Well, it worked for Johnny Carson, why not for me? Instead of
leaving you with dead air (photons?) while I am knocking the rust off
my beer pong skills back at Princeton, I will share with you a few of
my favorite posts from my early days of blogging. Since most of these
posts were viewed by about 5 people, there is a certain temptation to
just recycle them without attribution, given the unlikelihood of
getting caught. Instead, though, I will share them as my best of
Enough! This series has slid well past the point of narcisism. It has been fun setting this up, much like setting the light timers before I go away on a trip (for those that don't know, Typepad allows one to cue up posts with a series of future dates on which these posts appear. I am actually typing this on Wednesday night. The thought of light timers gets me thinking of home improvement, so in that spirit I will end with "Pocket Doors and My Manhood"
Our bathroom has a pocket door to save space - that's one of those doors that slide on a hidden rail in and out of the wall.
From time to time, usually because my kids go slamming into it, the
door comes off its rails and gets jammed, which is a problem as it can
bottleneck some very critical facilities.
The first time this happened, I tried to get it back on its track,
but I just could not. The track is up in the wall and it is almost
impossible due to the lack of clearance to do anything with it. I
checked in the Yellow Pages and saw there was actually a company that
specialized in pocket door repairs, so I called them out. Well, Joe
(or whoever) shows up with his little tool kit, looks at the door for a
second, grabbed it in a certain way, and then gave it a quick jerk -
kabam - and it was back in its tracks. It took him like 5 seconds.
Well, there I stood, completely unmanned, right in front of my
laughing wife and family, by Joe the visible butt-crack guy. Bummer.
Since that time, I have had the door come untracked two or three
times. Thinking to save me further embarrassment, my wife tends to ask
any passing stranger to come in and fix it. I can sit there for hours
fighting the thing, and then my wife brings in the guy painting the
house - kabam - fixed. Next time she brought in the 60+ year old sales
guy who happened to be there - kabam - fixed. I swear, if Paris Hilton
was dropping by for a visit she could probably fix that damn door. It
Well, this time I would not allow my wife get someone else to fix
it. Every night, for about 10 minutes, I would take my innings with
the door, struggling to do what everyone else seemed to have learned at
birth. I actually suggested to my wife that we should call out a
contractor and tear the thing out and install a real door. She
suggested instead that she could have our 13-year-old baby sitter come
in from the other room to fix it. Finally, tonight, when I was about
to give up, I tried holding it in a slightly different way and - Kabam
- fixed. God I feel great. My manhood is restored and I am at the top
of the world.
In case my plane is late and I can't blog on Monday - happy Memorial Day and many thanks to all those who have served in our country's military.