Building houses for a living is a lot of things. It’s always hard work and usually profitable, sometimes not. It requires a lot of dedication and can be a little stressful, sometimes a lot. It’s always interesting, it’s never boring, and occasionally it can be pretty entertaining. A few such entertaining moments come to mind.
One such moment involved a lovely, if somewhat buxom, client named Estelle (not her real name), who adopted a dog soon after moving into her new home. The dog, named Frodo (his real name) was not a puppy, but quickly bonded with Estelle, none-the-less. Frodo was a friendly dog and quite mellow when someone, preferably Estelle, was home, but when left alone, Frodo went ballistic. The first time he was home alone, he chewed an escape-size hole through a two-inch-thick hollow-core door. A brand new door, with a brand new doggy door installed, solved the problem. The entertaining part (for me at least, not so much for Estelle) came when I arrived at the house for a punch list appointment to find Estelle, who had evidently locked herself out, firmly wedged, half in, half out, in the brand new doggy door. I removed the doggy door, Estelle attached, and cut her loose. Another new door, sans doggy door, was subsequently installed in the house. Frodo was subsequently reinstalled at the pound.
Another such moment came at my expense, figuratively and literally. The clients were a delightful elderly couple. I say elderly: they were actually younger than I am now, but that’s another story. In any case, prior to starting construction for their large home on their wooded lot that had “been in the family” for years, it was necessary to remove an impressive (meaning nearly 100 feet tall) pine tree that stood in the middle of what was to be the living room. Although a task of this nature would normally be contracted out to a tree removal service, I decided to save time and some of the client’s money and cut down the tree myself. The lot was empty, or nearly so, and the owner wanted to keep the wood. It seemed like the logical thing to do. It seemed a bit less logical when, as the tree started, to fall, I realized that the brand new screen house, just erected to enjoy the lovely pastoral setting, wasn’t quite 100 feet away. The replacement screen house was my house warming gift.
Perhaps my favorite memory involves the first house I ever built for clients. Dale and Alice (their real names) were wonderful people, wonderful clients, and remain friends today. Dale was a financial aid administrator, but also a skilled carpenter, so much of the work, especially the detail work, he was planning to do himself. Alice was a teacher, but taking time off to care for their brand new baby (for which I take credit, but that’s yet another story). The construction was going well, if at a leisurely pace, and Dale and Alice decided to move in before the house was complete. Conspicuously absent at move-in was a stairway to the second floor. The interim solution, until Dale could find time to build the stairs, was a not-too-sturdy, twelve-foot, aluminum extension ladder. Alice was terrified of the ladder, and only with Dale to steady her would she even attempt the climb to the second floor master bedroom suite.
Imagine my amazement and amusement when, a few months later (it was a very leisurely pace), I witnessed Alice, laundry basket in one arm, nursing baby in the other, bound up the ladder, with no free hands and not a moment’s hesitation.
12/13/10
Monday, May 23, 2011
Building Houses, Part 4
You can’t design and build houses for 23 years without having a few stories to tell. One such story is about a lovely lady named Sally (not her real name) who was building an “escape-from-DC” house for herself, her husband (not so much) who was a political consultant, and her three boys, teenagers ranging in age from 13 to 15 (three years between campaigns, I’m guessing). Husband Bernie (not his real name, but close) would be staying, pretty much, in DC. Sally would be building the house, pretty much, on her own. The design build process was, to say the least, interesting.
For a few, very few, of our design sessions Bernie was in attendance. Such sessions were short and to the point. “Four walls and a roof, nothing fancy, we have a pretty tight budget. Just make sure the boys each have their own room. Boys this age need a private place where they can lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling, if you get my drift.” I got his drift and the boys each got their own room.
For most of our design sessions Bernie was not in attendance. Such sessions were definitely not short, but were definitely to the point. A different point, unfortunately, having little to do with houses and everything to do with Sally and Bernie’s love life, or lack thereof. “I don’t think he loves me anymore. I think he loves Sally.” Sally (not her real name but her real name was, in fact, Sally’s real name) was his business partner. “I know he doesn’t really want to build this house but I need it, and (I loved this part) don’t pay any attention to his silly budget. He’s got plenty of money, believe me.” I did believe her, I didn’t pay any attention to the silly budget, and Bernie, fortunately, always paid my not-so-silly invoices.
Eventually the design was complete and construction began. All things considered, it went pretty smoothly, if very slowly. It helped somewhat that changes, which were many, didn’t need to be discussed with Bernie (I guess he was far too busy partnering with Sally). But Sally (the wife, not the partner) was a little fickle and liked to see it built before she decided if she liked it. Often she did, but more often she didn’t. At times it almost seemed as if she didn’t want the building process to end. It was fine by me; the bills got paid and she was always very pleasant to work with. I was pleased that we had such a great working relationship. I realized later that she was less pleased about the work and more about the relationship.
I learned the truth of the matter much later, as the house was nearing final completion. It was that transition time, after the house was essentially done, but there still was a punch list of little items that needed finishing or fixing. Sally had been living in the house for a couple months. This particular day was a weekday, and the boys were at school (or at least not at home, but that’s another story). I knocked on the door (knocking always felt strange after many months of just walking on or in, but the sad/happy time always came when “my house” became “their house”). Sally answered the door wearing a lovely negligee. It was quite attractive, as was Sally, with full make-up and jewelry, and quite transparent. It was also the only (I mean nothing else) item of clothing she was wearing. She greeted me with a warm inviting smile. It was soon followed by a loud scream, when my head carpenter entered the house right behind me.
It finally dawned on me. She may not have appreciated me entirely for my skill in designing and building houses.
12/13/10
For a few, very few, of our design sessions Bernie was in attendance. Such sessions were short and to the point. “Four walls and a roof, nothing fancy, we have a pretty tight budget. Just make sure the boys each have their own room. Boys this age need a private place where they can lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling, if you get my drift.” I got his drift and the boys each got their own room.
For most of our design sessions Bernie was not in attendance. Such sessions were definitely not short, but were definitely to the point. A different point, unfortunately, having little to do with houses and everything to do with Sally and Bernie’s love life, or lack thereof. “I don’t think he loves me anymore. I think he loves Sally.” Sally (not her real name but her real name was, in fact, Sally’s real name) was his business partner. “I know he doesn’t really want to build this house but I need it, and (I loved this part) don’t pay any attention to his silly budget. He’s got plenty of money, believe me.” I did believe her, I didn’t pay any attention to the silly budget, and Bernie, fortunately, always paid my not-so-silly invoices.
Eventually the design was complete and construction began. All things considered, it went pretty smoothly, if very slowly. It helped somewhat that changes, which were many, didn’t need to be discussed with Bernie (I guess he was far too busy partnering with Sally). But Sally (the wife, not the partner) was a little fickle and liked to see it built before she decided if she liked it. Often she did, but more often she didn’t. At times it almost seemed as if she didn’t want the building process to end. It was fine by me; the bills got paid and she was always very pleasant to work with. I was pleased that we had such a great working relationship. I realized later that she was less pleased about the work and more about the relationship.
I learned the truth of the matter much later, as the house was nearing final completion. It was that transition time, after the house was essentially done, but there still was a punch list of little items that needed finishing or fixing. Sally had been living in the house for a couple months. This particular day was a weekday, and the boys were at school (or at least not at home, but that’s another story). I knocked on the door (knocking always felt strange after many months of just walking on or in, but the sad/happy time always came when “my house” became “their house”). Sally answered the door wearing a lovely negligee. It was quite attractive, as was Sally, with full make-up and jewelry, and quite transparent. It was also the only (I mean nothing else) item of clothing she was wearing. She greeted me with a warm inviting smile. It was soon followed by a loud scream, when my head carpenter entered the house right behind me.
It finally dawned on me. She may not have appreciated me entirely for my skill in designing and building houses.
12/13/10
Friday, February 25, 2011
Airport Security, Part 2
Is it just me, or does this airport security business get more and more ridiculous every day? I can remember leaving for the airport only 30 minutes before my plane departed. After a 15-minute drive, I still arrived in plenty of time to catch my flight. Of course, this was back in the day when catching the flight meant spending several hours crammed into a seat designed for pygmies, sandwiched between a decidedly unpygmy-sized woman with a decidedly unpygmy-sized, decidedly unhappy “lap baby,” and her decidedly unpygmy-sized, cigar-smoking husband; because the non-smoking section (a distant two rows back) was full, as was the entire plane. Okay, that was just the one time, but the memory lingers.
Today I am advised to arrive at the airport at least two hours before departure. Now that my 15-minute trip takes up to an hour, depending on the ridiculous traffic (don’t get me started), I have to be up by 3:00am if I want to catch an early flight. I can stretch it to 3:30am if I skip the three S’s and plan on getting my coffee at the airport; but, of course, the coffee shop won’t be open because it’s still the middle of the night. It doesn’t really matter, because I won’t have time for coffee in any case. I’ll have a considerable wait in line at the ticket counter because, even though I have tickets, I missed my 90-minute window of opportunity to check in on-line. My carry-on bag will undoubtedly be over-size and my check-in bag will undoubtedly be over-weight: problems that could easily be solved if my only remaining credit card wasn’t also over the credit limit (but that’s another story).
Having completed my initial check-in, I’ll have an additional wait in line at the bag check-in because bags can no longer be checked in at the check-in counter. It’s okay because it gives me a little time to prepare for the next event in my “check-in pentathlon,” the security station. Here is where the real waiting begins because, even though the airport has dozens of ticket and check-in counters, there is only one security station. It is staffed by several dozen security officers, so you might think they could man (sorry, I mean person) another station, but you would be wrong. I guess it takes dozens of highly trained officers to be absolutely sure that no one gets on an airplane with a pair of nail clippers or an inordinate amount of liquid. Okay, they are also looking for real weapons and possible explosives, but does it really need to take so long and involve so many people? We have the x-ray to detect bad things in the carry-on, the metal detector to detect bad things on the carry-on carrier, and now even the full-body scanner to detect bad things in the carry-on carrier. Even with two officers per detector device, there are still several left over. I guess they are there to personally search those 80-year-old women in wheelchairs who have been profiled as likely terrorists (I’m sorry Nana, it wasn’t my fault).
Speaking of full-body scanners, I understand that they are being redesigned to alter the way genitals appear on the screen of the scanner. Rather than depict actual genitals, that portion of the scan is overlaid with an image of an average sized genital for what, I assume, is the appropriate gender of the scanee. I can only imagine what the reasoning must be. Someone must have decided that while most travelers were not concerned about having their private areas on display, they were very concerned that the truth about the size of those private areas (at least in the diminutive) might be somewhat embarrassing. The overlay should work because no one, diminutive or otherwise, would ever think to hide explosives or other bad stuff in or under their private areas.
Of course, after finally maneuvering the main security check, there’s still the individual gate security check-in (it’s true, our airport even has a big handwritten sign that reads “YES AGAIN!”) and the final check in at the gate itself. The good news is that just a couple hours after arriving at the airport, if you have been successful completing the check-in pentathlon, you may be allowed to board your flight: that is, of course, if it hasn’t been delayed or cancelled, which all too often, it has.
Today I am advised to arrive at the airport at least two hours before departure. Now that my 15-minute trip takes up to an hour, depending on the ridiculous traffic (don’t get me started), I have to be up by 3:00am if I want to catch an early flight. I can stretch it to 3:30am if I skip the three S’s and plan on getting my coffee at the airport; but, of course, the coffee shop won’t be open because it’s still the middle of the night. It doesn’t really matter, because I won’t have time for coffee in any case. I’ll have a considerable wait in line at the ticket counter because, even though I have tickets, I missed my 90-minute window of opportunity to check in on-line. My carry-on bag will undoubtedly be over-size and my check-in bag will undoubtedly be over-weight: problems that could easily be solved if my only remaining credit card wasn’t also over the credit limit (but that’s another story).
Having completed my initial check-in, I’ll have an additional wait in line at the bag check-in because bags can no longer be checked in at the check-in counter. It’s okay because it gives me a little time to prepare for the next event in my “check-in pentathlon,” the security station. Here is where the real waiting begins because, even though the airport has dozens of ticket and check-in counters, there is only one security station. It is staffed by several dozen security officers, so you might think they could man (sorry, I mean person) another station, but you would be wrong. I guess it takes dozens of highly trained officers to be absolutely sure that no one gets on an airplane with a pair of nail clippers or an inordinate amount of liquid. Okay, they are also looking for real weapons and possible explosives, but does it really need to take so long and involve so many people? We have the x-ray to detect bad things in the carry-on, the metal detector to detect bad things on the carry-on carrier, and now even the full-body scanner to detect bad things in the carry-on carrier. Even with two officers per detector device, there are still several left over. I guess they are there to personally search those 80-year-old women in wheelchairs who have been profiled as likely terrorists (I’m sorry Nana, it wasn’t my fault).
Speaking of full-body scanners, I understand that they are being redesigned to alter the way genitals appear on the screen of the scanner. Rather than depict actual genitals, that portion of the scan is overlaid with an image of an average sized genital for what, I assume, is the appropriate gender of the scanee. I can only imagine what the reasoning must be. Someone must have decided that while most travelers were not concerned about having their private areas on display, they were very concerned that the truth about the size of those private areas (at least in the diminutive) might be somewhat embarrassing. The overlay should work because no one, diminutive or otherwise, would ever think to hide explosives or other bad stuff in or under their private areas.
Of course, after finally maneuvering the main security check, there’s still the individual gate security check-in (it’s true, our airport even has a big handwritten sign that reads “YES AGAIN!”) and the final check in at the gate itself. The good news is that just a couple hours after arriving at the airport, if you have been successful completing the check-in pentathlon, you may be allowed to board your flight: that is, of course, if it hasn’t been delayed or cancelled, which all too often, it has.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Building Houses, Part 3
After 23 years of designing and building houses, usually for clients, usually couples, usually wealthy and always fussy; I’m proud to say I’ve learned a few things: quite a few, in fact, about the designing and building; very few, unfortunately, about the clients. After 23 years and several dozen sets of clients I can honestly say that I don’t have a clue why clients, or people in general for that matter, want what they want or do what they do.
Case in point. Many of my clients were retired or nearing retirement. The kids were grown and had moved away (this was back in the day when kids actually moved away, but that’s another story), and it was time to build “a smaller house just for the two of us.” The larger house they were leaving was, more often than not, a three-bedroom, two-bath house (often with finished-off basement or attic) that sat on a small lot in a large subdivision. The smaller house we were designing and building was, more often than not, a four-bedroom, four-bath (or three-bath plus a powder room) house to sit on a ten-acre lot in the middle of nowhere.
The reasoning (I use the term loosely) was interesting. The conversation usually went something like this: “We just need the basics: a living room, a dining room, a kitchen and a couple bedrooms. Of course we need a family room because the formal living room will just be for company. Both the living and family room should have the view. The formal dining room will just be for company, so we need a large breakfast nook in the kitchen, preferably with the view. Bill (occasionally his real name) needs an office (I thought Bill was retiring, but what do I know), and I (occasionally Alice) need a study where I can get some peace and quiet to read my books. It would be nice if they both had the view.”
“The master bedroom must be comfortable (meaning really big) and must have the view. We’ll need two walk-in closets, but Bill’s doesn’t have to be very big (meaning mine needs to be really big). We’ll need a large walk-in shower, and maybe an outside shower for summer, and a Jacuzzi tub, because now and again I just need a good soak. The two guestrooms don’t need to be too big, but need private baths so guests don’t need to walk down the hall to use the bathroom. It’s not absolutely necessary, but it would be nice if they had the view. We need one other bedroom, which will double as my sewing (or painting, or hobby, or yoga) room. It doesn’t need its own bath, but should be near the powder room, and have the view and/or the north light. Really, that’s about all we need. Just include a three-car garage, a large pantry, a laundry room, an entry, my workout room and Bill’s shop, and we’re done. And except for my workout room, none of them really needs the view.”
In fairness, not all the houses I designed and built were so expansive. Some were, in fact, modest retirement homes, usually very well built and elaborately furnished, but not overly large. One “retirement home,” however, holds the record for both for number of rooms and redundant (same show, different venue) rooms. Granted, the family was, if not large, larger than just one retired or retiring couple. This house needed to accommodate mom, dad, grandma, and three kids. None-the-less did it really need, in addition to all the usual utilitarian rooms, a fully finished-of basement, two garages (one for two cars, one for six), six bedrooms, five full baths (the powder room evidently needed a small shower), a dining room, two breakfast rooms (one just for the kids), a living room, two family rooms (one just for the kids), a playroom (I guess the kids weren’t allowed to play in their family room), and a fully-enclosed sun room (that’s right, five living rooms).
Case in point. Many of my clients were retired or nearing retirement. The kids were grown and had moved away (this was back in the day when kids actually moved away, but that’s another story), and it was time to build “a smaller house just for the two of us.” The larger house they were leaving was, more often than not, a three-bedroom, two-bath house (often with finished-off basement or attic) that sat on a small lot in a large subdivision. The smaller house we were designing and building was, more often than not, a four-bedroom, four-bath (or three-bath plus a powder room) house to sit on a ten-acre lot in the middle of nowhere.
The reasoning (I use the term loosely) was interesting. The conversation usually went something like this: “We just need the basics: a living room, a dining room, a kitchen and a couple bedrooms. Of course we need a family room because the formal living room will just be for company. Both the living and family room should have the view. The formal dining room will just be for company, so we need a large breakfast nook in the kitchen, preferably with the view. Bill (occasionally his real name) needs an office (I thought Bill was retiring, but what do I know), and I (occasionally Alice) need a study where I can get some peace and quiet to read my books. It would be nice if they both had the view.”
“The master bedroom must be comfortable (meaning really big) and must have the view. We’ll need two walk-in closets, but Bill’s doesn’t have to be very big (meaning mine needs to be really big). We’ll need a large walk-in shower, and maybe an outside shower for summer, and a Jacuzzi tub, because now and again I just need a good soak. The two guestrooms don’t need to be too big, but need private baths so guests don’t need to walk down the hall to use the bathroom. It’s not absolutely necessary, but it would be nice if they had the view. We need one other bedroom, which will double as my sewing (or painting, or hobby, or yoga) room. It doesn’t need its own bath, but should be near the powder room, and have the view and/or the north light. Really, that’s about all we need. Just include a three-car garage, a large pantry, a laundry room, an entry, my workout room and Bill’s shop, and we’re done. And except for my workout room, none of them really needs the view.”
In fairness, not all the houses I designed and built were so expansive. Some were, in fact, modest retirement homes, usually very well built and elaborately furnished, but not overly large. One “retirement home,” however, holds the record for both for number of rooms and redundant (same show, different venue) rooms. Granted, the family was, if not large, larger than just one retired or retiring couple. This house needed to accommodate mom, dad, grandma, and three kids. None-the-less did it really need, in addition to all the usual utilitarian rooms, a fully finished-of basement, two garages (one for two cars, one for six), six bedrooms, five full baths (the powder room evidently needed a small shower), a dining room, two breakfast rooms (one just for the kids), a living room, two family rooms (one just for the kids), a playroom (I guess the kids weren’t allowed to play in their family room), and a fully-enclosed sun room (that’s right, five living rooms).
Building Houses, Part 2
Speaking of building houses, which I do on occasion since I designed and built them for many years, brings back memories. One: somewhat bizarre and very sad. A few: somewhat less bizarre and not so sad.
I had been building houses for about five years when I met Ed and Cindy (not their real names). Ed worked in middle management for a large IT company, and Cindy was his brand-new bride. It was his third brand-new bride, as it turned out, but I’m not judgmental and the budget was very generous. The house, completed on schedule if a bit over budget, was several miles from where Ed worked, so he drove the Interstate, to and from, every day. It was one such day that a drunken driver jumped the median and killed Ed instantly. Soon thereafter, Cindy sold the home she couldn’t bear to live in alone. About one year later, the buyer of the home, a single man whose name escapes me, committed suicide on the outside deck after sipping champagne and watching the sunset. About two years after that, the husband, of a couple whose names I never knew, was found murdered in the master bedroom. I don’t know if the house has been occupied since.
I remember the very first house I built. It was for a young couple, Dale and Alice, who had been trying for years to have a baby. Their attempt to conceive a child was bearing no fruit of the womb (pardon the pun), so they conceived instead of the idea to put the fruit bearing on hold and build a house. The designing went well and the construction went equally well, if rather slowly. All-consuming, the project involved many hours and long meetings that often went into the wee hours. Over time we became good friends; you might even say close friends, very close friends. Of course, a few months into the project, Alice discovered she was, at last, with fruit. After a candid discussion of the events leading up to the discovery, it was concluded that I was responsible (figuratively, not literally: we weren’t that close).
As you might expect, things can get interesting when the building project changes after the design is complete and the construction is well under way. Believe me, they get far more interesting when the project stays the same but the client changes after the design is complete and the construction is well underway. Phil (his real name) contracted me to design and build a house in the style of a old Vermont barn, a popular style at the time. I did him one better and found an actual old Vermont barn that was about to be demolished. We carefully deconstructed it, cataloguing every hand-hewn post and beam, and moved it to his site. We reconstructed the shell and created a truly unique, if rustic, bachelor pad inside. The house was nearing completion when Phil became engaged to be married. Needless to say, Janet (not her real name: I’ve forced it from my memory) did not care for Phil’s bachelor barn. I knew the project was going south when Janet announced that “there was no way she was going to live in a barn.” I don’t know if the house was ever completed; after a few weeks, we all agreed that I was no longer “right for the project.”
Several years after I had completed a lovely house on a lovely, if very severe, building lot, I learned the story of “The Vanishing Ring.” You need to understand that in Vermont most houses have basements. Sometimes people live in those basements and never build the rest of the house (but that’s another story). Sometimes the geography doesn’t allow a full basement, and the house may have a full or partial crawl space. Usually unfinished and un-floored, they can make nice root cellars (look it up), or nice wine cellars, or nice, if somewhat damp, storage spaces. This house had just such a crawl space, but the lady of the house found it ugly, useless and somewhat frightening. For this reason, and as a surprise, her husband arranged to have a concrete floor poured in the space while they were vacationing in Aruba.
Returning from vacation, the wife was pleased at first then appalled when she remembered that she had buried her mother’s wedding ring in the crawl space dirt. She thought she knew exactly where it was. It turned out she didn’t. A week later the crawl space was dirt once again and the front yard featured a lovely pile of concrete rubble. A week after that the concrete contractor, returning from his vacation and hearing the story, related that he had found a jar of unknown contents buried in the crawl space dirt and had carefully tucked it in the floor supports above where he found it: where they found it soon after.
I had been building houses for about five years when I met Ed and Cindy (not their real names). Ed worked in middle management for a large IT company, and Cindy was his brand-new bride. It was his third brand-new bride, as it turned out, but I’m not judgmental and the budget was very generous. The house, completed on schedule if a bit over budget, was several miles from where Ed worked, so he drove the Interstate, to and from, every day. It was one such day that a drunken driver jumped the median and killed Ed instantly. Soon thereafter, Cindy sold the home she couldn’t bear to live in alone. About one year later, the buyer of the home, a single man whose name escapes me, committed suicide on the outside deck after sipping champagne and watching the sunset. About two years after that, the husband, of a couple whose names I never knew, was found murdered in the master bedroom. I don’t know if the house has been occupied since.
I remember the very first house I built. It was for a young couple, Dale and Alice, who had been trying for years to have a baby. Their attempt to conceive a child was bearing no fruit of the womb (pardon the pun), so they conceived instead of the idea to put the fruit bearing on hold and build a house. The designing went well and the construction went equally well, if rather slowly. All-consuming, the project involved many hours and long meetings that often went into the wee hours. Over time we became good friends; you might even say close friends, very close friends. Of course, a few months into the project, Alice discovered she was, at last, with fruit. After a candid discussion of the events leading up to the discovery, it was concluded that I was responsible (figuratively, not literally: we weren’t that close).
As you might expect, things can get interesting when the building project changes after the design is complete and the construction is well under way. Believe me, they get far more interesting when the project stays the same but the client changes after the design is complete and the construction is well underway. Phil (his real name) contracted me to design and build a house in the style of a old Vermont barn, a popular style at the time. I did him one better and found an actual old Vermont barn that was about to be demolished. We carefully deconstructed it, cataloguing every hand-hewn post and beam, and moved it to his site. We reconstructed the shell and created a truly unique, if rustic, bachelor pad inside. The house was nearing completion when Phil became engaged to be married. Needless to say, Janet (not her real name: I’ve forced it from my memory) did not care for Phil’s bachelor barn. I knew the project was going south when Janet announced that “there was no way she was going to live in a barn.” I don’t know if the house was ever completed; after a few weeks, we all agreed that I was no longer “right for the project.”
Several years after I had completed a lovely house on a lovely, if very severe, building lot, I learned the story of “The Vanishing Ring.” You need to understand that in Vermont most houses have basements. Sometimes people live in those basements and never build the rest of the house (but that’s another story). Sometimes the geography doesn’t allow a full basement, and the house may have a full or partial crawl space. Usually unfinished and un-floored, they can make nice root cellars (look it up), or nice wine cellars, or nice, if somewhat damp, storage spaces. This house had just such a crawl space, but the lady of the house found it ugly, useless and somewhat frightening. For this reason, and as a surprise, her husband arranged to have a concrete floor poured in the space while they were vacationing in Aruba.
Returning from vacation, the wife was pleased at first then appalled when she remembered that she had buried her mother’s wedding ring in the crawl space dirt. She thought she knew exactly where it was. It turned out she didn’t. A week later the crawl space was dirt once again and the front yard featured a lovely pile of concrete rubble. A week after that the concrete contractor, returning from his vacation and hearing the story, related that he had found a jar of unknown contents buried in the crawl space dirt and had carefully tucked it in the floor supports above where he found it: where they found it soon after.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Building Houses
For many years, many years ago, I attempted to make my living as an architect and builder. I say attempted because, even though there were occasional moments of affluence, there were far more of mere subsistence. I chose (I have no idea what possessed me) to design and build houses. Not wanting to speculate on eventual sale, I chose to work for clients, usually husbands and wives, who were usually building their first or last home. First homes were challenging, the clients knew little or nothing about building houses but everything about their needs. Unfortunately his needs seldom bore any resemblance to her needs, which meant design meetings often bore a remarkable resemblance to couples counseling. Last homes were more challenging; the clients were always determined “to get it right this time.” I once made the mistake of asking what went wrong the last time. The answer lasted hours and included several references to the “inadequacies of the architect and builder.” I should have realized then, that the chances of my being adequate were slim at best.
Don’t get me wrong: designing houses was occasionally fun. With the occasionally sane clients, the always-creative process was occasionally enjoyable. Even building houses with said sane clients was occasionally rewarding, if not financially (an ever elusive pursuit), at least emotionally. It was always bittersweet, however, when the day came to turn the house over to the owners. “My house” was suddenly “their house,” and I had to surrender the keys and thereafter knock on the door and wait to be admitted. I often wondered if “my house” would still be in good hands when those hands were no longer mine.
Usually the answer to my question was “yes.” I would return to the house in the following weeks and months, usually to remedy some real or imagined problem, and find things much as I delivered them: neat, clean and appropriately occupied. Occasionally (you can’t have too much of a good word) the answer was “no.” On one occasion (okay, maybe you can), I returned to the house, this one only a shell due to the client running out of money; to find the family of eight living in the basement, sharing a makeshift bathroom enclosed by 4 sheets. The outside of the two-story house was completed and weather tight, you understand, but the owners evidently decided that the two above-ground floors were better suited to the raising of chickens and other assorted livestock. The first floor “chicken coop” was not only spacious, but featured an oak hardwood floor, nicely textured with a dark patina of chicken poop.
Speaking of livestock, in another instance (as opposed to occasion) I visited a very big, very expensive house that I had completed about a year earlier, to discover that the attached (make note), finished-off, and heated three-car garage had become the winter quarters for a dozen sheep. No one in the house desiring, I assume, the chore of cleaning up the sheep droppings, the solution was to throw hay on the garage floor now and then (as opposed to on occasion). When I visited, the hay layer was about two feet thick (really, I’m not exaggerating), and the aroma (I’m being polite) throughout the house was, shall we say, imposing. The owner, interestingly enough, was the State’s Agriculture Commissioner. I suppose he could have been doing research on the tolerance of humans to imposing aromas.
I am no longer an architect and builder. I retired from those pursuits years ago. Not retired per se, I still attempt to make a living in other pursuits. I am occasionally (cut me some slack, I skipped a whole paragraph) asked if I learned anything about designing and building houses in all those years. I believe I’ve learned a little about the houses; about the people who live in them, not so much.
Don’t get me wrong: designing houses was occasionally fun. With the occasionally sane clients, the always-creative process was occasionally enjoyable. Even building houses with said sane clients was occasionally rewarding, if not financially (an ever elusive pursuit), at least emotionally. It was always bittersweet, however, when the day came to turn the house over to the owners. “My house” was suddenly “their house,” and I had to surrender the keys and thereafter knock on the door and wait to be admitted. I often wondered if “my house” would still be in good hands when those hands were no longer mine.
Usually the answer to my question was “yes.” I would return to the house in the following weeks and months, usually to remedy some real or imagined problem, and find things much as I delivered them: neat, clean and appropriately occupied. Occasionally (you can’t have too much of a good word) the answer was “no.” On one occasion (okay, maybe you can), I returned to the house, this one only a shell due to the client running out of money; to find the family of eight living in the basement, sharing a makeshift bathroom enclosed by 4 sheets. The outside of the two-story house was completed and weather tight, you understand, but the owners evidently decided that the two above-ground floors were better suited to the raising of chickens and other assorted livestock. The first floor “chicken coop” was not only spacious, but featured an oak hardwood floor, nicely textured with a dark patina of chicken poop.
Speaking of livestock, in another instance (as opposed to occasion) I visited a very big, very expensive house that I had completed about a year earlier, to discover that the attached (make note), finished-off, and heated three-car garage had become the winter quarters for a dozen sheep. No one in the house desiring, I assume, the chore of cleaning up the sheep droppings, the solution was to throw hay on the garage floor now and then (as opposed to on occasion). When I visited, the hay layer was about two feet thick (really, I’m not exaggerating), and the aroma (I’m being polite) throughout the house was, shall we say, imposing. The owner, interestingly enough, was the State’s Agriculture Commissioner. I suppose he could have been doing research on the tolerance of humans to imposing aromas.
I am no longer an architect and builder. I retired from those pursuits years ago. Not retired per se, I still attempt to make a living in other pursuits. I am occasionally (cut me some slack, I skipped a whole paragraph) asked if I learned anything about designing and building houses in all those years. I believe I’ve learned a little about the houses; about the people who live in them, not so much.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Cruising
I’ve been cruising. I’ve been many times in a tiny car, with a few friends, along the strip, for chicks. I’ve been a few times in a big boat, with a few friends, over the ocean, for food (also for fun, but mostly for food). Never very successful at scoring the former, I’ve racked up big points (and several pounds) knocking down the latter.
But lately the discouraging economy has mandated a hiatus on my cruising, at least the boat kind. I suppose I could still cruise the strip, but these days I’m a lot older, a little heavier (okay, a lot heavier), and drive a motor scooter. I doubt that balding, portly senior citizens on motor scooters turn heads today, at least not pretty young female heads. I’m okay with that; my pretty, young-at-heart wife still finds me worth a nod now and then.
I used to enjoy cruise ship cruising. It’s like taking several vacations rolled into one: visiting fascinating places and staying in classy hotels, but without the need to keep packing and unpacking or taking planes, or taking trains, or renting cars. The food is plentiful (too plentiful), delicious, and better yet, included in the price. The service is first rate, and the people are always friendly. Cruise ships boast a variety of restaurants, cafes, lounges, cabarets, and bars. Ther’re always activities and games, and often gambling. There’s definitely no shortage of things to do and stuff to buy. Unfortunately, these days there’s a shortage of money to do it, or buy it.
But even if the economy were a bit more encouraging, what with all the incidents of late, I might still be a little reluctant to go on a cruise. I’m sure Carnival’s “Splendor” brochures talk about late-night partying in one of the ship’s “hot spots.” I doubt that many passengers realized the whole ship would be the “hot spot” and the heat would be, literally, from a fire. I doubt that many passengers would consider being adrift at sea with little lighting, no air conditioning, and no hot food, a party.
One of cruising’s many pleasures is indulging at the midnight buffet, then returning, sated, to your cabin to be gently rocked up and down, back and forth, like a happy baby in a cradle to a restful sleep. Not so pleasurable perhaps, is when your cradle suddenly catapults you across the room. When Royal Caribbean’s “Brilliance of the Seas” became “Brilliance of the Very High Seas,” I suspect that happy babies, and passengers, were few and far between. I suspect they discovered that playing a pinball game is much more fun than being in one. I doubt that the few-hundred-dollar on-board credit offered by Royal Caribbean discouraged their displeasure, there being very little left on board to buy.
But lately the discouraging economy has mandated a hiatus on my cruising, at least the boat kind. I suppose I could still cruise the strip, but these days I’m a lot older, a little heavier (okay, a lot heavier), and drive a motor scooter. I doubt that balding, portly senior citizens on motor scooters turn heads today, at least not pretty young female heads. I’m okay with that; my pretty, young-at-heart wife still finds me worth a nod now and then.
I used to enjoy cruise ship cruising. It’s like taking several vacations rolled into one: visiting fascinating places and staying in classy hotels, but without the need to keep packing and unpacking or taking planes, or taking trains, or renting cars. The food is plentiful (too plentiful), delicious, and better yet, included in the price. The service is first rate, and the people are always friendly. Cruise ships boast a variety of restaurants, cafes, lounges, cabarets, and bars. Ther’re always activities and games, and often gambling. There’s definitely no shortage of things to do and stuff to buy. Unfortunately, these days there’s a shortage of money to do it, or buy it.
But even if the economy were a bit more encouraging, what with all the incidents of late, I might still be a little reluctant to go on a cruise. I’m sure Carnival’s “Splendor” brochures talk about late-night partying in one of the ship’s “hot spots.” I doubt that many passengers realized the whole ship would be the “hot spot” and the heat would be, literally, from a fire. I doubt that many passengers would consider being adrift at sea with little lighting, no air conditioning, and no hot food, a party.
One of cruising’s many pleasures is indulging at the midnight buffet, then returning, sated, to your cabin to be gently rocked up and down, back and forth, like a happy baby in a cradle to a restful sleep. Not so pleasurable perhaps, is when your cradle suddenly catapults you across the room. When Royal Caribbean’s “Brilliance of the Seas” became “Brilliance of the Very High Seas,” I suspect that happy babies, and passengers, were few and far between. I suspect they discovered that playing a pinball game is much more fun than being in one. I doubt that the few-hundred-dollar on-board credit offered by Royal Caribbean discouraged their displeasure, there being very little left on board to buy.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Hand-Me-Downs
I was born the second son of a second son of a second son. Unlike seventh sons of seventh sons of seventh sons, who are occasionally endowed with mysterious psychic powers, seconds of seconds of seconds are not so occasionally endowed with not so mysterious, not so psychic, hand-me-downs. Now I understand why seconds always get seconds. Firsts are growing fast, and “it doesn’t make any sense to throw away perfectly good clothes, or perfectly good shoes, or perfectly good toys, or perfectly good sports equipment.” But I don’t understand why a “perfectly good baseball glove” doesn’t remain “perfectly good” for son number one. I never quite bought into the “you don’t need to break this one in; I’m really doing you a favor taking the new one.” I also don’t understand why “perfectly good” girlfriends never got handed-down.
My folks were not wealthy; and except for food, for better or worse, they couldn’t really afford a lot of stuff, especially new stuff. We always ate well though, and if we seldom had steak or fresh fish, there was always lots of pasta with hamburger sauce, or hamburgers with fried potatoes, or meatloaf with mashed potatoes, or casseroles, or chop suey, or American chop suey (yes, pasta with hamburger sauce) or tuna pea wiggle with crackers. We occasionally had pot roast with boiled potatoes, or pork roast with red potatoes, and on rare occasion, cubed steak. Cubed steak, if case you’re fortunate enough not to know, is an un-chewable, inedible cut of beef that is cleverly sliced and diced in such as way as to turn it into a chewable, inedible cut of beef.
But getting back to stuff, vis-à-vis new stuff, it was a rare commodity. Christmases were somewhat an exception, and annual gifts of underwear and socks were nearly always brand new. Gifts of other clothes and toys were nearly never. I vividly remembering receiving the skis I had requested from Santa when I was about ten years old. Somehow Santa had managed to locate a pair of slightly used oak ski jumping skis that were about eight feet long, weighed about 20 pounds and were sans bindings. I’m not sure how I was supposed to attach them to the 20 pound Army surplus leather ski boots that accompanied them. Even at age 10, I knew enough not to show up at our local sledding hill with that package in tow.
When it wasn’t Christmas time, rummage sales (hand-me-down heaven) were the preferred shopping venue. My folks went to church religiously (pardon the pun) and regularly volunteered to run the regular rummage sales that were the mainstay of the never-ending fundraising campaign. The great thing about running the show (the rummage show, as it were) was that you got first dibs on all the good stuff, plus the added benefit of being able to take home anything left over that no one wanted (perhaps there was a hint there, but my folks never got it). I doubt if my mom ever bought a brand new dress, or if my dad ever bought a brand new suit. I know the only time I got a brand new suit was when nana came to town, flush after her recent divorce (her fourth), and took me shopping. I still remember with fondness my brand new burgundy blazer, my brand new azure blue dress shirt, my brand new forest green slacks, and my brand new white bucks with matching white leather belt.
Don’t get me wrong. Rummage sales often had some actual good stuff, at least for a boy of ten with a passion for gadgets and an inclination to collect things. At one rummage sale I scored a giant console radio/record player that got two AM radio stations and played 78 rpm records. It came with an extensive collection of classic records, which I wish I had today. At another, I scored an eight-millimeter movie camera, with all the bells and whistles, that almost took movies, and a state-of-the-art (at one time, at least) eight-millimeter projector that almost played them.
My folks were not wealthy; and except for food, for better or worse, they couldn’t really afford a lot of stuff, especially new stuff. We always ate well though, and if we seldom had steak or fresh fish, there was always lots of pasta with hamburger sauce, or hamburgers with fried potatoes, or meatloaf with mashed potatoes, or casseroles, or chop suey, or American chop suey (yes, pasta with hamburger sauce) or tuna pea wiggle with crackers. We occasionally had pot roast with boiled potatoes, or pork roast with red potatoes, and on rare occasion, cubed steak. Cubed steak, if case you’re fortunate enough not to know, is an un-chewable, inedible cut of beef that is cleverly sliced and diced in such as way as to turn it into a chewable, inedible cut of beef.
But getting back to stuff, vis-à-vis new stuff, it was a rare commodity. Christmases were somewhat an exception, and annual gifts of underwear and socks were nearly always brand new. Gifts of other clothes and toys were nearly never. I vividly remembering receiving the skis I had requested from Santa when I was about ten years old. Somehow Santa had managed to locate a pair of slightly used oak ski jumping skis that were about eight feet long, weighed about 20 pounds and were sans bindings. I’m not sure how I was supposed to attach them to the 20 pound Army surplus leather ski boots that accompanied them. Even at age 10, I knew enough not to show up at our local sledding hill with that package in tow.
When it wasn’t Christmas time, rummage sales (hand-me-down heaven) were the preferred shopping venue. My folks went to church religiously (pardon the pun) and regularly volunteered to run the regular rummage sales that were the mainstay of the never-ending fundraising campaign. The great thing about running the show (the rummage show, as it were) was that you got first dibs on all the good stuff, plus the added benefit of being able to take home anything left over that no one wanted (perhaps there was a hint there, but my folks never got it). I doubt if my mom ever bought a brand new dress, or if my dad ever bought a brand new suit. I know the only time I got a brand new suit was when nana came to town, flush after her recent divorce (her fourth), and took me shopping. I still remember with fondness my brand new burgundy blazer, my brand new azure blue dress shirt, my brand new forest green slacks, and my brand new white bucks with matching white leather belt.
Don’t get me wrong. Rummage sales often had some actual good stuff, at least for a boy of ten with a passion for gadgets and an inclination to collect things. At one rummage sale I scored a giant console radio/record player that got two AM radio stations and played 78 rpm records. It came with an extensive collection of classic records, which I wish I had today. At another, I scored an eight-millimeter movie camera, with all the bells and whistles, that almost took movies, and a state-of-the-art (at one time, at least) eight-millimeter projector that almost played them.
My Idea
I’ve always fancied myself somewhat of an inventor. I haven’t actually invented anything you might find on the street or in the stores but a lot of those things were, in fact, my idea.
You probably think some guy named McDonald invented the fast food burger franchise: not true. He wasn’t named McDonald; and anyway, I had the idea first. Near the town where I grew up there was a burger joint named “The Lure.” They offered hamburgers (I use the term loosely) for 15 cents, skinny French fries for 10 cents, and a wonderful concoction of artificial lemon flavored drink and artificial orange flavored drink they called The Blend, for a nickel. I wish I had a nickel for every time, and there were many, that I said, “They should build a bunch of these all over the country.” I learned later that there were actually several “The Lures” in our tri-state region, but they were not “each one independently owned and operated,” so I stand by my claim. Anyway, if Columbus can take credit for discovering America, I can take credit for burger franchises.
Intermittent windshield wipers were my idea. The wipers on my brothers first car, a vintage (meaning really old) VW beetle would only run for one cycle when first turned on. Consequently, they needed to be turned off and on for each wipe. I wish I had another nickel for every time that I said, “They should make them work this way automatically.” I know what you’re thinking, but this was way before Greg Kinear came along with his “Flash of Genius.” Just because I couldn’t afford to sue Ford and those other guys, doesn’t make my flash of genius unworthy of credit. Speaking of credit, what’s up with credit scores? But that’s another story.
Speaking of cars, seatbelts were my idea, actually one of my very first ideas. I got the idea after ending up on the floorboards of our Nash Rambler for the 15th or 16th time when my mother, a lovely lady but a lousy driver, would “stop short.” She would always stick out her arm to keep me seated, but too little and/or too late, it seldom worked. Much too young to apply for a patent, and lacking development funds for a prototype, I developed a solution I liked to refer to as the “wedge yourself in with feet against the dashboard child safety protocol.” Okay, I had no idea what a patent, or prototype, or protocol was, but if I had, I might have called it that.
I’ve had other ideas for which I deserved, but didn’t receive, the credit. You probably own at least, one “Roll Ease” or similar suitcase, with two wheels and a pull out handle, “for easy rolling around the airport.” That wasn’t my idea, but the “Easy Roll” toolbox, “for easy rolling around the job site,” was. In fact, there may not be such a toolbox yet, but believe me, there will be, especially now that I’ve given the idea away for free. You’ve probably used “Post It Notes.” My idea was for removable, without leaving a residue, note sheets called “Sticky Notes.”
And I’m sure you know of and regularly use “Velcro,” that wonderful passively adhesive product so handy in attaching all sorts of things to all sorts of other things. It is, in fact, on my short list of “all you really need to fix almost everything,” along with duct tape, WD40, cable ties (also my idea), and a hammer, but that’s yet another story. None-the-less, long before “Velcro” ever hit the shelves, the need had been recognized and the solution conceived. It was to be called “Sticky Stuff,” and yes it was, in fact, my idea.
You probably think some guy named McDonald invented the fast food burger franchise: not true. He wasn’t named McDonald; and anyway, I had the idea first. Near the town where I grew up there was a burger joint named “The Lure.” They offered hamburgers (I use the term loosely) for 15 cents, skinny French fries for 10 cents, and a wonderful concoction of artificial lemon flavored drink and artificial orange flavored drink they called The Blend, for a nickel. I wish I had a nickel for every time, and there were many, that I said, “They should build a bunch of these all over the country.” I learned later that there were actually several “The Lures” in our tri-state region, but they were not “each one independently owned and operated,” so I stand by my claim. Anyway, if Columbus can take credit for discovering America, I can take credit for burger franchises.
Intermittent windshield wipers were my idea. The wipers on my brothers first car, a vintage (meaning really old) VW beetle would only run for one cycle when first turned on. Consequently, they needed to be turned off and on for each wipe. I wish I had another nickel for every time that I said, “They should make them work this way automatically.” I know what you’re thinking, but this was way before Greg Kinear came along with his “Flash of Genius.” Just because I couldn’t afford to sue Ford and those other guys, doesn’t make my flash of genius unworthy of credit. Speaking of credit, what’s up with credit scores? But that’s another story.
Speaking of cars, seatbelts were my idea, actually one of my very first ideas. I got the idea after ending up on the floorboards of our Nash Rambler for the 15th or 16th time when my mother, a lovely lady but a lousy driver, would “stop short.” She would always stick out her arm to keep me seated, but too little and/or too late, it seldom worked. Much too young to apply for a patent, and lacking development funds for a prototype, I developed a solution I liked to refer to as the “wedge yourself in with feet against the dashboard child safety protocol.” Okay, I had no idea what a patent, or prototype, or protocol was, but if I had, I might have called it that.
I’ve had other ideas for which I deserved, but didn’t receive, the credit. You probably own at least, one “Roll Ease” or similar suitcase, with two wheels and a pull out handle, “for easy rolling around the airport.” That wasn’t my idea, but the “Easy Roll” toolbox, “for easy rolling around the job site,” was. In fact, there may not be such a toolbox yet, but believe me, there will be, especially now that I’ve given the idea away for free. You’ve probably used “Post It Notes.” My idea was for removable, without leaving a residue, note sheets called “Sticky Notes.”
And I’m sure you know of and regularly use “Velcro,” that wonderful passively adhesive product so handy in attaching all sorts of things to all sorts of other things. It is, in fact, on my short list of “all you really need to fix almost everything,” along with duct tape, WD40, cable ties (also my idea), and a hammer, but that’s yet another story. None-the-less, long before “Velcro” ever hit the shelves, the need had been recognized and the solution conceived. It was to be called “Sticky Stuff,” and yes it was, in fact, my idea.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Packaging
I remember when toothpaste came in a tube. It was made out of heavy-duty aluminum foil, and to get at the toothpaste you needed only to unscrew the cap and squeeze the tube. You could easily get enough to brush your teeth (a tiny dab), or enough to please the toothpaste company (a large glob). You could roll up the tube from the end, to save space and make sure you got every last glob, and you could leave off the cap, to save effort on the next use. Leaving off the cap guaranteed there would be a healthy glob sitting on the counter, ready and waiting to be brushed up for the next brushing.
Today toothpaste still comes in tubes, but also in aerosol cans, or in canisters with pumps, or in multi colors, or with stripes, or in pumps with multi colors and stripes. All these “improvements” reduce the amount of usable toothpaste in each container and, what a surprise, increase the cost. And the tubes, now always with non-removable caps, are no longer roll-up-able, recyclable aluminum having been abandoned for the far more environmentally friendly plastic. Of course, every container is available with a “tamper proof” (meaning nearly impossible to open) top. I didn’t realize that toothpaste was “tamper prone.” Perhaps I’m just not up to date on the staggering number of people who accidentally overdose on toothpaste every year.
“Blister Packaging” is a wonderful invention: at least it is for retailers, not so much for shoppers. In case you haven’t shopped in the last few years, a “blister package” is a large package that surrounds pretty much anything small enough to fit in your pocket. Based on the assumption that many, if not most, shoppers will steal anything pocket size or smaller, the “Blister Pack” is also “tamper proof” (I think I see a pattern developing here) and designed to be difficult to circumvent (meaning open). Usually clear (so you can clearly see what it is you can’t get to), it is also, usually, manufactured from plastic. Once home, the package can easily be circumvented (meaning opened) with a pair of industrial grade metal cutting shears. It you aren’t in possession of such, the packaging, though extremely tough, is usually not bulletproof. If you own a gun, however, you probably own industrial grade metal cutting shears, and I strongly urge you to use the shears, for obvious, I hope, reasons.
“Packing Peanuts,” manufactured from Styrofoam, a type of, you guessed it, plastic, is a package cushioning material so named because it originally resembled peanuts. Pretty much anything you order online (pretty much your only option if you live in Hawaii, but that’s another story) will arrive in a large box inside of which will reside a little box surrounded by “Packing Peanuts.” In the old days we used to bunch up old newspapers, which served the same purpose beautifully, but I guess online retailers don’t get the paper. Is it just me, or wouldn’t it make sense for someone to gather up the millions of old newspapers (old being a whole day old) and get them to the online retailers? They might even pay for the newspapers with the money they save from not buying “Packing Peanuts.”
What I find interesting is the fact that the item inside the little box will undoubtedly be surrounded by custom fitted Styrofoam body armor, designed to withstand any assault short of a nuclear explosion. And, just in case that is not sufficient, if the item is small enough to fit in your pocket, it will, of course, be “Blister Packaged.”
Today toothpaste still comes in tubes, but also in aerosol cans, or in canisters with pumps, or in multi colors, or with stripes, or in pumps with multi colors and stripes. All these “improvements” reduce the amount of usable toothpaste in each container and, what a surprise, increase the cost. And the tubes, now always with non-removable caps, are no longer roll-up-able, recyclable aluminum having been abandoned for the far more environmentally friendly plastic. Of course, every container is available with a “tamper proof” (meaning nearly impossible to open) top. I didn’t realize that toothpaste was “tamper prone.” Perhaps I’m just not up to date on the staggering number of people who accidentally overdose on toothpaste every year.
“Blister Packaging” is a wonderful invention: at least it is for retailers, not so much for shoppers. In case you haven’t shopped in the last few years, a “blister package” is a large package that surrounds pretty much anything small enough to fit in your pocket. Based on the assumption that many, if not most, shoppers will steal anything pocket size or smaller, the “Blister Pack” is also “tamper proof” (I think I see a pattern developing here) and designed to be difficult to circumvent (meaning open). Usually clear (so you can clearly see what it is you can’t get to), it is also, usually, manufactured from plastic. Once home, the package can easily be circumvented (meaning opened) with a pair of industrial grade metal cutting shears. It you aren’t in possession of such, the packaging, though extremely tough, is usually not bulletproof. If you own a gun, however, you probably own industrial grade metal cutting shears, and I strongly urge you to use the shears, for obvious, I hope, reasons.
“Packing Peanuts,” manufactured from Styrofoam, a type of, you guessed it, plastic, is a package cushioning material so named because it originally resembled peanuts. Pretty much anything you order online (pretty much your only option if you live in Hawaii, but that’s another story) will arrive in a large box inside of which will reside a little box surrounded by “Packing Peanuts.” In the old days we used to bunch up old newspapers, which served the same purpose beautifully, but I guess online retailers don’t get the paper. Is it just me, or wouldn’t it make sense for someone to gather up the millions of old newspapers (old being a whole day old) and get them to the online retailers? They might even pay for the newspapers with the money they save from not buying “Packing Peanuts.”
What I find interesting is the fact that the item inside the little box will undoubtedly be surrounded by custom fitted Styrofoam body armor, designed to withstand any assault short of a nuclear explosion. And, just in case that is not sufficient, if the item is small enough to fit in your pocket, it will, of course, be “Blister Packaged.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)