My blog is not only about the arts and crafts business but about life in general. My hope is to inspire you, inform you, and make your current beverage of choice squirt out your nose. I've chosen "Dog's Head Red", a fine red table wine that's a cut above good ol' Mad Dog. A very tiny cut above. It's not quite as refined as "Drive 'er Home", my other favorite, but quite swanky, none the less. Read quickly, before it's all too blurry.
Friday, April 1, 2011
This fine young man is my son. Quite the stud muffin, yes? This is the young man for whom I had to implement the "when I'm working, I'm dead" rule that I mentioned in an earlier blog. A few years ago, my son began playing a very unusual musical instrument. It's called the "butt trumpet". The "butt trumpet" is a distant relative of another invention of teenagers, both boys and girls, most commonly referred to by the young athletic types as the "snot rocket". What could this possible have to do with making lovely little lamps, you ask? Allow me to elaborate.
My shop, a.k.a "the pit", is in the basement, as is my son's bedroom. Until a few years ago, the noise coming from his room was easily identifiable. It was music, or something he considered music. Bear in mind, I work with resin. I can't have the stuff jiggling all over the place as it's trying to cure. And yet, that's exactly what happens when the boy turns on his mega big ass surround sound stereo system. My pouring table shakes from the pounding subwoofer that's vibrating right through the cement floor. And then tiny specks of dust start floating down from the ceiling. I thought this would be about as bad as it could get. I had cured him and his two older sister's of "snot rocketing" anywhere but outside. "Snot rocketing" - you know, when a soccer player or football player (choose your outdoor sport) launches a giant booger at an unsuspecting competitor. Don't deny it. All you jocks know just what I'm talking about. But, no, it got worse. Read on.
About the time my little angel hit puberty, the "butt trumpet" added a new dimension to my suffering. The first time he blessed me with his talent, he had plodded down the basement stairs in his disgustingly sweaty soccer uniform and kind of dripped into his room. Expecting the onslaught of "music", and I use that term loosely, to spew forth momentarily, I heard a diffent sound. A long, low, gurgley rumble, soft at first and then growing in intensity until I had to cover my ears, rolled boldly into the pit. Have you seen "War of the Worlds"? The remake, not the original. This was a tripod kind of sound, only wetter. It could have been much worse, my friends. The accompanying oder could have left me unconcious on the cold cement floor, but no! I work with resin. I use a respirator! Gasping for air, hands clasped to my ears, I ran for the relative safety of that mask, jammed it on my face and drew a massive breath. I was going to live! Thus, my introduction to the instument my son has become quite adept at playing - the "butt trumpet".
So what can we learn from this? We could lock our sons in their rooms with an air filter, I suppose, but I was thinking more along the line of expressing the importance of wearing the proper protective gear for the job. If you ever get a hankering (a WHAT?) for experimenting with resin, wear a respirator, not just a particle mask. And if you're a power tool junky, put on the safety glasses. I've come close to learning the hard way that skimping on the protective gear is just plain dumb.
On that note, get out your air purifier's and happy crafting!