More Fun in the Snow

The big snowfall is winding down. I think we probably got pretty close to the predicted 10 inches at my house, at least by Sank Scale of what 10 inches is..  Actually, we’re starting to run out of places to put snow. The piles at the ends of the driveway are approaching 5 feet high. The lawn has to be 30 inches or better deep now, the shrubs are buried, the roof is buried, I had to dig out the mailbox last night as the wake from the plow completely buried it, that’s a first for me BTW. In spite of it all, personally I’m digging the excitement of all that snow.

The dog however.. he’s not as amused as I am. Corgi’s were designed for cold weather (thick undercoat) but not for heavy snow, (No legs to speak of) and as such, poor old Mr Giggs is having some trouble finding good spots to crap. Some better dog owners would probably blow off some pooping space for the pooch.. I was gonna, but just when I was ready to plow a path from the driveway, through the front yard to the back yard gate, where I was going to dig out the gate so it would open, push the damn blower down to the lower level of the backyard, blow off a space, then shovel off a path by hand from the back door across the deck to the new crapping ground, after which I’d pull the blower back up the hill, in the path that’s exactly the width of the machine since I used it to get down there, being ever-so-careful to make sure it stays in the path, not getting it hung up on the deep drifts, pull the gate closed through the ice, and return the blower to the garage, all so a lower life form could shit more comfortably, a batch of tater tots came out of the oven and I got distracted.

Sorry Giggs, it’s important during times like this to remember just who owns who in this relationship. If my wife wanted to crap out on the back lawn.. I’d be firing up the Toro Snow Commander in seconds; luckily it’s to cold outside for that.

Speaking of the Toro Snow Commander, mutha F#$2ckr wouldn’t start this morning. It’s probably tired or something having run nearly continuously for the last two days. I’ve put more time on that thing in two days than the previous three years. Having it not start is inconvenient. Having it not start at 5:00am makes Daddy crabby. This machine has started faithfully with one pull for the last three years.. even after summers of rest. It does have an electric start on it however, for just such occasions.

 To use the electric start, which I never do, you have plug the thing in, To do so, the next step was to get out the old extension cord. For those of you in warmer climes.. try this game. Take your 50’ extension cord, wrap in tightly and put in your freezer for a couple weeks. Then, take it out and try to unwind it to its full length and plug something into it. Now, to make it more fun, put on the following; sleep pants, Carhart lined overalls, a thermal Henley top, a Michigan Tech Huskies fleece jacket, a Carhart heavy duty “articwear” jacket, a matching Carhart knit cap and pair of Columbia snow boots with 2” soles. And, do it at 5:00am, 8 minutes after rolling out of bed and getting snapped at by a grouchy f’n corgi you just stepped on who was sleeping next to your bed.

Honestly, with all that crap on, if you drop the soap, or anything else, the only way to pick it up is to throw out the left leg, like the wild leg of a tripod, bend at the knee on the right side and twist sideways at the waist, sort of reaching behind me to the object I’m trying to pick up since my elbows won’t bend. And since I’m actually one leg short of a tripod (Yes it’s true, I’m not a tripod) it’s easy to fall over backwards while doing this act. And when I can touch it, grab at it multiple times because I’m also wearing gloves, in this case my wifes potting gloves because I can’t find my gloves. Potting gloves, not all that warm, or that sensitive, especially when wet, but better than nothing. Sort of.

I was doing this exactly this exercise this morning trying the reach the plug from the extension cord that I dropped whilst trying to straighten the frozen thing out while stretching it from the outlet in the back of the garage, to the blower, which was in the front of the garage, a distance it seems of 49 ¾ feet. Problem is, being frozen it’s less elastic than usual, so I’d either pull the plug out trying to reach the blower OR it would shoot out of my hands when I pulled it forward.

Hey Stupid, you might ask, move the blower closer to the plug. Well, there two cars in the garage and the way Mrs S parks, you can hardly get the cord between the two cars much less push a blower. Hey Stupid.. heard ya tha first time.. find a different plug. Well, the other possibility is the plug on the side of the house. That one however would require climbing over, and I’m not exaggerating here, a 5’ high snowbank on the side of the front step.

You know, none of these issues are all that big a deal except that they happened at 5:00 am and they happened while I was dressed like the fucking Michelin Man, making everything I did that much harder. I eventually threw the cord into the bushes, climbed around the snow bank, swam/slogged through 3’ of snow and reached the plug where I had to remove my glove to dig the snow out from the side of the house and plug the thing in. Swam/slogged back the driveway, ignoring my now wet and cold hand, (would have to remember that it was wet and cold when I have to go to the bathroom later, don’t want be playing Dr. with myself) put the other end into the snowblower and pushed the electric start.

Nothing.

Nada.

“Fuck it”.. was about all I could come up with. Now my left foot was starting to feel wet around the ankle. Walking through all that snow, some had gone up the Carhart pant leg and down the boot. I climbed back into the snow, swam/slogged back to the plug and did what every other mechanically uninclined dumbshit does. I plugged it into the OTHER outlet.. like that might be the problem. Logic and electrical work not my forte,` I then swam/slogged back to the driveway, albeit it was getting easier now as there was a bit of a path, and pushed the button. Same result.

At this point, after 4 laps through the snow and countless pulls on the starter rope, I was starting to regret all the damn clothes I had on, as I was feeling somewhat hot and moist and a bit woozy under all that stuff, and not in a good way. Nothing worse that schvitzing (sweating) away when it’s cold outside.  I resorted to the old fashioned method of snow removal, the manually operated snow thrower. Well my manual snow thrower is approaching 47 years old and has been in retirement from physical exertion for the last 20 of those years. About 20 feet into the driveway I was beyond sweating an approaching internal shower. Knowing from all those admonitions from my Mother that exposure to the cold when hot and sweaty brings on pneumonia and death, usually with in minutes, and that shoveling snow is the #1 killer of guys my age in Minnesota,  I quit. Walking back to the hosue I kicked the snowblower, said the F-word pretty loud and checked the watch to see how late I was and how long I’d been screwing around with all this crap to no avail. 5:07. Weird I’da sworn I’d been out there over an hour.

Just for giggles I choked down the machine (again) primed and pulled the starter ONE LAST TIME.. guess what, Senior Toro must’a been scared for it’s bloody life after watching all this and started right up. I tossed the end of the extension cord back on the place where 3 months from now the lawn will emerge, remarked to no one “I’ll get it in the Spring” and once again, earned my keep in the Sank Family Pecking order. 

This whole state series of events BTW is being watch by a Giggs the corgi, sitting on his haunches in the garage, He knows me well enough not get to close when the “big guys on a roll”. There wasn’t a ton of snow this morning, just a few inches. I made the first pass down the driveway to the street, rolled out into the street, as is my habit, turned the machine around and started to head back up toward the house where I was treated to the following delightful scene; the dog had followed me down the drive way, about halfway. And as I came around there he was, hunched up on his toenails, tail pointed to heaven, dropping a line of turds right down the middle of the freshly cleared off section of driveway. Apparently, he’d been waiting for this for moment for a while, just in case I really did forget, who owned who.

Post Weekend Rambling

The winter of my content. I like winter, and this, by any measure has been a decent one. More snow that I remember from previous winters, which makes the place look all fresh and clean. What is a bit alarming the just how deep the snow is getting on the lawn and the fields and so forth. Mr.S is complaining about how deep the snow is getting on the corners of the streets where the plows push it around. It’s starting to get hard to see around the corners when you come to an intersection, which means you have to push the nose of your car out into the street to see if any one is coming.

What’s alarming.. this stuff is going melt one day, at least should tradition prevail. AND when it melts I’m hoping that it melts slowly, ‘cuase should we got from Artic to Tropic as we like to do around here, and if we throw in some rain in the spring, if it comes, we’re going to have some real problems.

This morning the call from our friendly weather man was for it to start snowing about kickoff of the Super Bowl and not to stop until sometime Tuesday afternoon. She got the start time right on, we’ll see on the finish. I got up this morning at 4:45, pulled on the winter overalls and matching jacket, my duckcloth dummy suit as Mrs S calls it, and blew off the driveway. Why I bother to blow off the driveway when it’s snowing as hard as it was I don’t know, seems counter productive, but like for some reason I am compelled. But what fun would it be to come home and not have something to do, martyrdom is fun after all.

Speaking of martyrdom.. you know what’s sort of fun? Leaving for work at 5:30 on a Monday morning to beat the commute on the snowy roads, getting to the office at about 6:45 and then waiting for the phone to start ringing as the folks who work for me start banging in at about 7:30, expecting to leave a message on my phone telling me that they’re running a couple hours late. It sort of cracks me up to hear their surprise when I pick up. I can almost hear the “Damn the fat guys already in the office”. I have so little outlets for joy anymore, give me what I can.

Watched the Super Bowl yesterday and was more than pleased with the outcome. The entire state of Minnesota was rooting for the Colts it seems, because they wanted to punish them in someway for the performance of the Vikings a couple weekends ago. They BEAT us and so blah blah blah.. Well Purple Liquor Pigs, or Vikings Nation.. we beat ourselves.. in everyway we could think of to do it and as such should bear the Saints no ill will. Matter of fact I think Sean Payton is my hero now.. he coached that game like I coach a game on Madden Football. Gambling, no convention, no predictability, when it works, as it did last night, he’s a hero. If it hadn’t, my oh my would we be hearing whining today.

But it did, and good stuff happened and we’re all good now. Harmony is in the universe.

Speaking of the Superbowl, my personal favorite ad? The one with Stevie Wonder where they’re all playing slug bug..  I’ve got three kids, two of them male and as a result have been punched more times than I care to for no other reason than some VW goes driving by, so I can relate. Prior to that I liked the one right before it where Megan Cox  snaps the picture of herself causing all hell to break lose, including a mom pounding on her kids bedroom door and two Gay men slapping each other. For the hype on the Tim Tebow ad.. I missed it until it was just about over and missed the point anyway, which was fine with me.

I’m happy for the Saints, and for Drew Brees.. he was very classy in his acceptance speech for Superbowl MVP.. no mention of G-d for once. I always hate when athletes evoke G-d as the source of the strength and reason for their success, mostly because that would imply that A)the good Lord gives a crap about a game and B) being that he’s on your side.. he’s NOT on the side of the other guy.. which is just some screwed up theology if you ask me, the nature of which brought us the Crusades and it’s stepchild. Jihad.. but I digress. You didn’t ask so I’ll keep to myself.

Or not.

Snow’s a comming

c10 inches of snow in the forecast. 10 inches inches is what I would call a pain in the ass snow fall, bigger than nuisance, but not catastrophic. Kids might or might not get a snow day. Working guys, will not. My employer has yet to call a snow day in the 16 years I’ve lived here. Until a few years ago the head of HR, the person who was charged with making the call on snow day or no snow day lived in the Minneapolis Skyway System and simply had to walk through the human hamster trails that link all the buildings downtown to get the office after a big snowfall. She always wondered what the big deal was.

My wife made the comment that 10 inches doesn’t seem that bad for all the alarmist reporting.. after all it only.. and then hold her forefinger and thumb apart a short distance.. “at least that’s what you’ve been telling me the last 25 years”. Hah.. I’m not the only one with a sense of humor around here.

Well this 10 inches is going to go on top of the 20 or so I’ve already got on my yard and roof, since we’ve not melted a centimeter of snow since before the New Year. I’m already up to my proverbial asshole. This keeps going I’ll be up to my figurative asshole as well. Our roof has an ice dam or is it damn, that makes Hoover Dam look small. And ice dam occurs when you’ve got heat escaping from you roof somewhere and the snow melts closest to the room, and since the snow insulates, it drips to the eave and then refreezes. This creates a nice dam of ice, in our case about 6 inches high. Now the water backs up behind that dam and damn water can get under the shingles and then you’re screwed.

I never thought about ice dams in California. Ice went in drinks and was only rarely found on roofs. 

How we roll baby

I swear it is impossible for Clan Sank to do anything under the radar.

This morning I took/dragged/horsecollered by daughter to the Synagogue for some religion, Hebrew style. She’s supposed to go once a month since she’s got a big date with the Torah in a year or so. Now Bar/Bat Mitzvah dates are supposed be coordinated to be around the kids birthday unless there’s some extenuating circumstance that requires moving the date, like perhaps two kids on the same date, we wouldn’t do that.

Well, apparently here in Minnesota, either NO kids are born between late December and mid March or alot of my people consider “Winter” to be an extenuating circumstance. We don’t wanna have Bubbie coming up here in February from Florida, what with the new hip she had put in thanks to the first 70 years of her life she spent here slipping on ice.

The girl, begin strategic enough to realize that I didn’t have anything pressing this Saturday and that.. I had mentioned going to my bride, started to feel like she was on the hook for a trip and began to alert me to how much homework she expected to have this weekend. This started last Thursday. She was trying plant a seed that would flower into a shul-free day for her.  Not gonna happen. She’s cursed with a Dad who likes to go. So we did. Screaming the whole way there. Sort of. Not.

Once there it was fine, except that there was an event I didn’t know about and as such there were about 50 plus people there, up from the usual 10. My hotdish was going to have to go a bit further than usual. Anyway towards the end of the service the Rabbi called Lolo and I and a bunch of others up on “stage” to put away the scroll, Lolo got to close the ark, sort of a big deal when you’re 12. We then have a moment of silence before started the concluding prayers, which are also done on the Bima (stage).

Several years ago, to make the sanctuary ADA compliant we installed small lift to allow people in wheel chairs to get from the ground level up the middle and highest level, where the ark is, and the Torah scrolls are. It’s about 13 steps up if you wanted to climb it and sort reminds me of Mt. Sinai, where the law came down from. (And event we read about this week BTW) I’ve never ever in 15 years seen the lift used. I don’t even know that it worked.

I didn’t know.. I can tell you that I do now. I can happily report that it works perfectly and if you are ever visiting our Synagogue and need to get up to the top level and can’t climb stairs.. you will not be left out.

I know this because, in Sank Form, as we transitioned from Torah service to closing and observed that pause of silence and quiet, my daughter deciding that being in front of the congregation was getting old stepped backwards out of the  limelight and into the button that activates the elevator. Our moment of silence interrupted by the start of a loud electric motor and subsequent humming.  As everyone looked around wondering what that sound was.. the girl drops to ground and crawls behind the gate completely out if sight of everyone.

When something like that happens and Sank’s are around, there’s no chance we’re not involved in someway. Sure enough. We realized it was the elevator, waited for it to get to the to top of it’s cycle and stop, a process that felt like it took the better part of an hour but was in fact, a minute or less.

Now our Rabbi, who is also an Eagle Scout as reported here and as such very resourceful and quick on his feet, without batting an eye says  “An elevator, reminds of our our ascent to heaven, let’s pray”.

He’s really really good, that guy.

Only in Minnesota

I don’t think there are to many places in the country where you would have the following conversation with ones wife.

Mrs S is heading out this morning to remove wreaths at the local National Cemetery at Fort Snelling. I slept in past 5:30 for the first time in 2010. She woke me at 7:30.

“Sank, wadd’ya’ think? Looked on the computer..”, “The Internet-s dear? Is that thing still around?”, “yeah what ever. ” She didn’t catch that was mocking her in a oh so loving way. “Shut up for a minute.” Thats how we roll 25 years in marriage. “The computer says it’s 22 degrees outside, but the wind chill is 10. 10 is cold. But not that cold. Soooo should I wear my snowpants and my flannel undies or, since I’m going to walking around and working, would I be ok In just my jeans?”

Of course talk like that starts up the movie in my head where the college version of her is playing volleyball topless in jeans but you know.. I’m a guy.

Really were thinking about 22 degrees as NOT cold, but 10 as might be cold. She’s come along way from her California days when cold was 55..  10 not cold.. reference point, my freezer is 4 inside..

“I don’t know dear.. windchill sucks. I’d dress in the snowpants and take them off if you get hot.” “Good idea”

“Dear…. I would wear a hat though.. ” “yah probably should, See ya.”

“By the way Sank, what are your plans since I’m gone all day?”

” To make some coffee. “

“Good, don’t over commit yourself.”

The Circle of Life

Feels like middle age is analogous with the chrysalis stage of a bug’s development. Changing, transformative, new, reinvention..

I don’t know,  something’s going on and I don’t like it. From every indication, I am, with increasing momentum, in way that I’m quite afraid I can no longer stop, turning into that which I at one time would have swore up and down I would never do. I am, unmistakably and clearly turning

Into my

Father.

 

Seriously. I never saw this coming at all.

I guess it happens because frankly, its much easier to become my father than it is to fight it and try to stay cool and hip and all dat. Especially when, I’ve never been all that cool and hip and all dat. I find myself saying things that would have pissed my off in my youth, and scarier yet, I’m enjoying saying them.

For example, this week we had a touch of snow here in Minnesota. I have a 15 year old son at home. Having a 15 year old son means, at least in my mind, that I don’t have to shovel anything heavier than bullshit for the next three years until he goes to college and passes that duty on to his sister. He and I have talked. I’ve set the expectation that, when it snows, he shovels it. Especially when it snows between the time I leave for work, and when I get home. I do the overnights.

Monday I’m driving home in a snowfall, crappy roads and slow going, which gives me time ferment my grumpiness to perfect curmudgeonlyness.  As I’m driving down my street I see the driveways, some shoveled, some not and I start think to myself.. wouldn’t it be nice to pull into MY drive way and find it cleared of snow. Then I think, but that’s just not going to happen because I’m pretty sure I haven’t nagged anyone to clean off the snow, snowfall itself not being a good enough indicator that the lad has something to do.

Sure enough, when  I hit the Casa Del Sank there’s nary a shovel mark in the fresh powder. The only thing in the snow.. tiretracks from my wife’s car going in and out of the garage and a set of footprints I assume to be my sons going from the street into the house. Just as I thought. I get out of the car, walk through the snow in my dress shoes, which always cheers me up, the cold wet feet reminding me that in addition to wet feet I also am probably ruining my shoes and I walk in to the house where I find the days dishes sitting in the sink, his other chore. The lad is sprawled on the sofa watching Futurama.

And this is where it happens. It is these circumstances that somehow awaken my inner old man, as in my old man not the old man that I am anyway and just like that I start to channel my father. A neat trick because he’s not even dead.

The lad, who for the 3000^th time, acts surprised to see me in the afternoon, jumps up and hightails it into the kitchen where he starts doing dishes. “Hi Dad.. how was your day?”

“Well Son, it was disappointing. Disappointing to come home yet again and find… “

OK, Dissappointing? I actually used the word disappointing? OMG WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?

Disappointing. My parents we’re very fond of the word disappointing. It’s so perfectly passive aggressive in every way. It says “because of your actions, I want to kill myself, can you pass me the kitchen knife please, and when I’m dead, always remember that it was your fault. You may start feeling bad now”.  I guess we old folks use it because it is so danged useful.

My son however, ignores my thinly veiled threat and says nothing. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. “Dude” I go on “Um.. is there a great reason that the drive way is still covered in snow? I know you like Futurama, but since the last ‘new’ episode of that show was liked 5 years ago, aren’t I safe in assuming that you’ve already seen this one, and in the odd case that you haven’t I’m pretty sure the Comedy Channel will play it again soon so why didn’t you just do your job so we wouldn’t have to have these conversations all winter long.

Wouldn’t have to have these conversations..  there I go again.. Dad.. My Dad.. so ingrained in my psyche that he’s coming out in my speech now.. I swear to G-d it’s like I’m possessed or something, there’s another being in my brain and ghast.. it’s my Dad.. STOP. .

But I can’t.

“I know Dad..” Whoa.. now he’s channeling me as teenager.. holy smokes I’ve lived this whole experience before damn it, only in a different role.. Now I’m wondering if the Bard was right and life is just a play and we are merrily players.  Now I gotta see where this goes.

“I had homework”. Good one.. “Dude, speaking of homework, Mom tells me your Japanese grade isn’t what it should be”. Ok, again this is my fathers technique.. as long as we’ve broken the seal on things to bitch at him about, I’m going to unload the whole list.

“DAAADD. I KNOW..” actually he’s getting a B, it just that Mrs S isn’t happy with B’s especially when you’re not working all that hard. Oh, the other question.. Why Japanese?.. Seriously, Japanese.. what the hell. Anyway. His next remark.. “The teacher doesn’t like me”

Teacher doesn’t like me.. So the circle of life is complete. He has become me 30 years ago, and I’ve become my old man.. and I guess there’s just no fighting it.

I had to end this. “Call me crazy son, but when I know I’m supposed to do the snow jobs, and I walk through 3” of undone chore and my tennies are wet and cold, and I come in the house, wouldn’t something remind me that my dear Father would like for me do something , what was it.. ooo.. think now, think… think, ok.., what is it, WHAT IS IT”.

Finally the inner Sank comes out. My Dad would have never said anything like that, he’s not very sarcastic. So maybe there is hope.

With that, happy Weekend folks.. Another week over at Old And In The Way.. we’ll catch you on Sunday when we’ll blogging; what ever comes to mind when I crack open the computer.

TTFN

Insurance Fun

I’m tired. Super tired this week. I don’t know if it’s the lack of sunlight, the new job that’s kicking my ass.. BTW when someone tells you that a new gig is awesome and everything is on autopilot and all you have to do slide in and it’ll be a breeze.. feel free to eviscerate them Dahmer style, ‘cause there’s a pretty good chance they’re lying. After a week of being in the office from 6:30 to 5:30 and then going home to swap emails with the team until midnight.. I’m running ragged. And in the middle of this, I’m  fitting in a couple Masonic deals and the hated insurance physical..

I don’t know if there’s anything I hate more than insurance physical.. OK, hyperbole because I probably hate several things more than an insurance physical, most have personal nouns for me to refer to them, and are walking amongst us to remind me that life isn’t fair and that the morons are in charge much of the time.. but I digress.

The insurance physical, which is supposed to be “a few minutes with a caring healthcare professional to asses your general health and see if you’re the type of guy we want to do business with.” The stupid thing is.. I know the outcome of this course of events, it can be summed up in one word “DENIED”. Mrs S has a good friend who as recently started selling insurance. This woman has survived raising four as in (4) BOYS of all things, five if you count the husband as my wife does. Raising 5 men in one house, can’t fathom it. I’m sure anything edible that does not require any preparation is gone in seconds and I’m certain they have a sprinklet problem in john..

Anyway Mrs S has been thinking we need insurance and asking me about it for the last a… 10 years. I get a pretty good policy, pretty darned cheap at work, like 6X my salary. More than enough to dirt nap me and bridge the time to her next husband, a better one than I am sure because part of being married 25 years is constantly making and updating a list of the attributes you would like in your next/perfect spouse as learned from the current. I’m sure she’s got one helluva long list, I was catch and a half.

She wants to upgrade the insurance portfolio. The insurance folks are working on the whole life v. term discussion. The friends new boss, a decent guy who wears a really really snappy suit on his home visits.. personally I’d take it down a notch for dealing with the Team Sank. Anyway he makes the comments about investments and then tells me that my income will continue grow in my job as I continue to enjoy success and.. I gotta call foul right there. I’m 46 years old at a company where the average age is 25. My new boss is 17 and his boss is 22. I’ve been working here longer than most people I work with have been crapping in the big boy potty. When we go out for the occasional cocktail and they all order the latest Yuppie brew and get carded, and I order a big boy drink like a scotch, neat and don’t carded the conversation dies as they all realize they’ve gone out to drinks with their FATHERS. And truth be told I probably have more in common with their fathers.  Anyway, I’m capped out. It’s down hill from here. I’m thinking that I didn’t conquer the world like I thought I would, Midlife crisis style.

I especially hate the insurance physical when it comes 6 weeks after my real physical, by a real doctor. At my age I no longer get to pick a neat prize out of the box after playing “good touch/bad touch” with a stranger. Now I get a letter with a bunch of numbers the significance of which is; I’m going to be a patient of his and Big PHarma for a long time. Since I was just medically violated, and have three pages of information about the experience can’t we just use that? It’s humiliating.

Mrs S is most unsympathetic. “WE NEED MORE INSURANCE SANK”.  I like how it’s “WE”.. In the payoff scenario I’m dead. “WE” don’t need shit. “YOU” are trying to maintain your favorite part of being married to me, Direct Deposit.  “But, you selfish bastard” she says “you don’t want us suffering when you’re gone”. Fine. Fine. Fine. “Besides” the ex-nurse assures me “it’s no big deal”.

No big deal to share the most intimate details of your existence with a total stranger, so some bookie can lay odds on your mortality. Great.

I agreed and the nurse came over last night.  Doorbell rang, Mrs S answered it while I stripped naked and wrapped myself in a dishtowel, that’s what the Dr. does BTW. Well excuse me if that’s not protocol for a home health physical.

The nobigdealnothumiliating experience started with me, peeing in a cup, a grand start BTW. A cup with a thermometer on it too, apparently the nurse has trust issues. I have no fear of peeing, I just don’t  like handling pee, even my own. And, I certainly don’t like putting the fucking cup on my kitchen table, as directed and then leaving it there for rest of our meeting. I don’t like staring at pee, call me weird.

I don’t like getting on a scale in front of strangers either. Luckily the nurse was much fatter than I and so she had nothing to say when the scale groaned. I’ve even lost 30 lbs and the stupid thing groans. Sucks. Next up, health history. Family history; Adopted.. pass. “Lets see your drugs..” huh? Remembering where my stash is can be a problem. “Prescriptions.. got it.” Done.. then came the $100,000 dollar question.  “Cancer?” Yup.. melanoma. 2004, Park Nic..

Now an honest insurance nurse would have looked up, said “thank you very much” and went on her way leaving me to contemplate mortality. But NOOOO this gal didn’t even pause. By now she’s had to go to her bag and another blank sheet to record my history.. which also makes me even more happy. Shit..

Next up.. do you regularly  use alcohol? Hooooo.. what could she mean by regular? Is that like “convicted” when talking about a felony? Hmm. Well it’s ice fishing season, that certainly means “more often” and after last weekend.yikes. I answered not really. Weekly.. She looked up “Well, that’s pretty regular sir”. Weekly? Really? If you’re talking about turds that would be a big problem but booze it’s regular. What ever.. The money on the odds bored is coming in on the short side now.

Blood pressure.Ahh this is a good one. I take HBP pills. Before this visit I took several. The mere site of a cuff is worth 15 points on the top side for me. My BP was BP 100 over 50, just above dead. I’m that darned cool, but I’m not room temperature. Yet. They take the BP three times for some reason. Between the first and second one, phone rang the Mrs S answered.. “Sank it’s your Mother”. “Tell her I’m busy and I’ll call her next year”. Next BP was 160 over 100.. We’re going to have average here dear. No shit.

Speaking of Mrs S.. We have a house where the main living room and kitchen are sort of connected. The walls don’t go all the way to the ceiling. Means you can hear everything.. So when the Nurse asked “Why did  you lose 30 lbs” and I answered “Because I’m fat” Mrs S included an editorial over the wall “Diet and exercise.. “ And when she asked if I had any other conditions and I said “I don’t know” Mrs S volunteered up several more.

The visit ends with the blood draw. Not the worst part of the deal. The worst part is sitting there wondering for a half hour, when the fuck she’s going to do something with that stupid cup of pee on the table. It’s REALLY bothering me now. REALLY REALLY REALLY bothering me. I can smell it.

Finally she got to pour it into a couple different tubes, proving that my job isn’t as bad as I thought it was. Handling the urine of others would be worse. She packed up and out she went. She left me with a commemorative urine cup with a handy thermometer on the side for my trouble. Might come in handy for my irregular alcohol use as shot temp gauge..  so it’s not all bad. Jager anyone?

Quick note

This is a week where finding time to sit and write are going to be tough as can be. Sucks because I’ve been pretty darned diligent about daily posts this year. But dear old Mr Sank will do his best to bring you a chuckle here and there.

This is a big Mason’s week for me. Lots of activities to get done.. hence the evenings. Mrs S is starting to offer some of her better-kept-to-herself thoughts about my being out of the house three nights a week. And the answer is not “What else is there to do?”

Well apparently, she’s got herself a list.

So Be It.

Here’s what I’m not doing. Going to the school carnival on Thursday. I can’t stand me a school carnival in the best conditions, which would be warm weather when we can got outside and mingle there. Fact is a good Spring fair in Minnesota is sometimes actually pleasantly interesting. All the Mom’s and Dad’s come climbing out of their hibernation holes and see the world for the first time. We get to see who bred over the winter, who got fatter, who got skinner, who’s got facial hair and who had electrolysis to get rid of the cookie duster. Or should. Mom.

But a carnival in the middle of the freak’n winter? Crammed into a gym with 500 kids and their big ole’ parents.. no thank you. What the hell ever happened to the Swine Flu when you need it around. Sh-e-it.

Went the to the dentist today. Always fun. I’m a religious flosser and brusher. I DO not want to have the “implant” conversation with anyone about anything for me thank you very much; teeth, chin (which I could use) calf’s or weeniers. I prefer my own teeth. The dentist, who BTW spends about 34 seconds looking in my mouth every year mumbled to me “You’re fine. Again. not very good for my business really”.

Really? so you WANT to drill out my head? Like that’s fun? No wonder you sickos kill yourselves in alarming numbers every year. Or buy alot of toys.

Actually Dr. Chuck is Ok.. I know him from Little League. Our kids floundered in 5th grade ball together. Mine sucked worse if that matters. Knowing him makes things weird for the Scraper Gal. She sets me up for the visit from Dr. Not The Doctor, no it’s Dr. Like G-d or something. Then she gets annoyed when she realizes we go way back.

Doc Chuck came down see me and made a comment about my new glasses.. which illicited the following exchange.  I never use his name however, being familiar I would never say Dr. in public, but in the office I feel compelled, which is weird so I don’t.

“Nice glasses Sank”. “Well” I said, “If you make a comment like hows the Apollo program coming” I’m going to have kick your ass.” the word ass took the Hygeine Hattie of guard. More so, his response. “you think you can kick my ass?” Now Doc Chuckster is a big dude, and truth be told… I’m not sure I could, and I said so. We agreed that two elderly fat-asses swinging at each other would result in a double coronary way before a blow was landed.  The lady was more shocked how ever that we both used ass and I’m thinking she though we were going to throw down. He did laugh for rest of the appointment about the Apollo comment.

Right there..

He’s got a drill and knows how to use it.. Which reminds of the punch line of an old joke I’ve forgotten most off. Basically, when your dentist sits down and is firing up the drill and heading for your back molar, you’re supposed to reach low, grab his jewels and hang on remarking.. “WEERA NTHOT GOING TO THURT  EATHOTHTHER ARE WE”.

Thank you very much, I’m here here all week.

Junk Everywhere…

Daughter wants to start scrapbooking.. To me that sounds like yet another unfinished set of projects for me to trip over on the way to the bathroom. The bathroom which is still without tile 3 months after the floor was ripped up. But that’s a different project. Scrapbooking seems to come with a freaking ton of collateral shit that people need, to make their memories last forever. I don’t know if viewing my photos in aesthetically pleasing pages with lots of fancy trim and cute little stickers and such is more compelling than just thumbing through photos in boxes, the way my family prefers to do it, or not.

I have boxes of photos of people from the 40’s and 50’s, people I’m supposed to be related too, mostly in places I assume to be Egypt or Lebanon, based on the dress and timing. I suppose the advantage to s’crap book is you don’t have to spend all that time trying to figure out who is who in all these pictures. But then again, just because you know that person is named cousin Ida doesn’t mean you know who she is.. Since I have these boxes of photos of people, some with names written on the back, many cut with crinkle cut borders, and all quaint, but of whom they are, I have no idea.. I don’t see the reason to hang on to them. BTW I also didn’t see the reason to hang on to 100’s of my baby pictures and yearbooks, and after a very angry Mrs S fished them out of the trash I now keep them in the basement somewhere for my instant retrieval should I ever need them again. Fat F’n chance. “Your children will want to look at them one day.” Whose kids? I can’t barley tell them about where I was born before they change the subject and plan their escape from another waltz down the old mans precious memories.

Mrs S, thankfully, was not born with a S’crap book gene. Odd since she is a bit of a saver. She has a lot of stuff, but the idea of doing an artsy representation of her stuff, not so much. Which is fine too. I like to think that I’m not a saver. I like to imagine a world where I live in a Ikea like decorated apartment with stainless steel counters and hardwood floors and shelves, all of them empty of knickknacks and pictures and all the other crap that makes it hard to move. All I want is a dust rag and broom. Ahhh the simple life baby, simple life. Mrs S would put forth the argument that I keep at least as much as she does, but no way. For example she’s got a can of every paint we’ve ever used inside and outside the house, just in case. Never mind we’re on to a different color in many cases.

She also has a lot of shoes.

When I mention this.. she gets a wee bit defensive and starts point out that I have 8 guitars. Who needs 8 guitars.. Personally I don’t see how you can a guitar to the crap she keeps. Guitars are important musical instruments that I use to express myself. Yeah I know, I can play only one at time and yes there are a couple I’ve not played in a few years.. and yes changing strings and keeping them hydrated in winter is a pain in the ass but she’s got shoes she hasn’t worn in weeks.

She also has most every crappy piece of art the kids have made over the years. Can’t we keep a representative sample and toss the rest? Whats that? I have a couple hundred comic books, boxed and in plastic in the guest room? That’s real art dear, and it’s going to be valuable some day. I’m not getting rid of that stuff. Shees.. She’s a couple of these loganburger baskets or something like that that she had to buy at a house party, and which cost about 4 mortgage payments a piece and which I was told would go up in value.. which some how makes them an “investment”. Well, I ask.. find me a buyer and they can have them..

Whoa Nellie..What did she say? I go hunting three or four times a year.. And yes I could go three times a year and not use the same gun for 3 years, what’s your point? They don’t take near as much space as the basement full of camping gear that we’ve accumulated after 12 years of boy scouts. Who’s going to use that now the kids are gone? It takes up the better part of the back half of a closet I never go into so there. And how much did you spend on all that….

WTF, She knows that fishing is my favorite thing to do. You can’t have just one rod in the boat, there’s different situations that require different rods and I like to have friends over. She heard Denny Bauer, the bass guy on TV say he had 9 rods in his boat. I know she heard because I paused Tivo, ran upstairs and dragged her soaking wet out of the shower downstairs to hear that little piece of information, it was that important.

Huh? How many do I have? 3 or 4 I guess.. yes I did have to by a third rod hanger for the garage.. and each one holds 10 and there’s a few more out there than will fit on the racks and wait a damn minute.. those are all up at the cabin anyway so they don’t count. Ski shit? Sporting goods, not crap. 4 coffee makers.. uh.. got me there. Took a while to find one I liked. 5 different electric razors… same thing. But used them all for a least a year before I bought new ones. Coffee mug, I like to remember where I’ve been, I know no one listens to CD’s, black T-shirts? I WEAR THEM ALL SUMMER. Masonic pins.. old software that doesn’t run on any of my current machines? OK they can go. AND YOU know, I did throw out all my college textbooks last year when I realized that a book not cracked in two decades probably won’t be ever again. (Apparently that doesn’t hold true for wedding albums) Masonic pins? It’s not my fault we seem to collect them and they don’t take up any room. Camera equipment.. a hobby.

Really now.. this was about her and just like that, as it always does in these things.. it’s about me.

Her final argument.. She takes care of the family and needs some of this crap at hand. I however, have filled up the entire garage at the cabin with fishing stuff, boat stuff, and other assorted pieces of crap that take up space and cost us money and are of no use to anyone except me.

OK I’ve got a lot of crap too. More than she does probably and, it would help my case if I every time I wanted to find something I didn’t start with the phrase she hates most of all, “Honey where is my…”

But you know, since she always knows where it is.. it’s just easier to ask.         

Weekend Update-

Hit the ice again this weekend. uh.. you know ice fishing is something to do in the winter to kill Saturday’s when you’ve got nothing else to, which is all of winter basically. It’s not like you siting in your boat in the summer and thinking “Man, I can’t wait for this G-d damn lake to freeze up so I can drive my car out here and punch some holes and cast in to the same 8” spot for 4 hours.

But given the alternative, watching Law and Order marathons.. I’ll take fishing.

We did have some equipment issues again this weekend. Stupid auger… Since you have to get through the hard water, in this case 18” of it, you need a rather massive power drill to punch in. And when the drill doesn’t work, you are hosed. It seems to flood a lot these days. Stuck throttle is the diagnosis. We got the thing running but had a different problem in that the blade was bent so going through the ice.. not no easy, as in 10 minutes to get a hole drilled, and that’s with 2 adults leaning on the thing. Wearing 14 pounds of clothes at the same time.. gets hot out there.

I still can’t explain the attraction to heading out side at 10 degree, but there just something about screwing  around on a lake in winter that appeals to me. Probably has something to do with growing up in California where lakes didn’t freeze. Occasionally the pond would skim over in winter. We’d throw rocks into it to see if they’d break through, and mostly they did.. But driving on a lake? That’s crazy! Matter of fact, this idea of frozen lakes with houses and cars on them.. you could seriously sell a lake to a California guy as a big flat lot and he’d have no idea, until he went to dig the basement.

Saturday was chilly, about 10 degrees. Inside my canvas house it was about 80 which makes dressing in layers a good idea, until of course you have to pee. Then the digging through five layers of clothes becomes a real problem. Especially when you’re in a hurry. Something about the brain sending the message to the bladder that it’s time.. and then having to recall that order because you’ve got on carhart overalls, jeans, thermal pants, your flannel sleep pants and finally your briefs. That’s a lot of flys to coordinate and line up just right if you know what I mean.

Followed up the day on the ice with a the traditional cribbage game in the cabin. Loves me some cribbage. Although that game gets tougher after a couple cocktails.. but that’s the beauty of it. About 7:00 the last guy made his way up and dinner was on.

For dinner we were having blackened Cajun style venison steaks with a Cabernet reduction sauce, sweet potato fries and a spinach salad. Another “seemed like a good idea at the time” sort of deal. In hindsight, we damn near smoked ourselves out of the house. It was that bad. Not like there’s a fan in the place, it’s a 50 year old cabin. Good news is.. that’s the story we’ll use for later when Mrs S gets up there and says the place stinks.. Couple of those $1.00 cigars didn’t help matters, not that I had one, but I’m just say’n.

Sunday morning was supposed to be more fishing, but to be frank I didn’t feel like arguing with my auger any more.. and to be honest.. that inner Ex-WIFE all men have was yelling at me pretty good about the previous nights festivities. One thing about getting old that sucks.. I used to get hangovers after being drunk the previous night, now I get them without being loaded at all but after stupidly having a couple beers, a glass of scotch and a half glass of wine in the same evening, and not being drunk at all. It has to be something about mixing all three. It was the wine no doubt, but when you’re making a wine based sauce you’re not going to just throw out the bottle.. Jeez…

Next month is our revamped Whiskey’s of the World merit badge, Mrs S is the Merit Badge advisor on that one. I’ve asked that we change the presentation to mineral waters and fruit juices of the world. Not.