This is why they're called the Olympic "Games".

I seldom watch sports.  Even with the Olympics on, with a larger variety of events than ever appear normally on TV, and with the chance of seeing them only every four years, I still don't sit for hours in front of the TV.  (I could, though, considering there's one broadcast network and three cable networks airing footage.)  When I did have the TV on these past two weeks, I checked out what competitions were shown.

I say "competitions" because I can't refer to some of the Olympic events as "sports".

Beach volleyball is in the Olympics?  Three-on-three basketball is a thing?  I don't even know what that one is.  Skateboarding is in the Olympics?!  Surfing is in the Olympics?  By this point, I barely can be surprised that BMX biking is in the Olympics.

Ouch! That stings.

 I try not to fret about having turned 50 this year.  I figure that, if I don't make it a big deal, it doesn't hurt, and people won't try to make fun of me for it, if they know it doesn't bother me.  (My oldest brother is an exception, but he's about to turn 60, so who's pointing fingers now?)

I faced a bigger issue the other day.  At the grocery store, the cashier asked me, "Are you over 55 years old?"

I suppose she was asking, in case I earned a senior discount.  I suppose that, with half of my face covered by a mask, and with my hair either having fallen out or turned gray, she couldn't see how youthful and vibrant I otherwise appear.

Still, I'm trying to get used to being 50.  Please don't add years to me yet!

Special Landscaper Edition

 My employer receives a lot of trade magazines and catalogs in the mail (even after telling the publishers that we want the electronic, not print, versions).  They all get recycled, but I do flip through a few of them before putting them in the recycling bin.

A bulb catalog arrived this week.  I discovered that we could order 10,000 bulbs in a batch -- at 2/3 the per-bulb price of a batch of 100.  Sure, the total price sounds expensive, but that's only $0.23 to $0.31 per bulb.  That sounds good, doesn't it?

Now, where am I going to plant 10,000 daffodils?

Stupid Question of the Universe #8

 The plural of "index" is "indices".  Does it follow that you can have one bottle of Windex or two bottles of Windices?

Maybe It's My Car That's Haunted

 DAY 2:  When I arrived home from work, the day after the smoke detector incident, I pushed the button of my garage door opener and turned my car into the driveway.  At the same time, I heard someone's burglar alarm.  "That's odd," I thought.  "It can't be mine.  Mine wouldn't go off immediately when the door opened."  Plus, it didn't sound as if it was emitting from my house.  It sounded more like it came from one of the houses across the street, or at least from that direction.  Closing the garage door muffled the sound, so I knew it wasn't my own alarm.

About half an hour later, I left to refuel my car and buy groceries at the warehouse club.  Again, at the same time I pushed the button to open the garage door, I heard a burglar alarm.  Now, it's getting creepy.  The effects of my "Weather Wizardry" on various forms of technology seem to grow with every incident.  I seriously pondered if it were possible that my garage door opener's frequency suddenly, after who-knows-how-many years, started setting off burglar alarms around the neighborhood.

My other, across-the-street neighbor was walking over, and he confirmed the alarm was from his neighbor's house, and he was checking because his neighbor was out of town.  He also said his wife told him the alarm "has been doing that all day".  I was mildly comforted, but I wanted confirmation.  Would the alarm go off again when I returned home?

Thankfully, as I turned onto my street upon my return and pushed the garage door button again, the neighbor's burglar alarm did not go off.  Silence reigned in the neighborhood.  I was vindicated.  Or, at least, there was a datum that did not support the hypothesis that it was my fault.

DAY 3:  Every Friday, I collect the recyclables from my office and take them home to put in my own recycling container.  (Santa Fe, NM provides similar containers for residential customers in single-family housing, but not for businesses nor multi-family dwellings.  Plus, even though it's Santa Fe, none of my coworkers cares enough about recycling.)  I always leave a box in the office, to collect recyclables during the week, and I have spare boxes in the car, for when I gather everything from the trash cans.  When I went out to my car for a box, and I pushed the button on my key fob to unlock the car doors, the wiper on the rear window operated twice.  This was spooky, since the only controls (that I know of) for that wiper (or for the windshield ones, for that matter) are on the car's dashboard, and I hadn't even reached the car yet.

Who needs to wait for Halloween?  Just hand me something with a battery, and stand back!

Haunted?

I dreamt last night that I was in a house (not mine), going to every smoke detector and carbon monoxide detector, trying to figure out which one was beeping and needing a new battery.  It was fruitlessly frustrating.  I gave up and decided to take a shower.  Unfortunately, the shower was already running (very hot, as the closed, bathroom door felt warm, and there was steam seeping out around it).  I walked into the bedroom and saw the (late) actor Paul Walker doing something (folding laundry, painting, something).  He said he was letting the shower warm up.  I left the room, unsure of how to while away the time until he was done in the shower.  That's when Paul had his "aha! moment".  "Wait.  I'm not running the shower, and if Cap'n isn't running the shower, and I'm not running the shower, who is?"  He went into the bathroom and discovered the body of his father, who had committed suicide.

"Well, isn't that a pleasant dream!" I thought, and I woke myself up.  Then, I heard a beep.  In real life.  Argh!  I went into the hallway, stood directly in front of the carbon monoxide detector, and waited for the beep.  Aha!  I took it into the bedroom, turned on a light in the bathroom (so as not to blind myself with direct light), and... heard a beep from the hallway.  Not from the device in my hands.  Razzlefrazzlesnarfin'...

The one thing that went right in all this is that I'm tall enough to reach the smoke detector on the ceiling, so I didn't have to hunt for a stepstool in the dark.  I took down the detector and walked to my bedroom.  The detector I was holding beeped.  I removed the battery and left it and the detector on the bathroom counter, as a reminder to replace the battery in the morning.  (Never fear, loyal readers!  There remained a hard-wired smoke detector in place, should anything worse happen overnight.)

I decided that, since I was already up, I'd go to the bathroom.  The detector beeped.  Yes, it beeped without the battery in it.  As I washed my hands, the detector beeped again.  "All right, you!  You're going down to the kitchen tonight.  You can beep all night long, and I won't be able to hear you from there."  Naturally, it didn't make a sound as I took it downstairs.  I left it (and the battery) on the kitchen table anyway.  (I did insert a new battery, test it, and carry the detector back upstairs, after breakfast this morning.)  It took me more than a half hour (based on the grandfather clock) to fall back asleep.

In the name of all that is good, why is it that the batteries in smoke detectors never run down while I'm awake and able to do something about them?  And how did this one continue to beep after the battery had been removed?

Middle-Aged Curmudgeon

I've commented before that computers, the internet, and other forms of technology and I have a "cold war" of sorts.  We view each other with distrust & suspicion.  Today's update is:  same ol' same ol'.

The other day, I mentioned that I tore the only pair of jeans that still fits me.  With clothing stores closed or restricted, I finally gave in and browsed online.  I thought I found stores that had what I need.  ("I think so, Brain, but where are we going to find rubber pants our size?"  --Pinky)  Unfortunately, they didn't.  These are websites, after all, a form of technology that hates me.

I ordered two pairs of jeans from one website and some underwear from another.  In answer to your question:  no, of course I couldn't get everything from one place.  One had jeans but not underwear in my size, and the other had underwear but not jeans in my size.  I probably could have ordered elsewhere, but both would have been more expensive.

Moments ago, I got an e-mail from one of the stores that one of the two pairs of jeans I ordered was cancelled.  Already?  You see, this is why I hate the internet.  Even when I give it a chance, it turns on me.  No chance of detente here.

I guess I'll try the manufacturer's website next.  The price to order jeans directly from them is only a little more than the store that let me down.  Mind you, it was two days ago that I browsed their site, so either the price or availability probably has changed -- or both.

More Buying, Less Shopping

I have been so lazy, this note to blog about my second grocery-shopping foray has been on my keyboard for weeks.  I don't know why, since there isn't much to say.

I had most of the same items on my list as before.  (This one-per-customer rule, even if it's only in my head, is inconvenient.)  This time, though, I found most of them -- even the yogurt, hot dogs, and boxed macaroni & cheese.  Granted, there wasn't much of any of them on the shelves, but at least they were there.  Plus, there was toilet paper!  I didn't need any, but I picked up a package for visitors to use in the powder room.  I hope this one is more comfortable for them, although I still prefer the cheapest brand.

Ooh!  I just remembered something to add to my list for the next time.  Now, where's that paper?

Seeing Things

Along with my actual waist size, there are a couple of other reasons I couldn't believe my eyes this weekend.  And it's only Saturday afternoon.

First, I saw four, teenage boys on bikes in my neighborhood.  I see lots of people out exercising, walking dogs, or playing:  parents, elderly, children -- but never teenagers.  I started thinking that maybe there aren't any in my neighborhood.  No teenager ever offered to mow my mom's lawn or shovel her sidewalks before I moved in with her, and I thought it was because they were too lazy or didn't want pocket money.  Maybe they didn't even exist.  The question now is:  are they all inside, playing video games?

The second thing I saw was during my walk this morning.  I saw an aluminum, beer can in the street.  I haven't had to pick up an aluminum can in years!

Size Matters

I accidentally tore through the knee of the pair of jeans I sometimes wear to work, so I need to replace them.  I tried on every other pair of jeans & trousers I have, and I'm embarrassed to say that none of them fits any more.  Even the ones marked "relaxed fit" are for skinny people.  The manufacturers must be lying their asses off -- which probably explains why they can fit in the jeans but I can't.  At least I'll have a generous donation for the thrift store.  (Now then, are there any other long-legged men in Albuquerque?)

And have you ever looked at the models in the photos?  Am I supposed to believe that someone with abs like that is actually wearing relaxed fit jeans?

Interestingly, I had a "regular fit" pair in my drawer (without tags, which means I must have been able to wear them in public at least once), and they weren't much different than the relaxed fit.  I guess each brand sizes and fits differently.  Still, I think the time has come for me to be honest with myself and go up a size.  (Since I live alone, and since it's a holiday weekend, I should be able to get all my sobbing done before returning to work on Tuesday.)

Alas, I can't go to the store, so I'll have to adventure online.  I first looked at the department store that I know sells a brand I like.  Naturally, they're out of stock in my size.  (Note:  that always happens in stores, too.)  I checked for the other brand I like, and they have my size, but they're way expensive.  Next, I looked at the discount department store's website.  They have the second brand, in my size, for an affordable price.  The website warns, "Runs large.  Consider sizing down."  (Believe me, I'm trying!)

For curiosity's sake, I took a tape measure and put it around my waist.  Freeow!  That number was a lot bigger than even the larger waist size of jeans!  (Maybe men's clothing designers lie as much as women's designers.)  It wasn't curiosity that killed the cat.  It was shock.