Should things go from bad to worse

Some members of my extended family have spent years planning for the worst and expecting nothing less that total catastrophe. This weekend while bouncing around the internet I saw this little device and thought I'd offer it up to those family members who are interested.

You'll also note this product is made in the good old U.S. of A. which satisfies another extended family conspiracy theory of doom and destruction.

If you're reading this and asking yourself, "Is he talking about me?" The answer is probably not. You know who you are.

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Watch Battery

A week or so ago I found myself in Fred Meyer, a local chain that combines groceries with apparel, yard items, and home repairs. They’re based here in Portland and seem like what Sears Roebuck might have felt like back in the 50’s. I’d heard from a co-worker that this was the place to go when one needed to replace a watch battery, a chore, which at least in our house, goes months and even years neglected. In the past I’ve always gone to one of those sketchy watch repair places located in malls. These are the kinds that line the walls with glass cases containing watches from brands that seem familiar but oddly out of place at the same time. They tend to charge outrageous prices for battery replacement and more often than not the sales person shifts to a full court press if one casts even the slightest glance toward a new watch.

“Oh, you like this new watch, eh?” asks the Middle Eastern associate. “This is good watch, very reputable brand. This is good buy right now. Is waterproof to 3,000 meters.”

“I had no idea Esprît was still around, let alone made men’s dive watches.”

“Oh, yes. This is big brand in Europe still. They are the best.”

“But 3,000 meters?” I ask. “I thought the max for any brand was more like 500 meters.”

“Europe, my friend. This is European watch. You like, I can take 5% off for you my friend. Today only.”

My past experiences more or less which explains why sometime last week Linda handed me 5 watches when I mentioned my news about Fred Meyer’s battery deals.

When I arrived I was directed to the jewelry counter where I spoke with the watch repairman. He was dressed in an antique cardigan sweater and wore thick magnifying lenses over his regular glasses. He was in his late fifties or early sixties if I were to guess and asked in a thick Asian accent, “What you need today?” I explained I was looking to have a few watch batteries replaced and he wondered how many was a few.

“Oh, all five? Yes? How about $40 total, all five?”

It really doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

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Bluetooth Devices

A couple of weeks ago while picking up a few things at Costco, Linda and I decided to split up. She went one way, I the other, each with a list of items and a plan to meet back toward the front, “Near the checkout line,” she said as she headed into the walk-in cooler for some cucumbers. This was a Saturday and the place was so crammed with shoppers we figured by separating we’d more easily slip in and out of the crowd.

Personally I love Costco but hate a crowd. On Saturdays, when it’s crowded, I’m left angrily navigating around the sample lines mumbling about the foolishness of waiting 20 minutes for a teaspoon sized bite of frozen enchilada but with a grin on my face. “Success is mine,” I thought as I made it around the Aidells sausage sample buffet only to be almost knocked down by a giant blur of blue. In front of me stood a large black woman with an imposing presence and a baby tucked under one arm. She was dressed in an ocean blue frock that wrapped her girth from neck to toe and sported a matching headband. This wasn’t one of those skinny little rubberized headbands my daughters wear, rather it was a wide one and was fashioned from a strip of fabric matching her dress. It wrapped up from her forehead and disappeared into a pile of dreadlocks creating a sort of hair dam.

She was talking loudly when I noticed her, which I first mistook as directed at me. An apology perhaps, or even an angry word or two and it took me a minute to realize she’d hardly noticed me. She was having a conversation all right, but as I listened it became clear her words were not meant for me or the baby beneath her arm. It was at this point I noticed this woman had a cell phone tucked up into her headband, cocked just right so as to enable her to talk and listen at the same time.

In January Oregon passed a law prohibiting cell phone use without a hands free device while driving. I’ve heard bluetooth sales have jumped dramatically here and imagined the conversation my woman in blue might have had upon hearing about the new law. “Nobody’s gonna tell me I need an $80 bluetooth thingie. I got a whole drawer of headbands for that.”

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Out of Touch

I'm sorry I've been away. I'm completely swamped trying to make Tiger Woods look good for the Fall season of 2011. I'll be back next week with some good stuff.

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I had no idea, really.

It is my habit to tidy a room by moving it’s out of place contents to new, neatly stacked residences strategically placed about the room’s perimeter. A re-shuffling, really, and it’s a skill that takes a certain talent to pull off. To my trained eye, a pair of pajamas, three socks and a sweatshirt I haven’t worn in a week just look better in an organized pile next to the nightstand. “There’s just this little gap between the closet door and my nightstand just begging for some company,” I think to myself. Gently rest these items alongside a half filled glass of water and to me, the collection simply disappears.

If one were to ask me to assign myself to a category - clean or messy, I’d go with the clean one without hesitation. “Look around,” I might add. “I just cleaned this room and it’s spotless.”

My wife Linda, though, would beg to differ. Two weeks ago we returned from spring break where I thought I’d have the chance to get a morning of snowboarding in. I prepared for the trip with goggles, gloves, snow pants and a choice of jackets but when it came to packing it seemed we’d run out of duffle bags so I stuffed my gear in a white plastic Hefty bag. When we returned from vacation I emptied the contents of my suitcase but left the plastic garbage bag in the hallway outside our room. Holes had begun to tear spilling its contents on the floor but I honestly hadn’t noticed. Two weeks ago when I propped the bag in the corner I was careful to nestle it next to a closet door where it sagged, blending perfectly with the door’s casing.

This morning Linda said to me, “When are you going to clean up that bag of ski clothes?” And I looked at her, wondering what she was talking about. “The white garbage bag,” she said. “The one that’s been sitting right outside our bedroom door for the past two weeks?”

I hadn’t noticed. Really.

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Am I really that bad?

My oldest daughter Gretchen is becoming increasingly independent and homework is no exception. From time to time she might ask Linda or I to do a once over on a project she’s completed but we both know it’s just a formality. She really doesn’t need our help. Yesterday, though, she did ask for help with a particular word. Surprised she didn’t know the answer I listened to the conversation. “Mom, what’s the definition for Folktale?”

“It’s a story that’s been passed down through a family for many, many years,” Linda responded. And then she added, “Or basically anything Dad puts on his blog.”

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Once Perfect

I thought about posting a really great April Fools post. I really did and it would have been great. But I’m tired after spending half the night on the couch. The seasons are changing here and with that come frequent pressure changes - High shifting to low and vice versa. It’s a combination that makes my bones ache, keeping me up nights and hobbling during the day.

Since today is April 1st I thought I’d simply ask for a moment of silence in memory of my once perfect Achilles tendon. Today marks my four-year anniversary since rupturing my right Achilles that, trust me, was no Aprils Fools joke for Linda or me.

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