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Mr Ornery's Corner
Sunday December 27, 2009
Here is an update on home improvement projects in the Ornery household:
stereo set up; done.
Oh, you expected that I would have the floor lamp assembled and be busily engaged in hammering together the gates? Get real. I nearly screwed up the stereo and that was simply pushing speaker wires into clips. I didn't push them in far enough. So our first CD became The Sounds of Silence. Not by Simon and Garfunkle. Merely the absence of music.
"Maybe Roy Orbison is performing in Sign Language," I suggested to Suzanne.
"Let me see that thing," she replied.
Understand something here. I tend to treat new items with care. Suzanne's philosophy is: if it doesn't fit, get a bigger hammer. She jammed those speaker wires into the clips and defied the stereo not to work. Roy got the message and opted for "Pretty Woman". Smooth talker, Ol' Roy.
Since we mostly fluffed around, tidying up this and that and since I spent a lot of time shredding cardboard, that was as far as we got.
This morning, I decided to tackle the floor lamp. So far I have achieved these results:
- Removed plastic wrapping from exterior of box.
- Hacked through industrial strength packing tape with sharp knife.
- Shredded box upon discovering that entire lamp assembly was encased in styrofoam.
- Removed approximately 4,250 bits of styrofoam from box and from around lamp.
- FOUND INSTRUCTION SHEET.
That's right. No manual. Just a single sheet of paper. And the instructions were right up my alley:
Gently remove parts from packaging. (Try to figure out how and why every blasted thing is encased in twisted plastic bags. Unwind plastic from lamp parts, even the pieces wedged into tiny crevices.) Check.
Just for the heck of it - and at great risk to my membership in the Guys Don't Bother With Instructions Club - I scanned the sheet of instructions and an immense wave of relief washed over me. The remaining steps were:
Screw part 1 into Part 2;
Screw part 2 into Part 3 (base).
Since the entire lamp is only three pieces and since the wires already run through all three pieces, even Ornery can't fail, right?
Ahem. This is Ornery we are talking about here. And Ornery has discovered either that: A) this project requires three or more hands or B) the closet sadist in packaging got moved to production and is now in charge of making pieces that don't quite fit.
I am presently stuck on: Screw Part 1 into Part 2. I am stuck there because Part 1 has two arms that extend and that, even when pressed tightly to the stem of the main lamp, make screwing the two pieces together akin to trying to roll a triangle. For added screwing together pleasure, Part 1 is top-heavy due to the main lamp piece. So the screwer-together, namely yours truly, must try to balance AND turn the part simultaneously.
This is where the don't quite fit segment comes into play. The lamp is designed (supposedly) so that Part 1 screws onto Part2. So theoretically Part 2 should be fractionally smaller. Thus far though, the two parts appear to be of identical diameters. Or maybe it is just impossible to properly align them without an extra pair of hands. And I have little doubt that Part 2 and Part 3 will be similarly conflicted. So when Suzanne arises here shortly and sees my disjointed project, I figure to have two choices. Crank out "Pretty Woman" and ask for her help or go outside and beat hell out of those gates I need to reassemble.
Sorry, Roy.
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Saturday December 26, 2009
I will be assembling a floor lamp today. Wish me well for you who have read previous posts know my manual abilities. They do not exist.
Speaking of manual, I hope there is one in the box and that it was written by someone who has at least a nodding acquaintance with the English language. The manual for that electric chainsaw awhile back nearly did in my brain. (Wasled oil? Ling hair? Pamp?) I hope too that if there are illustrations, they were not done by a deranged third grader with anger management issues. Nothing quite says frustration like the illustration of a disassembled lamp that looks more like the Death Star explosion from Star Wars. For that matter, I hope quality control was not having an off day when the lamp materials were packed, else I may find that there are too many or too few pieces to put together.
Really, do companies have to put closet sadists in their packaging departments? I can almost hear their mental wheels turning. Toss in these couple of extra screws. No, wait. Just ONE extra screw. That oughta give the sucker fits, trying to figiure out what he missed. Wonder if Farley in Illustrations could add an extra arrow to the diagram, aiming at a non-existent hole? That would really make somebody's head spin.
I also have a stereo to set up but that should be child's play, so long as the child is not that deranged third grader. All I have to do is attach the speakers and plug it in. With a bit of luck, there will actually be holes for the speaker wires and the plug will not be twice as large as the outlet.
Assuming those two projects do not set me on a course to drink, drugs, and mental ruin and assuming our weather clears, my project for tomorrow is to reassemble the pre-assembled gates that I put up sometime back to fence in the dog. As nearly as I can determine, those gates were put together with headless push pins and not with anything as basic as nails. This explains why they have blown nearly to bits in the latest wind storm here. Presumably the gates are meant for display, not for actual opening and closing while exposed to weather.
The gates looked and felt solid enough when we bought them and were certainly heavy and awkward enough for anyone with only two hands to try to set up and hold in place while attaching the hinges. In fact, they were substantial enough to set the dog to exploring alternate escape routes from the back yard, at least at first. Now a chihuahua would raise his leg in disdain to water them on his way by; they are that useless.
Fortunately, I will not need a manual to reassemble them. I already know how they are supposed to look. Of course by the time I have finished with them, I may be ready to consider a career in Manual Illustration AND Packaging.
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Wednesday December 23, 2009
Pardon me if the title makes it sound as though I am not into the spirit of the season. I am. Between the crowds of shoppers rushing about, our decorating the tree and preparing to receive visitors for a Christmas meal, my wrapping presents, all in and around working through the holiday, frankly I am surprised I can be so civil.
The crowds of last-minute shoppers don't bother me. As a veteran procrastinator (I will be receiving a pin commemorating my status eventually), I am accustomed to dealing with hordes of mostly male, like-minded shoppers alternately rushing and halting as panic floods then freezes their brains, preventing them from recalling exactly what the hell it was she said that she "really, really like(s)." I hardly notice them at all anymore. My brain is too filled with kaleidoscopic visions of what the hell it was my better half said she "really, really likes." It was this! No that! Or was it that thing over there! No, it was CLOTHES! Now what size was it? No, she told me NO CLOTHES! So what the hell was it?
Tree decorating is almost blissful by comparison. Since we no longer have a real tree, all we need do is remove the thing from its box and try to bend and twist it back into some semblance of a majestic evergreen instead of the blighted, elephant-trampled shrub that we managed to pull free from the carton. "Pull that branch down into that space - no, the other one. I meant the other branch." When it at last looks more like a tree and less like a bust of Albert Einstein, we pull out the decorations and - several thousand decidely un-Christmassy words later - figure, "to hell with it! We're the only ones going to see it anyway."
Well, we will be the only ones save our Christmas dinner company and since we are both working and they know that, their focus will be on food and gifts. Oh, the 18-month old will no doubt find the ornaments fascinating but not because they have been jammed onto the branches any old which way so long as they stay. In fact, I suspect it will take her less time to remove them than it did for us to put them on.
At that, the mess she creates via acts of random chaos, coupled with the remains of wrapping paper, boxes, and packing materials will be more attractive by far than my pre-tearing attempts at gift wrapping for there is an art I have never perfected. In fact, the parcels that I have placed beneath the tree are remarkable for their resemblance to that same tree when we hauled it out of the box. For example, an object that was rectangular upon entering the paper now vaguely resembles a cone that has been roundly beaten with a tire iron. Where flat surfaces, creases, and corners should be are jagged edges, lumps, bumps, and indents.
On the brighter side, no one can possibly guess what lies within the paper. He got me a broken cinderblock?
And then, past all of that gaiety and merriment will come time to prepare for work where the aromas of a genuine Christmas dinner will linger right up until we serve the evening meal of Chef's Surprise which, by most accounts, "tastes a lot better than it looks." (One can only hope.)
And once the work day has ended, it will be time to return home to the misshapen shrub to gaze around at the wreckage and wonder if it will even be humanly possible to break up and bundle all of the cardboard by Wednesday of next week when the recycle crew comes around.
Bah, humbug? Not really for we will have survived and indeed enjoyed the holiday in company of family and friends. And we will count our many blessings, one of hers being: at least he didn't give me a broken cinderblock.
That said, I would add here a Merry Christmas to all of my Blogstream friends. May your holidays be blessed with peace and joy.
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Tuesday December 22, 2009
I did not want to cause panic but I could not hold back. "QUICK! HIDE THE MUTT! THE ENVIRONMENTAL POLICE ARE COMING!"
I blurted.
"Say WHAT?" said Suzanne, not so easily incited. "This isn't something about your blog post and the so-called radioactive dog pee and him digging holes, is it?"
"No, no! It's worse than that! These two New Zealanders have written a book called Time To Eat the Dog: The Real Guide to Sustainable Living."
"Eat the dog?! I don't think so. And by New Zealanders, you say? You must be pulling my leg. We love our pets."
"Well, Robert and Brenda Vale are New Zealanders and they say it would be wiser to eat Flynn than keep him because his carbon footprint is 2.07 acres."
"That's rubbish! Our yard is nowhere near 2 acres and the only footprints he tracks are in the house when the weather is sloppy."
"This isn't that kind of footprint. This is about how much food he goes through and how much land area that involves."
"Is this some kind of sneaky way to say he needs to go on a diet?"
"No, no. It's just that these people, the Vales, have studied how much food an average-sized dog eats and figured it requires 2.07 acres of land to provide for him. That's more than it takes for our car."
"So I suppose we ought to get rid of the car and have him pull us around on a sled with wheels?"
"No. At least I don't think so. I haven't read the book, but from the reviews I think they're in favor of not having pets at all."
"Yeah? Well I wonder what the environmental impact of these people is. I bet it's more than Flynn's. So maybe instead of pet lovers getting rid of their pets, people like them should voluntarily check out of life." She paused for a beat and said, "no, that's probably harsh or sounds threatening. I doubt the Vales have much of a sense of humor. So I wonder how much environmental impact their book has had? Maybe they should have studied that before they wrote their stupid book and then there wouldn't be such a stupid book."
"That's true. Too bad I've already got feelers out for cannibal tribes."
"You didn't!"
"Afraid so. I just hope those cannibals aren't highly concerned about the carbon footprint of their meals."
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Sunday December 20, 2009
(This is the planned/threatened follow up to Ornery Afoot.)
The more Azron and I have exchanged comments, the more I have found myself ambling down memory lane to a time when the bicycle was king but we still got around mostly on foot. Back then our phys ed teacher/coach was a retired Marine Corps captain whose every gym class began with a run. In fact it was not until I went through basic training at Parris Island that I recognized the model for those gym classes. Until then, I thought all phys ed classes everywhere consisted of a long run followed by a few minutes of calisthentics and then, time permitting, a bit of sports activity before heading off to the showers. It certainly fit the lifestyles of a bunch of kids from a rural town in New York State.
At Parris Island I discovered that young men born and raised elsewhere had not run or walked nearly as much and it astonished me to be training alongside guys who struggled to cover 3 miles in a jogging run. And when the drill instructors learned that the training runs gave me no problems, they made me a sort of stray-catcher with instructions to get stragglers across the line the best way I could.
The best way for me was to run backward, calling encouragement, and it worked. One fellow recruit told me later that he figured if I could cover most of three miles running in reverse he damn sure ought to be able to do it running forward.
The Marine Corps though nearly put paid to my penchant for walking to get places. Who wants to walk anywhere ever again after a forced march headed by an Olympics-caliber race walker?
That was during infantry training at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, and it seemed to follow naturally from high school days under the guidance of a retired Marine that I would end up chasing a lieutenant whose pace suggested that our training company needed to reach its destination by yesterday.
Understand something here. On our forced marches, we trainee infantrymen (for all Marines are told from early on that they are first and foremost riflemen who are expected to be able to get where they are going afoot), carried bedrolls, knapsacks, rifles, cartridge belts, canteens - in short the gear we needed to stay afield. As an added bonus, I had the privilege of lugging our field radio, not because I was the biggest and strongest guy in the company, but just because. Meanwhile, our company commander would set off encumbered by a cartidge belt that held a holstered 45 pistol, canteen, and ammunition. And he set a pace (keep in mind that this was the Cold War era) suggesting that he envisioned an Olympics in which the USA and USSR were tied in the medal count, this was the final event, and the fate of the Free World depended upon him bringing home the gold. (Note: by contrast, we saw other training companies set out on their "forced marches" - we thought - looking for all the world like church groups ambling away for a Sunday picnic.)
When I look back now, I recall those marches as blurs. I am sure we marched over hill and dale, but of birds and wildlife, sunshine or other elements, of anything other than a view of our company commander moving with his peculiar race-walking gait, I recall nothing save a huge sense of relief when we finally arrived at our destination in the middle of nowhere where we rested, ate, drank, and THEN MARCHED BACK.
Those, however, were made to walks/marches. Sometime later, while stationed in California, a couple of friends and I decided to go to from 29 Palms to Palm Springs. And we decided to hitchhike. I cannot recall the route number, but I do know that we managed to catch a ride from a guy who told us he would drop us at the Indian Avenue exit for Palm Springs. What he failed to tell us was that Palm Springs lay something like 17 miles from the exit ramp where he dropped us.
Thankfully, we were in civvies and not full combat gear. More blessedly, none of us was pursuing an Olympic gold in race walking. Indeed, I still felt fairly fresh when we arrived in Palm Springs some hours later and suggested,
"what say we press on to Disneyland? It can't be but another 90 miles or so."
The pikers! Instead we ended up poolside at a motel, sipping beer with the manager.
Just hope the guys from my old infantry training company never find out.
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