Waking up is hard to do

Totally late this morning. Luckily my boss it either too frazzled to notice or let it slide. Either way, I had another morning phoning dentists and calling DSHS to get our "adopted" 18 year-old into some serious dental remodeling. Perspective builder, for sure.

Muratic Acid and the Petcock

I am not a smart man. Just ask my friends, girlfriends, c0-workers, etc...

The person least aware of this is me. Always the last to know...

I was working on a motorcycle project (Imagine!) and decided to take a shortcut cleaning out the fuel supply lines on a KZ400 using muratic acid. I had used this product with great success in the past to eat away the rust inside fuel tanks that had been sitting for years. It doesn't harm the steel of the tank, and only eats away the rust and other crap and eventually rinses clean.

I poured out a small amount of the acid and dipped in the aluminum pet cock. This piece is critical as it controls the fuel flow from the fuel tank into the carburators. I dropped in the petcock and then turned my back for no more than a minute.

When I turned back around there was a viscous reaction going on, bubbling over and giving off a green gas. I hustled over and removed what was left of my fuel petcock. The acid had reduced it to just a hint of its former self. FUCK! I should have realized, or at least tested this on a less expensive, hard to find, elusive piece of equipement.

Like I said I am not a smart man. I am painfully reminded of this regularly, but my memory sucks.

How to Save Five Thousand Dollars

I have an addiction of purchasing big ticket items to make me feel good about myself. Maybe it has something to do with my parents, but I'm a firm believer that my dysfunctions are my own. My favorite big ticket items include motorcycles. I currently have six and I was contemplating the purchase of an upscale German marque, the 1973 BMW R75/5.

This jewel is on EBay and from the first glance, I knew I had to have it. German motorcycles are renown for their styling, reliability and simplicity. I have yet to even ride one, but I emailed the seller, eager to see the bike. I placed a bid of $2500.00 and hoped that maybe the reserve was ridiculously low. I got an email back almost immediately and the seller told me he could meet me in Monroe at 5pm. Deal!

I cut out of work early (very slow week) and zipped home. I know what my magic number was, and I hoped that maybe I could get a glimpse into the secret amount that the seller would let the bike go for. I met an older gentleman, maybe 60 years old or so. He was a talker. He started in and telling me all these details about his collection of bikes, showing me the details on this bike, the BMW owners club, etc. I noticed, however, that he dodged several questions about how long he has owned the bike.

I started checking out the bike more judiciously. Frame looks good. Original paint good. Electronics all work properly. No oil leaks. Good. I took the seat off the bike and noticed that one of the shock bolt nuts was missing, and that the bolt had worked its way loose. The other bolt was holding fast, but had also lost its nut. I offered a ride down to Coast to Coast for some new nuts and the use of some tools. We headed out and he seemed embarrassed. He should be.

Long story getting even longer, I then and there decided this wasn't the bike for me. Sure it was a great specimen, but my lust had given way to a gentle longing. I wasn't ready to part with my entire motorcycle fund just yet. I could keep on looking for the right bike.

"I'll tell you what," the seller started to reveal, "you can have it for $5000.00 today if you want it." I waited a bit before responding, and he opened up about needing the money to purchase another bike. He wanted an older Harley FL and was ready to give up the beemer.

I didn't buy the bike, and I feel much better about myself. I already have everything I need, and most everything I want, and then some. I think my addiction can be tamed. We'll see.

I guess it would help if I stopped being a whiny bitch.

So my latest bemoan fest started with our teenage houseguest coming home stoned again. While I'm not entirely anti-pot, I am against homeless/lazy teenagers toking up and not attending to their lengthy to do list. Jon is looking at $9000 of dental work and needs to get his drivers liscense. While I should be happy he is a good kid, his laziness sends me into a rage.

Add a nagging/clinging/passive agrressive girlfriend into the mix and my evening was shot. I try not to go to bed angry, but when I suggested she return $300 worth of clothes she purchased for me, the water works kicked in and between sobs I was able to catch "ungrateful" and "digusting." While I dig my lady when it is all good, it can't seem to get any worse. Aside from the obvious side effects of having a pseudo live in better half, my libido has waned. I'm a bit of a heavy breather usually but lately I have shirked my manly duties primarily due to the reasonable proximity required to my girlfriend. I can't "phone it in." I have to be present.

I now have more gray hair than brown hair, although both colors have mutinied and jump ship towards the shower drain each morning. I want to be happy, but I am anything but. What the fock is wrong with me? I can't seem to shake this vicious string of tattered love affairs that end up badly, with no winners, no smiles, no walks down the aisle... Fock.

So while I weave in and out of game face (work) and hate (life) modes, it manage to only be mostly irritating in a morning meeting. After trying to be diplomatic in making suggestions to the woman who has the "tough job" of shopping for things we need, I almost lost it. Each week I get to sit through discussions and segways into tangents of uber irrelevance. I know it is important to get a new tent. Does it really take 5 weeks to price it out? Can't you just call someone and have it delivered? WTF? Again, I need to take the higher road but want to go postal. Why am I still here? If I really hate it, why don't I stop whining.

Then when I bail to grab comfort food at lunch, I stock up on the biggies. Hot mac and cheese from the deli? Check. BBQ pork and spicy hot mustard? Check. I need some MSG and toxic cheese quickly or I am going to the gun shop. Whether I point it at someone (never, but it crossed my mind) or myself (all too often...) I can only guess, but the cold steel barrell of Granpa's old Colt might just be the prescription for what ails me...

So while I'm contemplating my killing spree and subsequent standoff in the candy aisle (Take 5 takedown at Top Foods! Film at 11!) I watch a dad and his daughter getting rung up ahead of me in line. He forks over his W.I.C. (public assistance) coupon for his groceries and a small pile of cash. He is still short. He is about $5.00 shy and removes the gallon of orange juice from the bag. The clerk handles this in the coolest way, not letting this gentleman be embarrassed in front of his daughter, dressed like a princess fairy halloween debutante.

He scans the others in line for any type of reaction, but everyone is suddenly interested in other things. "Lose ten pounds fast," "Angelina leaves Brad." Anything to occupy the void of having to show empathy, compassion, sympathy, scorn or regret.

I look over at him and his eyes look hurt and forlorn. His next W.I.C. voucher is a week and a half out. I give him a reaffirming nod and he smiles at the clerk. He scoops up his groceries and his daughter follows him out. I remember what it means to be broke, but it has been a while since I have tasted the despair, frustration and empty feeling of being at ground zero.

The clerk smiled at me and reaches for my comfort snacks. I managed to blow $16 on junk food to make myself feel better, when all I really needed was a quick dose of perspective. I have nothing to complain about. I have nothing to complain about. I have nothing to complain about.

I know it. You know it. Some days are just brutal, though. I can't shake this feeling and I regret bitching about it. Tomorrow, they say, will be a better day. I certainly hope so. For everyone.