If you take a left out of our neighborhood, you soon come upon another, smaller neighborhood about one-quarter of a mile up the road. There's nothing terribly special about this neighborhood. It's got about 10 houses, most of which sit back from the road a bit. That means you can really only see 4 of the homes as you pass by.
Anyone who's ever spent any time with me in the car, knows that I keep up a running commentary about the homes in our neighborhood and those in the neighborhoods that surround us. If your landscaping looks particularly good or you just added a new patio, you get some words of praise. But, more often than not, I've got a "suggestion" for you. Too many weeds in your foundation plantings? You better be out there early next Saturday morning. Lose a branch in the last storm? Why haven't you gotten out there and hauled it into the woods? Have a pile of mulch that's been sitting in your driveway for more than a week? What's the hold-up?
That brings me back to the neighborhood up the road. A few years back, one of the homeowners purchased a trampoline. Now, most people would put their trampoline in the back yard. Not this family. They set their trampoline up in the front yard. It's not like they didn't have a spacious back yard -- their house sat on a 1-acre lot.
For over a year, I cursed that trampoline each time I drove by the house. I watched as the grass underneath it grew higher and higher. I watched as the safety barriers on the trampoline got torn and were left to dangle over the edge. Each time I drove by, I let loose a diatribe against that trampoline. It pretty much sounded like this: "Look at that thing. I can't believe it's just sitting there. Doesn't anyone on their street care about it? Why should I have to see it each time I pass by? One of these days, I'm going to do something about it."
I'm sure that sounded like an empty threat to anyone else who was in the car with me at the time. But, one night, while hanging out with some of our neighborhood friends, I got a bright idea. "Hey, anybody want to go move a trampoline?" Without much cajoling, I soon had two accomplices. The three of us found our way over to the next neighborhood. Quietly (we think), we approached the dreaded eyesore, and began to haul it away. It was surprisingly light. In no time at all, we had placed it where it belonged in the first place -- in the back yard. We congratulated ourselves and headed back to our house, a job well done.
Fast forward to 2013. The offending house in the other neighborhood was sold a couple years ago. The new owners hadn't really done anything to their yard since they moved in and, as a result, I don't think they'd gotten a single comment from me since they'd arrived on the scene. Until yesterday, that is. We were heading up the small hill towards their house. As we got to the top of the crest, I saw it. There was a shed -- in their front yard! That's right. These people put a shed literally right in their front yard! "You have got to be kidding me," I yelled. "Who the hell puts a shed in their front yard?"
Now, if you're a faithful reader of this blog, you know I love sheds. It's called "Thoughts From Mike's Shed," for crying out loud. But, a shed in your front yard? Who does that?
I've got to get rid of that shed. I'm not sure how I'm going to do it. It's only been 24 hours so I haven't yet developed my master plan. But, that shed is going to have to go. Someway, some how, I've got to get it out of there.
This is where the magic happens.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
It's All Downhill From Here
Tomorrow is June 21st, the first day of summer. I know I should be happy about that. Summer is supposed to be fun, relaxing, and full of possibilities. Yeah, right. All I can think about is that, after tomorrow, the days get shorter.
I know it will take a while for those shorter days to really become apparent. In fact, it probably won't be until August that I start to notice the sun setting earlier. And, it probably won't be until September that I'll need to get the reflective vest back out for my morning run. September is almost three months away. But, I don't need to wait that long before I start getting bitter and depressed, do I? I hope not. I like being bitter and depressed in the summertime. It helps me prepare for my annual wintertime bout of seasonal affective disorder.
On the bright side, when tomorrow arrives, the NBA season will be officially over. That's definitely something to get excited about.
P.S. Go, Spurs.
I know it will take a while for those shorter days to really become apparent. In fact, it probably won't be until August that I start to notice the sun setting earlier. And, it probably won't be until September that I'll need to get the reflective vest back out for my morning run. September is almost three months away. But, I don't need to wait that long before I start getting bitter and depressed, do I? I hope not. I like being bitter and depressed in the summertime. It helps me prepare for my annual wintertime bout of seasonal affective disorder.
On the bright side, when tomorrow arrives, the NBA season will be officially over. That's definitely something to get excited about.
P.S. Go, Spurs.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
It Happens To All Of Us
Yesterday, Hannah headed up to Penn State for the weekend. She left directly from work, which means she didn't get on the road until shortly after 5PM. The trip from Ashton to State College should take a little less than three-and-one-half hours. But, because it was Friday night, I knew she'd probably get stuck on I-70 West. So, I wasn't exactly sure how long it would take her.
Promptly at 8:30PM, I started wondering if she'd arrived safely. Of course, I didn't actually say that I was wondering if she was there. I left that to Kim. "She told me she'd text me when she gets there," Kim said. Good, I thought to myself.
At 8:45PM, there was still no word from Hannah. "I'm going to text her," said Kim. "Don't do that," I said. "If she's driving, she shouldn't be texting. Plus, if she's running late, she's already going to be distracted." So, Kim left it alone.
Soon enough, 9PM came and went. Now, I was starting to get worried. A four hour trip to State College is pretty unusual. I wondered what could have happened. But, I kept that to myself. Finally, at 9:10PM, Kim's phone buzzed. It was Hannah. She'd arrived safely. I breathed a sigh of relief and finally allowed myself to settle in and enjoy the last hour of "The Lost Boys."
As I sat there watching Kiefer Sutherland and Jason Patric play dueling vampires, I found myself trying to answer three questions. The first was why Edward Herrmann, who plays the head vampire, was the commencement speaker at my college graduation. The second was why the two Corey's were such a big deal back in the late 1980's. (I kind of get the Corey Haim thing. But, I completely don't get Corey Feldman.) The third was exactly when I'd started to turn into my parents. You see, whenever we leave Elmira to drive back home, my mother always says "Call us when you get there." Sometimes, I just ignore her. Other times, I'll say "OK." But, when we get home, I never call.
Now, the tables have turned. I'm the parent sitting at home, wondering if my kid (who, no matter how old she is, will always be my kid) has arrived at her destination safely. I'm glad she let us know. In fact, I may have to re-think my stance on doing the same for my own parents.
Promptly at 8:30PM, I started wondering if she'd arrived safely. Of course, I didn't actually say that I was wondering if she was there. I left that to Kim. "She told me she'd text me when she gets there," Kim said. Good, I thought to myself.
At 8:45PM, there was still no word from Hannah. "I'm going to text her," said Kim. "Don't do that," I said. "If she's driving, she shouldn't be texting. Plus, if she's running late, she's already going to be distracted." So, Kim left it alone.
Soon enough, 9PM came and went. Now, I was starting to get worried. A four hour trip to State College is pretty unusual. I wondered what could have happened. But, I kept that to myself. Finally, at 9:10PM, Kim's phone buzzed. It was Hannah. She'd arrived safely. I breathed a sigh of relief and finally allowed myself to settle in and enjoy the last hour of "The Lost Boys."
As I sat there watching Kiefer Sutherland and Jason Patric play dueling vampires, I found myself trying to answer three questions. The first was why Edward Herrmann, who plays the head vampire, was the commencement speaker at my college graduation. The second was why the two Corey's were such a big deal back in the late 1980's. (I kind of get the Corey Haim thing. But, I completely don't get Corey Feldman.) The third was exactly when I'd started to turn into my parents. You see, whenever we leave Elmira to drive back home, my mother always says "Call us when you get there." Sometimes, I just ignore her. Other times, I'll say "OK." But, when we get home, I never call.
Now, the tables have turned. I'm the parent sitting at home, wondering if my kid (who, no matter how old she is, will always be my kid) has arrived at her destination safely. I'm glad she let us know. In fact, I may have to re-think my stance on doing the same for my own parents.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Hell On Earth
There are only a few things I can think of that are worse than being at an airport, waiting to fly home, late on a Friday afternoon. Sitting through an elementary school band concert comes to mind. So does a visit to the emergency room. But, the airport is right up there.
Yesterday afternoon, I found myself at the Hartford airport. I'd been in Hartford since Wednesday morning and I was ready to get home after a couple of days of sitting through meetings, eating too much, and sleeping poorly. We ended up winding up our last meeting about one hour earlier than expected. I was booked on a 6:20PM but I knew there was an earlier flight leaving for Baltimore at 4:35PM. So, I hurried to the airport, scampered through security, and headed to Gate 4 to see if I could switch onto the earlier flight. "I can put you on stand-by," the gate agent told me. Somewhat dejectedly, I told her "OK" and resigned myself to hanging out at the airport for two-and-one-half hours.
Even though I'd been gone for a couple days, I was pretty caught up on work. I had a half-read New Yorker with me but I didn't want to start on that quite yet. So, I didn't really have much to do. I settled into a chair across from Gate 4 and waited to see if my name would get called.
Suddenly, I heard a commotion coming from the next gate. It was music. It sounded like the type of music you hear from a merry-go-round. It was kind of loud and definitely annoying. I tried to block it out, figuring it would go away. But, it didn't. Instead, it just got louder. "What is that?" I asked myself. I could see other travelers around me looking up and asking themselves the same thing. The music was awful -- and it wasn't stopping. Finally, I leaned forward and peered to the right to see what it was.
Just one gate over, a full-fledged party had broken out. There were three guys playing accordions. About two dozen of their traveling companions were dancing. The dancers were of all ages. There were a couple kids under ten. There were teen-agers. I saw people my age. Finally, there were senior citizens. The dancing wasn't spontaneous -- they were like a dance troupe, with everything perfectly choreographed. "I think they're Gypsies," I said to myself.
I waited for the song to end. After a minute or two it did. "Thank God," I thought. Unfortunately, before that thought had even faded away, the next song started. Have you ever listened to an entire song played by an accordion? Try it. Then, to really test yourself, listen to another one. I'm not sure you can do it. In fact, rather than playing thrash metal at Guantanamo, we probably should have just gone with accordion music. That's how bad it is.
After song two ended, song three started right up. Do you remember claves from your elementary school music class? Well, this number featured claves accompanying the accordions. Claves are fun when you're eight years old and you have them in your hands. When you're forty-six, tired, sitting at Bradley International Airport, and somebody else has the claves, they're not nearly as much fun. Trust me. "Please, Jesus," I prayed. "I didn't win the Powerball. You have to get me on this next flight."
We were now in the middle of song five. The 4:35PM flight was boarding. I kept praying. Then, my little miracle happened. My name was called! "Thank you," I shouted (literally). I got on the plane, took my middle seat happily, and opened my New Yorker. Good-bye, Hartford. I'll see you again on Tuesday.
Yesterday afternoon, I found myself at the Hartford airport. I'd been in Hartford since Wednesday morning and I was ready to get home after a couple of days of sitting through meetings, eating too much, and sleeping poorly. We ended up winding up our last meeting about one hour earlier than expected. I was booked on a 6:20PM but I knew there was an earlier flight leaving for Baltimore at 4:35PM. So, I hurried to the airport, scampered through security, and headed to Gate 4 to see if I could switch onto the earlier flight. "I can put you on stand-by," the gate agent told me. Somewhat dejectedly, I told her "OK" and resigned myself to hanging out at the airport for two-and-one-half hours.
Even though I'd been gone for a couple days, I was pretty caught up on work. I had a half-read New Yorker with me but I didn't want to start on that quite yet. So, I didn't really have much to do. I settled into a chair across from Gate 4 and waited to see if my name would get called.
Suddenly, I heard a commotion coming from the next gate. It was music. It sounded like the type of music you hear from a merry-go-round. It was kind of loud and definitely annoying. I tried to block it out, figuring it would go away. But, it didn't. Instead, it just got louder. "What is that?" I asked myself. I could see other travelers around me looking up and asking themselves the same thing. The music was awful -- and it wasn't stopping. Finally, I leaned forward and peered to the right to see what it was.
Just one gate over, a full-fledged party had broken out. There were three guys playing accordions. About two dozen of their traveling companions were dancing. The dancers were of all ages. There were a couple kids under ten. There were teen-agers. I saw people my age. Finally, there were senior citizens. The dancing wasn't spontaneous -- they were like a dance troupe, with everything perfectly choreographed. "I think they're Gypsies," I said to myself.
I waited for the song to end. After a minute or two it did. "Thank God," I thought. Unfortunately, before that thought had even faded away, the next song started. Have you ever listened to an entire song played by an accordion? Try it. Then, to really test yourself, listen to another one. I'm not sure you can do it. In fact, rather than playing thrash metal at Guantanamo, we probably should have just gone with accordion music. That's how bad it is.
After song two ended, song three started right up. Do you remember claves from your elementary school music class? Well, this number featured claves accompanying the accordions. Claves are fun when you're eight years old and you have them in your hands. When you're forty-six, tired, sitting at Bradley International Airport, and somebody else has the claves, they're not nearly as much fun. Trust me. "Please, Jesus," I prayed. "I didn't win the Powerball. You have to get me on this next flight."
We were now in the middle of song five. The 4:35PM flight was boarding. I kept praying. Then, my little miracle happened. My name was called! "Thank you," I shouted (literally). I got on the plane, took my middle seat happily, and opened my New Yorker. Good-bye, Hartford. I'll see you again on Tuesday.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
The Latest "Best Show Ever"
I've plowed through quite a few favorite television shows over the past few years. At various times, that slot has been held by "Selling New York," "House Hunters International," "Million Dollar Listing - Los Angeles," "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills," and "Yard Crashers." Each of those shows occupied the top position for a couple of months and, during that time, became quite an obsession for me. Even now, those are my go to shows when I'm looking for something to unwind with before heading to bed.
In the past few weeks, I've discovered a new number one -- "Chopped" on The Food Network. I just can't get enough of that show. The format is perfect with each episode a self-contained, one-hour competition to determine the "Chopped" champion. It's got a C-level (at best) celebrity host in Ted Allen and an almost laughable first prize of $10,000. Best of all, it's got crazy ingredients.
Speaking of crazy ingredients, earlier this week I was watching an old episode in which the contestants opened up the picnic basket for the appetizer round and found a whole pig's head. A whole pig's head! It was both disgusting and remarkably compelling. As the contestants worked frantically to create an appetizer in twenty minutes by frying pig ears, dicing pig tongue, and sauteeing pig cheek, I hung on everything. When they moved on to pig offal (in case you're wondering, that would be heart, kidneys, and liver) for the main course, I thought I might have to switch channels. But, I couldn't. Finally, there were just two contestants remaining for the dessert round in which they had to create something sweet out of pig tails. It was awesome.
I'm now trying to convince the family that we should have our own version of Chopped at home. I suggested that Kim purchase some mystery ingredients, place them in picnic baskets on the kitchen island, and have each of us then whip something up for a Saturday dinner. At the end of the night, we'd vote on who did the best job with what they were given. Strangely, I can't get anyone else on board with this idea.
In the past few weeks, I've discovered a new number one -- "Chopped" on The Food Network. I just can't get enough of that show. The format is perfect with each episode a self-contained, one-hour competition to determine the "Chopped" champion. It's got a C-level (at best) celebrity host in Ted Allen and an almost laughable first prize of $10,000. Best of all, it's got crazy ingredients.
Speaking of crazy ingredients, earlier this week I was watching an old episode in which the contestants opened up the picnic basket for the appetizer round and found a whole pig's head. A whole pig's head! It was both disgusting and remarkably compelling. As the contestants worked frantically to create an appetizer in twenty minutes by frying pig ears, dicing pig tongue, and sauteeing pig cheek, I hung on everything. When they moved on to pig offal (in case you're wondering, that would be heart, kidneys, and liver) for the main course, I thought I might have to switch channels. But, I couldn't. Finally, there were just two contestants remaining for the dessert round in which they had to create something sweet out of pig tails. It was awesome.
I'm now trying to convince the family that we should have our own version of Chopped at home. I suggested that Kim purchase some mystery ingredients, place them in picnic baskets on the kitchen island, and have each of us then whip something up for a Saturday dinner. At the end of the night, we'd vote on who did the best job with what they were given. Strangely, I can't get anyone else on board with this idea.
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