The cardboard box

"We were evicted from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!"

"You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road."

"Cardboard box?"

"Aye."

"You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank..."

- Monty Python, The Four Yorkshiremen sketch

* * * * *

How we happened to have a large collapsed cardboard box in our TV room is a story in itself. A few weeks back, I was watching a football game on ESPN while I waited for a soccer match to come on another station a bit later. The soccer match would be presented on tape delay, meaning that it was on-going as I watched the football game. Given that ESPN is forever scrolling the scores from other sporting events along the bottom of the screen, there was a very high likelihood that I would see the outcome of the game I wanted to watch later. That's how I came up with the idea of folding up a box to cover the bottom few inches of the TV screen where the scores were displayed. It needed to be a rather large box, as the TV is a 53" widescreen HDTV. Just so happens I had a box that would do the job. I watched the football game and then switched over to the soccer match never having heard the score.

As I mentioned above, that was a few weeks ago. The box has yet to be put away. The other night we settled in to watch the season premiere of The Office. I was the last one downstairs. By the time I arrive, not only are the sweet seats in the room taken, but the blankets too. Our basement gets kind of chilly with the air conditioning on. A light throw is pretty much a necessity to sit comfortably down there.

Without a spare blanket in sight, I scan the room for something to cover up with. That's when I spot the box standing up against the wall. Without a word, I walk across the room, pick up the box and carry it back to my chair. I position the box over my body. Cover myself in cardboard. The box reaches from my feet to my shoulders.

It is really quite comfortable, the box, and remarkably warm. I feel lucky to have it. My son takes notice and is quick to comment. "What are you doing, Dad?" He has a look of disbelief on his face. "Do you think you are too good to cover yourself with a box?" I ask him. "A cardboard box is all the shelter you will ever need." He rolls his eyes. Wifey knows where this is going and stays out of it.

We watch The Office for a while, my son and my wife under soft down blankets, me under a large cardboard box. Then:

"Dad, are you going to keep that box on top of you for the whole show?" my son asks. I answer affirmatively, repositioning the box gently across my torso. It makes a soft scratching sound where it rubs against my knees. I signal my satisfaction with a smile. My son shakes his head.

We turn our attention back to the television. Moments later:

"Okay, give me the box." My son reaches out with both hands grabbing at the box. "No way," I tell him. "You can't have the box. You were just dissing the box." But he is determined. "Come on. I want the box." I tell him he is not worthy of the box. "Please, let me have the box." Wifey pleads for quiet, telling us she can't hear the television. Finally I relent. "Fine," I tell my son sternly. "You can have the box. But only for a few minutes. After that you have to give it back. Deal?" He agrees.

I pass my son the cardboard box. He passes me his blanket. The box is huge on him. He can barely balance it on his body. "Pretty nice, huh?" My son smiles, his braces glimmering. He feels he has pulled a fast one on the old man. I position the down blanket across my lap and take a sip of wine from my glass before pushing back in my recliner.

Once again we are enjoying the program on TV. Until:

"Dad?"

No response.

"DAD?"

Nothing. Eyes straight ahead.

"Come on, Dad. Give me the blanket back."

Exact Title TBD

I always keep a fresh idiom in my back pocket in case I need one. Come to think of it, symbolically stowing anything in one's back pocket is in itself an idiom. Or maybe it's a metaphor. Who really knows the difference? No doubt about it, for those uncomfortable pauses in conversation that require a jump start or change in direction, the idiom is just the thing. Problem is, people are rarely prepared to step up to the plate and deliver the winning run, idiomatically speaking. Or metaphorically speaking. And even if they are able to come up with an idiom at a moment's notice, it's likely to be some hackneyed cliché that falls like a lead balloon. In fact, many people are fond of that very expression: "it fell like a lead balloon." Except, technically, that would be a simile. Or an aphorism. It's difficult to say.

Anyway, without further ado, here's one of my original idioms:

"Don't bake a potato unless you know there's butter in the dish."

Pretty good idiom, wouldn't you say? Or metaphor. Or maybe it's a colloquialism. Whatever. I like it. It's deep and meaningless at the same time. Everything that an idiom should be. Or a maxim. Either way, lay that on people at a party, tell them "don't bake a potato unless you know there's butter in the dish," and they're going to shake their heads and say, "Amen to that, brother." People appreciate a well-crafted idiom, especially one they haven't heard before, one that makes them think. Or maybe reflect.

I have quite a few other original idioms. You know, to cover a wide variety of situations. In fact, I'm working on a book of idioms. It's going to be called "Jack's pocket guide to original idioms or metaphors or _____." I'm going to let the editors work out the exact title. Every morning I go down into the writer's cave that I dug in my basement and work on a new idiom for the book. The cave is a wonderfully creative work space, albeit a bit damp.

Here's another of my idioms for you before I go:

"If you notice that your socks don't match your pants, you probably spend too much time looking down."

Or maybe that's a non sequitur. Also, I may have read it in a Chinese fortune cookie.

Please buy my book when it comes out. In addition to the paper copy, there will be digital versions for your iPod and car's navigation system. Now, back to the cave...

thump thump thump

"What is that noise?" I asked my twelve year old son.

I was sitting quietly, enjoying a morning cup of coffee and thinking about nothing in particular.

"Oh, that's me," my son answered. "I'm trying to see if it's possible to jump without bending my knees."

You can always count on a twelve year old to both interrupt a quiet moment and give you something to think about.

I defy you to put the hypothesis of jumping without bending out of your head without at least visualizing the process or even standing up and giving it a go yourself. Just be prepared for questions from anyone within earshot trying to enjoy a quiet moment.

Patina

The installer said our new patio doors should be stained or painted within the first six weeks to protect the wood. That deadline slipped. Then Bill Clinton left office making room for George Bush, 9/11 and war with Iraq. Obviously, I was in no mood for staining wood. I gave up my gym membership somewhere along the line. Stopped running, too. Got out of shape. Some nasty accusations about secret torture camps made the news, complete with nasty photographs. The furnace broke on the coldest day of the year. Then I started running again, but fell. It hurt. I vowed never to run again. Another election. Domestic spying. The air conditioner broke on the hottest day of the year. Melting ice sheets. Sea level up to here. Still the patio doors remained untreated. Lately, though, things have been okay. There's talk of bringing home the troops. I've returned to the gym. Run a few times without falling. My football team has a winning record. There are fewer Hummers on the road and more hybrids. There’s money in the bank. The mortgage is solvent. I am feeling, well, hopeful. So, last weekend I went to the hardware store and bought a pint of wood stain, some sandpaper, masking tape, a drop cloth and a new paint brush. I came home and got busy. First there was the sanding. The patio doors had taken on a patina over the years consisting mostly of human exhaust, skin oil and kitchen smoke. It took a lot of sandpaper to remove this grime. But it came off eventually and the replenished wood soaked in the stain with a pent up thirst. A second coat deepened the luster and filled in the spots I had missed. The doors look nice. Clean. Transformed. Red oak now instead of yellow pine. Next weekend I'll add two coats of polyurethane to lock in the stain and they'll be done. It’s hard for me to imagine. The patio doors are ready. Ready for what? That's the question.

Equal footing

Be thankful for the symmetry of toes.
Left foot equals right, only opposite.
It's a blessing, really.
Last thing any of us needs
is one toe standing out from the rest.
Next thing you know there's cliquish behavior
on the part of the other toes,
exclusion of the unpopular toes,
idolatry, gossip, flirting, practical jokes,
teasing, name calling and, quite possibly,
falling over.

Spin cycle

Our new washing machine and dryer were delivered last week. The washer is one of those high efficiency front-loading machines that uses about a thimbleful of water to clean a load of clothes. The Energy Guide Statement claims that running this machine for a year will cost $9 in electricity. That's less than I spent at Starbucks in the last three days!

I wouldn't normally get excited about laundry. I haven't actually washed a single article of clothing in many years. Wifey handles that. Okay, now, before you get all uppity about how my domestic behavior perpetuates sexist roles and responsibilities, allow me to state in my defense that I do most of the cooking in our house. And a good deal of the grocery shopping, too. And in my spare time I sew little sweaters for the short-haired dogs locked up at the local shelter so they don't shiver at night. I, uhm, well, I cook and I shop - let's just leave it at that.

Anyway, the new washer is pretty cool. Except that it really vibrates during the spin cycle. In fact, the whole laundry room seems to vibrate. The first time I saw this happening, I was a bit concerned. "Don't worry," Wifey told me. "This is normal." She went on to explain, "this machine spins so fast that clothes come out barely moist, which of course cuts down on the time they spend in the dryer." I haven't seen the energy rating for our dryer yet, but I'm guessing it is pretty efficient on an annual basis as well. Maybe the equivalent of five or six Starbucks cappuccinos.

Sensing that I wasn't sold on her normalcy claim regarding this vibration business, Wifey pointed to a sticker on the washing machine. "Read for yourself," she said. "I can't," I replied. And I couldn't. The washer was spinning so hard, the words on the sticker were a blur. Just then, the spin cycle ended and the big box of a washer came to a halt. The sticker that my wife wanted me to see came into clear view. It read:

"Your new high efficiency washer spins almost twice as fast as conventional top load washers. You will notice different sounds and slight vibration. This is normal."

The last sentence was underlined. You can imagine the people at the washing machine factory answering all the phone calls from concerned customers claiming that their washing machine is shaking as though it's poised to take flight.

"We have to tell people that this is normal," the shop manager must have screamed to his customer service staff in frustration.

"But we have, boss – look, it says right here on the sticker: 'This is Normal.'"

"Well, it's not enough," the shop manager surely fired back. "Underline it, damn it, underline it!"

I'm still getting used to our hyper-active washer. It sits on the main floor of our house, so during spin cycles you can feel the vibrations from a good distance away. Mind you, it's not a problem. The rumbling just catches me off guard sometimes.

Last night, in the upstairs bathroom, I was getting ready to snip a few nose hairs with a pair of those really sharp curved scissors designed for this purpose, when I felt a slight vibration between the metal blades and my left nostril. Near the sink, some toothbrushes rattled softly in the ceramic dish holder. For a moment, I didn't make the connection. Were we having an earthquake? Then I remembered the washer. "Oh yeah..." I went ahead and snipped the nose hairs. What the heck. The clothes need washing and the nose hairs need trimming. This is normal now.

Labor Day Weekend Merriment

Body surfing in La Jolla
People watching at a Zurich cafe
Hiking above 10,000 feet in Colorado
Installing a new floor in the laundry room
Scuba diving in Belize
Dinner and a show in NYC
Fly fishing in Yellowstone National Park

Which of these do you think I'm doing this weekend?