Showing 1 - 10 of 336 posts found matching keyword: walter

What am I thankful for this year? Hmm. Let me think.

I know! Bluey. I caught a couple of episodes on Disney Junior in the middle of the night and was instantly hooked. It's a very, very charming cartoon, and I've been watching it when I can.

A cartoon aimed at preschoolers might sound like a strange thing for me to like, but I'm not exactly completely unaware of children's television shows. PBS's Odd Squad has long been must-watch tv for me. (Have I mentioned that around here? No? That's odd. I really do get a kick out of it.)

And I'm sure that a certain Randy somewhere in the world will be quick to remind everyone that I was a big fan of Lazytown back in a day I was already too old for it. Pink is still my favorite hair color.

So, yeah. Happy Bluey, everybody!

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When I was a kid, September was my favorite month, because that was the month I got Birthday presents. When I was in college, July was my favorite month, because that was the month where I had the run of campus. But I'm starting to think that November is my favorite month, because it looks like this:

Dead leaves are the most beautiful leaves

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Last weekend's task: glue a rear view mirror to a Jeep windshield the Walter Way, just 10 easy steps!

Step 1: cut open tubes of two-part epoxy and dispense onto a sheet of wax paper.

Step 2: clean your hands of the epoxy you got on your fingers while trying to put the cap back on.

Step 3: mix the two parts of the epoxy with a toothpick.

Step 4: clean the table of the epoxy you on it after accidentally tearing the wax paper with the toothpick.

Step 5: use the toothpick to spread epoxy on the button that will attach the rear view mirror to the windshield.

Step 6: clean your hands of the epoxy you got on your fingers while trying to pick the epoxy-covered button off the table.

Step 7: place the button against the windshield and hold in place with a piece of masking tape.

Step 8: clean the windshield of the epoxy you smeared while simultaneously holding the button against the windshield and tearing a strip of tape off the roll.

Step 9: Go back to Step 5 and try again.

Step 10: Congratulate yourself on a job well done!

Next weekend's task: replace a leaky sink faucet in the basement the Walter Way, just 10 easy steps!

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My neighbors already have a Christmas Tree in their window, and I want to smash it. The window, that is. The tree should be set on fire.

A wise man once said, "I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel." Hear, hear, Charlie Brown. I like peace on Earth. I like the idea of good will toward men. I even like candy canes, gingerbread houses, and getting gifts. So why don't I like Christmas?

I'm sure some of it has to do with the fact that Christmas is a disruption of my regular schedule. That's not fun for me. And maybe I don't like seeing other people enjoy themselves. Keep your happiness in Whoville, you jerks!

But I think what I hate most is how commercialized the holiday is. The mindlessly rapacious American consumer is encouraged — nay, expected! — to buy a whole bunch of tchotchkes and gewgaws they don't want or need, crap like this:

I'm sure David Hasselhoff is honored to be in the same collection

We're tearing down forests and melting the icecaps so that someone can grow some faux hair on piles of poo? Bah, humbug.

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  • Awoke to a call to repair a broken door at our commercial rental property
  • Bent the jack on my aunt's new lawnmower trailer as I was swapping her two trailers
  • Smashed my thumb with a sledgehammer while trying to "repair" said jack
  • Nearly wrecked my car changing lanes in front of a tiny Smart car on the way to the hospital
  • Visited Dad in the hospital to find him once again weak and confused (he was readmitted on Saturday because he couldn't breathe well... and he still can't breathe well)
  • Failed to properly latch the gate and allowed Dad's poodle Scarlett to escape my yard
  • Struck in the eye by a falling acorn
  • Watched Matt Amodio lose on Jeopardy!

That was my Monday. I don't think I'll be getting out of bed on Tuesday. I don't want to find out what falling thing hits me in the eye next. It'd probably be a plane.

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I've been re-reading some of my posts from years past. While they can and do often entertain me, even I have to admit that sometimes I really can be an obnoxious blowhard. Sorry about that.

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Tropical Storm Fred has driven unusual animals into my bedroom. I've found a cockroach on the ceiling, a four-inch wolf spider under my clothes hamper, and a foot-long brown snake under my bed.

The roach was easily crushed and flushed. The snake I caught in a dustpan and released outside. The spider put up more of a fight.

Wolfie resisted all of my invitations to exit my living space, so it's now living inside the belly of my studio shop vac, which I guess I won't be emptying for a few months yet.

(Ha, ha. That's a joke. I'm sure the li'l bastard thing will just burst through the vacuum's plastic casing to terrorize me again. I'm stuffing a wet towel under my door before I go to bed, just in case.)

There's a long list of terrible things going on in the world that I could be worried about, so it's kind of nice that the creepy-crawlies in my basement are working together to keep me "present." Thanks, spider. I guess.

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I typically say something snarky here, but I'm proud of that pasta

That there, that's homemade spaghetti. And I made it! And it tastes great!

Yeah, I know. People have been making homemade pasta — essentially just flour and eggs — for centuries, maybe millennia. But none of those people have ever been in my kitchen.

As it happens, my father gave me the pasta roller/cutter and drying rack you can see in the image above for Christmas... Christmas 2019. (I might even have asked for them.) Which means I've had them throughout the pandemic of 2020-21. Despite all the "free" time that gave me away from restaurants, I never made any pasta until now. Why not? I guess I was intimidated. I thought it would be a lot of work. Turns out it is.

I got the recipe from my favorite cookbook, The Joy of Cooking, and I used advice I've picked up over the years watching Joe Bastianich criticize would-be Italian cooks on MasterChef. ("Salty like the ocean!") I understand now why that show always has so much footage of people struggling with pasta rollers. While the dough itself is a breeze, the little home consumer counter-mounted pasta roller is a bastard. I christened mine "Mussolini's Revenge."

So it is all a lot of trouble, but it might be worth it. I can now attest firsthand: fresh pasta is good eating.

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A month ago, the next door neighbor to our left sold her house. It's disappointing to lose a good neighbor, but it's perfectly reasonable that she should want to move closer to her grandchildren after the death of her husband, a very nice man who was also a former head of our local Board of Education.

The person who bought her house remains unseen. So far as I can tell, no one has moved in yet, but the house receives nearly daily shipments of packages, as though someone was redecorating with entirely new products purchased on Earlier this week, they even delivered a car, a Mercedes-Benz. I've been joking that someone is building a safe house for spies.

Meanwhile, the neighbors to our right, a couple with young children, backed a U-Haul up to their house yesterday afternoon, and this morning they were gone, taking with them their dog who enjoyed coming into our yard and barking at me. Obviously, we were not as close to them, and their departure was very unexpected.

They left a rollaway dumpster in their driveway filled with furniture, including beds, dressers, and children's' bicycles. Why would anyone leaving a house in such a hurry take the time to throw so much of their stuff away? If it was an eviction, I'd think they would have just left the stuff where it was. If they sold and are moving, why not take the children's toys? The only reason I can think of for anyone to leave in such a state of disarray is because their house is haunted.

I am currently, quite literally, surrounded by mysteries.

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Autocorrect continues to plague me.

After Simone Biles withdrew from Olympic competition citing mental issues, I tried to Google the definition of "gymnastics twisties."

My autocorrect changed it to "gymnastics titties."

I'm sure they're nice, but that's not what I'm interested in (right now).

If it's true that the average man thinks about sex once every 7 seconds and that computers process information 10 million times faster than humans, how often does my computer think about sex?

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To be continued...