I recently had one of those extremely rare "Ah ha" moments. The light bulb glowing in the thought bubble above my head was not one of those low wattage compact flourescant ones either. It was a good old fashioned 100 watter. The type that burns the hand off of you when you try and take it out after its only been on for a count of five. The type of bulb that is perfect for symbolizing the brightest of ideas. It had to be the old fashioned type of bulb to befit the stupendous discovery that had just come to me.
I don't know about you, but those newfangled CFL's remind me of a pig's tail. A tail is always situated right next to the "poo hole". (I got the term from eavesdropping on conversations between my kids and their friends. It's king of gross, but on the other hand, very accurate.) What's up with those bulbs anyhow? Like most people I know, I bought in to the idea that they were the best thing since sliced bread. On every box you will find the promise that these lights will save you hundreds of dollars. I must have 50 or 60 of those bulbs in my house and so far, my bank account doesn't reflect that promise made by the manufacturers.
Yesterday, I had to replace a CFL that is dimmable. That one bulb cost me $11.68. It was a 14 watt bulb and it supposedly gives off the same brightness as the old 60 watt bulb. That's a difference of 46 watts, so if I calculate the cost per kilowatt hour and multiply that by the number of hours........... Crap! My math is looking like chicken scratches........ wait........ wait.......... forget it..... I thought I may be having an Einstein moment, but it was just gas from the sandwhich I had for lunch. So, not only are these CFL bulbs expensive and many contain harmful mercury, but we also see how easily it is to associate them with pig defecation (i.e. poop). Not exactly a powerful symbol to represent ground breaking ideas. This is one case where newer is not exactly better.
Sorry about getting side tracked. Writing sets off lots of little little bulbs for me, so I'm easily distracted. Let's return to the point of today's blog - my "Ah ha" moment. It was as if the burden of a life long delimma had finally been lifted from my shoulders. I finally knew what needed to be done. I'm sure Einstein felt the same exileration when he looked at his chalkboard of chicken scratches and saw the answer to his life's work staring him in the face. I now know how Sir Issac Newton felt moments after the apple feel from the tree and bopped him on the noggin and, instead of stars, he saw the explanation for earth's gravity.
For years I had jostled with a problem and there seemed to be no perfect solution. Each and every time, tiny bits of tuna were ending up in the mayo jar whenever I made my patented triple decker tuna sandwich. As everyone knows, the tuna and mayo must be mixed together before spreading that mixture out on the welcoming wafers of wheat. The secret of a great tuna sandwich is lots of yummy mayo. A dry tuna sandwich is akin to trying to swallowing salty saw dust. When a sandwich lacks sufficient mayo, the damn thing never stays together and the tuna ends up all over your lunch box or suit pocket. The mayo is the mortar of the culinary world.
For years, I have opened tins of dolphin free tuna (dolphins may get it for free, but I usually pay about a buck) and used the lid to squeeze off the liquid. I admit I have been tempted to put it in a glass and drink it, but I haven't had the nerve. Who knows where that stuff has been! I then used my butter knife to pry it from the can into a cereal sized bowl. Even the flaky tuna comes out like a hockey puck, so I surgically applied the knife to spread the tuna around the bowl. The most important step was next. Adding the perfect amount of mayo is the key to a great sandwich. This required using the knife to dive into the keg of mayo and coming out with an amount that would get me close to the perfect viscosity, but never too much. A soggy sandwich is a sinful sign of laziness. I always had to go back to the mayo keg to extract a little more in order to get my meal to where it needed to be. That was the cause of the dilema. Tuna molecules would be left in the mayo jar and it didn't seem to matter how well I wiped the knife on the bread before diving back in. No one else in my family appreciates a triple decker tuna samdwich like I do. In fact, they hate tuna. My love affair with tuna was causing a rift in my family. I was out numbered and after nearly 20 years of marriage and 11 years as a dad, I was finally learning which battles are worth fighting
I was in a state of despair and gloom as I envisioned life without my beloved tuna and mayo duo. But it's so true that things are darkest at dawn. My 100 watt light bulb came on just when I needed it most. The perfect solution was at hand. It was as good as the theory of relativity and the law of gravity combined. I solved the tuna in the mayo conundrum -- I just had to lick the tuna off the knife before dipping back in for more mayo. Ingenious or what? Touché Albert.
