Is Curling Just Golf for the Clinically Insane?

Like everyone during the winter Olympics, I turn on the TV each night hoping that they will be featuring my favorite, and most exiting competition – Curling!

Just kidding! 

Like EVERYONE, I sigh with dread each time they show it.  Why don’t they show more of the half pipe?  That’s what we’re thinking.  Snowboarders flying through the air, doing super quad twists and flips and turns. 

What is the percentage of viewers interested in curling?  One percent?  Or, let’s be serious – one-tenth of one percent?  I apologize for my sarcasm.  I know that one-tenth of one percent is a gross exaggeration. 

So, last night, I turned on the Olympics, and I was thrilled with my good fortune! 

Curling?!  Again!

Uhh.

But, like every devoted television viewer, I left the channel on and started watching (with a snack in hand, of course). 

After a few minutes, I realized that if I were going to continue watching, I’d need at least four double espressos.  Or perhaps I could hire someone to sit next to me and every two minutes, poke me with an electric cattle prod.

Then, of course, the narcissism kicked in. 

How hard could this be? 

How good would I be at it?  Conveniently, because this “sport” (Seriously? A sport?), moves at a glacial pace, it left me with ample time to ponder this.

First off – I would need to specialize in being that guy who aims and then pushes the “rock.”  That would be my thing.  Frankly, the job of sweeping in front of the rock as it glides along looks exhausting.  Not for me.

And what about those brooms?  Is it like baseball, where All-Stars endorse their own bats?  

Of course, I won’t take the time to look into this, but I’d bet they sell “famous” curlers’ brooms. 

I can already imagine the Nike commercial:

Dramatic music swells as the “famous” curling champion stares intensely into the camera and whispers, “Just Sweep It.”

THE END

Hold on!

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The Great Toilet Paper Heist

When the world shut down and everyone else started baking sourdough, my wife and I bought a collapsing cottage.

You know. Standard pandemic behavior.

While our friends were panic-buying hand sanitizer, we were signing papers on a place that looked like it had lost a fistfight with 1973. The deck was so thoroughly rotten, I fell through it the first time I walked onto it – not “it cracked under my foot,” – completely through it.  (This is NOT hyperbole.)  The carpet was that plush, luxurious style you find in the average IRS lobby. The bathroom “fan” was an open window (looking onto the neighbor’s porch). 

But we had a dream.  We would turn this run-down little gremlin of a house into a charming Airbnb.

So, we painted. We hammered. We replaced things that should have been replaced during the Reagan administration.

During the remodel, I read about my options to operate the cottage.  Should we be insane enough to host it ourselves?  Meet and greet?  Change the sheets?  Scrub the bathtub?  I read a blog post from a woman in Atlanta who personally ran an Airbnb.  She warned: 

“Plan on spending more on paper products that you might expect.”  She noted that guests often stole all the toilet paper.

All of it.

At first, I scrunched up my face and thought, really?  Then I laughed. Surely, she was exaggerating. 

We came to our senses and hired an Airbnb rental service.

Fast forward to our stopping by to visit the place right after a checkout.

The place looked great… until I entered the bathroom to address a “code red.” 

Empty holder.

Empty “four-roll” toilet paper stacker. 

Not even the half-used roll.

Nothing. 

Nada. 

Like a toilet paper rapture.

These people didn’t just take the extras. They took the emotional support roll. The one currently on duty. Who removes a half-used roll like, “Yes, I’m scraping this place bare”?

We renovated an entire cottage, installed new floors, upgraded appliances… but the real threat to our success?

Toilet paper bandits.

Yes, I Am Now Officially an MPG Denier!

By Jack Edwards

    I’m selling my Honda Accord because I just bought a Ford F-150 pickup.  You might wonder why someone would buy a pickup when he has a Honda Accord in excellent condition, and it gets over 38 miles per gallon.  Two reasons.  First, an overwhelming urge to spend twice as much on gas.  Second, I needed an inexpensive way to get my old Christmas tree to the dump.

         I’m facing three challenges:

#1 – The Dent.

        Awhile back, my Accord was innocently sitting downtown, and someone with the driving skills of a raccoon hit my front right corner.  Then, because they had all the personal responsibility of a serial killer, they got the H E double toothpicks out of there! 

    I took it to a repair shop for an estimate.  They took a few pictures and told me they’d email me an estimate later that day.  After seeing the estimate, I realized why they didn’t tell me on the spot.  They didn’t have anyone on staff certified to do CPR.  The estimate?  One trillion dollars!  Just kidding (but not by much) – $2,700.  So I went on the internet and bought a suction cup for $17.95.  It said it could pull out dents.  When it arrived, I opened the box with such hope.  Uh… that turned out to be a “No.”

#2 – The Miles.

        I drive a lot for my job.  So even though the car is only seven years old, it has over 150,000 miles.  But they’re HIGHWAY MILES!  And despite my telling people they’re only “highway miles,” they keep looking at me with that blank, unamused expression you find on the average 7-11 clerk.

#3 – The Crack.

        There is a “small” crack in the windshield.  I remember when it happened.  I was driving to Seattle on I-5 and a semi-truck I was following threw up a rock.  The good news is that it’s located DIRECTLY in front of the driver’s seat.  I decided to fix it with a repair technique that has worked well for me in the past: Extreme Procrastination.  (So far, so good.)

        Here is where I need your help:  If you, or someone you know, is looking for a great “pre-dented” car with high miles and a constant reminder not to follow semis too closely, Boy, have I got a deal for you! 

         Wish me luck!

My First Sailing Lesson: Nobody Warned Me It Would Involve Physics!

The list of items to take to my first sailing lesson concerned me.  It included, “a change of clothes,” followed by the comment, “You will get wet!”  Most of the items seemed fine – “sunglasses,” “US Coast Guard approved lifejacket.”  But I was alarmed to see the final item on the list – “rosary beads.” 

Okay, the list DIDN’T include rosary beads, although I gave it serious consideration – and I’m not even Catholic. But the list did include the, “You will get wet!” warning.

I had envisioned more of a “sip a glass of wine as I slowly glide toward the sunset” lesson. 

I immediately texted my daughter, Zoe.  She was the one who had signed me up for this impending disaster.

Me: “Zoe, I think this lesson is going to be a little more exciting than I planned.” 

Zoe (being an incredibly sensitive and supportive daughter, comforted me by immediately replying): “Buck up, sailor!”

We arrived at the Willamette Sailing Club and met our instructor, Walt.  I figured Walt would take us straight to a boat, but instead, he took us to a classroom.  Perfect, I thought.  A wave couldn’t hit me there!  But to my shock and dismay, I was hit with something far worse – Physics!  Walt explained that the same principle that causes an airplane’s wing to raise the plane off the ground is what causes a sail (which he pointed out was like a vertical wing) to propel a boat.  He briefly explained the scientific principle, and I briefly stared blankly into space. 

Physics lesson safely averted, we headed for the boat. 

The boat’s name was Sunshine.  More relief.  How could a nice boat named Sunshine kill me? 

This is when we realized that we were missing something that Walt had repeatedly mentioned during his lecture was a key ingredient for sailing – Wind! 

Walt optimistically announced that once we were on the river, we might find some wind.  He said this as he put a paddle in the boat.  I immediately envisioned my myself desperately paddling toward the distant shore, sweat dripping from my forehead. 

Low and behold, there was a little wind on the river!

We spent much of the lesson learning how to “tack.”  “Tacking” is how you turn the boat in a different direction. 

Tacking is a three-step process:

First, the person holding the “tiller” (the long handle connected to the rudder) calls out, “Prepare to tack!”

Second, the crew calls back, “Ready!”

Third, the person holding the tiller calls out, “tacking,” and pushes the tiller so the boat turns 90 degrees. 

That’s how it’s SUPPOSE to work.

Sadly, I added a few steps –

Me, gripping the tiller for dear life: “I forgot what I’m supposed to say!”

Walt: “Prepare to tack!”

Me, intently focused on not peeing my pants: “Prepare to tack.”

Two of my crew, my oldest daughter, Zoe, and her husband, Will, called out, “Ready!”  My younger daughter, Emma, was apparently asserting her constitutional right to remain silent.

Me yelling: “Tacking,” as I pushed the tiller out too far knocking us off course.

Walt: “Not so far.  Pull it back.”

Me: “Oh,” as I pulled the tiller too far back, over-correcting.

You may be thinking, ‘Oh, he’s just describing the very first time he tried to tack.’  You would be wrong.  That was pretty much EVERY time I tried to tack.

All-in-all, it was a really fun lesson.  My crew never once threatened to mutiny or even made me walk the plank.  Best of all, I NEVER GOT WET!

***THE END***

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Just Because A Store Is Open 24 Hours Does NOT Mean You Should Shop At 4 AM

The fact that the parking lot was a barren landscape was the first sign that I should have abandoned my plan to shop and immediately made my escape.

Nevertheless, like the stupid teenager in the horror film who goes down into the basement to investigate where all the blood and screaming is coming from, I continued.

Before you label me a weirdo for being up that early, let me defend myself.  I was up because I had to drop my sister off at the airport for her conveniently scheduled 5 a.m. flight.

I entered the store and people were scattered everywhere, frantically restocking shelves.  (Where had they all parked?!)  I felt like I was competing on American Gladiators trying to crawl over, around and through them to snatch my basic food essentials.  One of my most basic food essentials was in an aisle particularly crammed with workers.  I was forced to squeeze my way through a dangerous gauntlet of these industrious folks who were swinging box cutters around like The Three Musketeers.  I was on a critical mission – to find and capture a family-sized box of Cheez-Its. 

The true benefit of shopping at 4 am is spending quality time with the earlier risers in our community – those folks who shame us with their productivity and cheerful attitudes.  And by this, I mean the meth addicts who have been up all night tweaking and are now in desperate search for junk food.  Okay, not ALL the 4 a.m. customers were meth addicts!  Only 99%.  Okay, on this particular morning there was just one.  This tall, skinny wild-eyed lady zoomed in front of me as I approached the checkout stand.  She plopped a bag of donuts on the counter and stood there in a daze rocking like a 1963 Bel Air on seven cylinders.  Then she suddenly snapped from her daze and pulled out her Oregon Trail Card. 

For those of you not familiar with The Beaver State, let me be the first to inform you –

The genius politicians who run our state wisely decided to name our food stamp or “food benefit” card the “Oregon Trail Card.”  This is because no one epitomizes the independent spirt of those brave pioneers who traversed the thousands of miles of mountains, rivers and treacherous terrain to settle here in the 1800s, like a stoner who gets up at 10 a.m. every day to smoke a bowl before settling down to watch The Price is Right.

The moral of the story: Just because a store is OPEN 24 hours a day, doesn’t mean you should shop at 4 a.m. – no matter how much you need those tasty Cheez-Its. 

***The End***

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When I First Heard the Term “The Silent Killer” I Thought They Were Talking About a Fart

I recently made the enormous mistake of taking my blood pressure on one of those home testing machines.  When I saw the reading, it almost gave me a heart attack!  Let me put it this way, if my blood pressure was the stock market, we’d all be lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills and sipping Dom Perignon.  My blood pressure was one nanoparticle from the zone labeled, “Seek medical attention now!”

I took immediate action.  And by, “took immediate action,” I mean I whacked the machine a couple of times and tried it again.  Yikes!  The same shocking result.  It was either broken, or my life expectancy was about two-hours.

Doctors call high blood pressure “the silent killer.”  (My old knucklehead friends at Alsea Elementary would beg to differ.  They had a different definition, but I digress.) 

The medical community loves to invent witty little names for medical conditions.  “The Silent Killer” is right up there with another medical knee-slapper, “The Widow Maker.”

Lovely.

Confronted with this dire situation, there was only one sensible course of action.  So, I started pondering whether I would rather die from a heart attack or a stroke. 

By chance, my bi-five-yearly physical was scheduled the next week.  I pictured a nurse taking my blood pressure and screaming, “Heart attack on a plate!  I need a stretcher!  STAT!”

In the meantime, I stumbled across a book called The Blood Sugar Solution 10-Day Detox Diet, by Dr. Mark Hyman.  He claims that if you follow his diet, you will dramatically improve your vital signs, increase your overall health, and lose weight.

Let me summarize the diet –

No sugar (of, course)

No starchy vegetables (my favorite)

No sugar laden fruits (again, my favorite)

No processed foods

No dairy

No legumes (for my fellow geniuses from Alsea Elementary, this means no beans).

No caffeine

And, most painfully, no alcohol.

You’ve heard the phrase, “grass-fed beef?”  Go on this diet and you be a “grass-fed person.”  I’m just kidding!  You get to eat regular servings of protein. 

I was two days into this diet when I saw my doctor.  Surprisingly, my blood pressure was high, but not crazy high.  My doctor told me to track it over the next month or so and report back if it got much higher.

This morning, my blood pressure was 105 over 69!  So, I took immediate action!  I whacked the machine on the side a couple of times and retook the test.

Let me put it this way.  If my blood pressure were the stock market, we’d all be destitute and living in cardboard boxes!

Thank you, Dr. Hyman!

***The End***

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Expecting a Baby Boy? Why Not Name Him Judas?

Fun Fact: Jesus didn’t just have one disciple named Judas, he had two.  Seriously!  There was that infamous Judas Iscariot, the scoundrel that betrayed him, and a lesser-known Judas. 

I spent an afternoon at the University of Oregon library researching the second Judas, because I wanted to know more about him and his full name.  It turns out his full name was, “The Other Judas.” 

Can you imagine being the other Judas?  All day long, “Hey, I’m not THAT Judas!”

Last year, about 25 babies in the US were named Judas.  Yikes!  Talk about a cross to bear!  First day of school, the teacher is calling roll, “Judas!  Judas!  Is Judas here?”  Stunned look on all the classmates’ faces. 

I assume all the parents who named these 25 poor souls are currently doing hard time for sundry crimes of depravity – grave robbery, elderly abuse, wearing man-buns.

In Greek, the name Judas means, “Let him be praised.”  This is the second biggest mistake the Greeks have made after inventing those horrid little grape-leaf appetizers. 

There is an old Johnny Cash song called, “A Boy Named Sue,” about a guy who named his son Sue because he wouldn’t be around to raise him.  (Obviously, a “Father of the Year” contender.)  His reasoning was that doing that would make his son tough and develop the necessary skills to survive.  I’m pretty sure the only thing it would do is sentence the kid to a lifetime of therapy.  Same with “Judas.”

I asked ChatGPT what I should title this column (seriously, I did).  It suggested:

“Judas: The ultimate parent-teacher conference conversation starter.”

Judas?!  Can you imagine?

“Mom, Dad, this is my new boyfriend, Judas!”

McDonald’s manager handing out nametags to new employees – “Hey, Judas, nothing personal, but we printed yours out as, “The J Man.”  Cool?

An announcement over the elementary school PA system, “The winner of this year’s Christmas Celebration costume contest is….”

On the other hand, if my parents had named me Judas, I would have to admire their bold, independent, and unflinching world view. 

Then I would change my name to Jake.

Nothing Says “No Smoking” Like a Conveniently Located Ashtray

Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of enjoying a short 14-hour flight from Tel Aviv to San Francisco.  And, I don’t want to brag, but I was flying coach.  I would have measured my leg room, but I forgot my micrometer. 

Fourteen hours is plenty of time to sit and ponder.  It’s also time to take full advantage of all the complimentary amenities offered in coach – free water, a free reading light, and of course, a free toilet.  (At least for now.  Don’t think those shysters running the airlines aren’t plotting a way to install pay toilets.)

Of course, First-Class passengers get to travel in their hoity-toity individual cubicles they refer to as “pods.”  They lean back, scratch their big bellies and sip flutes of champagne as they glide joyfully from time zone to time zone. 

I too fly in a private pod.  Only my pod is called “the toilet.”  And, at least 50% of the time, there’s no champagne.

Anyway, there I was, somewhere between Belarus and Belgium, enjoying the peace and tranquility of my pod, when I noticed something disturbingly askew.  On the toilet door in front of me was a No Smoking sign, and directly below it was… you guessed it!  An ashtray!  Here it is, I opened it up to make sure I wasn’t seeing things –

I don’t smoke, but just looking at that stylish little ashtray made me want to fire up a Marlboro.  It was so conveniently placed that I could light up and tip my ashes without so much as shifting my sizeable posterior an inch.  The average smoker must spot these little ashtrays quicker than a toad spots a fly.  It’s got to drive them crazy.  It’s probably the reason for the epidemic of passenger melees. 

The flight attendants need to change their preflight announcement from, “It is against federal law to disable, tamper with or destroy lavatory smoke detectors,” to, “It is against federal law to disable, tamper with or destroy lavatory smoke detectors, and never mind the siren’s song of those conveniently built-in ashtrays installed specifically to drive you insane.”

Enjoying that little oddity consumed a whole 13 minutes of my 14-hour ordeal.  This left me 13 hours and 47 minutes to recline in my assigned seat, stretch out in the 4½ inches of leg room, and of course, enjoy that UNLIMITED supply of complimentary water.  

I Would Love to Watch My New “Smart TV,” But, Unfortunately, I’m Not That Smart

I had the same TV for 20 years, but recently, family members started complaining.  They said the sound didn’t work.  I told them the sound DID work, you just had to do the following:

1. Turn the TV on. 

2. Turn the TV off.

3. Wait eight seconds, until you hear a “click” sound.

4. Turn the TV on a second time.

Voila!  Picture AND sound!

They also complained that it wasn’t a “smart TV,” i.e., it didn’t get any of their fancy “streaming” channels. 

Truth be told, the major obstacle I had with getting a new television was the thought of getting rid of the old Sony.  That thing was heavier than a Buick Skylark.  I bought it just about the time my youngest daughter was born, and she just graduated from college.  Way back when men were men, and TVs were, well, super heavy TVs.

So, I fired up my old 2002 Tacoma and headed off to Costco.  I immediately fell in love with an 86-inch model.  It was perfect!  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of taking my wife with me.  She said, “no.”  She explained that given the size of our family room, if we got an 86-inch TV, we’d feel like we were sitting in the front row of a movie theatre. 

I buried my sadness in a $1.50 hot dog. 

We finally settled on a 65-inch model and hauled our high-tech trophy back to the house.

Then came the dreaded task…

Two hernias later, I had successfully hauled my perfectly good old TV to the dump.  It was an emotional moment.  We had shared many precious memories.

Back at the house, I got the new television out of its box and secured it to the pedestal.

This is when the REAL problem reared its ugly head.

When I bought this TV, I made a big mistake.  I accidentally forgot that I didn’t have a Ph.D. in Computer Science.  I really only watch cable news and the Food Network, both of which worked perfectly well on my old Buick…, I mean, old Sony.

At long last, with the aid of a YouTube video, my wife, and the Holy Spirit, I managed to navigate to the cable news channels.  Now, if I can just shake the habit of turning it on, turning it off, waiting eight seconds until I hear a click, and then turning it on again.  Oh, the memories.

Junie is a Loveable Fur Ball (Who Only Occasionally Bites Men)

The first time I met my daughter Zoe’s new dog, Junie, it walked over to me in a friendly manner, seemed to smile at me, and bit me.  Thankfully, I possess an amazing ability to react calmly to a crisis.  So, I screamed like a girl. 

Zoe raced over and asked me if it drew blood.  I told her it didn’t, and then she announced: “Then it doesn’t count.”

What the #@%?!

Fun facts about Junie –

First, Junie wasn’t really a “new” dog.  She was actually a “used” dog. My daughter and son-in-law got her from the pound.  (Probably on sale).

Second, Junie is half Pitbull and half “whatever happened to be trotting down the alley that day.”

Third, Junie does NOT like men.  Apparently, some jack*ss abused Junie early in life, and she clearly still harbors a “biting” resentment.

Fast-forward six months to a late-night phone call from Zoe:

“Dad, I’ve got an emergency, and I have to drop Junie off at your house.” 

I reminded her that the first time I met Junie, she said “hello” by biting me, and I’ve been avoiding her ever since.

My daughter responded by telling me I just had to remember three things –

1. Always let her come to you (don’t approach her).

2. Don’t pet her on the top of her head.

3. Under no circumstance should I make eye-contact with her.

No eye-contact?  Was she telling me how to take care of her dog or survive in a stretch in a San Quentin?

Smash cut to my daughter knocking on my door with “Junie the biting dog.”

Most people who dog sit worry that the dog will get nervous and relieve itself on the floor.  I was worried that I would get nervous and relieve myself on the floor.

Fortunately, this story had a happy ending.  After two days of tiptoeing around the house trying to avoid eye-contact with Cujo, (I mean Junie), things finally settled down.  I’m not sure what ultimately changed Junie’s mind about me.  One possibility is that I won her over with my charming personality.  The other, more likely, possibility is that she remembered me screaming like a girl and reclassified my gender. 

Either way, I survived to tell the tale.