Liquid Plumber Made Me Do It

Potential Wise Saying for Today: "An honest confession is good for the soul, but bad for the reputation." Thomas Dewar

I lied today.

OK. I not only lied, but I lied fully conscious that I was lying and as the words came out of my mouth I was stunned at how happily they tripped over the tongue with the full awarenessthat there was no way I could substantiate the damnable phrases.

It started with Baking Soda.

My husband was gone and my sink was smelly. Fixing said smelly sink, technically, falls under "domestic goddess duties," a.k.a. me, although I would valiantly debate that a smelly sink isn't really how a sink should be, ergo the sink is not working properly, thus rendering the same sink broken. Fixing broken household objects falls squarely under Knight in Shining Armor status therefore the weight of odor-removal would rest upon Kevin the Video Husband's shoulders.

It probably would have been better if that argument (oops! discussion) would have taken place, because then at least I wouldn't have lied.

Instead, I stuffed the sink full of baking soda. The bicarbonate molecules became so pressed together that they formed a solid, airtight mass down the length of the 12-inch pipe (this happens to be the measurement of the pipe's length. Bugger the diameter...typical sink drain diameter, it was, I'm sure).

Pouring vinegar onto the top of the wad provided much satisfying bubbling, but not the expected loss of liquid down the previously trustworthy hole. Hot water didn't do anything but add more fluid. Stabbing the soda-mass with a bamboo skewer did absolutely nothing.

A plunger! Plungers always make things move! Fortunately, I recently had extensive (read: nasty) experience with one of these little beauties while on a retreat several weeks prior. Our plunger--a nice, new light gray and white model at that--was located deep in the bowls of the house behind the basement john. Before it could be used to its full potential, it first had to be used to kill the largest spider I had ever seen. This thing was size of my thumb! Ugh. Thank goodness for my Plunger of Death! Unfortunately the typical plunging action didn't do the job this time...I had to...never mind...You had no idea how versitile this little tool is, did you!

Well, desperation is the mother of invention...or something like that.

Plunging the sink ultimately became a three-stooge experience embodied in one little me. My left hand was Moe working that thing to get the best suction possible. The other hand was Curly trying to keep the stopper in the neighboring sink from being blown through the roof while providing a seal to help force the water through the bicarbonate blockage. And my face was Larry--while the other two heaved and pushed, jets of soda water shot from the overflow tube in a hidden knob of the sink and squirted me in the forehead. Whoop-whoop-whoop! Nyuk! Nyuk!

I finally used an open wire coat hanger as a "snake" to drill through the mass. By this time I've spent an hour and I'm no closer to draining this water than the U.S. is to establishing a solid Western Democracy in a 3,000-year-old nomadic tribal dictatorship. But that didn't stop either of us from trying.

Suddenly I realized what was needed: Liquid Plumber. The ads flashed through my mind with amazing clarity: an old kitchen/bathroom sink pipe is full of thick, nasty hair and sludge...Here comes Liquid Plumber! and Swoosh the clog is swept away! Hooray! (The question of how the camera could see through a solid brass plumbing fixture never entered my mind.)

So off to the bedroom to change clothes! I had a quest and I must see it to the end! The Evil Baking Soda Cork Monster must vanquished! I can do it! I will drive to the store and get the Proper Tool! A quick brush of the hair, just so! A little lotion on the face, just so! Purse! Keys! Other Wal-mart List! A Travel Mug of Tea!

And...

Passing the sink revealed a new horror...the water was gone! Well, at least one side was empty. But, look! The stopper is still in the liquid-filled side. Carefully, take out the plug...Swoosh! Down goes the water. Problem solved.

Or is it?

Wal-mart awaited and I was quest-ready.

So I quested. At Wal-mart. Not for Liquid Plumber...I never even looked for it. But lots of other neat things needed found, including SpongeBob Squarepants' "Halloween" DVD with 5 Spooky Sea Tales PLUS 5 Bubblin' Bonus Episodes!

On the way home, Kevin the Video Husband called to say he and Meghan the Wonder(ful)Kid made it to San Antonio along with the rest of their Film Festival Traveling Team.

"Where are you?" Kevin asked. "It sounds like you're in the car."

"Ha, Ha," I said. "I had to go to Wal-mart ("had" is kind of a strong word, actually). The sink was plugged (true, but it fixed itself). I needed some Liquid Plumber (true, I did need it but not anymore)."

"Will Liquid Plumber hurt those new kind of pipes?"

"Don't worry," I respond. "It'll be fine (true). I clogged the sink with Baking Soda (true). By the time I get home, it'll probably fix itself (yeah, like I was STILL home when it...you know)...that's just my luck. HA. HA. HA."

In the meantime my brain is screaming things like "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING! There's NOTHING wrong with your sink! Why are you saying this stuff? You didn't even BUY ANY LIQUID PLUMBER YOU MORON! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO!!!"

My mouth continues to say, "Ha, Ha. I got everything I need. Have a good time darlin' and don't worry about the sink...I'm sure it'll be fine."

So there. I've now confessed my indiscretion to you. It was an out-and-out untruth. If I was Catholic I could do a few "Hail Mary's" and feel better about the whole thing.

But I'm not. So, instead, I have to find a way to tell my husband I did a bold-faced for no reason except that my lips apparently went completely insane.

Do you think he'll buy it?

Continued Education from Hollywood

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: "The only 'ism' Hollywood believes in is plagerism." Dorothy Parker

We watched yet another Literary classic this week: Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island as performed by the intrepid Muppets and friends. Hans Zimmer wrote the music for this song-ridden desecration...and he did a snappy job. Those songs stick with you like yesterday's garlic salad: they just keep coming back up atcha.

As an interpretation of a literary classic, Muppet's Treasure Island would be like saying that you understand Harriet Beecher's Stowe immortal, and world-changing classic, Uncle Tom's Cabin from watching the 3 minute cutified version in The King and I--sure, you get a few of their names and that it's something about pirates, treasure, and a kid--or maybe a rat--oh! and adventure, it's about adventure. And grown men wearing dresses, as well, we can't forget that... Or maybe that was something else...

Speaking of Uncle Tom's Cabin: I'm actually reading it for the first time ever. I was somehow spared in school...so now I'm doing it, and get this, of my own volition. Upon first glance of the book, I'm ashamed to say that I exclaimed--right in front of two professional librarians, "Wow! I didn't know it had so many words in it!" Yeah, I is leterary, allright.

The book sat on my nightstand for nearly three weeks before I picked it up out of guilt. "I'll just read the first chapter...I'm sure it'll be slow and boring..." Right. The first page drove me to tears. This woman painfully described the attitude of the Southern whites to such a degree it takes one's breath away. After 50 pages (out of 600) I flipped to the back...I couldn't help it...if I was going to wade through this horror, I needed some hope it would all turn out somehow. The last 50 pages offered a little balm, but not much. Of the few main characters, the ones that ran away lived lives of relative hope. The others were torn apart and destroyed, viciously and graphically.

And, if Stowe is to be believed, the entire book is written from stories told to her by ex-slaves she interviewed and by abolitionist friends who had collected various descriptions of traders, owners, and runaways.

It is a sickening book. And one that everyone should read...

My goal is to get through the middle 500 pages in the next three weeks.

I had hoped Hollywood hadn't gotten it mitts into this one...but of course they did...a quick check on imdb.com shows that Uncle Tom's Cabin has been made into at least 13 different movies from 1910 through 1987. In comparison, Treasure Island has had 62 versions made by the Great Illuminators, if you aren't fussy about having something made in English to count. I guess Hollywood has left Uncle Tom alone, in its own way. God rest its soul.

Big Girl Haircut

Potential Wise Saying of the Day: “You’re only as good as your last haircut.” Fran Lebowitz

My publisher just told me I need to do a “video thing.” That is, I believe, the official title: “video thing.” It’s to be 2-3 minutes so sales people can be inspired to sell my book more than the other dozen or so "just released" options. I’m supposed to share my passion for this work, tell why I wrote it, and inspire people to pitch it, all in 180 seconds. Oh! And make sure the camera is on a tripod.

OK...I’m married to Kevin the Video Husband, a tripod is no problem—staying married while I try to pimp my own baby to strangers in front of the tripod and the husband with the camera running might be. As a footnote: There is a reason why writers write: we don’t do excessively well, or don’t feel uber confident, or able to communicate adequately around people. A Video camera is worse than people. It’s like the ultimate Demanding Perfection Mother of All Time. A video camera allows you to say things over and over and over again using different inflections and facial expressions. And worse than that, you then have to look at yourself saying it over and over and over again, each time wishing you could make that extra chin go away and change your hair color to something perky. With Kevin the Video Husband behind a camera and me in front of it we get the domestic version of Anal-Retentive Godzilla meets Trauma Girl from Planet Fetal Position.

To stave off this potential tragedy I’m doing something pro-active: I’m getting a new haircut, but I’m not telling my hair. Each time my hair realizes it’s about to be cut, it reacts by looking perfect for several days prior. It will even go as far as to look “fluffy” and “lush.” Once, I fell for the ruse and cancelled the appointment thinking that my hair had gone past the booty-ugly “growing out” stage and was finally in the Long and Luscious zone. Within minutes of calling the salon, my tresses realized they had been spared so they immediately deflated into their normal, fine-haired, flat mousy brown selves. Each time, I tell myself, it will be different. This time I’m going to go into that Special Salon with that Girl that Everyone Loves and have her find that Perfect Cut that will totally change my looks—I’ll even do something dramatic—make a “new me” worthy of film and fame. The reality is that my hair does its own thing—the same thing, no matter what I do to it—poofs out in one or two inappropriate places, remaining stubbornly flat everywhere else, attempting to frame my face in a more or less a completely unmemorable way—they know deep in their little protein-based souls that they are not the follicles of Carmen Diaz or Reece Witherspoon—they are writer follicles and they must maintain the Look of a Writer because that is their duty.

So we're off once more, with freshly clipped magazine pictures in hand (with their faces cut out so I can better imagine how the New Do will fit my over 40 face) to try to find the Ultimate Haircut.

But shhhh...it's a secret.

Scared Silly—There really is a reason, Part 2

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: “In the movie business,…we call this the sequel.” Arnold Schwarzenegger

So I never really explained the Righteous Name of this Blog. The short end is that I just finished a book by the same title and it seemed like a convenient tie-in.

The long end is that I just finished a book by the same title and it seemed like a convenient tie-in because Kevin My Video Husband had a Great Thought (which, however, might have been an over-digested Taco-Bell meal, if you get my, errr, drift) and said that I ought to turn the BryanPost into a blog because everyone is doing it and it would be a cool thing to do, and it would let me keep up better with people I love, and besides, I have plenty of time if I really want to do this regardless of the other writing projects, homeschooling and housekeeping, right!?

The bottom end is that he’s right (as usual, but please don’t tell him that, it’ll give him The Big Head) about most of it. I need to give this a try, it is a great tie-in with the book and it would be a better way to say “hey” on a more regular basis to the people I love and care for (loveya, Bren).

So…for now it’s the Scared Silly blog. My publisher doesn’t know I’m doing this and he/she might get a little verklempt over the copyright issues, so we’ll see…

Scared Silly—There’s a Reason, I Promise

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: “If something pops in my mind and it’s easy, I write it.” Wanda Jackson

This blog is an extension of something I’ve been doing for over a decade: making myself naked in public…OK not naked naked, but emotionally naked, trying to express thoughts and feeling as Kevin My Video Husband and I work together in a very strange vocation.
To explain: we are part of a very small group of Christians called Media Missionaries, and although it sounds like we go around trying to convert various electronic items (“look how that man is holding his Sony Camcorder…that poor thing needs Jesus!”), it is not. We actually try to use media to reach out to people…

Fortunately for you, I will not be performing any Media Mission work on this blog…because this blog has its own fairly lofty aim: to be a relatively thought-free zone in which true profundity will only sneak in when my back is turned —kind of like what supposedly happened in C.S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, hopefully. But don’t hold your breath. C.S. Lewis was British thus giving him extra points for cleverness and profundity in writing.

Back to the reason for this blog: One of the things I do as a Media Missionary is to write to the Kind and Generous People Who Help Fund Us. This is achieved using the time-honored Official Correspondence Tool of All Missionaries: Newsletters. However, because of my media bent…(read: twisted sense of purpose and humor) the newsletters generated by yours truly (called the BryanPost because my last name is Bryan, and I’m just that clever) were full of obnoxious quotes and pithy remarks about life, the universe, and everything. In actual fact, The Post was a blog before its time; stranded in the molasses-movement of snail mail; restricted to the two-dimensional existence of print; biding its time until I finally realized its true place.

Gone, and Some of Us Might Be Sad

Potential Wise Saying for the Day: “This taught me a lesson, but I'm not quite sure what it is.” John McEnroe

As a homeschool instructor, I employ the best educational methods available to draw, engage, and brainwash, enlighten my student so as to develop in her the best income generator for my old age possible person she can be. Amongst my pedagogical tools at hand are many excellent DVDs, which are employed to more fully illustrate the experience of a people struggling to survive in a bygone era.

For example, Monty Python’s Holy Grail can be a superb resource to explore the Middle Ages. I’m not kidding about this…

Using this incredible logic, we not only watched Ken Burns’ most excellent Civil War series, to study the, um…Civil War, but also turned to David O. Selznick’s dramatically lengthy Gone with the Wind starring Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable to add to our body of American History Knowledge. We watched all 288 minutes of it. In one sitting. And I must admit--although this confession will not make me many friends--it felt like we experienced the Civil War in real time. Ken Burns’ 660 minutes-worth of documentary was no match for the extending droning of Scarlett and her boys. After watching the best Hollywood could muster to exemplify what the two generations before them endured, the South deserved to lose, that’s all I’m saying.

Plot-wise, it was, like, watching a Shakespearian tragedy except that no one dies—well OK, a LOT of people died in Gone with the Wind, but not the right people. Well, OK: Not the right feminine-type person, to be more specific-ish. And that spineless Ashley…that’s the kind of powerful example of emotional faithfulness I want for my daughter, I’m telling you!

Technically, this epic—and the word is used here in the absolute literal sense of being “of great length”—was amazing, considering it was done during the painfully lacking Great Depression and without Industrial Light and Magic in Selznick’s back pocket. Even after witnessing how they did the scene of the dead and dying in Atlanta’s streets and the burning of Atlanta as Scarlett escaped in the “behind the scenes,” it was still awesome to see.

On an emotional level, the thing that struck me most…the thought that haunts me over 24-hours later…is not how this film beat out such incredible specimen like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Goodbye Mr. Chips, Of Mice and Men, Wuthering Heights, and the immortal The Wizard of Oz…for Oscar fame (although this thought stuns me) it's that I saw in myself the image of that selfish, conniving shrew Scarlett O’Hara. She never got it, did she? She didn’t realize, until it was too late, who loved her the most and where she really fit in this world. And deep down, I’m afraid that I’m not getting it…that because I keep looking for something more, something “special” (read: something that can’t possibly exist), something perfect, that I’m missing the love that surrounds me daily. I hope I’m wrong and that I really am grateful and aware, but something tells me that my gut is right.

SIGH.

I can’t think about that now. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

Right now it’s time for Literature Class…and The Delightful Daughter and I must watch Curious George.