It's times like this I'm glad I'm from Idaho.
I bleed ice and I crap snowballs.
For those of you who don't live in the greater Salt Lake area, we've recently been able to take part in several storms, each of which has left a layer of white on our fair town like greasy frosting heaped on a crappy grocery store cake.
Through a combination of geographic features, wind patterns and God's sense of humor, about half of this snow has ended up square in the middle of my driveway.
Which really I don't mind for the most part. Shoveling snow has pretty much always been a part of my life so I'm pretty used to it. It gives me a good chance to think about what I want to write (which apparently was about shoveling snow).
Plus it's a really good work out. I don't get much physical activity these days. Walking to to work, basic house maintenance and running up and down the stupid stairs looking for my glasses are pretty much the extent of it.
Throw shoveling pounds of wet snow into that equations and I'm getting freakin' buff. Between my recent return to playing Street Fighter more than sleeping and my newly discover biceps, I really want to punch something.
But then I realized that everyone around me has one of the three things I won't hit someone in possession of (glasses, boobs or the ability to fire me) or was in church and I don't fight in church anymore so I'm kinda out of luck.
Although I have been saying some very disparaging remarks about acappella singers hope to elicit some sort of a response. So far those harmonizing, panty-waists haven't have the crotch rocks to respond to my challenges.
Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, in my drive way up to my knees in god-snot.
Like I said, I've been clearing driveways since I wore Duck Tales underwear (or to be more accurate, started wearing Duck Tales underwear, since that's not a seven year span), so I've gotten pretty good at it.
Now if you had asked me a year ago if I was good at shoveling snow, I would have thought that my 5th grade teacher was wrong and that there was such and thing as a stupid question and you had just asked it.
I considered shoveling snow to be like breathing, or going to the bathroom or drawing swiss cheese, anyone could do it.
It turns out however, that there is a skill to shoveling your drive way, and yes, I'm really stinkin' good at it.
Because of the recent kidney stone in the housing market I've recently been able to move into a neighborhood way nicer than I really deserve. This new place is way different from anywhere I've lived in that no one has been shot yet and no one else actually shovels there own driveway.
Oh sure, their drive ways are clear of , but they didn't really earn it. They all cheated really, using snow blowers, or ATVs with plows on the front of them, or their kids.
I don't have any of theses luxuries.
All I have is a metal snow shovel, one glove, a back that could give out at any moment and the knowledge that I truly am more manly than anyone else on my freaking block.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a nice bubble bath waiting to soak my muscles.
Steve Shinney is also way better than his neighbors at other manly activities like growing beards, cooking meat with fire and killing bears with cricket bats. You can request any of these services in the comments section below.
Its a hardware thing todo
I'd like to say that the reason I haven't written more than “buy chicken” on the back of my hand is I've been too busy jumping my jet ski over a pit of flaming rhinos.
That, unfortunately, would be a lie.
In truth however, there are only two things that have been keeping me from writing like I should: I have a house, and I have Street Fighter.
The second of these has been a blast from the past the likes of which I have seen since found that box of action figures on my way to the fireworks stand. More on that later though.
The former however, has been a mixed blessing. I'm thrilled to have a place of my own. I'm very excited to be building equity (although I'm going to be honest here, I'm only exicited because I like to build things. It reminds me of Legos, I'm not ever sure what equity really is, but I'm stoked to build the crap out of some).
One the other hand, there are a lot of down sides to owning a home. Like the fact that I'm poor now. And that I'm pretty much committed to use the same shower for the next 20 years. Or if something around the house breaks or starts to smell bad, I have to fix it. I'm not used to having that kind of responsibility.
Back when I rented, if the toilet backed up, I could just move.
I made sure that was in all of my contracts.
There is however, for me at least, one advantage that resounds above these disadvantages.
I get to go the hardware store.
Soon after we bought our home, I became keenly aware that my current armory of tools would not be enough to keep up with the roughly 2000 things that needed fixing before I could go to bed.
I never thought I would see the day that a hammer, three screwdrivers, a roll of duct tape and a level wouldn't be enough to fix all my problems.
I was kind of a dummy until I got this place.
So I went to the store.
I love going to the hardware store. I always had. There's just something about the smell of wood dust, paint and testosterone that lingers in the air that I just love. Before becoming a home owner though, I never really had a reason to go.
Once in a while I'd need something real, like a nail, but normally my trips were to figure out what materials I'll need to get when I finally get around to making that robot.
But hardware stores are kind of different than others. In other stores, if I spend too long browsing through a section I have no business – such as ladies underwear (once again, for the robot) – the employees all ignore me completely,
Or they call the cops.
But at the hardware store, people would see me looking in awe at an propane tank I could totally use to make it shoot fire, and they would ask me if I needed help getting it into my cart.
So then I would be faced with having to explain that I really didn't need anything and just like looking a shiny piece of metal.
Now that I have a reason to go there, naturally there's no one around to freaking ask what I need and let me get on with my day.
OK, that's not true either, when I first walk in, I surrounded by more bright orange than you'll find at a hunter's camp. However, at this point, I'm still under the delusion that as a manly man, not only do I need help to hook up a gas dryer, but I don't even need help finding the parts.
I wandered around for about 10 minutes, mostly looking at shower heads and toilets (you should really check out this year's models by the way, amazing), before I can admit to myself that I am a moron and don't know the difference between the 47 rakes they have (although it doesn't matter, I don't need a rake) and another 10 convincing myself to admit it to one of the helpful guys in an apron as well.
By this time, the whole store is on break, and I'm reduced to wandering around like a four-year-old lost at the mall, only instead of crying out “Moooooooooom” I have to shout out “SpraaaaaayPaaaaaint”
I hope this equity thing is worth all this hassle.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is currently trying to finish his basement with Lincoln Logs. It's going well.
That, unfortunately, would be a lie.
In truth however, there are only two things that have been keeping me from writing like I should: I have a house, and I have Street Fighter.
The second of these has been a blast from the past the likes of which I have seen since found that box of action figures on my way to the fireworks stand. More on that later though.
The former however, has been a mixed blessing. I'm thrilled to have a place of my own. I'm very excited to be building equity (although I'm going to be honest here, I'm only exicited because I like to build things. It reminds me of Legos, I'm not ever sure what equity really is, but I'm stoked to build the crap out of some).
One the other hand, there are a lot of down sides to owning a home. Like the fact that I'm poor now. And that I'm pretty much committed to use the same shower for the next 20 years. Or if something around the house breaks or starts to smell bad, I have to fix it. I'm not used to having that kind of responsibility.
Back when I rented, if the toilet backed up, I could just move.
I made sure that was in all of my contracts.
There is however, for me at least, one advantage that resounds above these disadvantages.
I get to go the hardware store.
Soon after we bought our home, I became keenly aware that my current armory of tools would not be enough to keep up with the roughly 2000 things that needed fixing before I could go to bed.
I never thought I would see the day that a hammer, three screwdrivers, a roll of duct tape and a level wouldn't be enough to fix all my problems.
I was kind of a dummy until I got this place.
So I went to the store.
I love going to the hardware store. I always had. There's just something about the smell of wood dust, paint and testosterone that lingers in the air that I just love. Before becoming a home owner though, I never really had a reason to go.
Once in a while I'd need something real, like a nail, but normally my trips were to figure out what materials I'll need to get when I finally get around to making that robot.
But hardware stores are kind of different than others. In other stores, if I spend too long browsing through a section I have no business – such as ladies underwear (once again, for the robot) – the employees all ignore me completely,
Or they call the cops.
But at the hardware store, people would see me looking in awe at an propane tank I could totally use to make it shoot fire, and they would ask me if I needed help getting it into my cart.
So then I would be faced with having to explain that I really didn't need anything and just like looking a shiny piece of metal.
Now that I have a reason to go there, naturally there's no one around to freaking ask what I need and let me get on with my day.
OK, that's not true either, when I first walk in, I surrounded by more bright orange than you'll find at a hunter's camp. However, at this point, I'm still under the delusion that as a manly man, not only do I need help to hook up a gas dryer, but I don't even need help finding the parts.
I wandered around for about 10 minutes, mostly looking at shower heads and toilets (you should really check out this year's models by the way, amazing), before I can admit to myself that I am a moron and don't know the difference between the 47 rakes they have (although it doesn't matter, I don't need a rake) and another 10 convincing myself to admit it to one of the helpful guys in an apron as well.
By this time, the whole store is on break, and I'm reduced to wandering around like a four-year-old lost at the mall, only instead of crying out “Moooooooooom” I have to shout out “SpraaaaaayPaaaaaint”
I hope this equity thing is worth all this hassle.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is currently trying to finish his basement with Lincoln Logs. It's going well.
Vote for me, if you want to live
I love fall, I know it sounds morbid, but I just love it how all the plants shrivel and die around me while I get along just fine with a light jacket.
It makes me feel genetically superior.
Fall is also the time of year when the eggnog comes back to the stores, hockey starts up again and all those freakin' bees get what's coming to them and die lonely, freezing deaths.
It's pretty much perfect.
Every four years, however, my perfect season gets ruined like a wedding cake with a dove in it.
If you really need more of a setup than that to windge about the Presidential election, you really haven't been paying attention.
Now I don't mean to sound like I'm criticizing the whole system. I love democracy, but democracy comes from Greece and we American tend to screw up must things that we get from other countries.
I think our track record with “Mexican” food backs be up on this.
No where south of Arizona will you find anything like unto the Chalupa.
The problem is rather than being based on debate and compromise, our political system is basically a game of hot potato, only with media people instead of music and in place of a potato, drugs and hookers.
Either that or its a race to make the other party's candidate look like he steps on puppies for exercise.
If we're going to make it seem like one guy is good as Gandhi and the other guy is as evil Megatron (I was going to say Hitler but then according to to Godwin's Law, I'd have to stop writing) then we should skip this whole election crap and have them settle this as true good and true evil should: with a light saber fight.
Actually I'd just wait to see who pulls out a red one, and then vote for the other one.
It would save time so I could go watch the bloody-knuckles match to see who gets to be VP.
Another thing about this whole process that is really in need of a make over is the mascots. An elephant and a donkey? That's really the best we could come up with?
I still don't get why our two political parties chose these two animals. Why would anyone chose to associate politicians with the two dumbest, stubbornest, stinkiest animals who are good for nothing beyond carried heavy loads and making tons of cheap fertiliz–
Oh wait. Never mind, I just figured it out.
I've also never understood why people will say that their candidate is the because people in another country want them to win.
Maybe you've forgotten, but people from other countries are the last folks we should be listening to about who to put in charge of our country.
It's kind of like the other team telling you you should let the fat kid pitch in kickball. They say it's because they think it would be good experience for him but really they just want to see how many line drives they can bounce off his head while they run up the score.
For the most part, I think that most people in both parties (yes I am aware that there are more than two, but as part of the voting American public, I don't care) are good people who are honestly doing what they think is best.
The problem is the people around them are so greasy you could fry a chicken on them on a hot day.
These people are salesmen, and salesmen are the natural enemy of engineers. We're like camels and ducks.
The only thing more annoying than all the dickweeds out there trying to get me to vote are all the super dickweeds just trying to get me to vote at all. I'm going to go to set myself up
Voting may look like a multiple choice test, but you can't just go ABBACABA like you did on the SATs. That's how countries end up like France.
This is why the write in option is the only option makes any sense. Mario and Captian Kangaroo in '08.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is not running for office. If he were he'd run under the “No Soup for Monkey” platform and call the organization the Toga Party. Comments can and should be left below.
It makes me feel genetically superior.
Fall is also the time of year when the eggnog comes back to the stores, hockey starts up again and all those freakin' bees get what's coming to them and die lonely, freezing deaths.
It's pretty much perfect.
Every four years, however, my perfect season gets ruined like a wedding cake with a dove in it.
If you really need more of a setup than that to windge about the Presidential election, you really haven't been paying attention.
Now I don't mean to sound like I'm criticizing the whole system. I love democracy, but democracy comes from Greece and we American tend to screw up must things that we get from other countries.
I think our track record with “Mexican” food backs be up on this.
No where south of Arizona will you find anything like unto the Chalupa.
The problem is rather than being based on debate and compromise, our political system is basically a game of hot potato, only with media people instead of music and in place of a potato, drugs and hookers.
Either that or its a race to make the other party's candidate look like he steps on puppies for exercise.
If we're going to make it seem like one guy is good as Gandhi and the other guy is as evil Megatron (I was going to say Hitler but then according to to Godwin's Law, I'd have to stop writing) then we should skip this whole election crap and have them settle this as true good and true evil should: with a light saber fight.
Actually I'd just wait to see who pulls out a red one, and then vote for the other one.
It would save time so I could go watch the bloody-knuckles match to see who gets to be VP.
Another thing about this whole process that is really in need of a make over is the mascots. An elephant and a donkey? That's really the best we could come up with?
I still don't get why our two political parties chose these two animals. Why would anyone chose to associate politicians with the two dumbest, stubbornest, stinkiest animals who are good for nothing beyond carried heavy loads and making tons of cheap fertiliz–
Oh wait. Never mind, I just figured it out.
I've also never understood why people will say that their candidate is the because people in another country want them to win.
Maybe you've forgotten, but people from other countries are the last folks we should be listening to about who to put in charge of our country.
It's kind of like the other team telling you you should let the fat kid pitch in kickball. They say it's because they think it would be good experience for him but really they just want to see how many line drives they can bounce off his head while they run up the score.
For the most part, I think that most people in both parties (yes I am aware that there are more than two, but as part of the voting American public, I don't care) are good people who are honestly doing what they think is best.
The problem is the people around them are so greasy you could fry a chicken on them on a hot day.
These people are salesmen, and salesmen are the natural enemy of engineers. We're like camels and ducks.
The only thing more annoying than all the dickweeds out there trying to get me to vote are all the super dickweeds just trying to get me to vote at all. I'm going to go to set myself up
Voting may look like a multiple choice test, but you can't just go ABBACABA like you did on the SATs. That's how countries end up like France.
This is why the write in option is the only option makes any sense. Mario and Captian Kangaroo in '08.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is not running for office. If he were he'd run under the “No Soup for Monkey” platform and call the organization the Toga Party. Comments can and should be left below.
His mascot is better too.
I'm working on a column about how annoying this current election is and I came across this video, now I finally know who I'm voting for.
http://www.ea.com/redalert/factions-allies.jsp?id=PresidentAckerman
I can really get behind a President who's answer to the teen pregnancy problem is to punch Micheal Cera in the wiener.
http://www.ea.com/redalert/factions-allies.jsp?id=PresidentAckerman
I can really get behind a President who's answer to the teen pregnancy problem is to punch Micheal Cera in the wiener.
Steve Puts the Cry in Financial Crisis
I don't want to alarm you, but killer bees are no longer the biggest threat to this country.
It turns out we really are our own worst enemy. As a country, we've really screwed our own pooch so much we've turned a once proud and powerful free-enterprise system into the economical equivalent of falling on our keys.
On my own, I don't understand much of the current situation. When it comes to things financial – along with matters of basic hygiene, how I feel about people in our neighborhood and what I like to eat – I rely of my wife for information.
My wife is a brilliant woman and things like this are right up her alley. She's got a PhD in economics and she is always willing to teach me about the area of her expertise. Just the other night she told me all about supply and demand (apparently, it means that I have to supply whatever she demands).
Not to demean her accomplishments though, but it's not hard to look like a financial genius when standing next to me. I still have a ceramic Snoopy full of “just in case” pennies.
If not for her I would spend all my money on Mountain Dew and cheese.
From what she's told me, a lot of the problem stemmed from sub-prime mortgages which are mortgages that are given at a sub-prime rate, to sub-prime borrowers wearing sub-prime shoes.
Now, I may by new to this world of people who know that 401k is not just a whole lot of k, but even I could have told you this was going to lead to trouble. The name should have been everyone's first clue. I don't want sub-prime time TV. There's no way on earth I'd eat sub-prime beef. Why would I get a sub-prime loan?
And yet people did, at an alarming rate.
Speaking of alarming raters, the other problem with these loans was that many of them had an adjustable rate. “Adjustable” is an interesting word. Consumers look at the word “adjustable” and think, “hey, my pants are adjustable, the seat of my bicycle is adjustable, I like things that are adjustable. I want my loan to be adjustable too.”
The lenders on the other hand see the word and think “Hey, I bet we can use this to screw people up the back of their adjustable pants.”
And they did, rates shot up and – as was foretold by the name of the kind of loan – mortgage payments got “adjusted” much to the shock of many sub-prime borrowers who were under the impression that the bankers were going to be their friends.
Have you ever seen a movie where the bankers are a bunch of kindly old men looking for people to help with the wads of cash falling out of their pockets? No, you haven't, because in movies their always portrayed as a bunch of heartless, money-grubbing dillweeds.
Movies like this are natures way of warning us that bankers are, for the most part, heartless, money-grubbing dillweeds. The kind of guy who would kick a random stranger in the nards for $5.
The joke was on the money grubber this time. Not only did people not like the new much higher rates, they tried to pay off the difference with gummy bears.
Apparently if you're the kind of person that thinks a sup-prime anything is a good idea, there's also a high chance you consider your favorite candy to be legal tender.
The last straw in the camel breaking economy was when President Bush, because – according to reports – is a giant a-hole, took that little knob on his desk that says “economy” and cranking it all the way down passed “rocky” to “good crap we're boned.”
I hope this look at the economy and it's troubles has proven helpful. If you have any questions be sure to let me know. I'm putting together some helpful handouts to explain the whole thing with charts, graphs and a cartoon of the stock market waving it's genitals at everyone. I just need to find a Kinkos that will let me pay for printing with Swedish fish.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is doing what he can to weather the current financial situation by hiding under the covers and clinging to to his IRA while crying. Calming comments can be left below.
It turns out we really are our own worst enemy. As a country, we've really screwed our own pooch so much we've turned a once proud and powerful free-enterprise system into the economical equivalent of falling on our keys.
On my own, I don't understand much of the current situation. When it comes to things financial – along with matters of basic hygiene, how I feel about people in our neighborhood and what I like to eat – I rely of my wife for information.
My wife is a brilliant woman and things like this are right up her alley. She's got a PhD in economics and she is always willing to teach me about the area of her expertise. Just the other night she told me all about supply and demand (apparently, it means that I have to supply whatever she demands).
Not to demean her accomplishments though, but it's not hard to look like a financial genius when standing next to me. I still have a ceramic Snoopy full of “just in case” pennies.
If not for her I would spend all my money on Mountain Dew and cheese.
From what she's told me, a lot of the problem stemmed from sub-prime mortgages which are mortgages that are given at a sub-prime rate, to sub-prime borrowers wearing sub-prime shoes.
Now, I may by new to this world of people who know that 401k is not just a whole lot of k, but even I could have told you this was going to lead to trouble. The name should have been everyone's first clue. I don't want sub-prime time TV. There's no way on earth I'd eat sub-prime beef. Why would I get a sub-prime loan?
And yet people did, at an alarming rate.
Speaking of alarming raters, the other problem with these loans was that many of them had an adjustable rate. “Adjustable” is an interesting word. Consumers look at the word “adjustable” and think, “hey, my pants are adjustable, the seat of my bicycle is adjustable, I like things that are adjustable. I want my loan to be adjustable too.”
The lenders on the other hand see the word and think “Hey, I bet we can use this to screw people up the back of their adjustable pants.”
And they did, rates shot up and – as was foretold by the name of the kind of loan – mortgage payments got “adjusted” much to the shock of many sub-prime borrowers who were under the impression that the bankers were going to be their friends.
Have you ever seen a movie where the bankers are a bunch of kindly old men looking for people to help with the wads of cash falling out of their pockets? No, you haven't, because in movies their always portrayed as a bunch of heartless, money-grubbing dillweeds.
Movies like this are natures way of warning us that bankers are, for the most part, heartless, money-grubbing dillweeds. The kind of guy who would kick a random stranger in the nards for $5.
The joke was on the money grubber this time. Not only did people not like the new much higher rates, they tried to pay off the difference with gummy bears.
Apparently if you're the kind of person that thinks a sup-prime anything is a good idea, there's also a high chance you consider your favorite candy to be legal tender.
The last straw in the camel breaking economy was when President Bush, because – according to reports – is a giant a-hole, took that little knob on his desk that says “economy” and cranking it all the way down passed “rocky” to “good crap we're boned.”
I hope this look at the economy and it's troubles has proven helpful. If you have any questions be sure to let me know. I'm putting together some helpful handouts to explain the whole thing with charts, graphs and a cartoon of the stock market waving it's genitals at everyone. I just need to find a Kinkos that will let me pay for printing with Swedish fish.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is doing what he can to weather the current financial situation by hiding under the covers and clinging to to his IRA while crying. Calming comments can be left below.
Home is where you spend your money
After much deliberation and several near-marriage-ending fights, it's done. My wife and I have made an offer on a home.
My wife is thrilled about having a place to raise our family and all the equity we'll be having (or making, or whatever verb you do to equity). I'm just glad I don't have to go house hunting anymore. I was really bad at it.
It's hard to look at an empty house and imagine it as the home you would turn it into. You find yourself thinking things like “yeah, that's a nice banister, but what would it look like with my underwear drying on it?”
Fortunately you have a realtor with you at all times, so these trains of thought never lead to anything that would end up in the papers.
I don't think house shopping should be this way. With other large purchases, such as a car, you're allowed to try doing what you will be doing with the car. You drive it.
I don't think a 20 minute tour, 17 of those minutes being spent talking about school districts, is enough time to know if you will actually like living in a place. I think I should be able to move in for a few days. Give the place a bit of a test-live. It makes sense.
Of course I think I should be allowed to lick any cake I'm considering buying.
This is because I'm not the kind of person who makes life decisions quickly. I dated my wife for two years before we got married. It took me months to decide which college I wanted to go to. But I decided which building I'm going to spend the majority of my life in less than an hour because some one else was looking at it and because my realtor said I could have pie.
I'm too scared to poop now.
There are just too many unknowns.
Things I don't know about this house that scare me:
Is it haunted?
The house is going inspected for structural integrity, various pests and mold. It will not be checked for ghosts. Let me tell you something, if I wake up to get a drink and find myself face to face with the spectral remains of a young lady, hacked to pieces on her wedding night, I'm not going to be too concerned with mold.
What birds hang out in the back yard?
And at what times? While, I love doves and quail visiting in the evenings, I am not a fan of squawking, pooping alarm clocks (this is why I don't have kids). I'm also concerned I don't know the neighborhood outlook on BB guns.
How does it smell in the rain?
We've all been in a house at one point that smells a bit like an old person on soggy days? I don't want to be the house in the neighborhood that everyone checks the forecast before they visit.
Is it haunted?
I'm serious, it really bothers me that I don't know this. If this house is on a Native burial ground, I'm going to be so pissed.
How are the neighbors?
Are the nice? Are they douche bags? Are they robots? Are they robotic douche bags? I know none of these things. The only living being in the area that I've actually met was someones dog who appeared out of no where to smell my wife (I can't blame him, she smells excellent).
I tried Googling all these things, but all the links were to Wikipedia (which I still don't trust ever since the Golden Girls incident). I guess I'll just have to suck it up though. Sometimes a man has to Kirk it up and live where he hasn't lived before. I think I can do this. I think I can make it work.
Unless there are ghosts. Then I will cross those streams so fast, it'll make your head spin.
Steve Shinney is so concerned because his house was built in the 60s. Do you have any idea how many people can die in a house in almost 50 years. A lot, that's how many. Comments and recommendations of a good paranormal investigator are welcome.
My wife is thrilled about having a place to raise our family and all the equity we'll be having (or making, or whatever verb you do to equity). I'm just glad I don't have to go house hunting anymore. I was really bad at it.
It's hard to look at an empty house and imagine it as the home you would turn it into. You find yourself thinking things like “yeah, that's a nice banister, but what would it look like with my underwear drying on it?”
Fortunately you have a realtor with you at all times, so these trains of thought never lead to anything that would end up in the papers.
I don't think house shopping should be this way. With other large purchases, such as a car, you're allowed to try doing what you will be doing with the car. You drive it.
I don't think a 20 minute tour, 17 of those minutes being spent talking about school districts, is enough time to know if you will actually like living in a place. I think I should be able to move in for a few days. Give the place a bit of a test-live. It makes sense.
Of course I think I should be allowed to lick any cake I'm considering buying.
This is because I'm not the kind of person who makes life decisions quickly. I dated my wife for two years before we got married. It took me months to decide which college I wanted to go to. But I decided which building I'm going to spend the majority of my life in less than an hour because some one else was looking at it and because my realtor said I could have pie.
I'm too scared to poop now.
There are just too many unknowns.
Things I don't know about this house that scare me:
Is it haunted?
The house is going inspected for structural integrity, various pests and mold. It will not be checked for ghosts. Let me tell you something, if I wake up to get a drink and find myself face to face with the spectral remains of a young lady, hacked to pieces on her wedding night, I'm not going to be too concerned with mold.
What birds hang out in the back yard?
And at what times? While, I love doves and quail visiting in the evenings, I am not a fan of squawking, pooping alarm clocks (this is why I don't have kids). I'm also concerned I don't know the neighborhood outlook on BB guns.
How does it smell in the rain?
We've all been in a house at one point that smells a bit like an old person on soggy days? I don't want to be the house in the neighborhood that everyone checks the forecast before they visit.
Is it haunted?
I'm serious, it really bothers me that I don't know this. If this house is on a Native burial ground, I'm going to be so pissed.
How are the neighbors?
Are the nice? Are they douche bags? Are they robots? Are they robotic douche bags? I know none of these things. The only living being in the area that I've actually met was someones dog who appeared out of no where to smell my wife (I can't blame him, she smells excellent).
I tried Googling all these things, but all the links were to Wikipedia (which I still don't trust ever since the Golden Girls incident). I guess I'll just have to suck it up though. Sometimes a man has to Kirk it up and live where he hasn't lived before. I think I can do this. I think I can make it work.
Unless there are ghosts. Then I will cross those streams so fast, it'll make your head spin.
Steve Shinney is so concerned because his house was built in the 60s. Do you have any idea how many people can die in a house in almost 50 years. A lot, that's how many. Comments and recommendations of a good paranormal investigator are welcome.
The strange this is, I kinda miss the little guy
If you ever have to look down to remind yourself that you haven't been stabbed in the stomach, your day is off to a bad start.
This was the situation I found myself in the other day. I even left work early so I could be miserable in only one way at a time.
I took a shower, hot water normally eases whatever pain I'm feeling, but this time it just made it a wetter kind of pain.
I considered putting clothes on for a minute, but the thought of bending down to pick them up from their place on the floor made my stomach cry out in anguish.
And so I laid there, bare-bum naked, waiting for the alien larvae to burst from my stomach and end my pain forever.
It really sucks, when all you want in the world is just to curl up into the fetal position and cry, but said curling really really hurts.
Finally I decided that that searing pain in my stomach might be something I should talk to a medical professional about.
I'd been manly for almost 9 hours. I'd filled my quota.
My lovely wife drove me to the nearest insta-care facility where I was over whelmed by how misinforming that name was. There was nothing insta about the care I received.
What they should call it is an insta-pay or an insta-wait or an insta-fill out these forms, because those are the only things I did within the first 20 minutes.
Not that I mind. There were plenty of other people there in need of care at any speed. Some of whom were in more pain than I, and other who were just better at selling it.
As I sat there I tried to distract myself by reading a Newsweek the humor columnist in me is required to say was from the Regan era but was really from March.
I had to distract myself because now the pain was so pain that I wanted to puke. It was like someone had put a donkey in my stomach and it was trying to kick its way out.
As a former janitor, I've found that I have secret agent-like awareness in potentially dangerous situations. Only instead of always knowing how to escape and constantly figuring out how to disable any one in the room who may be a threat, whenever I feel sick I'm constantly scanning the room for the best way to blow chunks so that no one has to clean it up.
Ok, it's 4 and one half steps to the garbage can in the corner, but if that kid playing with the blocks stands up, I won't be able to hurdle him, so I'll go left instead, where it just five and one third steps to the large, potted plant.
It's not as cool I know, but I would argue that it's just as heroic.
Finally I got to see the doctor. By which I of course mean a nurse.
She was very nice though, and did a good job taking my vitals and gathering some basic information. Then she took me to an small room, gave me a paper dress, told me to strip to the waist and that the doctor would be with me shortly.
When I got to see a doctor. He listened to my stomach with a stethoscope – which really makes me think they just really like to use those things for everything they can – and poked my belly like I was a beloved mascot for a bake goods corporation.
I don't know how effective the listening was, unless he actually heard something burst, but the poking was very effective in making it very clear that I was really in pain.
Apparently stethoscopes and fingers were the whole extant of medical equipment this particular insta-care had at their disposal, because that was all they did. The doctor said that he couldn't rule out appendicitis and that I should probably get to emergency room.
I was about to say that wouldn't be necessary but he poked me again in the stomach and I saw the prudence of listening to a medical professionals advice.
So my wife helped me stagger to the car and drove me to the hospital. The insta-care gave us very good directions that helped us find the hospital with no problem. They were not however as clear on how to get to the actual emergency room. We had to drive around the whole building twice, cross a bridge guarded by a troll and speak the elvish word for friend before we were finally allowed to enter.
The emergency room was another place that didn't meet the expectations I had from it's name. I don't know it it was because people had planned their emergencies better than I had or if it was always this way but it didn't look to me any busier or more stressed than a normal doctors office.
There were even toys for kids to play with. In my mind the only thing kids had to play with and the emergency room were severed fingers they found on the floor.
So I calmly wrote my name on a sheet of paper and sat down to patiently wait for the receptionist or God to call my name. Whoever spoke up first.
The first medical professional that I dealt with was a male nurse. He really struck me as more of an gatherer of information than a healer of wounds. He asked me a lot of questions about my past medical history, any similar trips to the hospital, how I had paid for those and how I was planning on paying for this one.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, in a voice that made it pretty clear that whatever my problem was, it had better be pretty good because he had probably seen people die already today.
I tried to come up with the most manly way to explain the situation but all I could up with was, “My tummy hurts.”
He then took my vitals which consisted of taking my blood pressure, checking my temperature and sticking a thing on my figure for some reason. I think I had something to do with oxygen.
This was the first of many vitals takings during my time at the hospital. That seems to be how doctors and nurses greet people. They say their name and the stick their hand out, but when you go to shake it, BOOM, they've slapped that cuff on you and are squeezing for all they're worth.
The next person I saw was an EMT. The EMT's part in this whole process was basically to stick a big, all purpose needle in me that later nurses and doctors could use to put in and take out various fluids.
I wasn't too worried when he explained this. I've given blood plenty of times, but this time it was different. Apparently if you've got a donkey in your stomach, needles just provoke him.
In the EMT's words, I suddenly lost a lot of color. This is a big deal for me because I don't have a lot of color to go around. I can't afford to lose any.
At that exact moment, however, I had bigger concerns than the current state of my complexion. The exact location of my blood, and my sudden need to fall down for example.
The EMT had me lay down and hooked me up to an IV to help me regain some fluids. I instantly fell in love with this new method of taking in fluids. I think the only way it could be more effective would be if they pumped the water directly into my bladder.
In between trips to get rid of some of the IV solution, they gave me a CAT scan. They stuck my lower half into the large machine that reminded me of a really high tech, but really crappy water slide.
After dipping me a couple times, the thing whirred and beeped for a bit and delivered it verdict that I was perfectly fine.
I think it was hoping they would send me home and I would die and then the robot uprising could take place.
No such luck this day Mr. Roboto. The technician was able to catch on the ruse, run the test again and sure enough, my appendix had taken the commuter rail all the way to inflamedville.
I considered this a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it pretty lucky when you think about it to have the one organ that craps out early be on I totally don't use. On the other hand, I always considered my appendix to be one of my finer features.
The surgeon came a explained what appendicitis was and would happen during the operation. He was very personable and dig a good job explaining things, but really all I heard from him was “You're in a lot a pain right now.”
I do remember that he spent a lot of time going over what would happen in the “worst case scenario.”
“Mr. Shinney, I want you to be fully aware that, 'worse case scenario' you could be full of giant spider eggs. It's not very common. Only one person out of 500 has it. I just think you should know.”
I understand the importance of making sure the patient has all the information, but I think he should also give equal opportunity to the “best case.”
“Mr. Shinney I think you should also be aware that when we open you up, there's a 4 and one half percent chance all this pain was cause by a small golden monkey. If that's the case you'll get to keep the monkey.”
He also gave me a paper to sign saying that he had explained all the options available to me. This was pretty easy for him. Apparently my options were I could let him poke around in my stomach with a camera, a pair of scissors and a stapler, or I could go home and die a slow and painful death.
On the TV in my little room, the Yankees had just beaten the Red Sox, so I figured I had something to live for, so I went with the first one.
We had to wait about an hour for an operating room to be available. It was a quite time of introspection. I looked back on my life, on what I had done and what I still hoped to do. I prayed for comfort and strength. I told my wife I loved her.
I made up my mind who I would haunt if the doctor sneezed.
When they came in to tell me the room was ready for me I was a little bit sad to say goodbye to my little corner of the emergency room. It had a bed, a TV and a bathroom all within 20 feet of each other. It was nicer than many apartments I've lived in.
I was also sad because everyone in the emergency room was really nice to me. I'd like to think that it was because of my charming personality and my up-beat attitude.
It truth I think it was just because I didn't bleed or barf on any of them.
They helped me onto one of those hospital beds on wheels that are officially called gurneys but when you're strapped into one, you just think of it as a “transport to a scary place.” The wheeled me into the operating room where I was introduced to my anesthesiologist and much more importantly, to my anesthesia.
I don't remember any of what happened next. Considering that it involved people cutting, probing and shaving all different parts of my body, I would say this was probably a good thing.
Even with all the kindnesses I was shown during my stay in the hospital, including saving my life, the one I was most grateful for was that they waited until I was completely under to lift my gown and expose my junk to anything medical.
I think this is the way it should always be.
During the next hour or so, my appendix was removed. I don't know what else happened in that time. I'm still hoping they did some sort of experimental treatment that will someday result in my being able to fly, shoot lasers out of my eyes or at least figure out my gas mileage in my head, but so far, no luck.
After I was all sew, taped and stapled back together, I was wheeled into the room in which I was to recover. I'm normally not very interested in interior decorating, but for some reason, I found myself very impressed with the curtains.
I was moved into a less movable – and therefore less scary – bed and hooked up to multitude of machines, none of which were explained to me and told to have a good night. On the way out the nurse said offhandedly “Oh, if you need it, there's a urinal next to your bed.”
This was the meanest thing to happen to me during my stay, and that includes all the poking.
Now I know that the average woman does not spend a lot of time in the men's room. This is kind of the idea behind the whole system. But really women, it is very important that you know what is and what is not a urinal.
Because if you tell a heavily drugged, post-op patient that there is a urinal beside his bed, in his current state of mind he will assume there is a real, porcelain-on-the-wall urinal somewhere to his left. When he wakes up and finds that there's nothing but a pee-bottle, he's gonna be more than a little disappointed.
This pee-in-a-bottle system is so that the nurses can keep track of how much you're producing, and so that the rest of us can be glad we're not nurses.
At first I was glad to have the bottle. I was in no mood to stand up and go anywhere to go. The thought of being able to pee as I was struck me as ultimate luxury.
The problem was that ever since I was four years old, I've been practice NOT peeing while in bed. Over the years, I've gotten really good at it.
This expertise came back to haunt me as I was unable to fill the bottle while lying down and I had to stand up, like a common slob, and do things the old fashioned way.
But as soon as I was able to stand and do my deed, for the first time in my life I experienced peeing after having a catheter recently removed.
I'm not going to bore/disgust you with the details. I'll just say it felt like I had a bad sunburn on the inside and leave it at that.
Bodily functions aside, my first night was a long dark and scary one. I was still in a lot of pain, under the influence of some pretty heavy duty chemicals and one of machines I was plugged into started beeping.
I didn't know what the beeping meant or what caused it, but I did know that whenever you go to a hospital, they hook you up to at least one machine so important that if the plug gets pulled out, you get three warning beeps and then you die.
Fortunately, my beeps were from some other machine.
The rest of my time in the hospital was spend laying in bed, watching TV and drinking juice. If it weren't for the butt-clenching pain and the huge bills, it would have been the best vacation I've had in a long time.
So that's my big medical story. It's not that big of a deal I know. Plenty of people have had worse than me. And yes, I do include all mothers in that group.
I don't know how painful child birth is. All I know is I'm going to wait until I pass a kidney stone while on fire before I try to compare it with anything I've gone through.
I don't want to go back to the hospital.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is now minus one minor organ. He's recovering well but will probably never be able to help you move in the future. He is sorry for the inconvenience.
Sorry this was so long in coming, expect a return to regular posting.
This was the situation I found myself in the other day. I even left work early so I could be miserable in only one way at a time.
I took a shower, hot water normally eases whatever pain I'm feeling, but this time it just made it a wetter kind of pain.
I considered putting clothes on for a minute, but the thought of bending down to pick them up from their place on the floor made my stomach cry out in anguish.
And so I laid there, bare-bum naked, waiting for the alien larvae to burst from my stomach and end my pain forever.
It really sucks, when all you want in the world is just to curl up into the fetal position and cry, but said curling really really hurts.
Finally I decided that that searing pain in my stomach might be something I should talk to a medical professional about.
I'd been manly for almost 9 hours. I'd filled my quota.
My lovely wife drove me to the nearest insta-care facility where I was over whelmed by how misinforming that name was. There was nothing insta about the care I received.
What they should call it is an insta-pay or an insta-wait or an insta-fill out these forms, because those are the only things I did within the first 20 minutes.
Not that I mind. There were plenty of other people there in need of care at any speed. Some of whom were in more pain than I, and other who were just better at selling it.
As I sat there I tried to distract myself by reading a Newsweek the humor columnist in me is required to say was from the Regan era but was really from March.
I had to distract myself because now the pain was so pain that I wanted to puke. It was like someone had put a donkey in my stomach and it was trying to kick its way out.
As a former janitor, I've found that I have secret agent-like awareness in potentially dangerous situations. Only instead of always knowing how to escape and constantly figuring out how to disable any one in the room who may be a threat, whenever I feel sick I'm constantly scanning the room for the best way to blow chunks so that no one has to clean it up.
Ok, it's 4 and one half steps to the garbage can in the corner, but if that kid playing with the blocks stands up, I won't be able to hurdle him, so I'll go left instead, where it just five and one third steps to the large, potted plant.
It's not as cool I know, but I would argue that it's just as heroic.
Finally I got to see the doctor. By which I of course mean a nurse.
She was very nice though, and did a good job taking my vitals and gathering some basic information. Then she took me to an small room, gave me a paper dress, told me to strip to the waist and that the doctor would be with me shortly.
When I got to see a doctor. He listened to my stomach with a stethoscope – which really makes me think they just really like to use those things for everything they can – and poked my belly like I was a beloved mascot for a bake goods corporation.
I don't know how effective the listening was, unless he actually heard something burst, but the poking was very effective in making it very clear that I was really in pain.
Apparently stethoscopes and fingers were the whole extant of medical equipment this particular insta-care had at their disposal, because that was all they did. The doctor said that he couldn't rule out appendicitis and that I should probably get to emergency room.
I was about to say that wouldn't be necessary but he poked me again in the stomach and I saw the prudence of listening to a medical professionals advice.
So my wife helped me stagger to the car and drove me to the hospital. The insta-care gave us very good directions that helped us find the hospital with no problem. They were not however as clear on how to get to the actual emergency room. We had to drive around the whole building twice, cross a bridge guarded by a troll and speak the elvish word for friend before we were finally allowed to enter.
The emergency room was another place that didn't meet the expectations I had from it's name. I don't know it it was because people had planned their emergencies better than I had or if it was always this way but it didn't look to me any busier or more stressed than a normal doctors office.
There were even toys for kids to play with. In my mind the only thing kids had to play with and the emergency room were severed fingers they found on the floor.
So I calmly wrote my name on a sheet of paper and sat down to patiently wait for the receptionist or God to call my name. Whoever spoke up first.
The first medical professional that I dealt with was a male nurse. He really struck me as more of an gatherer of information than a healer of wounds. He asked me a lot of questions about my past medical history, any similar trips to the hospital, how I had paid for those and how I was planning on paying for this one.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked, in a voice that made it pretty clear that whatever my problem was, it had better be pretty good because he had probably seen people die already today.
I tried to come up with the most manly way to explain the situation but all I could up with was, “My tummy hurts.”
He then took my vitals which consisted of taking my blood pressure, checking my temperature and sticking a thing on my figure for some reason. I think I had something to do with oxygen.
This was the first of many vitals takings during my time at the hospital. That seems to be how doctors and nurses greet people. They say their name and the stick their hand out, but when you go to shake it, BOOM, they've slapped that cuff on you and are squeezing for all they're worth.
The next person I saw was an EMT. The EMT's part in this whole process was basically to stick a big, all purpose needle in me that later nurses and doctors could use to put in and take out various fluids.
I wasn't too worried when he explained this. I've given blood plenty of times, but this time it was different. Apparently if you've got a donkey in your stomach, needles just provoke him.
In the EMT's words, I suddenly lost a lot of color. This is a big deal for me because I don't have a lot of color to go around. I can't afford to lose any.
At that exact moment, however, I had bigger concerns than the current state of my complexion. The exact location of my blood, and my sudden need to fall down for example.
The EMT had me lay down and hooked me up to an IV to help me regain some fluids. I instantly fell in love with this new method of taking in fluids. I think the only way it could be more effective would be if they pumped the water directly into my bladder.
In between trips to get rid of some of the IV solution, they gave me a CAT scan. They stuck my lower half into the large machine that reminded me of a really high tech, but really crappy water slide.
After dipping me a couple times, the thing whirred and beeped for a bit and delivered it verdict that I was perfectly fine.
I think it was hoping they would send me home and I would die and then the robot uprising could take place.
No such luck this day Mr. Roboto. The technician was able to catch on the ruse, run the test again and sure enough, my appendix had taken the commuter rail all the way to inflamedville.
I considered this a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it pretty lucky when you think about it to have the one organ that craps out early be on I totally don't use. On the other hand, I always considered my appendix to be one of my finer features.
The surgeon came a explained what appendicitis was and would happen during the operation. He was very personable and dig a good job explaining things, but really all I heard from him was “You're in a lot a pain right now.”
I do remember that he spent a lot of time going over what would happen in the “worst case scenario.”
“Mr. Shinney, I want you to be fully aware that, 'worse case scenario' you could be full of giant spider eggs. It's not very common. Only one person out of 500 has it. I just think you should know.”
I understand the importance of making sure the patient has all the information, but I think he should also give equal opportunity to the “best case.”
“Mr. Shinney I think you should also be aware that when we open you up, there's a 4 and one half percent chance all this pain was cause by a small golden monkey. If that's the case you'll get to keep the monkey.”
He also gave me a paper to sign saying that he had explained all the options available to me. This was pretty easy for him. Apparently my options were I could let him poke around in my stomach with a camera, a pair of scissors and a stapler, or I could go home and die a slow and painful death.
On the TV in my little room, the Yankees had just beaten the Red Sox, so I figured I had something to live for, so I went with the first one.
We had to wait about an hour for an operating room to be available. It was a quite time of introspection. I looked back on my life, on what I had done and what I still hoped to do. I prayed for comfort and strength. I told my wife I loved her.
I made up my mind who I would haunt if the doctor sneezed.
When they came in to tell me the room was ready for me I was a little bit sad to say goodbye to my little corner of the emergency room. It had a bed, a TV and a bathroom all within 20 feet of each other. It was nicer than many apartments I've lived in.
I was also sad because everyone in the emergency room was really nice to me. I'd like to think that it was because of my charming personality and my up-beat attitude.
It truth I think it was just because I didn't bleed or barf on any of them.
They helped me onto one of those hospital beds on wheels that are officially called gurneys but when you're strapped into one, you just think of it as a “transport to a scary place.” The wheeled me into the operating room where I was introduced to my anesthesiologist and much more importantly, to my anesthesia.
I don't remember any of what happened next. Considering that it involved people cutting, probing and shaving all different parts of my body, I would say this was probably a good thing.
Even with all the kindnesses I was shown during my stay in the hospital, including saving my life, the one I was most grateful for was that they waited until I was completely under to lift my gown and expose my junk to anything medical.
I think this is the way it should always be.
During the next hour or so, my appendix was removed. I don't know what else happened in that time. I'm still hoping they did some sort of experimental treatment that will someday result in my being able to fly, shoot lasers out of my eyes or at least figure out my gas mileage in my head, but so far, no luck.
After I was all sew, taped and stapled back together, I was wheeled into the room in which I was to recover. I'm normally not very interested in interior decorating, but for some reason, I found myself very impressed with the curtains.
I was moved into a less movable – and therefore less scary – bed and hooked up to multitude of machines, none of which were explained to me and told to have a good night. On the way out the nurse said offhandedly “Oh, if you need it, there's a urinal next to your bed.”
This was the meanest thing to happen to me during my stay, and that includes all the poking.
Now I know that the average woman does not spend a lot of time in the men's room. This is kind of the idea behind the whole system. But really women, it is very important that you know what is and what is not a urinal.
Because if you tell a heavily drugged, post-op patient that there is a urinal beside his bed, in his current state of mind he will assume there is a real, porcelain-on-the-wall urinal somewhere to his left. When he wakes up and finds that there's nothing but a pee-bottle, he's gonna be more than a little disappointed.
This pee-in-a-bottle system is so that the nurses can keep track of how much you're producing, and so that the rest of us can be glad we're not nurses.
At first I was glad to have the bottle. I was in no mood to stand up and go anywhere to go. The thought of being able to pee as I was struck me as ultimate luxury.
The problem was that ever since I was four years old, I've been practice NOT peeing while in bed. Over the years, I've gotten really good at it.
This expertise came back to haunt me as I was unable to fill the bottle while lying down and I had to stand up, like a common slob, and do things the old fashioned way.
But as soon as I was able to stand and do my deed, for the first time in my life I experienced peeing after having a catheter recently removed.
I'm not going to bore/disgust you with the details. I'll just say it felt like I had a bad sunburn on the inside and leave it at that.
Bodily functions aside, my first night was a long dark and scary one. I was still in a lot of pain, under the influence of some pretty heavy duty chemicals and one of machines I was plugged into started beeping.
I didn't know what the beeping meant or what caused it, but I did know that whenever you go to a hospital, they hook you up to at least one machine so important that if the plug gets pulled out, you get three warning beeps and then you die.
Fortunately, my beeps were from some other machine.
The rest of my time in the hospital was spend laying in bed, watching TV and drinking juice. If it weren't for the butt-clenching pain and the huge bills, it would have been the best vacation I've had in a long time.
So that's my big medical story. It's not that big of a deal I know. Plenty of people have had worse than me. And yes, I do include all mothers in that group.
I don't know how painful child birth is. All I know is I'm going to wait until I pass a kidney stone while on fire before I try to compare it with anything I've gone through.
I don't want to go back to the hospital.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is now minus one minor organ. He's recovering well but will probably never be able to help you move in the future. He is sorry for the inconvenience.
Sorry this was so long in coming, expect a return to regular posting.
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