Every Tool Needs A Shed

The main updates to the Cold War Dream House have mostly been wrapped up. I'm still uncertain why a house actively being constructed during the Cuban Missile Crisis was not amended to include a fall-out shelter. Khrushchev  had already proven that brick and mortar work can be done on the fly. I guess that floor plan update will have to wait until my lottery numbers align.

More importantly though, I need a place to put the yard tools. It's a slippery slope piling gear in the garage; I have an agenda for that square footage. At the Cold War Starter Home, I simply bought A a car that wouldn't fit in the tiny garage.  Lawn mowers only add clutter to my garage vision. I needed a Dojo for gardening.

Location was an issue, the best place for a shed was straight across from the living room window. The ground was most level and highest elevation, as well as the least amount of shrubs to remove. There was a gap in foliage to the rear neighbors deck that would best be blocked, and I had multiple shades of left over paint and an art interest spurred by youthful cycling heroes.



Unfortunately my inability to read a tape measure was highlighted as I made the doors way to big for the space. Of course I didn't measure the doors themselves until after I had glued them together, taped and primed them.

I had to make a run out to my Dad's shop to cut, router, pucker and rebuild. At one point, he told me to grab a chisel to clean out the routered groove in one of the joints. I asked where a chisel might be and he responded, "On my workbench."



 With the doors fixed and ready to hang, I had a vision come to me during a dream. But first a little back-story; A's Grandpa had a thing for shellac. He put a glossy coat of chemical preserve over EVERYTHING. The brick chimney in his basement had a candy coating as if it was made of red M&M's.

So in my dream, I was spraying shellac all over the kitchen with a pesticide pump sprayer. A was yelling at me to not spray the windows, but all her knickknacks on the counter and window sill had a shiny preserved coating and it looked HOT.

 Of course the dream clearly meant that I needed to shellac the inside of the shed. And so you know, a pesticide sprayer works great for spray sealing. I brushed it out with a broom because everyone knows if you paint with a broom you're a Bad ass.



Dreams Do Come True

As a girl, A used to play with dolls. Figures, she was a girl. Oddly enough though, in her fantasy doll scenarios (FDS to the hardcore) her doll was always a Ninja, Detective or a Ninja-Detective. I imagine Laura Ingals with a Mr. T complex. "I pity the Pioneer..."

Come to find out that things don't change much. I now imagine she had some really L.A.M.E. college parties with her "doll friends." I found in the mail today an American Girl catalog. A ripped it from my hands and ran off as if she beat me to the chance to read through it first. Cause I'm all over that like newsprint in a birdcage.

As she hurriedly flipped through the girl-child catalog, I had to ask; "What the &#@ is that and why is it in this house?"

"Just a sec...just a sec!" she said.  Waving her finger of justice at me without raising her head from the estrogen scented girl mag.

"I've gotten this catalog for 10 years, since ordering a Christmas present for our niece. But that's not important right now. What is SO GREAT, THEY FINALLY MADE A DOLL THAT LOOKS JUST LIKE ME AND SHE COMES WITH A PONY! OH, YEAH!!!!

I turned my head toward the bedazzled print and sure enough...

The Business

This blog is big business. The demands from it are incomprehensible to the little people. Readers from all over the world. It's humbling. Google though, in their infinite wisdom, decided I was too young to blog. Under age for such mature content. So they shut this outlet of enlightenment down cold like a kid crashing after a day at the circus. I'm gonna be totally honest; I'm over 40. I haven't even been carded when buying alcohol in years.

The damage though was to you dear reader. Your heart felt like it stopped when you saw the blank page on your work computer as you desperately tried to avoid the eyeball bleeding work that you do. And I apologise for that. I am mature enough to know the pain my alleged mistake of transposing digits to make me 3 years old on the Internet brought to you.

So I did what any graying forty-something would do; I yelled for my wife of a decade-and-a-half to bail me out. Again, with the honesty; I'm no technophile.  I chase a kid on a wooden bike with no pedals around the block and never seem to catch him.

A danced around the ring with her laptop for a few rounds, found Googles weakness, then stuck one to the breadbasket and shazaam! La Gazzetta dello NewmaForma is back. Now get back to work!