Glass Houses? What About BRICK Houses??

I told her. You can't just come up in the city and act any old way you want without consequences. I mean maybe that's something you could do in the country, but up here you need walk the line. Mind your p's (Ripley). Tend your q's (Girl).

But the girl does what she wants. You can try to tell her, but she's always going to do what she wants. And now look. Look what's happened.

That is a brick. A brick from my own house. A brick from her chimney (I also told her we needed repairs). A brick relocated to the driveway, centimeters from my car...with a brand new windshield.

Oh, that's just surface brick she says. It just chipped off the edge of the chimney, she says. Oh really? Really, really? And I suppose you think this has nothing to do with the fact that you are feeding the wild animals in the yard that I told you not to humor. No, of course not.

Yes, that's exactly what I think happened. Those darned squirrels are up on our roof plotting against us for our bird feeding preferences. "Look biotch, I told you we want peanuts. Peanuts, not sunflowers!"

"And what's with this tiny feed," the other one chimes in. "I want me some ears of corn. Do you have any idea how much seed we'll need to shove in our cheeks before we're ready for the winter cold? Ain't nobody got time for that!"

That's when it happens. Them squirrely squirrels chip away at that fireplace chimney with their squirrely-squirrel-claws until a piece breaks loose. Then they laugh and sneer as Cheeks McGee draws his tiny squirrel paws back and hurls his fuzzy-tailed-rat-rage at my Civic. I bet they turn back around and fist bump those tiny fur paws of theirs too. And say, "WHAT!?"

Throwback Almost Thursday.

Perhaps I am showing my age, but old school works. Today I was at a bit of a technology seminar and I glanced about to all the laptops and felt a little silly with my pen and paper. Then I pulled out my flip phone. And read from a book with physical pages. You could touch. Yeah, I still roll like that. Like a stone wheel chiseled by hand.

And then technology bit me in the ass. I rushed home to go to a school fair...that I never made it to. Instead I took a two hour tour of the county. In the rain. During rush hour. Whoop Whoop. Guess what day it is? It's okay I heard the camel was furloughed. It's almost Throwback Thurs-DAAY.

I made the mistake of googling the address. When I arrived it didn't feel right. So I consulted GPS, which confirmed I was at the right place. I mean the sign in front of the school said Hoover Middle School, which was my destination. It had to be right. But it's not where I needed to be.

I now firmly believe this was the old Hoover Middle. What I needed was the new Hoover Middle. I had no idea. The internet didn't tell me that. To confuse the situation I found yet another Hoover Middle on the other side of the county. THREE Hoover Middles? Are you freaking kidding me??

Here's a thought, when you invite me to the fair how about giving me an actual address? And a contact number??  Silly me, I thought I could just check the internet and get there no problem. And in case the jury was still out, everything on the internet is NOT true.

Oh hey, just the other day I was on Google and searched for map. Sometimes I search for translate when I need Google translate. So I searched for map to get Google maps. Know what the number one search result was on Google? MapQuest. Go figure. And I should have stuck with it...they know where the right Hoover Middle is.

Up a Really Big Creek Without a Paddle

Okay, so the move to meld the mouses, both country and city, is a bit like shopping for a sofa. Seems like it should be a fun activity; turns out it's not. And I feel a bit like I'm up shit creek.

Doesn't help that the girl is right there with me....in the creek we'll call, de Nile.

So it's no secret I'm thrilled with the situation. Although she might be surprised to learn I'm sad about leaving the country. I'm going to miss it. But I try to keep it all to myself.

See, I'm not sure she is thrilled. And I don't want to rub it in her face. I'm sure she feels like she is giving up a lot to come to me. I, on the other hand, can't wait for her to see what she's gonna gain. I think she's keeping a secret calendar marking off the time until she can return to paradise.

In the meantime, we don't talk about it. And if we do, we fight. I'm told this is normal. I don't love it. She says I act like I'm not excited about it. --the move, not the fighting. Yes, that is kinda what I was going for. On the inside I'm pink with delight.

I say, you also don't seem excited about it. She says she is. But you see how she packs right? Keeps saying she's not moving anything. I'm like, you realize you are MOVING to the city. It's where you live now little mouse. Yeah, but all I need is some pants. Some pants, 'that's all I need... And these matches. - The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control, and the paddle ball... And this lamp. And I don't need one other thing, except my dog.' Jerk.

I feel like she doesn't expect to stay long. Like she is uprooting her life for the next 6 months and that's all. Then we move back. You see my trunk right? Just some random pieces from her life packed piece by piece in the Civic. This picture, my mug, chapstick, and some pants, that's all I need.  Baby, I don't love boxes stored in the attic, but I'm not opposed to them whilst physically moving. And you're not The Jerk. Maybe we could try actually packing something next time?

Define Normal

My whole life I've either been a step ahead or a staircase behind. I had short hair before it was cool. Rode a bike before it was green. Kissed a girl before it was on the Top 40.

What I did right on time was find my wife at exactly the right moment. We were planning our marriage just as our state was planning to legalize it. We were expecting our certified license in the mail the day the nation recognized our melded life.

Most couples are worried about colors and flowers and where to have the reception. We were concerned with rights and taxes and health care. Who would come and who would scorn, not where to seat them. As we became one, which companies would accept us and which would give us hurdles. There are plenty of hurdles...we continue to find. And yet plenty of people who won't bat an eye when a woman says my wife.

Some see our choices as unconventional. Okay, if you must. I've been different my whole life. But saying my wife feels as natural as my own skin. I don't care about your policies or loopholes. Falling asleep in my wife's arms erases any struggles in our day.

The heteroes bucked society by living together before getting married. And here we are married, living apart. Now I'm hearing the key to a successful marriage is not living together at all. Here we go again. A step ahead about to fall behind. Different as the day is long. C'est la vie. Haven't you read the new YouTube comments, she keeps me warm.

I'm not sure if I should be excited or not, the whole process has been such a stressful journey. I want to live with my wife. I want dinner at the table with conversations of our day. Dog walks, evening jogs, rides to the city, nights on the couch with the remote. Many many more blog posts about life with the girl.

She makes breakfast. I cook dinner. She kills poison ivy. I do dishes and laundry. We love each other, support each other, depend on each other. We are married. And soon we will live in the same house. Yeah, I'm excited. Normal or not.



Hey Bud

This is exactly what I'm saying. Guess what I found today, finally? It's stringy, pink, and heard all over. Welcome back ipod, I can finally hear you now.

Ear buds. Yes, ear buds. Where were they? Is that what you asked? I just want to make sure I heard you correctly. Where? In the office.

NO, I am NOT saying the girl was right. In fact, what I am saying is I was right. This is why we don't throw items willy nilly around the office. In the black bin would be one thing, but these were clearly not there. I looked 104 times. Every time the girl said, they are in the office.

Yes, I understand how that last statement makes it seem like the wife was right. But clearly you are not listening to me. Typical. See I know she didn't put them in that white bag. That's not what she meant when she kept saying, "in the office." I have no earthly idea how they ended up in the white bag. PARKER?!! Hmmm? Well, yes, maybe.

But let me distract you from this post a second since you seem to be taking her side...

Today I was at the market and I sent a text to my wife.
It said, "Honey do we need bread?"
She replied, "No it's in freezer."
I snicker, "Really, there's bread in the freezer?"
She doesn't miss a beat, "3 loaves in freezer."
I said, "Clearly you haven't read the latest blog."
Fresh, fresh, exciting...

Really I'm just procrastinating because now that I found my ear buds I have no excuse not to go out and run. It's not like I need to stay in and make bread or anything.

Girls, Work It Out



I used to get my panties in a bunch whenever the girl would ask me to do something in the middle of my work day. Like laundry or food shop. Um, I'm WORKING, I would quip, borderline annoyed.

And she would always put stuff on my 'desk'. Papers, Reader's Digests, crap we bought at the store the night before. It would drive me nuts any time I went to the country. I'd have to reorganize my office 'space' every morning. I'd miss the city where I had my own 'office'.

She's gotten much better about respecting my country desk. Now apparently, we need to work on the city office. Baby.

It's her house, I can't much complain. And she's cleaning up. But cleaning up means if she doesn't find it important or see a place for it it goes in the office. My office. I looked up office and it does not mean a place to store unwanted stuff. In fact it means quite the opposite.

It's a room assigned to an individual in which they do business. I'm that individual and my business is not rearranging stuff. I do collect a lot of unwanted stuff, but we send it overseas far far away from my office.

And so we do this little dance every weekend. I go to work, she cleans up the house by throwing everything in my office, closing the door, and forgetting about it. Monday morning I get up and move everything she put in there back out into the hall and living room. It doesn't belong in the office. I have to WORK there.

Baby, where's my ear buds? Last I saw them, they were in the office. Sigh, I'm not surprised. It's like the bi-cycle tri-angle in there, things go in and never come out.

Miss Utility Player

Ahem. Dog. Yes, you. That particular area in which you are *ahem*; digging, was not preapproved for your excavating services. In fact you are dangerously close to some underground electrical cabling and I suggest you BACK OFF.

Oh, she is good. I think I mentioned recently something about a little -rat-a-tat-tat- incident? Perhaps it was just a little Ratinator reference. Meet: The Ratinator.

The thing is. She doesn't really know what she is digging for. China by the looks of it! She has gotten me on more than one occasion. I mean she really thinks there's something in those freaking holes. Sometimes, Dog, they are just holes. Holes YOU create no less.

 

In the country I don't recommend you go off all willy nilly running around the yard like some school girl in a country meadow breeze. First of all, it's never a breeze. Second of all, you'll twist your ankle in those crazy diggin' dog holes.

 

It's a bit like watching Caddy Shack when she's around. Once, just once, I said, What's In The Hole. And out popped a rat. A big, fat, city rat! rat-a-tat-MOM. I won't recall the details of what happened next, but Rips got an extry dog treat that night.

 

But let's get back to the extraneous hole digging. You are to dig on command. MY command. Yes, I know it's YOUR yard, but I have to clean up YOUR mess, in more ways than one. I win. Quit diggin', you dig?

#Take Your Dog To Work Day Fail

Honey, I broke the dog. I used it like you showed me but now it's not acting right. It doesn't move. It's snoring. It's letting the cat reclaim the house.

I'm sorry. Maybe you can take it back and get another one? It's not really my fault. If you hadn't lost custody, it would have been with you today, and maybe it would still work right.

But you left it to its own devices and it ran into a car. Come to think of it maybe it was defective from the start. Did it come with a warranty? Money back guarantee? 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed?

If it means anything the cat likes this new calmer version. Maybe we should just keep it? This one might not run out willy nilly into traffic butt bumping bumpers anyway. Let's give it a try and see how we like it.

But I can make it disappear if you'd rather. Just let me know by 2pm tomorrow...I'll be at King Farm loading for CESTA. Actually if you could tell me by lunch I'll make sure to leave a space for it.

Twofer Tuesday

So this lady and gentleman (and an occasional third reader) is the inside of my hub. I never got my paws on the pawls. The best I can figure that's something on the drive side, where I can't seem to access. Things shooting off into the ether was quite a discourager.

That and the couple people I consulted with made it sound like tackling the impossible. But really any mechanic will tell a non-mechanic that no matter what. A little bit of patience goes a long way and saves a ton of cash; I know that.

So I got as far as removing the nut and we'll say the cap. Then I hit a road block. There's talk of a 10mm and a 5mm and this and that, but I don't even have a 10mm so we stop there regardless. And both parties keep talking about repacking the hub, the bearings, and the like. Okay, I hear you! But that there folks appears to me to be a sealed cartridge. No servicing required.

But I cleaned up what I could, dripped a couple drops of oil around it and screwed her back up. Nothing I did shoulda made a lick of difference, but the $80 service quote sure would have. Know what, it worked. No more noise (for now). I'm not gloating because I can tell it wants to howl again. But with a little screw and a little lube I got a quiet smooth ride. That's what she said.

And on that nice quiet ride I encountered a war zone over on Connecticut Avenue. Water main break. I didn't realize it at the time, but with those pants I coulda got a ring side seat to the geyser. And maybe an honest answer as to when the water restrictions would be lifted. It smelled a whole lot like gas so I didn't hang around.

The trail was still open and the traffic was horrendous so I was sitting pretty. All 4 stations were camped there but no one stopped me to interview me. :( And there I was all prepared with my sound byte:  How am I affected by the water restrictions? Oh not so bad, I drink more beer and shower with my girlfriend...sounds like a lifelong plan!

Butt, Er

Waitre...I steal butter. Or rather this is my first coup. I've never been that person, but times are tight. And snax is good with actual butter. These little gold popcorn pats of it are super duper handy too.

Excu...Fits right there in yer purse for emergencies. Cuz you never know when you might need a dab of butter. Gum in your hair. Stuck ring. Sap on the hood of your car.

But I...And I snagged them like a stealth burglar in the night. What with our waitress taking an hour to even take our drink order. RIGHT?! Indeed, me and my dinner date, thought we'd take the sneaky option and sit outside since we had that warm January night you always look forward to every year. See, there was a lively fundraising function on the inside...with a band, and tots (the running giggling kind not the tasty fried treats) and an hour wait for a table.  Did you say an hour???

Er...Yeah, so we waited an hour in the 'waiting area' of the restaurant, sitting outside reading our menus and wishing for drinks. We couldn't get an order in edgewise. I was glad to see my friend's function booming with success. The waitress says the Event Planner (they have one of those? and they still have a job? can I turn in my resume? just in case?) only expected 24 people. Are you kidding me?

As my friend said, I am truly shocked that they were only expecting 24 people. I mean what the heck?  I mean do they know who I am??? :) KK brings in a party! And that's NO LIE.

Below the Fold

When my friends find out how much I make (and the fact that it doesn't pay the bills) they think I'm crazy for quitting my financially comfortable job. They also suggest asking my boss for a raise. Mmmm...yeah, I think they call it non-profit for a reason.

So indeed, I took a bit of a pay cut, but the flexible schedule, nights, weekends, and holidays make it all worth it. I think. And yet, I struggle:

1. Where to get my news.
This has been quite a big dilemma. I used to get my fill of current events on the clock. I tried watching local news, but it turns out they need to pay me to watch that crap. I can't afford the paper nor do I want the pressure of reading it every day. Online...well, I spend a majority of my day on the computer and don't really want to do it a minute more. So if it doesn't cross my facebook newsfeed, it ain't news.

2. How to get exercise.
I used to commute to work by bike. Now I walk down the stairs, brew my coffee, and wear my pajamas into my home office. No commute required. I've gained 20 pounds. And aged 10 years. I can't touch my toes and my hips ache. When I walk the dog my arm hurts the next day. This sucks. When did I become that person?

3. I'm dehydrated.
Oh, I know how it sounds. It's true what they say about the water cooler, there's a certain social aspect tied to it. My kitchen faucet doesn't have nearly the same effect.  And I'm downing beer, coffee, and tea but now I'm hearing that doesn't even count. I've seen how they're all made and I can assure you plenty of water goes into everything. In fact, you can even see it in certain mass brews.

The good news is I've found a solution that addresses all three downfalls at once! At least for those days when I'm in the city. If I ride down to the Newseum I can get the front page news from across the nation in one quick ride by. Then I flip and climb back up the hill. Inevitably I get thirsty.

News. Exercise. Hydration. I still can't pay the bills, but I had Christmas and New Years off. And...there's your Christmas bonus!

Shaken and a Bit Stirred

The other day I left the house. We're talking country now, of course. It sounds crazy, but I don't often leave the country house. As much as I hate city traffic, I often find it harder to get around in the country. It involves gas and vehicles and miles. I can't hop on a bike, ride to the store, and be home in a flash. Nothing is as close as it appears.

So I load up the car with supplies for my big adventure to the big city. Water, snacks, GPS...Now I had seen this several times before but never actually read the sign. There, at the local watering hole, was a sign promoting the not-so-recent Skyfall. You've heard of it? You've seen it!? Great, let's grab a drink.

All you need to do is bring your ticket stub to this establishment and you'll get a drink at a discounted price. And I'm pretty sure it's not PBR. I wonder, though, would they really honor my ticket stub (I saw it in the actual city, or rather, not SBY. And the ticket doesn't exactly say Skyfall.

See, I know I should have blogged about this when it happened, but what with the holidays and all I guess I didn't have time. But the girl brought it up in conversation often. I guess it was a little bizarre. The girl wanted to see Skyfall (a fairly recent release at the time) one Friday (in fact BLACK Friday) whilst we were perched in the city. No prob. we've got theaters on every corner. HOWEVER, she said, I want a theater with only 18 people there. It was just an insane challenge not a crazy phobia or anything. She thought I couldn't do it. To be honest, so did I.

I mean really, where in the hell could you see a new release in the city on Black Friday??!? WHEAton of course. So I took her to the 'hood. There was no fooling her, she red.neckenized it right away. Cue Carol Anne in the vein of Poltergeist, No, No, you said NOT to go into WHEAton after dark, NO.

We enter the theater directly. The box office outside was dark. At the concession stand we were able to purchase our tickets. They made two little chicken scratch marks on a piece of scrap paper under a handwritten Skyfall heading. We were then issued two carnival style Admit One tickets in return for a twenty. Sit over there they say and motion toward an array of black pleather office chairs lined up in the lobby. It looked a bit like a small airport waiting area. OR a going out of business sale at Office Depot, which by the way, could be where they came from.

And there we sat, with a growing group of others who also collectively scratched their heads wondering if they truly understood the candy counter lady correctly. Finally, a man said, Skyfall? You can go in now. Slightly skeptical and somewhat untrusting we cautiously followed each other down a long darkened hallway as if we were about to be laughed off the screen in the latest version of Scream 8. The leaders taking two steps, turning a questioning glance sideways back at us, taking two more steps, shrugging, laughing, wondering where the hell this deserted hallway was leading us next.

To the theater of course. We eventually made it. And we should have brought the lobby chairs. No stadium seating. No drink holders. There was a bonus squeak in the chair and a spring poking up in an unpleasant place, so you had to sit still. But the film was focused and centered and the audio not too shabby. And by the way, 18 ticket holders joined us as the reel started to roll.

Now, about that $3 martini....

Snaggled

Heavens to Murgeminid! Oh really? You're going to question that word? Because you have a particular fondness for the term, Murgatroyd? As if you even know what that is!

Oh man, I found something in the country that beats the city hands down! And it was right in front of my face the whole time.

I spent many hours sacked out on my deck in the city trying to catch a faint star shooting across the sky in some meteor shower or another in years past. Truth is I was never sure if I actually saw one or if there was just a floater clouding my eyesight.

In the country, the stars alone are worth the price of admission. They don't need to dart around at all. Wishes be damned. BUT, I did manage to catch a pre-show of the Geminids, which was quite impressive and the show hadn't technically started yet. There's something to the, lack of people...a lack of LIGHT.

Pop! Look at all those stars. There's one. There's one. Ooo that was a good one. Yeah, that's the life I wanted. Just staring up into the sky with the girl by my side. Hiding beneath a blanket, just the two of us.  Or...walking in the shadow of the Mormon Temple amidst their Holiday Lights show busloads of people around us.  It really doesn't matter, as long as we are together.

And yes, the stars in the country are still white, not green and purple like I've misled you in the photo above. It's not a recreation on my childhood light bright, but it could be....Exit Stage Left...

Up In Smoke

Let there be no mistake, I am bored in the country. I complain about the incredible lack of things to do. The limit of culture and art. It's just not like the city.

Take today for example. My country mouse was in town for some very important training after which we were under the gun, so to speak, to get our butts downtown for some very important 'art'.

Forgive me, I stand corrected. Turns out the city, too, bores me quite a bit. A limitless amount of culture and art, apparently, is not always a good thing. Today, a Chinese 'artist' blew up a tree. And called it art. I call it FAIL. To quote Deana Carter, "I shaved my legs for this?"

I expected pyrotechnics, like the sign said. I expected mind bending, tree altering effects like the diagram indicated. I expected lights and wows and cool. It's not at all what I expected. It was beyond the complete opposite. It was what they call in the fireworks biz: A DUD.

It sounded like a ancient gun fight with the smoke of one to boot. But when the smoke cleared, the tree stood unaffected and the crowd dispersed, scratching a collective head going, huh? The guy next to us turned and said, Is this Art?!

 

Well, it's in front of the art museum; that's the closest it's gonna get to art in this town. The smoke artist said he hoped the smoke would look like a virtual tree. O...kaaay.... It was some kind of protest about lighting Christmas trees. Protest, YES!, now you're in the right neighborhood.

 

Art, maybe not so much, and the Chinese, maybe not as big a threat as once thought.

 

Clean Up on Aisle 3

I just discovered something more annoying than talking on the phone behind the wheel...talking on the phone behind the cart. OMA.

In fact, I'm heavily weighing the consequences associated with starvation in an attempt to never need to go to the Giant again. I'm not entirely sure when it happened, but today I became THAT person.

The one who knocks things down and doesn't pick them up. I didn't mean to do it and ordinarily I would have cleaned up my mess, but I'm sorry, I just couldn't. For the sake of sanity, humanity...I just kept walking. Oh, other people looked at me, I. Did. Not. Care.

 

As if the customers weren't bad enough. Let's talk about how Giant squeezed the aisles together and made less room. Let's consult exhibit A. Down at the end of the aisle you can see an employee stocking shelves. At the busiest time of the day. And there are cases of stock blocking the right 'lane'. No matter, because closer in the foreground you can see the promotional display ALSO blocking the right lane. Repeatedly. Really? Tsk. Tsk.

 

And then comes the dreaded checkout lane. Duhn Duhn Duhn. I thought I picked the shortest lane. Tricked again. Food Stamps! Here's where I struggle to suppress my closeted inner Republican. Now I've got nothing against government assistance, or at least I try to withhold judgement, but here's when it gets hard. I just need not be subjected to it...the purchases on the end of the belt, the fact that they are buying cut flowers or didn't bring their own bags...the list goes on.

 

I say let's give them their own lane. It's for everyone's own good. Take one of those 12 or Under (when did it become 12?) Items Lanes and turn it into a Government Assisted Lane...no item limitation. I'm not suggesting 'separate but equal'--okay, maybe I am, but is that so wrong?

 

I'd settle for a One Transaction Per Customer Lane if you think singling out the Food Stampers is somehow an infringement on their rights.

This Socks

I'm not naive and I don't live under a rock. I've heard of this very thing happening. Here and there. Sometimes on Tuesday. I know it happens. But it's never happened to ME.

You might argue that's it's because of the way I live my life. You might be right. Who I sleep with. Where I hang my hat. Who are we kidding, if you really knew me you'd know I sleep IN my hat. No way I'm losing THAT.

Socks is another beast. Or maybe a small sacrificial lamb. And somewhere in my abode is a nasty, ravenous Sock Monster who eats Sock Guy for snacks. Not only that, it follows me. From City to Country. Country to City.

My dwindling sock supply is not locationally challenged. This has never been a problem for me. I've never sacrificed a sock before. I've seen it on teevee. I've heard the old wives tales. But never once have I permanently lost my fuzzy foot covers.

 

Until now. Now it's a good day when the dryer spits out TWO perfectly matched SmartWools. It's like winning the lottery. Kenmore Keno. And Luck is not my Lady tonight.

 

In the country there is a cat. Maybe two I'm not sure. But they carry these things around like a two year old's teddy. But I collect and congregate them. And engage in round of the childhood game Memory Match.

 

That's not it. There is something seriously eating these things like pop tarts. And it's not just mine. Now Sock Monster is eating the girl's socks too! So if you see me at an event or cruising down the street PLEASE don't mention that my socks don't match. I KNOW, but I'm running out of socks!