2001-01-08 - 22:49 MST

January 8, 2001

Lost

Funny, when I dump something it is almost impossible to reconstruct it and go on from there. I managed to hit the Delete key and dump my almost completed entry. The old brain says, "Not me man, I did my job and won't go again, lets do something else."

Something else, cursing and using a little creative language construction and putting them on the string in novel arrangements, I don't dare let Heather hear me. That lasts till my voice gives out. Then I sit, sit and stare at the keyboard and it stares right back, daring me to do something.

So, comes the bit on frustration from an expert.

Who has done such things as slamming the car door and seeing the keys in the ignition and doing the necessary of finding a locksmith who is available to come to me at my car and who also after the smithy drives away thinks,"Whoo, boy, fifty bucks for thirty seconds of work on the site and maybe a half hour round trip for him. Pretty good wages I think."

One who has started water running full force in the sink for one durn thing or another, turned to do something in the interim and remembered in time to wade over and shut the faucet off. Frustrations, finding something to use to mop up, swabbing the corners and crevices so that the tile won't peel up, mopping up big ragfulls of water and wringing them out in the sink. Looking at the clock as I finish and bemoan the time used in just making things like they were.

Reminding myself at bedtime, "First thing in the morning, stop and get gas for the car." Taking off in the morning, forgetfully and reach a spot that is about as far from a filling station as I could get even if I tried for it. Checking the car trunk and remembering loaning the gas can to someone. Trying to hitch a ride, me ? A scruffy, broken down old man, Ha ! A long walk to a station and the extended bargaining over renting a gas can and filling it. Then still hopefully looking to thumb as I have the obvious excuse to thumb a ride, gas can in hand. Thinking up new and novel nicknames for myself, "Champion Oaf," "Dudley Do Wrong," I plod along the road, cars whooshing by almost fast enough to make me do a Wiley Coyote spin. Finally get back to the car and find that the gas can isn't a fit match to the fill pipe and scrounging something to twist into a funnel and some method of making it stay funnel shaped, holding it in the fill pipe with a bracing little finger fighting the wind that always arises, while the rest of that hand supports the pouring end of the can and then pouring in slowly so as not to mess up the whole blamed thing. Putting the gas cap back on and running the starter until gas hits the carburetor and the motor starts. Driving along with a feeling of frustration that I can blame no one but "Lil' old me."

I could go on at great length with a list of stuff that most of us men goof up, surely no woman ever runs out of gas or any of that other stuff, they are too smart. But what would be the point of me reciting the list of human failings I am heir to, when I am almost sure that some of the guys are saying, "Welcome to the club good buddy -- what took you so long ?" What can I say but, all is Lost . . . . .

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