Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Gas Stations

I stopped for gas this morning rather than run out somewhere. My first choice for coming to my rescue when I run out of gas is a University of Maryland graduate and doesn't care about Ohio State or Michigan, but he is in Baltimore this weekend. The next several people I might try to call are either at the Ohio State -- Michigan game or watching the game on television; and a call to any of them not attending the game would be rebuffed without any sympathy for me whatsoever. The other two people on my mental list are playing golf down south somewhere. So, I made the calculated decision to stop for gas and not take a chance of running out.

I passed by a BP station because I am still boycotting BP and a Shell station. Has anyone ever noticed that Shell stations play a shell game with the grades of gasoline? Invariably, the highest price gas is the left button, where normal people expect the lowest-priced button to be located. I have found, at most Shell stations, that the lowest-priced grade is a button in the middle, where the normal gas buyer would never expect it. I don't like Shell for that reason.

I stopped at Road Mart, where the pump looked like this:

The gas station is a dive. But there is no shell game here. And it's cheaper than most places -- low overhead, I guess.

Paper Bag Turkey

Here's the 23-pound turkey cooked in a paper bag:

Happy Thanksgiving!

I Am Not an Artist

I'm not getting any decorating suggestions for the monstrosity in the bathroom. That's probably because my two readers said, "What the hell is that?" and are still in shock.

Or they are on vacation somewhere. That is more likely.

So, I never claimed to be an artist:

That's worse than what it looked like before.

Secret Blog Post

There is something strange going on around here. She has been complaining about "allergies" lately. I really have no idea what that is about, since the pollen count is zero this time of year. It could be air pollution. I really have no idea.

She has gone on a bender -- I guess that would be the word -- buying many hands-free soap dispensers for the kitchen and the bathrooms. But then there was the complaint, "It's not foaming. I want foaming soap." Foaming soap. She spent hours searching the internet.

Before I go on, our place has been on the neighborhood holiday tour, on our building's website, in other downtown living ads. Our place is pretty cool with a great view. I don't mean to brag about it -- it's just that you need a little background.

The package, the huge fucking package, arrived by FedEx. As I said, there is something strange going on around here because, in a shocking display of tastelessness totally inconsistent with her reputation as a decorator, she bought a new foam soap dispenser:

And, yes, that is affixed to the mirror in the master bathroom. Two days later, a large box arrived -- extra soap for the dispenser, which, if I calculated correctly, will be enough soap, considering above average usage because she is always using the stuff -- and she laughs like Betty Rubble every time she uses it -- for the next six years.

You are saying, "What's the big deal?"

But I am saying that every time someone visits, she says, laughing like Betty Rubble, "Show [insert name here] our addition to the bathroom."

Invariably, the visitor says, "I've seen one of those in the restroom at my office building," or something like that. One person had the nerve to say, "Looks like a Wal-Mart bathroom."

What's next? One of those fucking hand dryers -- the XLERATOR?

What's the problem with that? Well, you're laughing. I'm not. That means this situation is not normal. Like I said, there is something strange going on around here.

I would like to remove the butt-ugly monstrosity. Industrial look, my ass. But that is a definite problem. That would cause serious repercussions -- repercussions is a cool word, but, more accurate, would be "concussion."

So, I am between a rock and a fucking GoJo foam soap dispenser. If you have suggestions -- I have some thoughts about how to handle the situation -- please feel free to leave a comment or e-mail me.

Thank you.

Swallow Before Reading

I was not familiar with artichokes until after I was married. I now know what artichokes look like. In case you don't know, here is an artichoke:

An artichoke is not something that looks like food.

This is food:

So, I don't eat artichokes. And I don't care to try to eat artichokes. I have been to very fine restaurants. I have seen people eating artichokes. Very UGLY!

I have a rule that if instructions concerning how to eat something, an artichoke, for example, are required, that something, an artichoke, for example, is not "food." Many things are known by the misnomer, seafood, and similarly require instructions to eat ... these things are NOT food.

Why would any sane person ever consider eating something like squid:

According to the Miami New Times, Miami lawyer, Marc Ginsberg, distinguished himself by filing a lawsuit for Dr. Arturo Carvajal because Dr. Carvajal hurt himself eating an artichoke.

Here are my questions: 1) Doctor, why did you order the artichoke? and 2) If you didn't know how to eat an artichoke, why didn't you swallow your pride instead of the artichoke and ask the server?

And, Doctor, when you encounter something that doesn't look like food, don't eat it.

Playing Footsie

I woke up this morning, showered, and walked the dogs before sunrise.

I nearly tripped and fell over the curb -- it's about 8 inches high -- at an intersection near the building. Only my superior natural athletic ability saved me from crashing down into the street, falling on my face, and letting the leashes go so that the dogs could devour every Boston Terrier they could find. I say this only because when we took the dogs to get groomed, while walking very happily to the front door of the groomer's 1920's wood-sided bungalow with all nature of concrete dog statuary lining the driveway and the walk, welcoming normal dogs to the pleasant experience awaiting inside, Bella ran directly toward the concrete Boston Terrier, which was, admittedly, staring, unblinking, uncoweringly, directly at Bella.

Bella racing toward the defenseless Boston Terrier, opened her Boxer mouth, ready to sink her teeth into the head of the Boston Terrier, and then chomped down. No reaction from the brave, emotionless Boston Terrier. Bella, dazed, stepped back and watched the Boston Terrier fall over, unbloodied, four little concrete feet still anchored to the ground, but broken legs splayed out, stiff, as if dead.

I looked around, and not seeing anyone looking out the window curtains of the bungalow, or pulling into the driveway, reached down for the poor Boston Terrier, and balanced it precariously on the stumps that were its legs.

In any event, I was able to save the city's Boston Terrier population by maintaining a grip upon the leashes.

But as the day wore on, I noticed slight problems -- balance problems, perhaps. My good friend, Scott, suffered from vertigo a few years ago. He'd be consigned to bed, unable to function due to the spinning world around him. Surgery helped -- made him deaf in one ear, though.

There were other more serious diseases about which I refused to ponder. Maybe, it was the fact I didn't eat breakfast. Something less than serious.

I finally made it home this evening, after tripping over nothing in particular and nearly knocking over the new Christmas display at Starbucks.

And took off my shoes:

The Elevator Incident or "Die Hard -- The Remake"

In looking back upon the events of this morning, the ominous signs were present. She was actually ready to go at 8:25. "I'm ready early," she claimed. Yes, early. I had walked the dogs at 6, put a load in the washer, then the dryer, made and drank two lattes, read all the news that's fit to print and some that wasn't, checked my e-mail, downloaded court documents, added stuff to my calendar, fed the dogs, ate M&M chocolate candies, medicated Sheba, showered, and was waiting at the door.

So, what happened? Here is what Stacey posted on Facebook.

It's nice to know that being alone with me for 12 minutes was the worst 12 minutes of her life. I get it, now. I'm not a Facebook member -- what else is there that I should know?

About Facebook: There is a great benefit I've noticed. I mean I am totally indebted to that guy who put this out on the internets. Except it could have been better, I suppose. Stacey used to talk ... and talk ... and talk. Now, after being a Facebook member for so long, all our conversations are like 144 characters long. And if I don't respond, she doesn't say anything back to me. It's kind of like heaven right here on Earth.

That's truly worth every cent I pay for Facebook. I thought that the $500 a month Stacey said that it cost was pretty steep in the beginning. I mean, that could pay for a lot of stuff, y'know, clothes, shoes, computers, 26 iPad bags and covers, stuff like that; but it's worth every penny I give her for that Facebook account. No wonder that Facebook guy in the movie is like a gazillionaire. But I guess it's better than a big phone bill. Modern technology is really cool.

Okay, the elevator -- on 5. It's not available for use by people off the street. It goes down into the bowels of the building, the garage, and then there's a short walk to the car. I take the stairs for exercise most of the time. She doesn't.

For the most part, her Facebook post said it all ... except for minor adjustments to reality.

It was way more than 12 minutes. It was 14 minutes. And I had already hoisted myself up, feet dangling from the trap door in the ceiling. That emergency alarm button, the one she pushed for 13 and 1/2 minutes, will drive anyone to do things they would not ordinarily do ... like hoist oneself up through the trap door to escape. That I could hear her screaming, "YOU'RE GONNA DIE!" over and over convinced me that I had to find an escape route.

It was hard, man. It was hard.

Jury Duty

A summons for jury duty was served upon me a few weeks ago by the county court because I laughed when the long-absent blogger on my right, which is on your left as you look at your computer screen, received a summons for jury duty in the municipal court. Her service was for two days; mine was for five days. She was required to call in the day before, which she did, to see if the court needed her, which the court did not. I was required to report, watch a movie about jury duty, and then sit in a big room with several hundred other people waiting for my name to be called.

A similar thing happened to U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder after he laughed at his wife when she was summoned for jury duty.

I'm not what one would call really, really paranoid, just somewhat paranoid; but it seems like the tentacles of a vast women's network creep insidiously into every aspect of life and control much of what is happening in the world. It's almost to a point where you better be looking behind you more often; perhaps, an investment in rear view mirror glasses is wise.

My Comments on Helmet Hits in Pro Football

I watched the NFL on CBS today. And the Cleveland Browns totally annihilated the Boston Patriots. And then there was the Philadelphia Dog Killers beating the Colts.

I noticed that there were penalties called for hitting quarterbacks in the head -- 15 yards and an automatic first down -- whether intentional or not. That seems to be in line with the crackdown on helmet-to-helmet hits, about which I wrote a post a few weeks ago.

So, what is the story with players on the same team smashing their helmets together after someone makes a good play?

Why doesn't the NFL ban this?

Obama in India

President Obama -- oh, he's still the president? -- is visiting India this weekend.

It is good to know that in Mumbai, where Obama mourned for those who were killed in the terrorist attack a year ago, city officials, besides taking great security precautions against terrorist attacks, prevented a natural disaster from occurring by removing coconuts from trees in the area our President would be visiting.

Rome Had Lead Plumbing; What's Your Excuse?

This is an interesting proposition this morning.