So anyway, it has been kind of unseasonable warm here the last week or so in Central Alberta and my wife (AKA SWMBO, AKA the dreaded grandma person) have had the windows open. More specifically and to the point, her den/office/wife cave window and the big window beside our living room picture window which, of course leads into her den. Now, those of you fortunate enough to be able to smoke in the same dwelling that you co-habit with your significant other might not understand this, but our agreement about pipe smoking is that smoking of pipe is to be in two and only two places; the great outdoors and the garage; AKA the man-garage. And that is perfectly fine with me. So last evening smoking my last bowl of the day I was contentedly puffing away, garage door open about 2 feet as per usual and me sitting in my collapsible lawn chair close to the open garage door. Ah! I thought. All is well, wonderful thick clouds of Quiet Nights were curling down and out the open door. Puff, puff, puff. I hear muffled curses and slamming of cabinet doors filtering through the back of the garage. HA, HA, HA! She must have misplaced her shopping list or something. Good. As long as it isn't me, I'm gold. The back entrance to the house that is located at the back of the garage, fly's open and she pokes her head out. "Chris! what the **** are you doing????"
Hey there sweetie I'm just enjoying a bowl of Quiet Nights. See? It's all going outside. Isn't that thoughtful of me?"
"YOU'RE FILLING MY DEN WITH YOUR god-****** smoke!! It's coming in my window! Why didn't you warn me you were going out to smoke your nasty pipe? Why? I had no answer.
"I'm lighting some scented candles to get rid of the stench. Slam. Big sigh on my part. I have nothing against candles. Honest, I don't. They are people to and have rights but I consider scented candles something you only light at Easter mass once a year and only between 11:59pm and 12:00am. I'm thinking that now my crafty negotiating of keeping at least my cellar of tobacco and pipes located safely ensconced in my basement man-cave, is down the tubes and she will want them all moved into the garage. Back to square one. So today (right now more or less) I thought that I would putz around in the garage and some things done. I went over to my band-saw. Before starting to work on anything I always check that particular piece of equipment out to make sure nothing is amiss and I always turn off the master switch located on the back side of my work bench underneath and that it is also unplugged. I began my inspection and start to check to blade. Sproing, off the wheels it fly's. (Sorry, double plural) It is then that I deduce using my amazing powers of logic that little monkey fingers have been in my garage shop happily twisting knobs and playing with levers. The little monkey fingers being small people also referred to as grand children. It goes like this.
"Oh grandpa doesn't mind if we play out here," kind of song! Now they know that grandpa's shop is so totally off-limits but every once in awhile they forget or conveniently don't remember the rule, hence the powering down and unplugging of everything in my shop. No harm done except my beat up old band saw is kind of like me; old and cranky and needs special attention. I don't understand why my wife snorts when I mention to her that she is very fortunate to have had a low maintenance person like me around for the past 44 years of marital bliss and harmony. In an attempt last night to show her that I appreciated her allowing me to smoke in the garage, I said, "So, Quiet Nights has a really nice room note, don't you think?" Slam. Snick. I'm very glad the last few nights have been nice and warm...
Hey there sweetie I'm just enjoying a bowl of Quiet Nights. See? It's all going outside. Isn't that thoughtful of me?"
"YOU'RE FILLING MY DEN WITH YOUR god-****** smoke!! It's coming in my window! Why didn't you warn me you were going out to smoke your nasty pipe? Why? I had no answer.
"I'm lighting some scented candles to get rid of the stench. Slam. Big sigh on my part. I have nothing against candles. Honest, I don't. They are people to and have rights but I consider scented candles something you only light at Easter mass once a year and only between 11:59pm and 12:00am. I'm thinking that now my crafty negotiating of keeping at least my cellar of tobacco and pipes located safely ensconced in my basement man-cave, is down the tubes and she will want them all moved into the garage. Back to square one. So today (right now more or less) I thought that I would putz around in the garage and some things done. I went over to my band-saw. Before starting to work on anything I always check that particular piece of equipment out to make sure nothing is amiss and I always turn off the master switch located on the back side of my work bench underneath and that it is also unplugged. I began my inspection and start to check to blade. Sproing, off the wheels it fly's. (Sorry, double plural) It is then that I deduce using my amazing powers of logic that little monkey fingers have been in my garage shop happily twisting knobs and playing with levers. The little monkey fingers being small people also referred to as grand children. It goes like this.
"Oh grandpa doesn't mind if we play out here," kind of song! Now they know that grandpa's shop is so totally off-limits but every once in awhile they forget or conveniently don't remember the rule, hence the powering down and unplugging of everything in my shop. No harm done except my beat up old band saw is kind of like me; old and cranky and needs special attention. I don't understand why my wife snorts when I mention to her that she is very fortunate to have had a low maintenance person like me around for the past 44 years of marital bliss and harmony. In an attempt last night to show her that I appreciated her allowing me to smoke in the garage, I said, "So, Quiet Nights has a really nice room note, don't you think?" Slam. Snick. I'm very glad the last few nights have been nice and warm...
