Let me apologize for the delay in posting comics. The July 4th Holiday and then a bit of home construction pushed back my schedule a bit.
Once you hear a more detail description of what I’ve been up to, I’m sure you’ll understand that certain events were out of my control, or more accurately, slipped out of my control.
A Small Update
My wife calls me a “small man with small measurements.”
This wonderful little nickname arose about twenty years ago during our drives we’d take in upstate New York. On each weekend we’d pick a different destination and take a shot as to how to get there. Since I didn’t own a GPS unit and smart phones weren’t invented yet, all I had to rely on was a well-worn Rand McNally map tucked inside the glove compartment.
Invariably though, during every one of these drives, my wife would require a bathroom stop, exactly when we were in the middle of nowhere.
I would try to ease her bathroom urgency by telling her that a rest stop was just a mile or so down the road.
It took her a few years to realize that I was speaking in terms of “a country mile,” which anyone who grew up in a rural setting knows that this means a distance ranging from 1 to 50 miles.
I guess it was about the 30th time that I used this ploy when Deb lost all patience with me.
“JESUS CHRIST! YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE THE NEXT GAS STATION OR REST STOP IS, DO YOU?” She screamed at me.
I calmy replied, “What? Like I said it’s just a mile or so up the road. We’re practically there! Look at the map in the glove box!”
I knew Deb, the perpetual New York City urbanite, couldn’t read a road map to save her life. This always bought me a few miles before she went nuclear on me. However this time, I guess the launch codes were plugged in and the piss missile was about to exit the silo.
She yelled, “GOD DAMMIT, FLYNN! YOU’RE A LIAR! YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE?
YOU’RE A SMALL MAN WITH SMALL MEASUREMENTS!
FIND ME A BATHROON NOW!”
With a command like that, a person becomes extra motivated to go full speed to the next available toilet.
Fast forward to today.
I may have waited some twenty odd years to prove her wrong about my measly measuring abilities, but alas, I did!
I waited until we owned our first home together to prove to her that my dimensional estimating abilities were above par. This fixer-upper we owned was purchased, partly because that’s all we could afford, and partly because I saw it as an opportunity to show my measuring prowess.
This was due to the fact that so many things needed repairs: Floors, Windows, Closets, Toilets, Walls, Ceilings and the Doors. To make matters worse, not a square angle or standard measure can be found anywhere in this hobby built hovel. From what I could tell the home was built in the 1940’s by a man who was crosseyed and only measured in cubits.
Despite all those negatives, this place was a perfect testing ground for me to dispel my wife’s opinion of my survey abilities.
Oh, I made a big show out of every project. Huffing and broadcasting my every move with a variety of tape measures, rulers, straight edges, snap lines, angles, and even a map compass if I needed it!
Loud exclamations of my exactitude in analyzing the distances between points A and points B were made with every cut.
I wielded a tape measure like a samurai sword. I was the shogun of Measuredom.
Then finally my coup de Grace came when we decided to replace the back doors on this house. They were moldy, old French doors that barely functioned. Every year required some kind of maintenance to keep out old man winter. Squirts of Caulk around the cracks. Weather stripping over weather stripping. The doors where looking more like the gates of Hell than anything even remotely designed by the French.
Finally a few months ago my wife lost patience with this abomination and decided to order a new door.
She wanted to also pay for the door’s install, but I convinced her that was wasted money. Since I had installed all the windows surely a door install was well within my capabilities.
And so the first thing before we ordered the door, I set about to measure the space for the new door.
As I went into the garage to get my trusty tape measure, I thought to myself that this project would once and for all truly would prove to her my measurement mastery!
I calculated out all the sizes need to replace these doors: The inner casing width and height, The outer molding width and height, and the overall depth of the door.
I wrote it all down, along with a diagram, on a 3”x 5” piece of paper, as if it was the tiniest of treasure maps. Once that was done, off we went to the local big box hardware store.
We approached a sales associate in the door department, who was a gentleman named Bob.
Bob was in was in his early 70s, and had all the friendly attitude of an old west bartender who’d just been insulted about the quality of his whiskey.
When I handed him my 3” x5” card, Bob had expressed, that for the sake of his eyesight, I should have been a wee less miserly with paper.
“Maybe next time write it all down on a postage stamp.” He said sarcastically.
So for the next twenty minutes, I helped him to decipher my arcane measurements until he understood enough to order the new door. It was a beautiful 38 inch wide door with spectacular glass panels that was paired with a matching sidelights on either side of the door.
It was a real dream…on paper at least.
Unfortunately on the day that the door arrived at our home, I saw my dreams turn into an outsized nightmare.
Apparently someone…I refused to acknowledge who…but I’ll blame Bob…had screwed up the measurements!
When Deb saw the door, her trust in me diminished.
Now in your mind image putting the Arc de Triumph as the entrance way on a small two bedroom ranch house, and that would be the relative size dimensions of how badly I overestimated the measurements on our new door.
On the plus side, I could no longer be accused of underestimating distances!
Instead of sending the door back and getting a proper size door, and have it installed by a trained professional, like any sane person would do, I chose to make the house fit the door.
I stood back I looked at the new door, then looked at the old door, then scratch my head, grabbed a crowbar and got to work.
With a healthy amount of American Can-do attitude, plus hours of YouTube surfing idiocy, I grabbed my trusty saws-all, assorted chisels, a hammer, plus a handful of dynamite and blasting caps, and dove into this home remodel.
Two days later I had a giant gaping hole in the side of my home.
There’s something liberating about creating a huge hole in one’s house. It really opens up the space in a tiny little shit box. I swore I could hear Frank Lloyd Wright whispering in my ear, “Who needs support walls when you have a great viewwwww.”
With the removal of every wooden stud and cutting back of brick face, I could feel my home value climb to being on par with those of Beverly Hills! Or was it more Beverly HillBillies? Hmm.
But I digress. Either way, The hole in the house was finally ready for its new splendiferous entrance.
It took a lot of struggle to put in place the new door. It was far too heavy even for my Ant-man like strength so I employed my good buddy Steve to help with the install.
You know you have a great friend when their help can be acquired for the price of a six pack of beer.
Steve and I managed and we got this door in place with only a few minor adjustments. But now that it’s done, it is glorious site to behold! Why if you didn’t know better you’d swear this door was one of the gates of Xanadu.
(Just don’t look at the house attached to the door.)
But please allow me to give you a sonic idea of the majesty that this new entrance imparts on my home.
Here let me open the door.
It sure brings a whole new elegance and grandeur to the place. It makes me feel like I’m living in the Taj Mahal, or Windsor Castle, or Valhalla or maybe even Castle Greyskull.
Although my wife is calling it Castle Numbskull.
Now that I think about it, the most useful tools I’ve used in every repair or install on this home has involved a hammer and chisels.
If there’s such a thing as “The Michelangelo School of Home Remodeling,” I should qualify for admission. I bet I probably would have fit right in making homes back in the fifteenth century.
At least, that is, until they burned me at the stake for being a heretic.
Thanks for Listening. I hope you enjoyed this podcast. I’ll be posting new comics in a couple days. Until then have a wonderful time.