Friday, June 16, 2006
*^%$#@()&%$#!!!!
Sometimes I feel like that dude Truman must have felt when he found out his life was actually The Truman Show, being broadcast to millions. I've done enough stupid things lately to qualify for an assisted living facility, but what's even more stupid is that I then feel compelled to write about it. Today is one of those days. I had another one of those incidents that Cheesehead will undoubtedly refer to as a "Stephanie Plum Moment."
Our new refrigerator and range (I mistakenly thought it was a "stove") are being delivered today. Delivery includes removing the old items and putting them elsewhere, but I thought I'd be Mister Nice Guy and move them myself before the delivery guys arrive.
OK, that's a lie. I knew that neither appliance had been moved since the Clinton Administration, and I didn't want the delivery guys to know just what a slob I am when they move them and discover whatever funk lies beneath.
I hypothesized a few days ago with TFMCD that the best place for the old fridge, which is about to transcend from refrigerator to Self Contained Adult Beverage Storage System (SCABSS), would be in the laundry room. She went away for a couple of seconds, came back, and announced that it would not fit. Damn!
So this morning, I did that thing that all lazy guys do when they don't want to hunt down any of the four tape measures they undoubtedly own, each of which was purchased to replace one they could not find. I measured the width of the refrigerator by placing a hand on each side , then freezing both hands in that position and walking to the laundry room, inserting this precision measuring device into the doorway and voila! An inch or so to spare.
Now, the fridge was to go where we normally keep our ironing board. So, I folded up the ironing board and put it away, placed the Twelve Pound Super Binford 4-JigaWatt Iron on top of the dog food dispenser, and began cleaning the floor where the SCABSS was to be relocated. In the process, I bumped the dog food dispenser, and therewith commenced another of those "frozen in time" moments we talked about yesterday. I looked over at the dog food dispenser, and saw the Twelve Pound Super Binford 4-JigaWatt Iron rock a couple of times just before gravity took over. I was spellbound. I saw it coming and just could not bring myself to react to it. The Twelve Pound Super Binford 4-JigaWatt Iron went over the side, doing a lovely half-turn and plummeting to the floor, point first. Now that's a problem. The bigger problem was that my bare foot was occupying that spot on the floor toward which the iron was headed at near terminal velocity.
The point of the iron drove itself into the top of my foot, just right of center. The next few moments were occupied by language so colorful and vociferous as to merit consideration for the Hysterically Pained Outburst Of The Year award. Yeah, I know. There is no such award, I just invented it and nominated myself. I could have made a Tourette's sufferer blush. The good news is that I saved the iron by breaking its fall. Now I have a spot on my foot that looks as though someone surgically implanted a plum just under the skin, and it's beginning to take on the color as well.
Once the pain subsided a bit, I was back on task. I horsed the refrigerator around the corner and to the laundry room, and began to slide it through the door.
Crunch!
It doesn't fit. Off by about 1/2", which I would have know had I either:
a) Listened to TFMCD, or
b) Used a tape measure instead of my digitally calibrated hands.
I'm pretty sure it'll fit if the doors are removed. Which is exactly what I will tell the delivery guys, whom are being paid to do this shit anyway.
We have dinner planned tonight at Fleming's with Wayners and Janners. It's a good thing that we Zonies have more relaxed dress codes than the rest of the country, because I'll probably have to go barefoot.
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Our new refrigerator and range (I mistakenly thought it was a "stove") are being delivered today. Delivery includes removing the old items and putting them elsewhere, but I thought I'd be Mister Nice Guy and move them myself before the delivery guys arrive.
OK, that's a lie. I knew that neither appliance had been moved since the Clinton Administration, and I didn't want the delivery guys to know just what a slob I am when they move them and discover whatever funk lies beneath.
I hypothesized a few days ago with TFMCD that the best place for the old fridge, which is about to transcend from refrigerator to Self Contained Adult Beverage Storage System (SCABSS), would be in the laundry room. She went away for a couple of seconds, came back, and announced that it would not fit. Damn!
So this morning, I did that thing that all lazy guys do when they don't want to hunt down any of the four tape measures they undoubtedly own, each of which was purchased to replace one they could not find. I measured the width of the refrigerator by placing a hand on each side , then freezing both hands in that position and walking to the laundry room, inserting this precision measuring device into the doorway and voila! An inch or so to spare.
Now, the fridge was to go where we normally keep our ironing board. So, I folded up the ironing board and put it away, placed the Twelve Pound Super Binford 4-JigaWatt Iron on top of the dog food dispenser, and began cleaning the floor where the SCABSS was to be relocated. In the process, I bumped the dog food dispenser, and therewith commenced another of those "frozen in time" moments we talked about yesterday. I looked over at the dog food dispenser, and saw the Twelve Pound Super Binford 4-JigaWatt Iron rock a couple of times just before gravity took over. I was spellbound. I saw it coming and just could not bring myself to react to it. The Twelve Pound Super Binford 4-JigaWatt Iron went over the side, doing a lovely half-turn and plummeting to the floor, point first. Now that's a problem. The bigger problem was that my bare foot was occupying that spot on the floor toward which the iron was headed at near terminal velocity.
The point of the iron drove itself into the top of my foot, just right of center. The next few moments were occupied by language so colorful and vociferous as to merit consideration for the Hysterically Pained Outburst Of The Year award. Yeah, I know. There is no such award, I just invented it and nominated myself. I could have made a Tourette's sufferer blush. The good news is that I saved the iron by breaking its fall. Now I have a spot on my foot that looks as though someone surgically implanted a plum just under the skin, and it's beginning to take on the color as well.
Once the pain subsided a bit, I was back on task. I horsed the refrigerator around the corner and to the laundry room, and began to slide it through the door.
Crunch!
It doesn't fit. Off by about 1/2", which I would have know had I either:
a) Listened to TFMCD, or
b) Used a tape measure instead of my digitally calibrated hands.
I'm pretty sure it'll fit if the doors are removed. Which is exactly what I will tell the delivery guys, whom are being paid to do this shit anyway.
We have dinner planned tonight at Fleming's with Wayners and Janners. It's a good thing that we Zonies have more relaxed dress codes than the rest of the country, because I'll probably have to go barefoot.
