Sometimes the fates are unkind. The delivery of our new, smaller washer and dryer has been inexplicably delayed, so of course Penny would pick this morning as a perfect time to barf on our bed. Therefore, this afternoon we’ll be hanging at the Hausfra Haven laundromat, where there’s a vintage Galaxian for entertainment and a weight and fortune scale.
My fortune was: “you love to flatter people but seldom mean it.”
A shower is an essential part of the morning routine. You get squeaky clean and move back into conformance with prevailing social hygienic norms. You ruthlessly eliminate that lingering case of bed head. And you finally complete the drowsy transition from blissful sleep to outright, whistling-as-you-get-dressed-for-work wakefulness.
I like my showers hot. In fact, scalding is closer to accurate. I like clouds of steam to rise from the shower floor and fog up the shower door, so that I could write “Kilroy was here” with my index finger if I desired. I want to emerge from the blistering deluge wide-eyed, scourged clean, and as red as a Maine lobster fished out of the bubbling cookpot.
Unfortunately, for the last few months this hasn’t been possible. At our rental unit, the hot water temperature never got above tepid, probably for cost saving and liability avoidance purposes. Even at the maximum heat setting, a shower had no sizzle. As a result, the morning shower there was not a particularly satisfying experience — functional but ho-hum, and sort of like getting woolen socks from your grandmother as a birthday present.
But now we are in our own place and in complete control of the hot water heater, which has been cranked up to high-end, fast-food-carry-out-coffee-before-they-got-sued-into-moderation temperatures. Yes, I think: this is one of the essences of home ownership and the American Dream. Now I get to decide water heat, and “room temperature,” and what to put on the walls, and how much light there will be in each room.
So turn that shower handle to maximum at your own risk, baby! Let the scorching begin!
When you don’t have a front yard that will allow you to give free reign to your snow-sculpting abilities, you just have to make do, somehow. I applaud this salutary effort by one of our German Village neighbors.
How about this: instead of choosing colors to reflect “passion” and “toughness,” how about a team that plays every game with passion and toughness? How about representing the poor, long-suffering fans of Cleveland with wins and playoff appearances, rather than a stupid brown facemask? It’s probably a good thing that the facemask is brown, because the Browns organization should shove it, and all other marketing gimmicks and silly cartoon dogs, where the sun don’t shine until they start playing like an honest-to-God professional football team rather than a long-running national punch line.
Doesn’t anyone in the Browns organization realize that this announcement make this sorry franchise look like it is paying more attention to color swatches than fielding a decent team? Since we apparently can’t put together a winning team, I guess we’ll have to hope that the Browns’ subtle color judgments will earn an interior decorating award or mascot branding award.
Boy, the Browns have really lost their way, haven’t they? It’s humiliating.
I think there are lots of good reasons to walk in the morning, especially on cold mornings. But is losing weight one of them?
There is an intuitive logic to the notion that walking — or for that matter, doing much of anything — in the cold will help you lose weight. Calories are, after all, units of heat. If you’re out in the shivering winter weather, it stands to reason that your body will need to burn calories just to keep warm. So you would expect that cold weather would be a plus factor beyond the benefits provided by walking, generally.
I’ve long since stopped trying to figure out which of the competing health studies should be followed and simply tried to do what seems to work for me. I like walking in the cold because I like breathing the crisp air, and I feel mentally sharper and more fit when I get to the office. Whether I am actually sharper and more fit, I’ll leave to the researchers.
The other day I made a reference to people channeling their inner Sergeant Schultz. The comment met with baffled silence, because the people to whom I made the comment had no idea who Sergeant Schultz was. It was a sad but instructive moment.
Those old enough to have watched Hogan’s Heroes, of course, would remember the portly, bumbling prison guard who craved sweets and schapps, feared being sent to the Eastern front, and supposedly kept an eye on Colonel Hogan and his fellow prisoners of war who were actively working for the Allied cause even while incarcerated in Stalag 13. Schultz’s catch phrase, always said with a cheesy German accent after Hogan’s band had blown up a munitions dump or snuck a valued escapee through enemy lines, was: “I know nothing. Nothing!” And his comment usually prompted the equally inept Stalag 13 commandant, Colonel Klink, to squint through his monocle, frown like he had just smelled a fart, and say: “Schuuultzzzz!”
Hogan’s Heroes has been off the air for decades; it probably isn’t shown in reruns even on the most cut-rate cable channels. It was a ridiculous show with a ludicrous premise, of course, but Sergeant Schultz was a giant in the pantheon of ’60s sitcom characters. Now he has vanished into the vast forgotten pool that includes the likes of Corporal Agarn on F Troop and Mr. Haney from Green Acres — and I’ll have to come up with another shorthand way of referring to know-nothingism.
Yesterday was a red-letter day in the Webner household: our new toilet for the downstairs bathroom was installed.
There had been a working toilet in the downstairs bathroom when we bought this place, but flush with the thrill of our new purchase we deemed it aesthetically unacceptable. I’m now not quite sure why — ’70s design? Low-slung seat? Appalling color selection? — but we had to wipe the slate clean and the ex-commode had to go. So we were toilet-free on the first floor during our first week in this place, which isn’t an ideal arrangement for a guy with a 57-year-old bladder who might have to sprint up the stairs to answer nature’s call on a moment’s notice.
Now that issue has been rectified. We have this bright, shiny toilet, conveniently located and blessedly functional, with the graceful lines and design flourishes that you would expect from a modern bathroom fixture. It makes you want to have a seat and take it for a spin.