Why Is There No Hot Water And Why Are ALL The Lights On?

Some years ago, wife 2.0 and I remodeled and expanded home 1.0 rather than purchase home 2.0.  For those of you confident in the strength of your marital relationship and longing for a means to test your resolve, I highly recommend living in a home that is also a construction zone and at random intervals has no electricity, no hot water and during late February and early March, a door sized hole in the wall open to the world.  I am reminded of the old expression to the effect “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”  I’m not sure who coined that phrase and I am also loathe to offend; however, that particular genius is terminally stupid (God bless his heart), a liar, or has never been married.  2.0, I and son 1.0 emerged from the experience much like those who fail in the attempt to scale Mt. Everest, weakened, needing medical attention and swearing never to do it again. 

Despite my absolute commitment to avoid duplicating the experience, there was an upside.  For example, we now have two bathrooms, a 50 gallon water heater rather than a 35 gallon water heater and a sewing room.  By the way, why are those things called “hot water heaters”?  It seems to me that if the water were indeed hot, it would need no heating.  But, I digress.  I immediately saw the benefit to a second bathroom (remember, wife 2.0 and teen aged son 1.0?).  However, I still don’t understand the need for a sewing room with lighting such that x-rays are unnecessary.  That 10’ by 14’ room has more lights than the rest of the house put together. 2.0’s explanation is that by using klieg lights worthy of the London blitz in 1941, she can see the “true” colors of the fabric.  It occurred to me that because the rest of the world has “normal” lighting and not Broadway spotlights, she would have to bring the world’s population, one by one, into the sewing room to see the “true” colors incorporated in her sewing projects; but, as the title of this blog suggests, married men are clueless.

While I may not have understood the cumulative lumens required in the sewing room, I immediately saw the benefit of an additional 15 gallons of hot water.  We could wash dishes, clothes, and ourselves simultaneously.  That is, we could do all those things simultaneously until son 1.0 reached 16.  It was at that point showers went from five minutes to 30.  It turns out that with a 30 minute shower, one can exhaust 50 gallons of hot water and the additional hot water generated during the 30 minute shower. 

Not only does son 1.0 delight in causing me to take cold showers (I SWEAR those are completely unnecessary at my age), both he and wife 2.0 feel the need to turn on every light in the house.  Arkansas Power and Light (yes, I know it is Entergy) sends us Christmas cards and when we were gone a few days, sent someone by to make sure we were still alive.  Son 1.0 is a great kid, a bona fide genius, who for some reason has the ability to move a light switch up; but, is genetically incapable of moving one down.  I attribute this to his mother’s side, for she is similarly afflicted. 

So, for those of you who might have wondered why I am cold and grumpy, muttering under my breath as I wander through the house turning off lights, televisions, radios, video games, stereos, etc, now you know.

See you next time.

Why Is My Hair White When My Eyebrows Are Brown?

My grandmother, May, was older than my grandfather, Roy Virgil.  For reasons I never really understood, this fact embarrassed her and we weren’t allowed to talk about it.  Social mores’ were such that women just didn’t marry younger men and it was considered scandalous when they did.  So, Mamaw was a hussy.  It was only after she died that I learned both Mamaw and Papaw were divorced prior to their marriage.  Oh the shame. 

Apparently this sort of shameless behavior runs in the family.  In addition to being wife 2.0, wife 2.0 is five years older than me.  I take great pleasure in reminding her of this fact from time to time.  The problem is, she takes great pleasure in reminding me my hair is the color of fresh snow while hers is the same color as the day she graduated from high school.  Her father’s hair (what little he has left) is bright white and her mother’s hair (mother-in-law 2.0?) is like wife 2.0’s, a nice chestnut brown.  One might think wife 2.0 and mom-in-law 2.0 avail themselves of modern chemistry to keep the snow out of their hair.  One would be mistaken.  I SWEAR these women, mid 50’s and late 70’s have no gray hair.  However, like Typhoid Mary, they are both carriers.  The men in their lives age at a freakishly rapidly pace like a tuna fish sandwich in the August sunshine.

Nature has a way of achieving an equilibrium or balance in all things.  Female black widow spiders need nutrition to give birth to their thousands of offspring; so, they kill and eat their mates shortly after breeding.  This natural balance must explain why 2.0 and Mamaw sought out younger men. It also explains why Mamaw outlived Papaw and I’m beginning to look a little worse for the wear myself. 

Not only am I beginning to dissolve under the onslaught, I’m doing so in an oddly uneven fashion.  The hair I can see is white; though, I’m told the hair I can’t see is a nice shade of brown, and continuing the joke, nature has seen fit to leave my eye brows brown as well.  The ultimate effect is to give the appearance I was put together from left over mismatched parts, much like some 21^st century Frankenstein.                

I really must stop looking in the mirror.

See you next time.

How Do We Establish Priorities – And – Why Doesn’t Everyone Agree with Me?

I was recently at a government office attempting to pay the fee for a pavilion rented (by phone) for son 1.0’s “end of school” party.  Given that all the arrangements were handled previously (by phone) and all that remained was issuing payment and signing the forms, one would think this was a five minute process.  One would be wrong.

The civil servant handling the transaction was extraordinarily pleasant; but, during the course of our meeting, she took (I SWEAR), 9 telephone calls from other citizens seeking to reserve pavilions in city parks.    It occurred to me that there was a decision making process at play I didn’t fully understand.  It seemed to me that one’s priority should rest with the customer standing in your presence, cash in hand, not the knuckleheads on the telephone.  I confess, along about the fifth call, I was beginning to head in the general direction of aggravation when it occurred to me, three days earlier, I was the knucklehead on the phone interrupting some other paying customer.  Hmm.  Then I had an epiphany, we (the rest of the world and I) need to establish a system of priorities that somehow involves me being at the top of the list.  Problem solved!  In my joy at having reached an eminently reasonable and workable solution, I shared this information with wife 2.0 and son 1.0 and it turns out they reached precisely the same conclusion. Unfortunately, there are now at least three people in the universe (me, W2.0 and S1.0) who must at all times be at the absolute apex of anyone’s priority list.  The natural collision of these competing positions revealed itself when I instructed 1.0 to take out the garbage.  He engaged in the same sort of mental gymnastics I experienced in the government office building and determined that his priorities involved further destruction of aliens on some grievously overpriced video game.  Unfortunately, his priority collided with my clearly established priority of having the remnants of last night’s fish supper taken to the curb, while at the same time colliding with 2.0’s established priority concerning who was to do the dishes.  Hmm.

It turns out that what I thought was a clearly established protocol in which everyone would simply move my wants, needs and desires to the top of their priority list, might not be a workable solution after all.  Who woulda figured? Well, actually 2.0 woulda figured given that she is wife 2.0, not wife 1.0 and that perhaps at some point in my life, my wants, needs and desires ran head long into the wants needs and desires of someone else.  I suppose all I can say in response is that when it comes to this relationship, I am husband 2.0.  Who woulda figured?

See you next time.

Since When Did A Television Become My Hourglass?

As wife 2.0 and I reach middle age (if 50 is middle age, I must be planning to reach 100), we notice more often how technology measures our lives.  For example, my earliest “technology memories” involve black and white television, by the 3^rd grade, color television and high school, video games.  A decade later, it was personal computers and another five years brought widespread internet.  Clearly, at some point 2.0 and I stopped using the calendar and started measuring the passage of time with gadgets.

Son 1.0 was born along with the internet and attended grade school with cell phones.  Junior High was digital high definition TV and IMAX 3D movies.  High school was electric cars.  Who knows how we’ll measure college and grandchildren?

Tonight, however, was old fashioned stereo hi-fidelity, a genuine throwback to 1978.  Son 1.0 discovered my three foot speakers stored in the attic with the powder blue 100% polyester leisure suit. Explaining their function was like describing space travel to the pilgrims.  This child of the lap-top generation has a remarkable sound system; but, the “big” speakers are approximately the size of a pair of Twinkies and driven by an iPod smaller than a deck of cards.  Much like our relationship, we both thought our technology wouldn’t interface.  However, it turns out that with a borrowed audio receiver, a series of adapters and old fashioned stereo cable, 2011 will indeed connect to 1978 (or, a 2011 iPod will connect to 1978 speakers through a 1984 receiver).    It also turns out we both like Credence Clearwater Revival really loud. It further turns out the neighbors do not.         

Have you ever noticed that teen agers don’t wear watches?  They have cell phones.  On the other hand, my mom (74 and counting) doesn’t carry an iPod and still has a VCR that flashes 12:00.  (I SWEAR she uses electrical tape to cover the VCR clock because she can’t program the time.)

So, it turns out we don’t need calendars, we just need technology and good memories.

See you next time.  

I Hate Daylight Savings Time; But Mostly I Hate Change And Tomato Sauce

Many books are written about change, adapting to change, taking advantage of change, etc.  I confess that like most men of my generation, I have both benefited from and resisted change in the same breath.  I read "Jonathon Livingston Seagull" in the early 70's and "Who Moved My Cheese" in the new century.   I sat through a 6 day leadership seminar aimed at "Accepting Change In The New Millenium" and about two days in realized it might be the "New Millenium"; but, it was the same tired truisms about the same tired subject.  The only difference was I was now in my late 40's, not my late 20's like the first  time I heard some "corporate trainer" who had never had a real job telling me how to do mine.    Then it occurred to me that I hadn't just heard this twice before; rather, like all married men (who, by the way, are clueless), I hear this more much more frequently.  It turns out that wife 2.0 is an amateur corporate trainer.  So, the same chapter, just a slightly different verse.  The change we (2.0 and I) deal with involves things like where the measuring cups belong, where to put the phone book and my unswerving, unwaivering hatred of tomato sauce on pasta.  I'm not sure why it is important that I embrace change concerning kitchen utensils or tomato sauce; but, it is apparently excruciatingly important. 

As discussed in an earlier posting, I make the random attempt at helping with the household chores both because it is the right thing to do and because wife 2.0 fusses at me when I don't.  However, as also discussed in that same earlier posting, my efforts usually don't end well.  I simply can not understand why 2.0 put her clothes in the laundry basket; but, doesn't want actual laundry to actually be done. I'm reminded of the great line "If you didn't want grits, why did you order breakfast? If you didn't want the clothes washed and dried, why did you put them in the laundry basket? 

Not only do I fail at laundry, I fail at doing the dishes. I simply do not understand why the measuring cups now go in the drawer to the left of the coffee pot when for 12 years they went in the drawer to the right of the coffee pot.  When I asked why, 2.0 told me that they were moved to the left side three years ago and asked why I resisted change.  Of course, I thought it was very clever when I asked if the measuring cups had indeed been on the left side for three years, why was she resisting change now that I wanted to move them back to the right?  As the title of this blog suggests, Married Men Are Clueless and I learned this whole acceptance of change issue applies differently to husbands and wives.  This may well explain why men keep the same underwear for decades and women upgrade regularly. Men clearly oppose change in all things.  

So, I still hate Daylight Savings Time and I still hate tomato suace on pasta.

See you next time.

How Do We protect The Things We Love- and - The Things We Don't

Because my job frequently requires me to travel with large quantities of books and documents, I have a very compact, folding two wheel cart or "dolly" that resides in my office.  It is a handy device and makes me the envy of my colleagues who also travel with large quantities of books and documents.  Consequently, dolly would disappear for days at a time.   This was both aggravating and debilitating; so, I set my mind to discerning a solution.  Then it hit me, I needed a dolly lo-jack.  Unfortunately, it turns out that the cost of a radio frequency satellite capable auto location device greatly exceeds the replacement cost of a two wheeled cart. Actually, it turns out that it greatly exceeds the replacement cost of several dozen dollies.  So, I settled for a bicycle chain connected to the sewing machine base that serves as my computer table.  I suspect it is the only such set up in all the known universe.

 

   This low tech effort at security caused me to consider the other things wife 2.0 and I strive to protect.  There is a bicycle tethered to the rail on our front porch that I wish someone would steal.  On the other hand, my gas grill, the ultimate expression of the manly arts, stands bravely unguarded on the same porch and has remained unmolested for the last five years.  I suppose it can be argued the beagles, Ralph and Mocha, "protect" the house though they would be easily distracted by a pork chop or a friendly scratch behind the ears.  2.0 protects her sewing room by threat of immediate death; though, I suspect like the bicycle on the front porch, it is an object not worthy of serious attention.  2.0 guards her health through serious efforts at exercise and nutrition though in my case, those were "stolen" many years ago. 

 

My great grandfather died more than 100 years ago and his grave marker was an incredible monument until vandals destroyed it a few months ago.  Apparently there are some things we just can't protect.

 

2.0 and I have attempted to "protect" child 2.0's future (actually, for wife 2.0, he is child 1.0; but, that is a story for another day) by insisting he do his homework, observe the scout law and wash behind his ears.   We have locks on the camper and a genuine Masterlock (patent pending in all 50 states and 31 countries) on the gate to the back yard.  On the other hand, there is nothing in the back yard but the beagles, Ralph and Mocha, who much like the well chained, though never used bicycle, could disappear with no serious angst on my part.

 

So, at the end of the day, there is no rhyme or reason to the things we protect; but, I still wish I had a lo-jack for my dolly.

 

See you next time.

When Will I Be As Smart as My Dogs?

Wife 2.0 and I have two beagles and I have recently come to the conclusion they are smarter than me.  I work long hours at a job that is at times very tense and very difficult. The beagles, Ralph and Mocha, lay in the shade in the backyard unless the weather is bad, when they move indoors.  I struggle with chronic issues, high blood pressure, diabetes, sleep apnea, etc.  Ralph snores and Mocha creates a terrible odor and I swear they giggle about it like we did in Jr. High. 

2.0 and I pay the mortgage, Ralph and Mocha sleep anywhere, the yard, the crate, on each other and in my favorite memory, with a recently deceased skunk still fully possessed of its delicate fragrence.

2.0 and I purchase the groceries and Ralph and Mocha seem to prefer the contents of the cat box to the $7.00 kibble. 

So, you can easily understand why 2.0 and I thought the beagles were stupid.  We were reminded of the story of the Grasshopper and the ants: 

The fable concerns a grasshopper that has spent the warm months singing while the ant (or ants in some editions) worked to store up food for winter. When that season arrives, the grasshopper finds itself dying of hunger and upon asking the ant for food is only rebuked for its idleness. Versions of the fable are found in the verse collections of Babrius (140) and Avianus (34), and in several prose collections including those attributed to Syntipas and Apthonius.

Instead of making us feel better, 2.0 and I suddenly realized we were the ants feeding the grasshoppers, FOREVER.  Unlike the grasshopper in the fable, our grasshoppers (the beagles) will never see the error of their ways.  They subject 2.0 and me to a lifetime of servitude.  When they aren't happy with the service, Mocha makes that smell and I SWEAR they look at me and laugh. 

I may never be as smart as my dogs.

See you next time 

"Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; but I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these. New American Standard Bible (©1995)

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Why Can't You Dry Women's Clothing?

I've been married 24 years, 30 if one counts all the years from all the marriages.  During the most recent 24 years, marriage 2.0 if you will, we've moved from a single television without a remote to, at last count, 5 televisions for three people.  All five televisions are high def, TiVo'ed, remote activated and though I'm not positive, I think at least one of them can cook.  Our cars have electric windows, cruise control, DVD's and GPS.  Clearly, we, wife 2.0, and I, have moved into the 21st century. 

Yet, despite our firm embrace of the 21st century, we can not use the electric dryer on any of 2.0's clothes and only a few of 2.0's clothes can be machine washed.  2.0 may live in the 21st century; but, her laundry lives in 17th century  While my dress clothes are dry cleaned, the vast majority of my clothes,  holey undershorts, blue jeans, Molly Hatchet T-Shirts, etc., all get thrown in the frond load washer.  I don't sort by color, the reds go in with the whites, the sweatshirts with the T shirts and the blue jeans with the chinos.  My washing machine is a melting pot of which Lady Liberty herself would be proud.  2.0's washing machine, while rarely used, is a segregationist of the worst sort.  Whites, colors and because I don't know if beige is a white or color, we have beige/ecru/egg shell loads (yes, egg shell is a color).  And, most important of all, they are never dried in the electric dryer.  For, if they are dried, they shrink.  If they shrink, 2.0 will buy new clothes and it will be my fault. 

Early in our marriage, after having dried a size 10 down to a size eight, I asked 2.0 the question that all new husbands ask.  Why not just buy the size 12 that fits after it is dried.  It was that day I learned that  allowing male logic to collide with female logic is the rough equivalent of allowing matter to collide with anti-matter.  Seriously bad stuff happens and once again, I bought 2.0 an entire new wardrobe.  Seriously, it reminded me of the year 2.0 told me she didn't want a present for her birthday, so, I didn't buy one.   The next day I bought yet another complete wardrobe.

24 years later and I still don't know why you can't dry women's clothing.  Married men truly are clueless.

See you next time.