I Can See Clearly Now.

A friend of mine asked me a few weeks ago, "What're you doing for fun?". Odd question, that. My concept of fun has changed a bunch over the years. When I was in college, I'd've probably told you that whatever everyone else thought was fun was what I thought was fun. I mean, I wouldn't have actually said that whatever everyone else was fun was what I thought was fun, but I doubt I would have bothered to actually think about what I really liked. I pretty much did what everyone else did: drank a lot, shot pool, "hooked-up" (or tried to). I wasted a lot of years checking off items on an ersatz bucket list that didn't bring any real contentment. Don't get me wrong: I had some genuinely good times, and have gotten to know a lot of wonderful people; it's just that I'd've been a lot happier if I'd spent less time in bars, and more time reading, or walking in the woods, or drawing pictures of stuff. C.S. Lewis described the feeling of a soul tricked into trading the real joy of living in Christ for the decreasing return one gets chasing shadows in The Screwtape Letters: "I now see that I spent most of my life in doing neither what I ought nor what I liked". So, what am I doing for fun? Today, I went to church, washed windows with Lady Di, did some laundry, and watched an episode of "Downton Abbey" on DVD. And it was fun.

A Christmas Present that Really Sucks!

I've been fairly good this year. Lady Di has been very good. Is it asking Santa too much for a present that sucks? Maybe Santa needs more information. After all, he can't make his decisions in a vacuum. Alright, Kringle, here are the facts: our current cleaner is old. Real old. It's from Hoover. No, not the company; the president. It's coal powered. Like I said, it's not a new vacuum cleaner. It doesn't work so well anymore. I use it an appallingly slight percentage of the time that it is employed, but in those rare instances where I'm the operator of the sucker, it feels like I'm pushing around a stick.

Curling sweepers pick up more dirt. Quidditch brooms pick up more dirt. Not effective. Anyway, Santa, if you're not too busy...

Two Sheds are Better than One.

I mentioned in yesterday's poor orphan shirt post that I've been working on a junior shed to go with Diane's big shed. When Lowe's delivered the box, I was perplexed: the box was hardly bigger than I am. How you gonna get a shed outta this? For being mechanically disinclined, I sure do get myself into a lot of "Mr. Fix-it" jams.

Maybe my buddy, Dana, can figure it out. Reading the directions? Is that even allowed?

Really, it's all about the toolbelt and hat (and Lady Di's hamburgers, of course).

After the first foray, which included a trip to the building supply store, and several trips to Ace Hardware, we got the foundation figured out.

On day two, we started to get some walls up.

Friend Gale, ever competent and always in motion, stopped in to the shed raising.

Dana teased my poor little cordless screwdriver. Yeah, well, "I'm rubber, you're glue..."

At the end of day two, we had the walls up, but I'd lost Dana and Gale for the duration. They were a huge help, but I'd have to soldier on by my lonesome.

Daylight Savings Time is tough in the morning, but I did have enough daylight after work on Monday to finish the roof. I'd leave the doors for another day.

I finally finished yesterday.

I wonder why they gave me all these extra parts?

All cleaned up and ready to load. Just call me David "Two Sheds" Mathews.