The problem with the bookshelves is…

Some time ago, i.e. on June 8, Ottawacker Jr. was organised into having a team photo with his BU13 group. Since then, I have been trying hard to find out where the photos from the session were. Emails to the club, the admins, the coaches, the photographer yielded no answers (well, plenty of answers, but of the “don’t know”, “not sure”, and “they were delivered a long time ago” variety). Today, I got the photos – just as I was about to compose a Very Stern Email. One of the coaches had them and had forgotten to hand them out. Oh well, it happens, I suppose. The photos are pretty decent, but I do occasionally wonder what I am going to do with them. Another photo album, I suppose.
 
Talking of which, I have come to realise that my bookshelves – which house the photo albums – are becoming an issue. Mrs. Ottawacker makes pointed reminders about my book addiction on many occasions. I point out that it could be worse – I could have a number of more damaging addictions, for example, or collect cats – but I am getting to the stage where I can see she might have a point. The books have maxed out the bookshelves in the office, the dining room, the basement, and all of the bedrooms – and the shelves are two books deep. Worse, the recent set of three photo albums I got from Bob Books have caused them to go beyond their allotted space. There is nowhere for them to go. Before, I would simply have thrown my hands up and gone to by another bookshelf. Now, though, I am mentally paralysed. This will require some thought. I could, of course, follow Mrs. Ottawacker’s advice and GET RID OF SOME OF THE BOOKS, but that (capitalised to show the Trumpian folly of the whole idea) is out of the question. I mean, what is the point of getting the books in the first place if you are only going to get rid of them? Exactly. No, this will require strategy and ingenuity.
 
All of which I seemingly possess in buckets. I may have, in the past, given the impression that my DIY/handyman skills were somewhat lacking. The events surrounding the supergluing of the plastic light socket cover, for example, need no further expounding. And, of course, I recently fell down the stairs having put in a screen in the basement window. But, today, I successfully managed to watch a 3-minute YouTube video and then fix the dishwasher. Admittedly, it was a simple matter of detaching the whirling bladey thingies, washing them, and then using a paper clip to get out any gunk (of which there was an astounding amount), but I managed it AND I managed to reattach the whirling bladey thingies so that the dishwasher once again fulfilled its primary task of actually cleaning the dishes instead of just rearranging the grease. It works like a charm and I didn’t fall down any stairs or superglue my hand to my penis. That’s a result or two in my book.
 
Having fulfilled the caveman part of my day, and notified the Nobel committee in case they want to award me a prize, I drove down to the LCBO to get some wine, started going through some photos that Mrs. Ottawacker’s sister had sent me to “mend”, and booked myself a hearing test and debridement. I actually have no issues with my hearing, unfortunately, other than the selective hearing which every male has to have to survive happily in a relationship, and my ears are relatively clean. But, following an early case of Covid, I have no sense of smell and my sense of taste is somewhat compromised (although not, as Mrs. Ottawacker often says, to the same level as hers, whatever that means); therefore, having had an MRI and discovered I am not harbouring an unwanted tumour, I hit upon the idea that the might be a build up of something in the ear canal that is causing the sensory issues. Unlikely, I know, but you never know. Not only is this only going to cost me $85 (the hearing test is free, the debridement costs “up to $85”), but I have learned a new word. Mrs. Ottawacker had it done not so long ago (she is still mutton) and described it as an “interesting experience”. Hmm.
 
End of day saw me cooking beef and vegetable kebabs under the grill. See? I can cook healthily. Of course, I did rather spoil the whole affair by drinking a whole bottle of white wine. But it is only white wine. And I need to celebrate that Nobel prize somehow.