S and I traveled to Rockville today to take a look at the fine offerings just off Viers Mill Road, which as it turns out doubles as a parking lot. We met our real estate agent this bright and cheery morning. Note: The morning itself was not cheery, or in retrospect, bright. The light was a bit more like that of a fifty watt bulb through a grey lamp shade. Anyhow.
House 1
We always like to begin our days of house hunting by looking at something out of our price range, thereby making the rest of the day a never ending series of disappointing houses that don't quite measure up to the one that we can almost afford. I recommend this method highly if you enjoy being miserable. The townhouse had a nice brick exterior and a garage. Garages being a great place to store things like loppers and hammers, and other tools that frighten me with their inherent masculinity.
Real Estate Agent: You could probably put in a hardwood floor yourself.
M: Or you could do it for me.
The strange thing about this listing was that every room seemed to be at slightly different levels, thus causing me to feel as though I was walking on board a rolling ship.
M: How's the mainsail in this place?
Agent: What?
M: What are the chances that I'll get scurvy?
Agent: What do you think of this place S?
On the whole it was a nice listing, with a relatively cute (not a word I use often) deck and a hot tub. Which at this point in my life it's probably important that I have a hot tub, especially if I'm going to be wandering up and down stairs all day causing the joints in my seventy year old (in terms of joint health) knees to recover.
House 2
While approaching this listing we noted the proximity of the train tracks to the yard. Ie, your back yard is pretty much train tracks. As a child who grew up in a generation that watched Stand By Me, train tracks are right up there with clowns (damn you Stephen King) in terms of things that strike the fear of God into my heart. I'm already picturing our imaginary kids playing on the tracks and all the elaborate stories we'd have to tell them in order to keep them from going on the tracks as well as the no doubt nascent fear that I'd have of a train derailing and coming through our bedroom window to kill us. This fear is sort of akin to the fear I had of taking a bath after watching the movie Jaws. Rational? No. Plausible? Eh, lets go with yes.
House 3
House 3 was a charming little three bedroom. The only problem was that it backed up to the tracks, and was also the size of a two bedroom one bath condo, but actually had three bedrooms. Oh, and a woodworking shop. Which, as an aside, if we end up getting this place you'll all be receiving hand-crafted elves as gifts for the next three to five Christmases. Too small.
House 4
This was probably the real charmer of the day. The exterior of the house was simple enough. A large tree pushing up bits of the sidewalk, a small chain link fence skirting the exterior, and a pile of thirty beer cans and three bottles of wine ready to be taken out for the garbage man. Which, I'm assuming in this tenant's case the garbage probably had about five days until it was ready to go. I'm not judging this guy for having thirty beer cans in his front yard on a house that he was showing, and I'm not blaming him for looking as though he had had about ten of them that morning already, and I'm not blaming him for watching a show called, "Fugitives on the Run." However, I do draw the line at walking down the hallway and seeing a sign, (put up with your lower quality masking tape and the "sign" has been written in the sort of hastily scribbled black pen that makes you think of an insane asylum) on a wall that read poopsville. At this point we beat a hasty retreat from the house, partially from fear of what else we would find, and the fact that the tenant had disappeared without telling us where he was going, and we weren't entirely certain that he wasn't hiding in a back room/waiting to kill us vis a vis Fugitives on the Run. Poopsville. Seriously.
House 5
By house five, any home buyer pretty much feels like they have been sitting in the sun for about four hours, sans sun block, and you are now looking for a place to lie down/wondering why you're hallucinating a perfectly nice kitchen in yet another small house.
10:00 P.M. Tell S that I need to get cracking on my blog.
10-10:45 watch two episodes of 30 Rock.
10:45 P.M. Head of S's attempt to start a third episode.
M: You're interfering with my creative blogging space. This area, (denoting a small area around our Ikea furniture) is for blogging only.
S: Am I blogging your creativity?
M: (Laughter).
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Cooking
As has been exhaustively documented in this blog, we've been dealing with a bit of roach problem, which has caused a disruption in our usual evening meals. The two of us now squatting against the couch and staring at our blank television and wondering what happened to our lives. One of the interesting side effects has been that I've taken up cooking this week. Apparently they provide these things called "recipes" which if you just follow these "recipes" closely the end product is usually pretty good. For years my kitchen demeanor has been to pull from the counter and spice racks and throw in ad-hoc whatever appealed to me. Scene: Huh, I like garlic and chocolate chips. Why hasn't anyone ever thought of putting them together? Queue to actual scene of me mistakenly frying up a cucumber thinking that it was zucchini then eating it noisily proclaiming its relative tenderness to S who would not even partake of the cucumbers, which in her defense had also been rolled in brown sugar.
Anyhow, if you just google something like "roasted potatoes," it turns out that you can find a "recipe" for roasted potatoes. This is pretty much ground-breaking stuff for me and I hope for the casual reader as well.
Job Front:
I'm being considered for another couple of jobs at the library where I've been toiling away for student wages over the past few months. I'm fairly certain that if I get turned down for these two jobs that my rejection count from this one job will have far exceeded any rejections I got while asking the fairer sex out. (Note: I think I may have asked out two girls in my life. I went 1 for 2, which is like batting 500 is we're playing baseball, and would be an all-time mark. However, if we're playing basketball and I'm at the foul line, I'm shooting like 50 percent, which makes me like Shaq. Like in my early twenties you'd be fouling me (providing copious drinks) just to see me try and casually strike up a conversation with a disinterested girl, who is typically looking around the bar to see where she has A) left her purse B) Left her Friend C) Left that handsome guy that she had been talking to earlier. The exciting part of this story was seeing the female in question a few months after her gentle dismissal in a local bar and pointing her out to one of my friends who said, "What were you thinking? She's way out of your league." Which, hey, at least it didn't stick with me and scar me these eight long years. Thanks Brian. You bastard.
Plural vs. Possessive
I've apparently made a routine habit of using these incorrectly in this blog.
S: You should proofread your blogs
M: Did you think it was funny? Note: add child-like need for validation somewhere in a portion of my irises.
S: "I mean, you just have quotation marks at the start of a sentence and then you leave them off completely at the end.
M: (Ashamed).
New Computers:
The most fun thing about buying the new computer was briefly pretending to know what things like gigaherz and RAM and dual core meant and shaking my head as the attendant rattled these things off in Best Buy. Tapping the computer meaningfully and saying that I just wasn't sure if 250 was going to do it for me.
Attendant: Are you going to be storing thousands of pictures and music and movies on there?
M: Possibly. I was thinking of running a small movie company solely based on my computer's graphics. Sort of like a Pixar thing. I've got this idea for an ornery hedgehog who travels around in a land of giants, and while he has this sort of complex relationship with his parents, who are aging, deep down he has like a heart of gold.
Attendant: Then this is the computer for you.
M: I think I need to work with someone else. Someone a bit more creative. I just told you the hedgehog's got a heart of f-ing gold. Do you think kids are going to want to watch a movie in which all the other predators are trying to rip out his heart of gold and sell it on the black market for cocaine? Is that the sort of movie you want your kids watching? Do you even have kids?
Note: The above interaction is a dramatization of a fairly simple conversation about computers. Plural.
Anyhow, if you just google something like "roasted potatoes," it turns out that you can find a "recipe" for roasted potatoes. This is pretty much ground-breaking stuff for me and I hope for the casual reader as well.
Job Front:
I'm being considered for another couple of jobs at the library where I've been toiling away for student wages over the past few months. I'm fairly certain that if I get turned down for these two jobs that my rejection count from this one job will have far exceeded any rejections I got while asking the fairer sex out. (Note: I think I may have asked out two girls in my life. I went 1 for 2, which is like batting 500 is we're playing baseball, and would be an all-time mark. However, if we're playing basketball and I'm at the foul line, I'm shooting like 50 percent, which makes me like Shaq. Like in my early twenties you'd be fouling me (providing copious drinks) just to see me try and casually strike up a conversation with a disinterested girl, who is typically looking around the bar to see where she has A) left her purse B) Left her Friend C) Left that handsome guy that she had been talking to earlier. The exciting part of this story was seeing the female in question a few months after her gentle dismissal in a local bar and pointing her out to one of my friends who said, "What were you thinking? She's way out of your league." Which, hey, at least it didn't stick with me and scar me these eight long years. Thanks Brian. You bastard.
Plural vs. Possessive
I've apparently made a routine habit of using these incorrectly in this blog.
S: You should proofread your blogs
M: Did you think it was funny? Note: add child-like need for validation somewhere in a portion of my irises.
S: "I mean, you just have quotation marks at the start of a sentence and then you leave them off completely at the end.
M: (Ashamed).
New Computers:
The most fun thing about buying the new computer was briefly pretending to know what things like gigaherz and RAM and dual core meant and shaking my head as the attendant rattled these things off in Best Buy. Tapping the computer meaningfully and saying that I just wasn't sure if 250 was going to do it for me.
Attendant: Are you going to be storing thousands of pictures and music and movies on there?
M: Possibly. I was thinking of running a small movie company solely based on my computer's graphics. Sort of like a Pixar thing. I've got this idea for an ornery hedgehog who travels around in a land of giants, and while he has this sort of complex relationship with his parents, who are aging, deep down he has like a heart of gold.
Attendant: Then this is the computer for you.
M: I think I need to work with someone else. Someone a bit more creative. I just told you the hedgehog's got a heart of f-ing gold. Do you think kids are going to want to watch a movie in which all the other predators are trying to rip out his heart of gold and sell it on the black market for cocaine? Is that the sort of movie you want your kids watching? Do you even have kids?
Note: The above interaction is a dramatization of a fairly simple conversation about computers. Plural.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Choosing a Realtor
Inexplicably, Stephanie and I find ourselves as the proud almost clients of two perspective realtor's. The reasons are moderately complex and not really worth mentioning, which if you've been reading along, you might be apt to say that I've already wasted your time.
We decided to ask each of them a series of questions to determine the top candidate. Kind of like a Mrs. American pageant minus the bikinis and sashes and Ed McMahon and a stage and...Ergo; I've posted our findings below in an attempt to get help from the wider community in choosing an agent. Note: I've excised/summed up/truncated/amended answers to increase the fluidity of the prose. The Agents are listed as 1, 2, and 3, my conception of an ideal Realtor.
How long have you been in the real estate business?
1. 3 years
2. 8 years
3. Ideal Realtor, "I was actually selling properties in the womb and had developed a complex exchange for the rights to my severed placenta by the second trimester.
How many clients are you working with?
1. 14
2. Not telling.
3. I've actually just e-mailed/texted/called every one of my others clients and told them that I'm putting them on hold until the three of us can work out a sale. Have I told you that you look great for someone who's almost twenty five? Thirty? You must be kidding? (Loving punch administered to arm).
Where are most of your sales?
1. Silver Spring
2. D.C./burbs
3. I typically sell most of my houses in ritzy upper NW neighborhoods to poor couples who look good in family photos.
What do you charge?
1. Some
2. Some
3. I'm actually doing this whole thing pro-bono because I liked that family picture you sent me so much. I'm not even sure what pro-bono means, but I'm as eager to find out as you are!
When am I officially working with you?
1. When we sign an agreement.
2. We're not already working together?
3. "Working. I can hardly call spending time with you work. Heck, you should charge me!"
How often can yous show us properties?
1. As much as my schedule allows
2. Lets get you in a damn house already!
3. Often. Can the answer contain part of the question or is that just a problem when defining something?
What is your average list-to price sales ratio?
1. Pretty good.
2. How dare you ask that.
3. I typically help a buyer get in at about 70-80 percent under the listed value. This typically involves a bit of arson and some scare tactics, but you're committed to this aren't you. Do I hear flaming bag of poo?
How quickly can you get us into a home?
1. Well, that depends on how many houses we look at on a given weekend and so on...
2. Why are you wasting my time with these questions? Lets get that house!
3. How quickly can you fashion a paper bag mask and develop a threatening tone? (Not sure why our ideal realtor has turned into a crook).
Do you represent buyers and sellers on the same house?
1. No
2. No
3. No
What haven't I asked you that I should?
1. What a good list of questions you've prepared. I'm ready to share references.
2. Where did you get all these stupid questions from?
3. You haven't asked me out for drinks yet? Oh, just kidding. you're just both so damn good looking it's hard to focus. Here's a picture of my cat. Isn't he cute?
Votes will be tabulated and we will select a realtor based on your input. Thank you for your support.
6:00 P.M. Return from work at the library in the middle of a phone conversation that S was having with our landlord related to rent remission based on the proliferation of cockroaches in our humble abode.
S: I mean, I think 200 dollars is actually an insulting amount to offer.
M: (In my head: what a great thing to say).
Later
S: You know what my favorite thing that I said today was? When I told our landlord that 200 dollars was an insulting amount to offer.
M: Me too!
"It was more the deeper, more tragic and universal conflict. The conflict between the subjective centrality of our own lives versus our awareness of its objective insignificance." Oblivion DFW
S: "Hmmm. I guess that's true. Like even your parents can't be as central to your life as you yourself are. I mean, even your life is a lot less interesting to me than my own."
M: "That's sweet honey."
We decided to ask each of them a series of questions to determine the top candidate. Kind of like a Mrs. American pageant minus the bikinis and sashes and Ed McMahon and a stage and...Ergo; I've posted our findings below in an attempt to get help from the wider community in choosing an agent. Note: I've excised/summed up/truncated/amended answers to increase the fluidity of the prose. The Agents are listed as 1, 2, and 3, my conception of an ideal Realtor.
How long have you been in the real estate business?
1. 3 years
2. 8 years
3. Ideal Realtor, "I was actually selling properties in the womb and had developed a complex exchange for the rights to my severed placenta by the second trimester.
How many clients are you working with?
1. 14
2. Not telling.
3. I've actually just e-mailed/texted/called every one of my others clients and told them that I'm putting them on hold until the three of us can work out a sale. Have I told you that you look great for someone who's almost twenty five? Thirty? You must be kidding? (Loving punch administered to arm).
Where are most of your sales?
1. Silver Spring
2. D.C./burbs
3. I typically sell most of my houses in ritzy upper NW neighborhoods to poor couples who look good in family photos.
What do you charge?
1. Some
2. Some
3. I'm actually doing this whole thing pro-bono because I liked that family picture you sent me so much. I'm not even sure what pro-bono means, but I'm as eager to find out as you are!
When am I officially working with you?
1. When we sign an agreement.
2. We're not already working together?
3. "Working. I can hardly call spending time with you work. Heck, you should charge me!"
How often can yous show us properties?
1. As much as my schedule allows
2. Lets get you in a damn house already!
3. Often. Can the answer contain part of the question or is that just a problem when defining something?
What is your average list-to price sales ratio?
1. Pretty good.
2. How dare you ask that.
3. I typically help a buyer get in at about 70-80 percent under the listed value. This typically involves a bit of arson and some scare tactics, but you're committed to this aren't you. Do I hear flaming bag of poo?
How quickly can you get us into a home?
1. Well, that depends on how many houses we look at on a given weekend and so on...
2. Why are you wasting my time with these questions? Lets get that house!
3. How quickly can you fashion a paper bag mask and develop a threatening tone? (Not sure why our ideal realtor has turned into a crook).
Do you represent buyers and sellers on the same house?
1. No
2. No
3. No
What haven't I asked you that I should?
1. What a good list of questions you've prepared. I'm ready to share references.
2. Where did you get all these stupid questions from?
3. You haven't asked me out for drinks yet? Oh, just kidding. you're just both so damn good looking it's hard to focus. Here's a picture of my cat. Isn't he cute?
Votes will be tabulated and we will select a realtor based on your input. Thank you for your support.
6:00 P.M. Return from work at the library in the middle of a phone conversation that S was having with our landlord related to rent remission based on the proliferation of cockroaches in our humble abode.
S: I mean, I think 200 dollars is actually an insulting amount to offer.
M: (In my head: what a great thing to say).
Later
S: You know what my favorite thing that I said today was? When I told our landlord that 200 dollars was an insulting amount to offer.
M: Me too!
"It was more the deeper, more tragic and universal conflict. The conflict between the subjective centrality of our own lives versus our awareness of its objective insignificance." Oblivion DFW
S: "Hmmm. I guess that's true. Like even your parents can't be as central to your life as you yourself are. I mean, even your life is a lot less interesting to me than my own."
M: "That's sweet honey."
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
How to Choose/List a proper house
I've discovered that S and I have different methods for narrowing down the list of houses on Redfin that we're interested in. My method is to begin with a large number of houses and then gradually narrow them down via a process of elimination until I reach a reasonably small numbers. Meanwhile, S's version, (which I'm in no way denigrating) is to "narrow" down the choices by consistently adding houses to our list.
Narrow-make or become more narrow or restricted.
Now, a typical dunce is merely going to see narrow defined in such a way and assume that my process is perhaps more effective at helping us to make our decision. Note: My list has 15 houses and S's has 121. However, I submit that the person who supports that definition is being narrow minded and is narrowly avoiding the mistake of not having enough houses with which to narrow down from.
Later: Success! We're down to ten!
Things that helped us winnow down our housing choices/helpful suggestions for home sellers.
1. If you have an old rusting play set in your back yard it is not the best idea to feature it prominently in photos, declaring the neighborhood to be full of tots, and the house as a potential daycare.
2. We do not need to see pictures of water heaters or wall sconces.
3. Only take multiple photos of your basement if it is finished. Basements are where people put bodies and are generally regarded as scary/dungeonesque abodes of dwarves and brown recluse spiders.
4. It is best to include pictures of your house if it is listed. Putting up a blank picture with details attached pretty much just says, "We'd really like you to take this piece of shi- off our hands for close to the asking price. We'd include pictures but then we wouldn't have suckered you in to coming by to take a look at this "great deal."
5. Sellers loss is your gain. Don't make me feel bad about buying your house at 100,000 less than you paid for it. Take the loss like it's the nineteen fifties, meaning grin and bear it.
6. It is best to remove drying laundry from the back of kitchen tables. That says, "We'd really like to sell this house but not enough to move this Washington Redskins jersey. In fact, maybe we've just been letting this place go to hell and we're hoping you'll take it off your hands, but would you mind changing the channel while you're up, we can't quite reach the remote from our arm chair."
7. Light is good. Take pictures of your house when the sun is shining! Other than the aforementioned (strangely often by this blog) trolls and poisonous spiders, nobody wants to live in dark rooms.
8. If you have kids, get rid of them. Okay, I'm just kidding on this one. But kids are kind of dirty and you should probably have those rooms staged and just have the kids camp out in the crawl space of the attic until the house sells.
9. Great neighborhood! Stop lying. I can't afford to buy in a great neighborhood, that's why I'm looking at your house and wondering what happened to all the listings in the Upper Northwest of D.C.
10. Close to Metro! 1.3 miles is not close to the Metro. It's a distance that's far enough away to make me never want to walk it and secretly hate my choice of ever having picked a house so far from public transit. Note: I'm spoiled, I've been walking to school/work for three years. Forgive me.
11. If your wife had the great idea of painting the bathroom pink, take a black and white photo.
12. If your lawn is brown, call it an opportunity for sprucing up.
13. Stop listing your house in as in condition. I take this to mean you've been breeding rabbits and the herd has gone feral, and is now in control of your unfinished basement.
14.. At the very least, if you're going to take photos of your crappy yard/laundry/neighbor's dog just crop it out of the picture. Don't put it in a slideshow and set it to muzak. You're not helping.
Thanks for helping us reduce/restrict/contract/shrink/diminish/decrease/straiten our choices! Note: straiten is an archaic synonym.
Narrow-make or become more narrow or restricted.
Now, a typical dunce is merely going to see narrow defined in such a way and assume that my process is perhaps more effective at helping us to make our decision. Note: My list has 15 houses and S's has 121. However, I submit that the person who supports that definition is being narrow minded and is narrowly avoiding the mistake of not having enough houses with which to narrow down from.
Later: Success! We're down to ten!
Things that helped us winnow down our housing choices/helpful suggestions for home sellers.
1. If you have an old rusting play set in your back yard it is not the best idea to feature it prominently in photos, declaring the neighborhood to be full of tots, and the house as a potential daycare.
2. We do not need to see pictures of water heaters or wall sconces.
3. Only take multiple photos of your basement if it is finished. Basements are where people put bodies and are generally regarded as scary/dungeonesque abodes of dwarves and brown recluse spiders.
4. It is best to include pictures of your house if it is listed. Putting up a blank picture with details attached pretty much just says, "We'd really like you to take this piece of shi- off our hands for close to the asking price. We'd include pictures but then we wouldn't have suckered you in to coming by to take a look at this "great deal."
5. Sellers loss is your gain. Don't make me feel bad about buying your house at 100,000 less than you paid for it. Take the loss like it's the nineteen fifties, meaning grin and bear it.
6. It is best to remove drying laundry from the back of kitchen tables. That says, "We'd really like to sell this house but not enough to move this Washington Redskins jersey. In fact, maybe we've just been letting this place go to hell and we're hoping you'll take it off your hands, but would you mind changing the channel while you're up, we can't quite reach the remote from our arm chair."
7. Light is good. Take pictures of your house when the sun is shining! Other than the aforementioned (strangely often by this blog) trolls and poisonous spiders, nobody wants to live in dark rooms.
8. If you have kids, get rid of them. Okay, I'm just kidding on this one. But kids are kind of dirty and you should probably have those rooms staged and just have the kids camp out in the crawl space of the attic until the house sells.
9. Great neighborhood! Stop lying. I can't afford to buy in a great neighborhood, that's why I'm looking at your house and wondering what happened to all the listings in the Upper Northwest of D.C.
10. Close to Metro! 1.3 miles is not close to the Metro. It's a distance that's far enough away to make me never want to walk it and secretly hate my choice of ever having picked a house so far from public transit. Note: I'm spoiled, I've been walking to school/work for three years. Forgive me.
11. If your wife had the great idea of painting the bathroom pink, take a black and white photo.
12. If your lawn is brown, call it an opportunity for sprucing up.
13. Stop listing your house in as in condition. I take this to mean you've been breeding rabbits and the herd has gone feral, and is now in control of your unfinished basement.
14.. At the very least, if you're going to take photos of your crappy yard/laundry/neighbor's dog just crop it out of the picture. Don't put it in a slideshow and set it to muzak. You're not helping.
Thanks for helping us reduce/restrict/contract/shrink/diminish/decrease/straiten our choices! Note: straiten is an archaic synonym.
Monday, July 27, 2009
A few problems that I have with the world
First, a sincere apology to my good friend Mr. Steve Myers for not providing any visual proof that I was indeed briefly a part of the subset of species typically defined as trolls. I have agreed to go out this weekend and roll around sans clothing in a patch of poison ivy and to post pictures within days of my release from the hospital. Apparently blogging is about the continued need to up the ante in terms of "exposure" and far be it from me to disappoint. I'll detail my brief battle with cocaine in future installments.
One of my primary problems with the world currently (and believe me I've got plenty, if I can ever get a job I can't wait to retire so I can tell people about the ills of the world all day) is the facebook pop-up ad that says, "Check who searched for you." Inevitably the photo is of some scantily clad, though no doubt beneficently intelligent co-ed who has come and hither written on each of her eyes. I'd like to see a concerted effort on the part of Ad-Sense to change the pop up to something more akin to reality. Perhaps the ad accompanying the "guess who's been searching for you" could be accompanied by someone who appears grandmotherly, perhaps new to the Internet, and just curious about how to track down her erstwhile relative on the net. Or perhaps a former teacher, or strange colleague from work whose name you're not really quite sure of, but who calls you by your name on a daily basis and keeps inviting you over to check out their prominent collection of stuffed snakes.
The only other thing that troubles me these days is that I had to replace our old computer this week, replacing it with a new and updated model that doesn't appeal to me because of its distinct lack of character. Who wants a computer that actually has a battery life over 30 seconds? I already miss the mad rushes from chair to desk in an attempt to print out one sheet of paper before hibernation. I was beginning to feel that with all the coaxing and TLC that we were giving our old computer that we'd actually adopted a somewhat needy child. Quite frankly, I think all teens should not be required to carry around bags of sugar to dissuade them from having children, but should instead be required to care for an aging/dying computer. Note: this project would include trips to Best Buy and local computer specialists, checking prices, standing in lines for an hour while inexplicably at 10 A.M. in the morning Best Buy conducts some unseen construction, which seems to involve a power saw and sheet metal, at intervals roughly akin to Chinese water torture. Not a personal experience obviously. Anyhow, the sheer logistical weight of caring for this computer would no doubt put girls off the idea of ever having offspring. Besides which, the computer's "death" (accompanied by the blue screen) could give children all the benefits of dealing with mortality that is traditionally provided for by pets without any of the hassle of upchuck on your carpet, or poop on your lawn. I suppose I could go on and on about the relative benefits of owning an aging computer, the scars, the spills of coffee, the random pieces of hair occluding the use of the question mark.
Well, this whole post has me rather distraught, and I've still got to spend some time rolling around in ivy and preparing a list of questions for our realtor's to answer in order to determine who we'll be going with. I'd quote something else here, but I'm not entirely certain that I or (apologies to those I spoke with) said anything that even remotely approached being funny, interesting, worth quoting, as it was pretty much a day to get real life adult stuff accomplished. I wish someone had given me a damn bag of sugar when I was in Junior High, I've have avoided this adult mess all together and just gone to live Where the Wile Things Are.
One of my primary problems with the world currently (and believe me I've got plenty, if I can ever get a job I can't wait to retire so I can tell people about the ills of the world all day) is the facebook pop-up ad that says, "Check who searched for you." Inevitably the photo is of some scantily clad, though no doubt beneficently intelligent co-ed who has come and hither written on each of her eyes. I'd like to see a concerted effort on the part of Ad-Sense to change the pop up to something more akin to reality. Perhaps the ad accompanying the "guess who's been searching for you" could be accompanied by someone who appears grandmotherly, perhaps new to the Internet, and just curious about how to track down her erstwhile relative on the net. Or perhaps a former teacher, or strange colleague from work whose name you're not really quite sure of, but who calls you by your name on a daily basis and keeps inviting you over to check out their prominent collection of stuffed snakes.
The only other thing that troubles me these days is that I had to replace our old computer this week, replacing it with a new and updated model that doesn't appeal to me because of its distinct lack of character. Who wants a computer that actually has a battery life over 30 seconds? I already miss the mad rushes from chair to desk in an attempt to print out one sheet of paper before hibernation. I was beginning to feel that with all the coaxing and TLC that we were giving our old computer that we'd actually adopted a somewhat needy child. Quite frankly, I think all teens should not be required to carry around bags of sugar to dissuade them from having children, but should instead be required to care for an aging/dying computer. Note: this project would include trips to Best Buy and local computer specialists, checking prices, standing in lines for an hour while inexplicably at 10 A.M. in the morning Best Buy conducts some unseen construction, which seems to involve a power saw and sheet metal, at intervals roughly akin to Chinese water torture. Not a personal experience obviously. Anyhow, the sheer logistical weight of caring for this computer would no doubt put girls off the idea of ever having offspring. Besides which, the computer's "death" (accompanied by the blue screen) could give children all the benefits of dealing with mortality that is traditionally provided for by pets without any of the hassle of upchuck on your carpet, or poop on your lawn. I suppose I could go on and on about the relative benefits of owning an aging computer, the scars, the spills of coffee, the random pieces of hair occluding the use of the question mark.
Well, this whole post has me rather distraught, and I've still got to spend some time rolling around in ivy and preparing a list of questions for our realtor's to answer in order to determine who we'll be going with. I'd quote something else here, but I'm not entirely certain that I or (apologies to those I spoke with) said anything that even remotely approached being funny, interesting, worth quoting, as it was pretty much a day to get real life adult stuff accomplished. I wish someone had given me a damn bag of sugar when I was in Junior High, I've have avoided this adult mess all together and just gone to live Where the Wile Things Are.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Not all mythical creatures are racist
Started the day by reading "Good Old Neon" by David Foster Wallace from his collection Oblivion. My assessment of the short story is that it was brilliant. An incredibly insightful look into the mind of the modern American attempting to make it in a world that relies heavily on appearances and perceptions. It is essentially the story of a man who is so obsessed with appearing to be good in the eyes of others that he eventually discovers he has no inner-self. Thus, the story winds up being a meditation on the incredibly complex relationship that we have internally, and how that effects our perception of our place in the world.
Further signs that old age is encroaching-
Woke up in the morning and wandered around my in-laws house in my "gym shorts." Gym shorts being the colloquialism used for underwear, and isn't that the sort of thing you start doing comfortably when you start to age? By all rights I've no business to wander around my in-laws house in my skivvies, but I wasn't sure where my shorts were, and it seemed appropriate enough. But of course the whole time I'm walking around I was conscious that I shouldn't be just wearing my gym shorts, and maybe when I get to the point when I'm not even worried that I'm wearing my gym shorts I'll know that I've attained some degree of yet unscaled adult height.
Further signs of old age encroaching at the Olive Garden-I wandered into the men's room, looking at pictures on the wall, comparing everything to Italy, and I walk up to the traditional three urinal wall arrangement, and while I'm surveying posters I begin to utilize the center one. Under no circumstances should any male ever use the middle urinal if they are the first person to approach the urinal wall. By utilizing the middle urinal you are essentially inviting people to come and pee next to you, which only seems natural after high consumption of alcohol, otherwise, it is not an acceptable place to have a conversation and by choosing that middle urinal I'm inviting the conversation, or at the very least making the next person uncomfortable because they don't have the nice buffer of a center urinal with which to distance themselves from me. And there I am blithely admiring a grainy black and white of some small alimenari in Italy trying to remember what it was like to walk those narrow cobbled streets more than a year ago.
Lunch at the Olive Garden involving the brief recounting of an episode of Flight of the Conchords in which Alby the racist dragon plays prominently and gives me my quote of the day. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9Qu3iP3RYA
In which Jonathan recounts the story of a unicorn who wanders into a cave, gets knocked out and has a kidney stolen.
S: Was he racist?
J: Stephanie, not all mythical creatures are racist.
Came across a book called The Secret, which is apparently sweeping the nation right now, and Oprah has been flogging it and trying to raise its profile, so that people can finally just start thinking really positive thoughts to make life better. Of course, psychological experiments have proved that doing something like smiling more frequently can actually have positive effects on brain chemistry, however, wishing that your bills will suddenly turn into checks is not sound thinking...it's insane. I guess I just can't really get behind a book that advocates positive thinking to the point of starting an idiocracy. I'm not sure my cable company would understand if I just told them to take a look at my bounced check again, but this time with a bit more positivity as it related to my finances.
Applied thoughts from the Secret to my house.
Came home to a house with only one baby roach to greet us. I've rescinded my earlier position, I don't miss the roaches at all. I'd like to see them all die in horrific and complicated ways that really strain their infinitely small minds into considering just what it means to be a roach, to have roachood, and to consider that perhaps leeching off human beings light, warmth, and general good nature (when we're not spraying them or trying to get them to eat poison to take back to offspring) is not really an admirable way to live, and I want them to develop some small agrarian parties that exist peacefully, perhaps herding bits and pieces of saltine crackers and teaching them to mate. I'd then like them to evolve a bit more and develop (preferably within the space of a week but bear in mind I'm thinking positively and using the secret hear) a mini-set of the ten commandments, or at least, thou shalt not steal, and to have some sort of religious awakening that can eventually lead to our peaceful co-existence after a series of treaties, minor prophets, and perhaps a period in which they regard me as some sort of demi-God that eventually winds up in a sort of feudal serf lord kind of arrangement. Some people might say that I'm being too optimistic, but my answer to those people is that they are wrong. Those people just need to expect a little more from their household pests.
Further signs that old age is encroaching-
Woke up in the morning and wandered around my in-laws house in my "gym shorts." Gym shorts being the colloquialism used for underwear, and isn't that the sort of thing you start doing comfortably when you start to age? By all rights I've no business to wander around my in-laws house in my skivvies, but I wasn't sure where my shorts were, and it seemed appropriate enough. But of course the whole time I'm walking around I was conscious that I shouldn't be just wearing my gym shorts, and maybe when I get to the point when I'm not even worried that I'm wearing my gym shorts I'll know that I've attained some degree of yet unscaled adult height.
Further signs of old age encroaching at the Olive Garden-I wandered into the men's room, looking at pictures on the wall, comparing everything to Italy, and I walk up to the traditional three urinal wall arrangement, and while I'm surveying posters I begin to utilize the center one. Under no circumstances should any male ever use the middle urinal if they are the first person to approach the urinal wall. By utilizing the middle urinal you are essentially inviting people to come and pee next to you, which only seems natural after high consumption of alcohol, otherwise, it is not an acceptable place to have a conversation and by choosing that middle urinal I'm inviting the conversation, or at the very least making the next person uncomfortable because they don't have the nice buffer of a center urinal with which to distance themselves from me. And there I am blithely admiring a grainy black and white of some small alimenari in Italy trying to remember what it was like to walk those narrow cobbled streets more than a year ago.
Lunch at the Olive Garden involving the brief recounting of an episode of Flight of the Conchords in which Alby the racist dragon plays prominently and gives me my quote of the day. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g9Qu3iP3RYA
In which Jonathan recounts the story of a unicorn who wanders into a cave, gets knocked out and has a kidney stolen.
S: Was he racist?
J: Stephanie, not all mythical creatures are racist.
Came across a book called The Secret, which is apparently sweeping the nation right now, and Oprah has been flogging it and trying to raise its profile, so that people can finally just start thinking really positive thoughts to make life better. Of course, psychological experiments have proved that doing something like smiling more frequently can actually have positive effects on brain chemistry, however, wishing that your bills will suddenly turn into checks is not sound thinking...it's insane. I guess I just can't really get behind a book that advocates positive thinking to the point of starting an idiocracy. I'm not sure my cable company would understand if I just told them to take a look at my bounced check again, but this time with a bit more positivity as it related to my finances.
Applied thoughts from the Secret to my house.
Came home to a house with only one baby roach to greet us. I've rescinded my earlier position, I don't miss the roaches at all. I'd like to see them all die in horrific and complicated ways that really strain their infinitely small minds into considering just what it means to be a roach, to have roachood, and to consider that perhaps leeching off human beings light, warmth, and general good nature (when we're not spraying them or trying to get them to eat poison to take back to offspring) is not really an admirable way to live, and I want them to develop some small agrarian parties that exist peacefully, perhaps herding bits and pieces of saltine crackers and teaching them to mate. I'd then like them to evolve a bit more and develop (preferably within the space of a week but bear in mind I'm thinking positively and using the secret hear) a mini-set of the ten commandments, or at least, thou shalt not steal, and to have some sort of religious awakening that can eventually lead to our peaceful co-existence after a series of treaties, minor prophets, and perhaps a period in which they regard me as some sort of demi-God that eventually winds up in a sort of feudal serf lord kind of arrangement. Some people might say that I'm being too optimistic, but my answer to those people is that they are wrong. Those people just need to expect a little more from their household pests.
Notes from South of the Mason Dixon
Delaware is actually located north of the Mason Dixon line but for all intensive purposes it's the South. People speak with an accent and make jokes (that turn out to not be jokes) about working in chicken houses, and drive trucks with gun racks on them, and all in all are just the sort of God-fearing people who are just like you and me. Only different, because I'm from the city and the city=evil as proved by Old Testament cities like Babylon, Jericho, Sodom and Gomorrha (sp) and Los Angeles, which even then was noted for its bad traffic.
On the drive to my wife's ten year reunion. Things that struck me as odd. Driving along a small two lane road, past rows of corn, local food signs abutted by rising developments. The sort of cookie cutter houses that make you wonder if we'll ever stop building new houses and propagating 1950's carthrocentric values. Can we get some more of that economic stimulus package dedicated to infrastructure please or are we going to waste all of our money on a president from Kenya!! Note: Only a joke please YouTube the crazy woman from DE.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9V1nmn2zRMc
(Image of Andrew leading a crowd in Georgetown, DE in the pledge of allegiance and yelling "he was born in Kenya and he probably don't even know it" neither of which have anything to do with health care. Please note the cheers in the background of good old America. This is our country people.)
Passed by Fish Killers crab shack. The small white cart parked along the side of the road in a patch of dirt at a gas station. It sort of makes you wonder how much fish killing the crabs are doing while they are waiting in the crab shack's hull to be dredged up and eaten fresh. Are they feeding the crabs fish while they wait? Are the crabs wearing bibs? They should be.
Crabs eat primarily dead stuff anyway. I guess crabs are technically fish-killers, but I'm sort of upset that the sign wasn't: If no algae or other dead invertebrate isn't more readily available and if the fish are sort of unaware or unassuming Fish Killers crab shack. I think it has a nicer ring to it.
Full Service Florist-What is the difference between that and a half-service florist? I don't think I've ever seen a sign that says half-service florist. Are there florists out there who won't properly fill your flower order, who short change you on greenery and perhaps a rose or two? Should I open a half-service florist place? Are any florists that aren't advertised as full-service in fact only half-service? Is this a case of useless name-branding to create an artificial difference between florists? Are they upset about this?
Speed checked by radar-Is this sign mandated by law? This falls in the middle category for gradations of speed checking.
My favorite is speed checked by aircraft. I'm thinking, if I'm stupid enough to not avoid being caught by an airplane than I must be a grade A jackass. I mean, to make an arrest they're going to have to land the plane on a pretty small stretch of freeway, and if I don't notice the pterodactyl sized object coming in for a landing and take evasive action then I deserve to be caught like that little dear who gets run down by the wolf in planet earth. Don't separate from the herd. There's no way they'll land the plane on a freeway full of cars right? Am I right? (Note: I realize they call highway patrol instead).
A gradation somewhere between speed checked by radar and aircraft.
Speed checked by guessing small-town police officer:
Cop: Do you know how fast you were going sir?
M: No.
Cop: Me neither, because I don't have the equipment to check, but it seemed like you were going pretty fast.
M: Oh, so.
Cop: Can you make like an estimate for me because I've really got no idea
M: thirty-two
Cop: Lets call it thirty five.
M: Is that fair?
Cop: Points to sign.
On the drive to my wife's ten year reunion. Things that struck me as odd. Driving along a small two lane road, past rows of corn, local food signs abutted by rising developments. The sort of cookie cutter houses that make you wonder if we'll ever stop building new houses and propagating 1950's carthrocentric values. Can we get some more of that economic stimulus package dedicated to infrastructure please or are we going to waste all of our money on a president from Kenya!! Note: Only a joke please YouTube the crazy woman from DE.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9V1nmn2zRMc
(Image of Andrew leading a crowd in Georgetown, DE in the pledge of allegiance and yelling "he was born in Kenya and he probably don't even know it" neither of which have anything to do with health care. Please note the cheers in the background of good old America. This is our country people.)
Passed by Fish Killers crab shack. The small white cart parked along the side of the road in a patch of dirt at a gas station. It sort of makes you wonder how much fish killing the crabs are doing while they are waiting in the crab shack's hull to be dredged up and eaten fresh. Are they feeding the crabs fish while they wait? Are the crabs wearing bibs? They should be.
Crabs eat primarily dead stuff anyway. I guess crabs are technically fish-killers, but I'm sort of upset that the sign wasn't: If no algae or other dead invertebrate isn't more readily available and if the fish are sort of unaware or unassuming Fish Killers crab shack. I think it has a nicer ring to it.
Full Service Florist-What is the difference between that and a half-service florist? I don't think I've ever seen a sign that says half-service florist. Are there florists out there who won't properly fill your flower order, who short change you on greenery and perhaps a rose or two? Should I open a half-service florist place? Are any florists that aren't advertised as full-service in fact only half-service? Is this a case of useless name-branding to create an artificial difference between florists? Are they upset about this?
Speed checked by radar-Is this sign mandated by law? This falls in the middle category for gradations of speed checking.
My favorite is speed checked by aircraft. I'm thinking, if I'm stupid enough to not avoid being caught by an airplane than I must be a grade A jackass. I mean, to make an arrest they're going to have to land the plane on a pretty small stretch of freeway, and if I don't notice the pterodactyl sized object coming in for a landing and take evasive action then I deserve to be caught like that little dear who gets run down by the wolf in planet earth. Don't separate from the herd. There's no way they'll land the plane on a freeway full of cars right? Am I right? (Note: I realize they call highway patrol instead).
A gradation somewhere between speed checked by radar and aircraft.
Speed checked by guessing small-town police officer:
Cop: Do you know how fast you were going sir?
M: No.
Cop: Me neither, because I don't have the equipment to check, but it seemed like you were going pretty fast.
M: Oh, so.
Cop: Can you make like an estimate for me because I've really got no idea
M: thirty-two
Cop: Lets call it thirty five.
M: Is that fair?
Cop: Points to sign.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Driving Sideways
I've never really been one for honking the horn while I'm driving. I find the noise intrusive, and perhaps my original sin roots lead me to always believe that any honk is intended for me. I always look around certain that I've broken some obscure traffic code and am being reprimanded for my oversight. Thus, I'm not much of a honker myself. But lately, lately I've taken to honking. We own a small hybrid vehicle so the honk is more of a high-pitched squeak, but I've found that if you really lay into the horn another driver might cock his head for a moment, as if listening for the sound of his cell phone before dismissing the miserly honk and continuing on about his merry way.
And I'm certain that this whole complex honk, and I'm at fault thing has to do with all sorts of unresolved childhood issues, but I'm not really interested in that. I just wonder, when someone honks, do most people assume that they were at fault?
My second response to a honk is to then become angry. Especially if I've actually done something to warrant the honk.
S: Well you did cut him off
M: He should have anticipated that I'd cut him off. It was clear that I'm having a bad day.
M: I'm new to this city, the least that jerk could do is be friendly.
M: Really, all that honking is doing is almost causing an accident because we're all turning around to see what caused it.
I also respond to honking, even when I'm at fault, by honking back. Nothing gives me greater satisfacation than responding to a warranted honk than an unjustified response of my own. Again, I know, it probably has to do with Adamic roots, the apple and all, but I enjoy reminding people that even though I was at fault they might also have been at fault at some point in their driving careers. I consider the return honk to be like when Christ says, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Except the stone is a honk and no one sins when they drive, just ask them.
On our way to Delaware this evening I was passed by a large (read hickish) truck on the shoulder while a person was taking a left in front of me. If I hadn't checked my rear-view I would have been slammed into by this truck careening around the corner. To honk or not? My wife would just say that you are encouraging the person and nothing you can do will dissuade them from driving poorly. I'm of the opinion that wrongdoers need to be reprimanded immediately and the good Lord provided us with a horn to deliver the rebuke. I honked, justifiably so. Question for any reader, to honk or not. Allow unjustified evil to continue unabated or avoid large angry white men with tattoos?
I then proceeded to catch up to the truck and watch him pass three people around a long corner and into a blind turn. I honked then as well.
S: How is this helping?
M: I'm helping everybody else. The next time I'm in the car it will probably be me that he's driving towards head on. That bastard is going to kill someone! I felt such great old man rage.
Finally, as we near Steph's parents house I see that my dear friend in the truck has gotten in an accident....shocker. He is yelling at this young guy who he's rear ended and then the guy in the car just sped off into the night and the large (read stupid) neophyte jumped back into his truck and chased after him.
I honked again. And I am sure that as he drove down that lonely highway, chatting away on his cell phone, he heard the soft rebuke of my horn. I can see him pulling over to the side of the road and calling his mother. I can hear him telling her on the phone about all his unresolved anger at being the youngest. I can see the blur of lights passing him on the highway, and the offer of rebirth that is hidden in the rhythm of the passing wheels that my honk has offered him.
So, to honk or not? I think I've presented a fair case for both sides.
And I'm certain that this whole complex honk, and I'm at fault thing has to do with all sorts of unresolved childhood issues, but I'm not really interested in that. I just wonder, when someone honks, do most people assume that they were at fault?
My second response to a honk is to then become angry. Especially if I've actually done something to warrant the honk.
S: Well you did cut him off
M: He should have anticipated that I'd cut him off. It was clear that I'm having a bad day.
M: I'm new to this city, the least that jerk could do is be friendly.
M: Really, all that honking is doing is almost causing an accident because we're all turning around to see what caused it.
I also respond to honking, even when I'm at fault, by honking back. Nothing gives me greater satisfacation than responding to a warranted honk than an unjustified response of my own. Again, I know, it probably has to do with Adamic roots, the apple and all, but I enjoy reminding people that even though I was at fault they might also have been at fault at some point in their driving careers. I consider the return honk to be like when Christ says, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Except the stone is a honk and no one sins when they drive, just ask them.
On our way to Delaware this evening I was passed by a large (read hickish) truck on the shoulder while a person was taking a left in front of me. If I hadn't checked my rear-view I would have been slammed into by this truck careening around the corner. To honk or not? My wife would just say that you are encouraging the person and nothing you can do will dissuade them from driving poorly. I'm of the opinion that wrongdoers need to be reprimanded immediately and the good Lord provided us with a horn to deliver the rebuke. I honked, justifiably so. Question for any reader, to honk or not. Allow unjustified evil to continue unabated or avoid large angry white men with tattoos?
I then proceeded to catch up to the truck and watch him pass three people around a long corner and into a blind turn. I honked then as well.
S: How is this helping?
M: I'm helping everybody else. The next time I'm in the car it will probably be me that he's driving towards head on. That bastard is going to kill someone! I felt such great old man rage.
Finally, as we near Steph's parents house I see that my dear friend in the truck has gotten in an accident....shocker. He is yelling at this young guy who he's rear ended and then the guy in the car just sped off into the night and the large (read stupid) neophyte jumped back into his truck and chased after him.
I honked again. And I am sure that as he drove down that lonely highway, chatting away on his cell phone, he heard the soft rebuke of my horn. I can see him pulling over to the side of the road and calling his mother. I can hear him telling her on the phone about all his unresolved anger at being the youngest. I can see the blur of lights passing him on the highway, and the offer of rebirth that is hidden in the rhythm of the passing wheels that my honk has offered him.
So, to honk or not? I think I've presented a fair case for both sides.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Housing
As it turns out when you're going about purchasing a home they require you to get a loan. In a related story, obtaining a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing is not as helpful as it could be in terms of building up loans without earning money. It's a well kept secret that practically nobody makes a living as a writer. You've got exceptions like Danielle Steele, (but that's just pure talent) and Stephen King, but in general writing is about as prolific as collecting marbles except the marbles are shinier and more fun to play with. Thus, the 50 or so thousand dollars I spent on my education though not ill-spent entirely seems at this point like a minor miscalculation that will haunt me for years to come. Why couldn't I have lived six hundred years ago? I'd have made a pretty good knight errant. Chasing windmills, writing poems, and hopefully sleeping with lots of damsels (even if they weren't in distress).
My face returned to a decent size today. Now I just look like I have one slightly crossed/off eye. In public, people didn't turn away from me, so much as find somewhere else with which to direct their glance.
On the bright side we've been cleared by a lender to buy a home! One more American family ready to take on a big mortgage with low paying jobs and see where the months take us! Foreclosure here I come! Just kidding...mostly.
Lender: So you're husband is an out of work graduate student?
S: Yes, well, we're really proud of him. Note: When you tell your kids to follow their dreams just make sure that those dreams are realistic and profitable.
Future Son: I think I want to be a writer.
M: Good choice. Networks are always looking for someone to write ad copy. You know what would really help you get that job.
Future Son: With a look of wonder/love in his eyes.
M: A degree in math and computer science. All the great writers have it.
Future Son: Really?
M: Yes Note: Said with absolute certainty.
Future Daughter: I want to be a marine biologist.
M: Get in line behind all the other kids.
Future Daughter: (Hurt in her voice) You don't think I can do it?
M: Oh no of course you can honey. You know what would really help the animals. A malpractice lawyer. That's what they need the most.
S: What are you doing?
M: I was just seeing if I could frown with that side of my face.
S: What?
M: I WAS JUST SEEING IF I COULD FROWN WITH THAT SIDE OF MY FACE
S: Someone woke up on the wrong side of the poison ivy.
S: You look like a fish. (Pause) Is it too soon?
M: I don't even think it's over yet so soon can't even apply.
My face returned to a decent size today. Now I just look like I have one slightly crossed/off eye. In public, people didn't turn away from me, so much as find somewhere else with which to direct their glance.
On the bright side we've been cleared by a lender to buy a home! One more American family ready to take on a big mortgage with low paying jobs and see where the months take us! Foreclosure here I come! Just kidding...mostly.
Lender: So you're husband is an out of work graduate student?
S: Yes, well, we're really proud of him. Note: When you tell your kids to follow their dreams just make sure that those dreams are realistic and profitable.
Future Son: I think I want to be a writer.
M: Good choice. Networks are always looking for someone to write ad copy. You know what would really help you get that job.
Future Son: With a look of wonder/love in his eyes.
M: A degree in math and computer science. All the great writers have it.
Future Son: Really?
M: Yes Note: Said with absolute certainty.
Future Daughter: I want to be a marine biologist.
M: Get in line behind all the other kids.
Future Daughter: (Hurt in her voice) You don't think I can do it?
M: Oh no of course you can honey. You know what would really help the animals. A malpractice lawyer. That's what they need the most.
S: What are you doing?
M: I was just seeing if I could frown with that side of my face.
S: What?
M: I WAS JUST SEEING IF I COULD FROWN WITH THAT SIDE OF MY FACE
S: Someone woke up on the wrong side of the poison ivy.
S: You look like a fish. (Pause) Is it too soon?
M: I don't even think it's over yet so soon can't even apply.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Three Billy Goats Gruff
At some point over the weekend, (perhaps during a stirring game of Frrisbee golf) I got poison ivy on my face. Ergo; throughout the course of yesterday my face became increasingly puffy/mutantish looking until this afternoon when my right eye became completely swelled shut. On the bright side I have a great Halloween costume, but on the dark side it's a few months too early.
Today while picking up my prescription I had a nice conversation with a very young Iraq war vet. I was sitting in CVS desperately waiting for my prescription when this guy walks by and says, "What happened to you?" I guess their is a certain level of physical deformity which makes people feel like they can ask you questions like that. We spent the remainder of the time talking in the store about his sixteen broken bones, the best/worst one to break and how he carried his intestines around after getting hit with shrapnel.
It's strange because I've read articles saying that our volunteer army in Iraq is composed almost entirely of young men from rural areas, particularly the South, and now I had a chance to talk with someone who fit the bill. He told me he had a wife and a kid. His conversation about shrapnel and broken femurs seemed a bit odd to me, almost unbalanced. And yet, and yet, he was the only person who would look at me today. I'm a fairly decent looking guy day in and day out so it was hard to see children asking their father's in the elevator what was wrong with me. By the end of the day I was hissing at light, and pretending that I needed to feed on children's brains to subsist. But I could only do this from the solitude of my apartment where all good dreams are made, like a troll beneath a bridge.
Anyhow, nothing incredibly insightful here. But let me recommend that you contract poison ivy yourself and spread it to the area around your eyes and then walk around and see what it makes you feel like. It's not nearly as telling as Black like me, but I feel like the modern mantra is beautiful like me, and it's hard to measure up. I'll probably hole up again tomorrow and then come out when I hear the clip clop of hooves at my door.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
Norway
Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."
On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll , with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker.
So first of all came the youngest Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
"Trip, trap, trip, trap! " went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll .
"Oh, it is only I, the tiniest Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, with such a small voice.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the billy goat. "Wait a bit till the second Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Well, be off with you," said the troll.
A little while after came the second Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap, went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"Oh, it's the second Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, who hadn't such a small voice.
"Now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait a little till the big Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Very well! Be off with you," said the troll.
But just then up came the big Billy Goat Gruff .
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap! went the bridge, for the billy goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"It's I! The big Billy Goat Gruff ," said the billy goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"Now I 'm coming to gobble you up," roared the troll.
Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones.
That was what the big billy goat said. And then he flew at the troll, and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the cascade, and after that he went up to the hillside. There the billy goats got so fat they were scarcely able to walk home again. And if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why, they're still fat; and so,
Snip, snap, snout.
This tale's told out.
Today while picking up my prescription I had a nice conversation with a very young Iraq war vet. I was sitting in CVS desperately waiting for my prescription when this guy walks by and says, "What happened to you?" I guess their is a certain level of physical deformity which makes people feel like they can ask you questions like that. We spent the remainder of the time talking in the store about his sixteen broken bones, the best/worst one to break and how he carried his intestines around after getting hit with shrapnel.
It's strange because I've read articles saying that our volunteer army in Iraq is composed almost entirely of young men from rural areas, particularly the South, and now I had a chance to talk with someone who fit the bill. He told me he had a wife and a kid. His conversation about shrapnel and broken femurs seemed a bit odd to me, almost unbalanced. And yet, and yet, he was the only person who would look at me today. I'm a fairly decent looking guy day in and day out so it was hard to see children asking their father's in the elevator what was wrong with me. By the end of the day I was hissing at light, and pretending that I needed to feed on children's brains to subsist. But I could only do this from the solitude of my apartment where all good dreams are made, like a troll beneath a bridge.
Anyhow, nothing incredibly insightful here. But let me recommend that you contract poison ivy yourself and spread it to the area around your eyes and then walk around and see what it makes you feel like. It's not nearly as telling as Black like me, but I feel like the modern mantra is beautiful like me, and it's hard to measure up. I'll probably hole up again tomorrow and then come out when I hear the clip clop of hooves at my door.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
Norway
Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."
On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll , with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker.
So first of all came the youngest Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
"Trip, trap, trip, trap! " went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll .
"Oh, it is only I, the tiniest Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, with such a small voice.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the billy goat. "Wait a bit till the second Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Well, be off with you," said the troll.
A little while after came the second Billy Goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap, went the bridge.
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"Oh, it's the second Billy Goat Gruff , and I'm going up to the hillside to make myself fat," said the billy goat, who hadn't such a small voice.
"Now I'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"Oh, no! Don't take me. Wait a little till the big Billy Goat Gruff comes. He's much bigger."
"Very well! Be off with you," said the troll.
But just then up came the big Billy Goat Gruff .
Trip, trap, trip, trap, trip, trap! went the bridge, for the billy goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"Who's that tramping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
"It's I! The big Billy Goat Gruff ," said the billy goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"Now I 'm coming to gobble you up," roared the troll.
Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones.
That was what the big billy goat said. And then he flew at the troll, and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the cascade, and after that he went up to the hillside. There the billy goats got so fat they were scarcely able to walk home again. And if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why, they're still fat; and so,
Snip, snap, snout.
This tale's told out.
Monday, July 20, 2009
If I had a million dollars...
I don't really know what people did before the Internet to find houses. They didn't have crime maps or walk scores or nice digital pictures to upload of key features. In fact I think the exclamation point was invented in the early 1980's. Fully Finished Basement vs. Fully Finished Basement! You tell me which one you want. The other (actually real invention) was the caps lock key, which increased home values tenfold according to data that I'm making up right now. Close to metro and restaurants. CLOSE TO METRO AND RESTAURANTS! The second house might be yelling, but it's yelling about good things like metros and restaurants and other things I might have missed prior to the advent of the caps lock key. I'm guessing that people just didn't buy homes before the invention of the internet but bartered them like they were beads and hand-crafted goods.
The crime map was really instructive because as it turns out crime occurs more frequently in cities. I'd like to think that things like higher density (for Matt) would cause and increase in crime rates, but I'm here to tell you that it's because people who live in cities are inherently just bad folks who enjoy committing crime and selling drugs, and really don't even do it for profit but just for the thrill of being a city denizen. I'm using the word denizen here because it more closely suits someone from a city because denizen to me sounds like someone who is dirty and perhaps lives in a badger den.
Tomorrow we're going to speak to a lender, and we're hoping to be approved for a million dollar home, so we can live large for a few months before it forecloses. But those months we'll live it up like Gatsby, and throw wild parties, which you're invited to if you read this blog, or know someone who reads this blog, or happen to be in the area and smell some lobster boiling. I look forward to seeing you all there? (Oh, and we're kind of going for a potluck sort of thing so be sure to coordinate. I don't want to have a party with five fruits salads and no red plastic cups for the bourbon).
The crime map was really instructive because as it turns out crime occurs more frequently in cities. I'd like to think that things like higher density (for Matt) would cause and increase in crime rates, but I'm here to tell you that it's because people who live in cities are inherently just bad folks who enjoy committing crime and selling drugs, and really don't even do it for profit but just for the thrill of being a city denizen. I'm using the word denizen here because it more closely suits someone from a city because denizen to me sounds like someone who is dirty and perhaps lives in a badger den.
Tomorrow we're going to speak to a lender, and we're hoping to be approved for a million dollar home, so we can live large for a few months before it forecloses. But those months we'll live it up like Gatsby, and throw wild parties, which you're invited to if you read this blog, or know someone who reads this blog, or happen to be in the area and smell some lobster boiling. I look forward to seeing you all there? (Oh, and we're kind of going for a potluck sort of thing so be sure to coordinate. I don't want to have a party with five fruits salads and no red plastic cups for the bourbon).
Blog
Over the past two days I've been informed by my brother and my dad that they don't read my blog. I'm guessing that this cuts my readership in half, hi mom and Jill!
9-Wake up in a panic about houses. Do sit ups to alleviate panic. Attempt to reach my legs to the floor in some sort of yoga crazy pose. Risk breaking my neck. Do not touch floor. It's nice to get the first failure of the day out of the way early.
10 A.M.-Argue with wife about the probability that we will go berry picking. Spend the morning searching through houses online, still waiting to find the perfect one.
11:10: Leave house. Am proved right when it's decided that we will not have enough time to go berry picking. Hassle wife until she admits that I was right. Sit in a satisfied manner in the car soaking in the victory. Mention that we will not be able to go berry picking later either as planned.
1:00 P.M. Join extended family for lunch/croquet. Lose at game of croquet to a woman over sixty. Try to reflect on the glory days when I was a wonderful croquet player, capable of hitting the ball through wickets from miles away. Reflect on the fact that wicket is kind of a fun word.
1-4-Eat lunch. Celebrate a birthday. Fail to go berry picking. Celebrate the small victories in life. Conduct a marching band in my head who plays something by Michael Jackson because he is popular again.
5 P.M. Play two more lackluster games of croquet. Claim that the equipment is made for midgets. Consider changing my name to something British to increase my skills. Play the DC crime map game with my mother-in-law.
6 P.M. Discuss the suburbs with MIL.
7-9 P.M. Head home to collect roach bodies from cabinets. Am mildly disappointed by their absence. I'm not a pet person, but the little guys were kind of growing on me.
10 P.M. Watch Mad Men (Good show).
11-1 A.M. Check D.C. crime maps and try to figure out where we are going to live. Decide to start committing crimes of my own to bring down median housing cost in current neighborhood. Get kind of sleepy. Desist in plan to do anything but sleep.
9-Wake up in a panic about houses. Do sit ups to alleviate panic. Attempt to reach my legs to the floor in some sort of yoga crazy pose. Risk breaking my neck. Do not touch floor. It's nice to get the first failure of the day out of the way early.
10 A.M.-Argue with wife about the probability that we will go berry picking. Spend the morning searching through houses online, still waiting to find the perfect one.
11:10: Leave house. Am proved right when it's decided that we will not have enough time to go berry picking. Hassle wife until she admits that I was right. Sit in a satisfied manner in the car soaking in the victory. Mention that we will not be able to go berry picking later either as planned.
1:00 P.M. Join extended family for lunch/croquet. Lose at game of croquet to a woman over sixty. Try to reflect on the glory days when I was a wonderful croquet player, capable of hitting the ball through wickets from miles away. Reflect on the fact that wicket is kind of a fun word.
1-4-Eat lunch. Celebrate a birthday. Fail to go berry picking. Celebrate the small victories in life. Conduct a marching band in my head who plays something by Michael Jackson because he is popular again.
5 P.M. Play two more lackluster games of croquet. Claim that the equipment is made for midgets. Consider changing my name to something British to increase my skills. Play the DC crime map game with my mother-in-law.
6 P.M. Discuss the suburbs with MIL.
7-9 P.M. Head home to collect roach bodies from cabinets. Am mildly disappointed by their absence. I'm not a pet person, but the little guys were kind of growing on me.
10 P.M. Watch Mad Men (Good show).
11-1 A.M. Check D.C. crime maps and try to figure out where we are going to live. Decide to start committing crimes of my own to bring down median housing cost in current neighborhood. Get kind of sleepy. Desist in plan to do anything but sleep.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Some days
Some days it's good to take a break from housing. To sit back and relax, and reflect on the fact that you are happy to not only be alive but to not be examining square footage, washer dryer combos, and insect carcasses. Thus, we started our break from the house hunt by going out with a real estate agent to look at houses again today. I've got a fever and the only thing that will cure it is more houses! That saying is pretty popular where I'm from.
We looked at a couple of condos. The great thing about condos is they are all entirely updated, with nice appliances and flooring et al. The other nice thing about condos is that they are all too small. I read books. I collect books. I need a place to put my books. Condos don't have room for books. More specifically, they don't have room for my books.
"You know what this condo could use? Built in book shelves. Oh yeah, I think we could just take down this wall here and turn this living area into one big library. What would that do for the resale? So libraries aren't as in as they used to be huh?"
One of the condos we visited was jammed packed with CD's, which made the unit feel smaller. And here are all these crappy CD's, and I'm thinking about leaving a note that describes in detail just what an iPod can actually do for you as a music collector, but I figured the tenant would enjoy it more when he figures it out for himself he's going to be blown away.
The carpet was stained in several places, and I just assumed that the tenant had been staining some wood in the living room or spilling random bottles of soda on the floor for the past three years. "What, oh, I think I must have missed a spot. That carpet could really use a Mr. Pib stain." (Pours drink out). The condos also had a nice view of a parking structure, which would never get old. I've always imagined waking up in the morning and looking out my great big window into a large parking garage. I suppose it might curb nude walkabouts, but I'm not even sure that's a good thing.
Then we looked at a nice town house. The sun was shining, all the birds and the bees were twittering or pollinating, or flinging themselves blissfully against the window, or alighting on our fingers. The house was full of light, and also furniture, and one strange guy who seemed to think that he owned the place. It was the sort of place, just outside D.C. where you could picture yourself raising a happy and healthy family, and living around a bunch of people who reciprocated all of your values, and really enjoyed the short walk to the Metro. And didn't mind watching the house while you were away, or giving you some advice on kids and generally just being the sort of good folks that you always imagine that you are. It was a place where you could gather round, hold hands, and sing la la la la la la la la la la la... and everyone would be blue and male except for one girl with blond hair. Sorry, I briefly confused these townhouses with the Smurfs. As long as we don't get a place next to Gargamel we should be in pretty solid shape.
"You'll worry less about what people think about you when you realize how seldom they do."
* Infinite Jest
We looked at a couple of condos. The great thing about condos is they are all entirely updated, with nice appliances and flooring et al. The other nice thing about condos is that they are all too small. I read books. I collect books. I need a place to put my books. Condos don't have room for books. More specifically, they don't have room for my books.
"You know what this condo could use? Built in book shelves. Oh yeah, I think we could just take down this wall here and turn this living area into one big library. What would that do for the resale? So libraries aren't as in as they used to be huh?"
One of the condos we visited was jammed packed with CD's, which made the unit feel smaller. And here are all these crappy CD's, and I'm thinking about leaving a note that describes in detail just what an iPod can actually do for you as a music collector, but I figured the tenant would enjoy it more when he figures it out for himself he's going to be blown away.
The carpet was stained in several places, and I just assumed that the tenant had been staining some wood in the living room or spilling random bottles of soda on the floor for the past three years. "What, oh, I think I must have missed a spot. That carpet could really use a Mr. Pib stain." (Pours drink out). The condos also had a nice view of a parking structure, which would never get old. I've always imagined waking up in the morning and looking out my great big window into a large parking garage. I suppose it might curb nude walkabouts, but I'm not even sure that's a good thing.
Then we looked at a nice town house. The sun was shining, all the birds and the bees were twittering or pollinating, or flinging themselves blissfully against the window, or alighting on our fingers. The house was full of light, and also furniture, and one strange guy who seemed to think that he owned the place. It was the sort of place, just outside D.C. where you could picture yourself raising a happy and healthy family, and living around a bunch of people who reciprocated all of your values, and really enjoyed the short walk to the Metro. And didn't mind watching the house while you were away, or giving you some advice on kids and generally just being the sort of good folks that you always imagine that you are. It was a place where you could gather round, hold hands, and sing la la la la la la la la la la la... and everyone would be blue and male except for one girl with blond hair. Sorry, I briefly confused these townhouses with the Smurfs. As long as we don't get a place next to Gargamel we should be in pretty solid shape.
"You'll worry less about what people think about you when you realize how seldom they do."
* Infinite Jest
Friday, July 17, 2009
Housing Blitz
Today we started working with a real-estate agent because we wanted to get serious about the housing search. I was hoping for a dude driving a corvette and wearing a pair of awesome shades, but we got a middle-aged motherly lady instead. And I'm just wondering, how is this lady going to know what kind of house we want? She doesn't even drive a Corvette. I was indignant, or something akin to that. The English language is occasionally too vast for me to be able to pin down exactly how I feel? Am I hungry or just really really angry? Hard to know.
I think I should probably start with the worst house and work my way up. The low part on the totem pole of the day, (and I'm talking like the part of the totem pole that's buried here, and maybe the American Indian/Native American cut the corners a little bit when he was sanding the thing down, and it's a bit rough to the touch because who gives a sh-t it's going to be buried anyway, no one is seeing this part of the pole. And now you've got a splinter in your hand from digging up this pole, but you can't properly complain about it because it's only a splinter and you're a man for crap's sake, a full-grown man can't complain about a splinter, but it's uncomfortable. It sort of hurts, this splinter, when you're opening doors and the like and all because some Native American/American Indian was cutting corners on the low part of the totem pole...that bastard) Aside complete, continue with main plot.
Malvolio: Kidding. Just a little Shakesperean humor for you. Most of the houses we attended today were empty, people were off at work, or living in their new condo in Florida et al, but the low totem pole house had a bunch of people just camped out in the living room watching television. Which, doesn't exactly make the house feel like your home. Nothing screams new home like twenty people popping out of doorways, but I've gotten ahead of myself. Anyhow, we walked in front of the tv, (cardinal sin, I believe, the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not obstruct the sightling of the viewing box. Viewing box being the King James translation, the Bible not always being as hep (is hep a word people use now) to all of the technological advances of the past two thousand years or so. Anyhow, yet again, we proceeded to inspect the kitchen, which was surprisingly decent looking, except that it smelled as if they'd been feeding, slaughtering, and cooking an animal in the kitchen just minutes before our arrival.
"Do you usually slaughter them in the entryway or directly on the counter?"
"Does this scent come in potpourri?"
"I notice you're cooking what smells like death in here. (Pause) I think it could use some cayenne pepper."
Then we wandered down into the basement where a plague of flies accosted us. And that's what we get for breaking commandments, a plague of flies, or locusts, or whatever. I'm fairly certain it was a plague of something, but not pies because what kind of a plague would that be? A delicious one.
I'm fairly certain that their was a dead body on the premises, but we found ourselves in a hurry to leave before discovering it, and feeling as though we needed to call the police. We then proceeded upstairs, breaking the eleventh commandment a second time in the process and walked into incredibly small rooms that were housing somewhere between three to five families. Again, nothing says this house can be yours like a bunch of people popping out of every room like clowns out of a car. We then sprinted out of the house and didn't even speak about the home. We just acted as though that part of the day had never happened.
"How many houses did we see?"
S: Six.
I thought it was--
S: We saw six homes (shudders)
Author's Note: In now way does this author condone/find comical the tough living situations of families in D.C. However, he would like to point out that said tough living conditions are kind of scary/off putting when you are viewing homes as a walk-in.
We watched 500 Days of Summer in the evening, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. A bit of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind here.
I think I should probably start with the worst house and work my way up. The low part on the totem pole of the day, (and I'm talking like the part of the totem pole that's buried here, and maybe the American Indian/Native American cut the corners a little bit when he was sanding the thing down, and it's a bit rough to the touch because who gives a sh-t it's going to be buried anyway, no one is seeing this part of the pole. And now you've got a splinter in your hand from digging up this pole, but you can't properly complain about it because it's only a splinter and you're a man for crap's sake, a full-grown man can't complain about a splinter, but it's uncomfortable. It sort of hurts, this splinter, when you're opening doors and the like and all because some Native American/American Indian was cutting corners on the low part of the totem pole...that bastard) Aside complete, continue with main plot.
Malvolio: Kidding. Just a little Shakesperean humor for you. Most of the houses we attended today were empty, people were off at work, or living in their new condo in Florida et al, but the low totem pole house had a bunch of people just camped out in the living room watching television. Which, doesn't exactly make the house feel like your home. Nothing screams new home like twenty people popping out of doorways, but I've gotten ahead of myself. Anyhow, we walked in front of the tv, (cardinal sin, I believe, the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not obstruct the sightling of the viewing box. Viewing box being the King James translation, the Bible not always being as hep (is hep a word people use now) to all of the technological advances of the past two thousand years or so. Anyhow, yet again, we proceeded to inspect the kitchen, which was surprisingly decent looking, except that it smelled as if they'd been feeding, slaughtering, and cooking an animal in the kitchen just minutes before our arrival.
"Do you usually slaughter them in the entryway or directly on the counter?"
"Does this scent come in potpourri?"
"I notice you're cooking what smells like death in here. (Pause) I think it could use some cayenne pepper."
Then we wandered down into the basement where a plague of flies accosted us. And that's what we get for breaking commandments, a plague of flies, or locusts, or whatever. I'm fairly certain it was a plague of something, but not pies because what kind of a plague would that be? A delicious one.
I'm fairly certain that their was a dead body on the premises, but we found ourselves in a hurry to leave before discovering it, and feeling as though we needed to call the police. We then proceeded upstairs, breaking the eleventh commandment a second time in the process and walked into incredibly small rooms that were housing somewhere between three to five families. Again, nothing says this house can be yours like a bunch of people popping out of every room like clowns out of a car. We then sprinted out of the house and didn't even speak about the home. We just acted as though that part of the day had never happened.
"How many houses did we see?"
S: Six.
I thought it was--
S: We saw six homes (shudders)
Author's Note: In now way does this author condone/find comical the tough living situations of families in D.C. However, he would like to point out that said tough living conditions are kind of scary/off putting when you are viewing homes as a walk-in.
We watched 500 Days of Summer in the evening, which we both thoroughly enjoyed. A bit of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind here.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
House # 4
My favorite thing about being on a house search is the quality time that S and I spend together in the evenings. Typically, S arrives home around 6:30 or so from work, meanwhile I've been slaving away on the 11-4 three day a week shift at the library, and starts to look at houses. She then proceeds to look at houses for about two to three hours, scrolling through pictures and trying to count the number of cabinets in the kitchen. Changing camera angles to see if she's missed one that just might be underneath the dishwasher. "I just need somewhere to put that cheese cloth I bought."
As it turns out cheese cloths have nothing to do with cheese. Or very little. Honestly, I don't know what a cheese cloth is.
"I like that they have an indoor pool and an English butler named Nigel or Jeeves depending on your preference, but I'm really going to need a spot for that cake cooling pan."
It's ostensibly like being married to a zombie, except instead of their sole desire being to eat your cranial fluids, their sole desire is to count kitchen cabinets. I guess the analogy breaks down rather quickly. Unless zombies enjoy stainless steel appliances as well. I know about as much about zombies as I do about cheese cloths.
The fourth house was charming. It was charming in the sort of way, where when you were on the second floor you noticed the floor slanting so precipitously that you find yourself wondering why they don't have a slip and slide laid down on the carpet. The closets had half of old staircases that lead to nowhere in them, which is actually useful. Every time I open my closet I'm thinking, "I could use a few random steps leading to nowhere. Who needs shoe space when you've got that?"
The back deck was falling apart and rickety in the sort of way that makes you want to be sure that your will is in order before you step out for some lemonade. That said, something about it was charming. In the same house where S would have closed the closet door in disgust, we described the odd protuberances as quirky. The original windows with cracked frames=quirky. The room with the five foot ceilings directly connected to the master bedroom=quirky.
S: I think this house is still settling.
M: When was this house built?
Seller: 1930.
Later
M: That's what they get for building on quicksand.
We watched another young couple walking around the house, taking lawn samples or something. Looking at the property in an authoritative way that indicated that they were interested. I'm not sure how to go about developing this look myself, but I'm thinking that a top hat and a waxed mustache might do the trick. Failing that, I'm thinking that it would be a good idea to start bringing a tent to all the open houses and claiming squatter's rights. Nothing says I want to buy this place like urinating on the front lawn at six A.M. out an open tent flap.
"What? No. This is just how I prefer to water the lawn. All natural my friend. Honey, wake up. I think we're going to have to leave."
As it turns out cheese cloths have nothing to do with cheese. Or very little. Honestly, I don't know what a cheese cloth is.
"I like that they have an indoor pool and an English butler named Nigel or Jeeves depending on your preference, but I'm really going to need a spot for that cake cooling pan."
It's ostensibly like being married to a zombie, except instead of their sole desire being to eat your cranial fluids, their sole desire is to count kitchen cabinets. I guess the analogy breaks down rather quickly. Unless zombies enjoy stainless steel appliances as well. I know about as much about zombies as I do about cheese cloths.
The fourth house was charming. It was charming in the sort of way, where when you were on the second floor you noticed the floor slanting so precipitously that you find yourself wondering why they don't have a slip and slide laid down on the carpet. The closets had half of old staircases that lead to nowhere in them, which is actually useful. Every time I open my closet I'm thinking, "I could use a few random steps leading to nowhere. Who needs shoe space when you've got that?"
The back deck was falling apart and rickety in the sort of way that makes you want to be sure that your will is in order before you step out for some lemonade. That said, something about it was charming. In the same house where S would have closed the closet door in disgust, we described the odd protuberances as quirky. The original windows with cracked frames=quirky. The room with the five foot ceilings directly connected to the master bedroom=quirky.
S: I think this house is still settling.
M: When was this house built?
Seller: 1930.
Later
M: That's what they get for building on quicksand.
We watched another young couple walking around the house, taking lawn samples or something. Looking at the property in an authoritative way that indicated that they were interested. I'm not sure how to go about developing this look myself, but I'm thinking that a top hat and a waxed mustache might do the trick. Failing that, I'm thinking that it would be a good idea to start bringing a tent to all the open houses and claiming squatter's rights. Nothing says I want to buy this place like urinating on the front lawn at six A.M. out an open tent flap.
"What? No. This is just how I prefer to water the lawn. All natural my friend. Honey, wake up. I think we're going to have to leave."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
House # 3
The third house was really more of an apartment. And when I say really more of an apartment, I mean it was the exterior of an apartment building that we were locked out of. I found it really hard to get a feeling for the place from the front entrance, and we didn't have any pictures. I'm guessing that it had five walls in every room, a live in cockatoo, that strangely butch maid from the Jetsons, and a harpsichord, played by someone distantly related to the English royal family. One does never know, now do they?
Additional questions for agents that every D.C. owner/renter should ask.
With the help of Mike.
"Does this place have asbestos in the walls? No. How much would it cost to get something like that put in?"
"I'm thinking of flooding the exterior of the house and sort of turning it into an aquarium. Do you think that table will float or not? If you want me to buy the house Ted, you'll say that it will stay anchored. (It's important to nod or wink at Ted at this point in your conversation, so he knows he's dealing with a real player).
Granite, Granite, all I ever hear about is granite. What's it going to cost me to get some sheep's wool on these f-ing counters Ted!?"
Random conversations from a night spent at home.
S: Oh, I almost asked a stupid question.
M: Well, you were asking a question so....
S: I will stab you in the eyeball with a fork.
S walks toward the dish drainer where I've been "stacking" the dishes. I use the term loosely because I've piled them in some strange configuration, which resembles an Egyptian hieroglyph/impending disaster.
S: What is going on here. (Begins fixing the dish drainer)
M: What are you doing?
S: I'm fixing this.
M: You're destroying a very complex system that I've worked out to put away the dishes.
S: I'm fixing your system.
M: I worked hard on that system. It took hours.
S: I'm fixing your broke ass system.
M: That hurts. Don't forget, many a truth is said in jest.
S: Who said I was jesting?
Additional questions for agents that every D.C. owner/renter should ask.
With the help of Mike.
"Does this place have asbestos in the walls? No. How much would it cost to get something like that put in?"
"I'm thinking of flooding the exterior of the house and sort of turning it into an aquarium. Do you think that table will float or not? If you want me to buy the house Ted, you'll say that it will stay anchored. (It's important to nod or wink at Ted at this point in your conversation, so he knows he's dealing with a real player).
Granite, Granite, all I ever hear about is granite. What's it going to cost me to get some sheep's wool on these f-ing counters Ted!?"
Random conversations from a night spent at home.
S: Oh, I almost asked a stupid question.
M: Well, you were asking a question so....
S: I will stab you in the eyeball with a fork.
S walks toward the dish drainer where I've been "stacking" the dishes. I use the term loosely because I've piled them in some strange configuration, which resembles an Egyptian hieroglyph/impending disaster.
S: What is going on here. (Begins fixing the dish drainer)
M: What are you doing?
S: I'm fixing this.
M: You're destroying a very complex system that I've worked out to put away the dishes.
S: I'm fixing your system.
M: I worked hard on that system. It took hours.
S: I'm fixing your broke ass system.
M: That hurts. Don't forget, many a truth is said in jest.
S: Who said I was jesting?
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
House # 2
To be honest, I don't really remember house #2 all that well. I believe it was built in the nineteen fifties. The interior was nice, but the yard stretched on for a country mile. I stood in the backyard, picturing myself mowing the lawn on a Saturday while S stirred up some lemonade. Then I pictured myself sitting in an air conditioned house watching a football game, and I realized that this wasn't the house for me.
A: "The yard is too big."
S: "The yard is too big?"
A: "I keep talking with my brother and my dad and they're spending all their time in the yard slaving away on weekends."
Had a brief conversation with the seller. We exchanged pleasantries. He kept trying to sell us on the big master bedroom that didn't have a door. I wanted to ask how much a door would have cost. In my understanding, you can have one painted in about ten seconds. Then again, most of my knowledge comes from Looney Tunes cartoons that I watched when I was seven. I may not be the best home buyer. I always imagine myself walking in, setting down a hat of some sort, preferably a fedora, and asking the agent all sorts of incisive questions.
"What's the insulation like in this place?"
"Do you have any mold problems?"
"Why is their a staircase on the third floor that leads to nowhere?" (At this point I'm actually looking at the Winchester Mystery House)
"What are the property taxes?"
"If I wanted to start an Alpaca farm do you think the neighbors would be amenable?"
"Does this place have a washer and dryer hook up?"
"How do I look in this shirt? It feels a little tight through the shoulders, but I can never get a proper look at my back in the mirror?"
"Is the basement finished?"
"How much would it cost to remodel this kitchen?"
"How many kids do you think we could chain in the crawl space in the attic?" "What, no. It's really more of a hypothetical thing."
And so on.
A: "The yard is too big."
S: "The yard is too big?"
A: "I keep talking with my brother and my dad and they're spending all their time in the yard slaving away on weekends."
Had a brief conversation with the seller. We exchanged pleasantries. He kept trying to sell us on the big master bedroom that didn't have a door. I wanted to ask how much a door would have cost. In my understanding, you can have one painted in about ten seconds. Then again, most of my knowledge comes from Looney Tunes cartoons that I watched when I was seven. I may not be the best home buyer. I always imagine myself walking in, setting down a hat of some sort, preferably a fedora, and asking the agent all sorts of incisive questions.
"What's the insulation like in this place?"
"Do you have any mold problems?"
"Why is their a staircase on the third floor that leads to nowhere?" (At this point I'm actually looking at the Winchester Mystery House)
"What are the property taxes?"
"If I wanted to start an Alpaca farm do you think the neighbors would be amenable?"
"Does this place have a washer and dryer hook up?"
"How do I look in this shirt? It feels a little tight through the shoulders, but I can never get a proper look at my back in the mirror?"
"Is the basement finished?"
"How much would it cost to remodel this kitchen?"
"How many kids do you think we could chain in the crawl space in the attic?" "What, no. It's really more of a hypothetical thing."
And so on.
Monday, July 13, 2009
House #1
This blog has re-launched as the D.C. housing blog. I'm throwing a party over at my place right now to celebrate. We're serving fruit punch spiked with Sprite, but the party has been pretty low key thus far. I'm assuming the cops won't break it up like the last book club meeting we had.
The first house we looked at on Sunday had a real estate agent who was sweating profusely. She kept saying that the house had air conditioning, but she wasn't sure how to make it work. I'm thinking, is this the best way to sell a house? By playing a game of sweat out. Incidentally, S and I were actually feeling pretty good in the house, so the conversation seemed unnecessary. S and I explored the kitchen where she made notes on her pad about how many cabinets it had.
We wandered outside and were barked at profusely by a dog that sort of looked like the Turner and Hooch dog. He was drooling and I'm fairly certain that if he had full use of his legs, he would have jumped the fence and bitten us. I wanted to walk back into the house and ask if the dog came with the house or if we had to pay extra for the barking. The family also put a carport where I would have liked to have a vegetable garden. It seemed really shortsighted of the previous tenants to have put a car port where my vegetable garden was supposed to be and frankly a little selfish.
Then we wandered downstairs to the finished basement, which featured a ceiling of an appropriate height for people of S's height, but sadly head smacking for us taller folk. Then we went upstairs and inspected the bathroom. One thing I've learned from looking at houses built in the 1950's is that people used to be smaller. Or they were really attached to the idea of brushing their teeth while sitting on the toilet. I'm not sure which it is because I didn't live in the fifties.
I'm also hoping for a home with double sinks because S likes to loom around the bathroom when I'm trying to brush my teeth and suddenly swoop in when I need to spit. She claims that its happenstance, but I think it's fair to say that it's an aggressive campaign devised to keep me from using the bathroom. Eventually she'll have the full run of the place, which is what women want. At least according to this great Mel Gibson movie I saw years ago.
The first house we looked at on Sunday had a real estate agent who was sweating profusely. She kept saying that the house had air conditioning, but she wasn't sure how to make it work. I'm thinking, is this the best way to sell a house? By playing a game of sweat out. Incidentally, S and I were actually feeling pretty good in the house, so the conversation seemed unnecessary. S and I explored the kitchen where she made notes on her pad about how many cabinets it had.
We wandered outside and were barked at profusely by a dog that sort of looked like the Turner and Hooch dog. He was drooling and I'm fairly certain that if he had full use of his legs, he would have jumped the fence and bitten us. I wanted to walk back into the house and ask if the dog came with the house or if we had to pay extra for the barking. The family also put a carport where I would have liked to have a vegetable garden. It seemed really shortsighted of the previous tenants to have put a car port where my vegetable garden was supposed to be and frankly a little selfish.
Then we wandered downstairs to the finished basement, which featured a ceiling of an appropriate height for people of S's height, but sadly head smacking for us taller folk. Then we went upstairs and inspected the bathroom. One thing I've learned from looking at houses built in the 1950's is that people used to be smaller. Or they were really attached to the idea of brushing their teeth while sitting on the toilet. I'm not sure which it is because I didn't live in the fifties.
I'm also hoping for a home with double sinks because S likes to loom around the bathroom when I'm trying to brush my teeth and suddenly swoop in when I need to spit. She claims that its happenstance, but I think it's fair to say that it's an aggressive campaign devised to keep me from using the bathroom. Eventually she'll have the full run of the place, which is what women want. At least according to this great Mel Gibson movie I saw years ago.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Housing
Today we looked at houses. It's a fun thing to do when you're only marginally employed. It's nice to stand there idly shifting glasses on your nose and then saying that you just aren't as crazy about granite as everyone else and that you feel that recycled glass is really preferable. It's nice because the sellers don't know that you couldn't be pre-approved for anything over 10,000. My favorite thing to do is to ask the real estate agent if they allow pets? Then, regardless of the answer, I regale them with stories of all the antics and capers that Mr. Jingles gets into at our house. Typically, I ask if I can bring the cat inside on the next visit because I really think we'll know it's home when he looks comfortable.
Meanwhile, back in reality, my wife is opening every closet and peering into it closely as if she's looking for Narnia. I'm pretty sure that we'll run into Mr. Tumnis (sp?) one of these days. Meanwhile, I'm checking out the window, trying to see what the neighbors look like, and she's down the hallyway wondering if we'd be able to fit two vacum cleaners into the hall closet.
She also has a proclivity for wandering into the basement straight away. I'm thinking that we should start asking the agents all sorts of questions about hook ups for bathrooms, and televisions et al in these places, and pretty much just never leave the basement.
"Do you want to see the master bedroom?"
"No, I think we're all set here just looking through the basement. How many trowels would you say you could put on that wall?"
Blank experssion. "Because the previous owners pushed out the wall, and they've really got a nice master suite upstairs."
"My wife and I are actually from an ancient race of trolls, and it's too complicated to get into it right now."
Agent, switching tactics, because it's their job. "Oh yeah, actually the couple who lived here before had a dog, which is kind of like a troll. Are trolls like dogs? And the deck. Have you seen the deck?"
Inevitably when we convene in the basement, and S mumbles something about the degree of available storage I say, "Just think how many bodies you could fit down here?" I'm pretty sure she appreciates the joke, though she only laughed the first time. I suspect that when she frowns and takes copious notes about the dimensions of the house in lieu of responding, she's really just trying to hold back explosive bits of laughter. This is what happens to a child of the 80's who saw "The Burbs" at too young of an age.
Meanwhile, back in reality, my wife is opening every closet and peering into it closely as if she's looking for Narnia. I'm pretty sure that we'll run into Mr. Tumnis (sp?) one of these days. Meanwhile, I'm checking out the window, trying to see what the neighbors look like, and she's down the hallyway wondering if we'd be able to fit two vacum cleaners into the hall closet.
She also has a proclivity for wandering into the basement straight away. I'm thinking that we should start asking the agents all sorts of questions about hook ups for bathrooms, and televisions et al in these places, and pretty much just never leave the basement.
"Do you want to see the master bedroom?"
"No, I think we're all set here just looking through the basement. How many trowels would you say you could put on that wall?"
Blank experssion. "Because the previous owners pushed out the wall, and they've really got a nice master suite upstairs."
"My wife and I are actually from an ancient race of trolls, and it's too complicated to get into it right now."
Agent, switching tactics, because it's their job. "Oh yeah, actually the couple who lived here before had a dog, which is kind of like a troll. Are trolls like dogs? And the deck. Have you seen the deck?"
Inevitably when we convene in the basement, and S mumbles something about the degree of available storage I say, "Just think how many bodies you could fit down here?" I'm pretty sure she appreciates the joke, though she only laughed the first time. I suspect that when she frowns and takes copious notes about the dimensions of the house in lieu of responding, she's really just trying to hold back explosive bits of laughter. This is what happens to a child of the 80's who saw "The Burbs" at too young of an age.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Things that I find funny
I spent the morning sweeping up roaches and wishing that I was trying to put together an insect collection. Or that I was entomologist, if that's what entomologists do, look at insects that is. I wouldn't want to have that job if it was just sweeping up insects, unless they paid me like a hundred dollars an hour, then maybe I'd do it.
I also applied for a job today to work at Loyola College in Maryland. I'm fairly certain right now that they are trying to work out a proper signing bonus for me before they hire me on. That's the sort of thing that employers do when they get new resumes.
It's slightly chilly in D.C. tonight, which makes me kind of hate it. And I'm sure people are walking around thinking, "What a wonderful and lovely cool summer evening we're having." But they're probably from upstate New York or Boston, or somewhere else where it's always cold, and they think that it puts hair on your chest, and it's just another excuse to wear another layer. These people are crazy about layers. You'd think they'd make better cakes.......
I'm from California, so when it's slightly chilly outside I resent the whole Eastern seaboard. I immediately think of the long winter, when people from the Northeast are unhappy because it isn't snowing, and I'm watching my fingers turn blue. Winters here on the average last on average forever, which might seem like an exaggeration but not if you moved here from Santa Barbara. I used to bitch about the weather there as well, or at least complain that S would say every day, "It's so beautiful here!" while we watched the waves crash down and the sun drop into the sea in pinks and greens. Then I'd get annoyed and wonder why she couldn't just shut up about it being so nice. It's kind of like those sorts of good-looking people who go the extra mile to look even better. Can't they just enjoy the damn sunset without talking about how beautiful it is?
Oh, but on the bright side of things this video made me laugh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rChjMRfi40c
Actually it made me giggle because when I'm laughing really hard I giggle. Which yes, is a little feminine, but I'm pretty certain it tightens the abs. And when is the last time you had a good giggle Mr. bigshot. It feels good to giggle. It's better than damn Pilates, giggling. Anyhow, I need to get back to studying insects in my kitchen with E.O. Wilson. I wish I had a cat sack to play with. I love the unbridled joy it brings me when it crinkles.
I also applied for a job today to work at Loyola College in Maryland. I'm fairly certain right now that they are trying to work out a proper signing bonus for me before they hire me on. That's the sort of thing that employers do when they get new resumes.
It's slightly chilly in D.C. tonight, which makes me kind of hate it. And I'm sure people are walking around thinking, "What a wonderful and lovely cool summer evening we're having." But they're probably from upstate New York or Boston, or somewhere else where it's always cold, and they think that it puts hair on your chest, and it's just another excuse to wear another layer. These people are crazy about layers. You'd think they'd make better cakes.......
I'm from California, so when it's slightly chilly outside I resent the whole Eastern seaboard. I immediately think of the long winter, when people from the Northeast are unhappy because it isn't snowing, and I'm watching my fingers turn blue. Winters here on the average last on average forever, which might seem like an exaggeration but not if you moved here from Santa Barbara. I used to bitch about the weather there as well, or at least complain that S would say every day, "It's so beautiful here!" while we watched the waves crash down and the sun drop into the sea in pinks and greens. Then I'd get annoyed and wonder why she couldn't just shut up about it being so nice. It's kind of like those sorts of good-looking people who go the extra mile to look even better. Can't they just enjoy the damn sunset without talking about how beautiful it is?
Oh, but on the bright side of things this video made me laugh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rChjMRfi40c
Actually it made me giggle because when I'm laughing really hard I giggle. Which yes, is a little feminine, but I'm pretty certain it tightens the abs. And when is the last time you had a good giggle Mr. bigshot. It feels good to giggle. It's better than damn Pilates, giggling. Anyhow, I need to get back to studying insects in my kitchen with E.O. Wilson. I wish I had a cat sack to play with. I love the unbridled joy it brings me when it crinkles.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Vacation
8:20-Finish a brief dispute I was having with my alarm clock about when to wake up. I recently returned from a vacation where I got an average of about six hours a night. Somebody somewhere needs to queue the quote "I need a vacation from my vacation." A little part of me just died inside.
9-10:00-Spend the morning surfing around the internet (do kids still use the word surfing? Is it browsing? Somebody somewhere queue the quote "The Internet is not a place it's a series of tubes. Apply for a job at Montogomery County Community College. Kind of think that the third C is a bit of overkill. MCCC. Too many right?
We've been having a minor battle with a colony of roaches that have taken up residence in our walls. We've had the exterminator come by and spray down our cabinets, which my wife insists is going to poison us. I try to reassure her by telling her that Scientists, which I always spell with a capital S, have worked out a poison that provides strong bones for us while killing roaches dead in their tracks. Queue RRRRAAIDDD/dying roaches.
Upon returning from our brief vacation to our humble little apartment that had just been sprayed for roaches, we were greeted on the front entryway by a scuttling black insect. Needless to say we were thrilled at the effectiveness of the exterminator. I guess in this economy you want to be certain of work, so it wouldn't be a good idea to do a good job all at once.
I've tried to suggest that if spraying doesn't work that we should shrink ourselves down and slowly mate with the roaches, thus changing our differences over time. Steph is skeptical.
Which reminds me: Typical evening scene.
S wanders into the kitchen.
(Shriek ensues)
S: "Bring me a shoe!"
A: "Did you see a roach!"
S: "Yes, bring me a shoe!"
A: "Reason with it. Reason with it!"
S: "Throw me your shoe!"
A: "Reason with it!"
S squashes with shoe.
A: "Well that's not going to solve the bigger issue that's going on here."
Leaves in a huff.
7:29-Conduct an argument with my wife in which she accuses me of misquoting her in a previous blog. "I don't think I said that the statue of Paolo and Francesca was boring."
Me: "I might have just put that in there for a affect."
S: "James Frey."
Me: "Did you just call me James Frey?"
9-10:00-Spend the morning surfing around the internet (do kids still use the word surfing? Is it browsing? Somebody somewhere queue the quote "The Internet is not a place it's a series of tubes. Apply for a job at Montogomery County Community College. Kind of think that the third C is a bit of overkill. MCCC. Too many right?
We've been having a minor battle with a colony of roaches that have taken up residence in our walls. We've had the exterminator come by and spray down our cabinets, which my wife insists is going to poison us. I try to reassure her by telling her that Scientists, which I always spell with a capital S, have worked out a poison that provides strong bones for us while killing roaches dead in their tracks. Queue RRRRAAIDDD/dying roaches.
Upon returning from our brief vacation to our humble little apartment that had just been sprayed for roaches, we were greeted on the front entryway by a scuttling black insect. Needless to say we were thrilled at the effectiveness of the exterminator. I guess in this economy you want to be certain of work, so it wouldn't be a good idea to do a good job all at once.
I've tried to suggest that if spraying doesn't work that we should shrink ourselves down and slowly mate with the roaches, thus changing our differences over time. Steph is skeptical.
Which reminds me: Typical evening scene.
S wanders into the kitchen.
(Shriek ensues)
S: "Bring me a shoe!"
A: "Did you see a roach!"
S: "Yes, bring me a shoe!"
A: "Reason with it. Reason with it!"
S: "Throw me your shoe!"
A: "Reason with it!"
S squashes with shoe.
A: "Well that's not going to solve the bigger issue that's going on here."
Leaves in a huff.
7:29-Conduct an argument with my wife in which she accuses me of misquoting her in a previous blog. "I don't think I said that the statue of Paolo and Francesca was boring."
Me: "I might have just put that in there for a affect."
S: "James Frey."
Me: "Did you just call me James Frey?"
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