first place.

Next I deliberately wired the outlet wrong to see what would happen.

OSHA - Please be quiet! I'd like to say that I was being careful but mostly I was just frustrated and made a wildly unwise decision that may have burned my house down. I am aware of my own stupidity. People like me should not be allowed within 20 feet of home repair work. I know I know! The point is that nothing happened and I successfully eliminated another variable.

At this point I decided it was time to troubleshoot the outlet itself. it was brand new in box, but maybe it was a dud. I gathered up my son and we ventured to the home depot. The home depot is fun for little boys. I always try to take him whenever I go there. He was massively entertained by the wall of light switches while I deliberated on whether or not to buy the $40 quality outlet or stick with the $15 cheapass one. Cheap prevailed as usual and we went home with an outlet for me and the afterglow from the unfettered access to a wall of switches for my boy. It was satisfying on different levels for both of us.

I wired the new switch exactly as I had wired up the first "new" switch except that I abandoned the pretentious old school screw wrapping technique and just used the shortcut method. I have my limits.

it worked fine.

AAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaaaaaAAaaaaa!

I need a nap now.

-HH

2006 Honda Accord AC Lysol Shenanigans

So the wife has been bothered of late because her superhuman sense of smell has not been happy about the smell blowing out of her 2006 Honda Accord 's vents when she turns on the air conditioning. In true DIY spirit she googled to see if there was a solution.

Google recommended turning off the air conditioning compressor and running the internal fan full blast with the engine on. then emptying about half a can of lysol disinfectant spray into the vents near the wiper blades on the outside of the car. Thinking that it sounded like something that she was capable of doing, she bought a can of Lysol and went to work. 

It did not end well. 

After spraying the Lysol into the vents for a few seconds the car (according to her) made a loud noise and then the engine started to sputter She hurriedly jumped back in and pressed on the gas pedal to keep the engine from dying and was able to keep it running. After shutting the car off she called me and told me what she had done and I promised to come home and look things over using my highly impressive mediocre knowledge of modern vehicle maintenance. Nothing looked obviously awry to me. I suggested, with great confidence, that she "watch it" to see if anything else developed. (sound advice on my part if I do say so myself) 

the next day the A/C stopped blowing cold. We live in a giant desert. running a car sans A/C has been known to result in melting humans. 

My secondary attempt to diagnose the problem began in earnest- (I know my initial observations were impressive enough, but this time I decided to really apply some time-honored critical thinking skills to the problem.) 

I decided that one of several possible things had happened. 

1. Theory A: Lysol might be sticky. If it is, it may have somehow traveled through the vents into "something vital" and gummed it up. My genuinely unqualified mind envisioned secondary inline fans within the vents, sensors, wiring, and cooling chambers including any number of valves, fins, and electrical components that may be affected by the properties of the Lysol formula. (If at this point it seems that I do not know the first thing about how a vehicle A/C system works, I choose to neither confirm or deny any knowledge or expertise either express or implied that I may or may not possess. Now be quiet, I am thinking critically.) 
2. Theory B: Perhaps Rebecca did not actually succeed in turning off the A/C and ran the compressor during the fateful spraying of the Lysol. This would be contrary to the recommendation of the Google though I'm not sure why. If so, Lysol may have traveled into places where Lysol was not intended. Wait - Is the compressor part of the loop there? Maybe Lysol got into the compressor! Yikes!  (Okay. I don't really believe from what I know about home AC units and refrigerator units that the compressor is part of the loop, but I had the thought so I wrote it down.)
3. At this point I determined that it might be prudent to locate the a/c compressor. Mrs. Hotbody was watching, so rather than risk looking stupid in front of my wife (a look that I was clearly not wearing already amiright guys?) I began pointing at things that looked vaguely cylindrical under the hood calling them "the compressor" I figured that eventually one of them would be correct. I later found that I was mistaken on all counts, but, and I cannot express enough the importance of the next statement - I was wrong with great outward confidence. IMHO feigned confidence is at least half the battle in amateur vehicle repair work. 

Reaching the bottom of my lilliputian barrel of automotive expertise, I decided that it was time to do a little research. I know! a risky move at this point, but I am glad to report that it ultimately resulted in me learning a little. As it turns out, the compressor is connected to the serpentine belt via a clutch mechanism! Who would have guessed it? Upon  the  recommendation of a dubiously reputable person who made a YouTube video about it, I located the compressor clutch and confirmed with Mrs. Hotbody's assistance that it did not begin to spin when the A/C was switched on. (It did, however remain stationary when the A/C was switched back off... if that helps.) 

At this point I was hot on the trail of a new theory. the aforementioned dubious YouTuber had suggested that the relay that drives the compressor may have blown out. His solution was to unplug everything in the fuse box and plug them all elsewhere. Having some rudimentary knowledge about fuses, polarity, and voltage limitations I declined to take this advice. (Besides, he was performing his repair on a 2003 accord which clearly makes him an untrustworthy charlatan in the book of any respectable 2006 Accord owner.) His ramblings did force me to consider that the Lysol may not have been the catalyst for disaster after all! Maybe things failed after turning the system on full blast for a sustained burn. The strain may simply have burned out an aging relay. Could it be that simple?

I determined that I would spend $14 to purchase a new relay and just slap it in there to see what would happen. With luck, the stars would align, the car would begrudgingly submit to my will and my wife would once again be able to enjoy cold air on her face whilst transporting children from one place to another. Boom! Happy wife, happy life! 

Well after noodling it for a bit I decided to see if the relay shared the same model number as any other relay in the box. It did! Maybe that youtuber was less dubious than I initially realized! I switched the relays around and Ta Da! Nothing happened. Mmpf :| There goes that theory. 

Long story short - nothing I tried, short of replacing the compressor completely, seemed to have any effect whatsoever on the system. The compressor clutch just crouched there peevishly as if to say Eff you Huckleberry. I'm done doing your bidding! I was forced, after some halfhearted wheel-spinning, to throw in the towel and seek professional help. Compressor replacement is not something that I include in my current list of automotive skills. Anything attached to the serpentine belt could be considered a bad idea for me to mess with actually.

Roughly 2 days and $800 later, it was determined that my wife's compressor had passed on to a better place. It makes sense really. If the compressor clutch seized up it would explain the noise and the subsequent sputtering of the engine. If the clutch stopped spinning and put a strain on the belt, it could have made an idling engine sputter as the belt took on the strain of the un-moving part. I'm sorry to say that, no thanks to my efforts, my wife's car has a new compressor and I remain distinctly unimpressive. No surprise there.

Moral of the story - If you spray Lysol into your HVAC intake vent, you had better be sure that your home repair resources are better equipped than me or it might cost you $800. 

Today, after evidently being stung by the geneology beetle, Sarah called and started making wild claims that according to familysearch.com we are descendents from Oden-Woden king of Asgard (AKA “Thor the thunder god’s” father). You know Thor, He’s the one with the big hammer and lightning bolts from that movie last year. You can imagine my skepticism. After all, I’ve wielded a ball-peen a time or three in my day and I’ve never found myself in control of any lightning bolts. Clearly any son of Thor’s father should be able to kick a little trash The only trash that I have ever kicked was in a video game, and even then I was cheating. (haha I said “peen” haha)

Anyway, I think I strayed from the point a little bit. Fact is ladies – In my quest to disprove Sarah’s outlandish claims of our alleged blood ties with a Norse god, I ran across a delightful king in our lineage. His noble name can be found below .

Yeah, I stopped searching once I found “The Fart”. There really was no reason to go on at that point. One would think, knowing me, that I had altered this screen-shot in an act of tomfoolery using my not-insignificant computer geek skillz, but no. I have not. As proof, you may look him up on the Wikipedia which is widely known as the greatest source of truth in the universe. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eystein_Halfdansson . Granted, if you followed my link you would have found that Wikipedia claims that “the fart” possibly meant “the swift”…Fair enough - but I maintain, what exactly make him so swift? Could it have been the brisk and stinky wind that blew on occasion out of his southerly bits? You be the judge. All I know is - It took a dastardly warlock blowing into a cloak to kill him and that makes me wonder what kind of arsenal the man wielded from the depths of his bowels!

Alas king toot. If only you had been a tiny bit “swifter”

I for one plan on living up to the legacy that Mr. “The Fart” has left me as his descendent. I pity my wife and daughter.

That is all.

BA

Hi! My name is Michael Baggaley and I've gone 2 years without a blog post.

HI MICHAEL!

...Oh crap.

Before Today I Have Never Wanted to Physically Climb into You Tube

This feeling is not unlike being chosen last for a team. I want to play! I have a sudden desire to fill the void by playing four square or brandishing a hoppy taw.

It doesn't help that I can't for the life of me figure out A) who sings that song and B) where I can buy said song ...and a bright red hopper.

Savory!

This is a conversation that I had with a co-worker after lunching at Pat's BBQ today.

Me - I'm smelling a little bit smokey. Either that, or I have become delicious when i wasn't looking.

her - Oooh I like that you became delicious

Me - Who wouldn't? It's just adding one more savory attribute to my already impressive repertoire.

her - The ladies better watch out! Dangerous you are becoming

her - I am Yoda

Me - indeed

her - Not a usual thing for me

Me - I'm not complaining.

her - Maybe it's your deliciousness affecting me

Me - Sorry about that. I'll try to repress it.

Me - Whoo. You should know; it's not easy mustering up this much attitude whilst listening to Howard Jones

(I like working here)

It has come to my attention that I have not been using an acceptably manly device to apply soap to my naked parts in the shower. Long ago, I was able to fool myself into believing that one of these...



was acceptable to shower with because even though they appear rather feminine, they're made of a mesh material. Mesh is definately manly. I could easily unravel my mesh ball and reconfigure it into a clever booby trap if I ever experienced a millennial disaster or zombie attack. (At least I believe that I could)

See? Manly.

Besides, they're scratchy and when combined with the musky man-scent of Axe body wash it's much easier to ignore that they look like they were sneezed out of a giant doily.

However... That was all before I found out what they are called.

Poofs?

What the?... I do not shower with poofs! How can it be that I was never informed of this?! Who's in charge here!?

Well anyway, not willing to concede to this "poof" nomenclature, I decided to call my poof "Dale" ...aaaaand then, without first thinking it through properly, I made the mistake of announcing this to my co-workers. (Consider the following: If my poof is named "Dale" then it adopts a gender. Thus a poof shaped mesh fellow named Dale would have spent some time a little too close to my important parts in the shower.) I quickly changed the name of my poof to Suzy, but alas, the damage was done.

Sigh. Life is just too complicated.

A Bathroom Rant

What you are about to read is a bathroom rant. The subject has been done to death, so you’re welcome to skip this one if you are already aware of the sad state of affairs in most men’s rooms today.

When it comes to men’s room etiquette most guys will follow a code of sorts. There are a lot of unwritten nuances, but it can be summed up in one phrase “Don’t bother me.” As long as all of the guys in your particular men’s room maintain this attitude everything goes swimmingly. However there’s some who have yet to grasp the concept and they manage to throw the entire system into the crapper (so to speak) I address these comments to the bathroom etiquette violator:

First of all - a nod is the only acceptable method of communication between acquaintances while in a men’s room. Talking is for places that don’t smell like someone else’s poop. If you ask me a question before first exiting the restroom I will not be happy with you.

If I am using a urinal, stay the crap away from me. Nobody wants to have someone sidle up to them while they take a whiz. If you do not leave a buffer urinal between us you will be labeled as suspicious for life; and yes, I will tell people about you. (If the urinals are full and the buffer urinal is the only available option, be a man and wait 15 seconds.)

The shorty urinal is for our friends in wheelchairs and maybe leprechauns. You will look awkward and stupid if you use it unless you fall into either of these two categories. (If you find yourself needing to take 2 steps back and make a rainbow shaped stream in order to use the regular urinals, you are probably a leprechaun.) … (If you’re reading this, you are welcome make your own observations about pots of gold. I choose not to go there in this post.)

Wash your hands. (Yeah I’m going to need to spend some time on this one)

When I say “wash your hands” I mean actually wash… your…hands. No joke ladies, some guys actually go as far as to turn the water on and back off again without actually getting their hands wet. What are we 6 years old? You didn’t fool your mother then, and you’re not fooling anybody now! I can only suppose that this is to give the appearance of being sanitary without actually being forced to wash the germs off. Maybe I’m being too judgmental. Maybe they made friends with the germs… No it’s disgusting. Wash your hands.

There are even a few people who go the extra mile with their hand washing theatrics. They just run their hands quickly under the water for a fraction of a second. I have even more contempt for these people. Honestly! How much more effort does it take to hit the soap dispenser and rub your hands together for a few seconds?

Then there’s a disturbing amount of people who seem to believe that peeing does not justify a wash. Your hand was on your bits! Wash it off!

There are some who subscribe the theory that the bathroom is the place to rid yourself of gas. This one is difficult because the bathroom really is preferable to a public place for that sort of activity, If you have gas, the most polite place to take care of it is the restroom. However, this does not give you a blanket license to terrorize the people who may be in the bathroom with you. By terrorize I mean going out of your way to impersonate foghorn and then making any sort of sighing or relieved noises.

Actually, let me pause here and say that it is never EVER ok to make any noises that could in any way be interpreted as expressions of pleasure or relief while within the confines of a public restroom. The LAST thing that anyone wants to hear while sharing the john with you is your happy noises. It’s incredibly creepy. Don’t do it!

Bathrooms are not for catching up on the news. Don’t nab the newspaper as you pass the break room on your way to the bathroom. Take care of things and get out of there. Oh and please, please, for the love of all that is holy, do not put the paper back into the break room when you are finished with it!

The men’s room is not for food! EVER! If you have a plate of food from the company barbecue do not carry it with you into the bathroom! Nobody wants your nasty plate of food. I promise that it won’t get stolen. Leave it outside the door! I hope you get hepatitis. You know who you are.

That is all.

Ouch!

So I hit my head again. I know, I know. Considering the abuse that I have put my noggin through over the years, this information by itself is not all that noteworthy. I have, after all, spent a lifetime abusing my poor tender head in various and unpleasant ways. (How many people do you know that have knocked themselves out cold just by leaping around in their basement?)

Well as it happens, this story is not about quantity, it’s about quality. You see, I tripped up the stairs and ran the top of my head into the front door of my apartment building... again. Yep, I said “again”. This is, in fact, the second time that I have performed this exact same ridiculous stunt since moving into my building. I should really set up a camera to capture these little stair climbing debacles because the odds of a repeat performance are pretty darn good at this point.

Both incidents involved me attempting to leap up the stairs like a gazelle and missing a step. As anyone who has fallen up a flight of stairs can tell you; your body sort of bends in half after you trip which completely throws your center of gravity for a loop. In order to try to compensate, you are forced to begin running. I had some decent momentum going when I tripped, so by the time I started running I was moving at a pretty good clip. Unfortunately it’s a rather short flight of stairs and there wasn’t enough room to catch myself before I encountered the landing. Also, being a super intelligent person, I had spent 100% of my concentration on getting my legs back under me leaving nothing left over for my arms which I imagine just whistled in the wind behind me like a pair of limp socks.

I connected with the door at the top of the stairs with the very top of my head and then crumpled into a pile of limbs on the landing. It must have made a horrific noise, but my neighbors were kind enough to allow me to untangle myself in private and limp along my way. I still don’t know how I got to the grocery store after that, but I bought a lot of weird food so I might not have been entirely in control of my senses.

I think I’ll wait before I attempt to impersonate a gazelle again. I might need some recovery time.

This just in:

I'd really like to figure out an excuse to begin calling myself the Marquis of Carabas. I'm not sure how I will pull it off though because I don't even own a cat. Suggestions?

I can't be trusted with the "Magic dust"

So I bought Carol some Pixie Stix for her Easter basket a couple of weeks ago because I’m a dutiful son. While I was packing the aforementioned basket, I came across a gimpy Pixie stick that had a slow leak. Not being one to risk wasting a substance that may, or may not, have been extracted from actual pixies; I poured it into my mouth aaaand it was all down hill from there. When I finally came to my senses, I was all out of breath and sprawled on my couch under an impressive pile of little empty paper straws.

It was horrifying.

I’m sad to report that poor Carol was left with a pittance of leftover Pixie Stix by the time I regained control of myself. Unfortunately, by that time, I could have easily fueled a round trip flight to Neverland merely by breathing on some random children.

Someone is Stealing My Subway Points!

On occasion I like to collect things. It’s a learned behavior that I picked up from my friend George. I suspect that something got lost in the translation though because George tends to collect things with actual resale value and I collect things like TV show recordings and subway points.

Subway points are fun to collect because they come with tasty sandwiches and they provide me with endless ways to torment my friends and co-workers who all believe in their hearts that a subway point not spent is a subway point wasted.

I’m pleased to say that I have not spent a single Subway point since I got my subway card. I should probably mention here that I once “pretended” to spend some of my subway points to buy a sandwich for a friend at work because I didn’t want to her to argue with me about the fact that I bought her lunch. I’m not super good at “pretending” as it turns out, because I left the receipt for the sandwich in her subway sack. Yep, I’m a moron.

Anyway, my current subway point balance as of this afternoon is 1,357. For those of you who are Subway novices, if I turned in all of my points today, I could have about 20 free sandwiches. I clearly won’t redeem these 20 sandwiches though because if I turned my points now, then I would not have any points left and I would have to come up with some other useless thing to collect. To be honest, I just don’t have the personal motivation to think of a replacement right now.

So here’s the mystery – Several weeks ago I had over 1,400 points. If I have never spent a single subway point, why do I now only have 1,357? Where have my points gone? My subway card has never left my wallet and my wallet has never left my pocket so where are all my points disappearing to?

This is fundamentally disturbing. I feel so…violated.

The point decline to date:

(I started keeping track on 3/12/2009)
3/12/2009 – 1,381
3/16/2009 – 1,375
3/24/2009 – 1,369
3/27/2009 – 1,377 (A slight rebound)
4/06/2009 – 1,357

SHAT DOES INDEED HAPPEN

I’ve reached a crossroads in my life. You know, one of those pivotal moments when you have to make a potentially life altering decision and you’re not sure if you can go through with it. Well I’m sitting on the fence here and let me tell you- It’s kinda uncomfortable and pokey.

Here’s the thing: There’s this new Star Trek movie in the theaters see? I neeeed to see it, but from a moral standpoint I just can’t bring myself to force some poor self sacrificing patsy to go with me.

-However-

This doesn’t change the fact that I feel obligated, yea even compelled by my own festering trekker roots to see it on the big screen. Sure I could wait for it to come out on Blueray, but it’s just not the same. Now before you call me up and holler “Noooooo!” you should know that I am fully aware that it’s not socially acceptable to go to a movie by myself. However, for some reason knowing this hasn’t changed the fact that I’m more than sorely tempted to go see it anyway. I know it’s crazy but I just can’t help myself!

The salt in the wound of course, is that the movie causing this much internal conflict is easily the nerdiest movie that has hit theaters in a decade. To be honest, I haven’t dealt with this sort of internal scifi conflict since I had to choose between attending the “Star Trek Experience” or going to a fancy dinner with my co-workers on my last business trip to Vegas. Fortunately, at the time my desire to avoid the unmerciful mocking of my peers proved slightly stronger than the heady lure of imaginary, pointy eared space exploration. The problem now is that I could potentially go see this movie by myself incognito. Nobody has to know if I did it or not. It’s dark in there. I could slip in and slip back out like a ninja and then keep the whole thing a secret forever!

I think I’ll do it.

Wait though…

What if this is like a gateway drug? When the next Iron Man comes out will I be able to resist going to it by myself as well? I’ll say to myself. “Hey, I got away with the Star Trek movie; what could one more hurt?" Then suddenly I’ll be a 45 year old creep with a mustache and a used popcorn bag sitting brazenly in the loner chair in the front row of my local theater every weekend. Sure I’ll have built up an immunity to all the pointing and staring, but no woman in her right mind would ever consider dating me again!

What to do, what to do?

BEHOLD!

This was my computer wallpaper for over a year. It's yet another example of why I shouldn't be allowed to hang out alone in my cubicle for long periods of time. Feel free to use it as your wallpaper. You're sure to impress your friends and co-workers.

PERHAPS HE'LL DIE...

There was this dude “Michael” who swallowed a pie…
I don’t know why he ate a whole pie…
Perhaps he’ll die.

Yeah I did it. I ate a whole pie. I bought it. I brought it home. I found myself a fork and I ate the pie. It was delicious, nutritious (It had bananas in it) and went down smooth. Sure it made me a little sick but nothing worth doing is easy right?

Go ye people who read my blog! Eat yourselves a pie! You won’t regret it! (Ok that’s a lie. You will regret it, but you won’t have that pesky pie laying around your house taking up space anymore! That’s worth something right?)

SOMETIMES

Sometimes your earbuds get caught in one of your office chair wheels. Sometimes in the process of extracting them, you accidently stretch them too far and you end up pulling a bunch of brightly colored little wires out at one end. Sometimes you realize that your earbuds are the only ones that fit into your very fancy cell phone and you don’t have a replacement pair on hand.

Sometimes you believe yourself to be the worlds most crafty man and you re-attach all of the little wires with a magnifying glass, testosterone, and a soldering gun. (Sometimes you blow on the end of the soldering gun when you are finished like some sort of geeky gunslinger.) Sometimes the smoke from the solder makes you cough and gives you a sore throat for about 15 minutes, which makes you wonder if solder smoke is a carcinogen. Sometimes you step back to look at your handiwork and you decide that the whole repair job looks a bit too flimsy to withstand the rigors of your day to day life.

Sometimes you have the brilliant idea to cover the affected area with a dollop of hot glue which would strengthen the connected wires and make everything look less shifty. (Sometimes your brain imagines that you are an amazing and talented hot glue sculptor and that you will be able to make the glue patch blend right into the whole cord. Sometimes your brain is sorely mistaken. )

Sometimes you are lazy and you don’t want to wait for your old hot glue gun to heat up, so you grab a lighter and begin to heat up one end of a stick of hot glue. Sometimes you hold the lighter a little bit too close and you set fire to the end of your stick of hot glue. Sometimes you panic a little bit because you realize that you are holding a short molten glue-fuse which is sure to burn you. Sometimes you overreact and fling the molten glue fuse onto your desk where it promptly makes a nasty glue mess.

Sometimes the glue spatter has an intimate affair with the vainer finish on your desk and decides to set up a permanent residence. Sometimes you bend a fingernail back trying to pick it off of there. sometimes you muster up enough courage to try your little lighter/glue stick trick again and you succeed in smearing some glue onto the affected wires.

Sometimes you burn your finger a little bit.

Sometimes the heat from the lighter toasts the glue lightly and you end up with a dirty looking grey patch of misshapen glue on your white earbud cord. Sometimes it looks like a big, gross booger stuck to said cord and you begin to ponder the negative social ramifications of wandering around in public with a booger on your earbuds. Sometimes you add more glue and try to shape it into a more aesthetically pleasing shape.

Sometimes you burn your finger again.

Sometimes you decide that it might be a good idea to color the gross booger patch with a blue sharpie marker. Then you will surely feel better because even though your patch still looks like a booger; nobody in their right mind would paint a real booger blue, so nobody will think that you were saving one for later there on your earbud cord.

Sometimes you are brilliant!

Sometimes you realize that blue sharpie marker does not bond very well with hot glue and you realize this AFTER taking your new ear buds for an inaugural test drive. Sometimes you come to the aforementioned realization when you look down at your tee shirt and find that it is now streaked with blue ink that has rubbed off the blue booger patch onto your shirt. Sometmes you realize that you have also gotten some of the blue ink on your hands and transferred it to your face.

Sometimes you look fantastic.

Sometimes you wash the ink off of your booger patch with an industrial solvent to avoid any future blue ink incidents. Sometimes the solvent eats its way through the booger patch and destroys the colorful little wires inside it. Sometimes your earbuds are really broken this time.

Sometimes you want to scream

I SMELL TROUBLE AND IT SMELLS LIKE SHIRT.

Ok so why is it that every time I type the word ‘shirt’ I leave out the letter ‘R’? We all know that cussing has never been one of my stronger talents so I'm at a loss as to why my brain insists on forgetting to type the 'R'.

Note to self: Never, under any circumstances, are you to ever tell anyone in writing that you really admire their brown shirt.

HOW TO PICK UP CHICKS... MY WAY

9 out of 10 Single men in the world are searching for a holy grail. I’m not talking about the real holy grail. Indiana Jones clearly has that one covered. I’m talking about the quest for some good lookin’ wool. (… Ok for the last time –No–. “Good looking wool” has nothing to do with sheep. Honestly, am I the only one who has seen “The Money Pit”? )

Anyway, I’m here to help- For some of us the ideal girl actually exists somewhere on the planet earth. Fortunately for you I have discovered how to find her using simple algebra.

(WP+RP) D – TTD
------------------- =GOOD
(L+EC) BCDF

For those who aren’t math whiz’s like me, I will spell it out for you:

(WP) Waiting patiently, plus (RP) rippling pectorals, multiplied by (D) dating, minus (TTD) Tendencies toward douchebaggery, divided by (L) luck plus (EC) extreme charm, times (BCDF) brightly colored dorsal feathers (Hey, that's a proven fact! PBS doesn’t lie people.) equals (GOOD) girl of one’s dreams. It’s really very simple.

Sadly, it has recently come to my attention that not everyone can plug themselves into the above equation. Those of us with slightly less main-stream pectorals are forced to take an remedial make-up test involving a single story problem of ridiculous length and complexity.

Here is an excerpt from page 7:

Page 7 paragraph 3: A train traveling 187 ½ miles per hour is heading east down a train track made of macaroni against a head wind that smells of berries and mint.
Another train traveling backwards exactly as fast as half the atomic number of cheese; divided by the exact number of acceptable defective products contained in a 550lb box of 30-weight ball bearings.

How many of the macaronis could you and your friends eat before the trains collide killing you all in a fiery mass of metal and mayhem? How many of you are likely to survive this encounter?

Page 7 paragraph 4: The survivors of the macaroni train accident want to travel to an ice cream store using an air gun, a chest of pirate booty, and a tightrope…

I’ll stop there.

Actually, to be honest, this whole thought process began when I found myself browsing through a bunch of tee shirts designed for proud female geeks (My own personal unicorn) and wondering if I will ever be able to buy one of them as a gift for a girrrl. Where are you my geeky GF? I’ve searched all the neighboring basements and your stealthy ninja skills appear to be impenetrable to my atrophied eyes!




P.S.: …No I am not creepy for browsing the lady shirt section. I happen to like visiting a site called Think Geek and they happen to feature several tee shirts for women.

Am I creepy for wanting to see what said shirts say?

Shoot. I’m creepy aren’t I?

*sigh*

Things I think about:

It occurs to me that I have a tendency to bean myself in the head with more random things while sitting by myself in the relative safety of my cubicle than I’d care to admit.
I think that if people paid more attention to what I get up to when I’m left alone in here, they might be concerned for my safety. I think I'm going to have a bruise.

Note to self: No more playing catch with yourself using your little wooden Buddha statue.

Why all game shows should ask questions about light bulbs

Because they are the single most difficult thing in the world to remember!

Honestly, I’m nursing about 3 bulbs in my house right now and one of them was discretely “borrowed” from the laundry room downstairs. It’s crazy irritating. I cannot for the life of me remember to buy them when I go shopping! I Even went to the store with a list containing nothing but the word “LIGHT BULBS” and I found myself back at home with a box of Cheese'its, some candy, and an onion. Nope, no light bulbs. Worse, I already had 2 full boxes of Cheese'its (I like them) and I couldn’t remember why I thought I needed an onion.

Every time I turn on a light in my house I’m rewarded with the sickly glow of a single 60watt bulb. It’s all sorts of annoying. It’s like I’m trying to create ideal lighting for a mushroom farm here…

Wait a second...

Oh Good night! Has it come to this? Am I to become the next person in a long line of creepy creepy people who have discovered mushrooms growing in their apartments? (You know who you are …Frances and Tiffany)

My kingdom for a light bulb delivery boy!

Does anyone else find it ironic that the light bulb, the international symbol for “Idea” should be the one thing that I can’t force my brain to think about?

And now my pants smell

This afternoon I discovered that I had 2 pressing needs. Need #1 (and by far the most important of the two) involved a craving for a hefty handful of the new and surprisingly delicious Life Savers Gummies Island Fruit snacks The second need involved the desire to possess a sufficient amount of high quality premium grade gasoline to get me home tonight. As it happens, both of these needs could be satisfied with one trip to the local Chesterfield Seven Eleven!

I arrived at the Sev and went through the process of putting my debit card into the pump and entering my pin. I grabbed the nozzle, placed it expertly in the place where nozzles belong on my car; and squeezed the handle. ...Nothing. I glanced over to the display on the pump to verify that everything was in order. The pump display cheerfully instructed me to proceed; so I squeezed again. ...Nothing again. Squeeze... nothing... check display... squeeze... nothing... check display... squeeze.

Hmm. Yeah this isn't working.

At this point my brain decided to begin planning for future options. Should I move my car? There was an empty stall open, but my card information is already entered into my current pump. What if some random person came by and pumped a tank full of gas on my card?

...At some point during all of this I became a tiny bit unhinged. Squeezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueeze
squeezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueezesqueeze -cramp- OUCH! (And then I mumbled a bunch of Mormon profanities under my breath)

...I washed my windows.

When I was ready to try again I walked calmly back to the pump and Ugh. Nothing. Those of you reading this who happen to be males will understand that asking the attendant for help is not an option here. All of the attendants are female at my particular Sev and I do possess a small amount of self respect. I'm sorry ladies, but I have to maintain my reputation... as a dude.

So I decided to give up. It was time to throw in the towel. I was going through the motions to put everything back so that I could move to another pump when the nozzle for the regular "shabby grade" gas fell off it's hook and shot gas onto my pants.

Good friggin' gravy!!!

I reached down and snatched the errant pump... and realized that both pump lines were twisted together.

Waaaait a second...

Aaargh! Somebody had put the wrong pump nozzle on my pump hook! I had paid for premium gas, but I was trying to pump it out of the standard gas pump the whole time! (More sordid Mormon profanities)

For those who are concerned for my well being, I was able to gas up my car after finding the right pump nozzle. All is well and I will be able to return to my seedy little apartment this evening. However, as if the fates were determined to add insult to injury, the Sev had officially run out of tasty tasty gummy Lifesavers.

My lot is hard.

UPDATE!

I am happy to report that Thanks to a good friend and some honest to goodness good old American hospitality I have now satisfied my burning desire for snickerdoole cookies (for the next saaay 12 hours of so at least). Thanks to Mel and her husband Stu for having me over and feeding me things, giving me knives, bags of pretzels and the chance for my shoes to participate in a rather amorous affair with a small Calico rabbit named Lopez.

Mmmm Cookies.

GET SOME NUTS!

Today I ate my weight in teeny tiny Snickers minis. (incoming tangent) Does anyone else miss the good old days when said "minis" were called Snickers Snackers? I have no idea why I lament the name change, but I am quite sure that they were much more fun to eat when they were snackers.

All of the Snickers adds that I have seen over the years have been based on the fact that Snickers supposedly really satisfy. They're supposed to give you boundless energy when you want to do manly things like play sports and flex your biceps at women. They even contain protein by way of being "packed with peanuts" so that sugar rush does not die off so quickly. Heck, they even have an endorsement from Mr. T himself! who blazes in to a soccer match driving a TANK and hucks a snickers bar at some poor dude's head. All signs point to Snickers candy bars as being the ultimate "go" food.

Ok, here's the rub... Snickers make me tired. It's pathetic! Every time I eat one I need at least a half hour to recover. What is wrong with me? Butterfingers, Twix, Milky Ways... none of them make me bat an eye, but Snickers are like a prescription for a nap. Why can't I eat snickers like a man? Why?

I just know that Mr T is going to show up at my work one day and start throwing candy at my head. The question here is - Can I blame him? No, no I cannot.

Be Gentle Mr. T.

A potential use for the sweet turquoise pants?

So I was cleaning off my desk this morning and I found some documentation of a rather banner day that I experienced several years ago. I think that it should be documented officially here. (see below.)

10/22/2006 Today I discovered that I have somehow developed a super power!

Before I go into the origin of my newfound power, I have a concern about my potential new responsibilities. I am obviously faced with an important thing to consider here- Protection of my soon to be secret identity. The identity itself is gravy. I’ve got the nerdy ladyfriend-free persona down to a science. It’s the outfit that I’m most nervous about. Do I make a beeline to the spandex store? Considering my slightly underwhelming physique I’m a little bit concerned about the impact that such a display might have on my future fans. (I suppose that in a pinch, I could use those fantastic turquoise pants from a few posts ago but I’d probably have to tape them on.)

So you’re dying to know what my power is right? Is it the power of flight? Super strength? No, (but to be fair, I have tested each of those powers multiple times with varying and painful results). No,my newfound super power is much more subtle.

Ready?

I have the supreme ability to gain or lose up to 10 pounds in a matter of seconds. (Insert dramatic "ta da" crescendo here)

I discovered this magical ability while weighing myself on an old bathroom scale that I recently received as a hand-me-down from my Grandma Fern. It's amazing! Every time I get on it I weigh something different! Most people would assume that the scale is broken, but those are people with absolutely no imagination. Actually, for all of you unbelievers, I tested the scale with a 20lb dumbbell and it was dead-on-balls accurate.

So far, the only implementation ideas that I have been able to come up with involve really specific scenarios with overcrowded elevators and teeter totter solos, but I’m sure that with a little creativity I can someday save the world.

Do not read this! You'll regret it!

Do you ever have a day that just begs for a snickerdoodle? Well let me apologize in advance if, by reading this, your brain has suddenly exclaimed "ooh I haven't had a snickerdoodle in like... ages!" Because I have just doomed you to at least a solid hour of frustration. Didn't you read the title? I warned you and I wash my hands of this.

Let me say this: Do not, under any circumstances, ever crave a snickerdoodle. because disappointment is hiding around the corner right now my friend. Snickerdoodles are not a commonly available snack. I know, I know... Don't tell me that they can be "baked". I did not have a craving for a chore, I had a craving for a cookie. The point is that They can not be bought! (Even for fistfulls of cash!)

Ask yourself this: Where does one buy a snickerdoodle at 9:00 on a Saturday night? Nowhere, that's where. Now let me make myself abundantly clear- I'm not talking about a pre-packaged hard as a rock shabbydoodle that lurks behind the prozac cookies on isle 7 at Albertsons. That is not a snickerdoodle. That is a little stone sham wrapped in cellophane. I'm talking about a chewy cinnamon covered golden brown delight that has been baked just long enough for the edges to get a little crusty. Yes yes I know... You're thinking about diplomatic ways to tell me that I have a problem. That's fine. I'm not denying it. I'm just saying that it wouldn't be a problem if I had a tasty cookie in my hand right now.

I am a man with needs, and those needs are round, flat, and dusted with cinnamon. Is it too much to ask for a really hot woman to show up at my door right now with a plate of warm cookies? I mean, really! (Yeah, ok I threw in the hot woman. I figure, meh, if you're going to shoot for the moon...)

Examine your zipper!

When I was a boy Carol told me that if I pull on a hang nail it will unzip down my finger, up my arm, over my head and then all of my skin would fall off. I’m sure that she was just trying to prevent me from future hang nail related grief; but I was a believer. Actually, the idea sort of appealed to me. If I was just bones under my skin then I could unzip it and be a skeleton and I could hide under my sister’s bed and scare her. It was a masterful plan with plenty of potential, but I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get my skin back on without my mother’s help. The point here is that I thought about it for so long as a kid that now at the ripe old age of 33, I can’t look at a hang nail without imagining a great zipper noise and a pile of slightly used, overly pale skin pooling on the ground at my feet. (I'm talking ghostly pale people! I’m from good solid Scandinavian stock. Honestly, there’s barely enough pigment in my skin to keep my internal organs hidden.)


Be glad I censored this picture. Imagine me wearing only a fig leaf glowing like a whitey beacon in a dark setting. ...Actually scratch that. Please don't imagine it. There's no reason for everyone who reads this to be scarred for life.

I'm Michael Baggaley and I have sentient eyebrows.

I have been told that I have the eyebrows of a Greek god. It's true, I've seen them, they're spectacular. However occasionally, and without warning, I become acutely aware of them. It's not as if I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or something and suddenly notice that there are eyebrows on my face. No they just make themselves known to my brain. It's as if they're bristling in anticipation of some hidden danger. Today, for example, they are crouched on my face like a couple of feral cats. It's not a pleasant sensation at all. Why?! What good is knowing that my eyebrows are hanging around on my face. They don't actually warn me of any danger (That would be pretty cool, kind of like a super power) No. There's no danger here.
I'm sitting at my desk sipping orangeade and thinking about tanks. (Guys think about tanks more than you know, ladies. Sometimes, when you're talking to us and we're just nodding at you as if we were listening... Yep. Tanks. ...Tanks and sometimes gear shifters.) Maybe my feral eyebrows get bored with merely looking like they were chiseled by a sculptor. Maybe they yearn for a little action. What kind of action? Maybe they just don't like to be ignored. Any way you look at it. I am going to have to check myself into a "home" if this keeps up today. Curse you eyebrows! Curse you!

Sigh

Sometimes you want a brownie… and there aren’t any brownies and it’s 4:30 which is a bad time for brownies anyway so you eat a peanut butter cracker hoping to pretend it’s as fun as a tasty brownie and you find it to be dry and unsatisfying.

And then you wonder if you are also... dry and unsatisfying.

FUN FACTS ABOUT SPIKE ENERGY DRINK

So I came across a spike energy drink and made the mistake of reading the can.

Spike warning (Printed on the can)

“WARNING: Do no use if you are under the age of 16 or elderly. Do not take with any other stimulant or weight-loss supplement or any prescription or over the counter medicine. Do not use if pregnant or nursing or at risk of being treated for high blood pressure, heart disease, hyperthyroidism, spasms, psychiatric disease, suffer from migraines, have asthma or are taking asthma medication. Discontinue use if you experience dizziness, headache, nausea or heart palpations. If you have trouble sleeping, do not take within 6 hours of bedtime. Keep out of reach of children. Recommended use: begin use with one-half can daily to determine tolerance. Never exceed one can daily. Caution: this product contains strong stimulants and should not be combined with any other stimulant or fat-loss product

Then I did some research on caffeine:

1 12 oz can of coke =about 40 mg of caffeine
1 8oz can of Spike = over 300 mg of caffeine (7 ½ cans of coke)

Drink a whole 6 pack of coke and you’ll have less caffeine than if you drank 1 can of Spike
Drink a whole 6 pack of Spike and you’ll have a coma… and your saliva could potentially be used to power a bus.

Conclusion: Guys are stupid and will drink things containing warnings stating in no uncertain terms that they will probably have an elaborate series of convulsions within 10 minutes of tipping them back.

Why do we do this?

We do this because we believe that a brush with death will make us appear to be strong and capable hunters – a.k.a.: irresistible to flocks of leggy womenfolk (yes leggy, this is my story not yours.)

Why are we stupid?

Because we have no idea what you "girl" people actually want so we end up relying on our instincts (never a good idea) which means drinking poison because it’s the only allegedly impressive thing that we can think of. ...Please Whitey.

Digging through the junk in my own trunk

Today I received the gift of an Intermountain Healthcare trunk organizer. Evidently despite all of my efforts to the contrary, someone has managed to catch a glimpse of the junk in my trunk.

The aforementioned "organizer" was cleverly packaged to conceal 2 very burlapy looking re-usable grocery bags. While I usually appreciate the gift within a gift concept; I find the fact that I now own re-usable grocery bags to be fundamentally disturbing. To be perfectly honest, I am unable to feel anything but contempt for the re-usable grocery bag. People who have deep and passionate feelings about environmental issues are probably rending their woven hemp headbands over this admission, but - there you go.

Having a brief past in the grocery business I have a little experience with the re-usable grocery bag. I attribute most of my dislike for them with the fact that they generally look like their owner doubles them as a rag for wiping down the grosser parts of public restrooms. Honestly, I'm willing to grant that I don't save the environment very often; but at least I also don't haul my food inside something that smells like it's fabric was reclaimed from a shifty old couch from good will. I can barely bring myself to put my hand in there and they want to eat stuff that was carried in it?



It doesn't help that most people who use these bags consider them a friggin badge of honor. They go as far as to conceal them until after their bagger asks if they want paper of plastic bags. Then with a self-important smile they say "neither" and toss a couple of those creepy cloth things at you.
Not to mention that they also believe that the bags have magical powers. They expect you to fit an entire basket full of groceries into 2 bags. Supposedly they can carry 600lbs of food each because they're "cloth".

Ugh, this whole thing has dredged up all sorts of adolescent anger... I need a snack.

And another thing…

As many people have observed, I have a rare genetic deformity commonly called “monkey arms”. These monkey arms, while not entirely debilitating, have a tendency to jut out a little from the cuffs when I'm forced to wear normal non-monkey-people shirts.
In an attempt to keep my milky white arms decently covered, I went shopping online at what I prefer to call a tall man store. (*Note the red text.* For reasons that should be obvious, I have made a conscious choice not to refer to said store as: “a big and tall store called King-Size Whoa. King Size is admittedly more accurate, but clearly ranks higher on my personal shame scale

I found a couple of reasonably priced oxfords with 37” sleeves (Maroon and tan in color if you must know.) and placed the order.

Two weeks later, a large blue package arrived

And this is what it contained!



What in Sam-He** is that? Instead of a maroon shirt I got a light pink one and instead of a tan shirt I got one shiny turquoise pair of the snazziest pants ever made! It is hands-down the worst outfit that I have ever had in my possession! (well, top three.)

"Comic GOLD?" you ask? You'd better believe it sister!

Where do you suppose the so-called “tall man” store dug up this double-button-fly polyester delight? Honestly, Was HG Wells involved? The photo doesn’t do the pants justice as the turquoise coloring gives off a slight glow in low lighting. Not to mention that the blatant omission of pockets of any kind screams Sexxy (Sexy with 2 X’s and the y pronounced "eh") My only regret is that the 20” waist prevents me from heaving them over my muscular physique and wearing them to the mall.

Shop King Size! You never know what you’re going to get! (Or maybe you do)

This blog is not really a blog

Oh please. Just because it appears that this is, in fact, a "blog", does not mean that I am required to acknowledge it as such. I know exactly two people that use this service. Why would I have a blog of my own? Why? I ask you, why?

Now, go away and pretend that you never saw this.