Compact High-Tech bathrooms make me blue!

I may tend toward the ‘lazy’ at times, and I will go out of my way to avoid manual work anytime an automated machine is available. Yes if an appliance or fancy invention is available to do the job better, in a smaller space, and save me time too – who can beat that? Some of my faith in technology comes from my keen interest in machine design and practical problem solving, but mostly my techno-love is because I was raised in the presence of robots.

No my parents were not literally robots, but compared to the generations before me, most of my time has been spent with technology helpers at every turn. I never had to wear overalls and use a washboard to wash clothes or crank a car engine by hand to get it to start. I have grown up with soft leather loafers, electronic calculators, word processors, microwaves, and everyone’s favorite in 49 states - indoor plumbing.

Now that I’m older, sadly it seems that I am destined to have difficulties in the bathroom. You see I had to replace the toilet in the master bathroom and I tried to get the wife to let me put in one of those automated Japanese toilets with the heated seat and automatic bidet, but she said ‘no’. I think she is either afraid of having a toilet that is harder to drive than our car, or concerned that my over-use of the thing would cost extra electricity and affect our ‘bottom dollar’ utility rates.

Quality time anywhere is hard to come-by, but these days it’s particularly difficult in these tiny but ultra-automated public restrooms. The dance goes something like this: I address the auto-soap spigot open-handed and my shoulder triggers the automatic towel dispenser to spit out a towel tongue for my pleasure. As I shift in response to a bevy of whirring gears in my ears, my hands activate the automatic water spigot. I quickly try to move my hands to get wet, but sensing the delay, the water turns off and the automatic soap makes a mess in the sink. Exasperated and off-balanced, I stand taller and somehow my backside lights up the automatic toilet valve, which releases the sound equivalent of Niagra Falls. As I whirl to dodge the overspray my shoulder catches the automatic towel dispenser, rolling off yet another foot or so of compacted dead trees.

This little circus chorus of circular mayhem goes on unimpeded until I either have exhausted all of the bathroom supplies, or am left whimpering, lonely and defeated, in a sticky corner of the ‘latrine’. I did not know there is so much exhaustive potty-training involved to join the ranks of the few, the brave, and the automated “Toileteer” these days. I’m glad my wife crushed my dream of a Japanese automated tidy bowl – because this is one piece of ‘white hot’ electric technology that always seems to make me ‘BLUE’!

Beer hater turns boozer

Uh with the exception of toasts at weddings, I typically go years between a glass of alcohol, and even then it is usually fingernail polish or mouthwash. Generally I am not a fan of booze because it creates lots more problems for people and society than the pleasure it can bring. Since I am already out of control most of the time anyway, I detest anything that has potential to add to my mania.

While I can accept the high-brow wine types and their quest to acquire a taste for varietal vintage ‘vino’, I have never understood the same affection for beer. I really dislike the stuff and even the smell of it will often make me nauseous. It is a beautiful drink to look at, but when it comes to taste and calories, the wife and I will slug back a Diet Coke anytime over any kind of beer.

Now with that said, my wife and I were on the prowl this weekend and found a beer making kit for sale at a garage sale for a bargain price. From an early age, both the wife and myself, really enjoyed our chemistry sets when we were young, so we mulled over the opportunity to learn how to make beer. The kit came with all the fermenting vats, hydrometer, sanitizers, brushes, bottles, caps, and capping machine. I could not believe all the gear involved just to make some foamy brown water when I have a perfectly good fizzy cesspool in the backyard that can do the same thing equipment-free!

So we will see how this experiment turns out in a couple of months. My first shock was that the grain and flavorings cost about $40 just to even mess with brewing your own beer. The second surprise was that you have to be clean – I mean REALLY clean to brew beer successfully. Who knew you have to take a shower to cook up a batch of mash and make beer? I always thought you just had to sidle up to a lamppost with a sack-covered can of malt, all itchy, unshaven and ‘fermenty’ - then nature would do the rest. I’ll keep you posted on my progress down the bumpy road towards ‘Monoblog Moonshine’. Gee maybe if I become a confusing, derelict boozer someday, my blog will read like a Hemingway novel!

Glass and the Evaporating Cash

I started taking on the horribly lengthy task of cleaning up the garage. Now I don’t want to give you the wrong impression as I am more disorganized than I am some kind of freakish un-washed hoarder. Ok, I’m frequently un-washed but I can assure you, my house and garage are not stacked floor to ceiling with a combination of mongrel cats and old newspapers.

Still I have an awful lot of things stuffed into our poor old garage beyond tools, cars, and sports equipment. I am wholly to blame for this problem. When things break for other people, they simply throw the offending object away. But for me, if I cannot fix something, I like to hold on to it and let it season like fine wine. Since there is NO SUCH THING as fine wine (sorry), I eventually will strip the junk of any potentially useful parts and finally, though begrudgingly, throw the rest away.

My wife puts up with this strange ritual because at times in that melee of spare power cords, motors, plastic, and bolts she finds something useful or maybe a nut that she might need (that being me of course). Recently I crossed the line however as she discovered my trash can full of broken glass and expected an explanation. Like the Grinch of ‘Suess-ian’ legend, I had to think up a lie and quick, so I told her I was going to melt the stuff so in 60 minutes I would have an hour glass. She said my protests reminded her more of a ‘WHINE’ glass than the truth, so I knew I had better change my trashy ways or else.

So during my glassy-eyed effort to organize, classify or dispose of the surplus garage materials into appropriate food groups, I decided to actually melt that glass for my wife as promised. It took about an hour but with the addition of an aluminum nail, a lot of heat, and oh yeah my TWO CENTS, I made a delightful uh … bird thing, chicken WHATEVER sculpture. Now most of you won’t appreciate my ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ effort, but I felt truly empowered! Not only had I made my wife a delightfully quirky recycled love gift with a ‘glassy soul’, but just like the Federal government, I had the pleasure of making money EVAPORATE into thin air.

Don’t tell me what to do – SPELL it out!

I was pondering the science of making a perfect pizza when out of the bag of pepperoni, a little salt-sized packet of dessicant fell out which had the words “Do not eat” printed all over it. First off why, out of all the quality fine foods in the world, are only lowly pepperoni and beef jerky concerned with humidity control? Does that mean staples like coffee, flour, and brown sugar don’t rank high enough to receive a moisture-absorbing countermeasure packet, yet pepperoni somehow does?

Also I don’t like my food telling me what to do, so I resent spending good money at the market, only to get a message out of the package that says I ‘can’t’ eat the ENTIRE contents of the stinking bag. I admit it, I have trouble with authority, but I think almost anyone in their right mind would not appreciate deli meats bossing them around. Nobody wants a sandwich loaded with a ‘magazine’ of Oscar Mayer cold cuts taunting them with obnoxious comments like ‘you’re full of baloney’ – even if it’s true!

Often when I overeat, my food ‘speaks’ to me in any number of antisocial ways, but I try not to take it personally and generally let the comments pass. But I draw the line at those stupid little clam-shaped fortune cookies. Why are people so compelled to listen to the predictions from some nasty yellow cardboard cookie with a piece of toilet paper stuffed inside? Funny, when I give loads of well-heeled, exacting advice to my ‘family’, they humor me with a polite smile. But if a fortune cookie’s got something to say, even if it’s ‘CRUMBY’ sentiment – that cookie’s all-knowing and has a direct line to GOD!

So it seems that I am going to have to really watch what I eat now that the pantry seems to be mouthing off more. Yes, the Pop Tarts have riddles on the frosting and my gum comes wrapped in comics. As crazy as it sounds, I’m even noticing that the AlphaBits cereal and the Alphabet soup are getting all macho and comparing the size of their bowls. Eating has become so much more stressful now with all of these ‘wordy’ foods – maybe I need to play a game with the family to relax. Uh Oh, not so fast … looks like we only have a choice of Scrabble, Probe, and Upwords. If I’m going to win I think I’m going to need some help, so let me spell it out for you - BRING ON THE FOOD!

‘Mini-Me’ Greenie-Me

After snake charming yesterday I had a load of Turbin towels to wash. In doing so I finished off a bottle of laundry detergent – but it left me a tad ‘burpy’ with a blue and filmy yogurt aftertaste. It was one of those ’64 load’ monster jugs that weighs probably almost twice as much as two ’32 wash load’ bottles which I ordinarily use as barbells.

My body type, and primitive sweaty pheromone-laced jungle ardour, is on par with that of a Lowland ‘Silverback Gorilla’. So I often wonder how ordinary petite-people heft these giant vats of laundry liquid into position and uncork just the right amount of ‘goo’ into the washing machine. I am cheap, so typically I buy these freakishly oversized containers since the manufacturer charges ‘LESS’ per wash load when you buy MORE of their product. That makes sense for most things, but detergent is mostly water. Doesn’t it seem dumb to pay more freight to ship added water and packaging and then sell it to the end-user at a better price?

So enter these newer ‘mini-me’ liquid detergent bottles. They still come with the same number of bubbly wash loads, but since the cleaning agent is ‘thicker’, more gelatinous, and highly concentrated with less water - the bottle is smaller. In fact so small that it only takes a single capful of the stuff which is a third of the size of the bigger jugs. Now I was thinking, why stop there, why don’t we concentrate this gunk down further so we can dispense it out of a caulking gun? Or heck, maybe even that is too large - why not miniaturize the detergent into the viscosity of a dehydrated track-team loogie, or a completely water-free Dentyne-sized stick of gum?

Honestly I have not quite embraced these new lightweight bottles and their ultra-viscous contents. Not only am I too impatient to wait for the ‘blue-goo’ to pour out of the cap, I tend to want to overfill the lid and therefore get LESS wash loads per jug. I guess I can get on-board with the lighter, mini laundry bottles though since they are easier on the biceps and at this point, I certainly don’t want to ruin my perfectly honed Yeti-physique with exercise! And yes I do want a better and ‘GREENER’ environment for the world … except for those chewy track-team ‘phlegm-gems’ of course.

Where’s St. Patrick when you need him?

In my life I have been awoken out of my slumber a few times. As a rule I cannot ever remember it happening for a ‘good’ reason and today was no different. I would like to tell you I was dreaming of Christmas morning, winning the lottery, or more realistically, a peanut covered donut, but I honestly can’t remember. You see all I can remember was my wife’s frantic voice yanking me from the fog of sleep with one simple word - SNAKE!

Yes we live near the woods and an enormous lake recreation area so animal encounters here are a part of daily life. However the place is still more akin to suburbia central than austere Australia, so the only thing I know about the ‘Outback’, is their Bloomin’ Onions, not their stinkin’ serpents. Most people might wake up to a spider, maybe the occasional bed bug, or heaven forbid, a marauding mouse singing Disney tunes. How did I offend the spirit of Steve Irwin to get the privilege of wrangling a slippery little snake at six in the morning?

Honestly it was not that big of deal once I could get the sleep out of my eyes and see my way to the bathroom. No I am not THAT incontinent but it was where the snake had retreated behind my wife’s floor bound jewelry crate. Thinking like a cornered snake, we set out to prepare the bathroom for trapping, by stuffing up any gaps or routes of egress with towels. My wife is far more level-headed than you might imagine since in the past, with a homemade ‘snare stick’, she has yard-wrangled bigger snakes than today’s 18 inch interloper.

Anyway, the story has a happy ending for all concerned. The snake required only a thin towel over him to calm down enough so I could swaddle it up into a bigger bath towel, for transport out to the forest. My wife got to complete her ablutions in peace, and I got to walk around all day talking like Crocodile Dundee and wearing short khaki pants. Although cottonmouth venomous snakes and their offspring are common in Missouri, I think this fellow was probably a fairly young and harmless rat snake. Hmmm, maybe that’s what explains why I got such a rude awakening this morning – apparently even the wildlife thinks I’m a rat. Little did they know the truth though, my wife thinks I’m a Saint … PATRICK!

Carpet Diem

You know I have a problem with floor coverings in that I hate them all. I wonder how cave folks used to handle their floors in days of old? Do you think every couple of years cave-husbands would hear from their cave-wives, that it was time to replace the ‘dirt’ in the cave because it’s … uh well, SOILED? At least there were few mysteries if any, about what was or wasn’t ‘tracked’ in, and who did it.

Maybe my cave-ancestors had the right idea and I should just fill my house with mulch. Oh I know the hot trends say that I should trade out my strawberry colored high/low shag with some fancy hardwood stuff. But then I won’t have a nice soft furry floor to sleep on, next to years of built-up dead skin, hair, and assorted DNA. Our wall to wall carpeting may seem a little old fashioned but except for that ‘wear-trough’ from the front door to the kitchen, bathroom, and up the stairs, most of it still looks new.

I like the look of tile and marble floors just fine but they are not the best choice of floor coverings in the Midwest. They are pleasantly cool in the summer but turn into icy blocks in the winter which suck out the life-blood of warmth with your every step, EVEN with socks on. I know linoleum tile is warmer and softer but even the good stuff reminds me of my pre-school days filled with terror, tears, and soiled pants – and those were just my teacher’s reactions!

I have installed one of those floating floors before and they are fine I guess as long as you keep the Dramamine handy. I always feel they are a little industrial for a home however. Yes there is nothing like the pleasure of coming home after a hard day to floor that looks and sounds like it has been borrowed from the shoe section at Sears. Now never fear, there is hope for me yet. I think I did find a type of flooring that I could easily love for a really long time – it was covered in spent peanut shells and smells just like spicy BBQ!