Monthly Archives: July 2015

Glued to the Kitchen Floor

Google images: cinemablend.com

Google images: cinemablend.com

I moved the refrigerator the other evening so I could suck the coils in the back. When I moved it back into place, our cheap linoleum ripped.

“Drat,” I said, bending down to inspect the torn flooring. “Well, that’s no problem. I’ll just paste it back with superglue!”

I grabbed the glue from the dump drawer, squirted some under the torn piece, and carefully pressed the linoleum back into place.

Superglue works in two minutes. After two minutes, a quarter-inch of my fingerprint was glued to the floor.

“Ouch,” I said as I tried to lift my finger.

“Honey, could you come here a moment?” I called to my wife who was in the other room.

“Can you wait until I finish my Facebook rant?” she called back.

“Well, I really need your help now. I’m glued to the kitchen floor.”

I didn’t hear a response from her, which meant she was socially absorbed. I tried to reach for a butter knife from the nearby table so I could use it to pry my finger free. The knife was too far away.

Finally my wife came into the kitchen. “Okay, so what’s the problem now? And why are you kneeling in front of the refrigerator with your butt up in the air?”

“My index finger has adhered to the linoleum,” I said.

“Your what has what to the what?” she asked, her eyebrows rising.

“I’m stuck to the floor here.”

“You’re kidding! This is great! Ha ha ha! Let me get the kids!”

Soon all the kids were in the kitchen. “Free smacks!” laughed my son, snapping my backside with a tea towel.

“I really need help here. I’m not kidding. Can you look up a remedy in our Household Book of Death Avoidance?

My ever-helpful daughter asked her phone for help. “Dad,” she reported moments later. “Did you know that linoleum is made of hardened linseed oil and cork dust?”

“That’s incredible!” said my wife. “Here, let me go get some matches and nail-polish remover. That ought to help.”

“No! No! No!” I screamed. “Maybe you can just call the Mr. Yuck poison-control number.”

“I have a better idea,” said my wife. “I’ll call 911.”

“No! No! No!” I screamed. “I don’t want the cops here!”

“I’ll use their non-emergency number. No problem!” quipped my wife.

Fifteen minutes later three firemen and a police officer were standing in our kitchen, laughing and filming me with their dash cam. “Superglue usually loosens with time,” they told me before they finally departed.

After that, my family gave me a pillow so I could rest. It wasn’t such a bad night. The dog and the fridge’s exhaust fan kept me warm until morning.

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Filed under Children, Family, Fun, Happy to help, Humor, Interpersonal conflicts, Life challenges, Marriage, Parenting, Relationships, You're not alone!

Your Lips Are Flaky

Google images: dadandburied.com

Google images: dadandburied.com

My son and I were eating breakfast at a local restaurant. “Biff,” I said, “your lips appear flaky. Do you regularly apply a sufficient coating of lip balm?”

“Dad,” said Biff, “What’s that all about? My lips haven’t flaked since the hurricane of 1992. Plus I can take care of my own lips.”

My son is an adult child. Last year he joined the Association of the Old and Elderly, so he has some maturity to him. Yet I have trouble maintaining our adult relationship. I keep reverting back to a parental role.

“And what about your car?” I asked him. “Have you changed your oil lately?”

“Dad, you changed the oil yourself with a crowbar when I visited you 3 weeks ago.”

“Well you must have driven a lot since then. You know you have to change it every 30 days.”

“3000 miles, Dad.”

“Whatever. You know that’s how you make your car last longer. If you don’t change your oil consistently your car will rot. And you should check all the fluids using the convenient WASH-BOATS acronym, which stands for washer squirters, brake fluid, oil, antifreeze to prevent antifreezing, transubstantiation fluid, and swerving fluid.”

“Steering fluid, Dad. I know. I taught you that acronym 20 years ago when I finished auto-mechanic school.”

“Well, who remembers that? I forgot, and I was afraid you might have forgotten, too. After all, auto mechanics aren’t perfect, and they often develop Alzheimer symptoms from handling all those custom tires and rims.”

“Right, Dad,” Biff said. “I forgot.”

“Well, son, I must admit that you have done pretty well with your fleet of cars, but did you know that eating too much syrup on your pancakes can give you gout and hypnotist glycemia? There’s a lot of high-stucco corn silk in that syrup. Plus it’s very sticky.”

“That’s why I’m eating eggs,” said Biff.

“I know, but I’m just warning you. I didn’t know if you knew that,” I said.

Biff reached across the table and took hold of my forearm firmly, yet gently. “Dad,” he said. “I knew it. You don’t have to keep giving me all these warnings, cautions, and directives.”

“But Biff,” I said. “I don’t see you often, and sometimes I don’t think I’ve done enough as a parent to train you for the real world. It’s dog ingest dog out there.”

“I know, Dad. I’ve lived in the real world a long time. You did a good job as my father so you can relax. You’ve taught me everything you could, and what your didn’t teach me I’m learning on my own. Some things I had to learn on my own.”

His words reassured me, and my tension eased. “Thanks, Biff,” I said, sighing. “I really appreciate that.”

Biff smiled and sipped his orange juice. I poured more syrup on my pancakes.

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