ThINK next time!

Reminder to self: Don't put a red felt tip pen in your shirt pocket ... Ya Goof!

Like you did today.



Somewhere along the way, I learned to use hair spray in a case like this. It keeps the ink from setting into the cloth.

Probably my mom taught me that.

The shirt is soaking right now in water and Oxi-Clean.

(To be continued)

Bus-ted

Ethan had an away soccer game last night. It was the team's fifth straight shutout, so when the bus stopped at Burger King on the way back, the defense got to get off and order first. Ethan plays defense.

But that's not the story here.

Ethan called from the road. He does that so he can get prompt pickup service when the bus reaches the junior high.

"Where are you now?" I said.

"Where are we?" Ethan asked of the bus at large. "What, Skip?" I heard. The answer was coming by way of Ethan's friend Justin Skipper. "Huntingdon," Ethan said.

Okay, that meant about twenty-five minutes. About twenty minutes later, I drove down and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After about half an hour, still no bus. Accident? Or ...

I went home, figuring that Ethan would call again.

A few minutes later, he walked in the door.

"Skip's dad dropped me off," he said. "When I called, we were actually in Clearfield." About thirty miles farther out than Huntingdon.

The list of navigators who I trust just got shorter.

Ethan and Skip, Ya Goofs!

Image scarfed from clearfield-county.com.

Vote 4 Emmett

If any of you readers have a vote in the student council election at Charles W. Longer Elementary in Hollidaysburg, it's only fair that you have full information about this candidate.





On the one hand, he thought of a nice way to create a campaign sign (with Dad's help)--a gigundous paper chain with writing on it.

On the other hand, he gave the impression that he needed to have this on Friday morning, making Dad late for work, and then revealed that he didn't need it until Monday.

Vote 4 Emmett! Even if he does sometimes make us say: Ya Goof!

Talk about a long bad spell

Today I learned that I've been spelling my niece's nickname incorrectly for all of her life.

Bethany is 23. Here she is with boyfriend Ryan.

For some reason, we've always called her "Buggany." Naturally, this shortens to "Buggs." That's how Bethany signed an email that she sent me today.

And that's when I realized that I've always handled the spelling as "Bugs." You know, like this character:

That's a small thing, I know, but I've always been a strong speller and had a taste for the fine details of words. Yet here was a matter that had escaped me for literally a lifetime.

Buggs (note correct spelling!) would roll her eyes that I'm commenting on this. She might even say: "Uncle Keith, Ya Goof!"

Caution: Kids at Work

These young men are huge fans of work.

They could sit back and watch it all day.

Aw, that's not fair to say. Dad, Ya Goof!

What you see is the project to refurbish the bike rack in front of the Hollidaysburg Area Public Library. It was sunken into the ground, and the paint was ragged. Not any more!

At least I wasn't off by a whole year

Some people—namely, women, men, and did I mention women?—get really mad when you overestimate their age. But in other matters of time, you dare not underestimate.

For instance, a mother's time of labor. Guys, even if you think you were present during every moment, you were not. Your observations of start- and end-time do not matter and do not count. Never, ever, try to do the calculation on your own. Even if the lady comes up with, say, 86 hours of labor, over a two-day period. She will not be shorted.

If you violate this rule, you deserve to hear: Ya Goof!

For having learned this the hard way, I say to myself: Ya Goof!

For even raising this topic and risking wrath from all directions, I repeat to myself: Ya Goof!

Another matter is time of service to an employer. Our company has an intranet site (an internal web site) whose home page notes company anniversaries. Yesterday, the list included a friend's name and the number of years: 18.

I was surprised that this person had served the company that long. I took special note because my own company anniversary falls three days earlier.

Being the cute and clever person I am, I sent an email comparing the person's time of service to my own: "Me 6212 days, You 6209 days. My lead: .04%." I got the count of days using this calculator.

The reply: "What does that mean?"

My answer: "It means that I started here 3 days before you did."

The reply: "Didn't you start in 1989? I started in 1988."

D'oh! I had forgotten that I had just passed 17 years, not 18. I instantly fell behind by 362 days. (How the company got along without me all that time, I have no idea ...)

Keith, Ya Goof!

(Almost) time to eat the donuts.

Emmett and I went to the newer Dunkin Donuts on the Boulevard.

But I forgot my wallet.

So we turned around and went home and got my wallet.

And went to the older Dunkin Donuts on Blair Street.

Dad, Ya Goof!

One game = one W, one L and another kind of W

Above is a picture of Ethan in his soccer uniform juggling (soccerspeak for "bouncing off his feet and knees") a golf ball.

This is in lieu of a picture of Ethan playing in his first official game for the junior high because he didn't tell us he had a game.

Ethan, Ya Goof!

This was a make-up for a rain-out on Tuesday, but did Ethan think to mention it to us? No. We're not even the type of parents who yell from the sidelines in embarrassing ways. In fact, we're the type of parents who just watch and clap or moan as appropriate.

Granted, Ethan had an athletic bag with him when I dropped him off at school this morning.

"Ha!" he pointed out after the fact. "You should have known!"

"Ha!" I replied. "I thought you just had a practice. It's the same bag."

In the end, he agreed that is was mostly his fault. It's a bummer to think that we could just have crossed town on a nice fall evening and plopped down our lawn chairs and seen Ethan run around and get himself too tired to get into trouble.

Okay, that was a weak line. Ethan never seems to tire. I remember that age fondly.

And he doesn't get into trouble. (at least, not that he's confessing to). In fact, he acted as a good Samaritan on the way home from the game. He told us that he came across a kid in front of the elementary school who was having trouble with his bike. Ethan couldn't fix the bike, but he walked the kid home, a few blocks out of the way.

"I just didn't feel right about leaving him there," Ethan said. 'That why I was so late getting to the Y and calling for a ride."

A little gesture, but huge to me. I was proud to hear that. If we'd been at the game, I suppose Ethan wouldn't have come across the boy and helped him.

So I have mixed feelings. I would have liked to have seen the game (a win for Ethan's team by the way), but I can settle for seeing him juggle a golf ball on our lawn.

One wrong turn recalls another

I'm just curious if word of this post will reach the driver who ended up on the wrong side of the median at about 7:40 a.m. today at the top of the hill near Wal-Mart. It's a bad feeling to find yourself driving the wrong way up a turning lane, with all the traffic coming toward you.

I know. I've done it, too. Not in that spot, but still.

Fortunately, this morning (as in my case) the road wasn't very busy, and the person quickly popped on the emergency flashers.

C'mon, fellow motorist, we deserve to hear this:

Ya Goof!

Coming home to a swinging single

Here's a voice mail left on my work phone late yesterday afternoon:

Hello, Dad, this is Emmett. Um, It's ... Um, call back if you're there, but ... well, one of the sliding doors, Er, no, not the sliding doors, but the swinging doors ... one of the swinging doors to the kitchen, just fell off somehow. I guess it was stuck or something. Okay, bye.

Followed by this voice mail a couple minutes later:

Hello, Dad, this is Emmett again. Just calling to forewarn you. Bye.

Emmett wasn't even the goof who was, shall we say, closest to the door when it "fell off." That would be Ethan.

"I just kind of shouldered it like I always do," he said, shrugging said shoulder and its mate.

One too many shoulderings, apparently. Or maybe it got snagged on the backpack carrying fifty pounds of books.

Anyway, this damage is not an easy fix, and it was a major pain to install those doors, so for a while the doorway has reverted to its old naked self.

Janet cuts me slack these days when I take things like this in stride. That will buy me (a wee bit of) time for a replacement strategy.

Still ... Ethan, Ya Goof!

Fresh headlines from "Hey, Watch This!"

Click here to see the latest stories collected by Click and Clack of Car Talk

DON'T DO WHAT THESE GOOFS DID!

• Iced wine, anyone?
• Shocking lesson
• Snot a good idea
• Llama have it
• Fire eater
• Cannon ball!
• How to make bucket soup

Names submitted to a co-worker who's expecting

The baby's last name will be Rehm (pronounced "reem.") That's important for understanding the following list of ideas for the first name. No, not just important, c-r-u-c-i-a-l.

• Chris Peek
• Isaac, pronounced with an "s" sound and not a "z."
• M. Ericand
  
• Heezad (boy) or Sheezad (girl)
• Follo Yord
• Hadda Bad
• Lifis Buttud
• Cookies Ank
• Old Milst
  
• Ime Gonnask
• Rowan Upst
• Sowerk
• Bostonk
  

Names inspired by the format of last-name-first:

• Ark Ubbel
  
• Atch
• E. Deeyate
  
• M. Burr
  
• Ian Derr (long "I" on the first name)
  
• Itt Uns
  
• Odd L.
  
• Ote
• Oov L.
  
• Yooner Ate
  

If our co-worker doesn't go for any of these gems, we can only say: Ya Goof!

The topic this time? Oh, just desserts.

After work one day last week, I opened my car door to find a can of chocolate pudding in the seat.

And I mean a BIG can. Institutional size. Evidently someone thought I wasn't getting my daily allowance.

(On the other hand, others would be quick to say that I'm full of chocolate pudding, if you know what I mean.)

Or maybe someone bought some chocolate pudding from someone else and it ended up in my car by mistake?

I brought it in the next morning and paused in the doorway of my co-worker Beth, pudding can on hip. That brought a knowing smile.

"I've heard that was going around. It just keeps turning up where you least expect it."

I know a budding Pudding War when I see it, so I decided the circuit would end with me.

You know my posting yesterday about Camp Blue Diamond? That's a very busy church camp. With a dining hall that can always use donations. This weekend when I was there, the kitchen manager gratefully accepted my contribution.

Drop a dessert on me, eh? Ya Goof!

Rain drops keep fallin' on my chair

If one runs about in the rain with a chair on his head, surely one deserves to be addressed as: "Ya Goof!"

Or maybe not. You decide after you read the following, which I posted at CarePages.com, a site that everyone should know about, because it provides (CarePages' description) "free, easy-to-use Web pages that help family and friends communicate when a loved one is receiving care. It takes just a few minutes to create a CarePage, share it with friends and family, and build a community of support."

I've been following two CarePages for two friends with cancer. One, Karen Eckenrode, died yesterday. Readers of this blog may know her and her wonderfully supportive husband, Ray. All sympathy to all of Karen's loved ones.

Readers may also know the other patient, Doug Rhodes. At CarePages, he creates beautiful and often-funny posts on his progress, with reminders to enjoy each day. Livin', as he says.

Today, Doug, who attends the same church as the YaGoof! goofs, posted that he missed this morning's service. This was my response:

Doug, you didn't miss anything at church this morning. Because the service was down at Camp Blue Diamond!

(Last I knew, there wasn't going to be a service at the church building itself, to encourage everyone to enjoy a change of pace. My apologies if there WAS a service at Hollidaysburg.)

We prayed for you, as always. Pastor Marlys told an inspiring story about a young man she met at M.Div. school--a PhD at 26--whose parents are both mentally handicapped. Have her tell you the rest; she'll do it with much more style than I would. The service concluded with four being baptized in the lake. It was a special time.

The Eldred and Imler families each spent last night in a separate cabin at the Camp; Bonnie and I were at the same training in the Lodge yesterday. We had a fire and made "banana boats." You probably know this recipe from survival training at Parris Island:

1. Take a banana
2. Slit the side
3. Scoop out some of the banana
4. Insert little marshmallows and chocolate chips
5. Wrap the banana in aluminum foil
6. Place the boat on coals to melt the marshmallows and chocolate
7. Pull it out with tongs OR
8. If you're a Marine, just pull it out
9. Remove foil and peel and eat with a spoon OR
10. If you're a Marine, just pop it (hot foil, peel and all) into your mouth

I woke up before everyone else and was showered and relaxing with a book before the rain started. It came down pretty good. I had to jog up to the car holding one of those folding canvas chairs (unfolded, upside-down) over my head for an umbrella, so I could drive down for us to pack up before the service. Another survival school trick (or should be).

A little later in the morning, while Janet got cleaned up, the boys each used the chair-as-umbrella trick as we ran over to the little gazebo in front of the Lodge, where we at a breakfast of cold Pop-Tarts and warm bottled water.

I guess I'm posting this because it's what you're talking about: Livin'. Enjoying the moment. Thank you for all the reminders to do that. God bless.

This side up

The DVD player said: This disc cannot be played.

I said: Maybe it just needs to be wiped off.

Emmett said: I'll get it.

I said: Is it shiny side down?

Ethan said: Dad, even Emmett knows that.

Emmett said: Picture side up, right?

Then Emmett ejected the disc.

And he said: Oops.

And he turned the disc picture side up.

And then it worked just fine.

Emmett, Ya Goof!

And they say you can't get back lost time

Faithful readers of this blog—yes, both of you—will remember that I got my first cell phone at the beginning of June.

May it rest in peace. Three months later, it has been declared dead by TracFone.

The first sign of its demise was last Tuesday, when I was about to make a call and saw that instead of 108 or so minutes available, I had 0.00 minutes.

Shoot! I ran out of air time! That means I've lost my unused minutes. YaGoof!

Or so I thought.

I went online the next day and bought 310 minutes, but the phone didn't let me add them. They TracFone site threw up a screen that apologized for technical difficulites and gave me three pin numbers to use in adding the minutes later.

That evening, I still couldn't add the minutes. I called Technical Support.

I talked to three different people and never got a handle on the accent(s) I was hearing. Support calls are supposed to go to India a lot, but I've heard that Africa is getting in on the action, too. I don't know where in the globe I was.

Anyway, the reps were very, very polite. This was typical: "I need to check on something, Mr. Eldred. May I put you on hold for two minutes?"

"Sure." It's okay when they ask nicely. Even after the sixth time. Given that I wasn't pressed for time, and it was a toll-free call.

The first rep ended up telling me (a) I had a defective phone, so they would send a new one, and (b) I had bought twice as many minutes as I had thought and would be charged twice as much.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." (I hope that was understandable in whatever country the person was in.)

To shorten a story that's familiar to many, the first rep told me I had ordered twice; I said I hadn't; he said they don't give refunds; I asked to talk to his supervisor. I've learned to stay calm during these calls and sometimes you can get satisfaction.

The first rep said, "May I put you on hold for three minutes?" Note: Up from two minutes.

"Sure."

The supervisor finally came on. He agreed that is was possible that the system could have goofed, not me. Imagine that! And he said of course, they could give a refund.

"Did you know the first person I talked to said you don't give refunds?" He smoothly ignored that. Heck, he was the supervisor.

I ended up with credit, who gave me some options. I'm supposed to get a new phone in a few days with my lost 108 minutes and a pre-paid mailer to ship back the deceased unit. I can't complain.

And I thought this entry would be about my losing the minutes and end in my usual way. I was wrong.

But hey, that mistake lets me say ...

Keith, Ya Goof!

Back from Vermont in ALMOST record time

We made the loooooong drive back from Waterville, Vermont yesterday. Check it out on a map. It's way up at the top of the state. I always shoot to make the trip in ten hours. I've done it once in dozens of voyages.

Yesterday, we would have made it within the magic time limit it not for for—

You know, I really wish I could point the finger at another member of the traveling party here. Naturally, everyone else is the anchor holding us back, wanting to make stops for things like—pah!—food and bathroom breaks. When we could be making time! I kid you not.

But no, the goof in the ointment was moi.

Early in the trip, while taking a pullover jacket off, I snagged my glasses and lost one lens. Well, not the lens, but the fiberglass thread that runs underneath it. The lens support system on that side. Fortunately, I use clip-on sunglasses that I was able to use to hold the lens in place while I drove. God forbid that I trust the schedule to Janet.

But because I had a meeting yesterday evening where it would definitely have looked out of place to wear clip-ons indoors, I had to detour to the Nittany Mall in State College and run into Pearle Vision for a quick fix. It only took twelve minutes, but that made our trip time about 10 hours and nine minutes.

Sigh.

Keith, Ya Goof!

Ah, memories—and lack of memory

I'm blogging from Camp Grammie. That's the period each summer where Ethan and Emmett stay with my parents in Vermont. They've been here for three weeks. Tomorrow we go home.

Janet and I received glowing reports of how the boys were well-behaved and actually worked whenever they were asked. They helped pile about five cords of wood that my parents will burn for heat through the winter. My father bought a load of logs; he and my brother-in-law Curt blocked them up with chain saws; and a friend, Ron Dennison, let them use a gas-powered splitting machine for a day. When I was a kid—cue nostalgic music here—we used a splitting hammer, which is a cross between an axe and a sledge hammer, sometimes using a splitting wedge for the stubborn blocks. The wedge was basically a big squat chisel that you would pound on with the blunt end of the head of the splitting hammer.

Believe it or not, I have fond memories of splitting and stacking wood. I didn't always enjoy the work at the time, but it had a nice rhythm to it. It left me with great mental pictures and sensations: hefting the block into place, setting myself to swing the hammer, bringing it down (sometimes actually in the spot I was aiming for) and feeling the grain pop as the chunks of wood flew apart. I'd toss the chunks aside for Michael (my brother) to pick up—on those rare occasions when he was actually working. Then we would switch places, and I'd pick up the chunks that Michael split, sometimes five or six heavy pieces of wood at a time to cut down on the trips back and forth, enough wood that I couldn't even see over the armload, probably twenty-five or thirty pounds of wood. And coming back and back and back for more. And finally ending up with walls of wood in the correct place that were satisfying to look at.

Anyway, Ethan and Emmett have a lot of cousins to spend time with up here. They swam a lot and played baseball a lot at a field down the road, walking past a dairy farm to get there. The farm is going organic—no chemicals used on fields or in feed—because you get a much better price for milk that way.

Okay, I'm rambling. Here's the YaGoof! part of it. When I dropped the boys off here three weeks ago, I made a note to bring something up on my return trip—a box of the collectible Mr. Potato Head figure whose production I oversaw for New Pig. It was the lastest of our semi-famous promotional items.


But did I actually remember to bring the box? No.

And when I was cleaning the basement last weekend ((I sure could have used the allegedly hard-working pair on leave in Vermont), I boxed up some old bird houses that the boys and I had made when they were in Cub Scouts but that we had never put up. My father has bird houses scattered all over his property in Vermont, so I was going to bring that box with me, too.

But did I remember it? No.

Keith, Ya Goof!

Ah, well. There's always the next trip we make up here. Maybe the next Camp Grammie.

Now THESE are our kind of stories

Click and Clack of Car Talk have a new feature called "Hey, Watch This!" that collects stories of bad, bad moves.

DON'T DO WHAT THESE PEOPLE DID!

Tales like:

Death by fish!
Near-death by tennis ball! And teeter-totter!
Branded by your own glasses!
Fire out the butt!
Arrested on Halloween!

The authors get one collective: Ya Goof!

A blight on the Dark Knight

All I've ever wanted for my whole entire life was for someone to give me a free Batman shirt. Last week, it finally happened.

"This doesn't fit me any more," my pal Norm said. "Want it?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Fair warning, it needs a good washing."

"No problem! Thanks!"

The shirt immediately hit the laundry table and a few days later came out of the washer and dryer with a load of other dark clothes.

It fit me perfectly! I was an associate scourge on evil! A junior juggernaut against crime! A ...

Hey, what's this near the shoulder? And on the chest?!

Marks! Bleach burns!

I asked Janet about them. Yes, I do laundry (and not very well, I'm told), but I hadn't done this load.

Janet's thought was that while on the laundry table, the shirt must have touched a cloth that had some bleach or cleaner on it.

NOOOOOOOOO!

I can only blame myself for not being more careful. Sigh. Now I can't wear it to church.

Keith, Ya Goof!