Sunday, September 04, 2005

Speak Very Slowly

If you speak very slowly, you may be able to teach yourself patience.

If you read books, you will teach yourself patience.

I am trying something that my friend Evan used to teach his dog patience. I am balancing a doggie biscuit on my nose and quietly telling myself to "wait for it." This worked well for Jake the chocolate lab who was a wonderful dog but deathly afraid of the water. It may do the same for me.

If I do not teach myself patience, I will burn in home remodel hell. Of this I am quite certain. See, here at the knob and tube palace, we are starting the business of getting down to business and rebuilding the house which, to this point, has been giving us the business.

I've dropped about three hundred bucks at the Home Despot (today remodelling, tomorrow the world) in the last two days and all I have to show for it is a bucket full of sockets that have to be put into Short Circuit Central. There's an art to marrying 2005 technology to whatever the hell they were thinking in 1927 and I haven't mastered it yet. Mostly its turning circuits off on the main breaker and pulling off switchplate covers to replace sockets that were new when Edison did not yet have erectile disfunction and let's just plug the radio in to make sure there's no, wow, the radio works!

So let's put the new faucets on the washing machine feed 'cause we need to do a load pretty soon. You find out real fast that the sock drawer is a creature of finite qualities. Trouble is the shut off water valves don't shut off nothing and soon there's a raison d'etre for that darn floor drain.

Two projects have now ended in failure so we console ourselves by screwing in a lightbulb.

How many single divorced guys does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

All of us. Single divorced guys will screw anything after a while.

The one nod to modern convenience the place has is, of all things, a garbage disposal in the sink. One of those open maws that look ready to chew down anything and everything and don't put your hand down there bub. It has to date eaten a fork I can't replace and sucked down a bar of soap I keep by the sink because the bathroom is an ungodly stretch of stairs and if the neighbors didn't keep the Stalag 17 searchlights going night and day I'd piss off the freaking back porch.

That would of course sour the "welcome to the neighborhood" oatmeal cookies I was given.

Probably sour the tomato plants as well. No signature red sauce this year boys and girls.

Maybe I'll hang some pictures tonight. Make the place really mine.

Maybe I'll rent.

5 Comments:

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5:30 PM  
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5:34 PM  
Blogger Thimbelle said...

I had forgotten about all of the (alleged) joys of living in an "older" home, 'till I started visiting you, Mr. Bunny...

We lived in a lovely Craftsman cottage when I was a child; horsehair plaster and lathe, the two-button light switches, and glass doorknobs. Beadboard everywhere you looked; the front porch went on for days.

The kitchen was Pepto-Bismol pink.

I think I might envy you, just a little...

4:04 AM  
Blogger Kathryn said...

I'm sure pissing off the porch would endear you to someone in your neighbourhood ...

bon chance, M. le Lapin

p.s. I once had to lay out $125 for a Birks sterling fork that fell victim to a similar-sounding garbage disposal =)

4:59 PM  
Blogger Sean Felix McMyrth said...

Yes, I know when I was divorced and single, I'd screw just about anything, except maybe a porcupine or a battery terminal cleaner. But that light socket, now that was an electrifying night to remember. Thanks for the memories.

12:45 AM  

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