Observations

The Hot Tub Hero (Or: Why I Should Never Be Left Alone With a Bucket)

Yesterday’s grand group project quickly devolved into a solo mission of poor life choices.

The original plan was simple: freshen the hot tub water by draining 50% of it. In my head, I had a literal squad of “strong young men” to handle the heavy lifting. Specifically, my son and two local hockey players. But as it turns out, young athletes are surprisingly fragile, and my son has this pesky habit of “working for a living.”

Between one hockey player claiming the “achy flu,” the other nursing a wrist strain from the weekend’s festivities, and my son refusing to fake the “Super Bowl Flu” just to haul water for his old man, I was left as a department of one.

The Methodology of a Madman

There were two ways to handle this.

  1. The Siphon Method: This involves a hose, gravity, and the vast amount of patience required to watch water move at the speed of a tectonic plate.
  2. The “Active” Method: This involves a “big strong guy” (hypothetically) dipping 5-gallon buckets into the tub and marching them to the driveway like some sort of suburban sherpa.

Being famously impatient and unwilling to have the tub out of commission for more than a couple hours, I chose the bucket brigade. I figured I’d just use my knees, stay balanced, and knock it out.

Math vs. Reality

Why was I doing this? Because of the cyanuric acid, or as I like to call it, “The Chemistry of Too Much Fun.”

I filled the buckets in groups of four. I told myself, “This isn’t so bad,” for exactly three minutes. Then, reality set in. My math was optimistic: in a 400-gallon tub, four 5-gallon buckets should be 5% of the volume. Simple, right?

Wrong.

  • My Chest: Started screaming by the third round.
  • My Shoulders: Notified me they were no longer “willfully participating” and were now working under extreme duress.
  • The Water Level: Decreased at a rate significantly slower than my remaining will to live.

I started taking “strategic breaks” to play chess on my phone, watching my near-retired body slowly go on strike. It turns out that 5% math only works if you fill the buckets to the brim, which I stopped doing about ten minutes in because water is heavy and I am a mortal man.

The Merciful End

Eventually, my wife appeared and pronounced the project “done.”

Was this because we hit the 50% mark? Or was it because she reached her limit for my “exhaustion whining”? The world may never know. By that point, the water was too low to even get a full scoop. I didn’t “quit”—I simply decided that my time was no longer being spent effectively.

Lessons (Hopefully) Learned

Next time, there will be a pump. The process will look like this:

  1. Attach hose.
  2. Turn on pump.
  3. Read a book for two hours.

The only muscle I plan on straining next time is my eye muscles as I scan the pages of a novel while a piece of $50 machinery does the job I was clearly never meant to do.

What Two Hours of Productivity Looks Like When You’re the Only One Who Can Hear

I have been up for two hours. What do I have to show for it? I have had breakfast and consolidated two half-empty peanut butter jars into one.

And there is the reason I got up early in the first place.

In my sleepy stupor with new earplugs firmly secured, I heard a beep-beep. Was it something making odd noises after the generator kicked on? No, the clock wasn’t blinking. Must have been in my dream…beep-beep. This definitely was not in my dream.

Jeff, my son, had called the night before as his new house around the corner had just had its alarms tested. “Were they going to go all night?” he wondered. Give it 10 minutes, I told him. Should just be the standard test. Ironically, our alarm—which had been off the ceiling all during our cold weather a couple weeks back—decided this morning was the perfect time to remind me why I pulled it off in the first place.

I wandered to the garage to get the ladder in my underwear, realizing I would not be crawling back into bed. Carefully placed the ladder in front of our bedroom door. Removed the alarm, disconnected the batteries. Sat on the couch for a few moments to ensure no other annoying utterances were issued by any electronic device in our home.

At least I woke up for another day.

With coffee brewing and pajamas stowed until this evening, I cursed the fact that I am the adult in the house with the best hearing even with earplugs in. I cursed the hour of sleep I would miss. Then I did my daily chess puzzles to try to wake my brain up. I immediately thought about the afternoon’s potential to grab a nap.

Yes, I can make it through this day.

Grills, Grandkids, and the Smoke Detector Saga

The Great Grill Misstep

Last night started innocently enough: we grilled up a feast of brats, hamburgers, and some andouille sausage. As usual, after taking the meat off the grill, I cranked up the heat to incinerate any lurking germs. It’s my personal version of a germ exorcism. Normally, I remember to turn the grill off afterward. Normally.

Fast-forward 18 hours. I’m feeding my granddaughter a bottle, gazing out the back window like a serene caretaker, when my brain suddenly asks, “What are those heat ripples coming off the grill?”

Cue the realization.

I stepped onto the porch, and it hit me like a ton of bricks: I never turned the grill off. The gas knobs were still wide open, and when I lifted the lid, I was greeted by a mountain of white ash. My grand plan to “clean it later” was quickly followed by a mental debate: Do I tell my wife about this? Spoiler alert: keeping secrets isn’t my strong suit.

Smoke Alarms: The Plot Thickens

Barely an hour later, with my granddaughter swaddled and happily snoozing in her crib (a rare victory in our new “Grandpa’s 30-hour-a-week daycare” schedule), I finally sat down at my computer. That’s when it happened. The smoke detectors went off.

At first, I thought, Oh no, not this again. A few months ago, we had a smoke detector malfunction, and the screeching symphony was unforgettable. Hoping for a quick resolution, I checked the baby—still sound asleep—and sat back down.

Then the alarms screamed again.

The baby stirred, letting out a pre-nap protest, while my heart sank. Time to play Smoke Detector Roulette. Armed with a ladder, I started disconnecting units. Which one of the seven is the ringleader? Who’s the boss of this noise parade?

Two attempts later, I finally silenced the screaming. Relief washed over me. Then paranoia set in: What if this wasn’t a malfunction? I rushed to check on my granddaughter. No signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. She woke up soon after, demanding bottle number two, blissfully unaware of Grandpa’s mini heart attack.

The Reconnection Gamble

Once the baby was settled, it was time to reconnect the smoke detectors. Hooking them back up wasn’t the hard part—my fear was that one rogue detector would throw a tantrum in the middle of the night. And let’s be honest, my “middle-of-the-night hugs” are more like aggressive shoves.

Theories and Lessons

So, what triggered all this chaos? My best guess is that the unvented grill might’ve released something the detectors didn’t like. Or maybe it was dust. Or humidity. Or, let’s face it, the universe just wanted to spice up my day.

Whatever the cause, I’d like to file a formal request with the smoke detector gods: next time, can you schedule your shenanigans around the baby’s nap?

In the end, I learned two things: always double-check the grill, and never underestimate a smoke detector’s ability to keep life exciting—even if it’s at the worst possible moment.

Father’s Day: Same Tune, New Dance Steps (and a Double-Fly Finale)

Father’s Day this year had all the usual suspects—family, food, and a flurry of “Happy Father’s Day” messages—but also a few new twists that made it stand out. Here’s the recap from the Dad’s-eye-view:

Family Greetings: The Modern Medley

  • In person: Two kids, now in the same city, delivered their best wishes face-to-face—always a treat.
  • Remote: Another kid texted (he’d visited the day before, so he gets partial credit).
  • Combo platter: The youngest offered a text/phone hybrid greeting. Due to half the family being present during her call, her full “Father’s Day” enthusiasm was politely restrained. (I’m saving up for the encore performance.)

Highlight Reel: Dad’s Day Moments

1. The Double-Fly Clap of Legend

With my son as witness, I pulled off an Olympic-level “clap” maneuver—taking out two flies at once.

  • No fly swatter, no problem: Just raw dad reflexes and an innate sense for dramatic timing.
  • Aftermath: Flies disposed of, hands scrubbed, and my son reminded that Dad’s still got it.
  • Flies’ perspective: Worst Father’s Day gift ever.

2. The Men’s Choir: Not Quite the Tenors

At church, all the men got a front-row seat in the choir area.

  • Songs sung: Zero, unless you count my “joyful noising” (which the congregation might not).
  • Dress code: Just face forward at an awkward angle—wide shoulders are a blessing and a curse.
  • Practice required: None, unless you count my wife noticing my unorthodox posture.

3. Wicker Assembly: Dad vs. The Allen Wrench

Outdoor furniture assembly—round two, or, more accurately, round two out of four.

  • Muscle strain: Apparently, the Allen wrench is mightier than the sword…and my lower back.
  • Recovery time: Longer than it used to be, but I still have two chairs left (and plenty of excuses).
  • Note to future self: Next time, consider a nap before assembly.

4. Grandpa Duty: The Sleep Whisperer

After grilling chicken and enjoying dinner, I settled into my most important role—grandpa.

  • Game night: The rest played “Exploding Kittens” while I deployed my legendary baby-rocking skills.
  • Battle of wills: Granddaughter resisted, but ultimately surrendered to sleep, confirming my status as the Baby Whisperer (Retired, but still active).

Looking Ahead: Future Traditions

  • More grandkids? Bring them on—there’s always room for another lap.
  • Father’s Day traditions: If assembling wicker furniture is required in the future, I’ll propose that as my only contribution (with a generous side of supervision).

Here’s to Father’s Days that are the same, but a little different, every year—just the way I like them.

Old-School Fly Wars: A Swatterless Survival Guide

Since moving, my relationship with fly killing has taken a turn for the primitive. With my trusty fly swatter sitting in retirement (or lost in a moving box labeled “Misc”), I’ve had to return to the ancient, honorable art of manual fly extermination. Let’s review the current arsenal:

1. The Clap: Thunder in the Kitchen

This is the classic method—two hands, one fly, and a prayer. Does it work every time? Absolutely not.

  • Best used: When the fly is on an unobstructed surface, preferably somewhere elevated.
  • Technique: Approach from behind—their getaway car is always in reverse.
  • Success rate: Lower than my high school batting average, but occasionally glorious.
  • Note: If you miss, pretend you were applauding yourself for trying.

2. The Smash: Window to the Soul (of the Fly)

When a fly camps out on a window, the Smash is your go-to.

  • Needed: Napkin, tissue, or whatever paper product is within reach.
  • Method: Cover the fly, scrunch, and hope your hand-eye coordination hasn’t gone the way of your fly swatter.
  • Real-world example: Yesterday’s attempt resulted in a close call—the fly escaped with a story to tell at the next Fly AA meeting.
  • Disclaimer: All my rage is directed at “guy flies.” I like to think the lady flies are just lost on their way to a garden party.

3. The Grab: Picnic Table Panic

This move is for flat surfaces only: countertops, picnic tables, or any place where the fly can’t hide under your toaster.

  • Execution: Skim the surface, grab from behind, and listen for the telltale buzz of success.
  • Finishing move: If the fly is buzzing inside your hand, give a couple of shakes, then toss to the floor and quickly enforce the “no fly zone.”
  • Caution: May result in bystander confusion and/or admiration.

Swatter Status and the Flies’ Perspective

  • Fly swatter purchases: On indefinite hold, unless I stumble into a homeowner trade show or a hardware store offering a buy-one-get-one-free deal with a new plunger.
  • Reliability: Swatters are still king if the fly is parallel to the ground. My hands? Let’s call them “aspirational.”
  • House rules for flies: If you’re a fly who prefers dining while facing down, congratulations: you’ve found a safe haven.
  • Good news for flies: None of them read blogs.

Final Buzz

Until the fly population reaches DEFCON 1 or I cave and buy a new swatter, I’ll keep clapping, smashing, and grabbing—one primitive, questionably effective method at a time.
If you hear thunderous applause from the kitchen, it’s just me, celebrating the one that didn’t get away.

The Crown Saga: Royal Pains in Modern Dentistry

The Crowning Moment (Or, So I Thought)

Getting a dental crown was supposed to be my ticket to chewing with confidence. My dentist, in her infinite wisdom, said:

“It’s probably a good thing it’ll take two weeks for your permanent crown. If you have any sensitivity, we can do a root canal first!”
This is the dental equivalent of “Don’t worry… unless you have to.”

Expectation vs. Reality: Sensitivity Strikes Back

  • My expectation: Crown goes on, I live happily ever after.
  • Reality: Tooth starts sending Morse code signals of sensitivity.
  • Dental logic: If pain appears after the crown is installed, “We can still do the root canal. It’s just a little harder.”
    Translation: “We keep a secret stash of intimidating tools for just such an emergency.”

The Tools of the Trade

Let’s talk about crown removal. I didn’t get the full view, but judging by the sounds and the dentist’s focused look, the process seemed to involve:

  • Tools that only come out for crown extractions (possibly shared with Indiana Jones).
  • A “let’s see what works” approach, which is always comforting when applied to your mouth.
  • Glue so strong that, if it weren’t there, the world would be plagued with swallowed crowns.

The Sensitivity Waiting Game

So now, every so often, my crowned tooth tingles. Is this a precursor to a root canal? Or just my tooth’s way of saying “hello”?
Meanwhile, my wife recently dodged the crown bullet with a simple sealant—no royal drama for her.

Past Adventures in Dental Delays

Let’s not forget:

  • Previous root canal: Diagnosed pain, then I gallivanted around Europe for two weeks (painkillers in tow, untouched—because I’m apparently part Viking).

My Royal Plan

  • Current strategy: Wait it out. Maybe it’s just sensitivity.
  • Possible risk: Waking up at 2 AM clutching my jaw, composing a blues song.
  • Backup: My “higher than normal” pain threshold and a willingness to see how long I can stretch this out.

The Real “Crown” Takeaway

Sure, “The Crown Saga” might sound like a Netflix drama, but my version is all nerves and novocaine—less palace intrigue, more waiting room magazines.
But if I can avoid a return trip to the dental tool armory, I’ll consider my reign a success.

Adventures in Dentistry: Numbness, Cavities, and Bonus Surprises

(I had some help organizing my thoughts, but there is LOTS OF ME in this post. My friend just helped me out.)

The dentist visit wasn’t bad. I mean, it could have been worse. I could have been visiting a dentist in Russia. There could have been pain. But overall, it was a pretty good experience—well, as good as a day at the dentist can get. Let’s review the highlights of my tooth-taming escapade.

1. The Numbing Juice: A Marathon, Not a Sprint

I was given the choice: a shot or gas. I went with the shot, and wow, did it pack a punch. I write this at nearly 5:00 p.m., and my face is just now returning to normal.

The “numb-numb juice” was administered around 11:00 a.m., and it stayed with me like an overcommitted houseguest. My nose finally joined the land of the living sometime after lunch, during which I carefully sipped a milkshake so I wouldn’t accidentally chew my own cheek. Pro tip: nothing says “good decision” like avoiding self-inflicted mouth injuries.

2. From Rock Legends to Light Rock Ambiance

The radio started off strong with 80s and 90s rock. But at some point, the station switched to light rock. A sudden Beach Boys song made me question everything. Are the Beach Boys considered light rock? Or were they just preparing me for the emotional rollercoaster of dental work? The world may never know.

3. The “Wheel of Fortune” Numbing Timeline

By the time the numbness finally wore off, it was Wheel of Fortune time. That’s seven hours of “throw the pain in the other room” magic. Reflecting back, the dentist did mention, “The cavities are really close to the nerve.” I guess that explained the Olympic-level dose of numbing juice.

4. The Block: My New Favorite Dental Gadget

Let’s talk about the block—the little device they stick in your mouth to prop it open. At first, it felt weird and awkward, but when they removed it to let me rest, I realized how much I relied on it. Without it, I had no clue how far to keep my mouth open. The block became my security blanket. Everyone needs a crutch sometimes, and mine was a piece of plastic wedged between my teeth.

5. The Surprise Cavity Bonus

While she was working, the dentist casually said, “Hey, I noticed another cavity while I was in there. I went ahead and prepped it for a filling, too.”

Uh, come again?

Apparently, while my face was numb and I was blissfully unaware, they decided to tackle a bonus cavity. It was all perfectly legal, of course—thanks to the form I initialed beforehand. You know the one: “The estimate is just an estimate. If additional mutually beneficial work is identified, we’ll take care of it!” Well played, dentist. Well played.

6. Tear-Off Cavities: The Sequel No One Asked For

Two out of the three cavities today were what they called “tear-offs.” Essentially, the edges of old fillings decided to betray me and let the bad guys in. The third cavity was the surprise bonus cavity. Not a freebie, but hey, it came with built-in discounts because, as the dentist might say, “The drill’s already warmed up!”

7. Crown Removal: Next Week’s Fun Adventure

Next week, I get to have a “false crown” removed. Apparently, a cavity snuck in under it. (Yes, this happens. No, I didn’t know it could.)

Here’s the good news: explosives won’t be necessary to remove the crown. Instead, they’ll use a “tool” that “turns the glue into water,” allowing the crown to practically leap out of my mouth. At least, that’s how it was explained to me. I’m choosing to believe this process will be as magical and painless as described.

Final Thoughts: A Dentist Visit to Remember

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t the worst dentist visit. Sure, I left with a numb face, a bonus cavity, and a few less dollars in my bank account. But I also left with functioning teeth, a renewed appreciation for the block, and the knowledge that my crown removal won’t require dynamite.

Here’s hoping next week’s crown adventure is just as “pleasant.” And by pleasant, I mean over quickly, with minimal drama and no surprise soundtrack changes.

Sound Of Security

(The image doesn’t accurately show the process of adding a storm shelter to a completed garage. The real process does not have a blade as anxious to incapacitate.)

As I awoke this morning, I heard the sound of concrete saw. This wasn’t the sound of someone breaking in to someone’s house; it was the sound of a storm shelter being installed.

In our Oklahoma neighborhood, the transitional seasons can have ugly weather. While a storm shelter does nothing to protect what is above the ground, it will secure what is under. With many completed homes for sale in the neighborhood, the sound of the saw is the sound of a realtor’s success. When spring arrives, we will find out how many times the tornado sirens summon us to its dark and safe depths.

You have to live somewhere. You and your property can be attacked by wind, earthquakes, floods, fires, and all sorts of natural phenomenon. You take precautions. You say prayers for the safety of those under your roof and those you love. When it’s all over and done, your Christian faith tells you it’s not yours anyway. The safety of eternity will have to do. 🙂

Oklahoma Snow

As the weatherman gave us a couple days notice of the upcoming winter weather, I didn’t believe him. Having been exposed to how Southerners feel about snow, I expected a light dusting and empty shelves at the grocery store. We got more winter than I could have imagined, but it was done Southern-style.

  1. When we woke, the flakes were following. In Texas, flakes are often greeted by a layer of ice. In Oklahoma, our first winter storm had no ice. It was a very damp, packable snow.
  2. With no kids in the house to confirm, it appears that because of the snow and lack of significant snow removal equipment, the schools are closed until Monday.
  3. While I hadn’t completed my research at the local Walmart, my son, who has lived in Oklahoma for 10 years, assured me that the shelves were empty. His conclusion is formed more by stereotypes than validation.
  4. Who clears the snow from their driveway and sidewalk? I do. Why? I am a Midwesterner who has moved to the south. Southerners, those I have met, believe letting it melt is far superior to any physical exertion. It is better to have a chance of slipping than to remove the snow and remove the risk of injury. (Their apparent logic.)
  5. Oklahoma (and by extension, Southerners in general) extend a great deal of latitude when their children want to enjoy the snow. While walking yesterday, I saw an elementary child in his underwear (bottoms only) diving into the snow. I only saw one dive. I don’t know if it was his last or if he went to warm up before diving again.
  6. Finally, tornadoes bring far less fear than winter storms to those in the south. Yes, I could be exaggerating a little. Yet, when you have a storm shelter in your garage, the world “is your oyster.”

The Rec Center Walk

This past weekend, it was really cold in Oklahoma. With flurries blowing, I had three choices: take my walk outside and be miserable, skip my walk entirely, or go with my wife to the rec center and walk as she swam. I opted to go to the rec center.

We have an “old folks” rec center near our home. If you are over 50, you can join and take advantage of the programs specifically designed for more seasoned citizens. While I don’t physically put myself in this age group, I can’t hide from the chronological facts. So, as she swam, I took my first walk on the 11-laps-per-mile track.

When I first started, the track was not crowded. As I added laps to my total, more people came to join me, and I was glad to see people doing healthy things. But, I had some criticism. If people want to walk 3 -across and take up the whole track, I consider this rude. When I walk outside, I stay aware of who is coming toward me and who is behind me. On the rec center track, I had to get in the habit of yelling, “On your left” while a few yards behind. (Also, good etiquette outside.) They moved with slight annoyance. I thanked them for allowing me by…or was I thanking them for sharing the track like a civilized person would do? While this was annoying, I had a far greater frustration.

Typically, I walk 15-16 minute miles. I have gotten in the habit of using a phone app that announces the miles and the minutes per mile. When the app told me I had completed my first mile at a time of 19+ minutes. I was appalled. Prior to this disturbing announcement, I was convinced I was walking an average pace. Yes, passing people and diving through gaps does cause me to break from my normal stride. Yet, walking 3 minutes slower than normal did not sit well. The only way to solve this problem was walking faster. When the 3 miles were completed, I did not greatly improve my minutes/mile speed.

After doubting my masculinity and almost accepting the fact I am old, I developed a theory. I am certain my phone app and the GPS function were actively working against me. The GPS was not able to detect whether I was on the outer ring or the inner walking ring.

My extremely well-read friend gave this response to my question:

Walking small, repetitive laps (e.g., around a track or small park) can sometimes confuse GPS systems. The curves and overlapping paths may result in under- or over-estimating distances due to signal "drift" or smoothing.

Whether this is accurate or not, I am claiming it. As long as I am in control of my faculties, I will not trust a sporadic electronic hiccup over my gut. And, by extension, I am unlikely to walk rec center laps again…