Wednesday, March 24

CDP Wayback Machine - Around The House Edition.

Floor 1.
(Originally published 04/03/08.)

STORY #1 - "You Should Probably Get That Fixed."


Being a Home Inspector seems like a pretty sweet gig. You get to spend the bulk of the inspection explaining to the homeowner all of the things that you're not allowed by law to monkey, tinker or fiddle with, and if you see anything that appears to be broken, you just look at the owner and say "You should probably get that fixed." Don't get me wrong, our guy was great and took strides to help us out, but I now feel confident that I could do similar work with no less than 20 years worth of training. It's a money bin, damn it, and I'm diving in.

I honestly wasn't prepared for how nerve-wracking the inspection process of our new place was going to be. You don't want to find out that you purchased a lemon made entirely out of tin foil, hair and carbon monoxide, so every time the inspector tilted his head or furrowed his brow at an outlet or appliance, my body ran cold and I simultaneously clutched my wallet and heart. For all I knew, there was an expensive and elaborate deathtrap lurking around every intricately-drywalled corner.

As someone with absolutely no experience in the art of keeping a house from collapsing in on itself, my only concern for any error was the fear of my house exploding. It's the only thing that made sense to me as a direct detriment to my well-being.

INSPECTOR - "It looks like they're running gas through copper piping. That's strange."

ME - "Will it make the house explode?"

INSPECTOR - "See that crack in the foundation? It's no big deal, but..."

ME - "Is the house going to explode?"

I also put on an Oscar-worthy acting performance as he explained to me the furnace and water heater. You would have actually believed that I understood even a microsyllable of what the man was saying. I swear to you, the day I move into this place, I'll feel a level of isolated loneliness and frightened despair the likes of which I've never known. If anything breaks, no matter how small and simple to patch, it's all over. I might as well board up the windows and join up with a traveling carnival, because I'm never coming back to fix it.

Floor 2.
STORY #2 - "Come Back To Me, Sherilyn Fenn."

Why don't they make dishwashers with an triggered light inside, like a refrigerator? I'm tired of reaching my hands into a darkened dishwasher every night, only to stick myself with a fork or some other undesirable glob of non-rinsed foodstuff. Come on, dishwasher technology! Evolve! Everything should have little automatic lights in them. Cabinets, toilets, closets, drawers, the whole lot.

The Missus, in her quest to convert every bulb in the house to fluorescent, has done a good job of saving energy and money, in that I don't even bother turning lights on anymore. Seriously, what's the point? Fluorescent bulbs take so long to warm up, that by the time they finally decide to lurch and flicker into action, I'm already napping in a different room. Furthermore, they click and buzz so much that I always feel like I'm in a David Lynch movie. At any moment, I expect some chalk-faced goon to show up at my door with a videotape of myself watching the very same videotape that he handed me.

(EDIT: I've recently been informed that some newer dishwashers have lights inside. Way to go!)

Floor 3.
STORY #3 - "If Calories Were Cash, I Would Still Be Dead."

Before sitting down with our mortgage lender last night, I was asked to make a copy of my most recent bank statements. Not being one to pay close attention to where my money is going, I saw this as a good chance to dig through my 2008 purchases and see where I could tighten the belt a little. What I saw shocked, embarrassed and forced me to vacate my bowels in anger.

No less than $150 spent each month on sub sandwiches, bagels and ice cream. Seriously.

Sub sandwiches.

Bagels.

Iced creamery cream with cream sauce.

$150 a month.

Don't bother wanting to jump through the screen and punch me right now; I'm digging a bent paperclip into my wrists as I type this. I absolutely could not believe how wasteful I was concerning office lunches and desserts alone.

Never mind all the alcohol and concert tickets. Never mind the HD cable and internet. Never mind any other luxury. By simply bringing a salad to work and saying no to that Mint Oreo Blizzard every night of the freaking week, I could save enough money to either power my house for a month, score a good amount of cocaine or snag myself an hour with a low-end escort.

I'm sorry. I really am. Just to prove how sorry I am, I will be putting a dry-erase board in my new kitchen to remind me just how much money I've pissed away every week in empty calories and honey-nut cream cheese. My Esquire lifestyle shall continue unhinged, but I'll be damned if I'm going to keep allowing so much cash to be pooped away for no reason. How disgusting, especially considering that I don't even like bagels all that much.

Jesus.

Floor 4.
STORY #4 - "Like MacGyver, Only For Poop."

Part of the reason we spend so much money dining out is our laziness when it comes to grocery shopping. It's a necessary evil, and I don't even mind it all that much, but when the food runs low and the apathy begins to skyrocket, dragging yourself into the Pick & Save is about as difficult as beating Duke University in a 'suck' contest.

Yes, I know that I recycled that joke. I didn't think you'd mind.

Me and the Missus theoretically go grocery shopping once every three weeks. We buy big, stock the cabinets and take comfort in knowing that we won't have to do it again for awhile. Our neighbors and contractual Best Friends Ben and Sherry, on the other hand, shop on a many-times-a-week basis, much like the Italians or French. Most afternoons, I can spot Sherry riding her bicycle home from the market, sporting a sundress with a stick of bread and fresh vegetables protruding from her pink basket.

She rings the bell and I wave kindly from the porch.

I don't know if you've ever waited over a month to buy groceries, but it's quite the feat of human achievement. You've reached a point in your de-evolution that not even the instinctual threat of starving to death will peel you from the couch to easily remedy and ward off disaster. It gets sad towards the end, however, when you're digging through the remnants of your pantry, deciding between boiling up the dented can of white hominy or the Spaghetti-O's with the fuzz on them. Still though, laziness and apathy trudge forth for another 5-7 days.

Unavoidably, the grocery store strike always comes to a bitter end. Not when you've finally had enough of eating crap that was too embarrassing to even donate to the Food Drive. Not when you've run out of money to order pizzas every night. Not even when you start to eye up the moist cat food in the basement.

Nope, the strike truly ends when you run out of toilet paper.

Game over, dude. You've lost. Look, I've gone a day without food. I've also gone a day without toilet paper, and I can say without a shred of uncertainty that I would rather temporarily starve than to glance over to the bathroom rack and see a bare, plastic toilet paper holder. What a helpless and tragic moment it is to know that you're about to do something horrible. Congratulations; you're MacGyver now. Good luck getting out of this jam. It's why I no longer own any white socks.

Typically, all I need is about one life-altering experience in a toilet-paperless house before I leap in the car and head for the nearest market. Preferably one with clean stalls.

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.

Comments:
Your blog is hilarious. I've been enjoying your LOST recaps but the other posts are quite enjoyable as well. Thanks for the chuckles on a boring Thursday morning. :)
 
Thanks so much; I really appreciate it! Don't be a stranger!
 

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