Autumn 2018

It seems a bit strange to be back here after so long an absence.  I really thought I was heading in a different direction-which I am-only everything always seems to take so much longer than I anticipate.

Take the economic crash of 2008 for instance.  I was on top of that as early as 2005, and we ended up doing pretty good through that ordeal.  Now take the economic crash of 2018, only, see, it's not quite here yet.  It is coming, the rumblings have started.  Check the Dow.

Annnd housing's starting to stack up, more listings on the market.  So, you know, if you're looking to buy some real estate, wait.

I know, I know, everyone has an opinion, and most of them are wrong.  So why am I right, then?  Trust me.  Wait!  I don't opinionate that often, but when I do, I am mostly always right.

Put 10-20% of your portfolio into some physical precious metals, etfs and/or some mining stocks.  Maybe toss a couple thousand into some cannibis penny stocks.  I have what I think are a few "hot" ones.  PM me if interested.

And most definitely put some stops in on your blue chip income producing stocks, maybe 5-10% under where they are today.  Or 20% if you want to lose that much.  And get out of bonds, get into cash.  Yeah, I know, it pays nothing.  Well, you'll thank me later when you have the money available to pick up stocks and real estate at a substantially reduced price from where they are today.

As I started saying, before I became so utterly distracted, I just, um, revisited this site, my site, after about a six month absence.  Unbeknownst to me I have still been getting a couple hundred page views a month without any new material.  It ain't huge, but it does mean I have an audience.  And so I humbly apologize.

Who knew?  Least of all me.  So if you are a fan (thank you) you'll be happy to note I am back.  At least once a month.  Maybe more.  I just don't want to get boring.  I guess if I keep interjecting enough crazy it'll stay entertaining.

What else have I been doing?

The most recent seismic shift had to do with my father-in-law's passing a month or so ago.  Besides being the main dude within our immediate family nucleus he was also the patriarch of a pretty large consortium of folks that I still do not know all the names of.

He was internationally renowned in industrial and business relations, one of the most ethical business men in Silicon Valley in the 1980-1990's according to the business editor of the San Jose Bee.  Truly a great man.  He will be sorely missed.

He had been suffering from Alheizmer's, but then he also got hit with one of Al's nasty cousins, Lewy Body.  Ted Turner just brought national attention to Lewy Body Dementia, I think he was kind of making light of it, that it is not as bad as Alzheimer's.

Um, trust me Ted, it is no laughing matter as you will eventually not discover.

My in-laws had also theoretically taken care of their estate planning and final wishes.  Only the place they chose-one of the most expensive retirement care places in the Bay Area-ended up failing them when they needed them the most.

And that put the immediate family in the cross hairs when the shit hit the fan in June.  Mom, the 84 year old primary caretaker (who has had three hip replacements in almost as many years) of the rapidly diminishing 85 year old dementia patient essentially had a nervous breakdown when Dad went off the rails due to lack of proper psychotropic medication.  Both ended up in the hospital.

And then it was three agonizing months of a front line all hands on deck crisis care giving family situation that didn't really subside until Dad passed away.

I would also like to give a shout out to a couple organizations, A Place for Mom and Hospice.   When the firestorm started and we could not get Dad into the memory care unit of the facility they were residents of, we learned there were essentially no beds available in the Bay Area for memory care, or dementia patients.

So we thought maybe we could move him up to our location in the foothills, if only for a short period of time, until a facility opened up in the Bay Area.   To that end I called A Place for Mom, the organization I used a decade or so ago when I was looking for a place for my Mom.  After describing our situation with the very receptive and caring area representative, I received a phone call within thirty minutes from a place that had a bed.

I won't go into all the sordid details, but over the next couple months the family stayed in crisis and went back and forth as far as Dad's care was concerned.  What ended up happening was he stayed in their two bedroom cottage with twenty-four hour professional care.  As well as family members filtering in and out on a constant basis.  Fortunately Mom was still recovering from her ordeal in the wellness unit of their facility, so she had a sheltered and safe environment with which to recover.

Let me tell you, Lewy Body brought on some very bizarre behavior from a generally conservative gentleman.  At all hours of the day and night.  Where Alzheimer's patients tend to be rather sedate while they slip away, Lewy Body patients can be very physically active while they slip away.  We discovered Lewy Body can be a very formidable form of dementia.

Fortunately, Dad was rushed to the hospital with an a-fib heart condition on September 3rd.  That's what ultimately took him.  He was sent home under hospice care on the 4th.

Under Hospice's direction, a hospital bed was set up in the cottage living room, which I thought was wonderful.  Even though he was asleep 80% of the time his subconscious and spirit could still dance with familiar voices and sounds.  Rather than a somber and subdued back bedroom location, he was still a part of a much more lively scene.  And there he stayed until he left us all on the 12th.

My lovely wife and I went down on the 4th, planning on only staying four days.  But after a consult with his physician on the day we were going to leave, in which he gave Dad 48-72 hours, we decided to stay.

And here I have to give a huge shout out to Amber, our Ace, of Pet, Plant and Home.  She stepped it up and managed to care for all our plants and critters at a very hot and critical time of the year.  A time of year where missing a plant for a day can mean certain death.

I got a lot of stuff going on here. There's a reason why we only travel fall through spring, it's cause the summer is hot and I got a lot of stuff going on.  Even automatic drip systems have to be checked periodically, and I have eight or ten of them spread out all over this hill.  And there's a lot of plants not on a drip.  I left her instructions for four days, not ten.  

We had a few phone consults, and she even brought up a couple of newly planted roses I had forgotten about.  Without Amber, I could not have maintained my role, which was support and comic relief.

I don't know what folks do that don't have a large, loving family.  There were anywhere from five to seven immediate family members on hand at all times, plus a 24 hour professional care giver.  Everyone was busy.  Constantly.  For days.

His final departure was beautiful.  He was surrounded by nothing but love, with his wife of 66 years at his bedside, holding his hand.  Three of four daughters looking on adoringly.  It was poignant.  It was lovely.  It was surreal.

There was grief.  And relief.  We had been watching this horrible disease slowly take him away these last couple years, and we were also witness to his valiant effort to retain some form of self.  He was a great man, The Man, as his eldest grandson, our son, said in a tribute at his memorial service.  He will be missed by many, yet his legacy will forever live on.

A lot of folks, when they are faced with some sort of major problem or dilemma, or life catastrophe,  they have to look out in the world for morals, guidance or advice.  And they might ask,

"What would Jesus do?"

"What would Gandhi do?"

"What would Tony Robbins do?"

"What would Tony Danza do?"

All I have to ask is, "What would Dad do?"

By the way, Dad was king of corny jokes.

Our invention, The Deresinator, is still a live, working, tangible piece of something or other.  The proto type seals and otters had a few issues, but our engineer is on top of them and we should have it active in time for the fall harvest coming up in a few weeks or so.  More on that soon!

One of the original goals I had when we first moved in to this house was to be able to walk around the entire place barefoot without looking and feeling like I was walking on hot coals.  That action was completed this last May.

It all started with another brick planter.  Now filled with lilies.  Originally with four azalea's.  Three of which fried when Mister Sun got up in the summer.  It seemed shady enough.  But a couple hours of direct sun in the late morning was too much.

And then there came some steps. And a little hedge.

Then some lawn.  And a walk.  That matches the patio.  And wallah!  It's amazing what brick planters can lead to.

Plus, you know, Hammock Land is just a little more enticing now.  I've actually been seen in it a few times this last summer.  It's nice when you don't need to put on combat boots to get there.

And that blue wheelbarrow right there?  The one I drilled a few holes through and coated with Flex Seal?  Sprayed all the rusty spots with WD-40?  Planted some pretty poesy's in?

Dad used to give his daughters rides in that bad boy.  I've done a lot of preservation work on that puppy just to keep it in the perfect used condition it is currently in.

Besides the azaleas, I also fried at least two, if not three rhododendrons.  I planted seven of them in the spring, when Mister Sun was lower on the horizon.  Right along that black privacy fence in the back there and then along the wire towards the potting shed.

Unfortunately when Mister Sun got up there straight away in the summer he started crisping those shade loving perennials.  I put up shade cloth, which kept some of them alive.  But I can't be constantly dealing with certain aspects of ornamentals.  Like frying.  They've got to fit the spot or get moved.

Plus, it's only fair to the plant.  And sometimes that happens when planting.  I have learned one cannot underestimate Mister Sun.

So I have pulled up all the rhodys and repotted them.  Four should make it.  Three I think are toast.  But I'm going to coax them along just a little bit more.  Hopefully I can find a shady enough place.  If not, I'll sell them.

It's been a rattlesnake year around here.  One evening this last summer I found a two footer up in the chicken's companion cage.  I'm pretty sure he was going after the eggs.  He ended up getting a pellet or two in the brain.

And then, THEN, I was under the house two weeks ago trying to finagle a piece of plywood in there.  My bare knee was down on the ground, and about four inches away there was some rustling in the leaves.  I'll be go to hell if it wasn't a baby rattler, about eight inches long.  That sure got my attention.

I snagged him with my litter grabber thing.  And then that same evening my lovely wife espied two of our cats playing with something by the front steps.  It was another baby rattler.  They were also playing with a small snake a few days before out by the picket fence.  Which now could have been another rattler.

I called a snake wrangler out the next day.  He walked around the entire property but could not find a den.  It's possible the larger snake I killed earlier could have been the mother, but it's also possible it was not.  The good news is a snake litter is usually three to six, so I'm hopin it was on the short end and we're done with them all.  One thing's for sure, I'm gonna be a bit more cautious in the future when venturing under the house.

I bought a big fake rock.  It's nothing like the Pet Rock craze of the 1970's.  And it definitely won't fit in anybody's pocket, I don't care how large of pant you wear, see?

Check out how I can make my pressure tank and well head disappear...

It was either that or I could have spent the same amount of money for lumber and then a few extra days I don't have to build a pump house.  And since I'm not a finish carpenter and have enough projects to keep me busy until I'm 90 I chose the fake rock route.

Which was drop shipped from the manufacturer in Wisconsin.  I bought it through a company called exteriorsolutions.com.  Which is in Illinois.  I'll give them two and a half stars.  The price was good ($700) and they actually started the slow boat to China delivery process in a timely fashion.

What they did not do was send me the email with tracking number in a timely fashion.  Which they said they would do.  It took about three weeks to get that information from them.  About the same time it took for the rock to get here.

And they had email.

I have to be on top of deliveries here cause we live on a hill with a steep drive.  Most delivery trucks can't make it.  I gotta make arrangements.  Anyway, it all turned out fine.  It just would have been better if they had followed through with the tracking number when they said they would.

I also just had a transfer switch installed on our well.  What the heck is that and why bother?  Well, the pump for our well, and most wells for that matter, is powered by electricity.  When the power goes out so does your water.  And water is kind of important, especially in a wildfire emergency.

Since we were supposed to be evacuated just about one year ago exactly due to a wildfire, I got the rare opportunity to go through a trial run without actually having to face the fire demon.

I'm on a county wide emergency alert notification list, so like when we have a wildfire approaching I get a call.  And at about 3 AM last year in early October I got a call.  It was on one of those red flag warning high wind - high fire danger kinda nights.

The call woke me up, and considering the time of night I figured it might be important.  Of course, my phone was downstairs.  No more land line.

I sleepily trundled down the stairs and noticed how eerily quiet it was.

Nice line, eh?

Nothing electric was humming.  No little electric red or blue tiny fire fly space ship lights anywhere.

"The power was out," I ascertained.

I went to the front window and looked out across our little valley.  There were no lights on, anywhere.

"It's not just us," I re-ascertained.

I felt comforted with that.  It meant zombies or mercenaries hadn't just cut power to our house.  They were after everyone.

Then I retrieved my message, stating that we were under mandatory evacuation orders because the McCourtney Fire was heading in our direction.

"McCourtney Fire??  McCourtney  Fire??  What McCourtney Fire??"

"HONEY!!!!"

They made it sound like I should have known what the heck they were talking about.  I had no idea.  I went to bed and everything was fine.  The wind was blowing a little, but not that bad.

What  the  hell?

I started bouncing around like a crazed ex-firefighter and tried to get my bearings.  Both emergency flashlights were not where they were supposed to be.

Perfect.  So far so good.

I found a lighter, then a flashlight.  Somewhere.

Grandkids!

Make a note.

My lovely wife had been rousted with my rather shrill "honey".  She was grabbing stuff.  You know, socks.  Underwear.  Important things.

What the hell are you supposed to grab in the middle of the night when you can't see a damn thing and have no idea what's going on?

Our son called.  He told me we were under evac orders.  I said something I am sure.  I have no idea what.  He and his fiancé became en route to our locale.

Fortunately, the winds had died down in our neck of the county, but all hell was breaking loose a couple miles away in Rough and Ready.  As well in Santa Rosa and many other locations here in Northern California.  This was that awful autumn scenario in 2017 when high winds whipped utility caused flames into a frenzy.  Which then tore through the countryside as well as residential neighborhoods.  We were just on the fringe edge of that.
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October 2017 Northern California wildfires
Copernicus Sentinel-3A satellite picture, October 9
Location	Northern California
Statistics[1]
Total fires	250[1]
Total area	At least 245,000 acres (99,148 ha)
Cost	~$14.5 billion (2017 USD)[2][3]
Date(s)	October 8, 2017 – October 31, 2017
Buildings destroyed	8,900
Fatalities	44 civilians[4]
Non-fatal injuries	192[5][6]

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Location of Northern California wildfires

The 2017 Northern California wildfires from October 7 to October 14

The October 2017 Northern California wildfires, also known as the Northern California firestorm,^[7] were a series of 250 wildfires that started burning across the state of California, United States, beginning in early October. Twenty-one became major fires that burned at least 245,000 acres

Even though we had no well, I have a water tank in front with 2,800 gallons of water in it.  I also have a one horsepower pump.  And a lot of hose.  But I had no power.

This was turning out to be a great plan.

I had, uh, apparently forgot about having an alternate power source.

Alternate reality?  Yes.  Always.

Alternate power?  Apparently not.  Oops.

Fortunately the wind had died down dramatically and the fire went in a different direction.

So we four sat in the candle lit living room, listening to reports of the two closest fires and evacuations that were occurring.  We were in touch with a couple friends in that war zone.

We later discovered our niece and nephew's 90 year old paternal grandmother evac'd with flames at her door.  She drove down her curvy dirt road through smoke so heavy she could barely see, running into a ditch once as the flames continued their heated pursuit.

In the meantime, we ran to Starbuck's for coffee.

You know, important stuff.

We discovered the fire had started right down at the end of our road, across from the fairgrounds, about two and a half miles away.

There were still burning embers of wood chips in the parking area we always use.  Plus two residences across from the fairgrounds were still in the flaming charred ruin stage of the burning to shit process.

After caffeine we went to my nephew's to borrow a generator.  Even though the wind had changed, our fire was still very active, having burned to within a mile of the house.  The wind could change again.  I was going to be prepared.

The generator enabled me to charge the pump, run the fridge and wifi for communication.  At the very least I had two charged 3/4 inch lines.  That could easily allow me to put out any advanced embers coming my way.  I was set.

I have since implemented a few extra safety measures so that I will NOT be caught with my fire pants down again.

The first was flashlight re-placement.  And now there's one on the nightstand along with the phone.

The next was purchase a generator.  I may even get another one, dedicated to the well.  We'll see.

The next was to put in a transfer switch at the well.  Not a simple deal.  Since the pump, when it kicks on, can run a high amperage, you need a 220 switch.  Which is big deal and needs to be attached to something.

Sigh.  Here we go.  It's always something.

That's what makes living in the country so special.

I think.

The previous pump house, which the transfer switch could have been attached to, had been held together with bubblegum and glue.  I put a new roof on it and painted it when we bought the place in 2010, but it was ready to go then.  I did make it last another eight years, but it was time.

To be tossed.  And then I added a 4x4 post, had the switch installed and covered it all with a big, beautiful boulder!

From Wisconsin.  Via Illinois.

I also have installed a 360 degree sprinkler at the chicken coop and made two stands in a "V" shape so that they will sit on the peak of our roof.  Each stand will accommodate a 360 degree rain bird that will cover the entire house.

And I think I will continue to retain the 2800 gallon water tank for fire prevention rather than irrigation.  It's in front and can gravity feed to any tank on the road.  Plus I can pump it anywhere on the property.

I just learned something new as I come to print.  Our washing machine has been leaking a bit, fortunately into a drip pan and not on to the hardwood floor.  Kara Hale, of Hale Appliance Services, was out.  She fixed the leak and then educated me on detergent, since it sounded like the bearings were going out on our eight year old machine.  And the main cause of the bearings going out is using too much detergent.

And so I said, somewhat defensively, that I only filled it to the lowest line, not the top.  And then she said front loaders use so much less than that, like only one tablespoon per load.  A bottle of detergent should last a year, not a couple months.

And I said, "Aha."

How about that?

Since the cost of replacing the bearings is about the same as a new machine, she suggested my lovely wife and I watch for sales.  In the meantime, the rinse cycle in the utility room will continue to sound like a jet engine taking off.  Until it simply ceases to roar.

Anyway, one tablespoon.  Who knew?  Least of all me, and maybe you.  So if you want to extend the life of your energy efficient front loader, use less detergent.

And if your machine sounds like a jet engine when it's spinning, start looking for specials.  You're flying on borrowed time.

I kinda wish I had learned this sooner, you know?

One tablespoon.

Thank you Kara.  By the way, I highly recommend them.  If you live in Nevada County that is.  Doubt they're gonna travel to Alaska.

Cheers!

A Hundred Little Things or Maybe It's Just Nothing At All

I came up with a new word the other day.  "Spitulate".  It'll be in a dictionary some day.  As contributed by the big Ambigui.  It's a combination of spitball, you know, when you're making semi-uninformed stuff up on the spur of the moment; "Hey, I'm spitballing ovah here!"

I've been primarily substituting it for "speculate", but I've also found it can be substituted for any number of other "thinking" type verbs.  Such as calculate, confabulate, cogitate, formulate, postulate, hypothecate, matriculate, perambulate, pontificate, and one of my very most favorites but rarely ever used circumambulate.

Besides being way too hard to pronounce who the hell knows what it means?

I get the circum part.  It could be as simple as trying to draw a line with a marker around a beach ball.  Or trying to go around the globe in a thirty foot ship in the 1600's.  Or it could have something to do with that scary traditional thing they do to men's penis's when they are completely innocent little babies.

"Hey, kid.  Just let me cause some excruciating pain to a soon to be most favorite appendage as a way of welcoming your chaste little body and soul to the world."

It's the ambulate part just after you've circumed that I'm skeptical about.  I'm not sure ambulating is even legal.

Did anybody else out there read the somewhat recent AARP article about how to fall safely?

I found it rather illuminatingly scary.  I mean, they show you with pictures how to drop and roll, but they say the best way to learn to do it properly is to practice.  Think about that.  They're advising people like me, old farts in their sixties, to practice falling. 

That article was probably sponsored by the wheel chair industry.

Speaking of falling and wheel chairs, I FINIALLY got the MRI done on my left knee, four and a half months after the initial injury.  (And I have decent health insurance.)

"There is a complex tear involving the posterior horn and adjacent posterior root attachment of the medial meniscus..."

And so on and so forth.  There's a lot more.  It's pretty tore up.

Baker's Cyst?  Fuck that nurse practitioner.  I don't have time to make shit up and I don't habitually take pain pills.  Surgery will be scheduled for late May to early June.

If you read this blog from time to time you may have noticed I've been away from the keyboard for a while.  Well, something somewhat unexpected has come my way that looks like it's going to take me away to the business world once again.

It all has to do with an invention related to marijuana harvesting.  It's going to be called "The Deresinator".  If you've ever trimmed marijuana you'll comprehend the value and necessity.  If you've never trimmed marijuana or even know what marijuana is I may have already said too much.  And yes, it is possible I may have been remotely involved with the medicinal marijuana industry here in California for a few years now.

There's nothing like "The Deresinator" on the market today.  It's will save trimmers and growers time and money.  And mess.  And rather than try and enter an extremely regulated and expensive burgeoning and exploding green gold rush market, we're making unregulated but really useful and not so expensive shovels.  Those familiar with the 1850's real gold rush here in California will understand that analogy.

We plan on entering the market with a beta model this fall, and then ramp up for production and release on 4/20/2019.  Those familiar with marijuana will understand the significance of that date.

It's been an education to say the least, starting with a design concept.  We (my son and I are partners, actually now through a newly formed LLC) initially went through a design and concept firm in Minneapolis.  And that took some research just to find them.

The internet is rife with sharks and thieves that would part would-be dreamers from their hard earned money.  A lot of people think up a lot of things, apparently, and there are a lot of other people that would offer promises and solutions but not really follow through.

Fortunately my intuitive bullshit radar still works from my previous tenure in the business world.  Apparently my prolonged recess here on the hill has not dulled all of my say what? veracity.

I left a message at an 800 # from an invention website.  Pick a site.  There's a slew of them.  And when homeboy returned the call, he stated he was there to facilitate my dreams.  My dreams?  What has that got to do with the reality of the situation?  Red flags started exploding.

I put him off.  I'm still good at that too.  And then I started delving.  The government's patent office website has a ton of useful information: USTPO.GOV.  And inventor beware, there are a ton of inventor scam sites out there.

At any rate, I found one of the good guys, and we got a provisional (one year) patent through them.  But then there's the utility patent, and getting all the internal working mechanisms actually functioning and so on and so forth.

So the next story has to do with a business trip my son and I took up to The Dalles, Oregon this last January to meet with the gentleman who is doing the final engineering and design work to bring our product to the utility patent and testing phase.

Anyway, we had a very productive meeting and then my son and I went on a research mission.  You know, visiting one or two of the many retail pot shops that are in and around Portland these days.  I mean, when you look at Portland on weedmaps.com it looks a lot like Amsterdam...if you know what I mean.

We did discover that most of the retail marijuana for sale was hand trimmed, which is good, because that's what our invention will service.  There are many different kinds of machines that will actually trim the buds (or flowers), but the majority of retail customers and connoisseurs prefer the hand manicured buds.  Machines tend to rape and pillage, and the buds do not reflect that pain well.

We checked in to a motel near PDX around 4 PM and took a brief respite before considering dinner.  My son, handy with the smart phone, started looking for restaurants near to where we were.  I would have been in the phone book-if they still have one-because I don't have a smart phone.  I still sport a flip phone.

So a Famous Dave's BBQ joint was nearby.  They're good, but they're a chain.  I think my lovely wife and I dined there somewhere in Tennessee one time.  They were an option, but then he stumbled upon "Wild Bill's Steakhouse", boasting the finest food west of the Rio Grande.

And they even had frog legs on the menu, something my son has never had.  I figured that was a pretty big (and weird) boast, touting the Rio Grande when we were a mere mile from the mighty Columbia.  But what the hell, we had to check out that boast.

When we got there it turned out Wild Bill's was more of an old fashioned sports bar than steak house.  But they did have some top notch looking meat on the menu, only no mention of frog legs.

So my son inquired.

And the waitress, getting a rather puzzled look on her face, said, "Um, no."

We shrugged.  That omission was certainly not going to blow the deal. 

So he ordered a $15 filet mignon.  I ordered an $8 burger.  They were both great.

When we returned to our room we discovered the Wild Bill's he was looking at was located in Missouri.  I have since discovered there are probably about a hundred Wild Bill's eateries scattered throughout the US.  Apparently a lot of Bill's boast beef.  Go figure.

Things around the old homestead are still chugging along.  I hope to get a few more garden areas on automatic drip this year, including the orchard.  I have also been working feverishly to get the last bit of ground around the house landscaped.

Then my ultimate master plan will be completed.  I will be able to walk around the entire house barefoot and not act like I am walking on hot coals anywhere.

While I am not giving up this blog entirely, you may be happy to know I will soon be blogging primarily for a new website, cleantrimming.com.  It's not quite up and operational yet, but should be within a month or so.  I will keep you posted.

Marketing for this product should be a gas, besides the blog there will probably be some U-Tube videos.  Hilarity in marketing will accompany the extreme functionality of our new product.

And with that I wish you a happy Spring, as current April showers dance upon the awning outside my window.

Meniscus, Menascus, a Green and Yellow Casket

I went grocery shopping the other morning.  I had a very specific list with about two dozen items for two different grocery stores.  I know the stores almost like the back of my hand so I can draft up a pretty concise list based on route strategy and best prices.  Being an old fart I always shop for the deals and steals too.  All that is also calculated into my list.  For both stores.  It takes a good thirty minutes to draft.

It's a problem, I know.

I lost the list about two minutes in to the first store.  I retraced my route several times.  It couldn't have been on the floor for more than thirty seconds.  I guess kudos could be given towards the fastidiousness of the produce team, but I sure wished they gave me a full minute.

I think I did pretty well, considering, but I guess I'll never know until I reach for the Pop Tarts and they're not there.  Kidding.  Do they still make those things?  I haven't had a Pop Tart since 1970.

Kernal Klutz experienced another incident the other day.  He actually took a few pictures this time so hopefully both you and he will understand it was just a total freak accident.  Total. Freak.  Accident.  Just like all the others.

So, I was going to make bean soup with some leftover ham from the holidays. I decided the crock pot would be the ideal medium with which to accomplish this.

I ambled down to the pantry where the crock pot is stored.  This cock pot, by the way, was just purchased in December.  The old one had cracked and was leaking.  So I hurriedly bought the new one cause we needed it for meatballs at our holiday party.

Here is the pathway into the kitchen from the pantry.  I generally deploy the crock pot on the counter to the left near the paper towel dispenser.  Notice the butcher block to the right with the hanging pot holders.

Notice the hangers on which the pot holders and dish towels are hanging.

Notice how-even when you are ambling by at a snail's pace, like an old poop just getting up in the morning, scratching his ass and meandering downstairs to start the coffee-the end of the crock pot cord can catch quite easily in a hook.  Apparently.  By golly.  Which is what happened. 

And since the cord is only like, fifteen inches long, it didn't take long-even at a snail's pace-for resistance to be met.  Since I was carrying the crock pot by the handles with which one normally carries a crock pot, and since said handled part is essentially the base unit that the cord is also attached to, that part stayed in my hands as my forward movement was thwarted.  That was fine. 

The unattached ceramic insert and hard plastic lid went airborne though. Which was still fine.

But when they eventually hit something solid, like the floor, that part didn't go as well.  They both sorta crashed and burned.

I have no idea if that's my story but I'm sticking to it.

In another WTF event I tore the medial meniscus in my left knee back in November.  At least I'm about 99% sure.  An actual diagnosis from an orthopedic surgeon will be forthcoming.  Someday.    But first he's gonna want an MRI.  So there goes another couple weeks.  So I'll get an official diagnosis about four months after the injury incident occurred.  Good thing it's not life threatening.  

Oh, and by the way, I do have decent health insurance.

In the meantime, I've been walking around this planet like Festus in the old Gunsmoke TV series, in pain ranging from a two to an eight at any given moment.  I know.  I'll bet you're wondering what the hell is going on and how did this saga begin?

First of all, I'm Gettin Old.  Just waking up, let alone moving about can cause all sorts of physical complications.  So my first recollection of knee pain doesn't really correspond with any catastrophic event. I apparently just got out of bed.

But then there was an event on a ladder.  Actually off a ladder.  I had been pruning the rose arbor, and when coming down I mistook the second rung for the first.  While not an extreme distance, dropping two rung elevations to the ground rather than an expected one can catch you off guard and many times have detrimental consequences.  I ended up coming down very hard on my left leg, twisting my knee in the process.  Which in turn dropped me to the ground in excruciating pain. 

Ay Carumba!

Actually, I'm pretty sure my vocabulary didn't stray to a foreign tongue.  I'm pretty sure it stayed  a lot closer to the gutter.

Let me check.

Yep, my memory concurs.  The only thing it doesn't recall is how many times that word starting with "f" and ending in "k" was dealt.  In between the gasps for breath.  Fifty?  A hundred? 

That word doesn't have to be stated loud to be effective by the way.  You can mutter it through searing pain.  It helps.  Somehow.

I couldn't get up for five minutes.  No one was home nor was a human around for at least a few hundred yards.  Not even close enough to offend or alert if I had been shouting. 

The next day I slipped on some wet leaves.  I managed to stay afoot, however, I re-twisted the already sore knee in the process. 

Ah Chi Mama! 

There I go again.

I ended up on the wet ground anyway, for another five minutes, uttering the "f" fucking bomb all the way down.  Actually, I have recently developed an entire colorful collage that goes something like this; "Fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck."

I repeat as necessary.  Once in a while I might add a few other expletives for color.

It was about this time I figured out the complication, whatever it was, was not going away quietly.  It had been a couple weeks, it was time to see the doc.  You see, as I mentioned above, there are constant aches and pains.  I'm getting old. 

So when some new ache or pain comes around I give it some time to dissipate on it's own.  Do some home remedy.  Could just be an old man thing.  But if it persists after a couple weeks and is exquisite enough, time to see the doc.

So the Wednesday before Thanksgiving I call and my doc's schedule is full.  Go figure.  But I could get in and see his nurse practitioner.  In pain I acquiesced, even though the last NP I saw almost killed me with her missed diagnosis. 

"Oh, you have pleurisy.  Here's some Ibuprofen."

No, actually, I had appendicitis.  Ten days later, after it had perforated, that was confirmed.  You can read all about that right here: Angels on my Barcalounger.


Ibuprofen, by the way, does not come close to touching the pain of appendicitis.

Besides the pain on the medial side of the knee, there was and still is a pretty large swollen sac behind the knee.  The NP focused on that, just like the other NP focused on my lungs after I mentioned it also hurt when I took a breath.  The current NP said I probably had a Baker's Cyst.  She did order X-rays and gave me a script for Norco though, so I had that going for me.

I got the X-rays done that same day and then spent the holiday weekend at our wonderful daughter's gimping around.  Cruised over to San Francisco on Black Friday, Union Square was packed.  There also must've been three hundred cops, plus a fucking Swat Humvee.  Just in case. 

Crowded public places.  Cops with machine guns.  The new norm.

I'm not big on Norco, but it serves a purpose.  I also won't take more than one per day, and that's gotta be late in the day.  Cause, like, otherwise, how am I going to get anything done?  So that left the better part of each day hobbling around here like a one legged Civil War vet taking care of things that constantly need taking care of when you live in the country.

The week after Thanksgiving I had to follow-up and call the NP for the X-ray results. She didn't bother to follow-up and call me with results like my real doc's assistant ALWAYS does.  I had to leave a message.

When the NP's assistant returned my call she informed me the X-rays came back negative.  What a surprise.  Ligaments, tendons, meniscus's and tears thereof only show up on MRI's. 

After she informed me the x-rays were negative, I think she thought we were done.  It was, after all, just a Baker's Cyst.

Until I asked, "So what do we do next?"

"Oh. You want more?"

"I can't walk without pain, you idiot.  Yes, what's next?"

I didn't really say the "idiot" part, but I'm pretty sure I must have been thinking it since it ended up here in print  .

"I guess we could do an ultra sound'.  I'll talk to (the NP) and get that going," responded the idiot.

An ultra sound?

"Yes.  Please. Thank you,"  I replied.

In the meantime, as I waited, and meandered about in pain, I discovered my lovely wife's hair dresser had also recently experienced a torn meniscus.

The meniscus, by the way, is a cartilage like gasket thingy that lies between a couple moving parts in the knee.  It tears or breaks sometimes for a variety of reasons.

So she ended up going to the ER, somehow saw an actual orthopedic surgeon who was on call that day, got an MRI, a cortisone shot (which alleviates the pain) and arthroscopic surgery scheduled.  She was still a month away from her surgery, but she was pain free.

My lovely wife was tired of seeing me in pain.  After she told me her hairdresser's story she was convinced it was the way to go.  I had an ultra sound scheduled-why I still don't know-but it was two weeks away.  She figured at the very least I could get a shot of cortisone and be pain free while we waited.

The morning after she relayed the story we had an argument.  I really did not want to go to the ER, she was adamant.  I conceded.  Holy cow.

I was, after all, tired of being in pain.

After checking in, it was a long, three hour wait.  And I don't wait well.  And I don't even have a smart phone to waste time on.  Good thing I was in pain.  That kept my patience in check.

I finally got in and a visiting female doc bitch with absolutely NO bedside manner and a red nose larger and brighter than Rudolph's basically stated she couldn't do anything.  She couldn't order MRI.  She said it wasn't an emergency.  Why were we wasting her time?

I don't think she even touched my leg.  My lovely wife was in tears.

My lovely wife asked if I could at least get a cortisone shot. 

The visiting female doc with nosacea said no.  The bitch.

She said she had no idea who we were.  She didn't arbitrarily give cortisone shots to just anyone. 

WTF?  I'm a sixty-three year old cortisone addict?  It was if we had asked for heroin.

Three hundred dollar co-pay and over three hours wasted.  Gone.  Poof.  Nothing.  Not even sympathy.

Don't get me wrong,  While that experience was extremely negative, when I went in with a perforated appendix, even though I had to wait two and a half hours, I had a five star ride.

So I went home and awaited the ultra sound.  I have no idea why.  My knee's not pregnant.  This exercise may show a cyst, but that's only a symptom.  Holy cow.

Neither an X-ray or ultrasound will show a torn meniscus, but the NP ordered them anyway.  When the results of the ultrasound came back the NP's assistant reiterated it was a Baker's Cyst.  I was ready to scream.  Then she said they were referring me to an orthopedic surgeon.  And I was relieved.

It's where I wanted to be, but it took almost two months to get there.  And another week of leaving messages at the ortho's office until I finally got through to a live human. Apparently there was another ortho office in town that recently closed so this new one is rather overwhelmed.  Small town.  The receptionist was nice, but the soonest I could get in was the twelfth.  Of February. 

And I was out of pain medication and my back and butt were starting to hurt because I was gimping weird.  And I got another month and a half to go?  Even before they order an MRI?  Holy shit.

So I called my doc's office to see if I could at least re-up the pain meds for another month.  And they can't do that over the phone anymore because of the opioid epidemic.  But somehow, someway, I was able to magically get in and see my doc, not the NP.  My real doc.  You know, a physician.  With a degree and everything.

I love my doc.  He's a great guy.  Smart guy too.  Easy to talk to.  Good sense of humor too.  Has to.  He's deals with me. 

I gave him the sweetened, condensed version.  Apparently the NP and her assistant had not been consulting with him about my situation as the assistant said they had.  No wonder things had not been progressing as they should have been.

He was also a little surprised about the ultrasound, but did say a Baker's Cyst is many times a symptom of a medial meniscus tear.  Which I probably had. 

I had been sent out to wander aimlessly in the wilderness with no resolution for two months by the NP and in five minutes I was totally dialed in with my doc.  He gave me a cortisone shot AND more pain meds, which hopefully I won't have to be taking much longer.  My knee's still pretty banged up a few days after but I'm hopeful the shot will work.

The upshot of all this is that I will NEVER see an NP again.  They're out to cripple or kill me.  Had I seen my doc originally chances are I could have had a cortisone shot much sooner (like a month ago) and no doubt saved the whole cost and time of the ER visit.  Plus the argument with my lovely wife.

The cortisone shot is only a bandaid, of course, but a much appreciated one.  If indeed it is a torn medial meniscus I will need some arthroscopic surgery to repair.  Which generally is not a big deal.  I think the MRI will be worse.

Since I've turned sixty-three a seemingly casual, yet constant parade of klutz capades, accidents and mishaps have been occurring, but there's nothing glaringly apparent that I am aware of that I am doing different.  Shit just seems to be more disturbed about me now than before. 

Yet I am still the calm, concise, peaceful and jovial fool I have always been.  At least I think so.
I hope it's not a new norm for me, but if it is, watch out.  As I may have already mentioned somewhere, I wouldn't trust me with anything more fragile than a pair of socks.

I have been, of course, working on a plethora of projects around the old homestead here, some of which might make it into print.  Good thing none of them involve dynamite.

Happy Winter!

Another Lake Tahoe Offensive and the Rise of Kernel Klutz

So I just had a tooth pulled the other day.  The day after it felt like there had been a mixed martial arts bout in there.  Wile Coyote and the Roadrunner going a couple rounds.  A case of Acme dynamite going kaboom.  Once this all settles down I guess I'll be getting a bionic tooth.  I should be able to gnaw through steel once that's in place.

The fractured tooth that came out has been acting up for a little while.  And of course, it really had to start acting up on a Friday, when my dentist wasn't in his office and when we also happened to be on our fall getaway in Lake Tahoe.

We were planning on going to the Disneyland of the Sierras this fall, you know, Yosemite.  We had such a wonderful time last fall touring Yosemite's Red Headed Step-Cousins we thought we'd give the real deal a go go.  Autumn in the Sierras is generally nothing short of spectacular.

We also just got our lifetime National Park Pass and wanted to give that some use.  But apparently you now need to book a room or campsite near Yosemite a year or two in advance, even in the off-season.  When did that happen?

You can get a room a hundred or so miles away, but who wants to do that?  Might as well just stay in Kansas.

So we ended up staying at a five star lakeside resort in Tahoe for less than a three star Best Western motel near Yosemite would have cost.  I mean...it was kind of like, London or Cabo?

And even though high mountain hiking is quite relaxing (at least the way we do it), I can also handle room service.  It has been a frantic summer and fall here, when this little fall getaway comes around I really enjoy not doing much.  This old body needs a breather.

Folks wonder why I enjoy this time of year so much.  Frankly, it's cause I can finally relax a bit.  Talk to anybody that lives in the country.  Once summer and the heat hits, it's sun up to sun down, twelve to fourteen hours a day.  Once we get a little rain and the days shorten up a bit we country folk can catch our breath.  And go to Tahoe.

I found this deal on Expedia.  Not my usual travel site, but what the hell.  I'm a tramp, I'll go anywhere that can save a few bucks.  Anyway, we ended up at The Landing Resort and Spa and are we ever so happy we did.

Before I forget, I MUST mention that on the scenic couple hour drive to Tahoe we played our two new Mikel Paul CD's.  We had the pleasure of dining with Mikel at my sister's house a couple weeks ago.  Besides being a very engaging and funny soul, he's also a very talented musician.  His music and style remind me of Michael Franks and Randy Newman.  Here's a nice tune by Mikel: The Way a Woman's Body Goes.  Check him out.

When we pulled up to the resort we were greeted by one of the hardest working Bellman-Valet-Driver and nicest all round guys at Tahoe, Jason.   He grabbed all the bags and then ushered us inside where my lovely wife was offered a complimentary glass of champagne while we checked in. 

Nice touch.

The room was a king suite with a gas fireplace, fridge, fifty-five inch TV, Jacuzzi tub, heated bathroom floor and toilet seat and complimentary bathrobes.  With a lake view.  And room service.
And no where to go with nothing to do.  For four days.  I was in heaven.

That evening we decided we wanted burgers.  We got a great referral to the Lucky Beaver bar and grill.  We shuttled on down to the Beaver with Jason, who also gave us instructions to simply call the resort for a return shuttle trip back to the resort when we were ready to return.

We were seated quickly and ordered almost twice as quickly.  There were burgers and sandwiches galore.  I chose a burger with Applewood bacon, an onion ring, cheese, lettuce, tomato and a pickle.  Only, you know, since I'm lactose intolerant I told our waitress specifically to omit the cheese.  I'm pretty sure she wrote it down on the ticket.

When my burger came, with me silently salivating all the while it was being made, I noticed it was smothered in cheese.  Well, aargh.

A minute goes by before I can get our waitress over and tell her there is cheese on my specifically ordered no cheese burger.  She takes it back to the absolutely apathetic kitchen where I am certain the lazy schmuck simply scraped the cheese onto the floor and it was good to go.  Only when she brought it back it was now missing the bacon and onion ring, cause, you know, he left that shit on the floor too.  Another minute or two later I was able to get her attention to the very important missing ingredients.

She comes back with a side of cold brittle bacon and an onion ring with the consistency of Elmer's Glue.  I suppose maybe it was an off night for the cook, but what the hell?  You never know when a critic with a large following of two might be a patron.  They get a star.  The beef was good.  And no tip, since something should have been comped.  A soda?  A beer?  Something.

The Lucky Beaver, by the way, is located at Stateline near Harrah's and right next door to Dotty's and Trapped in Tahoe.  Why, just what the heck are these two interesting places I've just mentioned, you may ask?  Well, I just can't wait to tell you.

Dotty's is a casino of sorts.  It's really small compared to Harrah's or Harvey's, like about the size of a Denny's or Ihop or other chain type coffee shop, more or less.  However, it may be a formula that works.  I just discovered there's like a hundred "Dotty's" scattered throughout Nevada.  I wonder if they're all the same?

South Shore Dotty's might just be the only place on the planet where I witnessed four addictions being fed simultaneously.  Meth-addled chain smoking four toothed human silhouettes drinking cheap vodka while pressing buttons or pulling the handle on one cent slot machines.  Which I think was all Dotty's had on hand to play.  One cent machines.  No tables, no dice, no quarter slots.  No Keno.  About a hundred one cent machines.  For the BIG spenders.  The place reeked of stale smoke and alcohol, but was certain to be a place where you could score speed if you needed to.

After we spent two and a half minutes touring the entire casino, we went back outside and my lovely wife made the call to the resort for our shuttle ride back. Once that was done we had another ten minutes to hang out and explore.  It was then we wandered next door to Dotty's and discovered Trapped in Tahoe.

Trapped in what?  Who did where?  Yeah, this is a place where you pay them money to get trapped in one of four themed 8x8 rooms.  You get an hour to figure how to get out.  That's like paying someone to beat you up. 

We immediately thought of our Paris and Amsterdam traveling companions if we were to do it, they are both quite intelligent.  But then we found out later these were NOT like Disneyland or Sherlock Holmes or even Gestapo themed rooms.  They were more like Saw I through Saw 4 torture chamber rooms.  And since my beautiful sis-in-law and I are both claustrophobic and all four of these 8x8 Saw rooms are underground, I'm thinking we wanted no part of this.  Besides, who wants to give up a limb if we don't have to?

As we sat there marveling why anyone would want to pay forty bucks to be trapped in a closet and voluntarily cut off an appendage, I noticed a black SUV with tinted windows pull up to the curb close to where we were sitting.  A tall, fit gentleman in a large black overcoat hopped out and kind of eyed us over.  He looked like Jason Statham and had subtle black op mercenary written all over him.  He was ten feet away.

My radar immediately went up.  I silently wished I had my trusty terrorist stand-by with me, you know, my ruck sack full of orange marmalade.  I had nothing but my wits.  I kept my eye on him, casually yet warily.

Jason looked about, surveying the surroundings.  Then he started fiddling with his phone. 

"He could be setting off a bomb", I thought.  "Or he's coordinating something with someone, somewhere.  Or maybe he just pulled up to the curb, hopped out rapid fire and started playing a game for no reason at all, like Angry Birds II."

I can be cynical some times.  Especially with me.

"If he pulls a gun I'll dive for his legs.  Take him down.  Put an elbow through his wind pipe.  If he doesn't shoot me first.  I'm a ninja.  I'm a ninja."

I've found it helps to shamelessly lie when trying to bolster my confidence while I am mentally preparing for impossible physical body movement.

Just then my lovely wife's phone rang.  She looked down at her phone and, not recognizing the number, exclaimed, "Who the hell is this?"

And then Jason turned towards us and said, smiling, "It's me, your driver."

"Or, maybe he was making a phone call," I continued. "Boy is he lucky I didn't have my ruck sack..."

Apparently Jason Statham was filling in for the real Jason, who was tied up elsewhere with the shuttle.  No torture chamber pun intended.  I thought Jason Statham was just a helper bee but it turns out he's the operations manager of the resort.  We discovered this the following night when we ran into him and the GM, Henri Birmele, on our way to dinner.

We shared a laugh over the Trapped in Tahoe deal that we had discussed the night before and then he introduced us to the GM.  We took that opportunity to let him know that every single employee we had thus far encountered at the resort was extremely gracious, caring and kind.  Even the maintenance dudes.  Henri was genuinely happy to hear this.

He then expounded a bit about the Trapped in Tahoe deal because he knew about it.  Apparently it was a big hit and he wants them to open up a branch near another restaurant he runs in Mammoth Lakes.  We had a lovely conversation and then went off to the resort's posh restaurant, Jimmy's.

Our server, Brittany was nothing short of marvelous.  Knowledgeable and attentive, she educated us on the difference between pate and foie gras.  Cause here in the states you mostly hear those two items together.  Pate Foie Gras.  And so it is that Foie Gras is the actual duck liver, pate is something that is many times made with the duck liver as well as other ingredients.  So Pate Foie Gras is ground up duck liver with olives and onions and stuff.  Similar to Spam, only different.

The meal was fabulous, the dessert even more so.  Since Jimmy's is a Greek themed restaurant I simply had to try their Baklava.  The piece of which was about two inches thick and five inches square.  It was about four times the normal size one would normally receive for dessert.  It was massive.  I even commented on its massiveness, although I wasn't threatened by it.  At all.

Brittany said she told the chef numerous times the portion was too big, she was always throwing some away.  She'd never seen anyone eat an entire piece.  She didn't think it was possible. 

I proved her wrong.  I may have broken up with Little Debbie, but I can still shimmy with sugar when the need arises.

Plus, half that portion was consumed for research's sake.  I think I make better Baklava, but I did get a couple ideas from Jimmy's that I will incorporate this year to make mine even better.

Jimmy's also boasts a 2,000 bottle glass enclosed wine cellar featuring over 250 labels from around the world.   The wine ranges in price from $35 to $2,500 and even features a couple of wines from Lebanon.  Who knew they grew wine in Lebanon?

Jimmy's get five stars.  They got it all.

We shopped, we hung out, we went on a couple strolls, we had no where to go and nothing to do.  It was glorious.

We even had massages at the resort's spa.  Let me say this; Carly, my masseuse gave me the best darn massage I've had in thirty years.  She found and kneaded one major sore muscle on my back.  I've only had one other masseuse be able to identify and work out sore spots with that kind of effectiveness.

One evening we decided to hit Harrah's for dinner.  But since the steaks were about eighty bucks at the top floor restaurant and the line for the buffet was four miles long, we went across the street to Harvey's and ate quite casually at the Hard Rock Cafe.

When we were done with dinner I put about four bucks into an old style quarter machine with cherries and stuff and pulled fifty bucks back out.  My lovely wife put about ten bucks into some super whammy new fangled penny machine.  Which are really kind of misleading.  Cause most of the time you got multiple pennies on multiple lines and every pull is at least a buck.

There was all sorts of commotion going on with every pull, but we had no idea what it was.  Lights and sirens, bells and whistles.  Nothing made sense.  It was all probably designed to keep an addict interested.  I'm sure there've been studies.  The bottom line was something really good soon happened and she pulled about a hundred bucks out.  Being that far ahead and maybe not so affected by bells and whistles, we skedaddled.

But before we left we made another observation.  The big casinos at South Shore used to be glamorous.  I remember going there in my twenties and thirties and wearing a sport coat and carnation.  I think my lovely wife wore a fur coat before it became fashionable to spray paint them. Now it just looks like the patrons at either of Oroville's two casinos made a field trip to Tahoe. Middle aged pokey folks in levis and tennis shoes.  Gambling their lives away.

Thank goodness there's more to Tahoe than casinos.  I like just sitting there and breathing in the fresh high mountain air.  Luxuriating in Tahoe's glorious and scenic vistas and views.  Tahoe has always been a go to place for us and always will be.  And why not?  It's one of the loveliest locations on the planet.  And The Landing just may have become a go to spot at our go to place.

The only complaints I have are thus: there were a couple scuff marks on one wall.  And a small stain on the carpet.  Annnnd, that's about it.

The location and personnel are fantastic.  Everyone we encountered from maintenance to the GM was extremely cordial and sincere.  The staff at the spa quite competent and gifted.  The on site restaurant is magnificent.  And the room; quite comfortable, roomy and elegant.  Plus the bathroom floor and toilet seat are heated.  This is a very easy place to relax and let it all go.   Five and a half stars.

Speaking of things that can go wrong, I'm pretty sure I already had my mid-to-later-in-life crisis.  I think.  That was a few months back, like a couple years ago, when I decided I'd like to go by the nick-name Kernel.  You can read about that right thar.  I think I may have entered a new phase, and if I'm not careful I'm going to be called Kernel Klutz for the remainder of my aging life.

A couple events have transpired over the last couple months that have led me to this potential conclusion.  Careful, this isn't going to be pretty.

The first one had to do with my fantastic father-in-law's 85th birthday.  He's a pie kind of guy and had about a half dozen available for this soiree.  Since there were only a dozen or so family members present and since I have broken up with Little Debbie and can only realistically eat half a pie anymore, there was obviously a little bit of leftover pie.

One of them happened to be chocolate cream, and obviously not the biggest hit since about three quarters of it was left.  When the last guests departed I was involved with the clean-up crew.  I put myself in charge of putting the chocolate cream pie in the fridge.  I have no idea why.

The only available space in the jam-packed fridge was on top of some can of something, a jar of jam and probably some Tupperware.  Maybe even a jar of pickles was involved.  It doesn't matter.  Whatever I gently placed the pie on top of decided it did not want to provide a stable environment for said pie.  No sooner had I backed away from the gentle pie placement that the pie decided to launch into a slow motion chocolate cream filled waterfall slide all the way to the floor.

Oh, did I mention the gentle pie placement was on the top shelf of the fridge?  Four chocolate cream pie shelves later I had a heap of a mess on my hands and the floor.

Wait.

I can top that.

About a month after that horrendous event I made some amazing tri-tip chili.  It was so amazing I went in for seconds. After I filled the bowl I turned to make my way back to the table.  It was on this turn that somehow the chili filled bowl decided it wasn't going with me. 

I wasn't in a hurry.  Most of my senses were about me.  I'm certain.  But somehow, just like a second baseman might lob the ball to the short-stop in the execution of a double play, the bowl went airborne in a soft arc and then, again in excruciating slow motion and detail, proceeded to crash to the floor.

It gets better.

It was upon this crash to the floor that most of the contents of the bowl, the amazing tri-tip chili, which was quite red by the way, proceeded to erupt like a volcano and somehow make its way three feet up in the air.  While a miniscule half a cup landed politely on the counter top, the remainder of the bowl began a slow, deliberate descent down the face of our WHITE cabinets, eventually ending in a tri-tip and red bean puddle on the floor.  The bowl was in eight thousand pieces and just about everywhere.

It took forever to clean that one up.  Cause just like with a chocolate cream pie it's really not a good idea to vacuum chili.

Until further notice, I wouldn't let me near anything more fragile than a pair of socks.

I hope you all shared some great hugs for Thanksgiving.

Happy Hanukkah,  Merry Christmas and Kwanzaa to you.