Whoah!

If you got here from Kitten's blog, then you know what's afoot. The short story is that we flew down to Tampa for the weekend just to get away and scope out some neighborhoods. In the process, we found a house. Kitten and I didn't really say to much about it, but it kept coming up in conversation. Finally, I asked her "Are we excited because we just spent time in Florida? Or are we excited about the house?" We decided we were excited about the house! So what do we do? We decided to make an offer.

The house doesn't look like much from the front really. Your eye is drawn to the huge live oak with the Spanish moss on it. When you walk inside, it turns out that the Brady Bunch must have lived here at one time! It's very 70s, but very cool. No shag carpet. It has terrazzo floors.I don't really know the correct descriptive terms for it. I'm decorating deficient. The entry was quite cool too.There is much more to the house and we are very excited about it. Of course, there is the little matter of the house being in another state. Kitten is listing her house, checking on new jobs, and trying to figure out what to do with her offspring. If we are lucky, we will soon be Florida residents.

A Shocking Development

I didn't sleep much last night. Part of the problem was because I took a nap yesterday, but a home emergency and my stupidity played a large part in it too.

Kitten and I were in bed. She had been sawing logs for an hour. When she goes to bed and turns on the TV, she falls asleep almost before her head hits the pillow. I, on the other hand, was wide awake. About one a.m., I decided to go get my laptop out of the kitchen. I walked back there and heard the sound of running water. It was very faint and I figured one of the kids left the water running in the half bath in the laundry room, but when I walked to the bathroom, nothing. So I tried to track down the source and found water on the floor behind the stackable washer and dryer. I could hear the water hissing, but couldn't find the source. Since it seemed to be dripping off of the cold water line to the washer, I decided to just shut off the cold water faucet and deal with it in the morning.

So......I stuck my hand behind the washer and grabbed the faucet and BZZZT! I felt a mild shock go through my hand. I must have been sleepier than I thought because my brain told me "That didn't really happen, it was just your imagination. It doesn't make sense for a water faucet to shock you." Like a long lost episode of The Three Stooges, I stuck my hand back in there. KAPOW! This time it shocked me so hard that I felt it in my shoulder and it caused my hand and arm to convulse backward cutting the top of my hand.

By this time I was cussing like Yosemite Sam and went and woke Kitten up. We decided to shut all of the power off and then turn off the faucet. Sounds simple doesn't it? We couldn't really located the circuit breaker to just the dryer, so we shut down the whole house. Now all that remains is turning off the faucet, right? My brain was telling me everything was cool now, but my arm and hand were yelling "You have lost your fucking mind if you think I'm going back in there!" I haven't had a body part argue with me like that since the Bat vs. Penis fat girl debate in college. I finally screwed up the courage to grab the faucet and turn off the water. Whew.

We turned the power back on and I told Kitten to dry the load of clothes in the washer so I could move stuff around in the morning. A couple of minutes later she calls me back in the laundry room and asks me if I hear a buzzing sound. I listen for a while and tell her no, all I hear is the dryer running. Satisfied, we turn off the lights and begin to exit the laundry room when I hear it and I just happen to be in a position to see behind the washer. There was a big electrical arc between the dryer vent hose and the washer's metal braided inlet hose. Uh oh. So we took time to find the circuit breaker for the dryer and turned it off.

I got up this morning and disconnected the washer hose. It looks like part of the metal was melted and that cause the hose to leak. I can fix that of course, but I told Kitten she needs to call an electrician. Obviously, electricity and I don't mix well. And my penis keeps saying "maybe next time you will listen when one of us tries to tell you something."

Jealousy

I was going to start this post with the sentence "An old friend of mine", but then my brain went on a tangent. I'm hesitant to call Dick a friend. The fault lies with me, not him. I've never done anything to encourage a friendship, but he was a friend of a friend and tolerated me, so if asked, the only label I can provide is friend.

Dick has become a writer. The last time I really talked to him, I had wandered into a tobacco shop he had bought in Memphis. I remember thinking at the time, "You done good Dick, you done good." He had his own business selling a product that practically sells it's self. The shop was in an up and coming area of downtown and had that feel of a place where people go to shoot the breeze after they've bought their weekly supply of cigars. Not like the discount tobacco joints you see on every corner now with a tired looking clerk sitting behind bullet proof glass pushing bongs and kid friendly flavored smokes along with the cigarettes sold at the "cheapest prices allowed by law." It was more of a place that withered old men would sit and smoke and talk about the folly of planting cotton to often on the same plot.

That was easily over fifteen years ago. I haven't spoken with him since, but Facebook being what it is, I've been able to keep up with him a bit over the last couple of years. Dick reached out to me when my Mom passed and for that I'm thankful.

So, why the title "Jealousy?" As I said before, Dick has become a writer. As best as I can piece together, at some point he dabbled in blogging, got picked up to write a bi-weekly column for the major newspaper in our hometown, got out of the cancer business and recently wrote a short story that was not only published in a magazine, but won a contest for fiction. Dick seems to have found his calling in life and is enjoying what he does. That leaves me jealous on two fronts.

My profession is ok. I'm fond of saying that few people are able to make a living at doing what they love. Most people work because there is a paycheck at the end of the week. If pressed, few would tell you that they would continue to do what they do if they didn't get paid for it. I'm jealous, 'cause Dick is working at a job that I bet he would continue to do even if the lottery fairy dropped an obscene amount of cash in his lap.

I'm jealous in a more profound way of Dick's ability. My Mom was very artistic visually. She could draw, paint, and decorate. You could hand her the hairball coughed up by an alley cat and she was able to make it look better. My brother is artistic acoustically. He has an affinity for music, mostly the guitar. Not that he is Eddie Van Halen or anything, but music comes very easily for him.

As for me, I can't draw a straight line. With some concentration, I can play "Hot Crossed Buns" on the recorder (what is a hot crossed bun?). I always wanted to be able to write.

I've tried. I get bored with the process very quickly. I think good writers are able to immerse themselves in their own writing. I can fall into a story when reading a book, but I can't seem to get involved with my own writing. So after a couple of starts and stops, I gave up on it, realizing that I'm more suited to a critic's role than that of an artist. I am one of those poor souls that can label something as terrible, but can't produce anything better. And that leaves me jealous of Dick and his ability. Kudos to you Dick. You done good.

You can read Dick's story here.