Last week my wife turned 39. Tell anyone that you are thirty-nine and their first thought is “Right…looks like we’ve got us a liar.” Same thing goes for 29. A person can claim 28, 33, or 37 all day long and no one will question it. But if you toss out that you’re 39 everyone instantly assumes that you are no less than 43.
I guess there is some validity to the disbelief. Women especially have problems with letting their age be known. Just last year my grandmother informed me that she was no longer celebrating her 29th birthday…she was born in 1922. My wife’s granny went so far as to have a different birth date put on her driver’s license. You could get away with that in the 1930’s. You could also get away with driving yourself to the DMV to take the driving test.
The coining of the term “cougar” has helped this touchy social issue simply because it is now awesome to be a woman in her 40’s; and by proxy, being a man at that age is cool too. Unless you still live with your mom, drive the same car you did in high school, and think macaroni and ketchup is fine dining.
I have always welcomed turning another year older. If nothing else it means one thing…I am not dead. I see that as a mostly positive thing.
A major part of celebrating birthdays is receiving gifts. This year I gave my wife the classic “gift promise”. This is a strategy I employ when I cannot come up with a good idea before it’s too late. Now, I know what you are thinking, but it’s not like that. I am taking her to a show and the tickets just weren’t on sale yet. Nonetheless, it is a brilliant strategy.
Along with birthday gifts comes wrapping paper. Long before I was domesticated I thought the store bag was sufficient for gift concealment. Now I have learned that proper packaging may be the most important part of any gift. It is a scientific fact that “pretty” packages up the value of a mediocre gift by a factor of eight.
I think back to birthday parties when I was a kid. I would guess that at a standard 9 year-olds birthday party 53% of the gifts were wrapped in the previous Sunday’s funny papers. That got me thinking: Why don’t I start using the Wall Street Journal to wrap presents?
Think of the message sent by a package wrapped in the nation’s premier newspaper! It screams that the giver is a person of the world, well read and well informed. And obviously an educated man such as a Wall Street Journal reader would give nothing but the finest. With that kind of up front presentation I could give a box of rocks and the recipient would be flabbergasted at the majesty of the gift.
With a daily supply of wrapping paper being tossed into my front lawn, I need only to have a dump truck load of gravel delivered and I will have my shopping done for the year!
Use #7: Wrapping Paper
John Hansen accepts all forms of gifts, including cash and precious metals, and is willing to act humbled by the generous acts of kindness. He is the co-author of the Power of Zahn, an unopened gift to the literary world.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
#6: Electrified Glory
Today I finally got around to taking down the outdoor Christmas decorations. That’s right; we’ve been one of “those” families this year. Our plastic Santa and Rudolph (from the 1950’s) waved to passersby until January 17th! In my defense it has been unbelievably cold the last few weeks. Granted, I’ll change my oil when it’s 17 degrees and the ground is covered in snow, but there is now way I’m going to take down lights until it’s sunny and warm. My motto is simply, “Let it ride…let it ride.”
What is it about taking down Christmas decorations? Dragging all the stuff out and turning the house into a gaudy display of holiday cheer is a blast. But taking the crap down and hauling it back into the attic is like signing up for a root canal. This year was made worse because I also had not cleaned up the celebration fodder littering the yard since New Year’s Eve.
As one would expect, our New Year’s Eve was a rockin’ good time. We overate and played the Wii until 10:15 when my wife and I notified the kids to wake us up at 11:40. What went on during that hour and a half remains a mystery, known only to the kids.
Like a cheap alarm clock, the girls woke us 5 minutes late. We gathered our senses (kind of) and at the stroke of midnight bolted into the arctic tundra, formerly known as Oklahoma, wearing nothing but pajamas. We quickly fired off several confetti poppers and hosed each other down with silly string before darting back inside for the usual round of toasts and late night phone calls.
I have a few words about these articles of celebration. First, who in their right mind designed silly string to be non-biodegradable? That garbage has lay on the sidewalk for two weeks without even moving. It’s so unnatural that the wind doesn’t even affect it. The foil confetti isn’t any better and definitely is on Earth for the long haul. My front yard looked as if we had dumped chaff out the windows to ward off some heat seeking missiles. How can 8 confetti poppers have so much stuff shoved into them? What it boils down to is that 3 minutes of celebration resulted in two hours of cleanup. Man, I love celebrating New Year’s.
Back to the matter at hand…The worst thing about taking down strings of lights is storing them. Regardless of how you put them in a box, they will come out as one giant wad of green wire and broken glass. But this year was going to be different for one simple reason; the Wall Street Journal.
I took several old editions and, using a little duct tape, made a pile of paper tubes which I then wrapped the strands of lights around. Now I look forward, with great anticipation, to unwinding the lights next November and hanging them for another month of electrified holiness in my front yard.
Use #6: Storing Christmas Lights
John Hansen is a full grown man with a man sized appetite. He always cleans his plate and usually eats much more than he should. He is the co-author of the Power of Zahn, which is sure to cause reading gluttony to all those who purchase the someday professionally printed novel.
What is it about taking down Christmas decorations? Dragging all the stuff out and turning the house into a gaudy display of holiday cheer is a blast. But taking the crap down and hauling it back into the attic is like signing up for a root canal. This year was made worse because I also had not cleaned up the celebration fodder littering the yard since New Year’s Eve.
As one would expect, our New Year’s Eve was a rockin’ good time. We overate and played the Wii until 10:15 when my wife and I notified the kids to wake us up at 11:40. What went on during that hour and a half remains a mystery, known only to the kids.
Like a cheap alarm clock, the girls woke us 5 minutes late. We gathered our senses (kind of) and at the stroke of midnight bolted into the arctic tundra, formerly known as Oklahoma, wearing nothing but pajamas. We quickly fired off several confetti poppers and hosed each other down with silly string before darting back inside for the usual round of toasts and late night phone calls.
I have a few words about these articles of celebration. First, who in their right mind designed silly string to be non-biodegradable? That garbage has lay on the sidewalk for two weeks without even moving. It’s so unnatural that the wind doesn’t even affect it. The foil confetti isn’t any better and definitely is on Earth for the long haul. My front yard looked as if we had dumped chaff out the windows to ward off some heat seeking missiles. How can 8 confetti poppers have so much stuff shoved into them? What it boils down to is that 3 minutes of celebration resulted in two hours of cleanup. Man, I love celebrating New Year’s.
Back to the matter at hand…The worst thing about taking down strings of lights is storing them. Regardless of how you put them in a box, they will come out as one giant wad of green wire and broken glass. But this year was going to be different for one simple reason; the Wall Street Journal.
I took several old editions and, using a little duct tape, made a pile of paper tubes which I then wrapped the strands of lights around. Now I look forward, with great anticipation, to unwinding the lights next November and hanging them for another month of electrified holiness in my front yard.
Use #6: Storing Christmas Lights
John Hansen is a full grown man with a man sized appetite. He always cleans his plate and usually eats much more than he should. He is the co-author of the Power of Zahn, which is sure to cause reading gluttony to all those who purchase the someday professionally printed novel.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
#5: Steward of the Earth
Today was recycling day. Curbside recycling is an extra city service that, for some reason, we pay two dollars per month to receive. Basically, we pay Company A to pick up our recycling. Company A sorts it and sells it to Company B who turns it back into raw materials and sells them to Company C-Z. These companies convert the raw materials into goods that are sold back to guess who. That’s right, me. Someone is getting screwed in this deal and I think I know who it is.
Nevertheless, as I dragged the heaping tubs of aluminum cans, glass bottles, various plastics, and papers to the curb I felt good about myself. There I was, doing my part to be a good steward of the earth; one beer can at a time. We could have just as easily chucked all of that crap in the trash. But that’s not us. No, we have chosen to let the would-be trash pile up in the garage until the empty bay looks like the cab of a Peterbilt truck after a month on the road.
In all honesty, I think recycling is a great thing, even if in some cases it expends more energy to recycle old than to create new. And on top of that, I get be a pompous ass whenever people are over to the house. “Oh, don’t throw that away. We recycle.”
Then a thought hit me; getting the Wall Street Journal actually allows me to recycle more. Recycling more makes me a better caretaker of Mother Nature, and in turn a better person than my neighbor. And as we all know, it’s all about outdoing our neighbors.
Every 2nd and 4th Wednesday of the month, I drag a tub full of newspapers to the curb, and those papers are primed to be turned into…newspapers. It all became so clear to me on this cold, January morning. In order to SAVE trees I must KILL trees!
How is that for an oxymoron? Needless to say, I am destined for Washington D.C.
Use #5: Filling Recycling Bins
John Hansen always wears a belt with his pants. This functional fashion accessory lets his father know that he raised a fine son. John has co-written the masterpiece The Power of Zahn, which will make a fine leather bound keepsake.
Nevertheless, as I dragged the heaping tubs of aluminum cans, glass bottles, various plastics, and papers to the curb I felt good about myself. There I was, doing my part to be a good steward of the earth; one beer can at a time. We could have just as easily chucked all of that crap in the trash. But that’s not us. No, we have chosen to let the would-be trash pile up in the garage until the empty bay looks like the cab of a Peterbilt truck after a month on the road.
In all honesty, I think recycling is a great thing, even if in some cases it expends more energy to recycle old than to create new. And on top of that, I get be a pompous ass whenever people are over to the house. “Oh, don’t throw that away. We recycle.”
Then a thought hit me; getting the Wall Street Journal actually allows me to recycle more. Recycling more makes me a better caretaker of Mother Nature, and in turn a better person than my neighbor. And as we all know, it’s all about outdoing our neighbors.
Every 2nd and 4th Wednesday of the month, I drag a tub full of newspapers to the curb, and those papers are primed to be turned into…newspapers. It all became so clear to me on this cold, January morning. In order to SAVE trees I must KILL trees!
How is that for an oxymoron? Needless to say, I am destined for Washington D.C.
Use #5: Filling Recycling Bins
John Hansen always wears a belt with his pants. This functional fashion accessory lets his father know that he raised a fine son. John has co-written the masterpiece The Power of Zahn, which will make a fine leather bound keepsake.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
#4: Spa Night
After a long day of work, there is nothing better than coming home to the smell of a good, home-cooked meal. Many nights this is exactly what I get, but not always. This is especially the case when the kids are out of school.
The other night I hit the door to the tantalizing aroma of jasmine and acetone. It smelled like I had just walked into an Indonesian sheet metal shop. I soon discovered that it was “Spa Night”, which usually occurs about the time my wife forgets about the giant mess produced by the previous spa night.
My den had been transformed from cathedral for worshipping the television gods to a full-blown, half-star parlor of pampering. At the Hansen Spa one can be treated to a back and foot massage, both with copious amounts of smelly lotions, a paraffin dip, and a facial. I’m sure the girls would love to start a roaring fire (see Blog #3) and treat us to a hot stone massage as well. However, my wife and I are not fans of third degree burns and have not suggested this addition to the menu.
The high end luxury service offered at the spa is the nail salon, set up at the kitchen table. Here one can have their fingernails and toenails painted in hundreds of combinations. How can I make such a claim? Simple, we own nearly every color of nail polish known to man.
As much as I hate to admit it, even I am a nail salon customer. Usually I can get away with sporting the polish for a few hours and then quietly remove it, but occasionally I end up wearing it longer. The girls once convinced me to attend church with my nails painted. I thought I could keep my hands folded and ease through service without anyone noticing. That plan didn’t work.
First, our babysitter and her mother saw them and commented. Then it turned out that on this particular Sunday we were doing communion by intinction. For those unfamiliar with this method, it is like the hurry up offense of communion. In one sweeping motion, the communicant receives the sacrament, dips it directly into the chalice of wine, and returns to their seat. There is absolutely no way of doing this without showing your fingertips. When may turn came up I reluctantly approached the altar, bared my decorated digits, and heard the words “nice polish” from the pastor. I am a defeated man.
Obviously, letting a 10 year-old and two 9 year-olds have carte blanche access to fingernail polish is a recipe for disaster. The possibility of it being spilled on the table and floor is extremely high. This threat is neutralized by a good, disposable table and floor cover. Nothing works better than the Wall Street Journal. An innumerable number of disasters have been circumvented by the Marketplace section.
Our salon may be the only place where you can get the entire end of your finger painted red and detailed with orange stripes and green dots while reading the latest financial news. And you walk away not only beautified but prepared for when someone at the grocery store exclaims “Oh my God, did you cut your finger?” To which you can quickly reply, “No, it’s my nail polish. However, I did read in the Wall Street Journal that the economy is still bleeding jobs.”
Use #4: Nail Polish Pad
In his spare time, John Hansen enjoys eating and breathing. He is the co-author of The Power of Zahn, an eventual New York Times Best Seller (provided someone publishes it and it sells A LOT of copies).
The other night I hit the door to the tantalizing aroma of jasmine and acetone. It smelled like I had just walked into an Indonesian sheet metal shop. I soon discovered that it was “Spa Night”, which usually occurs about the time my wife forgets about the giant mess produced by the previous spa night.
My den had been transformed from cathedral for worshipping the television gods to a full-blown, half-star parlor of pampering. At the Hansen Spa one can be treated to a back and foot massage, both with copious amounts of smelly lotions, a paraffin dip, and a facial. I’m sure the girls would love to start a roaring fire (see Blog #3) and treat us to a hot stone massage as well. However, my wife and I are not fans of third degree burns and have not suggested this addition to the menu.
The high end luxury service offered at the spa is the nail salon, set up at the kitchen table. Here one can have their fingernails and toenails painted in hundreds of combinations. How can I make such a claim? Simple, we own nearly every color of nail polish known to man.
As much as I hate to admit it, even I am a nail salon customer. Usually I can get away with sporting the polish for a few hours and then quietly remove it, but occasionally I end up wearing it longer. The girls once convinced me to attend church with my nails painted. I thought I could keep my hands folded and ease through service without anyone noticing. That plan didn’t work.
First, our babysitter and her mother saw them and commented. Then it turned out that on this particular Sunday we were doing communion by intinction. For those unfamiliar with this method, it is like the hurry up offense of communion. In one sweeping motion, the communicant receives the sacrament, dips it directly into the chalice of wine, and returns to their seat. There is absolutely no way of doing this without showing your fingertips. When may turn came up I reluctantly approached the altar, bared my decorated digits, and heard the words “nice polish” from the pastor. I am a defeated man.
Obviously, letting a 10 year-old and two 9 year-olds have carte blanche access to fingernail polish is a recipe for disaster. The possibility of it being spilled on the table and floor is extremely high. This threat is neutralized by a good, disposable table and floor cover. Nothing works better than the Wall Street Journal. An innumerable number of disasters have been circumvented by the Marketplace section.
Our salon may be the only place where you can get the entire end of your finger painted red and detailed with orange stripes and green dots while reading the latest financial news. And you walk away not only beautified but prepared for when someone at the grocery store exclaims “Oh my God, did you cut your finger?” To which you can quickly reply, “No, it’s my nail polish. However, I did read in the Wall Street Journal that the economy is still bleeding jobs.”
Use #4: Nail Polish Pad
In his spare time, John Hansen enjoys eating and breathing. He is the co-author of The Power of Zahn, an eventual New York Times Best Seller (provided someone publishes it and it sells A LOT of copies).
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
#3: Fire Starters
Something strange happened on December 24th. I went to bed the night before in Oklahoma and managed to wake up in North Dakota. I guess Old Man Winter decided to take a trip south and something along his route made him angry. The weather Christmas Eve day started out bad and got worse. We even had a blizzard by the time it was over!
Everyone dreams of a white Christmas. It has been ingrained in our heads that snow for Christmas is the ultimate in Yuletide jubilation. Well, we got one and it was nothing but a mess. Bing Crosby can kiss my snowy white ass.
Two weeks have passed since the Great Blizzard of ’09 and we still have a significant amount of snow on the ground. Tomorrow we will face wind chills of -10 to -20 degrees. What the hell is going on?
I originally hale from northern Wisconsin. It gets cold there; very cold. When I was a younger I used to be one of those a-holes who would walk around and say, “This is nothing! Back in Wisconsin…” You know the rest. Now I’ve hit my mid thirties and have decided that the cold is no fun. Oklahoma winters are just fine. They are cold enough to bust out a new wardrobe but not so cold that we have to worry about frostbite. Apparently this year is going to be different. Yesterday my kids even asked for ski masks!
When man first crawled out of a cave one cold January morning and grunted, “Cold sucks,” he looked for a good way to stay warm. Finally, he banged enough rocks together over a pile of wood to discover fire.
It’s hard to beat a roaring fire on a cold winter night. For that matter, it’s hard to beat a fire on any night. Staring at the orange flames is cathartic. A friend of mine refers to fire as caveman T.V.
Unfortunately, my fire starting skills are subpar. Setting a pile of wood ablaze is usually an ordeal and unfortunately my wife frowns upon using gasoline to ignite an inferno. So that leaves me searching for the perfect fire starting material. Well, as we all know, I have to go no further than the trunk of my car to find the ideal catalyst. Newspaper is one of the best fire starters known to man. I firmly believe that if primitive man had a subscription to the Wall Street Journal the industrial revolution would have happened 500 years earlier.
Tonight I plan to embrace the subzero temperatures and sit in front of a roaring blaze. What a perfect way to relax and do some reading. Too bad I will have burned up my newspaper to get the fire going.
Use #3: Starting Fires
John Hansen has been issued a driver’s license by the State of Oklahoma where he has free reign to drive on any public road he desires. Along with Zak Hathaway, he has penned the mega-hero novel The Power of Zahn considered by some to be too dangerous to publish.
Everyone dreams of a white Christmas. It has been ingrained in our heads that snow for Christmas is the ultimate in Yuletide jubilation. Well, we got one and it was nothing but a mess. Bing Crosby can kiss my snowy white ass.
Two weeks have passed since the Great Blizzard of ’09 and we still have a significant amount of snow on the ground. Tomorrow we will face wind chills of -10 to -20 degrees. What the hell is going on?
I originally hale from northern Wisconsin. It gets cold there; very cold. When I was a younger I used to be one of those a-holes who would walk around and say, “This is nothing! Back in Wisconsin…” You know the rest. Now I’ve hit my mid thirties and have decided that the cold is no fun. Oklahoma winters are just fine. They are cold enough to bust out a new wardrobe but not so cold that we have to worry about frostbite. Apparently this year is going to be different. Yesterday my kids even asked for ski masks!
When man first crawled out of a cave one cold January morning and grunted, “Cold sucks,” he looked for a good way to stay warm. Finally, he banged enough rocks together over a pile of wood to discover fire.
It’s hard to beat a roaring fire on a cold winter night. For that matter, it’s hard to beat a fire on any night. Staring at the orange flames is cathartic. A friend of mine refers to fire as caveman T.V.
Unfortunately, my fire starting skills are subpar. Setting a pile of wood ablaze is usually an ordeal and unfortunately my wife frowns upon using gasoline to ignite an inferno. So that leaves me searching for the perfect fire starting material. Well, as we all know, I have to go no further than the trunk of my car to find the ideal catalyst. Newspaper is one of the best fire starters known to man. I firmly believe that if primitive man had a subscription to the Wall Street Journal the industrial revolution would have happened 500 years earlier.
Tonight I plan to embrace the subzero temperatures and sit in front of a roaring blaze. What a perfect way to relax and do some reading. Too bad I will have burned up my newspaper to get the fire going.
Use #3: Starting Fires
John Hansen has been issued a driver’s license by the State of Oklahoma where he has free reign to drive on any public road he desires. Along with Zak Hathaway, he has penned the mega-hero novel The Power of Zahn considered by some to be too dangerous to publish.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
#2: Guinea Pig Cages
Last summer my kids managed to Shanghai their way into getting a Guinea Pig. I am not going to go into the particular details of the process, but it involved pig-sitting for a week, a guilt-ridden neighbor boy, and lots of tears and pleading. I reluctantly agreed to the transfer of custody on two conditions; I will never touch the animal and I will not take care of him.
Now a Guinea Pig named Pete and I live two distinct existences separated only by a bedroom door and a wire cage. For those of you who have never cohabitated with a Guinea Pig, there are a few unknowns. The first is that they are incredibly noisy, especially at night. Pete loves to drink from his water bottle between the hours of 1:00 and 4:00 a.m. One would think that drinking from a bottle is silent. Wrong. The first week he was in the house I woke every night thinking that the air-conditioning unit was about to explode.
Guinea Pigs are also very needy. Pete is incredibly spoiled and expects to be carried around and loved on constantly. If he catches a glimpse of a human he begins grunting, squeaking, and pawing his cage, all of which are intended to draw attention to his isolation and free him from the confines of his cell. I will admit that the little guy is pretty smart. Not only has he figured out what works for his personal gain, he also knows that attention does not come from Dad. Apparently he also understands the terms of the “agreement”.
Finally, Guinea Pigs crap…a lot. The only animal I have seen crap more is a cow, and that is only in quantity not frequency. Needless to say, Pete’s cage has to be cleaned often. Efficiency is the number one priority for my wife and kids when cleaning up after their buck-toothed companion. The most important component for facilitating a quick cleanup is a good base layer of absorbent material. What better material than old newspapers? So, while I may not take the time to enjoy my $130 yearly subscription, I can rest assured that I have a well informed Guinea Pig.
Use #2: Lining Guinea Pig cages
John Hansen is six feet tall and wears glasses. He owns a lawnmower which he is fully capable of operating on his own. John and his brother-in-law have co-authored the mega-hero novel The Power of Zahn. This literary masterpiece is to date unpublished and sits on the vine like a perfect apple waiting to be picked by a discerning pie chef.
Now a Guinea Pig named Pete and I live two distinct existences separated only by a bedroom door and a wire cage. For those of you who have never cohabitated with a Guinea Pig, there are a few unknowns. The first is that they are incredibly noisy, especially at night. Pete loves to drink from his water bottle between the hours of 1:00 and 4:00 a.m. One would think that drinking from a bottle is silent. Wrong. The first week he was in the house I woke every night thinking that the air-conditioning unit was about to explode.
Guinea Pigs are also very needy. Pete is incredibly spoiled and expects to be carried around and loved on constantly. If he catches a glimpse of a human he begins grunting, squeaking, and pawing his cage, all of which are intended to draw attention to his isolation and free him from the confines of his cell. I will admit that the little guy is pretty smart. Not only has he figured out what works for his personal gain, he also knows that attention does not come from Dad. Apparently he also understands the terms of the “agreement”.
Finally, Guinea Pigs crap…a lot. The only animal I have seen crap more is a cow, and that is only in quantity not frequency. Needless to say, Pete’s cage has to be cleaned often. Efficiency is the number one priority for my wife and kids when cleaning up after their buck-toothed companion. The most important component for facilitating a quick cleanup is a good base layer of absorbent material. What better material than old newspapers? So, while I may not take the time to enjoy my $130 yearly subscription, I can rest assured that I have a well informed Guinea Pig.
Use #2: Lining Guinea Pig cages
John Hansen is six feet tall and wears glasses. He owns a lawnmower which he is fully capable of operating on his own. John and his brother-in-law have co-authored the mega-hero novel The Power of Zahn. This literary masterpiece is to date unpublished and sits on the vine like a perfect apple waiting to be picked by a discerning pie chef.
#1: Oil Change
I have gotten the Wall Street Journal for two years. In the beginning the love affair was strong and I was a faithful reader. As time went on other things took precedence and I fell to just reading the Opinion and Editorial sections. Now I just pick up the paper and toss it into the trunk of my car where I warehouse it until recycling day.
The biggest reason I don’t read the paper is that I cannot simply relax. There is always something that needs to be done and if I don’t do it right away the world could end within the next four hours. God forbid that I have to put something off for a few days. In those cases I obsess about the task until it’s checked off the list. A perfect example is the oil in my car.
Last week I “had a feeling” that the Suburban needed an oil change. Sure enough I was a couple hundred miles over the prescribed 2500 mile oil change. It was Christmas weekend and I knew better than to try and knock it out then. So I had to put it off. And putting it off meant obsessing about it.
This morning I woke up exceptionally early and lay in bed running through the list of things to worry about until my brain locked onto the unchanged oil. I lay there for awhile until I finally had to get up and take care of it. I rolled out of bed at 7:30 and got dressed; choosing to ignore the fact that it was 19 degrees and New Year’s Day.
I need to digress and explain that when I do work around the house I have different levels of old clothes. The bottom of that list is oil-changing clothes. If my neighbors had not seen my attire before they might think a bum had fallen asleep under my car. In fact a bum would probably say “Hey, look at the bum sleeping under that car.”
So there I was, dressed like a hobo preparing to perform a “quick” oil change. Being a modern man, I can admit when I have a problem. One continual issue I have is judging where to place the drain pan so that I can catch all of the oil as it pours from the engine. I have progressed to stacking blocks of wood in an oil-soaked Jenga-type pile in an effort to get the pan as close to the plug as possible. Sometimes I get it right and sometimes I don’t. Today was a day that I didn’t.
The initial pour was dead on and was a beautiful black stream pouring into the precariously perched drain pan. Unfortunately, I was so proud of that initial alignment that I forgot to account for the reducing stream as the oil level dropped. In a matter of seconds my driveway looked like the latest parking spot of the Exxon Valdez. So began phase two of the oil change; clean up. Enter the January 1, 2010 edition of the Wall Street Journal.
I quickly grabbed the unread newspaper and went to work sopping up the oil. Fortunately, we were nearing recycling day and I had an ample supply of unread papers stored in my car. Moving past my frustration, I had to chuckle as I watched the header disappear into the growing black blob. I thought to myself, “How many people use the Wall Street Journal to clean motor oil off a driveway?” I would venture to guess that very few high-powered executives and real estate moguls are outside on New Year’s Day, donning a wardrobe consisting of two jackets found alongside the road, and scrubbing their driveway with unread Wall Street Journals. I will go so far as to declare that I am the very first person to ever perform such a feat. Please disregard the fact that I have absolutely no research to back up this claim and rest assured I am not about to collect data to substantiate it. After all, I cannot even make time to read the damn paper I was using to clean up the mess. You will just have to trust my “gut feeling” on this one.
As I amused myself with comparisons to Peary reaching the North Pole first, I was stricken with an idea. There are probably hundreds of uses for my unread Wall Street Journals. In fact, I bet I can find a use for each one of my 300 plus unread papers throughout 2010.
So in the spirit of every other useless blog out there, I am undertaking the task of documenting the many uses for the Wall Street Journal.
Use #1: Cleaning up spilled motor oil.
John Hansen is a self-proclaimed genius and one of the coolest men to walk the face of the Earth. He wears very awesome western shirts and has lots of remote controls. He is the co-author of the unpublished mega-hero novel The Power of Zahn, available as soon as someone decides to publish the greatest story of modern times.
The biggest reason I don’t read the paper is that I cannot simply relax. There is always something that needs to be done and if I don’t do it right away the world could end within the next four hours. God forbid that I have to put something off for a few days. In those cases I obsess about the task until it’s checked off the list. A perfect example is the oil in my car.
Last week I “had a feeling” that the Suburban needed an oil change. Sure enough I was a couple hundred miles over the prescribed 2500 mile oil change. It was Christmas weekend and I knew better than to try and knock it out then. So I had to put it off. And putting it off meant obsessing about it.
This morning I woke up exceptionally early and lay in bed running through the list of things to worry about until my brain locked onto the unchanged oil. I lay there for awhile until I finally had to get up and take care of it. I rolled out of bed at 7:30 and got dressed; choosing to ignore the fact that it was 19 degrees and New Year’s Day.
I need to digress and explain that when I do work around the house I have different levels of old clothes. The bottom of that list is oil-changing clothes. If my neighbors had not seen my attire before they might think a bum had fallen asleep under my car. In fact a bum would probably say “Hey, look at the bum sleeping under that car.”
So there I was, dressed like a hobo preparing to perform a “quick” oil change. Being a modern man, I can admit when I have a problem. One continual issue I have is judging where to place the drain pan so that I can catch all of the oil as it pours from the engine. I have progressed to stacking blocks of wood in an oil-soaked Jenga-type pile in an effort to get the pan as close to the plug as possible. Sometimes I get it right and sometimes I don’t. Today was a day that I didn’t.
The initial pour was dead on and was a beautiful black stream pouring into the precariously perched drain pan. Unfortunately, I was so proud of that initial alignment that I forgot to account for the reducing stream as the oil level dropped. In a matter of seconds my driveway looked like the latest parking spot of the Exxon Valdez. So began phase two of the oil change; clean up. Enter the January 1, 2010 edition of the Wall Street Journal.
I quickly grabbed the unread newspaper and went to work sopping up the oil. Fortunately, we were nearing recycling day and I had an ample supply of unread papers stored in my car. Moving past my frustration, I had to chuckle as I watched the header disappear into the growing black blob. I thought to myself, “How many people use the Wall Street Journal to clean motor oil off a driveway?” I would venture to guess that very few high-powered executives and real estate moguls are outside on New Year’s Day, donning a wardrobe consisting of two jackets found alongside the road, and scrubbing their driveway with unread Wall Street Journals. I will go so far as to declare that I am the very first person to ever perform such a feat. Please disregard the fact that I have absolutely no research to back up this claim and rest assured I am not about to collect data to substantiate it. After all, I cannot even make time to read the damn paper I was using to clean up the mess. You will just have to trust my “gut feeling” on this one.
As I amused myself with comparisons to Peary reaching the North Pole first, I was stricken with an idea. There are probably hundreds of uses for my unread Wall Street Journals. In fact, I bet I can find a use for each one of my 300 plus unread papers throughout 2010.
So in the spirit of every other useless blog out there, I am undertaking the task of documenting the many uses for the Wall Street Journal.
Use #1: Cleaning up spilled motor oil.
John Hansen is a self-proclaimed genius and one of the coolest men to walk the face of the Earth. He wears very awesome western shirts and has lots of remote controls. He is the co-author of the unpublished mega-hero novel The Power of Zahn, available as soon as someone decides to publish the greatest story of modern times.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
