AAFDA the answer to Gremlin Days

Ever have one of those days when nothing seems to go right, when even the simplest task seems insurmountable and every little speed bump looks like Kilimanjaro?

Sure you have. Everyone has days like that. Days when the hammer hits the thumb more often than the nail, when the snow starts to fall as you pull into the golf course parking lot, when the last $60-off iPod is sold seconds before you arrive at the big box store.

Over the years—owing in part to the fact I seem to have more “gremlin” days than most folks—I’ve developed a system for dealing with them, a five-stage process I call AAFDA (Annoyance, Aggravation, Frustration, Disbelief, Acceptance).

Last Friday was an AAFDA day. It went like this:

STAGE ONE: Annoyance—The drive to my weekend job (marine biologist) took about an hour. As I was arriving at the job site, all the electrical systems in my usually reliable truck went kablooey. Pulling into the job site parking lot, the engine died as well. I turned the key, but nothin’. No click-click, no vroom-vroom, no grinding noises.

Nevertheless, work waited. I opted to deal with the problem when the evening’s job (cataloging Organ Pipe corals off the shores of Papua, New Guinea) was finished.

STAGE TWO: Aggravation—Ten minutes into the job (see coral thing, above) a key piece of equipment broke, an 18-inch subwoofer that costs about $200 to fix. My pay for Friday’s job was $150, leaving me $50 in the hole. (Why I need an 18-inch subwoofer to catalog coral is difficult to explain; just run with me on this one.)

STAGE THREE: Frustration—We finished up around 2 a.m. and, along with a couple co-workers who know something about cars, we investigated the dark recesses beneath my pickup’s hood. It was raining, of course. No car has ever broken down on a beautiful day at the beach alongside the Texas Bikini Auto Mechanics Team’s tour bus.

After much prodding, poking, wrench turning and rain cursing, the consensus was: The truck was broken. Probably the a) alternator, b) battery, c) ignition coil, d) plug wires, or e) bad karma.

A couple co-workers offered to drive me home, which lead to…

STAGE FOUR: Amazement—Dripping wet, exhausted, cold and disheartened, I squeezed into the back seat of my co-worker’s minuscule, compact car, a space better suited to a gerbil than a human being.

As I struggled to find a place for my knees, other than on either side of my face, a sound like ripping cloth filled the car’s interior. As it turned out, the sound was ripping cloth—the seat of my pants splitting gleefully up the seam. My co-workers, cultured gentlemen that they are, laughed until Mountain Dew shot out their nostrils.

STAGE FIVE: Acceptance—The ride home was a long one. The guys waited in the driveway, hi-beam headlights blazing, as I walked, tattered butt in hands, to my front door. My head held proudly erect, I turned and waved goodbye, using at least one finger.

They drove off laughing, anxious to find someone with whom to share the story. (This turned out to be everyone, as I discovered the following evening.)

But I no longer cared. I had reached the final AAFDA stage—acceptance.

Climbing into bed beside The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, I settled in for a good night’s sleep, confident the next day would be better.

“How was your night?” Mrs. T asked drowsily.

“The usual,” I said.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, drifting back to sleep.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the name of a good tailor, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Year ‘round storm windows sound like a pretty good idea

I’ve mentioned my irrational fear of heights a couple times before in this column. My acrophobic tendencies, one might think, would keep my feet firmly planted on the ground at all times. One would be wrong.

For whatever reason, I find myself in elevated circumstances on a fairly regular basis. Whether installing Christmas lights, trimming branches or repairing loose roof tiles, I wind up distanced from Terra Firma all too frequently.

Usually, the space between the ground and my trembling body is restricted by the height of my 10-foot ladder. This is a good thing, since I can survive a fall of 10 feet or less. I know because I’ve unintentionally tested the theory on numerous occasions.

A fall from the ladder leaves me bruised and embarrassed, but alive. It also provides about a week’s worth of amusement for The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, who does her best to hide that amusement, but fails miserably.

Last week, however, the ladder was just my jumping off point on a journey to the roof, a place I have no business being. The roof in question covers the front porch, not the house proper, and is only about 12 feet off the ground at its peak. Climbing onto that roof is the only way to get at the second-floor storm windows.

These windows look out from my office. Usually, I just leave the storm windows in place throughout the summer and abide the Hades-esque temperatures. This year, I decided to remove the storms, open the windows and—come July—enjoy a little breeze like a civilized person.

It took me several days to get my courage “screwed up” for the journey roof-side. I stood in front of the house, gazing up at the porch’s gently sloping roof, repeating the mantra, “You can do this. It’s not that high.” Eventually, fool that I am, I started to believe it.

Being a careful planner and forward thinking guy, I waited for a cold, windy day to head topside. Mrs. Taylor held the ladder for me as I made my shaky way up the rungs. Heart in throat, I stepped onto the roof and edged cautiously toward the peak.

From somewhere below, Mrs. T announced her intent to “run to the grocery for a sec” to pick up some milk.

“Hurry back,” I said. “I’ll need you to hold the ladder so I can get back down again.”

Even from the rooftop, I could hear her eyes roll.

As Mrs. Taylor pulled out of the driveway, the rain started to fall. Just a mist at first, it soon grew to a steady downpour. The roof, old and moss-covered, took on characteristics most often associated with skating rinks and Teflon frying pans.

The screwdriver I’d carried with me—a key component to removing the windows—slipped from my pocket and rolled over the edge. It seemed to take a long time to hit the ground.

The light jacket I’d chosen earlier in the day was not waterproof, a fact now apparent. Angry, April winds levered the rain into near horizontal whips that cracked against me like pelted gravel.

As if to prove that even God enjoys a good joke, a jag of lighting split the sky and thunder shook the foundations of Heaven itself. The storm windows rattled in their casings.

There have probably been wet kittens more miserable than I was at that moment, but maybe not.

Eventually, the lights of Mrs. Taylor’s jeep appeared through the haze; I was glad to see them. Stepping from the jeep, she said, “What are you doing up there in the rain?”

Several answers occurred to me, all of which contained words I don’t usually use when addressing the woman I love. Instead of voicing them, I instructed her to hold the ladder while I belly crawled, feet first, toward it.

It’s a week later and the storm windows remain in place. I think this may be the year we finally get central air.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or advice to stop being such a chicken, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

You can’t go home again, not without your GPS

I’ve been directionally challenged since Kindergarten. Even in first, second, third and fourth grades, I routinely became lost during the five-block hike home from school.

It happened so often my mother quit worrying about it. She would wait until I was 15 or 20 minutes late, then hop in the car and cruise around the neighborhood until she spotted me. Most times I would be strolling along unconcernedly, not even aware that I was lost.

A big part of the problem is—as my mother or any teacher whose classroom door I’ve ever darkened could tell you—I daydream. My mind isn’t especially active, but it does enjoy a rich fantasy life, and not just the one about the 747 filled with inebriated Swedish stewardesses, either. Though I’ll admit that’s one of my personal favorites.

Ahem. The point is, my mind wanders. It was worse when I was a kid, but it’s still pretty bad. Especially when I’m driving.

Driving is the second most boring activity in the universe. (The first is watching any movie starring Rob Schneider.) So when I’m driving, my mind—in an effort to stave off terminal boredom—meanders off onto pathways of its own devising.

I think: What would I do differently, if I were president? Why do Super Balls bounce so high? How do people eat tapioca pudding without barfing? What is tapioca, anyway, because it sure looks like fish eggs. And speaking of fish eggs, who decided those were food? Probably the same guy who invented tapioca. Look! A cow! It sure is sunny today. The clouds look beautiful. Are those cumulous? Or the other one? Cirrus. That’s it. Isn’t there a third kind of cloud? Hmm. Another cow! There are more cows per capita in India than any other country in the world. Where’d I read that? I sure like cheeseburgers.

And so on. By the time my mind gets around to asking, “Where am I, anyway?” or “Wasn’t I supposed to turn left about three exits back?” it’s usually too late.

So it’s only natural I finally broke down and purchased one of those GPS gizmos for my pickup. I’ve had it for about a month now, and lemme tell ya, these things are great!

No longer do I have to think about where I’m going. I just punch in the address before I leave home and the GPS tells me when to turn left, when to turn right, and when to go straight. It’s like driving with The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, only the GPS gizmo actually has some rudimentary idea of where we’re going. (Mrs. T makes her turn-by-turn suggestions at random, I think, or according to moon phases or something. I’m basing this opinion on typical results.)

Anyway, the GPS gizmo is wonderful. The only downside, as far as I can see, is that in the month I’ve been using it, I’ve become even more directionally handicapped than I was before.

I now find myself using the GPS to get to places less than a mile away; places I absolutely know how to find on my own. As Mrs. Taylor pointed out the other day, it’s getting ridiculous. I know she’s right, but I can’t help myself. It’s just too easy to punch in the pre-programmed destination and let the gizmo do all my thinking for me.

How long will it be before I need the GPS to guide me from my easy chair to the cold beer in the back of the fridge?

Sure, it’s great to finally know where I’m going, to drive anywhere without fear of becoming lost. But GPS ownership has opened up a whole new inventory of fears, the most pressing being—if I should misplace my GPS gizmo, will I have to buy another one just to find it?

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or directions to a map store, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

This week folks, I got nothin’ but the flu

Usually, when I sit down to write this column, I have at least a kernel of an idea as to subject matter in the back of my mind somewhere. It generally develops as I go along and often changes direction entirely, going off into tangents I had not previously considered.

But today I got nothin’. No ideas, no clever notions, no stories of unfortunate mishaps.

What I have instead is the flu. Or a cold. Or possibly some new flu-cold hybrid, featuring symptoms of both, with a few “new and improved” symptoms added specifically for my misery. Whatever it is, I no longer expect to live through it, so I’ll try to write fast, just in case.

It came on Sunday evening, and by Monday morning, I was a wreck.

Usually, I enjoy being sick, as long as I’m not too sick. A cold or slight fever means The Lovely Mrs. Taylor will cater to my needs in ways she would never consider were I well.

“Can I get you anything, dear?” are not words heard around the Taylor home unless someone’s laid low with illness. We are, as a rule, a hardy breed here and manage to get through life without being waited upon.

Illness mitigates that fact. If Mrs. T catches cold, I whip up a big pot of my homemade chicken soup, bring her extra blankets and run to the store for orange juice and ginger ale. I love her, but that’s not why I do this. I do this because I want her to feel obligated to baby me the next time I’m the sickie.

Quid pro quo, in its simplest form.

The only difference is, I don’t ask her to make homemade soup. Mrs. Taylor does not cook. Not well, anyway. I barely trust her to heat up the canned stuff. I didn’t marry her for her prowess in the kitchen.

But where was I? It’s hard to focus. My fever, which has to be right around 147 at the moment, is making me feel as sharp as … okay, think, there’s got to be a metaphor here somewhere … as sharp as … see what I mean? Nothin’.

I’m guessing the over-the-counter medication isn’t helping much, either. It’s the stuff you’re only supposed to take before bed, but it’s all I have in the house at the moment. If I had any heavy machinery, I wouldn’t be able to operate it right now.

Ah! Sick vs. too sick; that was the topic, I think.

Today, I am too sick to enjoy it. To make matters worse, Mrs. T’s gone to the office for the day, which means there’s nobody here to baby me properly. It’s only 10 a.m. and she’s already sent a couple e-mails enquiring as to my health and/or alive/dead status. But it’s just not the same as having her here to place cool washcloths on my forehead and murmur things like “poor baby” and “aww.”

Usually, when I write this column, I try to think of something clever for the last paragraph; something to tie everything into a neat, little package before I ship it off to my editor.

Sorry, folks, I still got nothin’.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or metaphors that work with “as sharp as a…”, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.