Category House and Home

Technical Resistance

Michael 8 Comments

I try to take responsibility for myself as much as I can in all aspects that I can reach. As long as I can reach them comfortably. Including my health. So when the good folks that bring me my delightful dialysis sessions announced an opportunity to “take control of your kidney health and experience better outcomes” I jumped at the chance. Who couldn’t resist better outcomes in anything you take on? Then they started throwing around words like “empowered” and “easy” in the same paragraph even. And they got me with, “Start managing your kidney care with your Portal today and gain more time to do the things you love. Register today and Thrive On” (Emphasis not even added. They’re good.) How can I not want to take advantage of gaining more time to do the things I love? I was hooked.

You just know this is going to go wrong somewhere, don’t you? Hmm.

Looking forward to actively participating in my care, I carefully filled out the many screens of information that they requested, chose my password, and awaited the confirmation email which would contain the additional instructions for completing the registration process. In just a few seconds it came, and in just a few minutes I did what I was supposed to do. In seconds again I received another email congratulating me on successfully registering for the patient portal and was presented with a link to “log in and start actively participating in your care!” (OK, that time I added the exclamation point, but I wasn’t excited about this. Wouldn’t you be?)

I clicked, eagerly awaiting the chance to participate in my care, and attempted my first official login. In went my email address, then went in my password, then the email address and password went in to wherever they go and the little circle thing started spinning and then, low and behold (words you just don’t hear much anymore) across the screen I was presented with the message “username or password invalid.” Oh, poo! No problem. In my excitedness I probably hit a wrong key so I re-entered the username which is my email address so I know that was correct, and then, this time more carefully, my password. Almost always when denied access it’s because I incorrectly enter the password which makes sense since they never show you your password (unless it happens to be ******* and you just have to remember how many *s). But no, again that didn’t work so I gave one more try and one more time I got the same frustrating message.

I selected the link on the page for technical support and sent them an email detailing my inability to log into the patient portal (and thus my unfortunate delay in participating in my care!) and sat back to await their response. A few minutes later I saw the little envelope icon pop up at the top of the screen and I anxiously opened my email to just as anxiously read their reply, get back on track, and start participating in my care. Well imagine my disappointment when I scrolled the inbox items and saw, “Undeliverable.” Instead of the anxiously awaited reply I had a message wherein the little emailman politely explained to me that my desperate plea for help could not be sent because the addressee “wasn’t found or doesn’t exist at the destination server” and I should check to make sure I entered the address correctly, contact the intended recipient by phone, or several other options that involved things like checking licenses and permissions and other things that normal non-computer savvy people (and probably some of them, too) have no idea what any of that means. Disappointment does not begin to describe what I was feeling. “ARRRGH!” OF COURSE THE DAMN ADDRESS EXISTS. ALL I DID WAS PUSH THEIR DANM BUTTON ON THEIR DAMN WEBSITE! DAMN MORONS!” I said to myself. Calmly.

Maybe it’s just a password problem and I actually mistyped when I was selecting it. It’s possible. If I can incorrectly enter a password when trying to log onto a site I can certainly mistyped the letters, characters, numbers, and case control when first selecting the password. Of course that would mean that I would have had to make the same mistake twice since, once on the first selection entry and once on the confirmation entry, but hey, it could happen. Yeah, right.

So I attempted to log on again, knowing it would reject the login information but also knowing I would be presented with the inevitable “Forgot your password?” link. So I did. And I was. And I clicked. And in a few seconds I received another email with another link to reenter my password. So I clicked. And I reentered. Carefully. Both times. The screen blanked taking all my information again to wherever the little electrons go when they discuss these things and in less than a second I got another email! This is getting exciting. Again anxiously (though not quite as anxiously as I had been earlier), I opened the email and read the message congratulating me on successfully changing my password with a new link to log on and “start participating in my care.” (No emphasis added. By this time I was getting emphatically worn out.) Again I clicked. And again I entered username AKA email address and password AKA, uhh, password. And again I got…”username or password invalid.”

Oy.

(If you read Monday’s post and are wondering if this was what I couldn’t remember…..well, the answer to that is no. But this one is such a great story I couldn’t wait to share it. That and if I did wait I knew I would have forgotten about it. But don’t worry. I still have the sticky note stuck right there on the monitor (see?) and I’ll be writing all about it next time. Unless something else comes up between now and then. But it’s OK. There’s lots of sticky on that note. It’s not going anywhere.)

(Oh and, do you think I use too many parentheses?)

 

Shopped Till I Dropped

Michael Leave a comment

I did something different last week. I went shopping. Not the shopping you do at a supermarket regardless of how super your market is. Real shopping that involved considering style and fashion, color and fabric, and trying stuff on. Oh that might not be very different for you but I assure you, it is indeed different, almost exciting, for me. Over the last 3 years I’ve managed to lose 110 pounds. I may have mentioned that about 20 of them were desired and even intentional. The other 90 or so came off as pieces of me came out during and after various hospital stays and recovery periods.

During that time I made due with piecemeal attire supplementation and the occasional reintroduction of an item that was spared a trip to the donation bin during the years when I was busy gaining some 110 pounds. But I finally had to recognize that I could no longer go out in public – even a public as limited as companion patients in doctors’ waiting rooms, dialysis clinic nursing staff, once a week grocery co-shoppers, and fellow churchgoers – with the ragtag rags that my togs were quickly becoming. Thus, a shopping spree.

And let me tell you something that probably every mother of a teenage boy already knows. If you are male and are not an adolescent male whose fashion sense is dictated primarily by the local college or professional football teams’ uniforms (regardless of the chronologic age of said adolescent male), there’s not much one can call smart for men out there. Oh I found plenty of shirts, slacks, and jackets in formal, informal, and in between styles but those styles were quite the same as the styles of those few previously mentioned articles that had stayed with me since the last time I weighed this little. And that was around 30 years ago.

Not to be deterred I soldiered on and did grave damage to my credit limit, restructuring my wardrobe to one that does not elicit questions like “have you been sick?” by any passerby who subscribes to the Hi Guy Principle. To be honest, when I started the day I thought I’d be exhausted and want to quit before it got on to time for a mid-morning snack. And to continue to be honest, I was getting tired. But tired and somewhat exhilarated at the same time. It had been so long since I had been shopping, even though most of what I was buying was basically the same stuff I had bought so long since, that I was actually enjoying myself.

There’s nothing like spending a day, and lots of money, shopping in a store where your selections aren’t plopped into a plastic cart with wheels you push to the check-out line at the front of the building.

I’ll have to try to do it again sometime in the next 30 years.

 

Shave and a Haircut

Michael 5 Comments

I still can’t get used to it. Although I try to avoid my face in the mirror – well, maybe not avoid as much as not concentrate on – I have been spending more and more time staring at myself every morning.

About a month ago I became completely clean shaven. That hasn’t happened for over 30 years. And even before that it was a week to week decision regarding facial hair arrangement. Now that I’ve gone close to a handful of weeks without anything there you’d think seeing all of my face looking back at me wouldn’t be that disconcerting. Most of the time it isn’t but that first-thing-in-the-morning glance still returns an element of surprise. It’s probably because I forget what I look like by the time the morning comes having not seen me for the whole night.Mustache

I didn’t decide to shave everything off my cheeks and chin because of any new fashion statement I was looking to make. I didn’t do it for the love of a woman, the lust of a mate, or even at the suggestion of a friend. No, I did it for the most common of reasons assuming that anybody who has changed his facial appearance is completely honest about the reason for the change. I shaved completely because of the dreaded trimming accident.

Trimming, the bane of those who would let a little of nature show through on their visage without so much that he may be mistaken for a member of a well-known family whose patriarch holds a patent for duck calls. Trimming is tough! You have this fancy specialized piece of equipment with all these different heads and guides and they all have adjustments for different lengths and … well … if you happen to have the wrong guide on or the right one set at the wrong length and … well … if it’s a little early and you’re a little tired and … well … things happen.

So, at least for now, I’ve rejoined the ranks of men who scrape blade across skin each morning – ok, most mornings. Good thing I never got rid of my old razor.

Anybody know if they still make double edge blades?

 

Happy Birthday! (Offer valid in the continental United States only. Void where prohibited.)

Michael Leave a comment

Last week was my birthday (thank you) and among the cards, letters, and gifts I received a plethora of greetings from a host of retailers than I have bought from. They were all particularly generous. For example:

One restaurant would be happy to celebrate with me by offering me a free dessert! (Offer good for any single serving dessert item up to $5.00 with entrée purchase, guest must pay any sales tax, cannot be combined with other offers, not redeemable for cash or gift card.)

Another restaurant was celebrating my special day by giving me a free entrée (with the purchase of a second entrée of equal value or greater value, dine-in only, excludes daily special, maximum value $19.99).

Yet a third was willing to part with 25% off the regular price of any breakfast to ring in another year for me (as long as I also bought a beverage, didn’t select any combo meals, stayed away from the breakfast buffet, didn’t dine on Sunday, and spent less than 8 dollars on my choice, otherwise my maximum savings was capped at $1.99).

And still a fourth eating establishment was going to remember my special day with a full 10% of the total check for me and as many guests as I care to include in this raucous fete (excluding alcoholic beverages, market based priced items, pasta and salad bars, discount not to exceed $10.00).

Among the non-food offerings, an e-retailer wanted to commemorate the day of my birth with free shipping on any on-line purchase (minimum $34.99, enter code at checkout).

Or another on-line or in-store savings just for me during my special birthday month of 10% OFF ALL MERCHANDISE (excludes designer, clearance, super-saver, or special purchase items, plus sales tax and shipping, must present coupon at time of purchase, no facsimiles accepted, please enter special 15 character code (“selected just for you!”) before check-out for on-line purchases).

Even the state lottery got in on the festivities offering me a dollar off any $5.00 instant game (coupon expires 30 days after printing).

At least Publishers Clearance house wanted to celebrate with me by offering me a special extra chance to enter their sweepstakes on my birthday only for a prize I may have already won with no purchase necessary! (Don’t ignore this opportunity being made only to special individuals born this month like you!)

And you thought that gift card from Aunt Ella was impersonal.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

 

Happy Early Father’s Day

Michael Leave a comment

Earlier this week someone told me how much she thought I look like my father. People always say family folk look like each other and most of the time the resemblance stops at having the same number of eyes and ears. I don’t often look at myself so I’m not a good gage if I even have eyes and ears but I do look at my father every day. On my refrigerator is a picture of my parents at a dinner some 20+ years ago. I don’t know if it’s the last picture they had taken but it is the last picture of them that I have.

Yesterday I looked at the picture then I actually looked at myself in the mirror and darned if I don’t look like him. It helps that we’re not too terribly far apart in ages, his in the picture and mine in the mirror. And it doesn’t hurt that he was always looked a bit younger than his age and I a bit older. But there he was, in my mirror, looking back at me.

When our resemblance was mentioned I remarked that I wish I could be like him rather than look like him. He was a remarkable person, in that he really deserved to be remarked about. Born the year that World War I came to an end he grew to be tall-ish, strong-ish, and with a year round tan courtesy of the fire and heat of the steel mill where he worked for 45 years. Until I came along he was the sole male in a house filled with women. He worked, he prayed, he played, he hobbied, he hubbied, he befriended anyone he met. He served country and community, but always it was God and family before all else. I have very few specific memories of things we did because it seemed he was always there. Rather than a specific memory I have one long memory from childhood to manhood.

He retired the day I got married. You hear so often that poor old Mr. So-and-So just retired and then died within a year yet he managed to get another 26 years out of life after becoming a gentleman of leisure. I don’t think he figured he would have lived as long as he did. He developed diabetes in the early 1960s when people died of the disease and had a few other bumps along the way after that. But it wasn’t illness that makes me think he lived longer than he expected. I think he figured that anybody who was born in a year that ends in something-teen probably won’t be around when the year’s first two numbers change. But stick around he did. Long enough to travel, long enough to see, play with and make a grandfather’s impression on my daughter, long enough to endure my mother’s various redecorating ventures, long enough to see her beat her own demon cancer. And long enough to make it just past his 88th birthday and almost to his 56th wedding anniversary. If you do the math you see that he was a little on the late side for marriage in mid-century America. I think he waited to make sure he would get it right.

Over the years he taught me how to be me. But exactly when or how I couldn’t say. When he died I can honestly say I didn’t lose my father. I lost my dad.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

 

‘Tis the Season, Spring 2017 Edition

Michael 4 Comments

I’m pretty sure I should have been born the son of an Italian wine maker. Or perhaps an olive grower. I could see myself spending Sunday afternoons on a rough stone terrazza nibbling on marinated olives and peppers and artichoke hearts sipping a glass of wine, listening to Old World folk songs and letting the sun warm me where the wine doesn’t. Ahhhhhhhh.

Instead I have jelly beans and a leftover beer I found waaaaay back in the fridge, trying to find a spot somewhere on the 4×8 patio that is out of the wind driven rain storm, hoping the next lightning bolt stays waaaaay on the other side of that hill over there.BOC

That’s all on me though. I couldn’t pick where I was born but I could have moved if I really wanted to. I chose to stay in the only city in America with less sunshine than Seattle. (That’s what I’ve been told. I didn’t believe it so I looked it up and they were WRONG! That particular proverbially always rain-logged Washington hamlet actually has less sun than my burgh but just barely, coming in at Number Nine of the Top Ten Cloudy Hit Parade with a 57% chance of clouds compared to our 56%. What is the number one least sunny city in the US? Juneau, Alaska. Sorry Land of the Midnight Sun dwellers. Apparently that’s not enough for the midday darkness the rest of the year.) Where was I? Oh, yeah. I stayed.

I chose to stay here where the chance of pressing my own olive oil is somewhere around the chance of me removing my own appendix. Wine making might have a little advantage, but still it’s not likely I’ll be trading in the Miata for an Alpha Romeo and riding it along a strada panoramica overlooking the Baia di Napoli. I’ll just have to keep an eye on the morning forecasts and pick those choice hours when the sun will come out and the top will go down and the drive will be just as scenic. Even if it is of the access road leading to the 27th worst commuter road in the country. And we do better than Seattle there, too. (They have the 8th worst commute. Sorry.)

Thank God I don’t have to go to work in either city. More time for olives and wine. Or jelly beans and beer. Happy Spring!

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

No Skeletons in my Closet*

Michael Leave a comment

If you’ve noticed, over the past few weeks I’ve included posts about counters and drawers and cabinets. That’s because I’ve been paying more attention to those spaces as I prepare for the annual fun fest known as spring cleaning. Last weekend I was in the bedroom closet. My bedroom closet is about the size of my first apartment and has just as much in it. So I thought it would be a smart idea to perhaps whittle down some of the extraneous pieces there before attacking the disaster it has become over the winter months.

For some reason I have clothes like you wouldn’t believe. Actually I know the reason. Over the past couple of years I have lost a remarkable amount of weight, about 120 pounds all told. Now, some of it (maybe 2 or 3 pounds) was planned but the most of it came off as numerous surgeons removed, rearranged, and reconstructed various pieces of me. Although I’ve been picking up new pieces (of clothes, that is) along the way I haven’t done a good job of eliminated the old. As a result, in addition to the few pieces Hangersthat actually fit I have clothes that are anywhere from too large on me to OH MY GOD WAS I REALLY THAT FAT BEFORE!!! So where does one start?

After taking an entire weekend de-hangering, cleaning, folding, and sorting I have a nice pile to donate, a few that will become welcome additions to the rag bag, a couple that are probably even too disreputable to throw away in a middle class neighborhood, and remarkably enough, some that fit. And still the closet bursts at its seams.

I know I could have avoided all of this if I had adhered to a few tried and true methods of preventing the clutter before it started. Things like remove one old item for every new one bought. That worked well enough when I picked up a new piece here and there. It went out the window last year when I came home with a few totes full of new stuff since I had no summer wear that didn’t fall off me and the neighbors kept asking about that guy with the suspenders holding up his swim trunks. Then there’s the old trick of turning all one your hangers facing away from you at the start of a season and reversing them as you wear what’s on them. Let me tell you right now that I don’t have OCD but if I did I wouldn’t go more than two days before being driven bonkers by the disarray on the closet rod. I can tell you for sure and indeed that I know I don’t have OCD because I made it all the way through a whole week before having to correct that madness. Perhaps you subscribe to the Forty Hanger Rule. Limit your wardrobe to whatever can be stored on 40 hangers. Everything else must go. I don’t know how women do it. I’m just a guy and I have over 100 hanging pieces plus all the sweaters on the shelves and the shoes on the rack and the ties, oh the ties. Why, I have more than 40 hangers tied up in golf shirts, football jerseys, and hockey sweaters.

There was once a time when I wouldn’t buy tires for the car. Trying to decide between tread patterns, mileage ratings, whitewall, blackwall, white-lettered. It was all too much. So I would just trade in the car. I wonder if I can do that with closets………

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

*There’s no room.

The Hi Guys

Michael 6 Comments

“’S’up.” “Hey” A nod up. Then another. One went east, one west. And the world kept turning. Thanks in part to the Hi Guys.

The Hi Guys are those guys (generically speaking of course – guys, gals, hims, hers, undecideds, too young to tell, too old to matter, too desperate to care – all of those) those guys are the guys that nod a “hello” to a perfect stranger one meets walking down the road, crossing a lobby, waiting for an elevator, or standing in front of or behind in a really long, really slow line – or on the line if that’s your geographic preference.

HiGuys

Drawing by me. Can’t you tell?

It’s just a nod, a recognition that says “Hey, you too are human and we are all part of a team and I recognize your contribution even if I don’t know you, don’t care if I ever know you, might never see you again, and will be just as happy if I do or if I don’t.” Sometimes that’s really hard to do. It’s easy to give that little finger wave over the steering wheel when you see a neighbor taking the dog for a walk along your own street on your way to work in the morning. But to acknowledge a total stranger, no, more than that, to show value to a total stranger is quite another.

Think of the number of times you run across somebody you don’t know versus the number you do of the number you do. (It might be awkward but if you parse that sentence you’ll see it works. Just like the Hi Guys!) An Oxford University study (Oxford, really) confirmed that the human brain can manage only 150 friendships. A simple “Hey, how ya doin’?” can expand your circle to unknown numbers. And make you smile at the same time.

Remember when you were a baby – probably not but you probably have seen babies. When a baby smiles at someone and makes that baby gurgle that only babies can make, everybody smiles back. Even me, and I’m usually fairly grouchy. So if a baby, who probably doesn’t understand that the world needs a little help to keep turning, can make a total stranger smile and feel good even for just a second or two, you can do it also.

So, keep the world turning. Become a Hi Guy*!

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

*I thought of this a couple of days ago when I was running into the store and stopped at the entrance to let a fellow carrying a double armload of grocery bags come out of the doorway before I went in. I didn’t expect a thank you for anything since I didn’t do anything. The door was automatic and wide enough for both of us.  As I passed him on my way through I did my usual nod and said something like hi or h’lo (the local equivalent of hello). He paused and sort of half-turned and said back to me, “Hey. Thanks.” And smiled. A real smile. I thought to myself, wow, somebody really does pay attention to that half-grunt I make now and then. That could be blog-worthy. Well, after I wrote this I thought I’d do a quick search for “Hi Guy.” I don’t know why, I just did. Maybe because I’m getting sort of up there in years and things sometime mean different things now than then. And sure enough I found something. My go to for stuff like this, the Urban Dictionary, defines “Hi Guy” pretty succinctly as a salutation to a man or woman. Clean enough for my purpose. Then I went one step further and plugged it into Google. There I found a link to “Lingomash” pronouncing that my Hi Guy in slang means “(1)Excl. When something outrages (sic) or unusual occurs. (2)Excl. When you don’t agree with one’s actions.“ Well that’s not right at all. Since I don’t have anything else to write about I’m going to ask that if you know “Hi Guy” as this completely antithetical twist to what I just wrote, could you please not tell anybody else. Thanks.

Oh, and one more thing. Some of you might remember “Hi, guy!” from the Right Guard commercials of the 1970s when two guys share a medicine cabinet and every morning they “bump into” each other in the bathroom. They were great. One guy would open the cabinet on his side of the wall and the other would be there and he bursts out with “Hi, guy!” It went on for years and the actor (Chuck McCann, an already well established actor) became known as the Right Guard Hi Guy. Except that in the very first commercial of the series he never said “Hi, guy.” If you should be wondering, here’s a link to it. Hi Guy.  (by Genius via YouTube)

I just realized my “post script” is longer than “letter.” I should stop now. In fact, I will. Really.

Name That Gadget

Michael 4 Comments

Dear followers, readers, friends (and who’s to say you might not be all of the above) and other people who have just wandered onto this but also might someday become follower, reader and/or friend, I need your help. But first, a story.

A few months ago a number of TV cooking shows that I watch and cooking magazines that I read featured bad gadgets. Everybody seemed to want to do their version of the Top Ten Worst Kitchen Gadgets. I didn’t get it. Why waste all that time and space on things that don’t work. It seems to me that most people with enough brains to operate a toaster oven can tell the worthwhile helpers from the culinary dreadfuls.

That being said, I indeed also have bought an occasional pig sticker in a poke. Usually they end up used once, uncovered for their uselessness, and then relegated to the “save for the next garage sale” box.

By the same token there are those gadgets that were once useful but now take up space in the drawer and have been made less useful to me because of changes in the things or way I cook or because new and improved really was. Every once in a while I take a turn through those cabinets and these items find themselves in that aforementioned box though not due to any fault of their own.

However (dramatic pause more than you might typically ascribe to a comma please), there is one gadget that I use with some regularity and I wonder why. No, it was never on any Worst Gadget List and it has never been supplanted by a better version. At least I don’t think so. You see, I don’t know what it is. I know what I use it for but I don’t know what it’s used for. Exactly.

And now, question time. What the heck is it?

thing

It’s about the size of a dinner fork, made of hard plastic, has no markings on it, and bears a familial resemblance to a crochet hook. I use it to clean the inside edges of the beaters from a hand mixer. It’s also handy for cleaning out the underside of a squeeze bottle cap and flicking open the battery compartment of thermometers, timers, and scales. It’s also good for digging small seeds out of small fruits and vegetables, and probably animals if you had that kind of mind. (Yes, there once was a time when my life wasn’t even quite this thrilling.) I would ask somebody around here but I’ve had it forever and nobody who was here then is still now, or anybody who is here now wasn’t there then.

If you know what it is, please help.  Otherwise I’m going to have to put it out at the next garage sale and wait for someone to pick it up and say, “Oh look, a whachamacallit like those people at the rare kitchen gadget store had on display for 43 billion dollars. And it’s only a quarter. Let’s offer him 20 cents.”

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

 

Desperately Seeking Closure

Michael 1 Comment

Did you draw your mother’s ire when as a kid you left (or if you still are a kid, leave) the door open when you came in from outside? Or let the refrigerator hang open? Or had an array of dresser draws intrude into your room, socks spilling onto the floor? Well, I didn’t. Not back then. Oh, I wasn’t perfect either. I probably had a door stay open to the elements on an urgent run from outdoor playing when all the trees were taken. (What can I say? The rest of the neighborhood kids weren’t perfect either.) But now I’ve turned into a man with seemingly not enough strength to get a cupboard door closed all the way.

If you were to look into my kitchen after I cooked up a good healthy breakfast you would find the refrigerator closed but not quite completely, the silverware drawer open, the cabinet where the oatmeal resides with its lid half-cocked not shut quite all the way, and the dishwasher where the used plates and tableware have been carefully placed quite uncarefully left ajar. Certainly the cabinets where the plates and glasses are stored would be similarly left agape except that those items are stored in racks on the counter. There are even times when the under-sink cabinet chemicals remain unshielded when I take the time to wipe down the counter after enjoying my healthy if a bit harried morning meal.Door

This carelessness isn’t restricted to the kitchen. In the bathroom drawers and doors are more likely to be open than closed upon entering. (I am good about lowering the toilet seat. Years of living in predominantly female households will do that.) In the bedroom the dresser drawers are almost always opened just a crack. Somehow even the roll top on the desk that now qualifies as my longest lasting relationship never quite makes it all the way to the writing surface, even with gravity helping along my now apparently feeble shutting action. The front door manages to get closed but on a nice day with the patio in use that door stands as great a chance of being as open during the night as it was during the day since I’ll often go to bed and simply forget there is a door there. (Note to potential local burglars, there’s nothing behind that unlatched entrance worth taking except perhaps the aforementioned rolltop desk which is much too heavy for one person to handle. Especially if that one person has a strong desire to maintain a certain level of stealth. And baby making ability.)

This failure to get doors, drawers, and other front pieces into their fully secure positions can’t be age related, can it? Certainly it’s not because I forget to secure the offending openings, patio access notwithstanding. I’d not think it’s a strength issue since I seem to do well enough with car doors which are certainly heavier than veneered particle board cabinet doors. I’d say perhaps it’s a laziness thing but does it really take any more effort to push a drawer that last quarter inch than not? Could it be that I’ve developed this propensity to leaving things standing open sometime after adolescence and just had a sufficiently active adulthood that I didn’t notice I was leaving doors and drawers open until recently now that I have more time to hang around the not closed openings? That seems doubtful in that you would imagine at some time I would walk into a hanging drawer front or notice the milk had soured from a refrigerator left open for an entire week’s worth of work days. No, age doesn’t seem to be a factor here other than one of coincidence.

I think the culprits are the house fairies that I had been hoping would have shown up during those years of weeks’ worth of work days to do things like clean the counters and match the socks tossed haphazardly into the dresser. They finally got around to me on their list of houses to work on and when they got here found that everything they had been dispatched to do is now being dealt with. Since house fairies are notoriously reticent to leave a place once they have been assigned, they are obviously looking for something to do, cook, eat, write, or wash, and they leave the room within which they are so searching somewhat hastily upon my entrance. The doors and drawers are left open just a smidge because, let’s be blunt about it, fairies don’t take up that much space and can get in and out of places through just a crack. That clearly explains the cabinets and dressers and even the desk doors and drawers that seem to never make it completely closed.

There. I feel better about it already. All except for that patio door business. I think I might have to take the blame for that one.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?