Housework: April 2006 Archives

How to be a hoosier in two easy steps

One: After the purchase of a new appliance, leave your old appliance square in the middle of your front yard like so:

Take care to assure that all of the wires, hoses, etc. stick out like stray hairs:

Refuse to clean up the mess incurred from adding two hibiscuses to your garden while blaring a Cult CD at the same offensive volume as the neighbor's Skynard. Leave clods of dirt all over the sidewalk and all of your tools scattered across the lawn for authenticity:

You're done! That was easy! Top it all off by downing a beer while wearing a wifebeater and sitting on your front porch.

BONUS: Sit in your kitchen and watch your new appliance in action, hypnotized by that thur new technology and stainless steel face:

Alternate titles for this post:

The Repairman Laughed When Asked How Much It Would Cost to Fix Our Dishwasher


The Entire Check Amount of My Last Contract Job, in Dishwasher Form

Disclaimer: Chris won't stop bothering me until I write: "It [dishwasher] didn't SIT in the front yard; it was there for like, ten seconds until I moved it into the garage."

Eau de hookers et hoosiers

Our dishwasher broke down this week and leaked all over and UNDER our wood floors. How will I wash dishes now?! Oh. You mean in the sink? Actually wash them in the sink BY HAND? Not only did the dishwasher break down and spew water over and under the floor - which subsequently leaked through the floor and dripped from the floorboards onto the basement floor, but it was 90 degrees the other day. Muggy, Midwest heat + semi-dry floors = the smell of my hoosier uncle Charlie's body odor. Which smells like mildew. Hoosier body odor smells like mildew.

I tried telling Chris this last night via a text message as he was tracking an album for a client and couldn't be bothered with his wife's dramatic wails about how weird the floor smelled.

"did u call repair guy b4 they closed?" I typed.
I normally don't type things like "U" in place of "you" because I am a grown woman who doesn't wear glitter and I have an unflinching hatred for combining numbers and letters to make some literary chimera, but I was typing on a cell phone which is like trying to fix your hair with your feet. I am not cool enough to possess a cool Treo 650 like some super important cool people.

"Why?" Chris typed back.
I refuse to use "text" as a verb. Just like "conversate" is not a word. Converse! CONVERSE.

"bcuz the floor smells like butt."
This continued annoyingly for the next 10 minutes until I threatened to chuck my phone off the deck if he didn't just CALL ME ALREADY.

"What, did the floor get wet again? It cannot be mildewed."

"Oh, but it is. It smells like butt in here. Nasty, sweaty butt."

"Well, [sigh] can't you call the repair guy?"

"NO. I will not call the repair guy because you are the man. That is your job. In addition to mowing the grass and taking out the trash, you handle all home repairs. That's the deal. I do the rest. We aren't swapping now. Besides, I have no clue what to tell the dude."

"Fine, but it cannot smell that bad."

"You're not here."

"It can't smell any worse than all the candles you've got going on in there."

"It smells so bad you'll actually want me to buy MORE vanilla candles."

"I doubt it. It smells too vanilla-y in there, too perfumy. It smells like a bunch of hookers. The stuff you use to wash our clothes, our sheets, our bed smells like a hooker bed."

"Since when is the smell of vanilla and fresh baked cookies associated with hookers?"

A few more than three teeth

It's time for Chris to mow our lawn. I can tell this when the grass starts peeking wildly around the sidewalk and garden pavers in an unwelcome manner, like rogue untrimmings peeking out from behind a bathing suit. All of our neighbors saw this and made a concerted effort to manicure their lawns so now our lawn looks like hillbillies live here. Which wouldn't be entirely untrue, given my lineage.

It seems like we're in a constant battle with our neighbors to see who can mow their lawn the most; we're also covertly fighting over property lines by always mowing a weensy bit over onto the other person's property. One of our neighbors always mowed five feet over onto our property until I put a ghastly flowerbed in the middle of his path, which made him stop. Maybe it's all in my head, but I doubt it.

Our excuse for our pitiable yard is that Chris and I've been incredibly busy: Chris has spent most of his afternoons at city hall preparing for this morning, where his company was finally awarded special TIFF funds to help with the residential portion of Shock City's studio project; I've got things coming up next month, including a trip to the east coast which I'll go into later, that I've been preparing for these past several months.

Despite this, I was ahead of the yard game last weekend; I listened to Snow Patrol (whom Chris and Doug saw at SXSW, rendering me infinitely jealous) while separating my lilies and weeding out the beds. I was trying to separate my red hot pokers - which if you've never seen one they resemble giant phalluses - if separate means to PSYCHOTICALLY STAB WITH A SPADE. It was like trying to divide a cabbage the size of a pig's head. I tried to leverage it out with a shovel and ended up flinging my stick frame off the top of the three-foot high flower bed wall, straight to the ground, where I landed on my butt.

Three Teeth wandered over with his requisite can of beer and told me how he was in the doghouse because his ol' lady had done seen him giving his friend's bikini-topped girlfriend a ride on his new motorcycle. He then told me that he finally found and read my website and that he wants it known that he has a couple more than three teeth and proceeded to demonstrate their virility by using them to pop open his beer can. I asked him since when do rednecks read blogs written by SAHMs and he countered with a jab at my music.

"I can't stand this fruity your-o-peein' music" he said, motioning to the CD player, when lo, I put on some AC/DC and Three Teeth was happy. "Well, I'm glad to hear that some good, old-fashioned rock'n'roll still's getting' played."

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