Monday, March 15, 2010

Straight Outta Compton

As I prepare to move to the new house, far and away (an entire block from the DiscoKroger), selected Straights (particularly those with contracting/design skills) have been admitted to assess the damages/repairs needed before we get to the state of habitability.

 Today for example, Scott and Linda noticed that most of the doors don't close. That was before the upstairs deck doorknob fell off in their hand when they tried to open it to look at the widow's walk.) Not the bathroom doors, the hall doors, the tv room doors, and most distressedly, not the upstairs closet doors (when "everybody knows that is where the monsters hide," as one on-site 12-year-old observed). Surely this could be fixed, I asked innocently? A little shaving of the jambs perhaps? "Yeah," came the contractor answer. "If we can get those painted-over pins out; take the doors off their hinges; and then sand down all the edges with a planer, and re-hang them. Do you have a planer handy?" Well, no. But I'm sure they make them  All I know is, doors that don't open and close are bad, bad ju-ju, so now, I have to find a planer.

The reason I've only let the Straights and the Parents in so far, is because after what they've put me through ("the important thing is that YOU like it honey,"), I don't dare risk the View from the Gays until I've gotten a little further into the rehab.

 I left them to problem-solve while I went to Home Depot for Round 17 for Tri Sodium Phosphate (or TSP) -- for painting prep -- though I kept asking for the TPS (from Office Space, which cracked up the 19 year old stock boy, Zack -- because apparently it's a classic for every generation -- Zack and I are old friends now). I also needed chains -- copious, Jacob Marley-amounts of chains -- so I could begin anchoring all my outdoor furniture.

Now, everyone has pointed out that I am moving one block -- but let's be fair: it is one block Northeast. And THIS is what I found in the yard at the new house this weekend. OK, first, who needs "personal lubricant jelly" so badly, and in such a hurry, that they have to bust open a box in front of a public park? The label says it's pharmacist-recommended, but I find it hard to believe anyone asks their pharmacists for an opinion on this particular product (or that the pharmacist wouldn't go brand-name on this; c'mon, not everything's created equal). But more importantly, I think it should be obvious that anyone in dire enough economic straits to use Kroger-Brand "jelly" is most definitely someone who would rob me, starting with my grill and patio furniture. (Even if it is gentle, safe, non-greasy, and fragrance-free.)

Linda thought nothing of my discovery, explaining that all the porches in her neighborhood (she lives in the heart of the student-ghetto) are fully stocked with toilets and bathtubs. Scott countered that those would never last in his neighborhood, because somebody would promptly steal them, thinking, "hey, I can make a meth lab out of that!"

What followed that was a half hour discussion as to how the yard could be re-configured and fenced. The first thing Scott asked was, "are you in-between dogs right now," and then he laughed, "literally, and figuratively?" He explained to Linda in great detail how he'd met "the Last One" (eyes rolled) at the Disco Kroger and what a good first impression he'd made. "He stood his ground and looked me right in the eye. They never do that." Linda acknowledged that he was ok by her because of the sheer volume of Girl Scout Cookies he'd purchased. Then she laughed, and said, "well you sure can't have a Hard Dog to Keep on the Porch now -- just look at all these..." (and she gestured to the front porch, the porch swing, the brick patio, and the rear deck.)

Yeah. That's what the chains are really for.

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