Sunday procrastination

Kristie is taking a nap. I came up to the office to attempt to balance my checkbook. Kristie takes pride in balancing hers to the nearest cent. I'm happy if I'm within ten dollars.

My dad used to religiously balance his check book (as well as mom's). I'd get up on a weekend, and I'd see Dad sitting at the table in his pajamas (Hanes tank top and briefs) with one leg crossed over the other and a steaming cup of coffee next to him while he poured over the checkbooks.

I'm the total opposite. I might balance it once a month. Maybe.

I try to write everything in the check register, but the instant cash withdrawals kill me. So does on-line bill pay.

Kristie is pushing me to take switch to Wells Fargo and bank almost exclusively on line and with a check cards.

I have one word for that: disaster.

I can't keep my ancient checkbook straight. How am I going to manage all of that?

I'm far to random abstract for that business.

Currently, my online bank statements have me at around a grand in checking. However, in my register, I am at two hundred. Where did the 800 dollars go? I even went back and tried to recaclucate things. I found an extra 60 dollars (I wrote down the same instant cash transaction twice).

I could go back further into my checking account, but that's too much work.

Instead, here's my plan: don't write out any checks for a couple of weeks and wait until all the checks come in. Then I'll see what my online account says. If it doesn't match my register, I'll go with the online account.

Makes sense, right?

Now on to the thing I hate even worse than balancing my checkbook: yard work.

I'm just not cut from that cloth. I'm bookish and insidish. Tools have always felt awkward in my hands. Engines and mechanical things are beyond any and all comprehension.

On Friday, I had to man the concessions booth for a bit until Kristie showed up for work. The coach had all of the coolers and tubs full of candy out. I just had to get things set up. One of those things included starting the gas grill.

Now I have a deep seated fear of propane gas. I'm not sure why. Oh, wait. Maybe it has to do with the fact that my father always used to check for propane leaks (I'm not making this up) by lighting a match around the nozzle on the tank. I never saw how it ever turned out because I was usually about twenty yards away by the time he fished his lighter from his pocket.

I followed the directions and turned the nobs to the right locations and pressed on the little red button a dozen times.

Finally, the man who worked the concession booth the day before said I had to light it with a match.

Then the flashbacks started.

Ah, no way. Hope no one is hungry for hot dogs this afternoon, were the thoughts in my mind.

There was no way I was going to do that.

So what if I can't light a propane grill? I thought as the man stared at me oddly, probably thinking, I bet he doesn't know how to light a propane grill.

Can you write sonnet? How about a research paper? Do you even know what MLA means or how about onomatopoeia?

But as crustyprofessor once blogged, there just never seems to be an English teacher emergency.

So my skills did me little good.

Finally, the man took pity on me and helped me move the grill behind the stand (and out of the hellacious wind) and fire it up -- all the while I was standing a good ten feet back - and ready to bolt at any time.

Alas, my manly skills are nonexistent.

But I'll give this yard work thing a try. I'll rake some. Pick up dog poop. Maybe sweep out the garage. I should clean the gutters out, but I have a fear of heights from helping my father (here we go again) plastic the windows on our old farm house. Since the ladder never reached even close to the upstairs windows, Dad would (and I'm not kidding. My sister can attest to this too) start up the 730 and pull it around to the house. Then he'd place the ladder in the loader bucket (here's where I came in). I had to hold the ladder in place while he hoisted the bucket up.

I was not insane enough to even stay in the bucket longer than I had to. Once the loader was extended and the ladder was in position by the windows, I was out of there.

Of course, Dad would climb up there and plastic the windows while I watched and tried to imagine where the best spot for him to land would be. Usually we had already placed straw bales around the house by this time, so I hoped those would cushion his fall. Then I was ready to dash into the house and dial 911.

So maybe I'll just put off cleaning out the rain gutters today. My brother in law now owns the 730. I have the ladder, though. I'm just glad our windows aren't that high.