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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
As I mentioned before, my wife and I are planning a move. We’re not sure quite when, or to precisely where, or which debilitating injuries we’ll sustain when we try lugging our stuff to the new place. I’m leaning toward a slipped disc for me, and maybe a sprained shoulder for her. But I might go with the fractured toes, instead. Or maybe a separated shoulder. It’s early in the game; I’m just spitballing at this point.
We have, however, taken the first two major steps toward selling our house, buying another, moving all our shit and wondering what temporary madness overcame us to want to endure such a nightmare. Step one, as I’ve already covered, is telling people that you’re going to move. We did that. So now our friends hound us relentlessly, asking whether we’ve signed an offer yet, or found a broker, or cleaned all the ridiculous clutter out of our house.
We’ve done none of those things. That would require actual effort and commitment. Clearly, we’re not ready for that. Baby steps is what we’re after here. So in that spirit, I’ve started scouting online to see what sorts of places are on the local market, and how many various appendages and which-born children are represented in the asking prices.
“Just remember — if the place sounds too good to be true, it’s probably actually four feet square, made of cardboard and currently owned by Hannibal Lechter.”
Given that we don’t actually own any children, or have any easily-removable appendages to offer, it’s been a little daunting. In the process, though, I’ve been reminded of that special subgenre of English that is Realtorese. I’m somewhat familiar with this particular dialect, from our experience in buying the house we’re in now. So I’m happy to share my knowledge with those of you who may not have been exposed to such language. Allow me to translate a few words and phrases from the listings I’ve been reading today:
loft-style: Tiny.
charming: Especially tiny.
efficient: If a chihuahua could turn around in this joint, it would be a miracle.
quiet neighborhood: No one will ever hear the screams coming from your basement. Free windowless van for first-time serial killers buyers!
newly renovated: Oh, thank goodness. We finally chased the rats out of that place. Mostly.
well-maintained: Owner has borderline OCD. Prepare to see the most frighteningly well-organized closet since Lurch pressed and hung six all-black suits every week back in the ’60s.
immaculate: Owner has clinically diagnosed OCD. Please tap your left foot exactly six times on the doorstep and say, ‘Olly olly oxen free‘ when you enter the kitchen, or don’t bother making an offer.
priced to sell: Originally listed at three times market value. But today, ten percent off. You buy now!
new-ish: It’s possible the structure is younger than your grandmother. But I wouldn’t bet on it.
needs updating: Last renovated during the Eisenhower administration. Heat sources may include coal-burning stoves, open campfires and beaver pelts.
old-school charm: Cavemen are actually physically living in this place, right now. If you can get past the pterodactyl vacuum cleaner marks and the dogasaurus scratches on the hardwood floors, it’s all yours.
southern exposure: The neighbors can totally see into your bathroom while you’re dropping a deuce.
in rarely-available building: One of the octagenarians finally died in the Old Folks’ Home. Make an offer!
fixer-upper: A hole. Steer clear.
needs TLC: An absolute hole. Unless you’re a professional contractor, you’ll likely die here during a ‘home improvement’ project.
great investment opportunity: Just draft a will right now. This house is your coffin. Congratulations, tough guy.
convenient to public transportation: The realtor’s uncle Chester drives a bus past the place a couple of times a week. Unless Chester’s sleeping off a hangover. Which is always.
open layout: No walls whatsoever. You’re bidding on an airplane hangar here.
modern: No ceilings, either .Fifty-fifty, it’s just some guy’s patio masquerading as a ‘studio apartment’.
near shopping: Hey. Compared to people in Thailand, you’re right next to that shopping mall three towns over, bub. Quit yer bitching.
FREE PLASMA w/SALE: Holy freaking Christ. They’re either deranged serial killers who are going to kill me and drink my blood at the open house… or I’m about to get the best. Deal. EVAR. Where’s my checkbook? And maybe a Kevlar vest. At least they didn’t say it was an ‘investment opportunity’, right?
So there you go. Just refer to this handy list the next time you’re in the market for a new abode, and don’t know quite what those real estate jockeys are trying to telling you.
Just remember — if the place sounds too good to be true, it’s probably actually four feet square, made of cardboard and currently owned by Hannibal Lechter. And if the open house is scheduled sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and it’s bring your own plasma IV needles? Run like hell.
Oh, wait. Maybe they mean a plasma television. Still, I’d play it safe and shy away. The commissions on places like that are murder.
Permalink | 3 CommentsTwice a week, we have a dog walker who comes by our house to… well. Look, if I have to explain what a ‘dog walker’ is stopping by for, then one of us has bigger problems than I want to think about right now. Either I’m obsessively compelled to over-explain things, or you should be wearing one of those nifty soft helmets with a spit guard attached to the chin strap.
And since I’m the one usually in need of the padded droolproof headgear, let’s assume this whole ‘dog walker’ concept is self-explanatory. If I’m wrong, you can always look it up. It’s one of the few phrases I use around here that’s actually in the dictionary.
Now then. The dog walker.
“Maybe she’ll come back with wooden shoes or a monk or a high-methane atmosphere. I didn’t ask. Not sure I want to know.”
The outfit we pay to stroll the pooch has a few different employees, but it’s usually the same one at our house each time. We know this for a couple of reasons. First, I’m sometimes home when the walker arrives — on days when she’s running outrageously early, and I’m running hopelessly late — so I’ve actually seen her in person. Nice lady. Talks a little bit too loud. Seems very happy to be doing her job. Like, very happy.
I’m not saying spit guard Nerf helmet ‘happy’, exactly. I’m just saying that if I spent eight hours a day chasing down terriers and juggling twelve subspecies of spaniel turds in a plastic bag, I’d probably be a little less giddy about it. But hey, she enjoys her work. More power to her, I say.
The other clue we have that she’s the one leashing our fuzzy buddy while we’re away is the notes she leaves on our kitchen table. All the dog walkers from this place have left us notes; it must be part of their standard pooch perambulating procedure or something. Only one walker, however, leaves notes that appear to have penned by a three-fingered chimpanzee in the middle of an epileptic seizure. That’s our regular gal. I can’t read most of them, have no idea what she’s trying to tell us, and the name she signs them with appears to be Hwglfby. Maybe it’s an old family name. Her ancestors came from Holland, maybe, or Tibet. Or Neptune. No idea. Suffice to say that when she leaves a note, we know it’s her.
This week, she’s away on vacation. Visiting the old stomping grounds, perhaps. Maybe she’ll come back with wooden shoes or a monk or a high-methane atmosphere. I didn’t ask. Not sure I want to know.
Meanwhile, we have another walker, one who’s commiserated with our mutt in the past, but who hasn’t seen her in a while. She came to walk earlier today, and she, too, left us a note. Thanks to her infinitely more legible pen(wo)manship, we can clearly see the message she wrote. And this is what it was:
‘So great to see Susie again; she’s looking very active and perky! We had a good, long walk — and she did all her business.‘
Now, I’m happy she’s happy to see our dog. Hell, everyone is happy to see our dog. Me and my wife, the ones with the opposable thumbs and the college educations and the mostly-developed forebrains — nobody wants to talk to us. But the furry little nutjob who drinks from the toilet and licks her own crotch in public? That’s who everybody comes to see at our house.
(Maybe there’s a lesson in this for the rest of us: ‘toilet lapping and crotch slurping equals widespread popularity’. Hell, it worked for Pam Anderson. Who am I to mess with a winning formula?)
This is not what concerns me about the note, though. I’m used to playing second fiddle to the dog. And the wife. And the neighbors. Plus their kids. And a cat that wanders around the neighborhood sometimes. So I’m playing twelfth fiddle over here. Maybe thirteenth. So be it.
But what really concerns me in this note is the full emphasis — underline hers, I assure you — that the woman put on all of my dog’s ‘business’. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what she’s getting at there. But I’m not remotely comfortable with it, whatever it is.
First of all, I know what these little dog walks are for. There are biological necessities to be taken care of, and that’s just fine. I don’t really need an account — particularly not an account underlined for emphasis — about what sorts of various substances came out of my dog this afternoon. Don’t want to see it, don’t want to step in it, don’t need to know, thanks just the same.
And frankly, I’m not entirely sure what the lady’s just told me. I’ve never taken the time to consider what ‘all’ my dog’s business might be, much less all her business. I’m assuming she peed, and maybe dropped a doggie deuce among the neighbor’s azaleas. But is that all her business? Is the dog walker trying to tell me something else? Did my mutt sneeze up a lung, too? Hump a hydrant? Hork a hunk of Hamburger Helper? Have her way with that neighborhood tabby? If you’re determined to share, woman, then fricking spell it out.
Actually, I bet being specific is the real problem here. This is a dog walker — whose job, remember, is mainly to watch naked furry animals fertilize the earth in various disgusting biological ways. I imagine it’s what a night on the town with Jim Belushi and friends is like, or being the Deluise family housekeeper. But she’s also a lady — a proper lady, perhaps — and so wants to be somewhat… ‘delicate’ with her verbiage when it comes to bodily functions.
I get that. I do. And I’m not suggesting the woman turn to foul metaphors or excruciating detail. Lord knows I don’t need notes including phrases like ‘hosed down a dogwood’ or ‘three specimens, sepia in color and heavy for their size’ lying around on the kitchen table. Or anywhere, for that matter.
But would it be too much for her to write ‘peed and pooped’? ‘Tinkled and dropped’? ‘Squatted and stooped’? Work with me here, is all I’m saying. Otherwise, you’re resigned to writing ‘all her business’, and I wind up wondering whether I owe the city a fine because the mutt’s gone and molested the fire hydrant. Again.
And it’s no use asking the dog what happened. She just sits there with that smug look on her muzzle, licking her crotch and lapping toilet water off her whiskers. Which makes me think it’s just as well. I still don’t know what all her business entails, but I’ve decided for sanity’s sake that it’s definitely none of my business. I think I’ll be happier when the walker with the unintelligible scrawls gets back. If you can’t read it, it can’t give you the willies, right?
Permalink | No CommentsI try to be polite. You might never believe it given the socially backwards tales I spin here, but when push comes to shove, I don’t shove back. I say the proper thing, behave myself as best I can, and generally conduct myself with civility and propriety.
At least, I try to. Unfortunately, it’s not always clear what the ‘proper thing’ is in a given situation. That socially backwards thing isn’t all spin. Nor even mostly. It’s like I was raised by wolves, who themselves were raised by garden slugs.
(And have you ever seen a garden slug chatting comfortably at a party, or knowing which stupid fork to use for the salad course? Me, neither. You’d think they’d have figured that crap out by now, frankly. I mean, all they ever eat is salad in the first place. And how witty would you have to be to make small talk at a slug party? ‘Hey, I love what you’ve slimed with the place!‘ ‘Nice pseudopods, Linda!‘ ‘Don’t eat any salt I wouldn’t eat!‘
“It’s like I was raised by wolves, who themselves were raised by garden slugs.”
Is that so frigging hard? I don’t think so. Stupid antisocial slugs, anyway.)
Take this afternoon, for instance. I was talking to one of the administrative lady types in my office, asking some important work sort of question. It was probably about whether contributing to our 401k is now considered a ‘charitable donation’, or if there’s some way to become eligible for long-term disability pay without bothering with the horrible disfiguring injury, or asking who I have to pleasure vigorously around here to get a goddamned parking space already. Something like that.
Anyway, she turned away for a moment to check her computer — or to call security, maybe — and while she was facing the other direction, her body sort of jerked, her neck twitched, and this very strange, very loud noise came out of her. Presumably from her mouth, but I can’t honestly be certain. Could have come from a number of orifices, really. I can safely rule out the earholes, but after that, it’s anyone’s guess. The noise in question sounded something like this:
‘Buh-HURRRRK!!‘
After this disturbing sound had burst out of her, she went back to looking up benefits info or dialing the office cops or consulting the ‘Vigorously Pleasure for Parking Spots’ list, or whatever she’d been in the middle of. Which left me standing behind her, with a bit of a dilemma on my hands. What exactly do you say to someone who’s just ‘Buh-HURRRRK!!‘ed in your general vicinity?
The most pressing problem was, I didn’t know what the hell a ‘Buh-HURRRRK!!‘ entailed, exactly. Was it a sneeze? Had she just coughed? Belched? Farted? Suffered a stroke? Given birth? How can I properly respond, when I don’t know what just happened in front of me? Can I get a slo-mo replay of that bodily function, please? Let me call up to the booth for another look at it.
Sadly, the replay booth wasn’t taking my calls. So I had to go with what I had. I ran down the list of possible responses, like a Terminator selecting his next witty quip. If the Terminator had been raised by robotic wolves, that is. Who were themselves raised by bionic garden slugs, perhaps.
Look, it’s not a perfect analogy. Let’s just get to the list already:
Gesundheit!:
Assuming it was a sneeze, this would be the right thing to say. And it’d be sort of rude not to say something along these lines, frankly. But it didn’t sound like any sneeze I’ve ever heard. Not unless she’s got a kazoo shoved up one nostril, and a septum deviated up through her eyebrows.
Also, if she’d just had a seizure or blown a kidney or something, ‘gesundheit’ seems a tad less than helpful, somehow. She might be interested in something more ‘life-savey’, at this point. No good.
Excuse you!:
Again, if I could be positive she’d just burped or passed gas — or maybe both, one on the ‘Buh!‘, and the other on the ‘HURRRRRK!‘ — then I could say this. It would at least make sense to anyone eavesdropping on the nightmare unfolding here.
But I couldn’t be certain. And anyway, it’s a pretty snarky way to acknowledge a biological faux pas. This woman knows where my paycheck comes from, and probably how to make it stop coming altogether. Best not to piss her off. Pass.
Can I get you a tissue?:
I still don’t know what the hell just happened to her. But it sounded like it could’ve been a bit… wet. Maybe she’d like to clean up a bit, before continuing on with the day.
But maybe she needs something more substantial than a tissue at this point. And I’m not about to ask her, ‘You want a towel to wipe off with?‘
That sort of talk is strictly for significant others, workout partners and people coming in from the rain, in decreasing order of interestingness. And she’s none of those. Next?
How many fingers am I holding up?:
Hey, if she actually hurt herself or popped an embolism or something, this could be a useful diagnostic.
On the other hand, if she hadn’t, then it’s an awfully odd thing to say. If, the next time you sneezed, someone asked you how many fingers they were holding up, you’d wonder what the hell was the matter with them. And if they asked you the next time you farted, you might well wonder just what the hell they were planning on doing with them. With the situation still up in the air, I simply couldn’t risk it.
Clearly, none of these were good options. Seems my Terminator quip generator still has a few bugs in the programming. So I punted on all those choices, and just blurted out the next thing that came to mind:
‘I’ll give you ten bucks if you can do that again.‘
I don’t recommend this method, mind you. Particularly if this is the sort of thing that’s likely to be the next thing to come to your mind. The admin lady froze for a second, then slowly turned back to look at me with big, wide eyes. I couldn’t define what I saw in them, exactly. Fear? Disgust? Anger? Last night’s three-bean salad?
It seemed a good idea to get the hell out of there before I found out the hard way. So I pretended to hear my phone ringing, ran out of her office, and promptly locked myself into my own. I didn’t dare come out until I peeped through my window blinds to see her shut her door and leave for the day. I’m not sure how I’m going to face the woman in the morning. And I still don’t know who I’m supposed to pleasure for that parking spot.
I hope to hell it’s not her. Because it’ll be a cold day in Satanburg before she lets me anywhere near her again. Also, I don’t think I could go through with it. She might make the noise again — and then I’d owe her ten bucks. Also, I”m sure I’d say something to totally ruin the mood.
Because I was raised by wolves, apparently. Socially backwards, hopelessly inept, paw-in-mouth wolves whose parents were garden slugs. Man, I am never getting that damned parking spot.
Permalink | 4 Comments(If you’re so inclined, have a gander at Monday’s missive over at Bugs & Cranks: Why Does Venezuela Hate the Braves?.
And if anyone can tell me why a certain South American country is collectively cursing Atlanta’s ballplayers, I’d love to hear it. I expect this kind of thing from Ecuador. Maybe Guatemala. But Venezuela? Man, you used to be cool.)
It’s funny how the world sometimes shows you what kind of person you are — usually when you least expect it, and whether you want to know or not.
Not ‘funny ha-ha’, necessarily. Just ‘funny’.
Take Monday, for instance, when I was writing the baseball piece linked above. In case you didn’t run frantically over to B&C to soak it up, it’s basically pointing out that every time the Braves — or individual Braves, playing in the World Baseball Classic — play the Venezuelan national team this spring, somebody seems to get hurt. And it always seems to be a Brave.
Venezuela and the U.S. are playing again today, and I expressed concern for the well-being of Braves’ catcher Brian McCann, who’s on the U.S.A. roster. One of the comments I thought of including, but ended up cutting out, was that I feared the Venezuelans might just forgo the voodoo and hexing this time and Gillooly the poor guy.
“Those were the bad guys, the villains, the co-conspiring cockups who scandalized the world of figure skating worse than a thousand Yamaguchi wardrobe malfunctions.”
And that got me thinking, back to the sordid saga that gave Jeff Gillooly his ill-deserved fifteen minutes of fame.
I still remember his name. And I remember Tonya Harding, who unleashed the calf-bashing beast. Those were the bad guys, the villains, the co-conspiring cockups who scandalized the world of figure skating worse than a thousand Yamaguchi wardrobe malfunctions. Their names, I’ve still got locked in the vault.
But the victim? That lanky, ‘aw, shucks’ Midwestern sort of girl with the gums and the crying and justice on her side?
I’m drawing a blank. Can’t remember her name for the life of me. The one innocent in the petty little saga, and she’s the one that’s slipped from memory. I’m not sure what that says about me — but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing good.
To be fair, there are extenuating circumstances here. I’m not a figure skating fan — not nearly enough of those wardrobe malfunctions to make it worth the trouble, frankly — so I had no idea who the hell these people were before the whacking incident. Also, it happened quite a few years ago. And when you live the way I do, you’re bound to drop a fact here and there that’s not absolutely essential for day-to-day survival. I’m lucky if I can remember my name, my address and which way round my underpants go on in the morning.
Not to mention that these villains were fairly memorable, thanks to the press coverage and later events. The verb ‘to Gillooly’ was kicked around a lot at the time, and it’s a fairly unique name, anyway. I remember confusing it sometimes with that snarky old sourpuss who seemed to have a thing for Smurfette, but otherwise, Gillooly sort of sticks out.
And Harding — hell, she’s the sort of high-speed train wreck who just keeps finding ways to creep back into the quasi-news. Boxing. Legal issues. A sex tape, for crissakes. She’s not much to look at — and apparently can’t throw a decent right hook, as it turns out — but who forgets the name of a girl willing to have sex on camera? Pam Anderson. Paris Hilton. Tonya Harding. Patty Richardson, that chick from college that the guy down the hall caught doing the nasty with him on a handicam.
(Of course, she didn’t know he was taping them. And she called out somebody else’s name in the middle, which was kind of awkward. But it totally counts.
Those two are married now. Cute kids. I wonder if she gets his name right now.)
Look, the point is, I don’t feel all that bad about only remembering the names of the seedy characters from this particular footnote in history. And I could look up the name of that other girl, if I wanted — but she wasn’t especially hot, so frankly, what’s the point? I mean, she’s no Patty Richardson. Clearly.
(Astute readers may note that I had no such trouble remembering Kristi Yamaguchi. Coincidence? The Magic 8-Ball says, ‘Unlikely’.)
So, from an innocuous little tale about South Americans putting voodoo curses on Major League baseball players, I wound up invoking a minor thug from a fringe sport scandal more than a decade old, pondering why I only seem to remember the ankle-whacking sex-tape rogues of the world, and wondering where my VHS tape of the Great Patty Richardson Performance of ’91 wandered off to. Yep, it sure is funny how life reveals your true nature sometimes.
Not always ‘funny ha-ha’. Sometimes ‘funny take-a-long-hot-shower-and-scrub-away-the-shame’. Peachy.
Permalink | 3 CommentsIt seems it’s Daylight Savings time again. I won’t assail you with my feelings on this twice-yearly affront to Father Time in this space; that’s what today’s ‘werind’ link later on is for. Instead, I’ll just relay a quick story about how faithlessly we adhere to DST practices in my house — and how even when I’m not being a smartass, I’m being a smartass. Good times.
“On the mantel is a clock that her father gave us a while back — a Christmas or birthday or ‘thanks for graduating college so the crippling tuition payments could stop’ anniversary present, I forget which.”
Yesterday, my wife walked into the living room, moseyed past her usual couch position, and made her way toward the mantel on the opposite wall. On the mantel is a clock that her father gave us a while back — a Christmas or birthday or ‘thanks for graduating college so the crippling tuition payments could stop’ anniversary present, I forget which. There’s nothing else of interest on the mantel near the clock — assuming a thin layer of dust doesn’t pique your fancy particularly — and my wife was making a beeline right for it.
I asked what she was up to.
‘I’m going to fix the clock, finally.‘
‘But wait,‘ I protested, wanting to put off the nightmare of clock adjustment until the last possible moment, ‘Daylight Savings isn’t until tomorrow.‘
She gave me that ‘getouttaheah‘ look that most husbands come to know so well. I get getouttheah‘ed an awful lot, so I recognized it straightaway. What I didn’t know is why it was pointed at me. This was yesterday, so Daylight Savings really was tomorrow. Which is today. Which is when it is. I’m not making this up. I’m only making it unnecessarily complicated. And at the time, I wasn’t even doing that. I did my best to explain all of this as eloquently and succinctly as possible:
‘Wha?‘
She looked over her shoulder at me, eyes narrowed. ‘Are you bullshitting me?‘
I assured her that no, for perhaps the first time in our eighteen-plus years together, I was not bullshitting her. Daylight Savings is tomorrow, and let’s wait until then to set all the clocks.
‘It’s really tomororow?‘
I had no idea my credibility had slipped so far. And isn’t it always on a Sunday? Did she want to hear it directly from Ben Franklin’s rotting corpse, or what? Yes, tomorrow is Daylight Savings, and what’s the big deal here?
Her look turned sheepish and she said, ‘Oh. I didn’t know it was that close. I was actually just getting around to fixing this clock from when we were supposed to turn the clocks back.‘
I see. Yeah, you might be just a smidgen tardy for that. But feel free to correct the clock for the next seven hours or so, if it makes you feel any better. Me, I’d probably just sit the whole cycle out and call it even when morning rolls around. You can give it another shot next fall, there, buckaroo.
(Okay, so I didn’t start out being a smartass. But I did end up being a smartass. Hell, it had to happen sooner or later.)
In my wife’s defense, this particular clock is more ornamental than functional. It’s got this weirdly cool mirrored pendulum gizmo that looks interesting and chic from across the room on the couch — but I don’t think I’ve ever actually looked at it to tell the current time. The thing could have all the numbers backward and be telling the time in East Timor for all I know. It still looks cool. And I’m okay with that.
Also in my wife’s defense, Daylight Savings time is a colossal pain in the chronographical ass. Which is mostly what I said — in far, far more many words — a couple of Aprils back, when I wrote Spring Forward, Screw You.
If you’re struggling today to set your VCRs, alarms and analog wristwatches to keep up with the new official time, you might enjoy it. Or at least empathize with a doofus like me who’s tired of springing and falling and setting and adjusting all the damned time. Call it ‘morning’ or ‘noonish’ or ‘time for a beer’ and let us off the hook, already.
And if you happen to have your own little clock on the mantel, or in the spare bedroom or off in a corner somewhere, I say just leave it alone today. You probably never look at the thing anyway, and it’ll probably be weeks before you even notice it’s wrong.
Or maybe, if you’re lucky, it’ll be six full months — and you can ride the wave till next time. I think my wife’s onto something here.
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