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alaskan_sourdough
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Name: Kraig Ehm
Gender: Male
Interests: Sports and Multimedia Production.
Expertise: Still trying to find something I do well.
Occupation: Other
Industry: Other
Message: message me
Member Since:
11/15/2004
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| The other day I spent quite a few of the daylight hours at a bean and beet research facility. I was there to document the facility's first open house and there were several folks from the community taking the tour. The plot people had more than 200 acres to plant and fertilize, and I was not up for walking to the six stations with my video gear. I didn't care if they were offering donuts as an incentive (and if you know me, that is saying something). Good news! A photographer from where I work showed up and we were graciously given the keys to a Gator. With all of our gear, it was good to have room in the trunk to stow the cameras, bags, tripod, empty coffee cup, and napkin that had previously wrapped itself around a cinnamon donut. The goal of ours was to zip in and around the six research stations, shooting as fast as we could so we could cover everything before lunch. We started out well, hitting the first two research plot stops before you could say, "What are we having for lunch?" I was shooting beautiful bean footage, complete with researchers and farmers, while Ansell Adams Jr. was busy snapping stills. I hustled back to the Gator and as we started to pull away, I smelled an odor that reminded me of something hot. Hmmm. "This smells like a brand new Gator," I remarked in a nice way.
"I don't think it's all that new. I just realized the smell you smelled was the parking break. I accidentally left it on from the first plot till now," responded the photographer. I giggled. Then I laughed out loud. He laughed too, and then put the pedal to the metal as we sped nuttily along to plot numero tres. | | |
| It was a beautiful Saturday. In fact, it was too lovely a day to spend it inside so I drove 15 miles, plunked down $14, and then was promptly hit in the shin by an errant tee shot. Yes, it hurt. Bad. And it would've been expected had I been standing directly in front of Tiger Woods as he was teeing off at the 15th hole at the Buick Open. But I was in the middle of a putting contest (while using my driver) on the putting green when Henry the Hack unloaded his iron shot from the driving range. I never heard H squared yell "Fore!" I never saw the dimpled projectile as it made its merry way (at 90 mph) on a collision course with my right leg. "Wham!" "Ow." I thought my son Ryan, while goofing around, had thrown the practice ball and drilled me in the leg. I reached down and was ready to give the ball the Nolan Ryan treatment to Ryan when I looked to my left and noticed a sheepish looking 15 year-old glancing our way from the driving range. The culprit and his barely audible "sorry" did not make me or my shin feel any better. The fact that he whistled four or five more shots our way after pegging me didn't sit well with me or my goofy looking and playing putting partners either. We were all walking around the putting green with one hand on the improvised putter and the other hand protecting our nether region. After the last practice ball landed near us, I walked over, picked up the golf ball and calmly chucked it as hard as I could in H-square’s direction. I had no intention on wounding the lad (I've only been compared to Annie Oakley once in my lifetime and that was when I had a costume malfunction during Halloween), but the ball did scream to a sudden stop about five feet in front of Henry. "Here's your ball," I yelled as ever helpful as I could be. Not long after that Henry the Hack and his little sidekick had depleted their allotment of driving range balls and promptly left the scene of the crime. My fellow putters and I let out a collective "phew," and looked forward to a few great holes of golf. The other seven holes were pure torture.
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| How many people out there think they look like someone famous? And I don't mean we're alike because we both went to high school and both wear makeup. But an honest-to-goodness-can't-tell-em-apart? The old saying is that “everyone has a twin somewhere in the world.” And to the person who resembles me, I totally apologize. I was at work the other day (minding my own business) working at a Dairy Expo when a woman walked up to my table and said:
"You look like someone on TV."
Uh-oh.
"Yea?"
"You probably get that a lot."
"Well, no, not really."
"Sure. You look like that guy off 'Cheers.'"
Uh-oh.
"Cheers?"
I could think of five guys off the top of my head that were on the show, and not a one of them looked like me.
"Yea, it's...it's...it's Cliff!"
Oh, boy.
"Cliff?"
"Yea, you look just like him."
People chuckled around the table. I wanted to crawl under the thing, but calmly looked at the woman and said, "at least you didn't say Carla."
A couple of people laughed and a college student interning with my department chimed in, "no, you two don't sound anything alike."
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| The lad and I took an evening recently and headed to the golf course where he is gainfully employed. Our intention was to each hit a bucket of balls at the driving range in hopes of improving our swing and game. Ryan's swing and game does not necessitate the drastic overhaul that mine does. Actually, one must indeed "have a semblance of a game" before the tinkering can commence. So I suppose the truth of the matter is that my golf game at present does not need improving. I just need to make the twenty-mile trip to Wal-Mart and buy myself one. We unloaded the driving range balls in spectacular fashion: his shots appeared to be propelled out of a cannon, while my shots resembled those spit out of an oscillating sprinkler--spraying to the left, then slowly making their way to the right. The only good news for the evening was that it was getting late, the sun was starting to set, and our tee shots were directed westward ho. I couldn't see where my shots were going or where they ended up. Well, that was true for three-quarters of my drives, chips, and long irons. The other twenty-five cents worth were easily tracked--those were the ones that I topped on impact, causing the round orb to roll a mere ten feet in front of me. Golf is such an emotional game for me: I laughed, I grimaced, I chuckled, I fumed, I chortled, and at long last, I cried. And then came the moment I had been waiting for all wire basket long. I was quickly running out of practice projectiles to hit, and quite frankly, was too tired to run the necessary ten yards in front of my tee to retrieve the "duds." I had two shots left in my sprinkler. I teed 'er up and let the range ball have it. I immediately looked left (I own left-handed clubs) and couldn't find my shot. I glanced right and the Titleist was nowhere to be found. Naturally, I looked at my feet and saw just one practice ball. I quickly looked straight out in front and noticed something with dimples screaming towards the setting sun! I had one place left to look and that was aft where Ryan was acting like a cannoneer. Nope. He was out! I looked again and beamed knowing that I had actually smote the ball!
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| I have Thomas Edison to thank for my latest frustration. And Tom Bodett and his "we'll leave the light on for ya," Motel 6 commercial is one I don't need to see nor hear anytime soon. How hard can it be to change a light bulb? You can insert your old "change a light bulb" joke here. It seemed simple enough. Light fixture in kitchen goes dark, I climb chair, take down light cover, swap four good bulbs for four of the burned out variety and voila! Waves of wattage! But no, it was not so easy a task to complete because of the kind of fixture that hangs in my kitchen. It is a square box. I looked for a false end panel--nope. I looked for screws on the end to pull out--nope. I looked for my softball bat--nope. The dude (builder?) that put our house together put our next door neighbor's together as well, so I ambled over and asked if he had the same kind of light fixture in the kitchen--nope. I trudged back to my darkened abode, ate supper, then climbed a ladder and yanked on the light--nope. I called it a night (getting too dark to work anyway) and vowed to "Google" my problem in the morning. I found an identical fixture on the Lowe's website, but try as I might, I couldn't turn my monitor to the correct angle to see how the light was hanging on the web. On the drive home I had an inspirational idea--move! I climbed a chair and asked the Mrs. if she would please climb the ladder. I didn't want to pull too hard on the stupid light fixture because:
A. It would come down
B. I would have to replace the ceiling
I wiggled and moved just right and then I wiggled the light, lifted my end, then lifted the end of the fixture and voila! The piece of junk came off without a hitch! After a brief visit to Wal-Mart for four florescent bulbs, we were back in the business of being able see what we were cooking for dinner!
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