Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
GTY: Mom, you know that commercial with the trojan?
Me: Trojan, as in condoms?
GTY: Mom, geeze, I know what a condom is.
Me: I wasn't questioning your knowledge of what a condom was, I was asking if you meant Trojans as in horse or trojans as in protection.
GTY: Whatever. Anyway, there's this commercial where they say that Trojan's make you feel as if nothing is there.
GTY: Why is that good if the girl didn't think that the boy had a dick?
A moment of silence. A moment to consider whether or not to call him on the carpet for the use of the word "dick." Ah what the heck, I burst out laughing. And then came the harder part trying to aptly explain about "who" exactly in that particular scenario was happy about feeling nothing and why.
My thanks to Trojan for the many faceted advertisement. Perhaps they didn't think of that interpretation.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
- Burping whenever and where ever the feeling strikes you. This shenanigan is immediately followed by a verbal judgement of the quality of burp or just good old fashioned laughter. Hardy har har har.
- Farting whenever and wherever the feeling strikes you. This particular enterprise is often followed by a rapid-fire-verbal-exchange-post-fart-ritual that has something to do with doorknobs, no give backs and some other witty repartee that I cannot seem to follow. The verbal badinage may also be paired with some physical movement that requires the actual touching of a nearby real life door knob, the punching of a brother or some strange alien hand motions.
- The use of the words "sucks", "pissed" and "balls"
- The use of the word "balls" is ofttimes accompanied by references to certain actions, such as "suck my" or descriptive characteristics such as "hairy" or "swinging"
- The pre-camp phrase of "Oh my Gosh" has been temporarily replaced by the phrase "Oh my God" and we have even been treated to a single time use of the phrase "What the Hell???" (I am doubtful we will hear that one again. Once uttered, the room became eerily quiet while the utterer realized that his life was dangling by a very very VERY thin thread)
- The leaving of dishes and trash and clothes in places where dishes and trash and clothes do not belong. They do this as if someone will be right behind them to clean this up - say like the MAID or something.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Our new washer and dryer was delivered yesterday. Luckily, it was all hooked up without any problems. Doors opening the right way, gas line correctly identified as gas line when we ordered it (there was a little anxiety that it wasn't really a gas line, but it was) and presto! I'm back in the laundry business. Well shave me naked and call me a mole rat!
According to the advertisement on the right, I have now been awarded a ZILLION new carefree hours. Go me. So, today I got right on it and I used some of those. This is what I did:
- I replaced the little screens that create ventilation at the bottom of my garage doors. To do this I had to remove the slabs of wood that the prior owner had placed there and secured with both nails and screws. Come to find out the prior owner was a "belt and suspenders" kind of handyman. That is if you can call both nailing and screwing planks of wood over an opening that just needed the screen replaced a "handyman" kind of thing. Personally, I think that one of her son-in-laws was just lazy and stupid.
- After some trial and error I managed to get the second garage door to open. We have two. They slide side-to-side like barn doors. And, like barn doors they do not have an automatic opener. Super Drag. Even with the manual opening (aka shove all your weight on the door) the left side would open, but the right side refused. Turns out that the latch on the right side just needed some jiggling. Okay, technically it needed some serious prying with a GIANT screw driver and the application of some good old mus-cles. So, yes, it opens, but no I haven't solved the problem. I am content today with just having identified the problem. Tomorrow I will figure out the solution.
- I worked in the backyard. Suffice to say that the backyard looks like it could have been one of the scenes from Beetlejuice when they leave the house to ride the giant striped snake thingy. S.C.A.R.Y The foliage that was originally planted there in 1949 has now grown tall, leaving nothing on the ground 'cept some gnarly piles of dirt, some heaving bricks and some dirt encrusted slate. Oh, yeah, there was the mega succulent-type-thing that was horror movie kinda creepy. It was like tendrils of alien arms encrusted in dried up stuck together leaves and spider webs. It used to be the view from my kitchen window. Today I neutralized it with a saw. (Just a regular saw, but a chainsaw might have been faster)
- I used my handy-dandy electric leaf blower to try to clean up the decades of dried leaves that were back there as well. But that's where the fun began. That's when the word "carefree hours" felt most analogous with my actions. But the story is too long so here is the synopsis: No electrical outlets outside. Brilliant idea to plug it in to the kitchen through the kitchen window. Forgot to close window over cord. Merrily ran leaf blower. Much debris, detritus and filth was blown around. Much debris, detritus and filth was blown directly in to the aforementioned kitchen window. I win the gold medal for witless. Big round of applause.
- I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. Every cabinet, every counter top, every appliance, every knife in the damn knife holder etc. etc. etc. Look at your kitchen counters. Imagine everything covered in a fine layer of black soot and tiny little leaf particles. Imagine cleaning IT ALL.
Oh, and you thought the bug eating thing was the dumbest thing I could ever do. Have faith. I am exceptionally good at this...
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
In the backyard of the house on Sycamore Street, we had a berm of myrtle. Myrtle looks and behaves suspiciously like english ivy in that it grows fast (even faster where it isn't supposed to be growing - sort of like kudzu in the south) - and covers up a lot of ground. Could that be why they call it "ground cover"? So apt. But apt or not, myrtle is actually Satan's play toy. Myrtle is evil.
Every so often - or about twice in a summer, my mother called upon us girls to do the most heinous chore I can recall having to do on a regular basis during my youth. Weed the reef o'myrtle. It must be noted that my mother also once asked (demanded) that I wade through shit in our basement when a sewer drain backed up in to the house - - and shit-wading absolutely trumps myrtle weeding - but that was a one time event not to ever be repeated. I don't care how much shit backs up in to my basement. But myrtle weeding was recurring wretchedness.
I cannot guarantee this, but I have a notion that my sisters might agree that this was the worst chore ever. Worse than raking leaves, worse than shoveling snow, worse even than taking the giant pooper-scooper and ridding the back yard of english sheep dog doody. Why?
Myrtle creates the perfect umbrella for other living organisms. It creates a lush green blanket under which numerous creepy crawlies can not only live but THRIVE. In order to weed the myrtle, you needed to get up in it. You cannot address the myrtle from afar, you must wade through it, sitting, kneeling, crouching. You are then easy fodder for ants to crawl up your arms, spiders to run up your ankles and a whole host of other myrtle dwelling creatures to have their insectitudinal way with you. I shiver even now. Worst. Chore. Ever.
But, you will note in yesterday's posting of the photo of our new abode that indeed, I was unable to conjure up this terrible memory in time to consider it before the purchase. We bought a house with a front yard full of ivy. A mountainous mound, a behemoth berm, a hellacious hill, a frickin whale of a giant dune of ivy. Yes, ivy. Myrtle's cruel and merciless cousin.
Today I weeded the ivy. 50 years of never trimmed or controlled coils and snarks of deep dark creature hiding greenery. Memories of myrtle weeding assaulted me, especially since my new neighbor, Margaret, told me this morning that ivy-makes-a-perfect-little-home-for-mice-and-geeze-wasn't-it-funny-but-she-saw-a-couple-frolicking-in-there-just-last-night-what-a-super-move-in-gift! Thanks Margaret. Some new neighbor you turned out to be.
Dismally, I realized that I did not bring along my wellies in the "stuff that is necessary for the new house". This should now be another bullet point on yesterday's post. These would have been perfect. I could have slipped on my wellies, rubber-banded them on the top, velcro-ed my heavy duty gardening gloves over my long sleeved sweatshirt and girded myself again the assault. But no. The second part was o.k., but my no-wellies solution was a pair of black knee socks and a pair of lace-up oxfords. Stunning ensemble. Not nearly as effective a large knee high rubber boots, but it was gonna have to do.
Thanks to my new pruning shears the work was fast done (except for this atrocious wheat-like weed thing that was pull one little sheath at a time nonsense). I finished the work without any obvious attack of garden creature large or small - although my back has been "phantom" itching like there's something there, but not. Holy ant itch batman!
The good news is that that is the first and last time I will ever weed the ivy. Even as we speak, numerous landscape architects, to the tune of $150 per hour, are putting their creative heads together and devising a keen and cunning plan to beautify the front of our house (post-renovation of course) having been given a clear and concise order that no ivy nor myrtle or any other fast-growing umbrella haven creating ground cover should be considered. That is unless a new variety of said ground cover has been developed that repels all forest creatures and insects. In that case, it may be considered in small areas. A tiny parcel where, just in case the repellent fails, any and all weeding can be done from afar without stepping in or among the flora. Or (ding!! Idea light-bulb) I will send the boys out to do it. There's nothing like traditions that are passed down generation to generation. Lekhaim!
Monday, August 3, 2009
Having said that, we are used to BIG international moves. "Big International Moves" are synonymous with "killing of thousands of acres of rain forest" since everything, down to the most unassuming butter knife, is wrapped in seventeen layers of protective paper so that the ocean voyage does not harm it. Local moves are vastly different. They did pack our kitchen delicately - but most of the furniture was simply shrink wrapped in mega saran wrap. Pretty cool stuff.
Day One entailed moving everything that we were "keeping" in to our new place. They started at 8:00a.m. and finished unloading the last of the stuff from trip #2 at around 7:45 p.m. Day Two entailed packing up everything that we were "storing" and taking it to places unknown where it will sit in the dark until we call it back home sometime in the faraway future. They finished at a more reasonable hour of 6:00 p.m. Good Irishmen, all of them. We celebrated with a couple of beers at then. Like I said, Good Irishmen.
The very nicest thing about this move (and also kind of the very not nicest thing) was that we have arrived to our new home with the minimal amount of goods necessary to live over the next someteen months. The result is that unpacking was a walk in the park compared to previous moves. The downsides are as follows:
- I am already finding that there were things we should have brought, but didn't. Rugs are on the top of the list. Why? This house is constructed entirely of hardwood and glass. Can you say echo chamber (echo chamber, echo chamber, echo chamber...)?
- While Day Two found me managing movers at the other house, George the Elder stayed home to unpack and organize new home. When I finished at old house, I returned to new house to find that not only had George the Elder unpacked all of the boxes, but that he had also found the time to annihilate (he says trim) a tree in the front of the house that was "blocking his view". Setting aside his gardening skills, the problem here is that usually it takes a good piece longer to unpack a house. I think he was feeling measurably smug and oddly curious as to why the hell I have bitched in the past about what load of scutwork moving is. To my credit, his idea of "unpacking" was to get the crap out of the boxes and place them on various open surfaces so that I could place them in their final destination - but still. I'm wondering whether or not he is reassessing his traditional "move gift" to me of the day at the Spa given as compensation for all my labors? Hence, I should have packed more crap.
Other than that, things progress as things do in a move. I have purchased the "new mop" - as old mops can not transfer locations. I believe that evil spirits are transfered with mops from one place to another (no really, I just don't like to handle crusty germ infested mop heads for extended periods of time...) I also managed to fix the toilet in the master bedroom that was not running continuously - - but going off every 20-30 minutes or so as a result of a sloooooow leak in the flapper. Have you any idea how your sleep is effected when the silence of the night is loudly fractured by the sound of a 50 year old toilet trying to fill itself (please hearken back to lack of rugs and other noise absorbing household accoutrements such as artwork)? It was two nights of hell and an argument with George the Elder about the pros and cons of fixing a toilet that will be entirely removed during the renovations (that will start at some unknown point in the future, so the cost benefit analysis was working in my favor). I fixed the damn thing.
And last, I have managed to squeeze my scant amount of kitchen whatnot in to the world's most ineffectively, inefficiently and just plain stupidly designed kitchen. If I ever run in to the person who designed this space, I will happily strike him down with the large pot that will not fit in to a single kitchen cabinet and instead will be stored in a hall closet. Do you think that the woman who lived here had only a 2 qt saucepan and one small skillet? Improbable, but I am flummoxed about where she put her stuff. A question never to be answered but pondered for the ensuing months till the whole kitchen becomes dumpster fodder. Alas.