Home Depot

My nearest Home Depot is 3.7 miles away and there are six sets of traffic lights in those 3.7 miles. How do I know? Because I spent this delightfully sunny Sunday afternoon repairing my watering system. Thing is, I hadn’t planned on spending my Sunday afternoon up to my elbows in dirt and water. No, I had not…

Sundays are for sleeping in, going the gym when I feel like it and spending the afternoon with my closest. This Sunday I had arranged to squire the delightfully wicked Miss K to a movie at a certain independent cinema. She had plans prior (but expected to be finished by 4pm) – playing tour guide to the boyfriend of a friend she worked with for four months, two years ago in a state several thousand miles away. He was in our fairly fair city on business and e-mailed the lovely Miss K a sob story of loneliness. So it was that, when it became clear to Miss K that 4pm was no longer viable, we swapped voice mail messages to move our rendezvous to next weekend. Miss K was now free to chauffeur this unexpected guest around town. In the spirit of sharing pain with my friends, I decided to fix my garden watering system.

My watering system had sprung a slight leak and it needed repairing. This would involve me getting my hands dirty, so if I was going to get grimy, I was taking someone down with me. That’s why I called The Admiral. He’s very useful in home repair matters and it’s always good to have at least one wise head around when things aren’t quite going to plan. So, he arrived and the leak was identified – it was coming from the automatic valve. We agreed very quickly to get rid of the automatic valve and go with a manual one.

So, off to Home Depot. With it being Sunday, the place was a hive of activity. ‘twas packed with amateur home improvement people – many with the scars of previous home improvement attempts – and loaded to the gunwales with home improvement stuff. Some of it looked useful. Some of it looked lethal. We found what we were looking for and, $3.25 later, we returned home. We fitted the valve. Turned on the water. And there was a leak. A section of the pipe screw in part of the pipe had split: we had NOT been as gentle as we thought.

Off to Home Depot. We picked up a new threaded section of pipe, a reducer (don’t ask) and a cap. The cap was the back-up plan. Should all go to pot, the line could be capped off while we thought of another angle of attack over, say, the next week-ish. The girl at Home Depot only charged us for two items – I got the cap for free. $2.75 lighter, back home. The threaded section was the wrong size.

Back to Home Depot for the third time. Swapped the wrong size for the right size and headed home. This time…S-U-C-C-E-S-S! After some minor adjustment, all leaks were gone. Sprinklers work. I’m a happy boy

Post script: a phone call Sunday evening from Miss K. Her day went much better than expected and she sounded very happy. The gentleman was engaging and bought her lunch. She also announced to me she was on the third day of her new-found vegetarianism (REAL veggie, too – no fish!) and that she felt very healthy and clean. Yes, well, overdosing on fibre does that to a person. No, all kidding aside, I’m not far off vego myself. Only one meal out of the five I eat each day contains meat. But I’m not willing to give up my daily dose of dead animal just yet. Vegetarianism really isn’t that bad: chocolate is vegetarian.

A successful Sunday all round, I’d say.

Welcome to the neighbourhood

My house is affectionately known as The Gnome Home. It’s a townhouse in a street of townhouses next to a golf course. Real white bread stuff: cobblestone street, manicured lawns, you know the type. I bought here about five and a half years ago because it was conveniently located and with a small lawn, easy to maintain. It was also quiet. But not for long. About six months after I moved in, a bachelor in his 50s moved in next door. Which was fine…then his son moved in; 17 or 18 I’m guessing and as I would soon discover, he was mentally disadvantaged - a lunatic, if you will (is it still OK to use the "L" word?).

I was first introduced to the boy one Friday evening when I heard a loud knock on my neighbour’s front door, accompanied by a hushed conversation and the young man in question yelling, “Well [expletive] you, I’m only here to see Ralph.” Who was this mysterious “Ralph”, I wondered. A mysterious twin brother, kept chained in the attic and fed fish heads? Unfortunately, nothing that bizarre. Ralph was a dirty white poodle – with a bath he’d probably be a clean white poodle.

A few weeks after the father had settled in, the son moved in and property values in my street sank like a Mafia informant in the East River. The relationship between the father and son was, well, strained to say the least. There was yelling. Yelling. Yelling, always with the yelling. Here are some of the more memorable statements I heard yelled from the house next door…
[young female voice] “Ow! Ow! Stop it, you’re hurting me!”
[older female voice, possible his mother] “For God’s sake Mark, get it together!” [breaking glass] “God, what did you do THAT for?”
[father's voice] “If you’re going to live here, you’re going to treat me with respect!”
[son's voice] “Go [expletive] yourself!” (many times)
[son's voice] “I hate you!” (many times)
And, my personal favourite: [father's voice] “If you try to hit me again, I’ll get a gun and shoot you!”
Ahh, happy families.

So, our hero Mark. What did he look like? Well, he was your garden variety mentally derranged 17 year old. Average height, dirty blond hair, medium build. And he DID-NOT-LIKE-ME. I have to give him some points for being perceptive. If he was outside and I was to step out, he would disappear inside. When the burglaries were going down, my house was left alone. He knew if I even remotely suspected him of some malfeasance, he would discover how much pain can be inflicted with a rubber hose, a bag of oranges and a bicycle pump. Often I would see him on the balcony next door sighing, then he would start laughing, then sigh again. He would play music loudly, then turn it off. I would see him wearing pyjamas at 1pm in the afternoon while taking Ralph for a walk. And if the pyjamas weren’t ridiculous enough, he’d complete the ensemble with a deer-stalker cap. I saw him once in said get up at a nearby park, sitting on a blanket and playing a guitar (either than or torturing cats - I wouldn't put that beyond him). Totally. Completely. Unhinged.

Apart from the burglaries, some other weird stuff happened. Like stuff catching on fire. Stuff like a nearby shrub-covered embankment. Stuff like number 51’s car (at 4am, New Year’s Day).

Eventually, Mark’s run of burglary and arson came to an end when he went one step too far. R-A-P-E. He stole a golf cart from the golf club one night, piloted it to the next suburb and obtained carnal knowledge of a 17 year old. I remember the day. I was up for my morning run and saw my criminal neighbour asleep on the balcony, his car parked on the lawn even more haphazardly than normal. I remember thinking, “something BAD has happened.

He is, presently, someone’s bitch and will be for the next 10 years.

A Steaming Pile of Failure

I was in a filthy mood all day today. It all started at 7:10am, which, may I remind you, is not a good time to start a filthy mood. Then things got progressively worse and by the time I arrived at work, I would have rated my mood "tempestuous", and declining fast. Why? Well, here's why:

• There was a crash on the highway, causing a 15 mile tail back. I missed the traffic report warning me of some stupid people's inability to stay in one lane because I was listening to CDs (White Stripes this morning). I have a great dislike for breakfast radio.
• When I finally arrived at work, all the coffee mugs were in the dishwasher. I HATE starting work under-caffeinated. This was despite my usual pint and a half of coffee before leaving the house.
• There was an irate message from the miniature Egyptian man I work with (more on him later). Where was I? Who was I with? What was I doing? Get down here IMMEDIATELY! Lord, if I wanted that sort of abuse, I'd get married.

OK, this project I'm on. I inherited it five weeks ago after the previous incumbent was "moved" to another project when everyone realised it was an absolute catastraf#%k. It's eight weeks behind (after 6 months!) and the budget has blown out from $125 million to $170 million - this ain't monopoly money. So I was installed as project manager, along with a hit squad. A hit squad of one man: the afore-mentioned miniature Egyptian man. Let's call him the ET: The Extraterrestrial (what can I say, that's what he looks like). Our job: get it back on the rails.

Right now, I feel I should point out ET has been in construction engineering for longer than I've been alive. He also wears stone wash denim (get back to the 80s!) and he barely comes up to my sternum. His attitude to getting a project back on track, slashing costs and yelling at people. A LOT. Me included! He'll be gone in five weeks, thankfully. That's if I don't strangle him first and bury him in a shoe box somewhere outside El Paso.

To close my day, I had a late meeting which I almost fell asleep in. I stayed awake by sending text messages to a friend. And when I finally got home, I cut my thumb on a tin of tuna. Not a red letter day, people.

"Food?"

I guess it could be called food, if you take the broadest sense of the word. You know what I’m on about; Oscar Mayer Fast Franks (pre-prepared hot dogs in a bun). And its brethren – generally anything you can buy in the frozen food aisle. Snap frozen cheeseburgers. Snap frozen chicken subs. It’s food in the same way that having a job with the government can be called working. No one works for the Government, they “work?” for the Government. Ham & pork flavoured knob (seen in my local supermarket’s meat aisle on Saturday morning) is “food?” not food.

I’m not on much of a foodie crusade here. But (work with me here), I fail to see how anyone can come up with some of the “food?” concepts I have seen. Let’s take my favourite, Jimmy Dean’s Pancake & Sausage on a Stick with choc-chip. Who, in their right mind came up with such a gastronomic travesty?
Hmm…sausages are boring. I know, I’ll wrap it in pancake batter.
But it’s lacking something. I know, choc-chips!
But, hmm, how can I eat this without cutlery? A STICK! EUREKA!! And, I’ll be able to eat this tasty piece of Frankenstein food with my left hand and, in my right hand, hold this stick of butter wrapped in a Belgian waffle!
Good grief, what’s next; nuts & gum in a can?

I have some rules when it comes to food. I tend to keep odd hours and with my activity levels, I need food that’s quick and nutritious. Notice how “tasty” isn’t one of my requirements. My needs are as follows:
1. High protein, medium carb, low fat.
2. Three or less ingredients.
3. Cook in one pan or less.
4. In less than five minutes.
5. Able to be eaten off a medium sized plate or bowl.
6. In less than five minutes.
7. Requires eating with a fork or a spoon, but not both. And never a knife.
8. Of a consistency such that, if my plate/bowl tilts, there won’t be a great mess to clean up. It’s why my oatmeal is the consistency of gap filler.

All that being said, it’s not surprising I live off scrambled egg whites, fat free dairy products, protein shakes and bananas. The last two have the additional bonus of being able to be eaten in a car without leaving a mess.

An Introduction (of sorts)

I guess I should do something in the way of an introduction. It’s the right thing to do. Actually, I’ll start by telling you what I’m not going to tell you. I’m not going to tell you irrelevant things such as my name or my age or who I work for. That's classified information. I will say I work as a project manager in a relatively large company. That’s important because, from time to time, I will use the clueless morons I am ashamed to call co-workers as fodder for my posts.

What else you need to know about me:
1. I keep fit. I run, I ride, I go the gym, I train martial arts.
2. I have a dry, sardonic sense of humour.
3.I like lists.

And that’s all you need to know about me.

I will point out, too, that I’m not a health freak. No, my caffeine addiction sees to that. My Muse introduced me to the joys of drinking coffee out of a beer stein, as opposed to a regular coffee mug. Beer steins hold more, she said. She was right. I now down one-and-a-half steins of coffee before I head off to work. And have a regular mug when I finally drag my sorry butt into the office. People wonder why I’m so peppy of a morning.

Speaking of my office, right now I am split between two offices – my regular office in my firm’s main building, and my current project has a project office in town. When I’m in the project office, I’ll occasionally take public transport. I must confess, I don’t like public transport. In fact, I don’t like public anything, especially car parks & lavatories. I despise them because they both rely upon other people to act with courtesy, aim straight and not hit me. And as history has taught me, people cannot be relied upon to carry out those three simple niceties of life.

Back to my story. Generally, I despise public transport because, well, Le Comte has fairly high standards of personal grooming. Much higher, it would seem, than your average public transport patron. Take Thursday evening as case in point. I’d manage to finish early and caught the 17:19 from town. It was packed. People were fighting for space like a bunch of refugees from Weight Watchers fighting over the last fudge brownie. It was brutal to say the least. The end game was the good Comte sharing far too much skin time with a man (I assume it was…I think my next blog will be about androgynous people) who was unfamiliar with the concept of soap or water. Deodorant, it would seem, is optional with some people these days.

I wonder why people find their poor personal hygiene so acceptable? Does no one say anything? Can they not smell themselves, because, Lord knows I can. Is there a book out there: Hygiene: The French Way?

Anyway, if you’re the guy whose armpit I got stuck in, leave me a comment. As a memory jogger, I was the guy in the white shirt struggling to breathe for 22 minutes who stood on your foot on leaving the train and didn’t apologise, despite your yelp of pain.

p.s. I will post some photos soon. I have them somewhere. On my laptop at work. In one of the offices I frequent. I'm not quite sure. Is this how schizophrenia starts?