A few weeks have passed since I checked in. A clear violation of my “One post per week policy” but usurped by Blog Rule #1: “Have something to say.”

For some reason, I had a lot of issues with this past winter. Not even depression issues, per se. But something in my psyche broke. I barely got off the couch. I went to bed early and slept late on a regular basis. I have ballooned to the size of an adolescent Orca. My XXL shirts are getting tight.

Not good.

Somewhere in the executive conference room of my brain, the Director of Id and the Vice President of SuperEgo are watching the recently-demote Manager of Ego’s PowerPoint strategy deck on how to turn around the fortunes of Shawn Enterprises.

Ego’s plan: Wait for Spring. Shawn always gets Spring Fever.

Did I get Spring Fever? No. But My Beautiful Wife did. She cracked the whip. The last three weekends have been long days of chores.

We replaced our sliding glass patio door ourselves. The rusty aluminum door was original to the house (1977). It was in bad shape. The clean white vinyl slider with wheels-that-work and a lock-that-stays-latched is a fine upgrade. Replacing doors and windows are not difficult. The problem with Joe and Jane Schmoe replacing windows on a house with vinyl siding is that professional installers have a roll of aluminum “siding cap” in their truck and a long bending mechanism to shape the cap to perfectly fit the gap between the window (or door) and the exterior siding. The cap makes the installation look perfect from the outside. (Inside merely takes some foam fill and a lot of caulk to achieve visual perfection.)

Joe and Jane Schmoe cannot buy this cap at a hardware store. It is the bailiwick of custom installers only.

It took a while to find facsimile vinyl stock that would serve as filler cap between three different sized gaps. The door finally looks good, inside and out.

We paid the “$199 window guys” to replace two, old bedroom single pane windows with purdy new vinyl windows.  It still pisses me off that the “$199 Windows, Installed!” windows are actually $305 each after screw charges.  Not upcharges. Screw charges. But they look great. The house looks so much better since we started phasing in new windows.

I’m writing again.

I swear this is my last novel. I said this before with Selfie, but I mean it this time. This will be my opus. I will finish it. I will pitch it. I will not write another novel.

MBW doesn’t like this story. That’s an excellent indication that it will not get any traction with agents. I will finish it, regardless. I will pitch it, regardless. I will survive the rejection.

Speaking of survival, Cancer Dad is doing exceptionally well. Between the hearing aids (the hearing aids that required the VA physical that discovered the ass cancer) and his completion of chemo, it is as if somebody turned back the odometer on my father fifteen years. He sounds good. He can maintain a phone conversations where he hears my tonal subtleties and sarcasms and pivots on them accordingly. He’s more active at maintaining his domicile than I am.

The age in which we live. Amazing.

On a darker note, tune in to Dateline NBC in about two years to see the story of the murder-for-hire plot depicting how I am currently planning to bump off my mother. She’s a wonderful woman, but she’s sitting on the largest North American hoard of incandescent light bulbs, and I’m down to my last four daylight-balanced 60 watters after all the Spring upgrades. I’m not switching to those stupid fluorescent/LED bulbs.

I can hear Keith Morrison’s sing song voice now:  “A tale as old as time. A wayward son. Incandescent light bulb greed… And muuuuuurder.”

I tried to get an advance on my incandescent light bulb inheritance, but mom shot me down. She reminded me of how many times she warned me to stock up. The grasshopper and the ant. The ant (mom) squirreled away enough old-school light bulbs to keep an airport operational for thirty years. The grasshopper (Shawn) was certain the whole “LED lightbulb” thing was a hoax and a rogue factory in Mexico would keep cranking them out and light bulb smugglers would get them across the border.

“Psst. Ese. Pssst. Hey mon, you want to buy some Electric Sunshine? It’s the good stuff, mon. Here, take these nightlight bulbs and try ‘em out. Just a little taste. Give a few to your friends. Come back and see Cholo and I’ll hook you up, mon. I got the good stuff. 60s. 100s. Colorado Floodies you can only get with a prescription. Cholo got the goods to turn you on, mon!”

I better get to work. I’m going to need lawyer money.

Happy Monday.