Career Day

I recently started online banking, and it's really convenient.  Too convenient in at least one particular aspect, and I made a comment to this effect on Facebook recently, and had a back-and-forth with a friend, which was interrupted by a second friend's castigation about discussing such things on Facebook.  Facebook!  Of all places!  He was right, of course, and we dropped the subject.

Within 24 hours, I began receiving indications that something was amiss with my online identity. I became a proud purveyor of drugs. Canadian drugs. Canadian Viagra, to be specific.  If you got an offer from me for drugs, you're in good company. So did my mom. My brothers and sister, my in-laws. Friends. Neighbors. My kids' teachers.  The travel agent we used when we lived on Kwaj.  An ex-boyfriend from college. The White House.  And oh, let's not forget: my parish priest.

Oops.

I don't actually think my excursion into online employment had anything at all to do with my Facebook comment, but nonetheless, I've decided it's time to retire from my discount online Canadian drug sales gig.  It was taking too much time away from my training to become a telephone psychic.  And you just know how that's going to work out ... or do you?

Want To Know What 98 Did Today?

So I just mentioned on Facebook last week that Agent 98 got a lifetime high score in bowling of 159. A mere 8 days later he blew that record right out of the water on the final day of his travel league. I'm not much of a photographer, so the scores are a little hard to read (and I 'shopped out the names). In addition to the new game high personal best, his play today also earned him a lifetime series high of 450 (scratch).

Game 1: 192 scratch; 283 handicap

Game 2: 125 scratch; 216 handicap

Game 3: 133 scratch; 224 handicap

Topping off an already awesome day, 98 won the third place trophy for an Individual High Game (with Handicap) for the season at the league banquet. His team also took home the 2nd place trophy for Team Total (Scratch Score).  Congratulations to 98 and Lanes & Games travel team!

In Case You've Ever Wondered ...

... about that warning on the side of aerosol cans: Do not puncture or incinerate. That label always made me want to toss one into a fire, you  know, just to see.


Clearly the warning is not addressed to dogs. Because effective  this very evening I know for a fact that if a dog punctures an aerosol can, it just makes a quiet hissing sound that makes you go, "Hey, I wonder what that sound is," until the entire contents of even a very small can will fill up the room with a mushroom cloud of propellant that will make you run for fresh air or a gas mask.

Oh, Zoet. Of all the things in this house you can chew on, you choose my brand new inhaler? Yes, that inhaler. The one the pharmacist lectured me about not 24 hours ago, "Don't waste these, Mrs. JEN-Tile (grrrr) because every time we sell one, we lose money, you know (double grrrrr).

To those of you out there with exploding punctured aerosol cans of asthma medicine, Zoet tells you this: You're doing it wrong.

Small Victories

I don't recall the last time Tom changed the propane tank on the gas grill, but I do specifically recall coercing a visitor to change it for me once, probably in the fall of 2009. We are big time grillers, and Tom used to grill at least once or twice a week, year round. But I used this last propane tank judiciously, often lighting only the first of the three burners, which was usually enough heat for my purposes.  That tank of propane lasted me until just after Christmas 2010. I know this because I was at a New Year's Day open house held by some dear friends and asked the Mister for a quick propane tank changing tutorial while he was grillmastering his wicked awesome steak tips. He made it seem simple enough.

My grill spent the season under that hump on the right

But I am embarrassed to tell you how terrified I am of propane tanks. Those suckers can explode, you know, and they probably do on a daily basis even though I've never actually heard of it happening (propane tank industry lobbyists probably paid to squelch any negative press), nor do I know anyone who knows anyone who it happened to.  When Tom and I would refill the tanks at BJ's he'd have me in the front passenger seat with the tank (sometimes two of them) at my feet.  I would be wearing my worst backseat driver hat, heart in my throat, begging Tom, "Hey, watch out for that pothole;" or instructing, "Do you see that car? There? That car there?" (said vehicle likely being a half-mile away, down a side street, going in the opposite direction), and the ever-helpful, "For the love of God, slow down!"

Between my fear of driving with the propane tank in the car, the sixteen feet of snow that covered the grill for much of the last three months, and my absolute certainty of the explosion that would ensue once I connected the tank and lit the grill, well, I just never got around to changing the tank.

I had a bit of a quandary, though: I can't quite ask the neighbor, "Hey, Mister, would you please come to my house and connect my propane tank and ignite it for me, so that I am not the one harmed during the inevitable explosion.  Whenever it's convenient, thanks."  I mean, he has a wife and kids, and they live just a few houses away.  They'd probably hear the explosion and blame me.

With 96 off at a school event this Saturday afternoon,  98 was home with me doing a chores. I called him down, and quite nonchalantly explained that when you install a new propane tank and light it the first time, it's usually a good idea to have someone else around.  You know, like when someone spots you in gym class.  I didn't say anything about explosions or fireballs, and I was very calm, indeed. But 98 says, "Hmmm, that sounds pretty dangerous. You're not going to make it explode are you?" My lips said, "Of course not."  (Did I just see a flicker of disappointment on 98's face?)


My eyebrow furrow might have sent a different message:  Oh, 98, you have no idea how scared of an explosion I am.  I still don't have all my paperwork taken care of, so I really don't want to die in a fireball today. But man, I  really want that steak I've been marinating since yesterday.

No. Instead I continued, "It's just a good habit to get into.  So come outside with me, okay?"  No suggestion to take the phone with him and pre-dial 911.  No precautionary unwinding of the garden hose. Not even so much as a reminder that the fire extinguisher is inside the cellar door. We just we head outside with a wrench to free up the old tank and tighten the new one, and a package of fireplace matches so that once I have opened the burner valve I can drop in the wooden match and at least step back.


Old tank, check. New tank, check. Valve, burner, match. Check, check, check.  Then the best sound I'd heard in three months, the tiniest little whoosh as the flame kicked on.  Fingers, lips, eyebrows: check, check, check.


A few minutes to preheat and that other sound that was music to these ears: the sizzle of the steak hitting the grill.

Oh, medium rare ribeye steaks from the butcher shop at Hilltop Steak House, come to mama!

98's a Whackjob Sometimes

We stopped by a Dunkin Donuts Saturday morning on the way to bowling.  98 wanted a frosted donut, but all they had were these.

So he turns to me and says, "You know what, Mom, I should complain.  I paid my dollar, I want my sprinkles.

Yeah, 98's a whackjob sometimes.

I Wish My Dog Spoke English

I know she understands when I say, "Good dog, good dog," and I give her plenty of those, because she really is a sweet little thing. And I'm pretty sure she knows "Sit" and "Stay" if there's a milk bone involved.

But it would be much more helpful to me if she understood a few other colloquialisms:
 
"I'm going to bed after this, so if you don't pee now, you won't be able to go again until the morning." 

"It's a litterbox, not a snack bar."  

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I'm only going to the washing machine.   I'll be back in 90 seconds."  

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I've only been gone 90 seconds, just like I said."  

"Get away from that rubbish barrel, please."  

"Have you never heard of toilet paper?"  (The cats could stand to learn that one, too, come to think of it.)

... and the related ...  

"OMFG, Zoet, not on the mouth!"