"You mundane noodle!" - Ralphie's Dad, A Christmas Story

 

A storage tank, heading towards the San Jacinto Monument. If you were wondering which way to go, this gentleman (I think it’s either Dennis Quaid or Randy Quaid) is telling you where to go. And that’s toward the monument. I don’t know about you, but I trust the Quaid brothers. Except when it comes to automotive maintenance. They don’t know much about that.

It’s been a beehive of activity at the Wilder house recently. The Boy, Pugsley, The Mrs. and I have been working at doing . . . well, stuff. The Mrs. notes that, although it was activity, it was not interesting activity. Well, to quote Samuel L. Jackson, “Please allow me to retort.”

Oh, I’m sure that when normal folk end up with clogs in the drains of their swimming pools, they do something lame like call the swimming pool guys, or Roto-Rooter®. Not us. If Dran-o™ will dissolve the most stubborn substance known to man, i.e., girl hair in a drain, do palm fronds stand a chance against its caustic onslaught? They did not. After our pool pump spent hours sucking at a metaphorical milkshake in a Fairbanks winter, it slid the offending organic matter through it with the greatest of ease.

Besides that, I had The Boy and Pugsley fighting for my attention as I mowed the lawn. Yes. You read that right. As I started mowing, I asked Pugsley if he’d like to sit up on the riding mower, in exchange for his services picking up and throwing away the various detritus that litters a lawn unmowed for a month. In that lyrical language that Pugsley shares only with the underwear gnomes that live in his room, he said yes.

The Boy, who had previously been the only denizen of the lap on mowing expeditions, was doing, well, The Boy things. When he spied his younger brother sitting on my lap . . . “Let me ride.”

For awhile, I could only go 175’ (that’s 25.4 millimeters, for you communists) or so without one or the other of them wanting their turn. Finally as darkness descended, I put down my foot – The Boy could ride no more, since the last thing I wanted to explain to The Mrs. was how I had let a three-year-old unburdened by any sort of a) fear or b) common sense go on some sort of night-time raid on the neighbor’s fridge. Which is exactly what Pugsley would do – there would be no chocolate chip cookie safe for a thousand miles. Either that or one of my neighbors would find Pugsley in their garage, fighting the raccoons. I put my money on Pugsley.

The Mrs. shaved our elderly poodle, as well. I’m sure this is much to the relief of the poodle, since he looked like he was covered in fiberglass insulation. After being shaved? The dog looked like he had barely escaped from some sort of super-secret government testing program. Not the one that produces a super strong, super smart agent dog. The other one – the one that produces a dog with facial tics and total loss of bladder control. And, he’s all ours.

The Boy and Pugsley then helped me when I went and replaced some old tile flooring with all new sheet-vinyl. By “helped me” I mean they wandered around poking through stuff in an a manner I would describe as “non-productive” if the word “non-productive” meant that they were actually working for the forces of chaos rather than just being neutral. Eventually I stuck the vinyl down to the floor, and The Boy and Pugsley wandered over and thoroughly congratulated themselves for their hard labor. Then they went back to frolicking.

I also painted today. I’m not sure exactly how Pugsley does it, but he is the only human I’ve ever met who can touch a surface that was painted (within thirty seconds of painting) and manage to not get any on him. I think (if this talent works elsewhere) I’m going to try to convince him to go into politics. Seems to work for some of them . . . .

So, it was a day full of fun mundanity here at Casa Wilder, even though The Mrs. and I had a very short disagreement about whether or not “mundanity” is the noun form of “mundane.” Turns out it is. Ha.

(I'll finish this tomorrow - thanks Lynn!)


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