Alarming situation.

You all think I'm a pretty sharp-witted character, a man with a keen wit and perspective glance, one who could never do something so stupid it would stand out like a neon sign blinking STUPID in humongous lettering over his head. Well, you're wrong. Yesterday was one for the books. 

Actually the story started in February. You may recall that when we returned home from a short trip, I found the fire alarms in the house beeping. There was no fire; it was likely a malfunction caused by ceiling dust. But I didn't know that until I had removed all but one hard-wired sensor, the next-to-last one, in a storage room, that being the cause of the false alarm. 

One of the things I had done while running around the house like a lunatic was pull the alarm sensor by the furnace out of the ceiling. This is a sensor attached by wires to a small battery block that sits under the Sheetrock; it's not wired to anything else. It's not part of the system that came with the house. It's part of the burglar/fire alarm system we had installed. Back in February, having removed it and determined it was not part of the beeping problem while rushing through the house, I put it aside, not back in the ceiling. Then I forgot about it. That was mistake number one. 

Mistake number two came on Saturday. I was downstairs when I noticed the thing was still lying around. I thought I ought to put it in the ceiling, but was afraid that I might accidentally set it off. The alarm is a tremendous and terrifying sound. So I figured I would do it when the house was empty of other bipeds and quadrupeds. I put the thing back down, but not where it had been -- I left it right on top of the furnace. Mistake number two. 

Saturday had been stuffy and warm, but the temperature dropped overnight. Sunday morning I alone was awake. I wanted to take a shower, but it was pretty chilly. So I turned the thermostat over from A/C to Heat. Mistake number three. 

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

We have a shower downstairs, which I decided to use instead of the upstairs one, lest I make noise and wake up my wife. Oh, no, we certainly wouldn't want to make noise and wake anyone up.

I had the water running and was partly stripped down when the alarm went off in Armageddon mode. The furnace had come on, and the heat had tripped the alarm sensors that I had left sitting on the furnace like some Nobel Laureate. The dog freaked out and so did I. Half naked, I emerged from the bathroom and punched in the code to stop the ringing, then hustled downstairs to move the alarm sensor. I knew what had happened immediately. Too bad I had not foreseen that possibility the day before. 

I got upstairs in time to see my phone ringing on the charger. The alarm company was checking in to make sure we were not perishing in an inferno. I thanked the nice lady on the phone, explained it was a false alarm caused by my negligence and there was no fire. She thanked me and reset the system. 

Don't go away, because it gets worse. 

With the alarm company satisfied and the possibility of another alarm subdued, I returned to the shower. Mistake number four, if you're still keeping tabs. I stripped off, got in the shower, began to soap up -- and the dog started barking his head off. I didn't hear the alarm so -- 

Oh no.

Naked, soapy, trailing slime down the hall like a slug, I looked out the peephole in the front door to see the fireman standing there. It was not the whole squad with a hook and ladder, just one officer from the volunteer company who lives nearby. I considered ignoring the door, but realized that the next thing that came through it might be an ax. So I opened the door, hiding my nekkid self as best as I could, soap and water dripping all over, the dog pushing past to ram into and open the storm door (I managed to get him by the collar). I apologized sincerely, saying it had been a false alarm and was no need to panic. He could see I was in showerly distress, assured me it was okay, and left. 

"What an idiot." -- Fireman

Oddly enough, it was the dog barking at the man at the door that woke my wife up, not the alarm. 

I did get my shower completed as fast as humanly possible, and I did wipe up the water in the hall. And I did indeed admit that this had all been caused by one of the stupidest things I have ever done sober. 

My wife just laughed it off. She thought it was funny. I guess if there's a lesson here, it might be that if you live with me, you'd better have a good sense of humor. 

Whole lotta love?

How well we remember the words of the Impressive Clergyman on that grand and popular topic, marriage:

Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam... And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva... So tweasure your wuv.

But what is true love, anyway? 

I ask because the question has been lingering in the air since the push began for same-sex marriage throughout the West. Years ago Canadian genius Mark Steyn predicted that this would lead to successful pushes for marriages among multiple partners, as once you start redefining that holy state, there's no natural stopping point. That no argument for same-sex marriage could not also be made also for bigamy, incest, and other such things.

I expected Steyn was right, but the push in the United States for bigamy has kind of stalled. Sure, there's been some desensitization going on -- favorable press for its practitioners ("thruples" and the like), stupid shows like Sister Wives on the Freak Channel TLC -- but it just doesn't seem to be catching on. I think it's more of an issue in Steyn's other home of England, where more of the hordes spilling over the border are Muslims. And the reason that's a big issue is that families with a dad and thirteen moms can apply for vast welfare benefits. Dad is, after all, unlikely to make enough money to pay for his brood of thirty-four children on his own, so the British taxpayer must step in.  

At least that's the state of play these days, and I wonder if bigamy will really be the bridge too far, or at least the bridge too far for now. After all, science fiction writers like Robert Heinlein had predicted future states with marriages among multitudes decades ago. Then again, the more Heinlein I read in my youth, the more I got to think that he'd want any kind of future that would assure him a constant supply of broads for his boudoir. 

On the other hand, long before Heinlein, science fiction writer Jules Verne had something to say about bigamy, although not in one of his futuristic novels. Around the World in Eighty Days is a great book, fast-paced and fun. We in America tend to forget that what made the improbable wager of Phileas Fogg possible when the book saw print in 1872 was the completion of many great railroads -- including the completion in the United States of the Transcontinental Railroad just three years earlier. Because of that, Fogg was able to board a train in San Francisco and cross the continent (with some adventures along the way) to New York City in a week.

The reason I bring up that particular book is a scene that's always stuck with me, when Fogg and his French manservant Passepartout arrive in Utah. Following a short note on the polygamous rules among the Mormons of the time, our heroes pop into Salt Lake City to take in the sights: 

Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women, charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a vocation, and he imagined—perhaps he was mistaken—that the fair ones of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person.

Surprising that a Frenchman would be so frightened of the idea of multiple ladies at his beck and call? But Passepartout, like Sancho Panza, is a most levelheaded sidekick, and aware of the many possible downsides of a family with that many wives. 

Then, this:

At four the party found themselves again at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels began to move, cries of “Stop! stop!” were heard.

Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers. He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train, and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats.

Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast, approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken flight after an unpleasant domestic scene.

When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least.

“One, sir,” replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward—“one, and that was enough!”

Ah, mawage! A dweam wifin a dweam. 

Look out, lads!

Watch out, all y'old bachelor types, you lay-about boyfriends, you unattached eligible males! Today is Leap Day, which also means it's Bachelor's Day:

Bachelor's Day, sometimes known as Ladies' Privilege, is an Irish tradition by which women are allowed to propose to men on Leap Day, 29 February, based on a legend of Saint Bridget and Saint Patrick. It once had legal basis in Scotland and England.

Sometimes confused with Al Capp's Sadie Hawkins Day (which falls on November 13), Bachelor's Day is a way to acknowledge that Irishmen are terrible at getting themselves to the altar. You know the old joke about why Jesus must be Irish:

☘ He turned water into alcohol;

☘ He lived with his mother and never married; 

☘ He spent all his time hanging around with his pals.

Of course, when you consider that Irishmen were mostly surrounded by Irishwomen, who fight harder than the third monkey trying to get on Noah's ark, there may be some reasons for this. (Ha ha! Funny joke, honey! If you're reading this, my wild Irish rose, don't kill me!)

To encourage the straight single Irishmen to reconsider any plans to hide amid the shamrocks until this thing blows over, allow me to remind you of something, courtesy of Gab's AI generator:

Fake gorgeous lassie, you say? Well, I say that it shows that even artificial intelligence, which cranks out bizarre and nightmarish images by the ton, is obliged to make Irish ladies look like the bombshells they are. 

So this year, boys, run a little slower, hide in slightly more obvious places, and give the gals a chance to make an honest man of you, all right? Your mother will get over it. 

The trouble with men.

A friend of mine under his nom de nette posted a comment that he believes may be the most popular thing he ever wrote:

Wife: Open up about your emotions

Husband: [Does so]

Wife: [Disgusted and nervous about the needy weakling she married]

He's been getting a steady stream of Likes for it, and it isn't even the post, just a comment he made on a gag post about marital relations. It seems like he hit a nerve.

Men of my dad's generation were of the old "never complain, never explain" school, a.k.a. "one mood, all the time." It's not to say this was true for all men; comedy characters through history have shown men acting crazed, hysterical, weird, silly, terrified, bombastic, and in a word, overcommunicative. But those aren't usually the men we want to be when we grow up -- at least, not in front of wives and children. We want them to know they can rely on us, that we won't go to pieces in the face of danger or lesser trouble. Part of assuring them is putting on a brave face -- maybe just in the hope of convincing ourselves we are brave -- and part of the brave face means not opening up about our emotions. 

But there's a big downside to that of course, the most ghastly being that while women may attempt suicide more often than men, men succeed more often. It's not even close. It's not even in the same league. The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention says that "In 2021, men died by suicide 3.90x more than women". News reports about suicide statistics make it sound like the perpetrators are all trans kids or heartsick Mesdames Bovarys, but most are middle-aged white men. Even in a wealthy and relatively peaceful nation like the United States, men can feel desperate from failure, betrayal, loss, or just medically diagnosable depression, and there's a good chance no one will know until it's too late. That's partly because no one wants to know. 

Women are not blind to the fact that the men in their lives may not be sharing all their feelings. But they don't always want us to. I have a friend who's a terrific lady, very funny, checks all the boxes for proper modern liberal attitudes, and she once shocked me by saying she would lose respect for her husband if she ever saw him crying. I know she's not alone in that. 

There is that protection thing. It's a legitimate concern: Women who want to marry men want to know the man will be there for protection. Maybe the biggest threat to women is other men -- sorry to admit that's probably true -- so it's crucial to have one of her own to beat the snot out of some guy who makes trouble. So this husband had better not be some crying chickenhearted loser. 

What this means, though, is if she's asking for you to open up about your emotions, what she really wants is to know that you have an emotional connection (i.e., you feel the same way about something that she does), or maybe she just wants to know what the hell you're so doggone sore about. If you say you're haunted about something from childhood or frightened about a problem you can't solve, she'll lose interest -- or worse. 

So there we have it -- wives want husbands to be tough, and husbands want their wives to think of them as tough, and so we shut our mouths about any emotions except maybe anger or regret. This is foundational stuff, a deep part of the human condition, and seventy-odd years of pop psychology hasn't changed the problem. 

It does highlight the importance of men having male friends, and I mean real friends, not just golf pals or Dorito-sucking bodies in front of the football game or stooges to get stoopid with on Saturday night. If you're a man, your close male friends ought to be the ones you can go to without fearing loss of face. But of course, we have historically let one another down in that way, too. Looking like a coward to other men is almost as bad as looking like a coward to the women who rely on us. So we just eat it, until maybe we eat a bullet. 

Women don't have a monopoly on all the trouble in the world. Sometimes it seems that the best we men can hope for is to be able to take whatever comes like a man. 

Auto lies.

Lies and Implied Lies I Have Told My Wife After Using Her Car

(Or Have I?)

The frangipane light came on.

I let the dog drive.

It's okay if not all four tires are completely round, right?

Pity I couldn't find the insurance card. That cop was getting sore.

I turned all the mirrors upside down, so now their reflection is upside down. 

The dog was smoking in the backseat but I told him to cut it out. 

First of all, let me say it wasn't all that long a walk home. 

People don't understand how hard it is to tell the oil cap from the wiper fluid cap.

I got the tires potated.

That AAA took forever to send someone.

I got that special gas out of the green-handled pump for you. It's more expensive, so I'm sure it's better.

I told the police officer I was you, identifying as male.

Really cool special effect, where smoke comes out of the vent when Metallica comes on.

I promise I will stop lying about the car.

The rules of sarcasm.

A while ago I heard an acquaintance I'll call Dave tell a group that he and his wife have an agreement -- they never use sarcasm on each other. Calling it the anger of cowards, he said it was one of a few little rules that makes their marriage work. 

I thought that was a pretty good idea. I wouldn't ever advise a married couple to come up with a list of a hundred-odd rules they each MUST follow, but a couple of simple ones to keep the peace can certainly help. That didn't seem too onerous. 

I asked a mutual friend about it, a guy who's been married longer than either Dave or I have been, and he assured me that without sarcasm it "would be like everyone had taken a fucking vow of silence" in his house. 

Sarcasm is a kind of irony, a means of saying the opposite of what you're actually saying. That's why it's so mean. The word sarcasm itself is interesting, as Dave also pointed out. For a mode of expression so well known and so long used, its origin is a bit mysterious. Here's what Merriam-Webster has to say:

earlier sarcasmus, borrowed from Middle French or Late Latin; Middle French sarcasme, borrowed from Late Latin sarcasmos "mockery," borrowed from Late Greek sarkasmós, from Greek sarkázein "to jeer at while biting the lips" (in GALEN; perhaps, if the original sense was "to bite or strip off flesh," derivative of sark-, sárx "flesh") + -smos, suffix of verbal action — more at SARCO-

NOTE: The original sense of the Greek verb sarkázein is conjectural, as all instances referring to jeering or mockery come from late or post-classical sources, generally lexica. The sole significant early uses are in Aristophanes' play Peace, where the Megarians, while pulling boulders from the entrance to a cave, are described as performing the action of the verb sarkázein "like mean (?) curs," while perishing from hunger ("hoi Megarês … hélkousin d' hómōs glischrótata sarkázontes hṓsper kynídia"); and in the Hippocratic treatise "On Joints" (Perì Arthrôn), where the verb is used to describe hoofed animals eating grass. In both cases the interpretation of sarkázein is far from transparent.

"To bite or strip off flesh" -- ouch! That certainly shows the cruel edge to the concept. 

My wife and I don't usually get involved in trading sarcastic barbs with each other, and when we do, she is entirely to blame. No, that's not true, but as she was a female teenager at one time, she's a past master at the art form. However, when sarcasm does pop up, regardless of who unleashes it, it doesn't last long -- because a regular fight breaks out quickly. 

Of course, I would never be sarcastic in any way on this blog. I'm always sincere when I compliment someone, and wouldn't dream of using snark to torpedo a target, no matter how worthy. I'm just a regular living saint, am I.

Meme machine!

Yes, we had dueling deadlines here at the ranch Friday, plus a toner trip, so we're doing another meme Saturday at your daily dose! Trade them, sell them, NFT them for all I care! 

 

And finally, in the Wish I’d Done That Department…

Why trespasses?

Friend and correspondent Mr. Philbin weighs in on Sunday's blog entry concerning the enduring popularity of the Olde Englishe thys and thines ("and you forgot Art," he adds, "as in who ART in Heaven"). He writes:

"Fred: You gave us the KJV translation, but I notice it asks for forgiveness of our debts as we forgive our debtors. BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT PEOPLE SAY. They say 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass.' So if that didn't come from the KJV translation, why is it so ingrained in us?"

To which I say, Well, you dirty dog, Philbin! You ... that's actually a darned good question. 

And thank Heaven it is one dealt with online by someone more knowledgeable than I am. 

Richard Beck on the Experimental Theology blog addressed this in a short item ten years ago,  The source of the popular version of the Lord's Prayer, which includes that King James Version thees and thys, is the Anglican (i.e. Episcopalian) church's Book of Common Prayer, the compilation of prayers and rites going back to 1549. The translation of debts as trespasses, Beck notes, came from the 1526 William Tyndale translation of the Bible, a translation that predated the original King James Version by 85 years. 

No doubt Tyndale had a great influence on the KJV editors, but they did not use his same translation of the word for Aramaic words for debt and debtors. 

As for the Book of Common Prayer, that was a step I should not have let out when I addressed this topic. It is impossible to overstate the importance on that book on our culture, especially the 1662 edition that held sway for more than three hundred years. That's where we get the version of the Lord's Prayer people in America know best to this day (although God is said to be "Who art in heaven" not "Which art in heaven" as in that book). 

The Book of Common Prayer is also where we get the marriage rites seen in all the movies ("Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency...") as well as the graveside rite ("Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ" as dirt is shoveled on). You'd think everyone in the movies who dies or gets married, who is not specially designated something else, is an Episcopalian, although only about one percent of American adults identify as such. 

Okay, Mr. Philbin, you got me on that one; I hope you enjoyed your trespass on this blog. Now hit the road before I'm led unto the temptation to smack ya one!

Two faces.

It's said that Henry VIII, king of England and all that, fell in love with his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, before he'd even met her. He had gazed upon her portrait by Hans Holbein the Younger and got all worked up. I recall hearing that Hank the Ocho was so thrilled when Anne's ship arrived that he rode his horse right up the gangway in excitement. 

She looks nice.

It fell apart quickly. Will Cuppy, in The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody, puts it this way: 

"Anne of Cleves had been much admired in the Low Countries, but in England she just wouldn't do. The way she got herself up, they thought she was playing charades. Anne of Cleves couldn't play or sing like Anne Boleyn. She could only spin, and nobody asked her to spin. Henry had seen her portrait by Holbein. She was a picture bride. Cromwell, who had helped arrange the wedding, was beheaded nineteen days after the divorce."

Cuppy says in the footnote, "Henry should have beheaded Holbein instead." 

I don't want to be picking on Anne of Cleves, whose looks may not have been all that Holbein made her out to be, but whose brother was a leader of Protestants in Western Germany. Henry was eager to make an alliance with them. However, with her lack of English skills and yes, her looks not being what that fat bastard was hoping for, Henry said screw the alliance and it was soon off to wife #5, and Cromwell's head in a basket for good measure. 

But that's not why I bring up any of this. Paul Begala is credited with the notion that politics is show business for ugly people, and that's why I thought of poor Anne of Cleves. In show business, most people who aren't character actors are expected to be good-looking, but in politics, you can be ugly. In fact, some of them abuse the privilege. However, I've noticed that more politicians are trying to gussy themselves up for the campaign season than in years past. 

The literature that stuffs the mailbox and the online ads show much more appealing people than the ones we see out pressing the flesh. The problem is, because these are local guys and gals working retail politics, we know what they look like. A touched-up photo from 1999 isn't fooling anyone.

Of course, their opponents will gladly use more realistic visuals of these politicians, rendered in horror-movie black-and-white, with narration by murder-show enthusiasts. Sometimes you can't even tell it's the same person.

This goes for everyone in the stupid game of politics, so I'm not singling any party out. And because politics is stupid, maybe these gimmicks work, although it would have to be on the most easily swayed independent ninnies. I loathe our state's senators, and it has nothing to do with their looks; one is passable and the other looks like a gnarled catcher's mitt with glasses perched atop an enormous baked ham. They're both liars, socialism-for-thee-but-not-for-me creeps who would run over the bodies to get on camera even if the blood from the train wreck was still flowing. I wouldn't trust either of them to manage nap time at a preschool. Half the children would die and the rest found wandering across town five days later.

My point today, though, is that if you went by campaign literature, our political class would be a collection of fine-looking youth, happy warriors, and genial sages; to go by their opponents' literature, you would move away from them on the subway platform. We have to stop paying so much attention to looks, or the political class will keep treating us like morons. 

♔📖♔📖♔📖

COMPLETELY UNRELATED NOTE: We all know the mnemonic to recite the ends of Henry VIII's wives: 

Divorced, Beheaded, Died

Divorced, Beheaded, Survived

Well, one of my all-time favorite book titles came from that, a youth novel by Barbara Williams published in 1987. If anyone out there has read it, I'd like your review; I never got a copy. The plot:

During a summer tour of England, two troubled teenagers--Lowell, upset by the remarriage of his mother, and Jane, a diabetic struggling to cope with her illness--come to terms with themselves and each other.

The title: Beheaded, Survived. 

I've had days like that. 

Sorry!

I was having trouble with Google Docs, because most people have trouble with Google Docs unless they spend a lot of time using Google Docs, but I have avoided that because I hate Google Docs. Nevertheless, it is sometimes the price I pay for working from home. Thing is, I thought I had screwed something up for a client because of my inexperience, and I apologized. The client asked me why I was apologizing, since I had done nothing wrong. 

I explained that I had just passed a big wedding anniversary, an if I had a secret to being a good husband it would be: Apologize first and ask questions later. 

"Just assume I'm sorry and then tell me what I did!"

There have been times when I've taken a different approach. Early on in our marriage, I usually thought: Well, if it was something important, I'm sure she'll tell me. This only prolongs the agony, at least for me, because she could fume a lot longer than I could ignore. She's of Irish descent, you know, and they can hold a grudge five hundred years after they're dead. 

Later, when I got more used to the things that really triggered this fury, I might think: I know what I did wrong but I feel embarrassed enough without rehashing it, so if I act contrite maybe it will go away. Oh, no, brother -- another rookie mistake. They never forget. They may forgive, but they never forget. (I'm not sure if I'm talking about the Irish or wives here, but it probably applies to both.)

My next tactic, going on the offensive ("What did I do wrong NOW?"), gets it out in the open, but not in a constructive way. It takes much longer for the whole situation to find resolution when you go from 0 to shouting in five seconds.

In the end, I have found that when I encounter The Scowl or the Wall of Cold, it's best to brace myself for whatever and ask what the problem is. Most of the time it's actually not me, but if I don't crack the ice I'll have to wait for the explosion. 

On the other side of the coin, when my wife does something that makes me sore, I usually just suck it up and refuse to talk about it. Never complain, never explain, right? Unless it's a real doozy, in which case I may go do something constructive, like clean up the cellar, in the LOUDEST WAY POSSIBLE.

Maybe my real secret to marriage is that both parties have to be able to put up with each other's BS. It takes two to tango, as they used to say, and everyone is full of BS sometimes. But if one side won't tango, there's not much that can be done. 

Squooshpaste.

I tend to be the cheapskate in the family, but when it comes to toothpaste, my wife has got me hands down. 

Seriously, about the time I am ready to throw out a used tube, she's settling in for another week out of it. 

This one's good for another month.

And this is not because she hardly uses the stuff, no no. I don't care how many times a day you brush, she has you beat. Her dental hygiene is exceptionally good. If she eats one peanut she's off to go brush. Seriously, I don't know anyone who takes better care of the pearlies than she does. She has done since childhood.

Yet somehow she manages to squeak about a week's worth of paste out of a flat tube. 

It's not like she's particular about getting the last out of everything. If she eats enough at dinner and there's nothing worth saving, right into the trash with it -- no Clean Plate Club with her. If her coffee gets cold, she throws it out and gets a fresh one; she doesn't knock it back like I do, or nuke it up. When the ketchup bottle runs low she doesn't waste her effort pounding the bottom or squishing it; she opens a new one. But the toothpaste tube is good to the last drop.

Well, after all the years I finally asked her, and found out why. She came from a bigger family than I did, and she was the baby. With the whole crew using the same tube of toothpaste, there was always a danger of running out, and her mom put the new tubes on a high shelf that she couldn't reach. So from an early age she learned there was always a little more in the tube if you put in the work. Waste not, want not!

There's always something new to discover about people if you ask the right questions, isn't there? 

And now, another moment with Igor.

 This has been another moment with Igor.

Construction debris.

Once again, the robins have arrived, and are starting construction on a new house. 

I don't mind that at all -- it's more of a problem for them, really, because after the eggs are laid, every time we go in the yard with the dogs, mom flies off in a panic and then peeps angrily from a tree until we go away. Look, lady, I'm sorry, but I pay the mortgage here, not you!

They also leave a lot of construction debris around. 

I saw a male robin working on a nest in a neighbor's yard. The red-breasted henpecked hubby had a mouth full of dead grass, and was no doubt waiting to be told where to put it. "Try it on that branch... no, wait, put it in the maple tree... no, no, too much light. Move it over to the gable. Oh, no, forget that. How about the dogwood? Higher, higher… Why are you looking at me like that, Ralph?"

You'd think that robins mate for life, with all that going on. The male robin does seem to understand one of the crucial rules of marriage:

But in fact, robins usually don't mate for life, although they might get together again if they find themselves hanging out in the same place the next year. In any event, for the male, it's a case like any second marriage -- the triumph of hope over experience. 

I'll keep tabs on the robins as the spring moves on. Frankly, I'd like to hear Mrs. Robin yelling at her husband the way she yells at me. But I think they don't like to air their dirty laundry outside the nest.  

Organizing junk.

My wife'd been after me for a little while -- maybe six or seven months -- or years -- to organize the junk drawer. 

Now, I feel in my heart that the junk drawer, a staple of the American kitchen, ought to be as full of junk as possible. After all, if it doesn't have a little something for everything, how can the thing you need be there when you need it? But I gave in on the issue when it got to the point that pulling open the drawer led to flying projectiles or unknown objects being dumped into the cabinet below. 

I intended to follow the four-step plan for organization:

1. Empty the contents into an area in which I could sort them;

2. Categorize the contents;

3. Throw out obvious garbage; 

4. Organize the remainder. 

The kitchen table was up to the task, so I got to it. 

The challenging part was categorizing the contents, because, let's face it, junk is by definition an amorphous mass that defies division into categories. But digging around I began to detect patterns, and those emerged as:

Tools: Screwdrivers, pliers, scrapers, box cutter, Allen wrenches, scissors, shoehorn, etc.

Batteries: AAs, AAAs, miscellaneous button batteries

Things that join other things together: Tape, plumber's tape, electrical tape, Command hooks, paper clips, twist ties, rubber bands, thumbtacks, superglue, string 

Keys and key-related objects: The latter being color-coded key caps, mostly; one (1) padlock too

Things that were supposed to help but didn't: Reflectors, napkin rings, toothpaste tube squishers, etc.

Things that were related to things that may have been thrown away: Charging wire fixed with tape, instructional booklets, etc.

Things that have been superseded: Chair leg floor protectors, tiny Post-its, etc.

Things that should go on my workbench instead: Many, many wood and metal screws, nails, pieces left over from furniture assembly

Things for writing: Chalk, Sharpie, pencil, pencil sharpener

Car stuff: Tire pressure gauge, vent air freshener (unopened), de-icer

Garbage: Everything else

The last category was joined by many things that were in the other categories as I went. I kept about 10 percent of the twist ties, for example, and half the Allen wrenches. Most of the rubber bands had dried out. A set of three napkin rings is useless for entertaining. The Post-its were bunched up and dirty. And so on. 

Car/key related things. Plus shoehorn.

Stuff for the workbench. I don't even
know why those wrenches were upstairs. 

Here is the completed junk drawer, with approximately a quarter of the mass inside previously:

The problem is, so much of that junk has to go in the cellar, and now it's all in a bag waiting to go down. So ultimately I've moved the problem from the kitchen to my workbench, which is also an unholy mess. So therefore the problem is in one regard not solved, but relocated. 

On the other hand, my wife is happy. She never uses the workbench. So really, the problem is solved. Hooray for me!

Two kinds.

I've often agreed with the statement that there are morning people and night people, and I've added that they tend to marry each other. Certainly that's the case at the House of the Keys. I'm the lark, she's the owl. And I've gone on to say that this is probably the only case where evolutionary psychology could make a point, that it's useful for larks and owls to marry because it means someone is always watching out for the saber-toothed tiger attack.

Another way to divide people -- which is what the Internet is all about -- is into food reactions to crises. Some people can't eat anything at all when there's a terrible crisis looming in the family. Others can't get enough calories. Both are reasonable reactions to a dangerous situation. Don't eat, move! Or: Eat fast for energy! And again, I think these kinds of people marry each other. Not sure if larks tend to be the eaters, but that fits us. Up early! Breakfast! Most important meal! When someone dies or is very sick or something, my wife can go for days on coffee and a single granola bar.

Of course, there may be other types, like people who ignore disasters, but they don't work into my analysis. 

"This is fine."

When the looming disaster strikes, though, I lose my appetite and she slowly starts to regain hers. 

I'll be working these observations into my biblical analysis, "Running on a Flat Bread: Fleeing Egypt on an Empty Stomach," to be run in the Journal of Unhelpful Historical Studies. 

All this is leading up to an announcement: I must take a short break from the blog, just over the weekend, to deal with a serious issue that has popped up. You can tell it's serious because I'm eating like a pig and my wife has had one granola bar. 

I'll fill you in on the details then, but we're just praying for the best possible outcome at this point. Wish us luck, as we wish for you always. See you Monday.

The most valuable real estate.

If you live in a domestic situation, as many people do, you may quibble with this point, and I welcome such lively debate. But I wish to set down the case as I see it. The question is: What is the most valuable real estate within the home?

Someone with small children can certainly make the case for every bit of open floor space. Even more than pets, kids are notorious for leaving objects and sometimes food any old place on the floor. The naked foot / LEGO connection is the stuff of legend. But except in the case of the most awful hoarders, or the kids' playroom, the actual space is mostly space. What makes it dangerous is that the small things are unexpected because the floor is mostly bare.

Similarly, the garage, cellar, or attic may seem valuable because they are cluttered, as Manhattan is valuable real estate because it's already built up. But the comparison doesn't apply; people live in Manhattan, or used to; nothing human can live in those clutter bins. I've seen a number of attached garages that not only can't be used for cars, they can't be used as an exit from the house. 

Then there's the bathroom. Many men find out in adulthood -- sooner if they have sisters -- that a lot of women are fascinated by products. What products? You have to ask? Hair products, skin products, beauty products, soothing products, aromatherapy products, and so on, not to even mention the small appliances like hair curlers and dryers and straighteners and all kinds of various tools for removing unwanted hair or blackheads or whatever else is unwanted. A guy goes in his girlfriend's bathroom and reels in shock at every horizontal surface being jammed with stuff. Meanwhile, at home, his bathroom has a razor, shaving cream, deodorant, and this:

Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in one. It could be used as shaving cream, like any soap; if only it could be used as a deodorant he'd be all set. 

(For the record, I have known men who also made large collections of products; it's just mostly women that these things are marketed toward, and for a reason.)

The bathroom space can indeed be crucial real estate, but I argue that when it becomes very tight it is usually because the bathroom is old-fashioned and tiny, or too many people use it as a primary grooming station, or some other issue -- that issue being that too many products have proved disappointing or unhelpful and have not been pitched, even if they have passed their expiration date. In other words, a little planning, vigilance, cooperation, and a second bathroom could solve the problem. 

But there's only one kitchen, usually, and that's where we hit the skids. 

A kitchen, even a large one, only has X amount of counter space, but if you add up all the possible countertop appliances one might want, you find it comes to X ✕ 2, or even X². Here's a list of all the kitchen countertop appliance types on Bed, Bath and Beyond (a store that doesn't even mention Kitchen in its name): 

• toaster oven
• toaster
• blender
• juicer
• air fryer
• food processor
• waffle maker
• stand mixer
• slow cooker
• coffee maker
• coffee pod machine
• electric grill
• electric pressure cooker
• microwave oven
• electric steamer
• pizza maker
• espresso machine
• vacuum sealer
• electric kettle
• meat slicer
• dehydrator
• coffee grinder
• fondue pot
• deep fryer
• ice crusher
• wine refrigerator
• popcorn maker
• infrawave oven (!)
• pasta machine
• mug warmer
• grain mill
• cotton candy maker (!!)
• rice cooker
• ice maker
• deep fryer
• electric griddle
• electric skillet
• ice cream maker
• bread machine
• cupcake maker (!!!)
• baby food maker
• snow cone maker
• electric teapot
• electric burner
• electric induction burner
• quesadilla maker
• electric wok
• convection oven
• soda machine
• soy / nut milk maker (!!!!)
• sprouter (don't ask)
• water reviltalizer (no idea)
• yogurt maker
• empanada / churro maker
• cake pop maker
• pressure cooking oven (?)
• hot dog toaster (you read that right)
• hot chocolate maker
• Bundt cake maker
• mini pie maker

Sixty appliances. I didn't even include handheld items like electric knives and immersion blenders that would typically not be left out when unused. 

Obviously no one would need or even want all of these things, but you can just imagine the kind of ridiculous pileup that would be caused on the kitchen counters with even a handful. Now throw in the Ronco Rotisserie & BBQ Oven and you see why kitchen counters are precious land. 

You literally cannot make a kitchen large enough for all possible countertop appliances. Any kitchen close would be so huge it would be impossible to get a meal cooked and served at a proper temperature. Besides, if you have an oven and stovetop, most won't be necessary. 

So we have to pick and choose. This can start early with something like the wedding registry. Take it easy on the registry! You don't really need a popcorn popper if you have a microwave oven, do you? Especially in your starter apartment?

Since I got rid of the Sodastream (for reasons detailed here if you're interested) and retired the Mr. Coffee Ice Tea Maker, we have these appliances permanently stationed on the counters:

• toaster oven (for toast and for light cooking in the summer)
• microwave oven
• coffee grinder
• coffee pot
• coffee pod machine

And that's all. We love our coffee; can you tell? 

We also have an electric vegetable steamer, a large and a small slow cooker, a food processor, and a waffle maker. These are tucked away unless needed. The waffle maker has not been used in years, actually, not since my wife decided she was sick of waffles for dinner on Friday during Lent. Sad!

So that's how we allocate our valuable real estate in the kitchen. How about you?

Hairum-scarum.

It was with some trepidation and yet enthusiasm that I approached the task of doing what acclaimed fictional moron Forrest Gump once warned everyone against: "Do not try to cut your own hair."

Armed with my wife's hand mirror, my electric razor, and my new Chinese-made "professional" hair clipper (that's what the box says), I faced the bathroom and steeled myself for the task of cutting off my quarantine-distress tresses.

The easiest way to do it would be to get scared and trim my upstanding hair, but I am not a cartoon character.

Being a man, I had to wait until I was alone the house. Why? Because when a man wants to do something that has the possibility of being a complete disaster, he has to wait until he is assured of being alone. Meaning, no wife present. Because if she knew I was planning to do this, she would have started to make rational arguments, like:

1) The barber will be open in a few weeks, and I know it will be a mob scene for a while, but so what?

2) Who cares if your hair is a mess? You work from home and we're not allowed to go to church. Everywhere else you can wear a cap.

3) If you must do this, let me cut your hair, maybe outside where it won't make a mess and all the neighbors can see. It'll only take an hour or so.

4) Haven't you watched enough episodes of AFV where children get hold of Daddy's clippers and take big chunks out of their hair? You want to look like that?

There's no point in trying to reason with a man determined to try something stupid. She ought to know this by now. She grew up with a dad and brothers, and she and I have been together a long time. Why does she have to be so reasonable?

So I set to the task. I put a trash bag in the bathtub floor to protect the drain, since I didn't want hair flying hither and thither (especially thither). It was go time.

It seemed easy enough on the YouTube video I watched, but that guy wasn't trying to turn a faux hippie balding mess into a crew cut. At first it seemed good. The hair at the base of my neck was coming up easily, but I was pushing the hair above it out, and when I checked my progress it looked like I was wearing a hair hat. I realized that short strokes were the way to go with this clipper, and kept at it, being careful not to drive it into the scalp and create more bald patches than nature had already provided. I trimmed the back of my neck and cut down the sideburns too, and used the scissors provided with the clipper to get the loose bits.

Overall I was satisfied. Shorter than I expected, but it felt like freedom. It took about twenty minutes, but I did end up with a uniform cut, at least as far as I could tell with the mirrors. The hair went in the garbage can; I took a shower to get rid of any little hairs, and then waited for my wife's return and the accompanying shriek.

On the whole, she took it well.

Dramatization

You guys know that horrified look. "You quit your job?" "You bought a dog?" "You bought a motorcycle?" "You sold the house?" "You quit your job and sold the house to buy a dog and a motorcycle?" "You cut your own hair?" That look.

Once the shock wore off, she admitted I did a not terrible job, although she doesn't like it that short because she thinks I look like a During Treatment patient in an ad for Memorial Sloan Kettering. also, I gouged a little too deep going sideways on one side, but I barely could tell. Of course she asked why I didn't let her do it. I explained that a man sometimes has to do something dumb and don't cotton to no womenfolk telling him otherwise. That also did not go unchallenged.

Anyway. the damage is done, and I think it's okay. If it grows in funny I still have the clippers. And a number of baseball caps. So all is well.

Penelope and Odysseus.

Penelope: So where have you been?

Odysseus: Oh, such a long and strange tale it is to tell, my dearest wife, my --

P: You said you'd be right back.

O: Well, Achilles said the Trojans would be a pushover, and --

P: YOU WERE GONE FOR TWENTY YEARS!

O: Now, now, my pet, I never said I was just going to the corner to get a quart of milk.

P: No, you said you had a thing with the boys and would nip out to get Helen back and --

O: It got complicated. The fighting went on and on. And that was just on our side. Achilles flounced off like a drama queen. Gods got involved...  I even had to build this big wooden horse, you see, because after Achilles killed Hector the Trojans still wouldn't give up, so --

P: Horse? Wooden horse? You vanish for two decades and you want to talk about wooden horses? What kind, rocking horses? This is no time for toys.

O: Honey, please! You know I didn't want to go in the first place. I tried to get a Section 8 deferral but they didn't buy it.

P: You know something, Oddy? Everyone else came back ten years ago. Neoptolemus has been back all that time. Diaphorus's wife, Bernice, she said she's sick of him hanging around. But me, I get the only husband who can't leave a siege and find his way home. I just know you refused to ask for directions. AS USUAL.

O: It wasn't my fault, I swear! It was the stupid crew! We had this big windbag --

P: Yeah, I know about Ajax.

O: No, I mean a literal bag of winds, and my stupid crew opened it up and we shot off all over the place.

P: Smartest man in Greece and he hires morons for a crew.

O: Yeah, well. They're all dead now.

P: That's supposed to make me feel better? So some winds blew you around, so what? The Mediterranean isn't that big, you know.

O: Oh, sweetie pie, you can hardly believe all the places we had to go. We were brutalized by the Laestrygonians, trapped by a Cyclops, threatened by Sirens, drugged by some damn hippie Lotus-Eaters, captured by Circe...

P: CIRCE? That witch is the biggest floozy in the ancient world! Were you canoodling with her, you creep?

O: Well, n... that is, I mean to say... uh... Can I take the Fifth?

P: Next thing you'll tell me you were getting all cuddly with Calypso!

O: Um.

P: You didn't!

O: Oh, and we had to sail between Scylla and Charybdis!

P: Who are they, more babes?

O: Not, uh, anymore. They're kind of the biggest metaphor in the ocean. Look, I know all those suitors were giving you a hard time, but I really did get home as fast as I could. And didn't Telemachus and I take care of business? We slaughtered every single one!

P: It was nice to see you two having fun together.

O: See? Me and my boy!

P: You one Hades of a mess for me, though.

O: Yeah, sorry.

P: You never built Telemachus a rocking horse.

O: I know, I know... I was an absentee dad. Missed his whole childhood. But it was Achilles's fault. And we didn't beat Troy with a rocking horse. Baby, listen...

P: Don't "baby" me, hubby, I'm sick of your stories. You're back, that's fine. But I've been running the show in Ithaca for twenty years and I don't need you sticking your nose in, get it? You can sit back and king it up if you want, but stay on your side of the palace. And don't go sailing anywhere.

O: Yes, yes, I understand, Penelope. (sighs) If you need me, I'll be in the study. Al Tennyson is due at noon for an interview.

P: You'd better not embarrass me!

O: Yeah, yeah...

P: And I don't want you talking to that Jimmy Joyce character!

O: That nut? I hear he eats lotus.

Toilet day.

Saturday was one of the most spectacular days of the summer here in the jolly old Hudson Valley, and I spent the day cleaning toilets.

Welcome to suburbia!

To be accurate, there were other household jobs on the agenda, as well as a short piece I'd promised to check out for a client (twenty bucks is twenty bucks). But if I lived in an apartment in the city, jammed in with my wife and one minuscule bathroom, I'd have been done with everything in two hours. Then I'd have been free to... go where?

To the park? But everyone would have been in the park.

To the beach? Everyone else would have been at the beach.

To my cabin in the country? Where I could clean that toilet.

If living in the city is so awesome, why are there such ferocious traffic jams to get out on Friday nights and to get back in on Sunday nights, especially in the summer?

If I lived in a small apartment in the city again, we would not have our big hairy hounds. We might have a small yappy thing that would annoy the neighbors, who would express their displeasure by banging on walls, floor, and ceiling. And if I lived in a small apartment with a minuscule bathroom, I might be divorced by now. When young people ask me the secret to our long marriage, I tell them: separate bathrooms.

Well, I would tell them that if they ever asked.

So many slings and arrows of outrageous fortune are out of our control, the things that can ruin a relationship, but if you never have to share a bathroom, you have one major irritant off the table.

This would be clear to most men married to women, I think. Women's beauty and health products have a tendency to expand to fill the amount of space available, a trick that happens to many possessions but not nearly as fast. Further, couples may have strong and yet differing opinions on what constitutes cleanliness or neatness, and that disagreement reaches its apex at the bathroom. Finally, we have the issue of the bathroom's importance in preparing to leave the house, added to the fact that -- as the memes say -- "five minutes" to a woman means the last five minutes in an NFL game where both teams have all their time-outs. Anyone can see how this leads to annoyance and frustration.

Not to mention the Carpeted Bowl issue.

But that's enough about toilets.

Ultimately I took some time Saturday to sit on the porch with the dogs, to bark at any kids coming down the block. The dogs had something to say about them, too. I wasn't kayaking down the rapids or biking up a wall or climbing a mountain in my skivvies or paragliding over a volcano or surfing upside down or anything else that active life-loving people are supposed to do to prove how awesome they are, but you know what? I'm glad I have a porch. I'm glad I have these big, often annoying dogs. And I'm glad I have a bathroom of my own to hide in.

Thoughts on cleaning.

Yesterday's cartoon was of course inspired by the house cleaning I was engaged in the last couple of days in preparation for dinner guests Saturday night. Everything got clean, or at least clean enough.

While scrubbing away I had a few thoughts on cleaning I thought I would share. The Internet is full of useful tips for cleaning, like those from Clean Queen Brianna K and others. They are very useful for information, strategy, and motivation. Well, forget them. This is Regular Guy thoughts on Regular Cleaning.

1) Budget more time than you think you'll need. Even if you don't use all the time -- say, you drank four Red Bulls and finished early, or gave up halfway through, or just cancelled the event that precipitated the cleaning in disgust -- then you can just sit down and relax. Why not? You already budgeted the time. (And if you did clean in a Red Bull caffeine-fueled frenzy, I'd double-check the quality of the work later.)

2) Eventually in life you reach a tipping point. That is when you go from not caring what your guests think, because they're also slobs like you, to finding yourself scrubbing around the base of the toilet. At the tipping point you may clean the bottom of the bathroom sink, because you realize that when one of your slob guests gets drunk and has to hurl, they'll be able to see the hair and stains on the bottom of the sink from that position, and will be judging you as they puke. Life and cleaning take us to some bizarre places.

3) A lot of people peg marriage as the time that you automatically change your attitudes about home hygiene. When you're young and single your idea of cleaning is buying new paper plates; suddenly you're married and Hot Dog Social is an excuse to bring out the wedding china. I find it doesn't work quite that smoothly. While marriage is a great civilizing force, it doesn't always hit couples like a lightning bolt, especially the male people involved. Anyway, there tends to be a de-civilizing force down the road that can turn Felix Ungers into Oscar Madisons: children. That's usually when the phrase "clean enough" enters the lexicon.

4) Bottom line: Clean enough is okay, but don't leave out the clean part. Gatherings of friends means that if you make the effort to clean, they should make the effort to overlook imperfection. No judging, silent or otherwise, just gratitude. When it comes to morals and taste, I'll judge all damn day, but as long as there's no vermin, I'm not judging your house. Besides, I'll be too busy judging your bookshelf.