Didn't See That Coming

After an enjoyable trip to the Great White…err…Mid-Atlantic, we’re back and settled in our new home. Granted, there is still plenty to accomplish, as the list to get the place ready for living seems to grow longer by the day.

Case in point: have you ever tried to install a baby gate? No, I’m not talking about the old wooden ones that your parents put between you and the Super Fun Washing Machine when you were a kid. Baby Gates of the Future (read: Now) have advanced with such technologies so that we adults can thwart the determined minds of infants for years to come. The one that I just put near our main landing screws into the wall in six places, requires two NSA-grade keys and a special launch code just to open. Did I mention the motion sensors? Yeah, there are motion sensors. It took me three hours to install.

Like I said, you rush to get all these things done, even though you have eons of time to get them done. We’re signed up (technically) for 30 years. That’s a procrastinator’s dream! Of course, if I’m living in this house and I’m 57, something went horribly wrong. You know, like I sold the place but couldn’t leave.

Stupid baby gate.

No, you rush to get the place into a fine working order because you’re PROUD of what you’ve just done. This is a place you can call your own, and you want your friends to come over and be proud of what you’ve just done. And if friends are going to come over, you want things to look nice. Get those boxes unpacked, furniture put together, cobwebs de-cluttered, and throw open the door. Visitors are welcome.

Human visitors, that is.

Because of the holidays, we didn’t anticipate having anyone stay with us until we got back from New Jersacuse. There was just too much going on in those final days of Advent to provide room at the Inn. With all the painting and moving out, we didn’t even have much time to celebrate Christmas. Figuring that there would be plenty of merriment and decoration up I-95, we decided to forgo putting up a tree. There are two reasons for this. 1.) Clara won’t remember it anyway. 2.) Bright blue edging tape makes for terrible garland strands.

But a wreath? A wreath we can do.

So while running some errands a few weekends before the Big Day, we bought a wreath. It’s a Target wreath, and it looks nice on our door. There. Now our neighbors know that we are here to stay and we anxiously await the coming of the Christ Child. That’s multi-tasking people.

One of the topics I will get to later this week comes into play here. Even though we now own a townhouse with a two-car garage, the garage part has been lightly used. Because the previous owner failed to turn in garage door openers, most of our daily parking takes place in the driveway. Therefore, our point of entry is all-too-often the front door, as opposed to the one in the garage. Yeah, there are stairs, but I can deal. Plus, I get to look at our new Target wreath with each trip home. ‘Tis the season, indeed.

In fact, I remember one evening’s entrance in particular. It was December 22nd, and we were returning home from two Christmas parties. As Katie worked to get a sleeping Clara out of her car seat, I played the role of Anticipatory Father and bounded up the stairs to unlock the door. After all, the quicker we get Clara in the house, the less of a chance she wakes up and insists on catching Letterman. As I fumbled with the lock, I remember thinking that it would have been a damn good idea to have left the external light on. That would have made getting in smoothly so much easier. As ten seconds pass and I’m still trying to get the key to work. I hear a slight rustling to my near right. Geez, I thought. Katie sure was fast freeing the baby from the car-

Just then, a small black bird ROCKETS out of the Target wreath, nearly killing me of shock whilst clipping my ear.

Like I said, human visitors are welcome.

I Need a Dress.

When you buy a place of your own, you spend a lot of time evaluating the pros and cons of a given property. Things like total square footage, types of flooring, can I put a roller hockey net in the garage consume your every waking moment until you finally settle on the place you plan on calling home for the next several years. Lost in the shuffle is one major detail: the address.

When Katie and I first started scoping out the town home communities of Fairfax County, I used that opportunity to regale you all with tales of the stupid addresses I’ve called home to date. And while we did not end up on Ruddy Duck Road, we’re about two miles due north of it. (assuming ruddy ducks can fly straight.)

Setting out earlier this fall, I had totally intended to rule out potential homes because of their stupid street addresses. I figured that there would be so many perfect properties for us, with our exact specifications, that it would actually help to have an arbitrary scythe to swing to pare the list down. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. I mean, sure, there is plenty of inventory on the market right now, and many of them had many of the things we were looking for (everything except the aforementioned Condockey Indoor Arena).

It’s not that easy.

When you’re getting ready to write the biggest check of your entire life, you realize quickly that EVERYTHING needs to be perfect. You need to find THE home with a complete package of features, location, and price that will warrant kissing your savings good bye. The inconsequential, such as your actual address, gets filed away with hopes that everything works out for the best. All you can do is pray that when you look up from signing that deed that the road on which the house is located isn’t named Redskins are Awesome Boulevard.

Since this is essentially the second post I’ve devoted to street addresses, you may be wondering what I would name streets had I been granted this magic cartographical power. That’s easy. Characters from the Mighty Ducks Trilogy. If you need me, I’ll be sitting in my mansion at the end of Guy Germaine Lane.

So I’m in the new place this past Saturday, in the company of friends who had come over to celebrate our new home, and I quickly realized that these people are hungry. And since the cupboards are bare, the fridge only has light refreshments, and Nordberg demands sustenance, I acted quickly and dialed up my local pizza vendor.

But on this night, he’s more than just my local pizza vendor. After all, whoever picks up the phone at Domino’s will be the first person to ask me “what’s my address” and I can then respond with the location of a place that I own. The pizza guy has unknowingly assumed a symbolic role, and all he really wants to know is where he can deliver 5 pizzas. So when I proudly I announce, “I LIVE at 5229 Jule Star Drive,” I’m mildly disappointed that his response was “that’ll be 53.50” and not “Congratulations, sir.”

Yes, I live on Jule Star Drive.

It’s not the best of addresses, but it’s not the worst either. My one quibble is this: why did we have to spell it “J-U-L-E”? No one spells that sound that way. For the rest of my time there in Centreville, I will have to spell out a word that someone else has written down J-E-W-E-L. And yes, I had to spell it out for the pizza guy. The dialogue is below.

“5229 Jule Star Drive, that’s J-U-L-E.”
“I’m not seeing it my system. All I have is JULIE STAR Drive.”
“I assure you it’s JULE. I suppose you may have it as JEWEL?”
“Nope, only JULIE STAR Drive.”
“Fine. That’s me."

Yes, I live on Julie Star Drive.

Mi Casa es, well, Mi Casa.

Houses come in many forms, comically speaking.

You can name a fictional character House. You can make him a doctor and give him a limp. You can get a British comedic genius name Hugh Laurie to play him. You can have writers come up with inventive diseases that manage to baffle a hospital’s worth of medical professionals for 52 minutes worth of an episode, only to have the title character solve the case with a last minute revelation. You’ve got to hand it to Fox for sticking with and promoting House as a show. It’s not in the safe zone of a CSI, a Law and Order, a reality show, or a 24 or Lost-like serial series. It’s just a comedic drama about a doctor – quite possibly the most interesting on television. This one could have folded like so many other shows that start off with little support. Instead, it’s the best thing Fox has got right now. Let’s just hope the writer’s strike doesn’t screw with the plot continuity too much. I would hate for studio heads to do the writing: House would end up with a wisecracking sidekick (either a turtle or a lemur) named Chris McAleer or something.

You can work with a guy named House. Unlike the genius of Laurie, my House was far from a rocket surgeon (or is it brain scientist?) And fortunately for me, his nickname was a common enough word that should he ever decide to search for himself on a computer (rather than sleep in front of it), it’s unlikely that he’ll ever find the tales his tall co-worker spun about him. Looking through the archives, I find that they are largely devoid of stories centering on the man who wore a 60 XXXL suit coat and coined ridiculous phrases like, “Boo-Ya, Grandma!” It is likely because that his tenure in close cubicular proximity only lasted from April 2003 to May 2004 – a mere two months prior to YAB’s founding. But it’s scary the legacy he has left us. After all, not every co-worker you’ll ever work with will fall for the old “alphabetize one’s keyboard” prank. House, wherever you are, I raise my Nalgene bottle to your added workday hilarity.

(Of course, you can’t see my tribute. You’re asleep in your desk chair. Again.)

You can mock Under Armour. Yeah, Under Armour – the apparel company that sells the tight shirts that come with six-pack abs already built in. They’ve become part of the marketing fabric that is professional sports, and all it took was one catchphrase-laden marketing campaign. I can imagine back in 2003 the UA sales team in an eleventh hour pitch meeting.

Director: Ok, we’ve got like 12 minutes before they shoot the commercial. What’s it going to be, team?
Sales Exec 1: How about, “YOU CAN’T CUT THROUGH ARMOUR!”
Sales Exec 2: I love it!
Director: Ok, not bad, not bad. What else do we have?
Sales Exec 3: That sucks. Lots of stuff can cut through armour.
Sales Exec 2: I hate it!
Sales Exec 1: “WE MUST PROTECT THIS ARMOUR FROM THINGS THAT CAN CUT THROUGH IT!”
Sales Exec 2: “I love it!”
Director: It’s a tad long.
Sales Exec 3: “WE MUST PROTECT THIS ARMOUR!”
Sales Exec 2: “I love it!”
Director: Armour should be able to protect itself, even though we’re using the flighty British spelling. What’s a more important thing to protect?
Sales Exec 1: “THIS HOUSE!”
Sales Exec 3: “THIS HOUSE!”
Sales Exec 2: “WHY ARE WE YELLING??? I LOVE IT!”

In the 814 posts to date, the old Blogger StatTracker has revealed that the word “house” has appeared in 125 of them. That’s one in eight, people. I had no idea that an abode could produce so much comedy. And now I’ve gone and done it – I’ve opened up a brand new chapter from which many funny vignettes and comedic situations shall tumble out. You ready for this?

We bought a house. Oh dear Lord.

(more to follow)