As usual, I find myself needing to hit on a few topics.
Seatbelts on, everybody.
Saturday AM, I was going to replace a door. The door from our garage to the house was a hollow core/plywood thing. It should not have passed our inspection back in 1998, but our inspector was blind. I�ve been telling myself for 7 years that I need to fix it. Well, Saturday was the day. I didn�t feel like fighting over it this time, so I�d just do it before the buyers do their inspection. I got a door from Home Depot for $105. It�s all hung and all, so it�s not a bad price. The guy said all I had to do was pop the old one out, put this one in, square it and screw it in. Simple, yes? NO. Not for me. See, I�m the sole owner and proprietor of the HACC. That�s Half-Assed Carpentry Company. It�s a diverse operation. We also handle, poorly mind you, plumbing jobs. Also, our house seems to have been built by shit-flinging chimps. Nothing�s square or straight. So, it took me almost 3 hours to do the job. I couldn�t get the fucker to sit right. The opening was off my like 3 feel from one side to the other. It�s like we live in a fun house or something. Finally, I had to throw JewelrySlut out of the area because I was cursing up a storm. After I got it in well enough to open and close, I realized that I�d need a new knob/lock thing. I couldn�t get the old one off of the old door. I bought a new one for $3.00. Does anyone else not trust a $3.00 lock? Like I care. I was also able to re-use the molding from the old opening, so all I have to do is repaint it. All in all, I spent under $120.
After that was all done, Shmuppie and I set up the infamous tunnels in the driveway. It was a little breezy so it looked like we lived in a trailer park�pieces of pre-fab housing all over the place. She had a blast. We crawled around and chased all the balls that come with it all over the yard. There�s even a little gold club. I got her started on her swing�We could be on to something here�
ChurchBomber and MerlotMan came over for dinner and alcohol consumption. I made some kick ass steaks and we had some nice wines. There�s nothing like a really good steak. I had seasoned them perfectly and they cooked up just right. I opened up a nice bottle to go with dinner, and to celebrate. It was goo-oood. We also had a nice bottle before dinner. Some red from somewhere in South America. It was $6 and had bunnies on the label. How can that not be good? I wasn�t all that drunk, but apparently was enough so to have a headache and the shits yesterday morning. We had a good time, as usual, and we talked ChurchBomber off the ledge. They�re thrilled for us hat we�re moving, but not happy that we�ll be far away. The damn airfare�s so cheap; we�ll be seeing each other enough. I mean, for $40-$60 round trip, how can you go wrong?
Yesterday, we went to my parent�s house. They couldn�t come over for Shmuppie�s birthday because they have a herd of dogs that like to shit all over the house. We had an awful lunch and got to watch my mother be uncomfortable whenever we discussed our move. She�s not in favor.
We don�t care.
So, this morning, I�m looking for a job and trying to find us a house. We have 3 properties I want to see next weekend and 2 apartment places. It should be an adventure. I�m trying to set up an interview for what looks to be a perfect job for me. The AKC needs someone to run their print and mail operation in Raleigh. I�d be head man for doggie biscuit mailing or something. Baldus NonErectus raised show dogs so he�s seeing if he has any contacts that I can take advantage of. That would be sweet.
OK�so HOAR wants to know about my email address. Go over to the left side and click it. I�ll wait�
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See it? OK�you don�t get it. I understand. And, don�t be a pig and focus on the pipANALe part of it. No butt jokes here. In fact, it�s only funny for me and maybe 2 other people and they live in Italy.
I�ll explain, but it involves more bitching about my teenage years. Don�t say I didn�t warn you.
When I was younger, and she was alive, I used to travel with my grandmother. She loved to travel and I was more than happy to go with her. I was very close with her and we had a lot of fun. My grandmother was a nasty, irascible, opinionated, meanie. I loved her dearly. We went to Quebec twice, to Italy once and through the Canadian Rockies and Pacific Northwest.
We went to Italy after I finished 8th grade. It was a graduation/confirmation/return to her roots gift. We did a package tour and saw a little of a lot of the country over the course of 2 weeks. The trip ended up in Rome. At the time, my father was running a hospital that fell under the auspices of the Arch Diocese of NY. Right before we left, he was hosting guests from a Catholic Hospital in Rome. Enzo and my father got to talking and Enzo told him when we got to Rome, we�d have to call and he�d get his nephew, Claudio, and show us the city. We got to Rome and got into parts of the Vatican that you normally can�t, saw all sorts of stuff all from the back of a chauffeured car. Enzo�s nephew is almost 3 years older than me. He was 17 at the time and in love with all things American. After we got home, my mother wrote to Enzo and thanked him for showing us around. She mentioned in passing that if Claudio ever wanted to come to America, to please let us know and we�d be happy to show him around.
5 weeks later, he arrived.
This was August of 1988. He finally left in 1998 or so.
Claude (as he�s now known) came for 2 weeks and we did all the typical tourist things. We took him to the city several times, to a Yankee game, on a rafting trip, to an amusement park, etc. The following summer, he showed up again for 2 weeks. He stayed for 4 and decided that he wanted to move in. The next summer he did. Hello! I had an older brother. That was odd. I was suddenly Jan Brady. I was the dreaded middle child. I was also a prick and didn�t get along with my family much. This did not help things. At all. I did not enjoy having a Claude live with us. (That�s how he became known to my friends, as a noun. I lived with a Claude). My parents took him in and he became part of the family. Eventually, Claude needed a car. They gave him one�MY CAR. I was supposed to get that car when I turned 17. It was a deal reached many years in the past. I was �entitled� to a car. All my rich friends had cars, I had a Claude. That�s kinda how high school went: I wanted X, I had a Claude instead. By now, the fences are mended between us. It�s amazing what growing up and the Atlantic Ocean can do for a friendship.
But, what about the email address you ask?
OK�Claude and his friends back in Rome were idiots. They enjoyed playing with shit and finding awful things to do with it. Did you know that if you put diarrhea in a plastic bag and perch it on someone�s sun visor that it falls on them when they lower it? They know that from experience. So, they all had a teacher, Mr. Mario Nale. Senor Nale smoked a pipe. They�d torture the man, calling him at all hours of the night and screaming �PIPA!� into the phone. If you couldn�t guess, pipa is Eye-talian for pipe. They liked to go to his house and jam a toothpick into the doorbell, causing it to buzz for ever. They were good kids. So, in eternal tribute, when I first needed an email address back in 1993, the only thing I could think of was pipanale. It�s a constant tribute to Sr. Nale. Claude loves it. He thinks it�s hysterical.
Lame story, isn�t it?
I had more to say, but it�s much later than when I started, so I�ll kill this mess right now before anything bad happens.