Stay where you are! Or not.

Okay, sometimes you can't stay where you are. Sometimes you have to leave. Sometimes you have to move. Sometimes you can't stay in the same state because it is run by twits, thieves, highbinders, dimwits, jerks, numbskulls, crooks, communists, idiots, and assorted bastards, and you thank God the US Constitution guarantees free movement between the states. And then you sell your house and go.

not my house

But, as I have noted during my sporadic entries over the last few months, moving is a chore. I'll put it more strongly than that: moving is a 

🏠CHORE👷😫

It is the most difficult thing I have done in decades, and that's saying something. When we moved into our house in New York we were coming from an apartment, so we didn't have a lot of stuff. After more than two decades in the house, we had amassed a lot of stuff.

Here, in no set order, are the Top Twenty Things I Learned This Year About Moving. This is gonna be a big one.

１ Houses in New York tend to have cellars, and often even attics that allow for storage. Houses in the south more likely have no cellars (because they would get flooded) and if they have storage attics, the temperature in them can get high enough to spontaneously combust things. Therefore, all the lovely storage area you abused in New York will be gone, and now you have to make some Hard Choices about what you can bring.

２ I very much wanted to bring the workbench I had constructed, but in the end the mover -- who was NOT lazy about bringing things -- told me that in his experience the bench would not fit in the garage of the type of house to which we were going. This appears to be true, but I can't tell for sure, because five days after the arrival the garage is still full of boxes. I am not sure it will be empty of boxes until after the Second Coming. I'm glad I sold my car, because this may never be a two-car garage again. 

３ A decade ago, when we were first considering fleeing the Former Empire State, I bought a book called Moving Gracefully, written by Carol Miller Fradkin. As we got ready to put our house on the market I looked through the book for helpful tips. Ms. Fradkin's experience largely involved moving for work, her family uprooted many times, so she knew a lot about it -- but the problems of frequent moving are very different from the problems of moving after a long period of residence. The lesson here is that expertise is not always fungible. In any event, our moving was about as far from graceful as you can imagine. 

４ Not to belabor the topic, but if you've held on to things because "someone might need it" or "it's too good to toss" or "I'm still using this furniture but it's not coming with us" or "I'll use it again someday," you're going to find that the day you have to throw them all out will strike like lightning. I rented a 12-yard dumpster. Then I had a junkman come get stuff (fridge, crappy ol' bookshelves). Then I slowly put stuff out for regular collection so as to not overwhelm the garbagemen, over several months. Then I posted things on social media and gave them away free to the first caller -- including a huge dog kennel from the backyard. Then I had the junkman come over for round two, removing old furniture. Then the movers came. Then I needed junkman AGAIN for stuff that the movers couldn't or wouldn't move or forgot to take. 

５ A special note about books. Which are heavy and mostly worthless. As a child I loved books, not just as repositories of wisdom and adventure, but as the objects themselves. Computers have made them irrelevant. Except for a few rare editions, they are barely worth anything -- people can get the stories without lugging them around. Plus, my childhood dreams of owning a magnificent library were always undercut by my buying the cheapest version of any book I wanted -- used paperbacks, often enough. So when push came to shovel, and I mean shovel, I heaved hundreds of pounds of books into the recycling pile, week after week. I had to ask every time, Did I enjoy or at least respect this book? Might I ever read it again? If the answer was yes both times, I would save it. And now I don't know where to put them all. 

６ I thought we might have trouble getting to the house before the movers did. When we moved into the old place, the moving men went straight from the apartment to the house, fifty-odd miles away, me following in my tiny car. That's not the way it works now, or at least not on trips of 600 miles or so. By the time they got to our old house, they had already picked up a load in Massachusetts. After they left, they went to get another load in New Jersey. I grant you that the truck was enormous, but I really thought we had enough crap to fill it ourselves. Nope.  

７ And so our stuff wandered to and fro over the countryside for an entire week. We drove down the day after our stuff took off and sat in a hotel while we waited. Well, we also went to the lawyer to close on the new place and started bringing what we had in the car into the empty house, but there was no place to sleep, so we hung out at the Hampton Inn. We also went to the beach. Which was nice. 

８ Our movers were great when they got there. I was sad that all the boxes we packed were just loaded into the garage, though -- my wife had made a map with numbering on the rooms to match numerals on the boxes, and it all came to nothing. Nope, they just piled the boxes up in the garage. So that was a lesson. (They did assemble furniture that they had disassembled, so that was good.)

９ The old cable company wants you back. No, seriously. If you use cable for TV or Internet and you leave, they will come after you. I explained twice on the phone to the operators in Bangalore (or somewhere) that Optimum service was not available where we now live, so even if I wanted to continue with Altice's US company, it was impossible. I think they finally got the message. I once thought that Optimum (formerly Cablevision) would have to better after Jimmy Dolan sold the company. I was wrong. 

１０ Little red stickers. Everywhere. Every box. Every bag. Every stick of furniture. Everything that was ours that made it onto the truck got a little red sticker with a number on it. It set apart our stuff from the stuff that came from Massachusetts and Jersey, so good. But I have removed dozens of them. The highest number I've seen so far was 630, so I may be at this for the rest of my life. 

１１ When people tell you about the weather, believe them. I was dispatched to get a pizza one night and the drive turned out to be longer than I thought. And the clouds opened, and I mean opened. I got a real Carolina Baptism. The water came down so hard that on a couple of occasions I literally could not see well enough to pull off onto the shoulder. The last time I got walloped like that was 15 years ago, and on that occasion I hydroplaned and wrecked the car. Nothing like that happened this time. Thank God.

１２ Speaking of baptisms: Northerners, when someone tells you to make a turn at the Baptist church, ask them to be specific. We have very few of them in New York, and almost nothing but them here. I am happy to see evidence of strong Christian faith anywhere (although I will have to drive farther now for Mass). 

１３ The pizza I mentioned above was pretty good. Pizza, as they say, is like, uh, other things you might name*, in that even when it's not great it's still pretty good.

１４ It is typically humid enough here in the mornings for Aquaman to swim through the air. My fuzzy canine does not like this. He has had one decent walk, where we explored the local park on an afternoon when there was a breeze and the temps were in the eighties. My worry is, will we ever acclimate, or just huddle in the A/C? While taking out the trash this morning I saw a young woman walking two well-trained dogs at a brisk pace -- one of them appeared to be a Bernese mountain dog, a snow-obsessed hairball that Nature intended for cold climes -- and they all appeared to be very happy and active and comfortable. I hated all three on sight. Not just the fitness and happiness, but also the fact that when I had two dogs, walking them together was like being pulled by hyperactive morons driving scooters in different directions. Still, it gave me a little hope that Izzy might get used to this weather. 

１５ Speaking of garbage, they only do one trash pickup per week here. Is that typical across the nation? I believe that in the City and outside the City, every town in New York state does two, and a third pickup for the recycling boondoggle. 

１６ And on that note, problems you don't think about are: What am I going to do with all these damn cardboard boxes? They take them for recycling, but everything has to fit in a big green bin, so at the rate I'm going I will have gotten rid of unneeded boxes in 2028 sometime. There is a dump, but I will have to establish residency first, which means . . .

１７ . . . we gotta go to the nearest city worthy of the name to use the DMV. Not an unexpected chore, but since the car's registration is good in New York state until 2027 and the insurance is paid until November, I'd hoped to avoid doing anything for a few months. Alas, I will need that ID, and anyway we would like to vote this year. The DMV does not let you print out forms and fill them out in advance, as far as I can tell; everything has to be done on the spot. In California I think you can send any old border jumper to get a Class A Commercial Driver's License as long as he doesn't speak English, but here in Normal World they want to make sure you are who you say you are. Which is, frankly, as it ought to be. 

１８ The dog was an absolute champ on the drive south -- the longest car ride he has ever taken (eight hours over the previous record) and the longest drive I have ever made. He caused no trouble except for necessary bathroom/water breaks, and on that score he was no worse than the driver (ahem). He has, though, been having difficulty getting used to the new house. For some time I think he expected we would go home, to where he was comfortable and where his favorite sofa was. But the sofa was old and it was among the junkman's haul. Poor Izzy.

１９ It's going to be hard to think of myself as a Southerner, and that is absolutely not a rap on the people here. They have all been great, as friendly as advertised. But I had spent almost every day of my life prior as a citizen of New York, and damn it, for most of that time I was proud -- utterly proud -- of that state. From America's most world-class city to the natural beauty of upstate and the hard-won factory towns to the west, from its amazing history and its contributions to the nation and the world, there was no part of New York I didn't love. But in my lifetime it has chased out industry, encouraged lawlessness, pushed bleeding taxes to fund criminal activities, and let one of civilization's greatest enterprises turn to garbage. My heart is broken. When I mentioned to some people that I'm from New York, I added that I didn't break it and I couldn't fix it. And that is the sad truth.

２０ My main point in this Voyage of Stupid Discovery is that, while there were many reasons to leave New York  -- financial, cultural, professional -- I was settled in there, there were people we loved there, and (this is no small thing) I knew with dire certainty that selling the house and moving would be among the most prolonged, stressful, exhausting, and infuriating things we would ever do. I was wrong, though -- it was worse than that. And yet, this is nice place, I'm finding my way around, we are not far from the ocean, and I would do it all over again. Which is saying a lot, since I'm still surrounded by boxes and still can't find my favorite pants. Gonna check one more box . . . 

* ice cream

Busy busy busy.

It's been a busy time here at the ol' ranch, the ranch that is actually a Cape Cod style, the ranch that we can't sell at anything close to the original asking price.

There are reasons for that, some our fault, some the fault of others, and some that are part of the complex situation of our town. 

Regardless, I have been under the gun to try to rake in as much dough as I can with my freelance work. So...

Sandra Boynton channeling Gilbert & Sullivan via Kevin Kline -- a highly unexpected but successful combination. 

I was kvetching to a friend that selling the house is the most stressful thing I've ever done in my life -- not the saddest, not the hardest, but the most stressful. She thought that moving out of her house rather than selling it was more stressful, but she also noted that she sold her place in less than a week. I kicked her in the pants and said FINE. No, I didn't, but I want to kick someone. I'm looking for suitable subjects for kicking, if you know any. 

As if I was unaware of how stressful this is, I found myself suddenly suffering from periodic and severe pain on my right jaw. It encompassed the upper and lower teeth and the entire region around it, and was some of the most awful pain I've ever felt--and I've been hospitalized with back pain, had stitches, had a concussion, and had a tooth out, so I know a little bit about pain. This stuff was Advil AND Tylenol level, and even then I would have to just wait out the sieges. It was like having a charley horse on my face. 

I figured I had managed to give myself a nice dose of temporomandibular distress, probably from clenching unawares and also in my sleep. So rather than my dentist, I went to the ENT. My old ear doc has retired, so I went to a new one covered by my insurance, a fast-talking Chinese-born doctor with a heavy accent. It almost seems like a cruel joke to have an ear doctor who speaks quickly and with a strong accent, but there we are. 

The doctor confirmed my self-diagnosis, though, taking pains to make me understand what I can do, which isn't much. He did give me a very light prescription for a muscle relaxant to take once a day. It seems to have helped. I've also made a conscious decision to try to stop myself from clenching the ol' jaw during the day, with mixed success. Nevertheless, the facial agony has moved off, at least for now. 

If you've stuck with this entry all the way to the bottom, I thank you for your kindness, and please share your own agonizing adventures with facial pain, or moving, or stress, or anything else in the comments, so I can return the sympathy. Life is stressful, as we know, and we're all in this together. 

Cellar dweller.

It's been very cold for several weeks now -- really, since winter began. Usually we get a few warm spells in the winter here in the Hudson Valley. We'll have a couple of wind-blasted days of misery, ice and snow, the usual, but then a few days in the forties to kind of reset, melt some of the snirt, and wash off some salt with a little rain, before it's back to the cooler. Not this winter. One below-freezing day after another. Regularly colder here than in Anchorage. 

So my basement, which I never finished nor cared to, remains chilly. 

Unfortunately I have a lot to do down there. 

Artist's depiction of my cellar

As the Great Lileks is doing, we are aiming to get the house ready to show. This has meant a number of steps, all challenging, like:

• Paint the porch -- a frantic job done in late October before winter hit
• Spray wash the siding -- reluctantly accepted this recommendation, but it made the house look like new
• Dumpster rental -- frantic tossing of decades of old stuff
• Large item removal -- old fridge in cellar, book shelves
• New carpeting -- another great idea, painfully expensive, and made for one exceptionally stressful day for us and the dog
• Professional deep clean -- this also was nice, but I'm not used to strangers cleaning up after me
• Prepare for real estate photographer -- frantic removal of all personal effects and making rooms look like hotel rooms

And now:

YOU ARE HERE →🞋←

And here means getting ready for showtime. 

The problem is that all those other steps resulted in box after box of things going into the cellar, with no time to arrange them. That was okay to this point, as the photographer wasn't going to bother with pictures of the basement or garage. But NOW, we have to make the clutter neat. And this is where I am today. 

It's all for the good, but man, I am tired, and I am cold down in the cellar. I hear it's warmer down south, and they don't bother putting cellars in houses. I think that's where we'll go. Any suggestions? 

Scrape the scum!

We had company coming to stay for a couple of days. While we have had many dinner guests, it has been some time since we had a sleepover party. Whee! And that meant it was time for Molecular Level Cleaning. 

We love the family, and this also provided a motivation to get that pesky, er, spring cleaning done. Okay, so we were a little late. 

It was a bit of an adventure. The kind of thing where the curtains are getting washed, the beds are lifted to vacuum the carpet below, and at some point you just look around and say HOW DO WE LIVE LIKE THIS? 

By the time the discouragement sets in, though, you're in too deep. The only way out is through. And I like to think that we presented a very pleasant and low-dust (and even low-dog-hair) environment. 

It's getting to the point where it's time to scale down. Time to get a smaller place. Time to stop having to make a monthly mortgage payment, that's for doggone sure, and a smaller place ought to let us pay cash with the proceeds from our larger home.

What kind of smaller house? Well, I don't know. I have always felt that my grandmother had it good in her old age. She literally lived in a cottage, a winterized beach cottage of which there were many in the outer boroughs at the time. (Real estate speculators and Hurricane Sandy have put paid to a lot of those since.) It was a little place, three rooms, but manageable for her and all she needed; she would get up in the morning, have a bit of breakfast, do her chores, perhaps toddle to the market, and watch TV or enjoy the sunshine. She didn't have to put up with annoying people on the other side of the wall, or a stupid roommate, or anything like that. I thought she had it made. 

I have always sort of thought that she had a great retirement plan. And then I realized that this retirement plan was to be a woodland creature in a British children's book.

Mrs. Squirrel realized she was out of tea. "Oh, dear, best go round the shops." So she put on her scarf and a lovely hat and left her cottage in the woods. 

"Hello, Mrs. Squirrel!" said Mr. Trash Panda, popping up from his smelly dumpster. "Lovely day, is it not?"

"Quite so, Mr. Panda!" said Mrs. Squirrel, who did not feel close enough as a friend to call him Trash. "I'm just going to the shops. Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you kindly, as someone has thrown away half a pizza."

And so on and so forth. 

It's a pleasant thought, but I must bear in mind that my grandmother had my dad a few miles away to help her out as needed (she did not drive). Also, she herself was tough as nails. Whereas I and my wife will likely flee New York and not be near family, and I personally am about as tough as Bubble Yum. 

Plus, if the housing market craters, I may have to move in with Mr. T. Panda or perhaps in a hollow tree. Getting older is hard, even when you're not scrubbing the hallway. 

A toilet tale.

Few things in the ordinary course of home life will catch your attention as sharply as an overflowing toilet. 

It happens a lot, and more so now that our toilets flush with low amounts of water. The newer low-flow cans are better than the first generation, but there's still not a lot of oomph there. On the other hand, if the clog is a real banger, there's that much less water to go spilling out all over the floor. 

I had a pretty good clog the other day. I won't bother you with details except to say that neither of my first two tricks worked. Those are:

#1: Leave the toilet and hope it resolves itself. Sometimes it does. If you have a second toilet you can use, sometimes it pays to let the water do its magic. When you return, the bowl is almost empty, and most likely the clog has moved along.

#2: Try to use the plunger for one good shot. Nine times out of ten, one nudge with a good plunger is all it takes. 

No, my can chose option #3: Start spilling water all over the place. 

I did get it cleared up, fortunately, although it required a load of towels to be washed with Lysol Laundry Sanitizer and the floor to be sanitized as well, just in case. No damage was done to the ceiling below, so I have to consider it a success. 

But that's a small problem. There are larger problems afoot. 

A couple of months ago, the town sent out an alert about our collective garbage use. When the town makes a contract with a private collection firm, it estimates regular household use to come to a certain quantity per household--no more than four big cans' worth a week. That's a huge amount for the average home. However, I can't help but notice that some houses nearby, including one right across the street, put an awful lot more than that out quite often. Which is why we got the alert: Our overall garbage disposing has gone over the upper limit of our contract. 

If you live in America and you are not blinkered, you know why: Houses in residential areas, even here in the exurbs, are being rented out and stuffed with grown-ups who come from distant lands without following expected protocols. 

When the houses were built in our development, we had to sign a covenant that said we would not rent it out. Well, that was nice while it lasted. The former neighbor who sold his house told me he had no idea it was going to be used this way. An old expression about one being born every minute comes to mind. Well, he doesn't have to live near it.  

But it all brings us back to plumbing. A friend of mine who would know says that while the town (supposedly) figures our the growing population for water and sewer needs, it still only calculates based on two or three adults and maybe as many as four children per household. When you have eight or more adults under a roof, repeated in house after house, there's going to be a shock to the system. We're not there yet, but if current trends continue, we may be in for a surprise one day. We may flush that toilet and the sewer may say, "Your flush is important to us. We are experiencing higher than normal flush volume right now. Please enjoy this backed up sewage while you wait." 

This is what we can expect in a country where our "leaders" think it's a great idea to let millions upon millions of unknowns enter and spread out to every city, hamlet, village, and town. Johann Friedrich von Schiller famously wrote, “Against stupidity, the gods themselves contend in vain.” So what chance do civil engineers have?

First time lucky: home repair edition.

It has been my experience as a homeowner that the first time something goes wrong, and I have no idea how to fix it, I do a little research, get the tools and parts, and blam! Fixed. But every subsequent time the exact same situation comes up, something goes horribly wrong. 

I guess the worst case to date was when a valve needed replacing on the water heater. The first time I did the job was on a rainy Sunday afternoon, scared to death that I would blow the house up. Easy Peasy. The second time I did it, the new valve didn't fix the problem, which got worse, and I had to call a plumber. Who did exactly what I did and it worked and has continued to work. 

It doesn't make any sense, but then, beginner's luck never did (except as a means to gull some sucker into losing his paycheck gambling; "You're so lucky! Come on, you got a streak going!"). 

It happened again this past weekend, with a leaking kitchen sink. There's no washer, just this pricey Delta insert, which I procured. Last time, the job was a breeze. This time? Got multiple parts removed only to find that the last piece, the bonnet nut, was completely stuck. Liquid Wrench could loosen it -- maybe. But it was now six o'clock on Sunday evening and dinner had to be cooked, and it was better not to maybe break everything. So, back all the pieces went for now. 

All exploded diagrams look like this to me. 

Not that I'm always first-time lucky. This past winter I noticed that the storm door's latch was not latching adequately when shut. This is a problem because we live on a very windy hill. If the door does not shut properly, it can be blown open and BANG into the light fixture aside it. 

It took me THREE TRIES to get new hardware for the door. I would have replaced the door entirely, but they don't make that model anymore. I was very lucky even to find, on the ground, the sticker with the door's serial number so that I could get the right handle. The sticker had fallen off at some point and it was miracle I found it. So, with all hope gone, I assembled the new hardware, and it fit. But guess what? The latch still doesn't snap shut well. If it's really breezy I have to use the deadbolt. 

My wife says our next place should be in a condo where all repairs are covered by the homeowners' association fees. I think I'd rather live in a zoo at this point. Come see the captive middle-aged man! In a simulated natural environment. And they handle all the food and repairs. Genius! 

Jiggle the handle!

The flush toilet may be the most confounding appliance in the home, at least for non-plumbers. You think, How hard can it be? It's got no electronics, no gears. It's a fixture, not an appliance. And then you have to put in a new gasket or lever or chain, and you try to calibrate the proper length of the chain and height of the float and give in the handle, and pretty soon you're ready to throw the toilet out the window and start doing your #1s out the window as well.  

My dad was not a plumber, but he was extremely handy. And yet even he was reduced to advising us to jiggle the handle to stop the water running when the damn flapper would not close for whatever reason. He got sick of trying to get it to behave.

Toilets are touchy things. A lot of us are confused by fluids anyway. They seem to defy expectations. There's no reason why a siphon ought to work -- but once you start it going, though, the water draws the water behind it in what seems like perpetual motion. Of course, there is a reason why it works, but that involves like knowledge of gravity and air pressure and hydrostatic pressure and capillary action and surface tension, and now your head hurts. All you wanted to do was steal some gas from your neighbor's car and you gotta think about science and math? 

Yes, you do! What, for example, is a ripple? You've seen them in ponds, lakes, potholes -- maybe even a drop in the toilet bowl has created a lovely ripple. But can you describe it mathematically? Well, some very serious thinkers have been working on the ripple situation for some time. It's harder than you'd think. 

Let's face it -- water is weird. Most things shrink when they freeze -- water expands. You can't compress water; there's just no room between the molecules. If water was not so strange, life as we know it would be impossible. Without capillary action, there'd be no plants, no trees, no us. And until we meet the Rock Men of Planet Srumptk, we're looking at our basis of life as the only thing possible in the universe. So thanks, water! 

And don't forget to jiggle that handle. You wouldn't want to waste water!

Porch song.

John Madden famously said, "If you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch."

Well, Izzy's on the larger side as breeds go, but he'd usually still rather stay on the porch. This summer has been relatively mild, and he's decided the porch is the primo spot. 

He isn't there to spy on the neighbors or bark at people going past on the sidewalk. He just likes hanging out outside. Humans need shelter, but not animals. If they're in their natural temperature zone, they can just hang out. They may not be comfortable all the time, but they're in far less danger of dying from exposure than we are.

What's annoying is that Izzy will pretend he has to go out to pee, sound real panicky, and collapse on the boards the moment he goes outside. Sometimes even if he has to do his duty (har!), he will stay on the porch first to make sure he gets his porchwork in.

Never neglect porch day.

Often he'll fall asleep out there. 

I don't mind too much. The porch furniture is not very comfortable, but it's okay. The bugs usually don't attack. It's mainly a problem if I'm on deadline. Almost all my work is done on the laptop, and I don't want that outside if the weather is bad -- or if he really does want to go walkies and I'd be obliged to leave it out there. Even if it's just sunny, it's hard to see the screen. 

He doesn't want to be alone outside, so he'll start making noises if tethered on the porch by himself. If I'm working against the clock, I have to play the bad guy and drag his furry behind back in. 

Occasionally the weather will be too hot or cold, and Izzy will want to go in before too long. This never happens in spring or fall -- rain, sun, fog, thunderstorm, snow, he doesn't care. 

But I think I benefit from the fresh air as well, even during allergy season. Also, because we were out there so much, I caught a bunch of wasps building a nest. The little bastards were building it at the very apex of the gable in the center of the roofline, a place inaccessible with wasp spray from the second-story windows or from the ladder I have. I could go out the window onto the porch roof, but considering that I have injured myself going downstairs recently and crossing the driveway before that, I am not going out on any roofs if I can avoid it. 

So, from the top of my ladder leaning up against the porch, I sprayed the nest with the hose. 

That has a couple of advantages. One, it ruins the nest. Two, they don't seem to consider water damage as an attack, just weather; they go into flee mode, not fight mode, so I got away without being stung. Unfortunately, the nest is still attached up there, hanging like a withered old testicle. If it doesn't detach on its own soon, I'm going to have to dig out the power washer and hope that has better range. 

To sum up: Dog, cute, loves porch; wasps, evil, build branch offices of hell in inaccessible places. And I'm just glad I can sit outside and not freeze to death because it's summer.  

Say no to pools.

I feel like the only guy who doesn't want a pool at his house. Surely I can't be. 

It would be different if we lived in the south. Relatives in Florida had a heated pool under a skeeter- and UV-blocking screenhouse that was very nice. It wasn't a heated pool, so you really didn't want to go in the water from, say, Thanksgiving to St. Patrick's Day, although you could if you were brave. But here in New York, you get maybe three months out of the pool. They open in May, no one goes in the water until June, they come out for good at Labor Day, and wrap it all up by October. 

It's a lot of work and money for a three-month dip. Besides, most of the time no one actually goes in the water in the families I've observed. They just sit around the pool, tanning. 

Bankrate.com tells us that in-ground swimming pools can add up to seven percent to the value of the house, but they may cost more than that to build and maintain. 

The value they add is more in scenery and potential than swimming. Everyone who wants to entertain knows that guests--especially those with kids--will be excited to come over if there's a pool. The kids will use it, but the adults, probably not. However, it will keep the kids busy. And it looks nicer than a dry, empty, sunbaked backyard with maybe a tetherball and some cornhole stuff. BORING.

I don't want people coming over in large numbers anyway, so I'm cool.

I've resisted successfully, and it has not been too hard. Our backyard has a severe slope, so the cost of installation would be much higher than if the ground was flat. The legally required fencing alone would cost thousands. Financial setbacks over the years have often taken big capital improvements off the table. Most of all, I've resisted because you know whose job it would be out there with the net and the chlorine tester every day. (It's always the husband.) 

Now, this kind of pool might be worth investing in: 

Keep the dogs cool and give 'em a stealth bath while you're at it. Win-win.

Known for shoddy construction.

 

Tough day at pest control.

 

Game of throne.

New toilet for the master bathroom arrived yesterday. If you heard something, that was the parade I threw in its honor. We're flushed with joy.

As is typical for the homeowner, what started as a small issue turned into a pricey fix that took weeks to resolve. There were a lot of ifs along the way that would have prevented this from getting out of hand and thus out of pocket:

🚽 If I had installed this toilet properly two decades ago, it might not have started to leak.

🚽 If I had bothered to change the gasket when I was changing out the screws that held the tank to the bowl, that might have stopped the leak for real. 

🚽 If I had just bought a cheap can at Home Depot instead of asking my wife which throne she desired, I might have been able to bring it home myself and not have to pay delivery. 

🚽 If she had picked something that wasn't big and heavy and had super-flush technology (we'll get to that), we would have saved a hundred bucks. 

🚽 If I had not exposed myself as an incompetent plumber, I could have installed it myself. 

🚽 If she had not noticed the damp spot on the ceiling below the toilet, all this could have been ignored until we moved or died. 

But, if ifs were horses, beggars would ride. 

It's all resolved now, however. The new throne has arrived and was installed by two very polite young chaps. The new one is elongated and chair-height, which is nice, and has Kohler's Revolution 360 super-flushing technology. The queen of England in her Windsor-era WC could only wish for a throne this delightful. 

I'd like to go up and play with the new installation some more, but I've already flushed it a few times. I would hate to be called a four-flusher. 

Dominant species.

I hate to keep krexing about nature, but I've come to think that the dominant species on Earth ultimately will not be humans nor cockroaches nor mosquitoes nor bacteria. I think it's going to turn out to be crabgrass. 

As far as grass goes, this stuff is mean. You try to pull it, you can't get it all. You try to poison it, and half of it stays green. You put down all kinds of chemicals, and back it comes next year. 

When all of us are gone, and our Kentucky bluegrass, our fescue, our Bahia, our buffalo and Bermuda and creeping bentgrass are toast, the crabgrass will still be here, annoying whatever mammal still lives. 

I can see it becoming an evil species, like the giant carrot man from the vegetable uprising episode of Lost in Space. 

Yeah, that guy.

While retaining its evil crabgrassy ways, it will leave Earth to go pester other life forms throughout the galaxy, impossible to ignore, get rid of, or isolate. It won't take over planets or displace other sentient life; it will just move in and not leave, like the galaxy's unemployed brother-in-law. 

At least that's how it looks to me today. Is there no hope? Why, yes, there might be, thanks to our friend BG Bear, who posted this: 

Kill it with fire! I'm not sure if this little number is available anymore, but flaming weed killers can be bought at large hardware and yard outlets. 

It's either that or we nuke the crabgrass from orbit. Easy choice, you ask me. 

Out & about.

Or, as our Canadian readers might say, oot & aboot. 

In other words, it's another Pictures from the Road entry! 

This day started off with a pleasant sky; a friend I showed this to said it looked like a macaroni and cheese morning, but I think it's more like a customer got a little crazy at the pizzeria with the Parmesan.  

Someone set up a cute li'l deer sculpture, but as I noted some time ago, most lawn statuary represents things you don't see normally, and we got deer out the bazooty around here. Why put up a statue to one? We know what they look like. Why not a gnome, or a jockey, or a saint? I've never met one of them. Well, maybe a saint or two.

Ouch! This house got it but good. I hope I think of this anytime I dream of a peaceful cottage nestled in the woods. One of those trees gets a little ancient and bam! Tarps and Tyvek and insurance claims, and God I hope no one got hurt. 

Over the in sewer department, looks like the guys halted progress on a job for the weekend. I don't know what that green thing is, but it's a new one of the rusted thing. 

And finally, off to Walmart for the big Back to School extravaganza! On July 9! Go ahead and cry, kids; the days are getting shorter already. 

Chipmunk off the stone block.

My neighbor has a retaining wall made of large stones, and mine is the mirror image of his. These were put in place because our houses were built on a slope. 

The one thing he had that I did not were chipmunks living in the wall. UNTIL NOW.

I saw one of the little critters going in and out of the holes. And, as with the yellowjackets that have nested in the wall in the past, you know that when you see one, there are others. 

So I made inquires. 

They say chipmunks don't cause structural damage, so I shouldn't treat them as a problem. I suppose they're okay -- but I have my concerns. I used to be a single man, you know, and found that cuteness did not usually equate with harmlessness. 

Well, if Christmas comes and I hear any singing about hooooola hooops, I'm calling animal control. 

Construction debris.

Once again, the robins have arrived, and are starting construction on a new house. 

I don't mind that at all -- it's more of a problem for them, really, because after the eggs are laid, every time we go in the yard with the dogs, mom flies off in a panic and then peeps angrily from a tree until we go away. Look, lady, I'm sorry, but I pay the mortgage here, not you!

They also leave a lot of construction debris around. 

I saw a male robin working on a nest in a neighbor's yard. The red-breasted henpecked hubby had a mouth full of dead grass, and was no doubt waiting to be told where to put it. "Try it on that branch... no, wait, put it in the maple tree... no, no, too much light. Move it over to the gable. Oh, no, forget that. How about the dogwood? Higher, higher… Why are you looking at me like that, Ralph?"

You'd think that robins mate for life, with all that going on. The male robin does seem to understand one of the crucial rules of marriage:

But in fact, robins usually don't mate for life, although they might get together again if they find themselves hanging out in the same place the next year. In any event, for the male, it's a case like any second marriage -- the triumph of hope over experience. 

I'll keep tabs on the robins as the spring moves on. Frankly, I'd like to hear Mrs. Robin yelling at her husband the way she yells at me. But I think they don't like to air their dirty laundry outside the nest.  

Check's in the mail, hmm?

 

Castles, cottages, and cabins.

This castle has towers that are probably full of the bones of fair maidens who died waiting to be rescued by the mighty princes who were imprisoned in the dungeon, whose bones are in the dungeon. There are also bones of fair princesses littering the grounds, badass no-nonsense princesses who were not going to wait for their prince, who plummeted to their deaths. Which at least was faster. This creepy castle is also regularly visited by man-eating dragons, not the kind who sit down and chat with you but the kind that slither up behind you and eat you whole. It takes a while to digest a fully armored knight, but these dragons are prepared to do so. This castle was owned by Mad Queen Plychwych, who liked to drink the blood of infants to stay alive. Didn’t work. Some say she haunts the dark and spiderweb-encrusted halls, rattling chains made of bones, waiting for the Devil to come take her away. Good schools, minutes from train. 18 bd, 12 bth, 25,562 sq ft. Best offer. Contact Bobbi Smith, Better Homes & Gardens Real Estate, 555-9855.

Handyman special, needs a little love and some paint. Manor, stone keep, towers, cellars, kitchens, a great hall, gatehouse, chapel, amazing views. Unlimited parking. Not all features still in place. Terrific fixer-upper bargain. For sale by owner. Serious inquiries only. Contact Glenn c/o Knobblebury Pizzeria and Post Office. 

Begorrah! Sure'n 'tis a perfect little country cottage ye be wantin', and this little thatched item is just what ye need! Two rooms (not incl. mushrooms), outdoor bath, charming windehs, cozy as a goldcrest's nest. Secluded. 1/2 pot o' gold or equivalent lucky charm value. Listing via Sean Seamus Fergus-Fergus at Fergus-Fergus and Fergus-Fergus, Inc., fergusfergusfergusfergus.com.

Lovely cabin for sale. Excellent accents, gorgeous accessories, location fungible. You will tell your friends: Isn't it good? Swedish wood! Some assembly required. Free meatballs. Visit us at ikea.com for more details. 

Paradise on earth! Amazing place, perfect weather, opportunities galore! Highly diverse population in exciting location! Plenty of wealth to be made for spirited go-getters. Wonderful schools, incredible shopping -- no place finer in the nation. Restrictions apply. Many, many, many restrictions apply. Call today! Inquire c/o G. Newsom, gov. 

The pipes are piping.

Good day, YouTube world, and welcome to Uncle Fred's Home Repair show. Today we take you deep into the bathroom of Uncle Fred's house to show you yesterday's project -- a project you can complete in your very own home with your very own hands. Or, if necessary, someone else's hands. Watch these clips.

So here I am examining the sink in my wife's bathroom. (You viewers may remember my #1 tip for domestic harmony when possible: separate bathrooms.) Seems that her sink has been running slow. Now, the cap on this kind of drain plug can be unscrewed. Many people don't know that, because it unscrews to the right -- righty loosey, in this case. Maybe it's Australian? Anyway, here it is off, and look at that hair! Somehow, some hair from her head has gone into the drain. We'll have to pull that out. I'm using a needle-nose pliers and a long, thin screwdriver to get the tangle. And it's just a little clump. Why is human hair so nice on the head and so awful everywhere else? Just a rhetorical question from Ol' Uncle Fred.

Now here I am in the hallway after that job, deep in thought. You can tell because my lips are moving. The drain in my shower has been awfully sluggish. Can it be a hair issue? Ah, you say, Uncle Fred has precious few hairs on his head. That's true. Maybe an armadillo died in there. Let's open 'er up and have a look.

For this job I'm using a long piece of metal in lieu of a screwdriver. Why? Because the piece of metal was in the junk drawer in the kitchen, so it saved me a trip to the cellar. We just put it in the screw on the drain cap and -- There we go! The screw is loose and -- huh? It's not pulling out? Let's pry up the drain cover and --

HOLY CRAP! It looks like someone's been scalped, and the scalp stuffed in the drain! 

Here we see Uncle Fred retching as he pulls his own gooey, sticky hair clumps out of the drain. The upside is that there's no clog in the pipe. The downside is, it's disgusting. This is why Uncle Fred admires professional plumbers so much. This is gross enough when it's just my own hair. If it was some stranger's hair it would be worse. 

With the old hair pried out, we just return the drain cover with a few twists of the metal stand-in for the screwdriver and the job is done. Easy, right? The only question that remains is: Why is there more Fred hair in the drain than on Fred's head? Maybe some mysteries are not meant to be solved. 

That's all for today. Join us next time when Uncle Fred deconstructs a leaky toilet and calls 9-1-1!

Two-wheelin'.

Finally broke down and got myself that sweet two-wheeler I've been eyeing. You can call it a midlife crisis purchase; I don't care. 

born to be wild

When we first moved into this house, I bought a cheap trash can, from the now-long-gone local Kmart. It proved to be a bad idea. It's very windy around here, and I was commuting from suburbia to urbia, and by the time I came home from Manhattan the emptied can could be found almost anywhere on the block. And it's a long block. I never did find out what happened to the lid. Maybe it ran away from home. It was never the same after a car ran over it.

My wife had enough, and took her own personal self to Home Depot to get a big ol' Rubbermaid trash can, similar to the one above. Heavy, lid attached, with wheels, it was perhaps not the Cadillac of garbage cans, but certainly the high-end Buick. It may have blown over, but it never blew away.

Well, as our first blush of youth faded over the last eighteen years, so too did Rubbermaid's. It started with a crack in the base of the thing. No problem; actually an advantage, as a rain drain for when the garbage men left the lid open after pickup. Then it turned into a split that ran across the edge of the base. Then the base split on the other side. Finally the base split in the front, and was detached on three sides. I could still roll it up from the garage, but the trash bags inside could be seen peeking out the flap of a bottom, which slid along the asphalt as the wheels rolled behind.

At last, I gave up and bought the beauty above.

If, when I was a kid, someone told me I would spend ninety bucks on a trash can, I would have expected it to take the garbage out by itself. But our old Rubbermaid sanitation device taught me the value of a good can. If this one is more like the Caddy of cans, as I suspect, it may last me until I start to collect Social Security. And it's pretty groovy to be popping wheelies twice at week at that age.

My first question now is, should I paint the house number on it? That was a standard action when I lived in the city. If you had a really sensational garbage can, or just didn't want to be bothered to have to buy replacements, you painted the house number on it to reduce its appeal to thieves. Also useful if it did blow away, like my cheap can. I never bothered with the Rubbermaid can, but this new one may need the treatment. I wouldn't want someone hijacking my sweet set of wheels. 

And my second question is, how do you throw away a garbage can?