Whittling away

It wasn't until today that I got back to work on the airplane, and even then it was only for forty-five minutes. I almost didn't go at all, but the allure of an eighty-five degree "first day of Spring" was too much for me to resist, particularly when I think ahead to the 125 degree "first day of Summer" that will logically follow should our temperature escalation proceed in a linear fashion.

Let's hope not.

I had thought to get out to the shop on Sunday, but instead went trap shooting with Pete and his wife Красивая женщина, who was going to try out her brand new 28 gauge ultra-light semi-auto shotgun. I was afraid that I wouldn't do nearly as well as I did last time, thinking that my 16 out of 25 was surely a fluke that I would never be able to match again, but it ended up being the opposite: I shot a 22 out of 25. I was doing so well that on the three that I missed, I theatrically looked askance at my gun as if it had somehow developed a warp in its barrel. Boorish, yes, but quite fun! Lest I give the impression that it's all about me, I also have to say that after a few shots to get the feel of her new gun, Красивая женщина also had a pretty good day. And I have to tell you, I went 0 for 3 with that gun. The five or six birds she hit in a row was very impressive!

Pete? Well, I don't think we will be inviting him on our safari.

I had also hoped to do some more sanding on the cowling halves on Monday after work, but by the time I was able to even think about making it out to the shop my mood was wrecked. And it wasn't the only thing in that condition. You see, Monday was one of those days that we have every three months or so at the sweat shop wherein we meet at an offsite location for a "strategy" meeting.

These meetings went a lot better for me in the past, before I came upon the idea that the secret to success in the business side of the house is to differentiate yourself. After thinking of various means to do that, I came across what I thought was a winning plan: rather than follow the herd, all of whom now pride themselves on "thinking outside the box," I thought that I might distinguish myself through the radical idea of thinking inside the box.

That ended up being just as unpopular as the most famous "inside the box" profession known to man which is, of course, being a mime.

So, after a grueling day of expostulating on obviously unworkable strategies, I found myself pulling into the driveway at the palatial estate that I call home, only to note that a portion of the house was no longer where it had been when I had left just nine short hours earlier. Apparently what had happened in the interim is that Co-pilot Egg had come home from school, and rather than drive into the garage, she had managed to drive into the garage.

She has often stated a desire to own a smaller, more nimble car. Unable to buy one, she seems hell bent on making one herself:

Smaller, anyway. Probably no more nimble.

No one was hurt, fortunately, which, if you figure (as I do) that a first accident is inevitable, is the best outcome possible. I've had my share of accidents born of over-confidence and/or carelessness, so I know of what I speak. Oddly enough, she thought she was going to be grounded as a result of her vehicular imbroglio. I quickly put her mind to rest by explaining that grounding is what you do to misbehaving little kids that don't have any foreseeable financial prospects against which a lien can be placed. Eighteen year olds, on the other hand, make pecuniary restitution, even if it is only the amount of the home insurance deductible.

I think she would have preferred being grounded.

Today was no real picnic at work either, as I learned the hard way that obvious ideas have the detrimental trait of actually being implementable. By me, as it turns out. More work.

Next time? I'm going back to the outside of the box. Way outside.

Still, with the weather being what it was I thought I'd at least get some more of the interminable sanding done. Pete loaned me a nice sanding block to use to try to straighten up the somewhat wavy edges caused by the use of the very narrow belt sander.

Trust me: I was every bit as tired as I look.