The bees! The bees!

Ever have one of those moments where you feel like you're in a movie?

This happened to me once before. So let's set the Wayback Machine for 2007.

I had just moved up to Sussex County and I was driving down a highway I thought was 65 mph. It wasn't. It was 55 mph, as I discovered when one of Sussex County's finest pulled me over. So I'm sitting there while he looks at my license and registration, talking about my knowledge of the speed limit or lack thereof, when...

His radio goes off: "All personnel, we have a multivehicle incident..."

He clicks his radio, says he's on it, literally tosses my license and paperwork back at me, hollers, "Slow down, sir," over his shoulder, jumps in the car, pops the lights and siren and tears off.

I was that guy. That guy at the beginning of the movie who is pulled over for some minor offense when the real villains go zipping by at 100 mph and the cop blows off the first guy to join the chase.

Pretty cool.

I was reminded of that this morning. Why?

Well, yesterday, Marisa texted me to tell me we had bees under our kitchen deck, and they had chased Norton the Dog and Oreo Cookie Kitten back into the house from where they were sunning themselves. So when I get home, she shows me the little hive under the left side of the deck, and I blast it with my trusty Raid anti-bee spray. There were also a bunch of bees around the light we put on to see the hive, so I blasted them, too. (I should mention it did occur to me that there were a lot of bees for a tiny lil' hive.)

This morning, she tells me the bees are back, worse than ever.

So thinking maybe I missed the hive in the dark, I go down to the garage (under the deck) to investigate. Nope. That is one dead little hive. So where are the bees coming from?

Then I turned around and looked up at the right side of the deck.

You know that scene in a movie where the hero kills some monster, and he's all proud of himself, and then he turns around and the monster's Mommy is standing right there, towering over him.

I felt Just. Like. That. Because the second hive was about the size of a football and swarming in bees.

Ho. Lee. Sugar.

So later tonight, when they are (hopefully) in their state of torpor, I'm going back out with my Raid...

Let's hope I don't end up like Nic Cage at the end of this little gem:



"The bees! Not the bees!"

I'm dreaming of a white... Halloween?

First snowfall today.

This may not really be a big deal to those of you readers from Wisconsin or Canada.

But those in the Tri-State area may sometimes hear the New York radio stations refer to "north and west of the City" as the area where the bad weather hits. That's where I live.

And thus, we get winter a little sooner than many other Jerseyans. Like today, when it rained in Newark. And we had 3 inches of snow on the ground when I headed out into the Sussex County afternoon.

The last 35 minutes of my daily 50-minute commute took 35 minutes.

The first 15 took two hours.

That was fun.

Adventures in Lawnmowing, Season 2

Unlike last year, no grand pronouncements this Mother's Day.

No promotion. No engagement.

Just another day in the Munkee household.

It was, however, the season premiere of "Adventures in Lawnmowing," Season 2.

We are not yet prepared to mow lovely pictures into the lawn. The favored pattern remains the trapezoid. However, I can say this season is moving faster. And with less stalling of the engine. Not to mention that the only real casualties were a couple of those little utility line flags.

Not to mention the fact that, as one of the last on the block to get out and fire 'er up, we are no longer the disgrace of the neighborhood.

Sadly, I will say that Season 1's availability on DVD remains in doubt over rights issues. We couldn't get the baby bunny whose narrow escape - twice! - was the highlight of last season to sign a waiver.

We're considering a re-enactment. I'm thinking of getting Bruce Willis, but our budget may leave us with someone more along the lines of Ben Affleck.

Or the girl from House of 1000 Corpses.You know the one I mean.

Either way, happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there. You know who you are, too.

Stay tuned for further adventures of Lawnmower Man (not that one) and his trusty Craftsman sidekick.

Fantasy and reality collide

On Saturday, I, the mighty samurai, using only strength of will, steel and magic, slew the mighty Mercurion and saved my companions from certain doom.

On Sunday, I vacuumed the house.

And did laundry.

Addendum: Well, at least she's generous

Guess who got to use the vacuum of the godsto clean the rest of the house?

Sigh. Figures.

Men are from Mars, women are from... Mars?

Anyone who thinks women don't get into gizmos hasn't seen Marisa with her new vacuum.

At the risk of jeopardizing my future marriage, let me point out she's been talking about this vacuum almost from the moment we started dating (and she realized my old townhouse needed a good vacuuming), itched for it every time my vacuum went funky, complained every time my vacuum - once good, now kind of sucky in a non-vacuumy way - went kerflooey and gazed enviously at my friends' version.

Then, when my (late, lamented) vacuum finally caved in under the weight of Norton and Pumpkin's pet hair, she researched this monstrosity online, postponed her dreams of a china cabinet and ordered what has to be the mother of all vacuums.

• It's bagless.
• It's got a filter.
• It rotates on a ball.
• It has brushes on the sides.
• It has lights.
• It has buttons.
• It's bright freakin' purple.

Then she tracked it religiously online. ("Guess where the vacuum is?!")

Then, on Friday, she had a half-day, so we could have lunch together. Every time a car went past the window, she looked outside, hoping it was UPS. It got so bad, I kept looking out the window to make her look.

Finally, as I left for work, I passed the delivery guys on the way.

By the time I got home some eight-plus hours later, she'd vacuumed the entire downstairs and tested all the attachments - and in a sign that despite her gadget obsession, she's a woman and not a man, she even read part of the manual.

She then showed me every single part. (See list above.)

Of course, when she eagerly said, "you try it!" I pushed one button and the whole damn thing fell apart. And she showed me how to put it back together.

So now I have a space-age-looking purple vacuum that I don't understand and am not sure I'm even allowed to touch again even though I'm normally the one who does all the vacuuming on cleaning day...

Hey, wait a minute, why am I complaining?

Vacuum on, my gadget-loving domestic-goddess-in-training!

One more reason we need a video camera

No, this isn't a sex post, you perverts.

This is a post about how I could've been a YouTube star.

Maybe you read about the store clerk who decked a robber so he wouldn't look bad on YouTube.

"What was going through my mind at that point was that the security tape is either going to show me run away and hide in the office or whack this guy in the head, so I just grabbed the cup and clocked the guy pretty hard," Hoffmann (said).

Well, today I had my own missed opportunity.

No, we weren't robbed. But we did have 50 mph winds overnight.

And it was garbage night.

Needless to say, our trash cans ended up in the neighbor's yard. Downhill. On a sheet of ice thanks to this week's snow and the weekend Nor'easter.

And if only we had a video camera, I coulda been a star!

Sliding down the ice on my butt was the fun part.

The dog sliding down after me, taking my feet out from under me, probably would've gotten a laugh.

But I think what really would've done the "viral" trick was on the way back up, when my legs went back downhill, the trash can I was pushing uphill stayed uphill and...

SMACK!

Instant faceplant.

I smacked my forehead nice and hard, and my glasses cut my nose a little.

But I'm OK.

Which is why I promptly tried again, and slid even farther down the hill on my butt.

Eventually, I made it with the can, all the way to our side yard, where I could climb the tree-covered, shelfed hill, and then slide down our ice-covered driveway (shoulda used the damn snow-blower when I had the chance) to Marisa, who was waiting in the garage.

Of course, there were four more cans.

So, after a brief recovery period, I approached again, on my butt, on the ice, with a battle plan.

Using a shovel like mountain climbers use those ice axes, I dug and stepped my way up the ice to M, handing off the cans two at a time.

There was, of course, much sliding in the process.

But no more faceplants.

And sadly, no video camera.

So if you want to see me in action, you'll have to buy "Dead Hunt" - I'm on the special features.

Welcome to the jungle!

I've never mowed a lawn in my life.

Until today.

But now I can say I've done it. The joy of owning a single-family home instead of a townhouse.

It's funny. I never mowed the lawn growing up, mostly because I was a little kid (physically) and my parents have a tiered lawn on a hill. I think the image of a 90-pound kid trying to haul a mower down narrow rock steps scared my poor mother.

So they paid some landscaping types to mow their lawn, and eventually I think they got them to mow the neighbors' lawn when they neglected it.

(My lawn was starting to look like that, but we'll get back to this point in a moment.)

Anyway, after that, I went off to college (dorm rooms!), then lived in a series of apartments until I was nearly 28, then it was my townhouse in Hillsborough. Yeah, complete with extortive association fee and the subsequent lawn care.

But now, at last Marisa and I are mostly settled in, and had a free day, and that's how we found ourselves on the front lawn this afternoon, sweating and swearing and... eventually having fun!

Plus, our lawn no longer resembles the neighbors' where I kept losing Wiffle balls in the jungle.

Even if I damn near encountered my second-worst nightmare - after running over a member of the family - and just missed a baby bunny sleeping in the tall grass.

Twice.

It was a rough start - the grass was so tall it kept jamming the blade, and thus killing the motor - but eventually, after trying mulch mode and bag mode, I went with spew-out-the-side mode and got 'er done.

In fact, the more I tried, the easier it got, as I developed something vaguely resembling a technique. I probably did 75% of the lawn in two hours after taking two hours on the first 25%.

(Fair disclosure: We still have to rake up the spewings.)


So even if it doesn't quite resemble the outfield at Yankee Stadium, I won't have to play "Welcome to the Jungle" when guests arrive anymore.

And my reward?

M is making another loaf of her from-scratch sourdough bread! My favorite kind of bread, and she makes delicious loaves by hand. From scratch.

I can't begin to tell you (or her) just how amazed I am by all of that. I mean, I know she can cook good food, and I love everything she makes, but the whole concept of the sourdough starter amazes me. And she made it herself, and she nurtures it, and then she makes delicious bread from it.

It's one thing to aspire to be a little Domestic Goddess in Training, to me it's something even more impressive to take up a project that requires not just skill, but dedication.

I can barely make anything, or stick with anything, but I see that little pot in the fridge and I just adore her even more.

OK, sappy, yes, but come on. After she did some branch-trimming, did a little mowing and walked the dog, she still had time to fill the house with one of the best smells in the world - fresh bread, baking.

That more than makes up for the sore back and aching shoulder.

I think.

Miami Diari, Post-Vacation Interlude

Yeah, I know. You're still waiting for the munkee part.

I'm home. And home. We're moving Monday. So, for a few days at least, I'm the first person in my family to ever own a "second home." (By the way, if you're interested in a townhouse in Central New Jersey, I'm selling one. Cheap.)

I'll get around to Day 4 and Day 5 soon. Up to my eyeballs in work, paperwork, moving boxes, etc.

Downloaded the pix, that's the first step. Bear with me.

You'll get:

• Monkeys
• Sharks
• Tina Kim (again)
• Karaoke
• More tales from the airport

So it'll be worth the wait, promise. I'd write some now, but I'm averaging about four hours of sleep a night this week, which is about 1.5 more than Marisa and I've got to get some more or I'm going to fall asleep on the road on the way home some night and die.

And then you'll never get to read my answers to the interview questions Jin sent me.

Packs(es) and relaxes

For those wondering just what's up... Well, I'm on vacation.

It's not exactly vacation in the sense of "Oh, look, another Diarii!"

But it was a week off from work. It was actually supposed to be the week I took off to move Marisa in, but it ended up being the week we started packing to move out.

After all, I've now completed what I've lovingly dubbed the, pardon my French, "What the fuck was I thinking???" hat trick:

• I got promoted. Added job stress.
• I (we) got engaged. Added wedding-planning stress.
• I (we) bought a house. Added moving/selling stress.

So never fear, I've got some posts in mind to entertain and delight. But I haven't had time to write them, yet. Don't feel bad; I completely blew off my Weight Watchers tracking this week, too. And it shows.

Meanwhile, a brief summary of where I've been since I last left work on Friday the 6th:

Saturday: Packed and cleaned and stuff to get ready for the first open house at my (current) home. Toted boxes up and down two flights of stairs all day. Fun for all. We did cap the evening with a return trip to Makeda, the Ethiopian restaurant where we had our first date. It was our first time back in a while, but the food was as great as ever.

Sunday: Spent the day with M's family - partly to get out of the house for said open house - partly because it was just a nice family event, capped by a nice dinner with M, her Mom & Dad, her Grandma, her brother and his wife, and her sister and her boyfriend.

Monday: Went to the American Museum of Natural History in New York, one of my favorite places, to see the special exhibits on frogs (yay!) and mythical creatures (yay!) plus my favorites like the dinosaurs (yay!) and the Hall of Ocean Life (double-yay!). Then we went to Candle Cafe, this vegan restaurant my co-workers Ally and Rob told me about. M loved it and I found the food to be incredibly delicious, too. Then we capped off the evening by watching "Night at the Museum."Much better than I thought it would be, I must say. Call it a 3.5 out of 5.

Tuesday: Tuesday involved canceling my cleaning service and getting an estimate from the movers I've used twice before. Then it was off to meet M for some lunch and to do some registering (at Fortunoff, if you're curious; we're also registered at Williams-Sonoma and Bed Bath & Beyond if you're curious or want to send gifts in exchange for a Mookie J. Monkey endorsement of your product). We fought over the registering, as usual, but made up, of course. More overzealous scanning might be too blame. Then we met with our photographer, a very cool dude. Then we had dinner (Indian) with M's friend Dave, a fellow horror movie fan, not to be confused with my friend Dave, a fellow Flyers fan.

Wednesday: Wednesday began with Norton getting sick. That was fun. Poor doggie had it coming out both ends, so we spent most of the day home, doing stuff around the house and minding him (and dodging Realtors, who of course picked sick-dog day to flock to the house). Then at night, we went down to the Electric Factory in Philadelphia for a concert by Travis, a rocking Scottish band I've mentioned before. The concert was great - the downside was, the Electric Factory is general admission, and I was having flashbacks to a Neville Bros. concert I saw down in New Orleans right after I hurt my left calf, where I literally couldn't stand any longer and had to leave. Calf still hurts, so my honey was sweet enough to let us go upstairs to the spot where we (read: "I") could sit at the bar, rather than standing through the whole show down on the main floor. Of course, Travis came in by running through the crowd on the main floor, so I felt guilty as hell for a while, but she was really sweet about it and then got caught up in the show, which absolutely rocked. I think we're now leaning towards Travis' one song for our wedding song.

Thursday: We had our day at the museum, my fun thing for the week, and this was our day down the Shore, her fun thing. M got a terrific sunburn on the beach, then we went to the Jenkinson's Boardwalk at Point Pleasant, where we ate so much I got sick and we converted my (our) fine Skee-Ball skills into a sizable, smelly (er... sweet-smelling?) candle. Meanwhile, the dog was getting better, so that was good news. Plus, I stayed up late to watch the first three episodes of "Burn Notice," which I'm really digging.

Friday: Today, we spent part of the day at the Somerville Center Antiques, which was M's idea, and my trade for seeing the "Transformers" movie later. Of course, I bought more stuff than her, but that's not my fault. One guy had a dozen media guides amid the assorted candlesticks/plates/used crap. At $5 each or less! An absolute steal! And the dog seems to be all better, too. Wins all around. Speaking of media guides, time to get packing some more boxes...

Still to come: Saturday should be spent playing Dungeons & Dragons with my buds, and then watching the Arturo Gatti-Alfonso Gomez fight. Sunday is my Mom's birthday, so we're going to (hopefully) drop some boxes by my buddy Dave's house - my basement's just about full - and then head off to Skytop Lodge to spend the day with my folks and some friends.

So, yes, moving sucks, but we've tried to make it a week to both get things done and enjoy a little downtime together. I think we're succeeding so far.

As they say in the business, further bulletins as events warrant.

PG: Parental guidance required

You know how you know your parents love you?

When they don't mind you calling in the middle of the night with questions like:

"How long can I go without heat before my pipes freeze?"

and

"If my power doesn't come on before morning, I won't freeze to death in my sleep, will I?"

It's 20-something here, if that, and somebody hit a utility pole out on Route 206.

Sheared it in half. Car's smashed and still there. So when I got home from work, no electricity. And my house is... all electric. Including the heat.

Thus the late-night call to Mom and Dad.

And the power came on about 45 minutes after I called, and maybe two hours after it went out, if that.

Good thing I didn't have much in my fridge anyway.

That was freakin' weird

I'm glad I'm a creature of habit.

Most nights, when I get home from work, I check to see whether the nice UPS man left me anything out in front of my house - I leave through the garage, out the back.

Well, usually I flick on the patio light - there's a patio to the right of my front door and a little deck that runs along the front of the house - and see if there's anything out there. It's sheltered, so sometimes the UPS guy or mailman leaves something down there instead of in front of the door, which is more visible to anyone walking by.

Anyway, tonight, when I flicked the light on and looked through the glass door, there was something looking back at me. Something slightly larger than my dog. And furry.



I think it was a possum. But I've never seen a live one that I wasn't trying to swerve my car around before.

I stuck my head out the front door - CAUTIOUSLY! - and tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but it didn't turn out, despite the flash, and the possum, perhaps as surprised to see me as I was to see it - and possibly freaked out by all the exterior lights on my house going on at once, ran away before I could try again.

I'm glad I just didn't pop the porch light on and walk outside, like I sometimes do, because then the possum would've been trapped on the patio, with me in the way of escape.



And I'm pretty sure that's how the Crocodile Hunter bought the farm.

Would've been my luck, going for a second picture, to get bitten by a possum. I think they can have rabies, too. That would've ruined my day. And imagine calling in sick that way.

"Hey, Dave, you're not going to believe this, but I can't come in. I got bit by a wild animal..."

Sigh.

That was, as the title said, freakin' weird. I mean, I live out in the country, or at least former country - I've even seen deer in my cluster's driveway - but I've never seen a possum that close. At least, like I said, not without a ton of Japanese steel between me and it.

And it was a lot bigger than I thought it would be.

Still, picture a 200-pound Asian guy, leaning very carefully out the front door of a townhouse in the middle of a giant development, and trying to take a picture of a 20-pound (estimated) furry animal with a cell phone camera at 12:30 in the morning.

All I was going to do was have a snack, maybe write a Raiderfans.net column, then watch a movie or something.

Didn't plan on starring in "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom."

Arachnophobia?

I opened my front door this morning, which I do about once a day, if that, to see if the mailman left any packages out front for me.

And there was a super-giant spider building a web right there, at eye-level!

It's more than an hour later and I still feel light-headed and sick to my stomach.

I'm not afraid of much. In fact, I'm pretty much afraid of two things:

Heights. (Well, falling from heights.)

And spiders.

And by afraid, I mean genuinely, irrationally terrified.

And this was a big, shiny, icky, nasty spider. Right where I could see it up close and personal.

My hands are shaking.

And the worst part is, I thought I'd gotten rid of it. See, when I opened the door last night, the spider was building a web down from the eave of the house.

I can't even bring myself to touch them.

I don't like bugs in general, but I can kill most. Not with my hands. I hate how they go crunch. But shoes... And I have a little Dustbuster I use just for vacuuming up bugs. And most of the work my broom gets is wiping out spider webs and things like that.

But this spider was too big. Too freakin' huge. I'm talking penny-sized.

So I did what any insane person (and scared munkee!) would do. I got a pot full of water and let fly.

Sploosh. No more web. Problem solved.

Only I guess I missed the spider.

So today, once I'd sat down and caught my breath, I went and got another potful of water.

And when, after literally pausing to screw up my courage, I opened the door... the spider was gone.

Well, I let the web have it anyway.

But now I'm scared when I get home tonight, the spider will be back. Ick.

Time to get the broom, I guess. If I can work up the nerve to open the door.

And for God's sake, what if, somehow, the spider got inside?

No wonder I feel sick. Chills. Shaky hands. Queasy.

A freakin' 200-pound tough guy, afraid of something smaller than a quarter.

I want to go home. And not long ago, I was happy to get into the car and go to work. To get away from home.

Eww.

Ick.

Bleech.

Barf.

Yuck.

Squick.

Totally, totally gross.

I hate spiders. Snakes on a plane, I could deal with. Spiders on a plane, I'd be dead meat.

Well, it wasn't me

The power went out again today.

And I was nowhere near my garage door opener.

In fact, I was in the bathroom. Now THAT is inconvenient timing.

There I am, getting ready for work (you know, shower, bruth teeth, that sort of thing) and poof. No lights.

My master bath (that makes it sound glorious) is an interior room. So no lights means... no light. Makes the "spit" part of brushing your teeth sort of a game, doesn't it?

A few random things while I sulk

Well, I made it to the city and back just fine.

Then things got weird.

I got home, opened the garage door, drove in, closed the garage door, and went in and hit the lights.

Nothing.

No power. On the whole side of the street. For an hour.

Now, either that's some odd timing, or my garage door opener blew out the entire neighborhood.

The power came on in time for me to catch the second half of the Raiders game. And that made me wish it'd stayed off. Egah. First time shutout at home in 25 freakin' years. To the Chargers, no less. Egah.

Egah.

Yeah, it was a three-egah game.

So this post was a little delayed by the power outage (it got the modem, which requires power). And that threw my train of thought. Especially when, on the phone with my folks (to get the power company's number), I got my Dad to describe some of the game to me.

He hasn't watched football since... well, probably since at least the last time the Raiders got shut out at home.

He was trying to explain one tackle - he thought - and he's like, "I don't know. Something happened. They're showing a big, black man..." ("Dad, they're ALL big, black men...") "Do they have a No. 90?" ("Yes. Terdell Sands. He's big.") "There's a guy. Look at those tattoos!" ("I can't.") "The Chargers have the ball. I think." ("If Sands is out there, yes, he plays defense.") "Something happened... It's third down... The Raiders have the ball. There's one fellow with this huge black strip on his face." ("That's a breathe-right.") "And this black cap of some kind." ("Is he No. 18? Randy Moss? He wears a thing for his hair.") "That must be him. His hair is huge!" And on it went. At least until halftime. As I said to him, next I'd like you to read me a book in Braille. Give him credit for trying. Here's a man who taught me everything I know about baseball, who can tell you about the time the Yankees sent some rookie named Mantle back to the minors. But when faced with all 380 pounds of Terdell Sands, he was lost. Hey, he's a big dude, Terdell. I've seen him up close.

Where was I?

Oh, a few observations...

First, look for my report on "Header" on HorrorTalk soon. Good flick.

Second, remember that story about the cabbie in NYC who didn't know where I was going? This cabbie more than made up for that guy. Let me put it this way: He drove so fast, and changed lanes so often, it made me ponder the existential questions in life. Like, "Is my will up to date?" and "Who do I sue if a cabbie hits a double-parked delivery truck?"

Third, I felt bad because I forgot to bring any extra business cards to the screening... until the producer realized he'd forgotten the press kit he'd promised me.

And to think, I got almost everything on my goodmunkee list done this weekend. That's excellent.

Even if I was the first person in my family to have to sit around in the dark and cold since we lived in Vietnam.

One man's misfortune is another's furniture

I was out running errands today, when I noticed some of those little signs businesses post alongside the road that advertise blowout sales - usually going out of business sales.

This one was for my local OfficeMax.

And I needed a filing cabinet.

You may have also heard me lament my overflowing bookshelves.

So I wandered up to OfficeMax and discovered it was in its death throes, with sale prices ranging from 20 percent to 40 percent off.

So I got two bookshelves, two media centers (so I can take my DVDs out of some bookshelves) and a filing cabinet for about $260 - roughly 25-30 percent off.

I would imagine a lot of employees are trying to figure out what to do next. So I felt sort of guilty that I felt so happy.

I mean, I got a great deal. And everything fit in my hatchback, with some moving of seats, folding of seats, and moving of assorted car-crap.

Those of you who read my Raiderfans columns may have noticed I tend to subtitle them, "or, ..." a la "Dr. Strangelove."

I guess I could subtitle this one:

or, How I took advantage of OfficeMax's financial woes

(And yes, I've noticed I haven't put up any links lately. I just haven't seen any appropriate ones. So here.)

Links:
• OfficeMax

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

In one of life's questionable ironies - questionable in terms of itself, and whether in fact it's ironic at all - I find myself cleaning up both before and after my cleaning ladies visit.

Yes, I pay someone to clean my house.

Two reasons: 1. I don't clean bathrooms. Ick. 2. I think cleaning is a job best handled by professionals, in terms of hygiene, actual cleaning, etc.

OK, three reasons: 3. Laziness.

In my (weak) defense, I do actually enjoy doing many household chores, including vacuuming. I just don't have the time, energy or real desire. Plus, like I said, there's something vaguely comforting about the thought that professionals are cleaning the house.

But that's not the point. The point is, I clean. Right before they arrive, and right after they leave. Which strikes me as odd.

Why before? Well, I am this sort of schizophrenic/bipolar slob/OCD person. Half my house has everything EXACTLY - and I mean EXACTLY - where I want it, and the other half is a raging mess.

So I clean up the messy part. Two reasons: 1. It's kind of embarrassing. Bad enough strangers see the bathroom - which is not disgusting or anything, but hardly a model of sparkly clean. But I don't need to be reminded of the pile of dishes in the sink, the empty cans/bottles on the counter instead of the recycling bin, etc. 2. I do this sort of sweep-and-clean mission about once a week anyway. No time like the present.

Why after? Well, that's the half for the OCD person, rather than the slob. Like I said, for some reason, I want some things right where they should be.

Part of me suspects it's because I'm generally depressingly disorganized, so I keep some stuff just so, so I can find it.

But I'm like this with everything. My day planner is a wild mass of lines, stuff scratched out, arrows, etc. On the other hand, I have a day planner I write so much crap in, I need lines, arrows and scratches to fit it all.

At work, when I book the section (lay it out), I've got a ton of papers scattered all over my desk. On the other hand, that's how I can tell what stories are in, what stories I need and what goes where.

I have three bookshelves' worth of books crammed full of paperbacks, hardbacks, trades, borrowed, owned (maybe even stolen?) in one room. And my LE hardbacks displayed lovingly between my monkey bookshelves on the coffee table. Big monkey sit. Little monkeys puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuullllllll!

Mind you, I also have one bookshelf full of Civil War books organized by subject, chronologically. See what I'm getting at?

Back a little closer to point, when the cleaning ladies leave (no, I don't really know their names. I know, that's terrible. But they're here once a month, very early in the morning, and they don't speak English very well and I don't speak Spanish, and I know that's not really an excuse, but the point is, we don't talk much other than "hi!" and "bye!" and "thanks!" and I'm sure they've told me and I've just forgotten - it used to be a different group every month, which didn't help, but these two have been my regular crew for a while now. I don't know if they know my name, either, except that it's probably on the appointment book, and on my check)... well, that really roamed far afield from cleaning into guilt.

When they leave, I clean. Because they move stuff around. I mean, they have to, it's not like it's their fault. But it's not quite where I want it, and sometimes it's not even close to where it was before they cleaned. It's not like I want my toothbrush exactly six centimeters from the sink in the master bathroom. But it would help if it's actually somewhere in the vague vicinity of the sink, since that's where I brush my teeth. Or you know, if they knock a piece off one of my various decorative toys, I put it back, so I don't lose it or it doesn't get vaccuumed next month.

On the other hand, I really have no excuse for why I move all the picture frames around and stuff after they go. I think it's just part of my chemical imbalance or something. Not that chemical imbalance, the other one.

Well, off to straighten up downstairs. And then, nap time. Did I mention they get here WAY too early in the morning?

Links:
• "Is Cleanliness Next to Godliness?," an article from Bible.org
• Maid For You, Bridgewater, N.J.

I've sat here for six minutes trying to think of something witty to write here. But I just keep yawning. Sorry.

Hung out to dry

Ah, the perils of homeownership.

My dryer broke this weekend. The motor was going but the barrel wasn't spinning.

And of course, it broke on the first run for a new load. So now I've got 20 pounds of wet clothes, and it's like 9 p.m. on a Saturday night.

Yeah, I know, I was home doing laundry and playing Strat hockey on a Saturday night. My life sucks. That's not the point.

Anyway, after hanging my clothes pretty much all over my two-point-five bathrooms for the night - one shirt dried, Lord knows how - I wound up in the laundromat the next day. For the first time in three years, since I inherited the washer and dryer with the ol' townhouse.

Two bucks in quarters (for an hour! yeesh!) later, I had dry clothes (and one dirty shirt, which took the grime off a shower curtain rod). In fact, I wasted a buck because it only took half an hour in the industrial dryer to do the trick. That's a two-hour job in my lil' old critter.

So after two fruitless days of phone calls, I finally got a repairman to come to my house ("The Appliance Guy"). Turns out the belt on the drum snapped. He said I got my money's worth out of it, though I suspect Mr. I.O. Everyone, who I bought the house from (the name has been changed to protect the guilty) got most of that.

A new dryer is $400-plus. My crappy old one is probably worth half that, if I'm lucky. And I paid $137.80 to get the thing fixed. (No, I didn't ask what it cost beforehand, I was just grateful somebody finally called me back and showed up.)

Anyway, figure that's a $20 part, plus tax. So I paid $100 for labor. The dude moved the dryer six inches, undid six screws, flipped the breaker, replaced the band, reversed the process, signed the receipt, talked a bit of Yankees, shook my hand and left in 20 minutes. That's like $300 an hour. I'm glad it wasn't something complicated that might have required him to undo like eight screws or something. Would've cost me next month's mortgage payment.

This month's mortgage payment. Crap. Time to balance the checkbook.

But I digress...

So, anyway, end result is, now I can finish my laundry without having to share time with the creepy people at the laundromat. Because even I'm somebody's creepy-person-at-the-laundromat, the others there creeped me out and are therefore worse.

Ah, the joy of homeownership. At least I got a guy in the house in two days. That's better than my track record with the plumber, and he literally lives across the street.

Links:
• General Electric electric dryers
• Appliance repair in the Hillsborough/Belle Mead Area
• Save $137.80
• The laundromat industry, as per the IRS

Maybe locksmithing wasn't the best career choice?

I hate recycling

My HT pal Renaldo writes every post in his blog about something he hates. (See that link to the right?)

Tonight, I'm going to give in to peer pressure and write about something I hate: recycling.

OK, it's not that I hate recycling as a concept. I hate recycling in the practical sense. Well, it's more like, I hate recycling in Hillsborough.

Why? Because it's one-third fun, one-third work and one-third the complete and utter suck.

Here's the deal: We recycle three things every other Tuesday: cans and bottles; newspaper; and cardboard.

Cans and bottles are fun. They give us this big blue barrel that we can keep in our garage and just fill with cans and bottles. Basketball!

Newspaper is work, but easy work. You've got to tie them into bundles with twine. I can deal with that. I only put out the cans when the barrel is full, but I only put out the papers when I've got enough of them that I worry about the structural integrity of the garage shelf I toss them on. So like tonight, I put out about three months' worth of the paper.

But it's the cardboard that's the complete and utter suck. Why? Because we can't just break down the boxes and tie them up. (Wow, that sounds way too S&M...) No. For whatever reason, in Hillsborough, we have to cut the cardboard into 2-foot-by-2-foot squares. The only good part is they don't require mathematical precision. (And no, when I lived in another part of New Jersey, we didn't have to do this - the boxes just had to be broken down flat and tossed in the right dumpster in the complex.)

Do you have any idea how hard it is to cut, say, the box a couch came in, into 2x2 squares?

Let me put it this way: In three years in Hillsborough, I've put out the cardboard twice. I've got a mountain of boxes in the back of the garage so high it's got its very own Sherpas to guide the Brits and Jon Krakauer. And I'm devoting an entire Monday of my vacation week in October to cutting boxes and clearing out the garage.

Last time I did it, I wore gloves, used a box cutter, and my fingers still hurt like hell when I was done.

So every time I park my car, I have this irrational (or possibly rational) fear of a cardboard avalanche. And while I can drag the barrel outside, and tie up the papers pretty easily on a random Monday night after work, the hours it takes to deal with the cardboard would probably keep me up until dawn.

Not that I'm not up until dawn sometimes anyway, but it's not a goal. Hell, I snuck a couple of small boxes into the trash, also collected Tuesdays, just to avoid adding to the pile.

And that's why I hate recycling.

Links:
• Hillsborough recycling information
• Why recycling is good, and apparently shouldn't be torture
• Cardboard, Wikipedia-style