A Tale Of Valentines Day And Mexican Food.

Every husband and wife have stories to tell, it's inevitable, but there's always one or two that are standouts. This one goes down as one of the most memorable for Sal and I.

While the kids were still at home, Sally and I used to take off for special occasions for a night or two, sometimes at a bed and breakfast in some little town that we'd want to check out and on this particular Valentines Day, that was our venue.

We'd went to Hannibal, MO for the weekend, a cool little town on the Mississippi river about an hour or so from our place. We got a room at a Bed and Breakfast in one of the old restored and renovated mansions up on the hills above the town and the river. We hit the antique stores and did some shopping, had lunch at a favorite restaurant there of ours, Lulu Belle's, a restaurant that was at one time a turn of the century brothel. Excellent food and "interesting" decor. We shopped some more, went out to the river and watched it go by for awhile and decided to go eat dinner at a mexican restaurant that we'd seen earlier in the day.

Here is a point in the story that I'd like to just stop and make a recommendation to one and all... based on my experience. When you're out for a romantic getaway weekend with your sweetie, last choice for your evening meal should be any kind of mexican food.

Seriously.

We grabbed a bottle of wine on our way back to the B and B, went to our room, complete with a spa, set up the ambiance for the evening with some candles around the room... basically the whole nine yards.

Now this being a very very old house, the walls were thin, and particularly the walls in our bathroom, which was more of an afterthought than an actual bathroom. I honestly think it was originally a closet and they just threw in the appropriate porcelain and called her good.

Throw into this little fracas the fact that the guests in the next room were separated only by this thin wall, and the door that went between their room and ours was blocked by a huge armoire thing, that was shoved up against it unmovable.

Being brand new newlyweds of less than a year, "things" weren't as open as say a couple that had been together a number of years, in the area of (I'm trying to be polite here) normal body sounds. The kind of normal body sounds that happen to a man after a big mexican dinner. Oh yes.... those sounds.

Here is where I learn that we ate the wrong dinner, Cousin. Wrong wrong wrong, oh so very wrong. The wrongest. I excused myself to the paper wall bathroom to gain some relief and trying my damnedest to be discreet and not reduce an evening of romance to what a group of 5th grade boys would find to be the highest form of entertainment and humor.

See... now, still here I thought that I was being quiet. No, I was not. Sally can do the best interpretation of what took place behind that bathroom door, she's had years of practicing it when telling this story. It started out high pitched, much like a baby crying down a long hallway, then switching off to the quacking of a nervous duck, with interjections of a backfiring Model A, interspersed with polite breaks in the cacophony to pause and regroup, only to start all over again.

My beautiful bride of less than a year, just on the other side of this door, had her face buried in a pillow, almost to the point of self suffocation, trying to muffle her laughter... knowing full well what I was dealing with.

Then my friends, I had a realization. A harsh and cruel one to a man in my dire predicament... I heard the couple in the next room bust out in what can only be described as gut wrenching laughter.

I froze in mid squeak. And then, just to cinch the deal, I heard Sally come completely unhinged. I sat there in the darkness trying to think of some way to explain this whole thing off, but there was no way to explain it... other than what had actually just happened. I slowly opened the door, Sally was crying with laughter. The people in the next room were completely undone. I was had.

We laughed about it and I got over my embarrassment but told Sally that when we left the next morning that I wanted to bail outta there at the crack of dawn just so we didn't run into the people in the next room.

You can guess what happened next... as I was carrying our luggage out to the car, I rapidly greeted our neighbors good morning as I met them in the common living room of the B and B and heard them snicker as they walked on past.

We've had lots of wonderful weekends together since then, but none that go down the way that one did.

Home renovations

I've been a little lax on my Blog the past couple of days... I've been renovating you know. It's true. We've been hitting it pretty hard and by the end of the day I'm wasted and just hit the recliner and in a few minutes, zzzzzzzzzzz.

What started out as a new ceiling in our living room and dining room turned into a lot more. It always does. Living in a 100 year old farm house, sometimes it's real hard to draw a line of demarcation of where you're gonna stop with the renovation that often times more resembles "search and destroy" more than anything else.

My buddy Gary came over and helped me wreck out the monstrosity of an old ceiling that someone had hung in here probably 20 years ago. That went pretty well and fairly fast thankfully, but then there was this little partition thing between the two rooms where there at one time had been a complete wall. This included a double 2x12 beam overhead that I always just assumed did something spectacular structurally, and a set of built in shelves with a built in base cabinet.

Sally said "Sure would be nice to be rid of that." And low... it came to be. The beam did nothing, not sure why it was there other than to fill a hole where the original wall was torn out. As a side trip on that removal we nearly lost half a room's worth of plaster when we pulled it out. A couple of tense moments and a big ol' plywood patch to temporarily hold that whole nitemare up there and we marched on.

Our daughter came up and painted the walls for us, getting rid of the plain ol' white that we looked at for 10 years. The color takes a bit of getting used to for me, but I like it. Sally loves it and is thrilled with it and I always say "When momma's happy... everyone is happy."

Painting the walls really made the Southern Yellow Pine floors look like crap. You probably already have the next step of this saga figured out. Called the floor guy and he came and sanded out the 2 rooms. *sigh* I'll put the finish down on them sometime this week.

Next came the process of putting up the new ceiling... this almost done us in. Martin my son in law, and I started putting 1x3's up on the ceiling to put the new ceiling on. This was Armstrong 12x12 tiles, I can't say enough bad things about this product. Don't get me wrong it looks absolutely awesome up there now. Looks like a turn of the century stamped tin ceiling, but these things are a nitemare.



There were tons of damaged tiles in the 13 cartons of these that we bought, probably averaging 15% of every box. But the worst was the way they were cut, which was "not precisely". Lots of parallelogram shaped tiles that had to be tossed out, uneven borders, you name it. On a ceiling tile like this it's real important to have 'em all line up, unlike a blank tile where it matters not so much. We fought 'em from begining to end and actually had got enough to do a bedroom with them as well. Nope, ain't gonna happen. They're gonna get returned. (along with the box and a half of crappy ones.

About a day and a half later we finally got 300 square feet of these tiles from hell up on the ceiling, and it does look awesome. I still have the crown molding to put up, and the floor finish to put down and hopefully that will give me my days and evenings back. I'm gonna build a nice Arts and Crafts style entertainment center out of Quartersawn White Oak, it'll go kinda where the ugly built shelving/cabinet was. Oughta looks awesome, but that's gonna have to wait just a bit for some paying work to take place. :-)

Haircuts

I've had a few comments on my picture to the right here, and the apparent Alfalfa hairdo that I seem to be hung with in it. Just had an email about it a couple days ago, and got me to thinking about haircuts and who's gave em to me over the years.

When I was little the first haircut that I remember was given to me by my Mom and it was your basic "mow 'em down slick" job. When I was with my Grandpa and he was getting a haircut, it was old Johnny Brammer in town that did the deed. Had a barber shop right on the corner, one chair, and the main thing I remember is when he turned on the clippers they always started off with a "bang"... and I kinda liked that, so he'd flip em off and on a bunch just for me.

Laverne was next, he had a drinking problem and always reeked while you were getting cut, that's about all I remember about him other than he took over the shop on the corner when Johnny Brammer quit.

Then time marched on, and my hair was a little longer to go with the times and I went to a barber in town that had a 2 chair shop AND a gunshop in the back. Pretty cool place but crappy haircuts. One of the barbers was real outspoken 'bout young men with longer hair and had a few "accidents" while cutting their hair. As much as I loved the whole barbershop/gunshop ambiance... I moved on to Susie's Salon.

Susie was cool, cute and made sure my coif was just like I wanted it and that when I left, I looked groovy. I don't remember why I quit going there. Must have been a good reason at the time, but I sure can't come up with it now.

Then there was a whole series of haircuts, most were pretty bad deals, but none worse than a haircut I got once at a Walmart. I know I shoulda known better than get a haircut at Walmart, but... I did it anyhow. A rather largish gal with too much makeup and a wad of bubblegum going that would have choked a goat was practicing her Edward Scissorhands stance. About halfway thru that one, I stood up, took off the drape, told her that was enough of that nonsense, laid my money on her counter and left. She was crying... Hell I shoulda been the one crying, walking outta there with that kind of a half haircut on my punkin. Sheesh.

Haircuts in strange cities are the best for entertainment. I was in Florida once and had a haircut in a place that turned out to be the haircut spot for "non hetrosexuals" I didn't know this going in, and don't get me wrong, I'm not a homophobe, I'd just have been a whole lot more comfortable in a more masculine place. The guy that was cutting my hair used the tiniest little dainty scissors I've ever seen anyone try to cut hair with. I don't know why he chose those, maybe he was gonna move up in size as he improved. Beats me. Anyway he jabbed me in the ear with 'em, while he was Nancin' around me, I ignored it. Then about 10 seconds later he jabbed me again. I told him that the next time he poked me with those cuticle trimmers there was gonna be a whole lot of unpleasantness and he clipped about 3 more hairs off and quit. Just like that.

I got a haircut in Oklahoma City once and I swear I think it was Winona Judd that gave me the haircut. I've even got pictures of this...



Check that out... now tell me that ain't Winona during one of her off stage stints, doing a little haircutting for extra pocket money.

Actual known pic of Winona..



See? I'm tellin' ya!

Eh well... the kid that's cutting my hair now is a ultimate challenge cage fighter on weekends. Yeah, he's entertaining too.

Sore toe? Call a toe truck.

Okay, the weather turned to absolute crap here today and I had to take Dad (and Mom) to an appointment for a little procedure down at the hospital in Columbia. There's so many events that took place today, but one had me reduced to a pile of mirth at one point.

Just a refresher, my Dad is 80, sharp as a tack and a whole lot of fun to be with. He puts up with me real well and suffers being subjected to my experiments in "wit" like an old pro.

They had to put Pop under for 'bout 15 minutes today to do this little thing to him and while we're waiting in the communal pre-op ward for about an hour and a half, boredom set in eventually.

Dad's got a bad big toe on him, all knotted up with arthritis (this is not why he was there, this is just... eh, just read) and he's laying there on his gurney bed thing all covered up except his foot. He wanted it sticking out cause the sheet laying on it hurt it. So, if you're a nurse/anesthesiologist/ or doctor, that old wrinkly foot was like a bullseye target to walk in and squeeze reassuringly with a verbal greeting. Well, every time that happened Dad would just about butt walk right outta that bed. It happened so many times it became a comedy routine. And then... Dad just started blurting out to anyone that walked into his little curtain room. "DON'T TOUCH MY BIG TOE!". Started sounding like the old guy was a psycho of some sort, like that guy standing beside you on the street mumbling "Don't touch my eyes... I'm warning you, don't touch my eyes". Everytime he said it, I started laughing and he'd tell me again "Well I don't want 'em grabbing my damned toe!" And THAT would make me laugh.

I'm easily entertained.

So there was a break in the line of people wanting to come and squeeze Pop's toe and I said, for no reason in particular.

"I wish I had a ping pong ball to toss at your toe"

Dad "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

Me "I dunno, just something to do."

Dad "You Honyock"

I've been asked what the heck a Honyock is, I don't know. My Dad's called me one since I was little when I was being a bonehead... so I guess I'm one.

Me "Okay, I wanna try something with your toe"

Dad "Just don't touch it, I'm warning you!"

Me "I ain't gonna touch it, I wanna throw an imaginary ping pong ball at it"

Dad "You need to go get something to read"

Me "Nope, I'm gonna throw an imaginary ping pong ball at your big toe"

Dad "Shirley, make him stop it"

Mom *sitting there giggling*

So I hold my thumb and index finger apart, just about the right distance to be holding a ping pong ball and I move my hand back and forth real slow, one eye squeezed shut, like I'm taking careful aim. Dad is laying there trying to stare straight ahead.... and then... I throw the imaginary ping pong ball right at his big toe.

Dad flinches like someone just took a swing at him with a pole ax, and tries to get his foot under the sheet. My mom is cackling out loud now and I'm cracking up.

Dad "You crazy dang honyock... what's the matter with you anyhow?"

Me "I can't believe you jumped like that!" (but I kinda figured he would LOL)

At this point a nurse stuck her head in the curtain room, "Is everything all right in here?"

Dad *pointing at me* "He's not right"

Mom and I are both in tears and then the nurse tries to pat Dad on the foot! I almost slid outta my chair into the floor. LOL

Ah well, he had his procedure done and it looks like everything is alright with him, we'll get the results in about a week, but it looks like he's fine. We came home, he was still a little stoned from the anesthesia and pleasant to be with. :-)

Tomorrow should be a fun day.

We've kinda flew into some home renovations. It's so tore up in here right now... the room echos. New ceilings with the acoustic tile that looks like stamped tin... oughta be pretty cool. Some wide crown under that, fresh paint in the dining room and living room that now is just one big room. Got carried away and tore out a room division thing, some built in shelves, etc. Floor guy is coming on Friday morning to sand down the southern yellow pine floors in these two rooms.

I dunno what got into us. We're getting older, maybe it's something to do with that, if it is, our daughter is assisting us in our madness by showing up to paint.

So I'm hauling my Dad (and Mom) down to Columbia tomorrow. Dad's having a little procedure done, but shouldn't be anything too serious. I'll be bringing them both back home at the end of the day. Yeah, mom too. Anyway, these little trips are usually good for a story or three.

Resilvered a load of mirrors yesterday and had one re-do this morning, got that outta the way and hit the polls to vote for the most dismal selection of candidates that I've ever seen in my life. What a mess of comedians, dolts and gyps we've been dealt this time. It's like voting not necessarily for who you think would be a good president, but more like voting against who you sure as hell don't want for president. Sad state of affairs.

I can name a half dozen of my friends and neighbors that I'd rather see run for president.

Ah well.

A weird, but cool interconnection of time.

In our quest to become millionaires in the junk trade, Gary and I went up to the farm on Sunday and loaded up a trailer load of crap. A quite impressive load too!



What is a little odd with this particular load is the main "object de junque" that occupies the trailer in that picture. That piece of Detroit glory there is a 1958 Ford 4 door. And why does that car hold a place in my heart? It was mine when I was 13 and 14 years old.

While other boys had go-carts or a mini bike or less, I was cruising the backroads and pastures in high style. A couple of tons + of American iron, powered by a 292 cubic inch V8 with a "3 speed on the tree". I was Mario Andretti, Evil Knievel, and Elroy Jetson all wrapped up in one in that car, and needless to say, the envy of all my buddies.

So how does a young man of 13 come to have command of a car? Honestly I think it was because my Dad was tired of me tearing up the riding lawnmower. Hottroddin' that poor ol' Sears and Roebuck rider until it wouldn't go anymore was making the old man crazy. Him and my Grandpa went to a farm auction and came home with this old Ford for $50... because it was cheap. It sat in the lot with our farm machinery for awhile and one day Dad sat a used battery in it, handed me the keys with fatherly advice "Don't kill yourself in it, and don't get on the highway with it."

Yessir, that was a whole different time. If you were to turn a 13 year old boy loose on the farm with a car now, they'd drag you into court for child endangerment or some silly thing.

The old girl was pretty loose in the motor department, but I could wind her up pretty tight in 2nd and drop her into 3rd and get her rolling 60 or 70 mph across the pasture on what could only be described as "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride". Devoid of shock absorbers, nearly treadless tires on the front and mud tires on the back, I could make anyone grab the dashboard and not turn loose, that chose to ride with me. My Grandma rode with me........ 1 time. That was it. She got outta the car, called me by all 3 of my names, slammed the door and told me to never ask her to ride with me ever again.

Having a loose old motor, it got rid of quite a bit of oil. Dad caught me pouring oil in the motor one day and asked me where I got that oil. I told him "outta the barrel in the shop" He informed me that THAT oil was for the tractors and trucks and things that mattered. He then led me to the corner of the shop where there were a few 5 gallon buckets of used oil that had been drained out of the tractors. "That is the oil that you use." he said. And I did. Didn't seem to matter much. LOL

I got a couple of summers out of that old 58 Ford, and I discovered one day that I could wind it up to the point just before she'd blow, turn the switch off, pump the gas pedal a few times and turn her back on and get the most awesome backfire you ever heard in your life. It'd shake the whole car and sounded like a cannon going off. I did this about 5 or 6 times and then... "KABOOOOOOM! Chunka chunka chunka chunka....screeeee" Seems the pistons caught up with the valves on the last backfire and that was the end of it.

I was nearly in tears I was so grief stricken.

I moved on to my next career in my Grandpa's 59 Willy's jeep and then, much to my Mother's chagrin... motorcycles. A pastime that I barely escaped from with my teeth, arms and life.

Anyway, Gary and I pulled the old Ford outta the ditch in the pasture that it'd been unceremoniously shoved into years and years ago, we drug it onto the trailer and I told Gary the story of the car.

Then I walked over to the drivers side, looked in and right there was one of the best things I've found in years. I reached in, pulled it out and just stood there holding it in my hand and for a couple of minutes I was 13 again.



I think I'm going to frame it with a picture of the car. I don't think I've got any pics of it from childhood... I wish I did. The key is good enough.




.

Amazingly... size DOES matter.

So let's just recap a bit. My folk's old ginormous TV blew it's guts out with very little drama and a wee bit of humor. I replaced it with a big new flat screen TV that should be large enough to please anyone.

Let's not get hasty.

A couple of weeks went by and I'd stopped in at my parent's house one morning like I do several times each week. There's usually 2 separate conversations taking place coming from my folks, both are almost always directed at me simultaneously. It's like juggling cats and looking up things in the encyclopedia all at once. It can be done, but you can look foolish pretty darn quickly too.

Mom is telling me about getting her haircut at the place where she gets it done and a conversation that took place when she was there the last time. A story about 2 people that I didn't know, but I was listening and nodding my head in the correct places. Meanwhile my Dad is sitting in his chair by the table checking his blood sugar and telling me what the readings were for the past 4 days and why it had spiked and it WASN'T because of that cinnamon bun that he ate, no matter what Shirley says. And I'm nodding in the appropriate spots for that as well. Mom moves on to telling me about something that the dog has drug up in the front yard that looks just awful... and I'm starting to get dizzy from it all.

So, in my "not so best" judgement I change the direction of the conversation in mid stream.

Me: So... how do you guys like your new television?

Dad: *sudden silence*

Mom: *not a peep*

Me: *regretting I had asked*

And then Mom started, but you gotta adjust this for the tone of her voice. It was her "sad and lilting, I'm okay, but not really, but if I use this tone I can answer it anyway I want and my point will be made because I'm using my sad tone" If you've got aging parents, I guarantee you know that tone.

Mom: Oh............ *sigh*...... it's okay.

Dad: Shirley!

Me: Man it smells like bacon in here! Did you guys have bacon for breakfast? I love bacon! Did you get that hickory smoked kind that HyVee sells? Man that is THE BEST bacon around. Yup I love bacon!


The clever ploy failed.


Mom: It's smaller.

Me: *giving in* Smaller than what?

Dad: Shirley!

Everytime Dad says "Shirley" I supress a giggle, 'cause I know she's not gonna stop no matter how bad Dad wants her to. LOL

Mom: I't smaller than the other TV, our old one.

Me: Mom, it's only 2 inches narrower.

Mom: It's smaller. It's shorter too.

Dad: Shirley!

Me: LOL

Me some more: Mom, it's called letterbox, that's the new format for all the new tv's now.

Mom: I don't think I like it.

Me: Didn't you notice how much nicer the picture is?

Mom: *doing this answer in 2 syllables* Ye...sss. But it's smaller.

Dad: Yeah we had bacon this morning. I sure like that HyVee bacon.

Me: Yup, that's some dandy bacon Pop.

Mom: *Leaves the room*

Dad: It's fine, I like the TV just fine... but it IS smaller.

LOL Eh boy...

I love my folks, but some days it's just real interesting anymore.