The Office Reno

We are so totally knee-deep in home ownership and my sights are set on the basement office. I'm excited to introduce to you this 3-stage approach to the office renovation.

Stage 1: Admire how well photographers can make a room look. This is the seller photo that was used in the listing. During this stage, I find it useful to initiate contempt and channel it towards the previous owners as a means of motivation and action. Take the drop-ceiling for example. Sigh, have they no decency?! Look at the floors. Gasp, how could they?! And you just know they're hiding a hideous mess behind the camera lens. Tautology!

Stage 2: Despair and otherwise grasping that I've bit off more than I can chew. Also that I'm probably making it more difficult than it needs to be. But hey! Those floors look impecable. This is surely the longest stage of any project I run.

It's always useful during this stage to engage reinforcements. Here, Alex pitches-in by pushing the sawdust around with a moppish thing-a-majig (also courtesy of the sellers).

Stage 3: This is the stage of self-negotiation. Most of the big stuff is done. But not all. Dialogue turns inward as the finish-line is called into question; "chances are I'm the only person that'll notice if I don't put bead of caulk along the edges of the wainscotting." Or, "If the door stays shut, then maybe we don't really need that flooring transition."

There's still a bit of work to do but I'm officially filing this one in the "Done" column!

Safe Secrets at Christmas

One of many blessings I've received since matriculating into parenthood are new perspectives, including the ability to see experiences, perhaps a second time, through my parents eyes.

In my formative years, Christmas was a time of joy, love, celebration and family. To the later point, a time that pitted father against sons in the eternal battle of keeping presents a secret until they were intended to be opened. I reflect upon the Rollerblade Christmas fondly - it was brilliant really. The only way into our attic was through the access door in my closet! It blew our minds at the time; the clever ol' man essentially hid the presents behind enemy lines. I can still remember the feeling of raising my head into the attic for the first time, fixing the flashlight on never-there-before boxes and looking through the packaging at a new pair of "blades" with black, purple and green laces. We must've pulled ourselves into the attic 25 times during the buildup to Christmas.

Another year, I think it was my TV year, the presents were nowhere to found. We checked Mom & Dad's shower, the trunks of their cars and the attic. Nothing! As Christmas approached, fate shined upon us. There was a shimmer coming from whence a black handle had been previously unremarkable. It didn't make any sense to us, why had a new padlock been installed on the shed? In truth, it didn't matter. The game was on. We couldn't find the key or pick the lock so we did the next most rational thing. We took the double doors (which never functioned properly again) off the hinges and walked right in.

And so it continued. Year after year. Some years we'd win by unearthing the mother load. Other years tilted in Dad's favor.

Then THE Christmas happened. No one quite knows where the idea came from but it was the ultimate in Dad-strategy. Perhaps he became weary of doors no longer working or attic insulation collecting on the closet floor. The one thing we know for sure is he changed the game and forever quelled the Christmas hunt. See, by piling the gifts in the middle of the basement and (sorta) covering them with a (sorta transparent) sheet, he altered the entire dynamic. No longer was it an annual high-stakes winner-takes-all game of Hide & Seek.

What Dad knew was that the prize (finding the gifts) was equally proportionate to the amount of effort required. In what could be described as an escalating arms race, he just decided to drive the amount of effort required to find the gifts down to zero. And in so doing, the prize had no value. Sure enough, we were surprised that Christmas.

Now, in 2018, I have to smile because in my home office is a pile of gifts...covered with blanket.

If experience has taught me anything, I am 100% sure the secret is safe.

Cloudy with a Chance of a Money Pit

Me: Knock. Knock.
Ali: Who's there?
Me: Amos.
Ali: Amos who?
Me: Amos-Quito!
Ali: [turns. leaves the room]

Frick and Frack, the previous home owners, made many a ding-dong decision. One of the dingiest-dongs was the addition (and eventual loss of interest) of a garden pond. Honest question, what was your reaction when you read the previous sentence?

Oh, garden pond. Where for art though purpose?

One thing was obvious: that swamp station, mosquito haven, zombie lair needed to go. The years and years of accumulated rain, leaves, mud, animals (unverified), potted plants, branches and rocks totaled 1,357 cubic feet of sludge. For reference, a gallon of water weighs 8.34 lbs. In total, I hauled 11,317 lbs of yack-inducing chuck toss. Blah.

I eventually reached the bottom of the 3' beast. Then the fill dirt arrived, clouds parted and the Red Sox ripped towards their 4th World Series Championship in 14 years.

From there on, it was mostly smooth sailing. Kinsley and Alex had a blast playing on the mountain of dirt and going for rides in the cart. As we entered the second half of Fall, the garden pool was full and Alex posed for one more picture. For some reason, he thought it was hilarious to lay on the ground like this.

I sure am happy to cross this project off the list. Makes me sleep a little bit better knowing there's no pond in the yard. I think I'm shorter than before I started the project. And I'm glad I didn't find a body while dredging nasty nast. Take that, Frick/Frack!

It's Pronounced [loo-is], Y'all

We've had difficulty finding time for a vacation this year. We've cancelled, rescheduled (twice) and also shortened. Total downer. Makes me wonder, what's the longest a family has gone without a vacation? To the best of my knowledge, we never had a summer without a vacation when I was growing up. Ocean City, Deep Creek Lake, Rehoboth Beach, Outer Banks. Most years we'd team-up with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. Other years we'd bring a friend.

I have a greater appreciation for it all now. Good thing Ali's driving this ship. :-) To Lewes we go!

This was the first time Kinsley was old enough to play at the beach. She went head first into the sand fun but was understandably apprehensive about the water. It is October, after all.

Alex must have been feeling more adventurous: he was living it up in the water. All he needed was a shovel and bucket. After that, he was good to go. Eventually Kinsley's curiosity got the better of her and we ventured into the water together. She and I went in far enough that I could let her sit on my knee. The water was cold but she didn't mind; she blew bubbles and even splashed some waves over towards her mom and brother.

The highlight of Alex's trip was the Pirate Cruise. They really do a great job engaging the kiddos in pirate adventure. He's been keeping an extra close eye on his bounty but I'm willing to bet that his favorite part was defending the ship via water cannon during the pirate attack.

We lucked-out because there were only a few kids on the cruise. It gave us plenty of room to play and explore. 

While the kids are goin' bananas for beaches and the pirate life, Ali and I are judging a 4-day battle of the baristas. We tried a couple different coffees each morning in search of Lewes's best cup of joe. From Station of Kings to some other place that I don't recall, we both agreed that the First Cup bean at the Bake Shoppe was tops. Bake Shoppe's losing points for other things but they emerge victorious in Battle O' Coffee 2018!

One of the things that keeps us coming back to Lewes are our wonderful Aunt and Uncle. Google seems to think my Aunt/Uncle are Alex & Kinsley's great Aunt/Uncle but that makes my head hurt. So how's about we roll with Grand Aunt/Uncle? Either way, they make us feel welcome even when our circus-on-wheels is in tow!

I Can't Unsee It

Giving Wifey a personalized license plate was a special occasion. There was a lot of build-up in 2015 as the list of possibilities became shorter and shorter. Suspense mounted while friends and family weighed-in and Wifey remained unaware. When the plates finally arrived, we triumphantly placed them on the new Chevy SUV. Years later, as the lease came to an end, we were certain that we'd transfer the personalized tags onto the new SUV.

Standing at the counter with sublime disinterest towards the contents, the dealer handed me a folder with a new set of plates. The cover flipped open to reveal the unthinkable.

The new license plate number had my initials in them! Right there in front me. In my hand. The first three digits: 4DM. How can it be!? In all of it's permutations, this universe has brought me the license plate that is For-David-Mills!

What should I do? What would you do? What do you think I did?

I'm really glad that you've read this far. Unfortunately, however, you've now been primed to notice 4DM license plates around the DMV. Like me, you'll never be able to unsee them. After a while, you might notice a For-David-Keith (4DK).

They're out there, people. Believe me. They're out there. Good hunting.

Mills Ministry Services: Now Open for Business

I became an ordained minister this summer. Did it so I could preside over Hollie's wedding. A few weeks thereafter I attended a work offsite. The icebreaker was to 1) introduce yourself and 2) share a highlight from your summer. I gave my usual introduction and excitedly shared that, "I married my sister over the summer." I'm not sure what sort of response I was expecting but it certainly wasn't the awkward silence and blank stares that I received. It took me a moment but I realized "I officiated my sisters wedding" would have been a much better choice of words. I quickly clarified but now have to chuckle and wonder if any of my work colleagues think that my sister and I are...wedded.

Ordination is quite the status symbol. It comes with a certificate, ministry license and clergy badge. It's a lot of fun too. I especially enjoyed writing (and delivering) the ceremony and being the recipient of the Officiant mug (which has taken it's rightful place among other valuable memorabilia).

I had a lot of flexibility with the ceremony. Venturing into the fringe of acceptable behavior was encouraged. While YouTube runneth-over with Princess Bride ceremony ideas, I managed to limit usage "mawaaage" to no more than 5 times. When it comes down to it, there's really only one legally required part of any ceremony: the I do's. Er...ah...the declaration of intent. Not gonna lie though, I smashed the the welcome, sermon and presentation of rings.

I smile now but was sweatin' bullets on the way to the ceremony. We were running a few minutes late and having trouble finding the building. I called Mom for directions and, for reasons I can't explain, led with, "We're having a Minister emergency." Normally, not a big deal but Mom answers her phone on speaker. Which means I declared "Minister Emergency" via speakerphone into a room filled with the bride and bridesmaids. Things got real quiet, real quick. :-)

The kids were in full toddler mode (Auntie Waa, sorry about that flower vase! Love, Kinsley.). The shrills in the background of the wedding videos are, undoubtedly, my children.

I loved every minute of the rehearsal, wedding and ministering. The venue was perfect. And I couldn't be more proud of my big sister!

Dad Level: 10,000

I had a buddy in college that kept a pet snake in his dorm room. I never would have known he had a snake except, one day, the snake wasn't in the aquarium. Instead, el serpiente was just chillin' on the desk. In the dorm room. In between me and exit. 

My lizard brain went straight into fight-or-flight mode. Flight wins. I go from zero to sixty faster than ever before. My onboard navigation system calculated the most direct route (through the shared bathroom, out the neighbors dorm room) and I was g-o-n-e. Didn't look back until I was halfway across campus. Never returned to the scene of the crime. Naturally, my buddies found it humorous.

Fast forward 17 years. There's a HUGE snake in my basement. Alex is 10' away. This is not a drill, people. Fight or flight? Place your bets...

I kicked that snakes @ss (or whatever they have)! Well, technically not. More like, I managed to keep my organs from shutting down long enough to trap the goliath in a bucket with the help of a broom and 8' piece of moulding. Pretty sure I was radiating beams of manliness at the time.

Clearly, the snake knew too much and would not be permitted to return to the woods behind the house. It's his lucky day though. This snake is on a relocation program. So I plunked a lid on the bucket, taped it down with a pretty good mix of duct tape and packaging tap, put it in the front seat and drove it down to the Ag Farm.

I knew the snake needed a name. Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind was a nickname for someone at work. Now, when we drive past the Ag Farm (twice a day), we all shout, "hello" to the snake named after one of my colleagues.

Bjoern the Unicorn

This is Bjoern. He's a Unicorn. And when connected to a garden hose, water shoots out of his horn. While it's clear why he joined the team, Bjeorn has a critical shortcoming: he takes a loooong time to inflate with the included pump. We're talkin' 15-20 minutes.

This is a Ridgid 12-gallon high performance wet dry vac. It's 5 horsepower, 145 CFM are best used to power a workshop dust collection system, scare a toddler or suck up anything smaller than an apple. With a simple configuration change, you can reverse the flow of air through the hose.

Discovering I could inflate Bjeorn with the Ridgid was the highlight of my day. I took that thing from empty to party-time in 15 seconds. Then I giggled. Deflating was fun too.

Update (July 7): I went a little overboard with the vacuum the second time. 15 second: just right. 18 seconds: unrecoverable malfunction. Bjeorn is no longer with us. ...was a challenge to "retire" him without the kids seeing.

Blood, Sweat and (preferably no) Tetanus

I've been working on the basement office project for several months. Recently, I've be focusing on the space under the stairway. It's a junk-zone today but with some love, we think it can be something special.

The original vision was to create a bench nook sort of thing for readers and/or loungers. That didn't make it past the approvals board so now I'm building a playhouse! Something like this:

An important early step is removing an old shelf system and building a wall to enclose the area under the staircase. Over the course of a couple of weekends, a nice pile of wood scrap and other construction stuff accumulated in the corner and I finally decided to haul it out to the trash today. ...without gloves. And that's how to spend the morning in the hospital, children.

Lots of blood. 6 stitches. 1 tetanus shot. Two parts embarrassed, one part regret. Sigh...

Project status: on hold.

That's Enough Sleep for One Night

When I was growing up, we'd spend holidays with grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Thanksgiving's were mostly spent at Mom's parents house in Towson. Children and grandchildren descended and temporarily forgot that they didn't own the place.

It was fun. We played marker tag and made cookies. Grammy and Grandad lived in the house at the corner of Cottage Lane and the back alley which meant they had a larger back yard than most. We'd play any- and everything in that yard: soccer, basketball, football, badminton, golf, etc. And the tire swing was a popular attraction.

I remember that (accidentally) sending a ball over the fence into the neighbors yard was avoided at all costs. Can't remember why though. I bet more than one tennis ball was lost forever on account of a grandchild's fear of the neighborly unknown.

If you stood on the back porch, you could pull seeds off of the tree and wing 'em at your siblings down below. Of course, if you were down on the ground level, you could sneak through the basement, up the stairs and into the kitchen to lock the Winger outside on the porch.

Grandad was a late-riser. In his defense, he was probably a normal-riser. ...children wake up early just to mess with parents (and grandparents).

If it was your turn, Grammy handed you a googly-eyed-fuzzy-pencil-looking-thing and asked you to go wake Grandad. There was only correct way to wake Grandad; twist the hair into a tight swirl, sneak-up on the unsuspecting fella and shove the hair twist right up his nostril (then duck any reflexes that may have been triggered).

I couldn't believe my eyes when I was clicking around the web yesterday and found this (the one on the left): the googly-eyed-fuzzy-pencil-looking-thing! The only difference is that ours was a yellow pencil with green hair. Wild.

Turns out that every generation enjoys waking someone from a sound sleep...