tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373718362024-03-05T23:27:41.973-08:00Bill's BayouMusings On Life From The Bayou StateBill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-80354936179427763512017-10-10T08:44:00.002-07:002017-10-10T08:44:16.034-07:00Want to know what goes on in your restaurant's kitchen? Order a hamburger!<div data-contents="true">
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<span data-offset-key="f3a23-0-0"><span data-text="true">Hamburgers are simple to make and yet some restaurants are still taking shortcuts. Cheap ingredients, pre-cooked patties, dry mealy patties, sad toppings. When a burger arrives, it should never be room-temperature. Burgers are easy to dissect at your table. Just open them up and you'll be able to spot all the shortcuts and disrespect an establishment has for you and for its food.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7bmee-0-0"><span data-text="true">I have a simple rule: Everything on a menu is worthy of the restaurant's name.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="4islp-0-0"><span data-text="true">Sure, there will always be signature dishes that are the best in the city. I cannot expect everything on the same menu to be the best in the city. What I can expect, is that the standards that go behind making signature dishes are the same standards that go into everything they make. Cheat me on a burger and I know you're cheating me on every single thing on your menu.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="cee32-0-0"><span data-text="true">A friend of mine had a restaurant, The late Saint's Diner, with one of the best burgers I've ever eaten, "The Deuce". What made the burger great was the fact that it was fresh and that all the ingredients were fresh. Several toppings had to be cooked (it was complicated burger) but every topping was cooked AFTER I ordered the burger. It was hot, it was messy, it was great. A small restaurant with a big delicious burger. I was sorry to see it go.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="89hm3-0-0"><span data-text="true">Then there's the insults I had this past weekend. Two restaurants 80-miles apart. Both were advertised as Bar-B-Que/Grill restaurants. The first, Clay's in Marksville, the burger was simply okay. It left me wanting. What got me, though, was the toppings. Limp lettuce and tomatoes tell me you've given up. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="7hj7r-0-0"><span data-text="true">The second restaurant, Bergeron's in Port Allen, had the smell of smoked ribs and brisket. Oh, hope of hope. It smells like they may have respect for meat. I may have to make note of this place if I'm passing here with the family. No. I made note to never eat there again. The burger was ready in UNDER FIVE MINUTES. Awwww, crap. You can't make a burger that fast. Not if you respect meat. The patty was barely warm. It was obviously cooked earlier. Earlier in the day, or earlier in the week was anyone's guess. The patty really was that bad. The toppings were fresh, but the meat was mealy. No respect for me or the meat. I was very hungry and ate about half the burger before my hunger was replaced by sadness. The burger made me sad. Not sad, as in "Aww, I wasted my money and time on this," but sad, as in "What have I done in my life to deserve this?" The only thing good was the battered fries. I wish I had saved some for after the burger. I hated finishing on a bad note.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="bdlm2-0-0"><span data-text="true">A few weeks ago, my coworkers asked me to come along for lunch. "Bill, we're going to River Shack for lunch. They have great burgers." I'm up for a recommendation like that. I was disappointed. The burger was barely warm and the meat was dry. Did they cook it for me? Likely. But I don't know what they did to it after that. I'll never go back.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="fp18h-0-0"><span data-text="true">In December, we visited my parents in California. I've heard nothing but great things about In-N-Out Burger. I'll put it at the top of the list of fast-food burgers. However, beating McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy's, What-a-Burger, Rally's, and so forth, is not a proud achievement. My wife and I gave them a rating of "Enh." Don't make it a destination, but if you're given a choice, pick them. Oh, and whatever you do, don't eat the fries. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="83r6r-0-0"><span data-text="true">The cafeteria here at Loyola has a grill. They make better burgers than I can get at any fast-food location. Fresh meat they have to form by hand, cheese, ketchup, mustard, happy. You can get them right as they come off the grill. It's not a complicated thing to make. This is why I'm so sad when it's done wrong. And why I'm happy these cooks are doing it right, right here on campus.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="11b21-0-0"><span data-text="true">On the road, I eat at Five Guys. It looks like fast-food, but it's not. It is a chain-restaurant, and I'm not a fan of chains, but I'm a bigger fan of good. They make the burgers ONLY after you've placed your order. The ingredients are fresh and crisp. The french fries are fantastic (an understatement) and only begin cooking after you order them. The people at every Five Guys I've eaten at in 6 different states are exactly the same: Happy, courteous, a pleasure to be around, and accurate. If you have a problem with an order, they over-compensate to correct it. The food is not cheap, but then, the food is not cheap. There has to be something about the attitude of the employees being so consistently wonderful that makes the food so consistently wonderful. My wife is actually mad at Five Guys. She used to be able to eat burgers from McDonalds or Wendy's. Now she can't eat anywhere else.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="dm8ou-0-0"><span data-text="true">One last reference: One vacation, more than 10 years back, I searched Panama City Beach looking for the best burger. I found a couple of places that weren't all that bad. On the last day, we hung out by the hotel pool and I remember feeling that my good burger quest had gone unfulfilled. But then, I noticed the pool-side grill. They made me the best burger of my vacation. More than a decade later, I can remember that burger. Good God, it was great. Why? Because the guy making it took no shortcuts. It's so simple to make if you only have a little respect for it.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6aqm3-0-0"><span data-text="true">It all fits. If you want to assess a restaurant and burgers are low on their menu, order it. Examine it. Eat it. Judge everything else on the menu by it. If they care about food, they'll care about the burger. If they don't care about the burger, they didn't care about you.</span></span></div>
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Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-35646261251080328312017-08-15T08:39:00.002-07:002017-08-15T09:33:26.031-07:00<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Glass fusing is NOT as easy as some may say.</b></span>
<br /><br />Judy Martin, in the "Fused Glass Fanatics" group on Facebook, shared an article from HGTV.com titled "<a href="http://www.hgtv.com/design/make-and-celebrate/handmade/how-to-make-a-fused-glass-sculpture" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">How to Make a Fused Glass Sculpture</a>". If you're into fused glass (aka warm glass), this article reads like dark humor. If you've never worked with fused glass before, please don't follow these instructions. Or, if you do, photograph everything. Those of us who are laughing nervously at the HGTV article will be laughing hysterically at your exploits and expensive losses. Your choice.
<br /><br />The article lacks refinement in its "Materials and Tools" section. The "Steps" section begins weakly, but not necessarily wrong. It's half-way down the steps that a crucial step is missed and the next step can only lead to a costly error.
Let's have a look at what's going on...<a href="http://www.hgtv.com/design/make-and-celebrate/handmade/how-to-make-a-fused-glass-sculpture"><br /></a><b><br /><u>Materials and Tools: </u></b></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><i>"dichroic and iridized glass in various colors"</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With no mention of COE numbers. The "Coefficient Of Expansion" number tells glass artists which glasses can work with which. You should also look for glass that is "tested compatible" because COE is not the end-all-be-all of compatibility factors.<br /><b><i>Why we're laughing:</i></b> Glass of differing COE values is going to crack as the glass cools (bad) or break when it's sitting on your bookshelf (worse). Either way, this article just cost you money: Pretty glass = Expensive glass</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>"kiln" </i><br /><b><i>Why we're laughing:</i></b> If you get your own kiln and follow these instructions, you now own a worthless kiln. "Why" is later...<br /><br /><i>"file"</i><br /><b><i>Why we're laughing:</i></b> We're not. You're going to get the wrong file and cut yourself. The list says nothing about a dust mask which is needed for "cold work". So don't. <br /><br /><i>"circle mold"</i><br /><b><i>Why we're laughing:</i></b> You need a "spherical section mold". Circle molds make nice round disks. The only photo in the article indicates that you will be making a rounded object, but gives you no instructions on how to do this.<br /><br /><i>"(missing things)" </i><br /><b><i>Why we're laughing: </i></b> No mention of "shelf paper" or "boron nitride spray" or anything else that will come between your molten glass and your kiln furniture or your "circle mold". Molten glass is sticky stuff. You are going to be placing an awful lot of glass pieces into your mold and screwing up everything it touches. Very expensive to repair. You may have just totaled your kiln.<br /><br /><u><b>Steps: </b></u><br />Steps 1-5 are only okay. Photos would go a long way towards helping the reader.<br /><b><i>Why we're laughing:</i></b> No shelf paper. You're on your way to ruin.<br /><u><br />Step 6 is the "Holy Shit" step</u> <br /><b><i>Why we're laughing HYSTERICALLY:</i></b> <b><i>A) </i></b>Unless you're firing fine glass frit, if you go from room temperature to 1500 as fast as possible, the glass pieces are going to shatter. Not crack, but shatter. Without shelf paper, that glass is everywhere on the floor of your kiln. Own a clamshell kiln? You may have just <strike>glued</strike> glassed it shut.<br /><b><i>B)</i></b> Eight hours at 1500 might be good if you're melting a cubic foot of glass. For the project pictured, you can get away with less than 30 minutes at 1450. Oh, and all that pretty dichroic glass turns to a muddy mess if you fire it for eight hours.<br /><b><i>C)</i></b> "Cool for 12 hours" can shatter your glass on the way down. Now, all those glass puddles are fracturing. Enjoy your sharp stuck wrecked kiln.<br /><br /><u>Step 7 is not a funny step.</u> <br />It should not be done with a "file". You need a special file with diamond grit. Maybe a couple files. And a dust mask or file it under running water. <br /><br /><u>Step 8 is almost as bad as Step 6</u><br /><b><i>Why we're laughing: </i><i>A) </i></b>You're not told to fire each circle separately. If you're reading this article for your first fusing project you may not have known this.<br /><b><i>B)</i></b> Heating straight to 1200 degrees is going to shatter your piece the same as ramping to 1500, only without the resulting puddles. Still messy but the shards will be pretty.<br /><b><i>C)</i></b> Oh! Almost forgot. You didn't prep your mold. You just ruined your $50 mold. Ta-Da! <br /><b><i>D)</i></b> Six hours should be 30 minutes. For a wagon-wheel type of design, you may have already gotten a good slump after 10 minutes.<br /><i><b>E)</b></i> After six hours at 1200, a spherical slump is going to be much thicker at the bottom with thin walls. All detail from your design will be melting towards the bottom of the mold. <br /><b><i>F)</i></b> Again with the bad cooling step. Your slumped piece is now shattered.<br /><br /><u>Steps 9-11</u> <br />Will never be achieved by following the instructions in the article. Here are the steps you'll likely encounter: <br />9) Cry <br />10) Call your kiln manufacturer for a repair estimate<br />11) Cry<br />12) Find someone who knows what they're doing and start all over under their supervision.<br /><br />There you have it. A recipe for broken glass and shattered dreams; empty wallets and mad spouses. This article has three failures to inform that will result in you dealing with broken glass. I wish I had a throw-away kiln to show you why. Then even those of you with no knowledge of glass fusing would be laughing along with the rest of us.</span>Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-41213641669255544662015-12-16T09:20:00.002-08:002015-12-16T09:46:02.583-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Christmas Poinsettias </b><br />
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I haven't posted here in HOW LONG?<br />
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I've been getting into glass fusing. Last year, I made snowflake ornaments with pictures of family members on the points of the flakes. It cam out very nicely. This year, it's poinsettia bowls.<br />
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I picked up the Creative Paradise Poinsettia Texture Mold (11.25-inches) and the Bullseye Classic Bowl mold (12.5-inches) off the web along with all the Bullseye frit and Tekta I would need for the project. The problem is, I don't have a teacher and have to suffer accordingly.<br />
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<b>Eruption!</b><br />
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My initial firings went badly. I made a few critical errors all at once. The photo to the left is one of two platters that had large eruptions.<br />
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1) Need more frit: The center of the mold is clear. I didn't put any frit there. So a big bubble formed.<br />
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2) On poor footing: I put the kiln furniture "feet" well inside the perimeter of the texture plate. This alters both temperature and convection. The photo at the top of this post shows better placement.<br />
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3) Poor fundamentals: I ramped too fast and squeezed in the wrong places. My schedule didn't account a nice long bubble squeeze. With so much frit and so many locations to trap air, you can't hurry this pattern.<br />
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4) Need MORE frit: My third firing of the pattern produced a nice plate. No eruptions. My fourth firing (seen above) had three large eruptions. I was being VERY exacting in my placement of frit. Every section got frit and I kept them well separated. Bad idea.<br />
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<b>Success!</b><br />
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The key is to use the scraps from your circular caps to make frit. I got an Anraku frit maker and screens to create and sort frit. I used two 12-inch square 3mm Tekta glass to make the 11-inch disks. This meant plenty of scrap glass left over for frit.<br />
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I filled the areas of the mold with the colors I wanted (and clear in the center), same as before. Then I followed up with clear frit on all exposed dividing lines between the colored areas. I didn't want the cap glass disks to settle on any area of the mold. Let the bubble squeeze step work its magic without any interference.<br />
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This is an on-edge photo of the design showing just how much frit I'm using.<br />
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Once I got a good firing, I cleaned the plate and readied it for slumping.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZ7y9JxsRH9lmmhff8cFYawR82fUFVWq9uknp1vpG0KXS0apa4RrWMVvlNRX432GPfQLwiQVyWiUbJLO0i8sDij6sWXTqyg6ccaHgFK_Ud78DLRZwYWvgck54EExc8ORxhhOCNQ/s1600/IMG_6063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZ7y9JxsRH9lmmhff8cFYawR82fUFVWq9uknp1vpG0KXS0apa4RrWMVvlNRX432GPfQLwiQVyWiUbJLO0i8sDij6sWXTqyg6ccaHgFK_Ud78DLRZwYWvgck54EExc8ORxhhOCNQ/s320/IMG_6063.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Another plate prepared and ready to fire.<br />
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Beautiful.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_ZglvWVKYAZaJHFO-zFf9nxCH8AI2GGLrp1BVe-hIPleRG4D0GDJfLNUNiyx6xJzdu3fVBs5fI3lsju5OdCGMtEpEaI8WJwX5KM2vIBEnGRa4TSAO03A9hqlW9a4o2kZzynd2g/s1600/IMG_6068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_ZglvWVKYAZaJHFO-zFf9nxCH8AI2GGLrp1BVe-hIPleRG4D0GDJfLNUNiyx6xJzdu3fVBs5fI3lsju5OdCGMtEpEaI8WJwX5KM2vIBEnGRa4TSAO03A9hqlW9a4o2kZzynd2g/s320/IMG_6068.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The bowls (so far):<br />
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I hope to complete 4 more bowls before Christmas. The first three bowls were wrapped in bubble wrap until I couldn't feel the edges, placed in boxes, and the boxes were wrapped in bubble wrap and placed in a larger box for shipping. I hope they all make it to my family in California.<br />
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Many thanks to the people of Creative Paradise Glass! I was able to bounce ideas off of them and receive very positive critical feedback on how to solve my eruption issues. They also helped me determine that my kiln may be running 25-30 degrees hotter at the highest temps.<br />
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Now to the schedules: <br />
<br />
Fusing Schedule<br />
<br />
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<th>Step</th>
<th>Ramp</th>
<th>Target</th>
<th>Hold</th>
<th>Notes</th>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">1</td>
<td valign="top">275</td>
<td valign="top">1100</td>
<td valign="top">15</td>
<td valign="top">Initial ramp and soak</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">2</td>
<td valign="top">100</td>
<td valign="top">1200</td>
<td valign="top">60</td>
<td valign="top">Beginning of bubble squeeze with plenty of time to do it.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">3</td>
<td valign="top">50</td>
<td valign="top">1230</td>
<td valign="top">40</td>
<td valign="top">Slow ramp up to end of bubble squeeze</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">4</td>
<td valign="top">275</td>
<td valign="top">1430</td>
<td valign="top">5</td>
<td valign="top">I was going to 1450, but my kiln runs a bit hot. Your mileage may vary.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">5</td>
<td valign="top">FULL</td>
<td valign="top">950</td>
<td valign="top">60</td>
<td valign="top">Annealing the glass. My kiln takes about half an hour to drop to this temp. No need to crash the temp.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">6</td>
<td valign="top">80</td>
<td valign="top">750</td>
<td valign="top">10</td>
<td valign="top">Nice and slow.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">7</td>
<td valign="top">300</td>
<td valign="top">120</td>
<td valign="top">0</td>
<td valign="top">We pick up speed here, but I think below 650 my temps are much slower than 300 degrees per hour.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
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Slumping Schedule:
<br />
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<th>Step</th>
<th>Ramp</th>
<th>Target</th>
<th>Hold</th>
<th>Notes</th>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">1</td>
<td valign="top">150</td>
<td valign="top">300</td>
<td valign="top">15</td>
<td valign="top">Just getting warmed up.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">2</td>
<td valign="top">200</td>
<td valign="top">1100</td>
<td valign="top">15</td>
<td valign="top">Soak it in. Speed kills, so let's not stress the glass into the slump mold.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">3</td>
<td valign="top">150</td>
<td valign="top">1225</td>
<td valign="top">10</td>
<td valign="top">It turns out, I'm fairly well slumped at 1225 already. The 10 minute hold is to make sure the "foot" of the bowl is well seated. The poinsettia textures are on the outside of the bowl, so I wish to avoid any wobbling of the bowl when it is used.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">4</td>
<td valign="top">FULL</td>
<td valign="top">950</td>
<td valign="top">60</td>
<td valign="top">Same notes as fusing schedule.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">5</td>
<td valign="top">80</td>
<td valign="top">750</td>
<td valign="top">10</td>
<td valign="top">&nbsp</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
<tr>
<td valign="top">6</td>
<td valign="top">300</td>
<td valign="top">120</td>
<td valign="top">0</td>
<td valign="top">DON'T YOU DARE OPEN THIS ANY SOONER THAN 120. (that message is for me. It seems the last 30-degrees of the schedule takes an hour or more and I'm impatient.)</td>
</tr>
<tr>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-27895729133048191232011-07-26T11:22:00.000-07:002011-07-26T11:30:37.135-07:00Honey, Where's Our Elephant?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJ8AYkeFWw1Nqr9q1mqfA0gWzE3BeRfbE3Yaxu1zC9VM3MP9shDQtszA2EsUxJScLMiHG0zZA1py3uilD0BshHgiJesP1dJKBKMA47rjTmeQTYAykzruKe8Vrz1k_UkZLflgvTg/s1600/3GElephant2sm.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkJ8AYkeFWw1Nqr9q1mqfA0gWzE3BeRfbE3Yaxu1zC9VM3MP9shDQtszA2EsUxJScLMiHG0zZA1py3uilD0BshHgiJesP1dJKBKMA47rjTmeQTYAykzruKe8Vrz1k_UkZLflgvTg/s320/3GElephant2sm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633728245275013954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pantry Scavenger Hunt</span><br /><br />"Where's the Mac-n-Cheese?" I ask.<br /><br />"In the pantry," she replies.<br /><br />"What shelf? I don't see it!"<br /><br />"Second shelf, right up front," she calls out from the next room.<br /><br />I give up after searching for a couple of minutes. Damn thing is larger than a shoe box. If it's in there, I can't find it. We must be out. "We must be out. I can't find it."<br /><br />"I just bought some. It's in there." <br /><br />Her tone is changing. I'll defuse it. "Don't worry about it. I'll make something else." That should be fine. No need to get up. Pappa's in the kitchen and he's got it all under control.<br /><br />I was in the process of starting up something else when there's a thud on the counter. I turn around and there's my wife, wide-eyed, silent and staring at me. There's a large box of Mac-n-Cheese on the counter.<br /><br />"Uh, where'd you find it?" I ask.<br /><br />"Right up front, where I said it was," and she leaves.<br /><br />How is she so good at hiding things?Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-62476953338822827662011-07-25T08:30:00.000-07:002011-07-25T08:42:54.936-07:00You Know You Want To<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcwmDx4wjkJNw-rjRIp9jBUKwYNzTBjAKa42YT5zs4EjbY3GDQ-Qd1TypSXJkz85VIQiWwrdEVcpLlOAexOYmOZ15y9C6ISud49E72BBkGjelXmDomI2V0pgQlI9CWbjoycWWVQ/s1600/03-20-10_1024.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcwmDx4wjkJNw-rjRIp9jBUKwYNzTBjAKa42YT5zs4EjbY3GDQ-Qd1TypSXJkz85VIQiWwrdEVcpLlOAexOYmOZ15y9C6ISud49E72BBkGjelXmDomI2V0pgQlI9CWbjoycWWVQ/s320/03-20-10_1024.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633314645905015298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm thinking alligator</span><br /><br />I don't care what you think it is, but I'm from Louisiana. I'm thinking that anyone around here with less than the usual number of fingers, toes, or appendages were dared to "Pet It!"<br /><br />Either that, or this person runs an Information Technology department for very well organized chihuahuas.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-79152662238917961232011-07-22T06:53:00.000-07:002011-07-22T06:57:19.365-07:00Baby's In Black and I'm Feelin' Blue (NSFW)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ97bWuXJ9vs0DIPgaGSGGESpnaLVuK5ps1eNaiY130aNw7KLzY8Zkk1ZMCzwLDMr-ll5IKwnyTv_SegTfzr1Vj2ptfwoGrxt_LDJntSB31lWSpGwoEM5s3mfIkycohx05rjQPhw/s1600/IMAGE_0006.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ97bWuXJ9vs0DIPgaGSGGESpnaLVuK5ps1eNaiY130aNw7KLzY8Zkk1ZMCzwLDMr-ll5IKwnyTv_SegTfzr1Vj2ptfwoGrxt_LDJntSB31lWSpGwoEM5s3mfIkycohx05rjQPhw/s320/IMAGE_0006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632174726202519490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Antique Shopping</span><br /><br />I love antiquing. You never know what you will find. Here's a beaut that would look good in my man-cave. Only $250! It's a steal at twice the price. If only I had a man cave to hang her in a place where my fellow cavemen could come in and feel how smooth the velvet is...<br /><br />And ridicule me for buying something I'd have to constantly dust.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-79139181852145747822011-07-21T08:24:00.000-07:002011-07-21T13:41:11.897-07:00Dumbass<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ptmOFIH-JRZbyYncUrM19NvtEgAkfYV6gkUQm0RF5-s_jZMuvOynNF_ZwWx1xmjpUL4AE9pig8MAcytHYpy5LBOcJTi_J0nnEoLlB0b5bxjrBPetqP1UGdUE6nhVDE7z-DJfbA/s1600/IMAGE_0004.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ptmOFIH-JRZbyYncUrM19NvtEgAkfYV6gkUQm0RF5-s_jZMuvOynNF_ZwWx1xmjpUL4AE9pig8MAcytHYpy5LBOcJTi_J0nnEoLlB0b5bxjrBPetqP1UGdUE6nhVDE7z-DJfbA/s320/IMAGE_0004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631827075160156658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Who's going to fall for this one?</span><br /><br />Saw this one near the office. Apparently this homeowner doesn't want to be bothered to hold a spot by putting an orange cone in the street; as many homeowners around the university do. A more pedestrian approach (by the student houses) is to put a chair or inverted trashcan in the street. But a FAKE handicap sign on a SPINDLY STICK?<br /><br />This must have taken some thought. "I'll put up a sign to keep people from parking in front of my house. I'll purchase a sign. I'll put it on a FRIGGIN STICK and that'll convince people of its authenticity.<br /><br />Dumbass.<br /><br />I'm not put out by this sign. I don't park this far away from the university. But, as Jacob Marley said "Mankind was my business! Their common welfare was my business!" I should pull it up to keep the bully homeowners from staking out what is not rightfully theirs.<br /><br />Then again, its common to get your tires slashed by people as arrogant and ignorant as this one.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-56285831790465963702011-07-19T08:13:00.001-07:002011-07-19T08:22:06.004-07:00The Essence Of Soul<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-weight: bold;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7xvt4fWcA8ntGeJZXHMYQgKYVTekrvjaVpTjU6CQdNFIgvMb1u2KnV3ZDBgQKl55ef6ME0dwQt9lEwpgYSDXNfNfSYKm_1HAWAoYnh8SWupdar1KxpSpPxina1Abb86JO2yiCQ/s1600/IMAGE_0003.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7xvt4fWcA8ntGeJZXHMYQgKYVTekrvjaVpTjU6CQdNFIgvMb1u2KnV3ZDBgQKl55ef6ME0dwQt9lEwpgYSDXNfNfSYKm_1HAWAoYnh8SWupdar1KxpSpPxina1Abb86JO2yiCQ/s320/IMAGE_0003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631082171239714738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">When I get to heaven</span><br /><br />What were they looking for with this sign? Is this an existential component of my soul? Is it a music reference?<br /><br />I think it's a culture reference.<br /><br />What is soul? It's a feeling; it's a way of thinking; it's music that speaks to a culture; it's a train bringing all the best in Mo-Town music. It's all this and more. And you know what? It's animals too.<br /><br />Except for that duck. He ain't soul. He's just too damned goofy.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-1402419359154286482011-05-23T13:36:00.000-07:002011-05-23T13:46:17.070-07:00Daddy is Being Big Meanie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLp6aiY6PsR__zu5BNkpQYN9_0D5G4TcpNR3yi_-uwmPF73qOos-19v6nJE9I5hay1z8nw5pVXL_zwEBfXKJjcjc3jDmnUg5n255eIBEnGIOR4nmOmXltFYSsI5uATn-bqk6zxQ/s1600/CRW_1267-2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLp6aiY6PsR__zu5BNkpQYN9_0D5G4TcpNR3yi_-uwmPF73qOos-19v6nJE9I5hay1z8nw5pVXL_zwEBfXKJjcjc3jDmnUg5n255eIBEnGIOR4nmOmXltFYSsI5uATn-bqk6zxQ/s320/CRW_1267-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610013465419140578" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If you can't beat 'em...</span><br /><br />Child 3 (aka the "Caboose") asked me "Daddy, what are you doing tomorrow?"<br /><br />I replied, earnestly and honestly "Nothing."<br /><br />Hearing what she wanted to hear, she began "Then lets go to..." as I cut her off.<br /><br />"Child," I said, "I don't think you understand what I said.<br /><br />Apparently, children don't believe that their parents could actually <span style="font-weight: bold;">want </span>to do nothing all Sunday. I found the note left on the patio this morning. She's so cute. I printed it out and left it on the fridge next to the other art projects (now Mrs. Bayou thinks I'm "being big meanie" too).<br /><br />I'm left with one question regarding "Daddy is being big meanie". Am I "a" big meanie, or "the" big meanie?Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-32442412669482737622010-10-25T10:08:00.000-07:002010-10-25T10:16:04.119-07:00They Live Among Us<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsM_PaE7x3lYFtu2VDScVweOCTHJ2UnAc2WCKDK2zv76mNpYZTueU0aXZZwYOr6aOpDCV5yGYH6Z1jzw4oWaXLEXTvIfXmiyLkKKcXcOvEER8LcaU5uzgEG0uKL5030xDqcP1ew/s1600/MutantPlate.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOsM_PaE7x3lYFtu2VDScVweOCTHJ2UnAc2WCKDK2zv76mNpYZTueU0aXZZwYOr6aOpDCV5yGYH6Z1jzw4oWaXLEXTvIfXmiyLkKKcXcOvEER8LcaU5uzgEG0uKL5030xDqcP1ew/s320/MutantPlate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532031732911020354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Unverified Mutant Sighting</span><br /><br />For those of you out there looking for exciting photos of mutants (or perhaps something a bit more prurient), I was unable to verify the veracity of this plate. I did, however, find a napkin in my truck and ran it along the underside of the driver-side door handle. I'm awaiting the results of the DNA test to see if the driver/owner of this vehicle has deviated from the human framework. Then again, I may find out that I used the napkin once before and all they'll get at the lab is confirmation that I did not, in fact, have Dengue Fever last week, just a cold.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-46882187863056006212010-10-12T10:17:00.000-07:002010-10-12T10:21:22.232-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_1ZDY2Ncvv1kfcI1-T-KyNgreoozrinyCt9gssprKGeTnCBygOIrnVYHjYWkuywPYrYGV-UAKCvtU_GLB6DUlm7iz4vS66IOtBjKY-9MEPvOVOJoUYVgoLqlmXBNWmRi0_5VwA/s1600/IMG_0035.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_1ZDY2Ncvv1kfcI1-T-KyNgreoozrinyCt9gssprKGeTnCBygOIrnVYHjYWkuywPYrYGV-UAKCvtU_GLB6DUlm7iz4vS66IOtBjKY-9MEPvOVOJoUYVgoLqlmXBNWmRi0_5VwA/s320/IMG_0035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527210167733263634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Because."</span></span><br /><br />I got caught by the owner when I took this photo. I asked her for the answer. She said "Because."<br /><br />According to the Louisiana Department Of Public Saftey's personalized plate inquiry page, "BECAUSE" is already taken. Someone out there seen it? I want it for my collection!Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-15594949688130510652010-05-25T08:28:00.000-07:002010-05-25T08:58:32.937-07:00School's Out (Amen I say to you Amen)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3QmPJK2Dnsbd-5XSGG08Le4HabSLIQLbgRPzVZaSrPqGSv_IwLYHXkvo3Bu8qtdgiqDMBzPF91MEV7Yj0IQYqF64h11paCtR5ciBZHRNkxTO0atX545VhzBvnMawtF9HA2BeNw/s1600/BillsBayou_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3QmPJK2Dnsbd-5XSGG08Le4HabSLIQLbgRPzVZaSrPqGSv_IwLYHXkvo3Bu8qtdgiqDMBzPF91MEV7Yj0IQYqF64h11paCtR5ciBZHRNkxTO0atX545VhzBvnMawtF9HA2BeNw/s320/BillsBayou_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475231573982202258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Recurring Dream</span><br /><br />I walk into the class and take my seat. There's something wrong with the room. The students are looking at me oddly. Mr Theriot, my high school math teacher, enters and hands out the final exam. "What class is this?" I ask the student next to me. "Statistics," he says, "Where have you been all semester?" "I don't know... Oh God, I didn't come to class all semester and I have no idea what's on the test!"<br /><br />We've all had this dream. Lately, I've been having it wide awake with my kids.<br /><br />"Dad! Help me with my French homework!" Well, yeah, I did take French in high school and college. And yes, I was able to understand some of what went on during my trip to Montreal, but I'm no where near ready to help with homework. "Can you help me divide this binomial into this polynomial using long division?" May as well wake up now. This is a dream. Right?<br /><br />Nope. It's your high school aged children trying to finish out the year. <br /><br />I've got both a bachelor's and a master's degree. I'm done studying. I've done my time.<br /><br />"Well, great," Mrs Bayou tells me, "You've got enough education to help the kids pass their tests..."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Script Idea:</span><br /><br />Scene: Interior of a high school math class<br />Student: "Mr. Theriot? Am I going to need to know this after I graduate?"<br />Teacher: "Oh yes, Bill. You'll need to be able to help your children do this 30 years from now. Be sure to pay attention. This will be on the final. And on each of your children's finals. And your grandchildren, too."<br />Scene: Interior of a high school math class<br />Bill wakes at his school desk to find that the past 30 years of his life was a dream and realizes he hasn't studied for his test.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-42296821899565391402010-03-04T09:34:00.000-08:002010-03-04T11:20:58.137-08:00Review: Harbor Freight Greenhouse by One Stop GardensThis is a review of the "One Stop Gardens 10ft x 12ft Greenhouse With 4 Vents" distributed by Harbor Freight Tools. <a href="http://www.harborfreight.com/cpi/ctaf/displayitem.taf?Itemnumber=93358">LINK HERE</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgjjFZxaTNAFSAZm7nBJkx4UwPMAl_VausUB9dmAHDuWjUSeUqBi6Fjc3ooqrEHCUlaa61e3rHRvXGz5WXRAdgEkPx11cCzKL2BGlKXUK7F3wczJ99dgaHQ4fxIIMNCpB_OLdaw/s1600-h/IMG_0080.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgjjFZxaTNAFSAZm7nBJkx4UwPMAl_VausUB9dmAHDuWjUSeUqBi6Fjc3ooqrEHCUlaa61e3rHRvXGz5WXRAdgEkPx11cCzKL2BGlKXUK7F3wczJ99dgaHQ4fxIIMNCpB_OLdaw/s320/IMG_0080.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444833781674501154" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Wasn't It Lovely?</span><br /><br />I grow bonsai. As such, I need a place to store some of my trees during the Winter. After Katrina ate my Quonset-style greenhouse, I have been looking for a sturdy and nice looking greenhouse.<br /><br />Do not buy this one.<br /><br />I bought the greenhouse pictured from Harbor Freight Tools. Regularly $799, the kit was on sale for $599 with a coupon. To beat the coupon end date, I bought the kit on December 1, 2009. It waited until the 28th for me to assemble it over Christmas break.<br /><br />The assembly instructions are sorely lacking in many details. At some points, the instructions are wrong; at others, there are gaps. The top beam of the doorway consists of 4 pieces of aluminum. Following the guide, I constructed the beam both left/right and front/back incorrectly. Calling the number on the instructions, I was redirected to another number. They sent me a dozen or so JPG files via email which saved the construction process. Even so, I had to do some divination between what the instructions were telling me and what I had available.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGu8eHvjpPca1jYHPbSDUvoaTHi2uQ6J04FpTZ2jG8xuIQrYwhDxD-fjui32KL3cxgVV7CPiOBg9-8EQ2Pc2iuJfo_S6y1-BrLSFzi4dOcuR8_e9pPBf0Gnhd_YGI-AKL7SGl3A/s1600-h/IMG_0081.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxGu8eHvjpPca1jYHPbSDUvoaTHi2uQ6J04FpTZ2jG8xuIQrYwhDxD-fjui32KL3cxgVV7CPiOBg9-8EQ2Pc2iuJfo_S6y1-BrLSFzi4dOcuR8_e9pPBf0Gnhd_YGI-AKL7SGl3A/s320/IMG_0081.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444836343772793906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In retrospect, I followed the instructions correctly. Everything fits if you already know where it is supposed to go.<br /><br />I made one significant modification to the instructions. I bolted the base to the ground instead of burying the base in the ground. The base is made of steel. In New Orleans, you do NOT bury steel in the ground. It will rust out in less than a year. Instead, I leveled the ground with gravel and bricks. The base sits on the bricks. On the outside of the base, I assembled a square of treated lumber. That is fastened together using deck hardware. The steel base and boards were then bolted to fence posts which had been driven two-feet into the ground. During the wind and storm, that base did not move. This greenhouse is listed at 158-pounds. Less than an average man. Given that it is 10x12x10 (LxWxH), a strong wind would have torn it's 4-inch base out of the ground and sent the entire structure sailing over my fence into my neighbor's house. Thus, my modification of the base is a better plan than as instructed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cold Cold Nights Of Warmth</span><br /><br />In January, the New Orleans area suffered a severe cold snap. That's a relative term, of course. We had a week of nights with low temperatures in the mid to upper 20's. Brrrr...<br /><br />With the use of a propane heater, all of my plants survived. The temperature in the greenhouse never went below 38° even when the temperature outside dropped to 24° (according to my digital Hi/Low thermometer). The tropical plants that I missed storing were all killed by the frost. Thus, the greenhouse did what it was designed to do.<br /><br />That's the only positive thing I can say about the greenhouse.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Change Of Weather and Fortune</span><br /><br />Come late January, the New Orleans area was hit with a change of weather that brought with it winds in the 45mph+ range. The greenhouse lost both front doors and several panels. I found one in my neighbors yard after scouring the neighborhood. I lost a few of the clips that hold the panels in place, but the kit came with extras, so I was good for now.<br /><br />Between then and now, the greenhouse had suffered several smaller wind storms. While I did not lose anymore panels, the doors had come off again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDqv5knsLuruLTozTwnbhpnO53Rd8nkXWpp1lPMe6-ZB2YMfLqIuvRNIJ3fKdGWDCnXuoSt0AI9T_JExAfSN60TFqXWnFWj42eQMz4JDey8NdSRwVplK1LaZcGMNdwan18HXmgw/s1600-h/IMG_0405.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDqv5knsLuruLTozTwnbhpnO53Rd8nkXWpp1lPMe6-ZB2YMfLqIuvRNIJ3fKdGWDCnXuoSt0AI9T_JExAfSN60TFqXWnFWj42eQMz4JDey8NdSRwVplK1LaZcGMNdwan18HXmgw/s320/IMG_0405.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444837712106355154" border="0" /></a>Then came March 1, 2010. Another change of weather and another strong night of winds.<br /><br />By the time I came home from work at 6pm, one of the doors had already come off along with two of the panels. One was in the neighbor's yard.<br /><br />The greenhouse was moaning.<br /><br />The winds were such that moving the fallen door into the greenhouse took a great deal of effort and courage. I was scared to be in the structure.<br /><br />At 7:30pm, I heard a crash.<br /><br />I turned on the lights and saw that the structure had collapsed into a tangled mess of panels, metal, and trees. The winds had died down to a moderate 20mph range by 10pm. I checked on the greenhouse to see if I could salvage any of my trees. They were overturned, but no pots or branches had been broken.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Harbor Freight Customer Service Is Not Who To Call</span><br /><br />I contacted the number on the assembly book and told my story to the operator. He put me on hold and told me he would get the correct number to which he would transfer my call.<br /><br />And he hung up on me.<br /><br />I called again and while I swear he was the same person with an Indian accent, he gave a different name. This time when he put me on apologetic hold, he didn't hang up. He got me the number to the Corporate Office saying that the hours were 8-5 Eastern time.<br /><br />Nope. That's Western time. I called the number and was told to call back when Customer Service was open. It's in California.<br /><br />When I called Customer Service, the woman who took my information was quite snippy. Whenever I say my city name, I always offer to spell it. It has a French origin. "I <span style="font-weight: bold;">KNOW</span> how to spell your city name, sir," she said with venom in her voice. I was thinking "Well, excuse me. I was being nice. Who crapped in your Cheerios, lady?" It was the first time I've ever had someone take insult to my offer to spell my city's name. <span style="font-weight: bold;">AND S</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">HE WORKS FOR CUSTOMER SERVICE!</span><br /><br />Unfortunately, she doesn't work for the CORRECT customer service. "Sir. We just cover the Catalog and Web Site sales. You'll need to contact the manager at the store where you bought the greenhouse." Apparently, a greenhouse that cannot stand for more than 2 months without turning into a mass of sharp broken metal isn't of concern to the company which sells it nationwide.<br /><br />She told me that she did not know the wind rating on the greenhouse. I told her that I did not know it either since it was not in the assembly instructions, on the box, on their web site, or in their paper circular. Whatever it is, it has to be below 45mph winds. That's what bruised it in January and killed it in March.<br /><br />Anyone know the number to the correct Federal agency I should contact regarding unsafe consumer products?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxhbCzarK8bAeD2exsYbQU0WPgVEu3ezOxFLAKxYSJpOOUJzhyphenhyphen6enoteAJA41fTTfVo2SR1itNdRqpiTZ_oQpeNnFNzrudSPoJV6LRIW8wYbY5NmPzDN49oWf-LdF7NbwndlujXw/s1600-h/IMG_0406.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxhbCzarK8bAeD2exsYbQU0WPgVEu3ezOxFLAKxYSJpOOUJzhyphenhyphen6enoteAJA41fTTfVo2SR1itNdRqpiTZ_oQpeNnFNzrudSPoJV6LRIW8wYbY5NmPzDN49oWf-LdF7NbwndlujXw/s320/IMG_0406.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444842210824370546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Back To The Scene Of The Purchase</span><br /><br />The people at the local Harbor Freight Tools were much more receptive to my complaint. I told the store manager that the corporate office said he should know what to do with my information. "I'm glad they say that I should know what to do with this," he said with a smile.<br /><br />He took the photos I printed and made a copy of my original sales receipt. He then took my name address and phone number and said that someone will be contacting me soon.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Concluding Remarks</span><br /><br />This is what happened. It's all true. This is my review of the product and the process. Your experience may be different. The aerodynamics of your site may allow this greenhouse to sit pretty for years to come. Mine lasted from December 29 to March 1.<br /><br />I still enjoy shopping at Harbor Freight Tools. I'm looking forward to buying more tools from their store. Nice people (except for one snippy Californian). I just want the world to know that I give this greenhouse my rating of "Do Not Buy". Unless you can guarantee that it will not be hit with winds greater than 25mph, you'll need to think long and hard about this purchase.<br /><br />For a point of reference, my pre-Katrina Quonset-style greenhouse was made of wood frames in the front and back with 3/4-inch PVC irrigation pipes making up the spine. I cover it with shade cloth and clear 6-mil visqueen. During strong storms the greenhouse flexes in the strongest gusts and returns to its original shape. I'll be building another one in late September (ahead of the November chill). I'll post the building progress at that time.<br /><br />In the mean time, I'm going to sit back and wait to hear what the store has to say about my experience.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Post Op</span><br /><br />Tuesday, the day after the storm, I got the latest mailer from Harbor Freight Tools. My wife jokes, "See if they have another greenhouse for you." I unfolded the ad and there it was on the front page. $200 off the regular price with the coupon. Same photo. Same product code.<br /><br />$600 (plus tax) is a hard price to pay for something that works, but does not last.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-50243539456861921292009-12-18T11:49:00.000-08:002009-12-18T11:53:22.327-08:00Crunch Time!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_cjuwrrk9GLIvTm3zm5S8yRJX6IfbZpnEvu5-LSfN8hOlHfeniDSVglx6RXHGa8V4vYwMm22xqpJc0YmTvVApBtYPXsdp2YRYfJvswp6CavxBnBVd2KJ5CVLL-DS5ayh1Ogs6g/s1600-h/HibiscusTree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_cjuwrrk9GLIvTm3zm5S8yRJX6IfbZpnEvu5-LSfN8hOlHfeniDSVglx6RXHGa8V4vYwMm22xqpJc0YmTvVApBtYPXsdp2YRYfJvswp6CavxBnBVd2KJ5CVLL-DS5ayh1Ogs6g/s320/HibiscusTree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416665935059164082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Smoke'em If You've Got'em</span><br /><br />This is it. The last shopping weekend before Christmas. One last trip to the bank for the holiday season. It's too late to make nice things for everyone on your list. You'll have to buy what you need, now.<br /><br />That creation in the photo? Someone in the office thought it'd be nice to take some of their hothouse hibiscus flowers and adorn the mini Christmas tree on their desk. Perhaps we put too much rum in the egg nog.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-35029231300886555742009-12-11T08:23:00.000-08:002009-12-11T08:46:13.878-08:00Don't Play With Fire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-8kkTt4YSzIQVzZEhGYD9Fc8ceeiqaTmjUGn_ANMNBDBAjr1qFYvY2XZd_tOmeJ0GVn4PRyZCE7GcAJnCHr6xMjuL1AwL-w0VjPFZ3oBVr4CXvsgvZOXbJ5vSu7QaoD9S-gqeA/s1600-h/12-09-09_0959.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-8kkTt4YSzIQVzZEhGYD9Fc8ceeiqaTmjUGn_ANMNBDBAjr1qFYvY2XZd_tOmeJ0GVn4PRyZCE7GcAJnCHr6xMjuL1AwL-w0VjPFZ3oBVr4CXvsgvZOXbJ5vSu7QaoD9S-gqeA/s320/12-09-09_0959.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414015081677032354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Grande Mocha Latte With Emotional Blackmail</span><br /><br />As a rule, I don't tip for counter service. Why should I? The service won't improve if I tip. The correctness of my order won't change if I tip. And given the fact that I'm not a student here, my grades won't change if I tip.<br /><br />I specifically said "No whipped cream" and then they put it on anyway. I reminded them of this and they had to make me a new one. If I had tipped, would I have been able to retrieve my money from the tip jar? I'd have felt like a fool for tipping for the wrong coffee.<br /><br />As a rule, college students are an emotional bunch. Finals is a time of great stress. I recall being in the throes of temporary bipolar disorder when each final would take place and the cramming began for the next one. If someone had caught me at the right time, I'm sure I'd have put more money in the tip jar than I spent on the coffee.<br /><br />Putting this note on a tip jar on a university campus is wrong wrong wrong. Just because your job sucks and your pay sucks there's no reason to sink to emotional extortion on your patrons.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-8471690502761855842009-12-10T09:15:00.000-08:002009-12-10T09:34:02.855-08:00Keeping The Kids Amused<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1SiLEao4C_0Wlb3xDWaYW5-HNa0oHbRnC8KdABQBfW01LOPLzvjrAmg7R1ZWwgt9Bv6qHly1R8QE7EcrlIKtzu0CkHgl0f-5ZKR4OABGbWHgv968o0IamKNtw9b0vTzReWfLGg/s1600-h/MissingCat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 118px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1SiLEao4C_0Wlb3xDWaYW5-HNa0oHbRnC8KdABQBfW01LOPLzvjrAmg7R1ZWwgt9Bv6qHly1R8QE7EcrlIKtzu0CkHgl0f-5ZKR4OABGbWHgv968o0IamKNtw9b0vTzReWfLGg/s320/MissingCat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413657394043215842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Maybe he doesn't </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">want</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> to be found</span><br /><br />My artist sketch lasted 3 weeks before someone tore it down. I don't think these people want their cat back. <br /><br />The kids got a hoot out of this. Well, after I got the condescending glare from the oldest ones, of course. Then they made sure I took a photo of it.<br /><br />So here's my critique of the sign:<br /><br />1) Does the cat have a name? I might be able to get it if I called it by name. "Here, Puss Puss" might not cut it.<br />2) Boy cat or girl cat? Again, might not matter. However, if I'm to determine the eye colors of the cat, I'd have to be face to face with it. Then we're back to the name issue. I did see a white cat last week, but I couldn't get close enough to see the eyes. It ran away and I could see that it was a boy, but the sign doesn't specify beyond bi-color and white.<br />3) Do they want the cat back? According to the sign, they only want reports of sightings.<br />4) What's in it for me? I'm allergic to cats. They dig up my garden and knock over my bonsai pots. When my dogs chase cats out of the yard, they're knocking over the larger pots and making general chaos. So, if I'm to care about your cat, and right now I don't, how are you going to make me care? The sign does nothing to motivate me to do anything other than drawing a stupid rebus.<br /><br />Given the lack of effort on the part of the sign poster (cheap sign, bad proof-reading, few details, no motivation), I think this cat woke up one morning to the sound of can openers in other homes. This cat realized that it had been staying with the wrong people. "These idiots haven't even given me a name," it muttered to itself. It struck out on its own and occasionally catches glimpses of it's former housemates from further and further away. <br /><br />Would I report this cat if I could determine for certain that it was the cat from 2 doors down? No. I think perhaps this cat has chosen a better life. Who am I to interfere?Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-39653297215283512732009-11-23T09:19:00.001-08:002009-11-23T19:24:12.458-08:00This Date In History<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5IHbtypVQLQZXUfz29OsawwhUEvpRgGNS6mv5RLWupr7ohGScfe4kD-7RTRA-CysUJfC7OB-mGPWSlw1EUzK8cLDp7InAUMUwltvtBQFWAWNIVY_Uv-A_ArmYYNpiLKYPUhv2A/s1600/IMG_7300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5IHbtypVQLQZXUfz29OsawwhUEvpRgGNS6mv5RLWupr7ohGScfe4kD-7RTRA-CysUJfC7OB-mGPWSlw1EUzK8cLDp7InAUMUwltvtBQFWAWNIVY_Uv-A_ArmYYNpiLKYPUhv2A/s320/IMG_7300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407350019434541250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Didn't Kill James Carville Today<br /><br /></span></span>Not that I would have. But there he was, crossing Palmer as I turned off of Marquette. I said to myself "Hey! That can't be James Carville. Can it?" Then I said to myself "Who the hell else looks like that?"<br /><br />He stopped when he saw me rounding the corner. My Honda Pilot does not pose a formidable threat, but as much as I didn't want to spend the day talking to the police and getting congratulatory calls from local conservative radio talk shows, I'm sure he didn't want to spend the day in a hospital bed. After all, he still had his coffee in his hand. Never interrupt someone in the middle of their coffee with an SUV. That's just good manners.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">John F. Kennedy Is Finally Dead</span><br /><br />For 45 birthdays I've been looking forward to my happy day with a reminder of who was shot and killed the very day before I was born. Mom would ask, "What do you want for your birthday, Billy?" And I would think to myself "To stop seeing the Zapruder film every year for my birthday." Well, this year, for my 46th birthday, I finally got my wish. Granted, I didn't watch much news, but I've tried that before. Something always slips through. This year I catch a break. I didn't catch wind of a single word associating my birthday with a bullet in the head.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />UPDATE: </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">James Carville Scares Me Into Locking My Doors<br /></span></span></span><br />Security people were in the neighborhood when I got off work tonight. Cars were backed up to St. Charles Avenue. A big formal party was taking place at one of the huge homes near my work. Thus, I was paying more attention to the formal dinner than I was to my surroundings as I unlocked and entered my vehicle. It was only when I got into the front seat that I noticed someone was walking by. I quickly closed my door and locked it. It was James Carville. He was coming back from a jog. He passed me by, trotted across the street, bypassed the front porch and went around back. I guess he didn't want to be in his jogging clothes and run into Governor Bobby Jindal who was standing on his front porch. (At least it LOOKED like Bobby Jindal. It was dark. I had my camera out, but couldn't squeeze off a shot in the low light.)<br /><br />Don't go looking for shots of James Carville here. I'm not stalking him. I just park in his neighborhood.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-71229664556106187302009-11-03T07:53:00.000-08:002009-11-03T08:17:58.033-08:00Saints And Sinners<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOr4qNbxGdeuBsK78mE1W145kneN8gleXjUynD8WtZ9kPV9s9pj3FmzkuncLV-EveylufBmgnWzI14bXoKoIViKglE6-NDtkBhisJHsfxIqUY1ObkAY1pW2nJJQVuu-D8cxfVDA/s1600-h/BobbleHead.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOr4qNbxGdeuBsK78mE1W145kneN8gleXjUynD8WtZ9kPV9s9pj3FmzkuncLV-EveylufBmgnWzI14bXoKoIViKglE6-NDtkBhisJHsfxIqUY1ObkAY1pW2nJJQVuu-D8cxfVDA/s320/BobbleHead.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399906212842616242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Down And Dirty In The Big Easy</span></span><br /><br />God bless those New Orleans Saints. They've pulled off a 7-0 start for only the second time in their history. I've been a Saints fan for as long as there have been Saints. Somehow the stars have aligned and we're watching one of the best teams ever to play the sport.<br /><br />And they're all ours!<br /><br />(and now for something completely different)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Dear God, Please Get Me Out Of Here!"</span></span><br /><br />During the school year, the stars rarely align for my family when it comes to scheduling. Sunday was no different.<br /><br />I decided that a beautiful Sunday morning is a wonderful chance to tear down and rebuild a fence. Indeed it was. However, as my father once told me "Projects are always more complicated than they seem; are more expensive than you expect; and take longer than you hoped." Each of my home projects seem to fall in line with that simple expectation.<br /><br />The wife took the youngest off to church while the older hellions slept off Saturday night. I took crowbar to board and uncovered one setback after another; crooked posts, rotten wood, and sub-standard construction are all hallmarks of any project completed by the previous homeowner. This was no exception. <br /><br />After working all day on removing the old fence and acquiring the supplies to build the new one, 5pm was creeping up on me fast. The last church mass of the day would see me packing up my tools and looking at 7 original fence posts without a single piece of new work upon them. What made me think I could do this in one day?<br /><br />Mrs. Bayou's prior commitment to the local school's fund-raiser had her out of the house at this time and our youngest could not be left home alone. I told her so. "BUT I ALREADY WENT TO CHURCH! I DON'T HAVE TO GO AGAIN! I'M NOT GOING!" was her thundering reply. The oldest kids smirked and headed off to church on their own. I'm not sure if they were behaving properly or jumping ship. Kicking and screaming, I threw the little monster into the car and we made it to church on time.<br /><br />5 minutes into mass and an angel appeared. Mom had stopped by the church on her way home and picked up The Sulking One. I would later find out that while she did not want to go to church, she was a firm believer in prayer. "Mom, I knew you would come," my wife said, retelling what she heard. "I was in church praying to God. 'Dear God, please get me out of here,' and you came!"<br /><br />I'm learning things about the youngest kids in wide age-span families: They quickly learn how to work the system. Apparently, this one has learned how to work God.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /></span></span>Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-3644890727364645862009-10-23T08:00:00.000-07:002009-10-23T08:05:33.320-07:00What The Hell Happened?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZveFOsfdqYuK7g64Tm8qlQ_XJTglzahtCUF447ILN_5y99V8jD_1zeMPdPPPxHvRBp58TDcK2yQ9HV7yJy74mnFwDLGEdrGbyElfiyfr_Vjv4G9ESjCaAuLlbL636Z4fd0YpFQ/s1600-h/BlackEye.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilZveFOsfdqYuK7g64Tm8qlQ_XJTglzahtCUF447ILN_5y99V8jD_1zeMPdPPPxHvRBp58TDcK2yQ9HV7yJy74mnFwDLGEdrGbyElfiyfr_Vjv4G9ESjCaAuLlbL636Z4fd0YpFQ/s320/BlackEye.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395810520830466818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I just don't understand women...</span></span><br /><br />(You may need to read my last blog if you're not up to speed. Yes. That's my face.)<br /><br />So we got home around 9:30pm last night. I grabbed a couple bottles beer and headed off to the bedroom to turn on ESPN and await my wife. Somewhere around 1am I must have dozed off. The next thing I know I hear a deafening roar and I'm being hit with what appeared to be a fist wrapped with a lace teddy. Where'd I go wrong?Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-16530530108045637132009-10-22T08:59:00.000-07:002009-10-22T11:20:01.683-07:00Welcome Home Mrs. Bayou!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOErWTMyAkOovzOTTE_pPKmXxbRmgf-UR3t5HBie-trvd__bYQV11OVuOKSs89DfWvrSEUUnS0Gd1j3drQHY3-dlD3euNHQF5kVXau9O9UmihqdzbJlCZALXq4W4AH5lQDHsJGCQ/s1600-h/CRW_0113.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOErWTMyAkOovzOTTE_pPKmXxbRmgf-UR3t5HBie-trvd__bYQV11OVuOKSs89DfWvrSEUUnS0Gd1j3drQHY3-dlD3euNHQF5kVXau9O9UmihqdzbJlCZALXq4W4AH5lQDHsJGCQ/s320/CRW_0113.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395462104528785186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Oh what a night...</span><br /><br />My wife will be returning from San Francisco this evening. I can't wait.<br /><br />The dishwasher is full and the sink is too. Having run out of clean dishes, the kids and I have filled the kitchen trash can with fast-food bags and pizza boxes. It's so full I've had to tie down the lid to keep the dogs from getting into it. The poor dogs have run out of food, but it's okay because they ate the leftover pizza. The laundry situation is at a breaking point. If my wife wasn't coming home tonight, I'm sure we'd be sniffing through our dirties searching out the least offensive smells. So yes(!), we'll all have clean clothes tomorrow.<br /><br />On Monday, I contacted my kids' teachers to let them know of my situation. They were all understanding. They've agreed to let my girls bring in their homework tomorrow. That'll give my wife tonight to help them finish it up. She's always saying things like "I have to help them with their homework every night because they just know how much I <span style="font-style: italic;">love </span>doing it for them!"<br /><br />As a bonus, I found out on Monday that two of my kids have arts and crafts projects due tomorrow (Friday). I told them not to lose the supplies list (I'm sure they didn't) and to give the lists to Mom at the airport. Her flight comes in at 8:32pm and the craft store closes at 9pm. That should be enough time for her to run in and get whatever supplies they need to do the class projects.<br /><br />My wife has been calling me from San Francisco all week telling me how busy she's been, going from one seminar to the next. Even the meals are business related; Business Breakfast, Business Lunch, Business Dinner. The poor dear has been suffering at night as well. Her room is over the street and she says that all she hears all night is horns blaring and the doorman whistling for cabs. This morning (flight day!), she called to say that the hotel was out of hot water at 6am. She's been shivering all morning and she's exhausted from lack of sleep. She's looking forward to sleeping on the flight. I figure the best thing for her will be to get home and get back into her rhythm with the kids and the house.<br /><br />So tonight I'll pick up some flowers at WalMart on the way to the airport, I'll give her a big kiss when I see her, and I'll hurry her home (after stopping at the craft store, of course). And when the homework is done, class projects all glued and painted, and the hum of laundry and dishwashing machines permeates the house, she'll come to bed (I remembered to dust off the cookie crumbs from last night) to find me waiting there with her final present of the night: a lace teddy I bought for her at the mall. This will be a night to remember.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-3667903381942587132009-10-20T12:16:00.000-07:002009-10-20T13:19:26.938-07:00Shhhhh... Daddy's Sleeping<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97Z0_ji9WbuzNbSoaSDiSnLNLmKSDR1Zw2QKG3JFvgWzpXcdKknp_gz4Ca_IHw1x9quR_KWtqGrs0kMeasMxaCmg0kKzMsLYkWsTQmWcBvepo-bv2IKGLtvyIWrVPZ2X6pVq9ZA/s1600-h/IMG_1820.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97Z0_ji9WbuzNbSoaSDiSnLNLmKSDR1Zw2QKG3JFvgWzpXcdKknp_gz4Ca_IHw1x9quR_KWtqGrs0kMeasMxaCmg0kKzMsLYkWsTQmWcBvepo-bv2IKGLtvyIWrVPZ2X6pVq9ZA/s320/IMG_1820.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394764137984914338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I Need A Recharge</span><br /><br />Mrs. Bayou has gone to San Francisco for the week. The only thing keeping me from going with her is the kids. Then again, if the youngest wasn't so young, I'd probably leave them all here alone and go to Tennessee. Alone.<br /><br />In a previous blog, I commented on the problems I face with the people around me coming up with <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas</span>. In a nutshell, all their <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas</span> involve ME doing the task. Mrs. Bayou has caught on to my phraseology and gives me the stink-eye when handing out tasks where I reply "Yep. That's a <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Idea</span>." (Yes, sometimes I talk in italics)<br /><br />I thought I was making progress in this area. I've learned to quickly recognize <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas, </span>and I've been telling people around me "You've got to be kidding," and walking away quickly. "But Bill! Where are you going? It's a <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Idea</span>!" (No, they never speak in italics, but my brain readily does the font change)<br /><br />My time was freeing up right and left (time to sleep, mostly). Then Mrs. Bayou comes in with her announcement that not only is she freeing herself to go to San Francisco (she <span style="font-style: italic;">says</span> she's going there on business, but I know it's to get away for a week), but she's got a freakin' Ghant chart of a schedule for me to accomplish while she's gone. Bam! One page broken down by dates and times is thrust upon me like a Turd Sundae with a glossy topping of "Your Family Comes First" Guilt-Trip drizzled all over it.<br /><br />If I thought the dreaded phrase was "Bill, I have a great idea. Could you..." I was wrong. The devil is truly in the details. Buried within the instructions of moving children around to and from before-and-after-school activities, dance and music lessons, photography appointments, and airport taxi driving is a phrase which turns my stomach into a dyspepsia-themed amusement park: "You should just have enough time to..."<br /><br />I shuddered when I wrote that. It's worth repeating: "You should just have enough time to..."<br /><br />(And there's my lunch coming up the back of my throat. Ugh.)<br /><br />It's not just a list of <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas,</span> its a list of <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas </span>that can only be accomplished if I rush from point to point like a pinball. The intersections around the city are no longer photo-controlled traffic-lights, but blinking bumpers on a map-themed game table. Sirens and horns have replaced bells and whistles; blaring out at me as I strive to accomplish the list of <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas. </span>Pre-recorded phrases pipe through the speakers of my life announcing "Dad! We're gonna be late!" "You've missed our turn!" "I can't find my shoes" and "Do you know how fast you were going, Mr. Bayou?"<br /><br />I carry the Ghant chart with me at all times. I've studied it in an attempt to divine it's secrets, but every time I glance at it I see something new. If I get pulled over by the police, I'm going to show it to the officer. "Look!" I'll say, "She left me a 'To Do' list!" However, with the way things are going lately, it'll be a male cop, unable to quickly decipher my task list of <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Ideas</span>, and he'll start clawing his eyes out. Somehow that'll be my fault, but I'll at least I'll skip the ticket and be quickly on my way to the next item on the list.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-77745384076819446722009-10-13T08:03:00.001-07:002009-10-13T08:16:31.035-07:00It's GO Time!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdw1ofmKsit4Vv-UnskdLY7uQa2Qwgm0ddTShEnovzsJtGadmYsAHXSJa2wKl2rKNHfms_JHGXeF5NvOgHyZyB_fGo-Gn8x8hdJE3J1xV6H5swPrCDtYGOPyY9_dxbrAPFG7uNQ/s1600-h/10-09-09_2319.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdw1ofmKsit4Vv-UnskdLY7uQa2Qwgm0ddTShEnovzsJtGadmYsAHXSJa2wKl2rKNHfms_JHGXeF5NvOgHyZyB_fGo-Gn8x8hdJE3J1xV6H5swPrCDtYGOPyY9_dxbrAPFG7uNQ/s320/10-09-09_2319.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392100429704770946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I want to wrestle too!</span><br /><br />I've been on this exercise kick ever since my doctor told me I have a "fatty liver." Apparently, when I die, my wife can make a nice liver pate and serve it at my funeral. "Mmmm... Who knew Bill was such a good man?"<br /><br />I'm down 15-20 pounds by taking the stairs and working out as much as 5 times a week. I strongly recommend the Muscle & Strength web site (<a href="http://www.muscleandstrength.com/">LINK HERE</a>). I've been using free weights, 3 days a week, since July. Which brings me to Sunday afternoon.<br /><br />I'm sitting on the sofa watching nothing in particular on TV and listening to the rain fall. My wife comes over and sits on my lap and snuggles up. After a minute or two of this, I decide to see if the weight training has been working, so I pick her up in my arms, carry her to the bedroom, and gently lay her down on the bed. This weight training thing is paying off! I snuggle into bed next to my wife...<br /><br />AND MY SIX-YEAR-OLD JUMPS INTO THE BED!<br /><br />"Whoo-hoo! I want to wrestle too!" she cries out.<br /><br />"So does your father," my wife adds smiling.<br /><br />The next thing I know the three of us are playing "Pin the Daddy" and I end up with my head hanging off the bed. Stupid One and Supid Two, my two standard poodles show up and Stupid One begins giving my face a tongue bath. My wife is shrieking with laughter and disgust at this development and my daughter is laughing with glee.<br /><br />"Not the afternoon I was thinking of," I told my wife.<br /><br />"The afternoon you were thinking of is the reason we have these kids," she reminds me.<br /><br />Oh well. At least I have my health.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-91355382509596395972009-10-06T14:21:00.000-07:002009-10-06T14:39:34.623-07:00What's it to you?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiSgkgnIpNd4W213v1CdvpSXqrD2MLP_PCMeMmBOsHZ8nQgMs0fzzTStJwE4oRy8YUx5MU8dqMJBSfJL6_UXWb7zFEI-3IypxpV8CzNA-e43NRZGA2K5P-yzI0GZiPG9r492DQg/s1600-h/IMG_0091-tn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiSgkgnIpNd4W213v1CdvpSXqrD2MLP_PCMeMmBOsHZ8nQgMs0fzzTStJwE4oRy8YUx5MU8dqMJBSfJL6_UXWb7zFEI-3IypxpV8CzNA-e43NRZGA2K5P-yzI0GZiPG9r492DQg/s320/IMG_0091-tn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389600465477974354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Set Attitude to "Sass"</span><br /><br />What is it with my kids? I know it's not unique, but they've developed a knack for turning everything into an argument.<br /><br />I remember standing up to my Dad, once. Once. It was the first time I ever heard my conscience screaming. Normally, my conscience is there offering good advice. Once upon a time, it was in there covering its ass.<br /><br />My father found me just out back and called me to the door. "Son, why haven't you taken out the trash?" Or cut the grass, or cleaned my room. I don't know what he was complaining about. All I know is, my conscience was taking a coffee break. My mouth was on its own.<br /><br />Why didn't I do my chores? I have no clue. Maybe I was too busy coming up with another reason to get suspended from school. Maybe I was in the middle of planning my next pyrotechnical exhibition. Whatever the reason, I was 15 and decided that my father wasn't the boss of me. He wasn't a bad father. Quite the opposite. He was a great father. I, however, had the temerity to assert my independence from chores. I don't know what I said, but I'm sure it was along the lines of "Do it yourself."<br /><br />It was a proud moment, but that was all it was. I was standing there in the doorway gaining an extra inch by standing on the door sill. I was engaged in a foolish bit of sass and my conscience was off buying an order of beignets to go with its cafe au lait.<br /><br />In an instant, my father's fist lashed out and embedded itself in the wall next to the door. I turned to my left and there it was. Well, there it wasn't. All I saw was a big hairy Irish wrist and drywall.<br /><br />The coffee break was over. My conscience was back at work and wondering just what the mouth had gone and done in its absence. No longer the gentle adviser, my conscience began screaming "SHUT UP! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! SHUT UP NOW!" My mouth was in full agreement.<br /><br />And now I have the kids I was. They're all full of themselves and I'm checking the walls with a stud-finder. When discussing things with teenagers, you never want to break your fist for lack of knowing where the walls studs are located.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-11524774670008820902009-10-02T09:28:00.000-07:002009-10-02T09:42:51.632-07:00How's that work again?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dy51ZSegxUjYxbmbOUjHdepsKmKz5a3LhA2JjGOI9T60Man3NGfKm_EfVBKmzseLd9fD8mcd_V2s9cDsiDfXG33S22sSIeO1qvgmRog6bAAr-XG9YOV3auI1afnvqWDYf8e2rA/s1600-h/IMG_0125-tn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dy51ZSegxUjYxbmbOUjHdepsKmKz5a3LhA2JjGOI9T60Man3NGfKm_EfVBKmzseLd9fD8mcd_V2s9cDsiDfXG33S22sSIeO1qvgmRog6bAAr-XG9YOV3auI1afnvqWDYf8e2rA/s320/IMG_0125-tn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388040790549630802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Shoot!</span><br /><br />I just received one of those personality tests in my email. It advised me to keep an open mind by using the old standard "Minds are like parachutes. They only work when they are open." The personality test took many things for granted and got everything wrong. So much for opening my mind. Now I want to try slapping the side of my head to see if I can get out all the crap that fell into my mind when it was open.<br /><br />I don't think that parachutes only work when they open. They certainly have a function when they're open, but they also have a function when they're closed. Try exiting a plane with an open parachute. No. Not really. It'll kill you. Your reserve 'chute will kill you too if you open it when your primary is functioning perfectly.<br /><br />I'm all for opening your mind to new things. However, once you realize what someone is trying to put in there, you may want to quickly close it up. <br /><br />I need to go attenuate my tin-foil hat.Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37371836.post-34232945411234470172009-09-25T09:36:00.000-07:002009-09-25T09:40:42.041-07:00Shelter From The Storm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg68ATVbODHUZ8zHJpPlQLTsuxb5S4IGHxoaEfP74IlbTuWHC1ydDcS292dO-n0EdeJxPJya8QoPIUMKJEmPKY7fGH78sM9qn_73B729bLhfkT8b3MY-O_4h7GNt3NQux-cTwmkQ/s1600-h/08-08-09_0955.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg68ATVbODHUZ8zHJpPlQLTsuxb5S4IGHxoaEfP74IlbTuWHC1ydDcS292dO-n0EdeJxPJya8QoPIUMKJEmPKY7fGH78sM9qn_73B729bLhfkT8b3MY-O_4h7GNt3NQux-cTwmkQ/s320/08-08-09_0955.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385445095616499186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I'd Rather Have The Tree</span><br /><br />Katrina took many things from us. One of which must have been the tree that stood here for oh so many years. Never you mind. There are other ways to stay out of the sun. <br /><br />How this goose got that umbrella to open without opposable thumbs, must have been surely entertaining.<br /><br />You go, Mother Goose!Bill's Bayouhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03331988408236564308noreply@blogger.com0