Ants

Question: where are all these ants when I can't see them? 
Answer: I don't know. 


Question: how do these ants know when I have dropped an apple core into the thirteen-gallon, Rubbermaid liner-lock trash can in my office?
Answer: I don't know. 


Question: how to I prevent this problem in the future?
Answer: put apple core in zip-lock bag before disposing. Ah, the life of ease here in paradise.  

Another Bed

As it turns out, making a nice bed out of wicked bad knotty pine is about as hard as making a nice Sunday School class out of wicked bad naughty boys.

Here's my best effort. The wood gave me fits. I sanded, I stained, and I sanded some more but at the end of the day I was dissapointed. To add insult to injury, my daughter, Mary, for whom the bed was made, still prefers to sleep on the floor. 

Lesson learned: don't trust the fella's at Ace hardware to lash the best wood to the roof of your car.

But it was still fun to make.

Pinewood Derby

The pinewood derby has come around again, that time honored tradition of encouraging eight year olds to use saws, hammers, and power tools with finger severing potential. I respect the cub scout program, but come on; do you really expect responsible parents to allow their children to make these things themselves? So, like the rest of the dads in the ward, I was up late hacking and sawing at blocks of knotty pine, trying to fashion something that would meet my children's  elaborately imagined designs. This year Matthew went with a local theme and requested a canoe. We wanted an authentic outrigger, but couldn't make it work and still fit on the track. Here are the results, complete with q-tip paddle. 

Benjamin decided on a less traditional design -- he wanted a finger. Helen, with an ego-crushing lack of confidence in my wood-carving skills, feared that the car would end up looking like another finger-shaped appendage, so we added a diamond ring to avoid any confusion. 

Quick and Dirty

So, before school started, Helen wanted some cubbies or shelves for the kids. So, I put these up late one evening. Nothing fancy, but they're sturdy and do the job. No plans (other than in my head). I'm pretty proud of myself for working around both the light switch and the outlet. 

Creepy Ad

So, I go to check my hotmail account this morning and there is an advertisement on the side of the screen informing me that this guy is searching for me here in Pago Pago. If that is really the case, I'm changing the locks at the house and purchasing a firearm. Seriously MyLife, why are your computers showing that I would fit in the same demographic as middle-aged women who are attracted to either (a) Earnest Hemingway or (b) escaped convicts? I'm just saying. 

Spear Fishing

There’s nothing there in the dark that isn’t there in the light…except for fear. But when you are 100 yards out at sea, diving in 30 foot deep water and all you have for protection is a three-pronged spear, an underwater flashlight, and your ability to swim, there’s a lot of fear. At least there is for me.

A friend and I went spear fishing several weeks ago. Apparently the swift darting reef fish fall asleep at night or at least slow down and so the optimal and perhaps only time to nab one with a spear propelled by an enormous rubber band is after dark.

So into the dark Pacific Ocean we went. The beam from the flashlight looked like a long fat light saber, cutting through the black water. Other than in the direct path of the beam’s glow it was anyone’s guess – sharks, barracuda, eels? I just couldn’t let my mind wander.  "Swim and don’t think" was my mantra. You see, I’ve got a problem with that – my imagination. For example, I was never good at baseball because every time I got up to bat, I imagined the zit-faced pitcher hurling an out-of-control, rock-hard baseball with his newly muscled pubescent arm directly at my jaw. I could see (and hear) in my mind and in vivid detail, the cracking of bone, the spitting out of bloody teeth, the screaming of women, and the little bubble of blood that would form when I exhaled through my nose. So, I usually backed out of the batter’s box as the pitch was delivered, obviously making  for a less effective swing and a short lived baseball career.   

So anyway, that’s how my mind works which should help you appreciate why swimming in tropical, shark and eel infested water’s at night could cause some imagination induced trauma for me.

Fortunately, we survived the night. My friend speared a small zebra-looking fish which we rushed up on shore (after a short detour through a shallow coral reef) before the blood attracted any silent predators. Now that I think about it, that’s what makes the water scarier than say hiking for me. If I’m hiking and run into a bear, for example, I imagine there will be some sort of roar or growl as a sort of mark-set-go to start the race between me and my hiking partner (i.e., you don’t have to outrun the bear just your friend) and at least I’ll have a chance – depending I suppose on the foot speed of my friend. But in the water, there’s no growl, roar, pounding of clawed feet over dirt and rocks, just bam, and your arm’s gone and you’re leaving a trail of blood in the  bay like some leaking oil tanker and as a consolation, if you survive and happen to become a professional surfer, they might make a movie about you.

Oh and I forgot to mention. I was nursing an ear infection that night as well and each time I dove down, chasing after some fish, the pressure felt like someone was pushing a twelve-inch needle into my ear canal. Yeah, it was awesome.

So, my spear fishing career, like my baseball and rock climbing (fifty foot fall/three nights in the hospital and one fully conscious catheter insertion) careers was short and painful, both psychologically and physically.

My new personal handbook for fishing has officially been amended to require the following:

(1) full use of visual and auditory senses (olfactory recommended but not mandatory)

(2) an environment where I have a locomotive advantage (i.e., solid ground – these feet weren’t made for flipp’n)

(3) either my father or a paid professional to deal with any fish that I should happen to catch, including but not limited to hook/spear removal; gutting; head, bone and skin removal; and packaging for transportation

I think I’m still okay with snorkeling – catching fish on film in relatively shallow waters during broad day light has not triggered any imaginary trauma, yet.  

Survey Says

So, my fashion design didn't make it in to the voting round of fifteen. But, I did get an honorable mention. Here is what the email said:


"Thank you for entering our Dare to Design contest! While your design did not make it to the final 15, it DID receive an Honorable Mention from our design team. Please accept this $15 gift card from us for your design. Thank you again!"


Do you think everyone who entered got an honorable mention just to try and make them feel good? If you entered this contest or have in the past and received an identical email, let me know -- especially if you know you're design was really bad and did not deserve an honorable mention, because I'm kind of thinking that's what happened to me.


Anyway, enough of that silliness. Recently I have built a built-in bookcase/shelf set up and am halfway through a toddler bed. Photos to come sometime soon.