Cheese Platter 7

•My parents always spoke of a barber from their youth whose quality of haircut depended on the amount of alcohol he'd consumed.  Contrary to what you might think, the more inebriated the barber was, the better the haircut.  I'm sure, however, that there was a point that the scale started tipping in the other direction.  I'm sure beyond a certain level of drunkenness the quality of haircuts had to start deteriorating.  Unless, of course, the barber in question was able to maintain a buzz all day long, which I guess he managed to do considering that he stayed in business.  My own barber, so far as I can tell, is more a talker.  If you can get him to talk about marathons, the sport of running in general, the Red Sox or politics that lean towards the right, you're guaranteed a good cut.  I have to fake it with all four of those topics as none of them really interest me.  However, there is a delicate balance to shoot for, as I learned about yesterday.  You don't want to get too deep into a conversation with the man because he just keeps cutting and cutting and cutting until the conversation ends.  My hair is the shortest it's been since my Mom gave me a buzz cut in elementary school.  It's a good cut, just really, really short.

•I have an irrational fear of my garbage disposal.  This is the first time I've ever lived in a place that has one and there's a part of my brain that is positive that I am going to cause myself grievous manual harm.  This wouldn't be much of a worry if the switch for the disposal wasn't where the over-sink light switch has been in every other place I've ever lived.  There is no over-sink light switch in our current place, so the way I see it my eventual hand mangling will go down like this: something will need to be retrieved from the disposal unit and I will stick my hand down there.  In an attempt to shine more light on the situation, I will flip the switch unconsciously thinking it is for the light, and voila: nubs for fingers.  Of course, I know it prudent to unplug the unit before sticking my hand in it, but I still can't shake the fear.  Surprisingly, however, the fear has not featured in any of my recent nightmares.  So, I guess that's a good thing.  I'll be well rested when it all goes down.

•In my backyard, there was once a shed.  During what was an unusually snowy winter, the shed's roof caved in due to the accumulated weight of the snow.  I expected the contents of the shed to be tools and lawn equipment, but it turned out to be mostly furniture which was unfortunately ruined.  Last week, my landlord showed up with his daughter and dismantled the shed.  He waved me over after finishing one day and proceeded to ask me what I'd like him to do with the additional yard that had been created by the now-absent shed.  I had expected him to just buy a new shed and put it there, but clearly he wasn't going to bother.  Instead, he wanted to know whether he should put a garden in, a patio in, or just seed the bald patch of earth and make the yard that much bigger.  I was a little befuddled.  It's not my land, you see.  It's his.  I bounced the question back to him reminding him that it was his land to do with what he wanted.  I'm not really sure we'd need a patio as we have nice a covered porch.  A garden would be great in theory but neither my wife nor I have been gifted with green thumbs.  More back yard would be easiest for him, I explained, and would likely be the most versatile option as well.  He thought about it and seemed satisfied with my conclusion.  So now, we have 33% more backyard.  And also the nicest landlord I've ever had.