Pardon My Hacking

I'm no hacker, unless you are speaking of the "hacking up my lungs" category.  I've been demonstrating a keen proficiency in that regard lately, much to the consternation of all in my immediate vicinity.

So it was with great pride and embarrassment (a curious mixture!) that I accompanied my delightful wife to the Fine Arts Center at Calvin College tonight to witness yet another Academic Achievement Ceremony for Adam, who made the Dean's List last Fall and is finally getting the recognition he so rightly deserves. (Oh, Adam wasn't the only one being recognized, but he was the only one I recognized.)

I tried not to cough too loudly. Really. Even had a pocketful of cough drops, but they didn't help. After an hour and a half of songs, speeches, prayers and the like, my throat was about gone. And not because I was the one doing the singing, speaking and praying.  I was just coughing. But we weren't done yet! There was still the Professor's Reception (with punch and desserts, yum!) where we got to meet and chat with Adam's teachers, who all expressed their joy at having him as a student.

And my coughing got worse. People were starting to edge away from me. Nervously.

Rather than spread the Plague any further, we decided to "bow out" before they brought in the Cart ("Bring out'cher dead!") and dragged me off. But -- not before finding out that one of his professor's has connections with Cheryl's alma mater (Seattle Pacific University). That was very cool! We probably could've chatted with her a lot longer, but my head wasn't going to contain its misery much longer, so we (regrettably) left at that point.

But it was so wonderful seeing Adam in his element.

**
Many thanks to Angela for covering my Wednesday-night Bible class for me!

Alive and Kicking (Coughing)

Today (Tuesday) is not a good day to be barely alive.  There are too many items on the agenda.  Meetings (telecons) whose attendance is mandatory. Social engagements which cannot be avoided. Not much time for the kind of rest that a sick body requires.

Time on foot is time for the lungs to drain, which is a good thing in my current state of physical ineptitude. Helps get all the icky stuff out, all the good stuff in.  Besides, a day spent abed is a day without accomplishment.

And I have a great need for accomplishment this day.

But first things first.  A Happy Birthday to my father, who is spending the day on a bluebonnet adventure in the hinterlands of Texas with his devoted wife!  May you have joy and happiness in your travels, and safety and comfort in your return.

Also, a Happy Birthday to Deb Thomas whom I have not seen in many a year, but who remains a steadfast friend in my memory.  I trust you are having as much fun with your corral of kids as we are, facing as we both do the beginnings of their ventures into the great wide world of adulthood.

And to my longsuffering wife, Cheryl, I thank you for your unending patience in dealing with the Bear of Very Little Brain who can't seem to keep his mind on the tasks at hand, especially when distracted by illness. I look forward with great anticipation to the cessation of busy-ness so that we might enjoy a little peace and quiet as we work on our house projects together!

Now, on to busi-ness. I have reports to write, emails to compose, spreadsheets to calculate, and telecons to attend.

Right after this little, teeny-weeny dose of NyQuil (so I can breathe)....

Ah...

Was Dead, Now Alive. Barely.

Stayed home from work on Thursday, feeling lousy.  Just a cold. Got worse on Friday. Even worse on Saturday.  By Sunday, I couldn't talk, didn't want to move. Stayed home from church - Easter service! - and slept. Thought it would all blow over by Monday. No dice. Couldn't even drag myself out of bed Monday morning, so just stayed there.

Migraine for four days straight. Stuffy nose, brains felt like they were going to explode.  Finally let up Monday evening after dinner. But my brain still isn't up to speed.

NyQuil night.

Sonixperience

It was supposed to be a funtastic, first-of-its-kind experience at a place we've never been before (even though the place has been around for-ev-er).

You know what a Sonic drive-in is, right?  The one where they have the curbside service with the bus[persons] who bring the trays full of food right up to your window on roller skates? And the food is mouth-watering good (or at least that's what everyone says), although with that kind of ambience, the quality of the food is not the priority.

As a special bonus, Friday nights at the Sonic are a bit of a tradition around here for the motorhead set. The place promised to be packed to the gills with muscle cars and beefy guys and admiring babes, which is quite a show for those of us who used to cruise up and down Broad Street in Richmond when we were young and not quite as jaded as we are now.

It was also supposed to be an opportunity to shop at the hardware store (conveniently sharing the same parking lot as the Sonic) where we would be checking out the bathroom fixtures as we are hoping to prep the basement for the eventuality of dual residents (kind of like a college apartment).

We selected one of the few unoccupied stalls and pulled up to the curb past the big plastic menu panel. We ordered our food. We slid our debit card through the slot and paid our bill.  Our food was brought out to us, as promised, by a young man on roller skates. We ate our food -- and it was very, very good.  Then we prepared to leave.

And the car wouldn't start.

You have to picture this in your head to get the full impact.  We're in a mini-van, the antithesis of every car surrounding us.  We are parked next to a huge Ford monster truck. The parking lot surrounding the Sonic is packed with hot, throaty cars bursting with testosterone, all of them revving engines and popping hoods and bathed in oohs and aahs from the admiring crowd.

And we are sitting in a 15-year old minivan. Which won't start.

I'm not sure what caused it. I had the key in the ignition and perhaps the lights were on and they were draining the battery quickly. We were only there about ten or fifteen minutes.  Regardless, it was enough to drain the battery to the point where it would not start the car.  At first, I suspected that the solenoid wasn't kicking the starter gearing to mesh completely with the flywheel.  The starter turned fast, not even straining. It didn't sound like it was engaging, though.  I tried and re-tried it a few times, even rocking the car back and forth to see if I could somehow get the gears to mesh.  But to no avail.

Cheryl suggested enlisting the help of some friends.  When I balked at that, she whipped out the Auto Club towing card. I hesitated. Sent them to the hardware store to shop for awhile so I could think things over. While they were gone, I popped the hood and played around with it the starter.  Cleaned the battery contacts. That sort of thing.  No dice.

So then a quick call to Cheryl and said, OK, let's call our friends. She did. They came and picked up Cheryl and James. I gave James a list of things to bring back, which he did (after half an hour or so). Number one on the list was the fully-charged spare battery I keep in the shop for just such a situation. We swapped batteries, the car started, and we went home.

Luckily for me, none of the musclemen (and their babes) noticed the car troubles of an insignificant little minivan in the Sonic stall. They were too enthralled with the roar of the engines, the squeal of the tires, the basso profundo of the exhaust systems of all those other amazing cars.

I was just glad to get ours back in the garage, safe and sound. And tomorrow, I'll try to figure out what went wrong with the battery.