Did I mention my new book idea? "The Chronicles of Nimrod," stories of domestic turmoil caused by, um, poor or uninformed choices with, sometimes, a smidge of bad luck. Nimrod, historically, was a Mesopotamian monarch known as a mighty hunter who may have had some part in -- might have been his idea -- building the show-offy Tower of Babel. Not the best idea, since it displeased God, according to the Bible, who responded by confusing the populace, giving each person in Babel a different language and sending them on their way. So I guess Nimrod is the king of the confused.
When I was a kid, in our family if somebody did something not-too-swift, we called it a Nimrod move. We all make them. And sometimes, they're funny. In hindsight.
Last summer, we took the big boat out to the island at the lake. Wouldn't you know, it broke down. Typical. So we were stuck -- me, my husband, my daughter, her boyfriend, my brother-in-law and mother-in-law. We had a kayak, that someone -- I forget who -- had paddled out. So we came up with the bright idea to send a volunteer back in the kayak, get the aluminum fishing boat, row that back and evacuate some of the stranded, especially the mother-in-law, while others worked on the motor.
My daughter's boyfriend volunteered. He paddled away in the kayak and about 45 minutes later reappeared, rowing the fishing boat. He's a strong young man and he was rowing hard. We watched him move up the lake in our direction, slow, considering the effort he seemed to be making.
Thank I noticed my daughter, standing at the top of the ledge, yelling: "Nimrod, Nimrod, pointy end first."
Moral of the story: Always travel pointy end first.
Yesterday afternoon, I sat on the couch eating my Lean Cuisine Turkey Dinner while watching Top Chef. My husband, who is not a fast mover, zipped through from the garage to the bathroom. His size 13 feet were flying! "What?" I said.
He didn't have time to answer. He reappeared and slid back through to the garage with a bucket of water and a bath towel.
I followed.
Later, when the excitement had died down, he explained what happened. He was priming clapboards in the garage (because it's cold out). Set the gallon of white primer on a cardboard box. The box tipped. The gallon of primer launched itself -- he said it "cantilevered" -- and the paint went high and long, dousing his . . . mid-life crisis.
Here's a photograph of the sorry situation.
With the hose and rags, we managed to wipe the primer off the shiny black exterior of the Porsche Boxter before it dried. But the situation looked serious for awhile. Let's just say my husband, now called Nimrod, wasn't all that pleased when I pulled out the camera. Admittedly, I laughed -- just a little.
Got any Nimrod stories? I'd love to hear them. Maybe they will be immortalized in "The Chronicles of Nimrod." Let me know if you'd like credit for the story (or not). Click on comments (below) and write your stories there, or send them to me directly, [email protected].
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