May 2005

I wanted to take my old microwave with me from the old house, but I didn’t think that the new owners would appreciate the gaping hole from ripping it out above the range.

So I got the Consumer Reports guide and went to the store. I found such an awesome deal. I mean, it was thirty bucks less than the CR price, it was top rated, and man, it had gobs of room inside. It was huge! Really awesome.

So I took it home and unpacked it and set it on the counter. And I looked at it and I said “Holy cow, this thing is huge!”

But not in a good way.

It barely fit on the counter. It crowded out drying dishes. It was a nice deal, sure, but not if I have no room to wash the dishes. Besides, it seemed to take over the kitchen. Y’know, like politicians seem to take over your phone around election time.

So back I went to the store to get the other (and smaller) CR best buy. Much nicer, still plenty of room, and as an added bonus, I’ve magically eliminated my wife’s sidelong glances and mumblings under her breath whenever she’s near that side of the kitchen.

After all, it’s the little things that count, right?

Due to superhuman effort, superincredible strategies, and supernatural incantations, I have turned huge piles filling my townhouse basement–so huge that you can’t walk down there–into:

huger piles that reach to the ceiling.

But now you can walk around down there, in small structured paths. It’s like the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I know you are all very proud of me.

As I go through these items in the basement, know that all of your birthday presents in the next year will be unique and thoughtful (ahem).


Heh. Heh.

The story is here.

Conan O’Brien rules.

I had a terrible, weird dream the other night.

Denise and I decided for some strange reason to look for a new house. To do that, we had to sell our house. So we put the house up for sale and got an offer right away.

But then, because the other people had to sell their own house, we kept showing our house to other people. Like, a zillion times and cleaning every time. And then somebody else bought our house because they could do it quicker, because they didn’t have a house to sell.

And then, we had to find a rental, because we still hadn’t found a new house to move to. So we found a townhouse that was nice and we got ready to move to it. And we threw out all kinds of stuff so we could fit into this little townhouse.

So then in the dream, we moved. And it took like, vanload after vanload, and moving van after moving van. And it took so long that we didn’t have time to clean for the people moving in. So, like, we still had stuff to move just before the people bought the house, so we moved everything and cleaned like madmen all night to get everything ready for the new people. Or at least zombie-like madmen, because this all dragged on so long that everything was like that slow motion stuff in dreams.

And the worst was that we moved so much stuff that we filled the rental to the gills, and then we couldn’t walk around in it anymore. It was like the movies, where the house is so full of popcorn or something that you can’t go inside. But it was all our stuff from the house.

And then the people actually bought our house, and we went back to the little townhouse, because we still weren’t sure where we would really move to. And as we sat down in this little townhouse exhausted, we heard all these cars and trucks zooming around, and we looked out back and noticed that the townhouse backed up to a superhighway with constant traffic. So we pretended the cars and trucks were ocean waves on the beach and tried to go to sleep.

UPDATE: Um–hey, guess what? IT WASN’T A DREAM.

I’m really up feces tributary without any visible means of propulsion, aren’t I?