Talk About a Rope Burn ... !

We have been suffering this past year from a chronic problem. You'd think that this problem wouldn't exist, really. We live on a big hill, a mini-mountain of sorts. We live close to New York City. We can see the Empire State Building from our front porch. And yet, the problem exists.

We get horrible television reception.

Yes, that's a problem. A mighty big problem. CBS doesn't exist in our house, and most stations are fuzzy, but we cannot afford (nor do we want) cable so ... now what?

Well, my handy husband came up with a solution. He noticed that there is an old, rusty antenna on the roof -- obviously placed there back in my grandfather's era and not functioning anymore. He did a little research and found that he could purchase a new outdoor antenna, which looks like a miniature airplane wing, and attach it to the old contraption. By pointing it in the direction of NY, we should get crystal clear reception, without the aid of ridiculous "rabbit ears" in our living room or the exorbitant expense of cable. Problem solved.

Well, sort of. While I was thrilled with the prospect of headache-free TV watching, I was none too pleased about the thought of my husband clambering about on the roof. We don't live in a ranch or cape or other one-story structure. No, our house soars above the ground in some Tower of Babel fashion. The roof is not a place where a human being should be, especially my husband. I am also acrophobic … terribly afraid of heights. So, the mere thought of my husband’s rooftop escapades were significantly heightened because of my fear of his destination. In my mind’s eye were playing several unbidden episodes of “I Can See It Now …” and suddenly fuzzy TV didn’t seem so bad after all …

My husband was adamant, though, and clearly didn’t share my fears. He wrote me off with a shrug and a nonchalant, “I’ll be fine!” and proceeded with his plans. He selected the date – last Saturday – and had all of his tools and cables and other necessities on hand. He elicited my dad’s help, since clearly I was not a viable candidate – not only did I have to watch the kids, but my phobia instantly ruled me out as a steady, reliable rooftop assistant. I did not feel offended in my exclusion – indeed, I much preferred not watching any of it unfold.

I did make one specific request, however – that he somehow tether himself to something, anything, just in case. We had plenty of rope, and I would feel much more at ease knowing his midriff was securely belted with a rope and tied to something immobile. He agreed to that one safety precaution, and I gave him my blessing.

In short, his endeavor was a success. We now watch our TV programs in what, to us, now seems like a version of high-definition, and more importantly, my husband remained unscathed throughout the entire procedure. It wasn’t until the end of the day when I learned what he tethered himself to …

MY DAD.

Even now as I write this I’m laughing. MY DAD … ?!

My father is 5’11.” Don is 6’3.”
I won’t divulge any weight secrets here without permission, but I will say that my dad weighs about 65 pounds less than my husband.

So my husband slips off the roof and then …

What?

It’s a scene out of The Simpsons or some other crazy cartoon, really. Who tethers himself to his father-in-law?!

What was he thinking?

What men will do for the sake of clarity.