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Archive for December, 2004

This has only happened a couple times in my entire lifetime, and it’s not pleasant.

I am so tired that I want to die.

That’s about all I got for you, kids: I’m so tired that I want to die. When we were painting I was looking forward to moving. Now that we’re moving, I look forward to getting back to the painting part (not quite done, don’tcha know).

You can now begin looking ahead, anticipating next week’s token waste-of-everybody’s-time-but-
I’m-just-assuring-you-(AND me)-that-I’m-not-dead entry where I’m all, “Oh-ho-ho, aren’t I a melodramatic thing now, honey?” That will be post-sleep. Today? Today is full-on mumbly-speak and fuzzy-head and seeing, like, CRAYZAY! shit.

Even though I know that the cable will not be on for a few days at the new pad (and who’ll have time for it anyway?), send words of great cheer and grand kindness. Shore a sistah up, bitches!!!

(pee ess….I found something even better than the Atheist’s Nativity for the Christmas post this year! JOY!)

|| December 7, 2004 || 10:33 pm || Comments (6) ||

Home Improvement Madness

Surely to GOD there is a disease by that name. I spent a great deal of time pondering this today; that was after I realized, while using the friendly new Shop-Vac we purchased this weekend (yes, we’ve already sent one to its sucky grave…we are HARD!CORE!), I’d been spending the bulk of the time I’ve used it over the past two days trailing it behind me and talking to it overly-kindly, as if it were a lovable, fat-cheeked toddler.

(You know, like talking to it at all isn’t key-rayzee. Shuh. Work with me here, you hypercritical ayholes.)

I can’t help it. I’m a victim of exceptional product design. It works oh-so-great, and it looks like a cute little tubby robot, to boot!

If you skeptical fuckers don’t believe me, then have a peek at it yourveryownselves.

For the record, I’m holding on to ‘Paint Fume Mania’ as a backup defense. Just in case the Home Improvement Madness dog won’t hunt.

|| December 4, 2004 || 11:30 pm || Comments (3) ||

Unlike Siddhartha, I wear shoes.

Watching a house near-literally come back to life around you –you with your swollen, crackly fingertips and sleep-deprived eyespace– is an amazing zen-thing to behold. We walked into that house and even then, with its debris-laden rooms, its oddly-placed windows (“There is a window between the master bath and the back bedroom? Why???”) and its guts hanging out, we saw. We saw with hopeful hearts the promise that whispered through its halls, that was steeped into the brick, that peeked cautiously from the cubbies and closets.

In ways, the clearing out of it was the worst. This was, I guess, because we never knew what would turn up. The clearing out of it is also enormously entertaining in brief spells. This was also because we never knew what would turn up.

The neighbors, save for One Of Whom I Liked Pretty Damned Immediately, approached slowly, cautiously at first. They didn’t know what they were getting, after all. A full block of retirees with more money invested in their larder than in my entire life savings? Why hello, we have three children and a dog and we are fully here to interrupt your idyll. Niceta meetcha!

Plus, they hinted at trouble, and a revolving door on the place. On a street where everyone had lived 20+ years in large, dignified homes and ’serene’ was the baseline of action, it was like a Great Block Cancer. Then the house stood vacant for a bit before we came wanderin’ in, foolish and expectant, saying sincerely to one another’s innocent faces, ‘We can do this.’

It was if the house was waiting just for us. There were things scattered about, things we’d need. That hallway atrium….we’d have to have a very large ladder before even thinking about painting that 25-foot wall. There sat a mighty tall, mighty expensive ladder. Moulding and trim to be cut? Have a laser-guided miter saw! There were fourteen rooms to be revved back up; each of them needed sanding and painting. There were rollers and paint pans and sanding pads aplenty. Many times, where there was a need, it was met. And you can say all day, “Nowwww, Jett, maybe previous occupants were getting ready to remodel!” but I know that these things were not put there for that; rather, they were put there for us.

This is how I know: There was a Toro lawn mower (of the fancy-shmancy rear bag persuasion) waiting there as well.

As long as I’ve known Maxim, I’ve been Lawn Mower Cursed. The meandering details of all that will make a very witty post for another time. For now, you will just have to trust me when I tell you that I’m beset with the big ole LMC. It’s not as mighty as the crippling Vehicle Curse, but far less tame than, say, the Toilet Curse (the inverse of the LMC and the VC wherein your toilet runs and runs; the lawnmower and the car obviously don’t). For well over seven years now, I’ve not been able to own and/or keep a lawnmower. One time, in its haste to be shed of me, I even had a fucking mower throw a bolt (and thus, a blade) at my kidneys (because I near pissed m’self) by way of my knees. I was sort of trapped in a vicious cycle, as I never had the money to buy one really good mower because I was busy as a(n) [insert something clever here, I am tired as all-fuck] in a(n) [ditto for this one] purchasing cheapish get-bys.

The Toro, if you were unaware, is kinda a Billy Badass in the lawn mowing world. There one sat at that house, waiting on the lil’ ole Superior family. We oohed. We ahhhed. We got down and boogied all freaking night, man!