Cleaning Requests from the Wife

As much as I hate to admit it, I am not a clean person.  Or, rather, I am fairly clean, but not as clean as my wife would want me to be.  I can tolerate a bit of mess, such as our shoes lined up slightly non-symmetrically, whereas she wants our treatment of shoes to mirror what this dude's got going on.

 

Not wanting to catch tongue-ringworm, I am satisfied being slightly more messy than she would like.  But to be honest, I used to be a lot more organized.  

Take, for example, my method of pants storage while in college.  It was an amazingly devised system of complicated temporary pants placement that incorporated strategically located venues of pants removal - all of which were outside the bedroom and within ten feet of the door to the outside.  It was through this procedure that I could find the exact pair of pants that I needed, pick them out of their respective pile from the floor, and I was on my way.  It was like a highly pants-specific version of that "take a penny, leave a penny" policy.

My wife couldn't understand it and over-simplified it.  She just said (and still says to this day) that I would simply drop my pants upon entering the apartment, leaving a path of filth in my wake.

Psh, women.  They know nothing of complicated, scientifically-derived procedures.  

Anyway, she's now reached the pinnacle of the apex of the most ridiculous possible request: vacuuming under the bed.  In case she's not aware, people can't SEE under the bed.  And in my book, the dedication is to the inventor of the motto "out of sight, it's effing clean!"  I don't need to see under there to know that there's nothing of any interest below my sleeping bum.  Sparkling and clean down there, I tell you.

Next thing you know, she'll be asking me to do something insane like, cleaning out the refrigerator, or something.  Which is dumb, because EVERYONE knows that bacteria can't grow in the cold, so no reason to ever clean a fridge.

Russian Contractors: haven't you learned your lesson?

Soooooooooo - it seems that two things happened yesterday - first, that the general topic I wrote about was a sensitive topic for some, and two - that the point was a bit lost.  To be clear, it was intended to be satirical commentary focusing on the differing approaches to historical propaganda from two very different nations written with in the voice of a stereotypical and overtly ignorant American because, well, I thought that perspective is much funnier than the voice of a Russian person.  Mostly because Russians tend to be...ahem...fact nazis, always so concerned with knowledge and learnin'.

But, moving on...

A couple days ago, we finally resolved to get someone to come out and do the pool for us.  There were a couple reasons.  First - I haven't had time to even shower more than once a week, let alone put all the time it takes to prep and clean a pool properly, and even if I DID have time to spend cleaning the filter and vacuuming out all the gunk from the pool, I likely would rather spend it with my son who is about as awesome as anyone could possibly imagine.  Second - I'm very much into stimulating the economy, so i feel like any extra cash that I have should be given away to local businesses and merchants so that we can get our economy back on track.  And third - a health inspector came and said that he (I found out later it was actually a she) would fine us if we didn't clean it up ASAP.

The jury is still out on whether it was just a routine check on people's pools, or one of our evil neighbors called the health inspectors, worrying about something the inspector called, "West-Side Nile Virus", or something else called "Malaysia".  But I replied back to him/her, "But hey, most of this neighborhood is Russian, and we've all got Hammer and Sickle Cell Anemia, so we're protected against Malaysia!"  He/She didn't care much about that.

This design is insensitive to people suffering from that terrible disease

So, we needed some help.  And what did we do?  That's right, we hired a Russian pool guy.  I think his name is Valerie.  Yeah, I know, it's a lady-name.  But apparently, if you put the stress on the first "e" in Valerie (like val-Erie) it becomes a badass dude's name.  Go figure.  There's a couple names like this.  Sasha is a derivation of the name Alexander (not sure how they go together, but then again - Richard/Dick?).  And then there's all the other girl names that are actually guy names, like Sara, Jennifer, Jane, and Laura.  Ok, not really, but still.  There's Sasha and Valerie.

Now, I know what you're thinking..."haven't you learned your lesson with Russian contractors?".  To which I reply - "no, especially when they're less than a third of the price."  Then you say, "But Bill, he snapped the handle off of your filter, he's been working on the pool for three days and there hasn't been any noticeable change, and you still haven't met him face to face!"  And I have to stick by my guns and reply, "DID YOU HEAR - A THIRD OF THE PRICE".

The one on the left is NOT my babysitter.

Also, we're apparently running a Russian dating service, because he apparently got the number of our babysitter, and they're going to now be dancing the Hopak together.  Yes, that is a euphemism, because I could never see my babysitter doing the hopak.  Maybe a little kalinka, but no hopak. 

Valerie promised me that by Monday, we'd be able to swim in our pool.  And if Russians are anything, they're true to their word.  So you all are invited over Tuesday for a massive game of Sharks and Minnows.

The Frogs Own It

Do any of you have a pool at your house?  Not one of those tiny, kiddie pools that you can fill with beer and have a wild party in with a bunch of sweet GI Joe boats and a stripper, no.  A real, honest to god, in-ground pool?

No?

Good.  Never buy a house with one.  Let me tell you why.

When we were looking for a house to spawn offspring into, my wife and I came across many, terrible locations.  It was at the bottom of the housing crash, we were looking for cheap places, and there were more neglected foreclosures than I could have ever dreamed existed.

But when we found the house we would eventually make the mistake of purchasing, we loved everything about the place...until we went outside.

My lovely, and beautiful wife whose entrancing allure and intelligence knows no bounds decided that it would be a grand idea to buy a house with a pool. 

I objected.  Mostly because I knew I would be the one taking care of it.

It was a little like when your kid comes home with a half dead turtle and asks you to keep it, but then you're like, what do I do with a stupid turtle?  Don't they like pizza?  (They don't) But I think I saw that in a movie once.  (That was TMNT).  Oh, ok.


So here it is, almost July fourth, and my pool hasn't been touched, what with school, and child-rearing, and trying to make sure that my lawn/garden is somewhat upkept so my neighbors don't attack me with pitchforks. And you know, Fourth of July weekend is like the siren to all people to head toward water.  And this is what the water in the pool looks like.

And I'm trying to clean the entire thing through a filter the size of a shoe-box.  I may as well get out there with some cheese-cloth and hope for the best. 


Also, no joke, I've come across two over-sized frogs so far.  One was living the life and jumped off the diving board into the water, and the other (probably his mistress that his wife found out about) was lodged inside of my filter, deader than disco. 

So, I would like to take this opportunity to invite you to come over to my place!  No, not for tea, or for biscuits, or any of that, but to come and both help me clean up my pool and also to knock some sense into my dear, dear wife so the next house we buy is pool-free.

Baba Nancy - the Jerk-Head Neighbor

My neighbor's name is Bob.  Actually, there are three Bobs that live adjacent to me, but I'm talking about this Bob in particular.  This Bob has a wife named Nancy.  And they are old enough to remember first-hand how the land my house occupies was once sold by the Chinnapewak tribe for the knowledge of how to do a proper Fresh Prince high five.

When we told my in-laws what the names of our neighbors were, we said, "Bob 'n Nancy", which they heard as "Baba Nancy", (loosely translated as Granny Nancy) to which they then asked, "Are they Russian"?  Silly Russians, always on the lookout for other Russians.  Thus, being surrounded by an army of Bobs, we refer to this particular Bob as Baba Nancy.

Baba Nancy is a kindly old man who has been retired from a steel mill, or logging company, or some other thing (I never actually asked) for around 300 years.  Being retired and having absolutely nothing to do any more with his life, he takes ri-DIC-ulous care of his yard.  I mean, meticulously pruning his rose bushes to the point of near perfection.  Actually, pruning is one of the most common things I see him doing out there.  Probably because of his love of all things prune. (ba-da-boom!)

This is all fine and dandy.  I enjoy having a neighbor who shares the same desire for a perfect backyard retreat.  And I was totally happy with him and his wife, and even brought over some delicious tomatoes last year as a metaphoric olive branch, signaling many years of peace and the sharing of delicious plant produce. 

Until.........

We had an awning over one of our entry ways that was slightly loose. It was a tin piece of crap that was tacked on as an afterthought by the idiots who owned our house before us.  So naturally, since it was put up by idiots, it slowly began to fall off.  That looseness caused a noticeable tapping sound when the wind was strong, and since I was swamped in the one-half-trillion things I've got going on in my life, putting "making the incredibly infrequent tapping noise stop" at the very bottom of my list of priorities. 

So the nosy old geez-face climbed up a ladder while I was away at work one day and took the awning completely off.

Hey, jerk-head - maybe I liked the tapping noise!  Perhaps I was using it as a sound effect to sample on my newest hip hop record!  Maybe it was something of an experiment to see just how loose I could get it before it fell off!  I swear, the nerve of that guy!

It really hit a climax when he rang the doorbell at 10 at night, right after we got Sammy to bed.  He just wanted to tell us that we left the light in our car on.  Hey, bud - you leave our light alone!  What has it done to you that you've gotta go and tattle on it?  And now we've got a screaming baby on our hands.  Well done, Helpy Helperton!

Then there was the time he brought over presents for Sammy after hearing about his birth.  They were for 3-6 month old kids!  How very useful!  I sometimes buy clothes for myself that are way too effing big also!  This way, I'll seem that much skinnier!  Thanks!  You're like the NE Philly baby-oriented Tim Gunn!

I'm thinking of installing a moat.  At least it's the kind of intrusion prevention device that he can relate to.

10 Plagues of Egypt - Philadelphia edition

I consider myself a pretty badass dude.

• I can parallel park like a mofo. 
• I have seen ALL of Bruce Willis' films
• I don't like wearing chick-approved clothes.
• I know how to properly use an axe.

But I'm going to tell you something that goes against that badass, manly image.  I'm deathly afraid of bugs.  Not just any bugs, though most of them give me the shebee-dweebies.  But, I'm deathly afraid of stinkbugs.

 He wants your brains.

But I've got good reasons to be afraid of them!  There are the obvious reasons: they're creepy looking, they smell awful when you squish them, they make a terrible swooping noise when they're flying (not unlike a dragon sound), and they're ugly. 

When my wife (then girlfriend) were just out of college, we lived in a tiny crap-box apartment in Harrisburg, PA.  We were paying like $0.25/square foot for a 500 square foot shed.  And what made it all the more luxurious was every summer, in the beginning of August, stink bugs would literally TAKE OVER. 

I'm not talking like, "ooo, a stinkbug, run and hide, and also please change my underwear!".

No.  I'm saying that there were literally hundreds, and possibly a thousand plus of these miniature airborne skunks spraying their ass-juice on everything with a surface. 

The final straw was when they had figured out how to get inside our dryer vent and, no joke, CLOGGED IT.  There were so many stinkbugs lodged inside our bathroom (which is where our laundry room was also) that we couldn't turn on the dryer, due to the fact that there was a colony of these anally explosive mobile stink bombs living up there.

Kid - we could'a used you

We ended up quarantining off the bathroom and just using the outdoor facilities.  Ok, that's not true, but we were definitely considering it.

So, I killed my first stinkbug of the season yesterday night.  I'm hoping for two things, either this is just a fluke, and he is alone in the house, or that Moses is around here somewhere and I can gank his magic staff off him.