I love it when my husband sends me on an errand to the hardware store. No, really, I love it. I love it just as much as he probably did back in the days when I had a uterus and sent him to the grocery store for my feminine hygiene products. At least my errands for him involved finding something that was well- marked and easily recognizable to at least 99% of adult males.
Errands to the hardware store are something altogether different. Take, for instance, my trip to Home Depot today.
"I need three sets of these," my husband said, depositing a combination of a nail so large it could have easily kept Christ up on the cross much longer, encased in a narrow metal tool. "They're to put the rain gutter back up," he explained. "Just go the to the gutter section and find someone to help you. And if they don't have these then just get a 12-inch....." the rest was lost as my attention wandered to the pretty yellow birds that were visiting the bird feeders.".....okay?"
"Sure," I replied, knowing full-well that I would come home with something that was totally wrong and would have to suffer through a five-minute lecture.
I set off for Home Depot but first I had to stop at Staples to mail a box of school clothes I bought for my grandsons in Georgia. Then the Clearance section of the store beckoned and I frittered away another 20 minutes trying to decide which pen to buy. I just know if I find the right one, then it's just a matter of time before I'm able to write the Great American Novel.
By the time I got to Home Depot I had pretty much forgotten everything my husband had said except for the "three sets of these." Luckily, I had tucked away the sample he gave me and I dug it out of my purse and held it in my hand like a divining rod that would hopefully lead me to the right section of the store.
I wandered up and down the aisles looking for a big sign that would read "Gutters" but that would have been too easy, so I went in search of a salesperson (which is sometimes almost as difficult as finding what it is you're looking for).
I have a confession to make, one that's probably not going to make me very popular with my "sisters." If given the choice between a male and a female salesperson, I will always go with the male. I know, I know. It's horribly sexist of me. I'm sure there are plenty of women who can speak just as knowledgeably about hardware as men, but I've yet to find one of them wearing an orange apron at my local store. Do I really need to wander aimlessly around the store with someone who's just as clueless as I am? And when they finally admit they don't know what I'm talking about, much less where to find it, who do they call? Must I state the obvious?
There have been times though when the only salesperson available was a woman and I find it interesting that I adopt whole different demeanor - a "my husband is a big pain in the ass for sending me here" kind of attitude, trying to play the sisterhood card.
"I'm looking for the gutter," I joked with the woman who stood before me. No response. Not even a hint of a smile. Okay then..."He sent me to get three of these," I said,holding out my sample.
After studying it for a moment, she led me to an unmarked section where I vaguely recognized something that looked like a rain gutter. I scanned the shelves and "bingo" - what I was looking for just jumped out at me.
"Spikes and Ferrules" the label rad. That sounded like a shady law firm of the name of a punk rock duo.
"Oh. I've never heard of those before. Guess I learned something today," the saleswoman said and she wandered away.
"Thanks for all your help," I muttered as I headed for the check out aisle.
I returned home to find my husband in the garage, sorting through screws in a coffee can. I was fully prepared to tell him all about my adventures as I handed him the spikes and ferrules.
"Thanks," he said, taking the bag and casually tossing it onto the workbench before turning back to his screw sorting. "I didn't know what they were called."
Wow. Maybe he should be working at the Home Depot.
Friday, August 3, 2018
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Home on the Range
I spend a fair amount of time traveling on Idaho's back roads. That's not a choice but more of a necessity, since some of the places i like to spend time are off the beaten path and not accessible on the well-traveled I-84 corridor.
Like all roads, some back roads are better than others. Some are pretty well-maintained and are smooth driving. Others, however, are nothing more than rutted washboards that could vibrate the fillings out of your teeth if you travel at a speed greater than 10mph. Some are wide enough to allow two vehicles to to pass quite comfortably, while others are so narrow that when you pass another vehicle you can shake hands with the other driver just by sticking your hand out the window.
Sometimes the road (if you can call it that) is so narrow that only one vehicle can pass through at a time and it becomes a delicate dance of who gets to go first, provided there's even a place where the losing vehicle can pull off the road. My husband tells me there is actually a backwoods etiquette about who has to yield in such a situation but I can never remember what it is. I prefer to use my own rule of the road which is whoever is driving the bigger vehicle gets to go first. This is especially hair-raising if you're in the vehicle that's on the side of the road where there's a steep drop-off - usually into a raging river. Those are my favorites.
Whatever the condition or size of the road, there's always one thing you can count on when traveling a back road and that's cattle (or cows as I like to call them, which is a dead giveaway of my New England heritage).
"Free-range cattle," as they're called, can be found anywhere on back roads, hence the term "free-range." These lucky bovines can come and go as they please, unencumbered. They're not restricted to the confines of a pen or a fence boundary. I'm sure if cows could feel an emotion like envy those who are restricted to the feed lots would look at those free-range cows as lucky free spirits living the high life.
Inevitably, while driving on a back road one is bound to come across some of those free spirited cows, usually as you're coming around a blind corner, only to find a herd stretched across an already narrow road, doing whatever it is that free-range cattle do.
Recently, while driving alone on a back road to a camping spot that my husband had gone ahead to secure earlier in the day (on the off-chance that some lucky camper would find it in the middle of nowhere), I came across a group of three cows standing in the middle of the road engaged in a bovine Mexican standoff.
They could have been bulls for all I know, except none of them had horns. To me, horns mean it's a bull but apparently that's not always the case, according to my husband who grew up on a farm in Kansas.
These three cattle stood head-to-head pushing each other like rugby players in a scrum while all the cute little calves were grouped around them in a circle watching the action, probably talking trash to each other about whose mom (or dad) was going to kick the other cow's ass.
I came to a stop, undecided whether I should sound the car horn to try to get them to move or just come to a stop to avoid hitting any of them. I decided to stop and wait it out since I was in no hurry to get where I was going. All that waited for me at the camp site was dust, heat and flies.
In the end, the standoff ended peacefully without bloodshed. The combatants simply drifted apart, rounded up their offspring and headed into the dense underbrush,no doubt to compare notes to determine the winner.
One cow, however, was in no hurry to leave the road. She stood at the end of my hood staring at me with her large brown eyes. I returned her stare with my own cow-like eyes (as my husband is fond of describing them) until she turned and, with a lazy flick of her tail, sauntered leisurely down the road, letting me know exactly who didn't belong on that road by letting loose a large cow pie in the middle of it.
Like all roads, some back roads are better than others. Some are pretty well-maintained and are smooth driving. Others, however, are nothing more than rutted washboards that could vibrate the fillings out of your teeth if you travel at a speed greater than 10mph. Some are wide enough to allow two vehicles to to pass quite comfortably, while others are so narrow that when you pass another vehicle you can shake hands with the other driver just by sticking your hand out the window.
Sometimes the road (if you can call it that) is so narrow that only one vehicle can pass through at a time and it becomes a delicate dance of who gets to go first, provided there's even a place where the losing vehicle can pull off the road. My husband tells me there is actually a backwoods etiquette about who has to yield in such a situation but I can never remember what it is. I prefer to use my own rule of the road which is whoever is driving the bigger vehicle gets to go first. This is especially hair-raising if you're in the vehicle that's on the side of the road where there's a steep drop-off - usually into a raging river. Those are my favorites.
Whatever the condition or size of the road, there's always one thing you can count on when traveling a back road and that's cattle (or cows as I like to call them, which is a dead giveaway of my New England heritage).
"Free-range cattle," as they're called, can be found anywhere on back roads, hence the term "free-range." These lucky bovines can come and go as they please, unencumbered. They're not restricted to the confines of a pen or a fence boundary. I'm sure if cows could feel an emotion like envy those who are restricted to the feed lots would look at those free-range cows as lucky free spirits living the high life.
Inevitably, while driving on a back road one is bound to come across some of those free spirited cows, usually as you're coming around a blind corner, only to find a herd stretched across an already narrow road, doing whatever it is that free-range cattle do.
Recently, while driving alone on a back road to a camping spot that my husband had gone ahead to secure earlier in the day (on the off-chance that some lucky camper would find it in the middle of nowhere), I came across a group of three cows standing in the middle of the road engaged in a bovine Mexican standoff.
They could have been bulls for all I know, except none of them had horns. To me, horns mean it's a bull but apparently that's not always the case, according to my husband who grew up on a farm in Kansas.
These three cattle stood head-to-head pushing each other like rugby players in a scrum while all the cute little calves were grouped around them in a circle watching the action, probably talking trash to each other about whose mom (or dad) was going to kick the other cow's ass.
I came to a stop, undecided whether I should sound the car horn to try to get them to move or just come to a stop to avoid hitting any of them. I decided to stop and wait it out since I was in no hurry to get where I was going. All that waited for me at the camp site was dust, heat and flies.
In the end, the standoff ended peacefully without bloodshed. The combatants simply drifted apart, rounded up their offspring and headed into the dense underbrush,no doubt to compare notes to determine the winner.
One cow, however, was in no hurry to leave the road. She stood at the end of my hood staring at me with her large brown eyes. I returned her stare with my own cow-like eyes (as my husband is fond of describing them) until she turned and, with a lazy flick of her tail, sauntered leisurely down the road, letting me know exactly who didn't belong on that road by letting loose a large cow pie in the middle of it.
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