Moving On and Moving Out

I took one long slurp from my coffee frappuccino and savored the taste of the last discretionary purchase I will be making for a long, long time. Then Leah and I initialed a piece of paper and bought a house.

Moments like this should be filled with excitement and celebration. I felt oddly calm, devoid of any strong emotion at all. And maybe that is the sign of a decent compromise.

Here is why I should be overjoyed:
The months of searching for a home has finally — mercifully — come to an end. We can get out from under the noisy Godzillas and move on with our lives. The house we bought is plenty big for the two of us. And is in a safe and quiet neighborhood. And has central air. And a garage (hard to get in Philly). And is priced right so we should be able to sell it easily if we decide to move in a few years.

Here is why I’m not overjoyed:
Negotiating the terms of the deal with our, shall we say, competency challenged real estate agent took its toll. The inspection also uncovered an electrical problem and a roof leak that we will have to fix immediately (the sellers are paying for part of that). And the only room we won’t have to remodel is a four-by-four bathroom in the basement. Oh wait, that bathroom doesn’t have an electrical outlet or a shower. Never mind.

Then again, we kinda like home improvement and Leah is pretty excited about ripping off the carpet to expose the hardwoods and she has already picked out paint colors, not to mention researched solar panels (she’s a nut.) But then I think, I’m usually only around to do that work on the weekends and who wants to spend every weekend spackling and painting and tiling.

See what I mean? This house is an equal mixture of good and bad.

Wait!

Leah just reminded me. We are just blocks away from two sweet pizza joints Tony A’s and Mr. P’s. And the grocery store that sits between them has the most awesome selection of cheese we have ever seen.

OK, I’m starting to get a tiny bit excited.

Here are a few snapshots of the joint that I took during the home inspection:

Welcome to the Neighborhood, Now Go to Hell

I lugged box after box from the big semi up to the porch and when I had a few stacked up, I would take the porch boxes and haul them into our Philly apartment.

But in the midst of all of that moving last August, I made a grievous error. One half of one box touched the grass belonging to our new neighbor. IT TOUCHED HIS GRASS!

And he wasn’t happy about it.

Standing behind his screen door like all brave men do, he barked at me.

“Get your stuff off my lawn.”

He didn’t say “Hi neighbor” or “Do ya need a hand?” He said: “Get your stuff off my lawn.”

I was totally taken aback.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed toward the offending box and said in a much louder voice: “Get it off my lawn now or I will!“

“Well, that’s not a very neighborly thing to ...”

He slammed the door. I didn’t even get to finish my rather lame retort.

This first pleasant exchange with our creepy neighbor has blossomed into a stellar relationship. Our front doors may face each other, we may pass each other all the time, but that doesn’t mean we have to act like mature adults.

Leah and I never talk to the creep or make eye contact. We don’t even talk to each other when he is nearby. He follows a similar code. He keeps his head down and makes a beeline for his lair where he does evil things all day.

That is not totally fair. Sometimes he goes to work and does his evil deeds there.

Here is everything I‘ve learned about this man in the 10 months we’ve lived just feet apart. He always wears his long hair in a ponytail and he always looks like he just smelled something stinky. He yells at other people often and it may be his only known form of communication. He owns a big scary white van with no windows. He likes scuba diving or at least owns a scuba bumper sticker. He has a cat and occasionally tries to walk it around the neighborhood on a leash. He likes flowers. And his favorite summer activity is reclining on a nasty old yard chair facing the alleyway and the garbage cans.

How can a feline loving scuba buff be such a mean person? We ask ourselves this question when we are feeling charitable. But our sympathy vanishes when we see that dastardly face with that snarl, scrunched up nose and mean eyes.

It is during those moments that I have to fight an urge to completely cover his yard with cardboard boxes.

Little Fluffy Scavengers

Just about every morning our garbage cans are knocked over. The bags torn apart. Litter dragged across the back alley. I use my shoe to rake the refuse back into the can and then I set it upright. And I will probably do the same thing a few hours later.

The alley behind our Philly apartment is totally infested with cute little brown squirrels. Some of our neighbors think of them as common varmints subsisting on our garbage. Leah thinks of them as adorable “fluffies.”

She calls anything that is small and has fur a “fluffy,” like little cats and dogs and ferrets and hamsters and me.

While others tell the garbage-eating squirrels to scram, Leah entices them with our leftovers. She saves old corncobs, wilted lettuce and smushy tomatoes.



I’m sure the squirrels are grateful, but they don’t eat when we are around. They tend to be a bit shy, unlike Washington, D.C. squirrels. Those little beasts think they own the nation’s capital — or at least the Capitol building.

Just about a decade ago, when we were college interns, Leah and I went on our first tour of the Capitol. The most memorable part of that day took place before we even got in the building. The Capitol lawn was covered with squirrels and Leah couldn’t resist. She pulled a chip out of a bag we were sharing and held it out. The little guy inched closer and then hurried and took a big bite.

The blood ran down her fingers and on to her hand. I did the only thing I could think of. I took a picture. I wish I could show it to you, but it is locked away with all of our other sentimental things back in Utah. But I can still describe it to you. Think of Leah with a really adorable smile holding up her bloody paw. Yep, that’s what it looked like.

To this day, Leah defends the rogue woman-chomping squirrel saying: “It was an accident, he was trying to bite the chip.” And she says it in the most sympathetic tone possible.

If she can forgive that squirrel, do you think a few knocked over garbage cans are going to bother her any?

Sleep Interrupted

Ralph has destroyed the living room blinds trying to fit in this crevice between the couch and the window, a spot where he can soak up the sun, shed some hair and sleep. But this is also the prime spot on the couch where we normally sit to watch important TV shows like LOST.

He interrupts our TV watching, so in retaliation I interrupted his sleep. Take that cat!

Call It Again. And Again. And Again.

With a push of a button, my cell phone sends an invisible signal blasting through the walls of our apartment where it almost instantaneously connects with a satellite orbiting the globe. Then the satellite sends another message that hurtles right back down through our apartment causing Leah’s phone to ring just feet away.

Why would I use my phone to call Leah when we are staring at each other?

Because otherwise we would have to actually look for her lost phone. And that would take effort.

I tease her about this constantly, but I do have a little sympathy for her plight (just don’t let her know that.) Us guys usually keep our phone in our pocket with our keys. Leah either loses it in that dark and scary abyss known as her “purse” or it gets thrown under the mail or lodged in a couch cushion or tossed on the bed.

And about the 15th time you have to search for your phone in the same day, you are dreaming of some device that would cause them to scream “Hey lady, I’m right here. Geez!”

She recently emailed me while I was in Washington requesting that I give her a call because her phone once again vanished. But my favorite was just a couple days ago, when we were both in the apartment and she made me call her. We waited for the few seconds it takes for those satellites to do their business and then her phone rang.

It was in the pocket of her very plushy robe. That she was wearing.

Uh, Pay No Attention to The Obvious Omen

In a totally warped celebration, Leah and I threw some of our belongings into boxes and merrily hauled them to our Philly garage. Then she jumped online and started looking at paint colors, searching for a nice shade of green.

In a little more than a month we will be out of this place because we bought a house.

The house now occupied by the decapitated Saint.

A few days ago, I wrote about the offer we made on a twin home that is in desperate need of some updating. The owners countered our bid. We countered back. They flat out rejected us. I blamed the religious doll with its head busted off displayed on the bedroom dresser. We mourned and then moved on.

But two days later, the owners called back and said they would accept our offer. Being the totally stubborn bastards that we are, our first inclination was to shove it in their faces and say hell no. About a minute later, we were pretty excited.

The only thing standing in the way of us buying this house is the inspections, which will take place later this week. That gives the decapitated Saint one more chance to strike.
The walls could be covered in mold, the floors could be infested with termites, the ceiling could resemble a colander.

If any of this happens, I’m blaming the Saint.

Or it could be like every other house. It can have its minor problems, but be in pretty good shape.

Keep your fingers crossed for us.

Tofu@$#&up

In my quest to rid my diet of all things meat, I’ve learned that some things can be substituted, and some just can’t. Kinda like generic frosted wheat puffs are just as good as that brand with the bear on the front. But when it comes to mac & cheese, don’t even try anything not in a blue box.

The same applies with some soy products. Tofu corn dogs? AWESOME. 100% fewer lips and...well , other “parts.” Same for tofu bologna, chicken nuggets, sausage patties, even bratwurst. They’re all really soyriffic. Then I got bold and replaced pepperoni with its soy counterpart. It was a tofu disaster. No it’s a tofaccident. Oh even better it is a tofu%@#&up.



It looks like pepperoni from the outside, but do not, I REPEAT DO NOT attempt to eat this right out of the bag. It is terrible!! You can choke it down if it is cooked on a pizza, but just barely. There was no grease pool after cooking it which was a plus, but it just isn’t a good substitute. Until they rectify this tofugly substance, I’m sticking with cheese pizza.

An Obvious Omen

Every home has its own problems, which makes it a balancing act when you are trying to figure out which one to buy. Are you OK with the green linoleum floor in that house or would you prefer the pink appliances in this house?

Leah and Doug, our new real estate agent, took me to check out three prospects this past weekend.

The first home had a moldy basement.

The second home had termite damage.

The third home had a decapitated Saint.

The first two were obvious no goes. But we actually put in a bid on the third one, despite the religious figurine sitting on the bedroom dresser with its head resting next to its sandaled feet.

I don’t know what is worse, breaking the head off of a religious doll or displaying it like that?

Either way, Leah and I both saw it as an obviously bad omen. We plunged forward anyway, mostly because we are tired of looking and we liked the neighborhood. The house wasn’t perfect, even if you removed the headless Saint. The wallpaper border made us gag. One wall needed a little drywall repair. A tile was broken in the bathroom. But when you compare it to some of the other homes we have looked at, it was a palace. We started thinking about paint colors and where to put the furniture.

But then Doug called us back. Our offer was rejected. The decapitated Saint strikes again.

Crazy for the Chow

What lengths would you go to satisfy a craving? Would you brave Philly's treacherous and twisty Lincoln Drive? Would you sit through the countless red lights of the always crowded City Avenue? Would you drive 45 minutes just to reach a mall food court?

You would if you were a chow meiniac.

Leah defines this term as any person crazy enough to drive a really long distance to get some chow mein from Panda Express.

She may be the only person alive who falls into this category, but I guess you don’t get to pick your mental disorders do you? If you did you would pick something much cooler like being able to count toothpicks dropped on the floor like that Rain Man guy. Instead Leah is a sucker for this particular chow. No other chow will do. The problem is the closest Panda Express is 15 miles from our house at a mall in Media, Pa.

We don’t do it often, but since she just finished her second semester law school finals, she got a little treat. So she gleefully gobbled her chow mein and finished it off with a little fortune cookie with a really lame fortune.

It read: “A journey must begin with a single step.”

True, but this journey will involve a really long car ride until they open a Philadelphia franchise.

A Special Gift

Sticking with yesterday’s theme of juvenile humor, I will now regale you with the tale of the best wedding shower gift Leah and I ever bought a friend.

It started on a really nice Saturday in some month that I can’t recall. It was a day that I could have watched a big game on TV or I could have gone golfing or I could have done nothing, but instead I had to go to a couples wedding shower.

I wasn’t pleased. And to be honest, I was a little scared. Guys don’t go to wedding showers. Guys don’t go to any event where shower is part of the name. I’m pretty sure there is a reason, even though I don’t know what it is. But this time I was supposed to be there. Not good.

Still, Danielle and Joe are really good friends. I like them. So despite the nice weather and the weird guy-going-to-a-wedding-shower thing, I agreed to show up.

But I drew a line at the gift. The idea was that everyone was supposed to buy Joe stuff so he can clean or fix up their house for Danielle. Stuff like tools or mops or vacuum bags.

No dice!

My first idea was to get the man a gift. Golf balls or a Yankees cap or something he would like. But Leah convinced me that was going too far the other direction.

That left us with only one available option ¬– gag gift. And where is the best place to buy gag gifts? The Home Depot!

Leah and I walked every aisle of that monstrosity to home repair looking for just the perfect items.

Brass nipples
Ballcock
Stripper
A big hoe
A really long screw

People must have thought we were nuts or demented or just plain crazy. Leah and I laughed like school kids every time we found something that could work.

“Hey look, a nail!”

“Yeah, but we already got the really long screw, you can’t buy a nail and a screw.”

“Why not?”

“Good point.”

We threw all the goodies into a big sack with the receipt. We thought of it as a creative Home Depot gift card. Then we went to the very classy backyard shower where Joe and Danielle took each suggestive item out of the bag one at a time, surrounded by a pack of wild kids.

I don’t think all of them understood what everyone else found so funny, but I’m sure a few of them did.

Ballcock Pianist Blowhole Cocktail

Behind this hairy exterior is a completely juvenile sense of humor. And guts. Nasty smelly bloody guts.

Last Friday, my boys (and Sheena) got together for a poker game. Taking their money was not my favorite part of the night though. See, we are newspaper reporters AND poker players, so between hands we often talk about work and politics and work.

Then Jason interrupted.

“Caucus. That is one of those words that sounds dirty but isn’t.”

You know like Bangkok or Uranus or crotchety or rectory or manhandle.

Say it with me, now. CAUCUS. You filthy minded reader.

With all of us laughing, Jason upped the ante. He said a new phrase has entered that prized lexicon of inadvertently nasty words.

Stimulus package.

Enjoy that stimulus package whether you get yours in the mail or online.

Joining the Wii Revolution (or How I Punched My Mom in The Face and Got Away With It)

Video games have been reintroduced into my parents’ basement. Years ago in this very same space my brothers and I said bad words, threw things and hit each other while playing Donkey Kong, Zelda and Mario Bros. Now my dad is saying bad words and hitting the couch while playing Tiger Woods golf on his brand new Nintendo Wii.

Maybe such pleasant behavior runs in the family.

My brothers and I gave Dad the highly sought after gaming system that mimics your movements as a Christmas do-over and an early birthday gift. I thought he wanted it to have something he could play with my niece. Turns out he wanted it for the golf game because it’s cool.

Despite a few early holes-in-one and an unbelievable amount of chip-ins, the game turned out to be a pretty accurate indicator of our golfing ability. I generally hit longer drives than my dad. He is a much better putter. But all in all, we are equals. As in equally lousy.

After a few spirited rounds, we started branching out to some of the other games that came with the Wii. My dad boxed Mia. He lost. Then Mia boxed my mom, She won again. The little cocky girl came up to me and said “You wanna fight. I’m really good, but I’ll take it easy on ya.”

And she did too, for the first round. I knocked her all over the place. But in the second round, I was feeling a little guilty for taking such pleasure in beating a 6-year-old. I let up and she got me good. But in the third round it was no holds barred. I went for it all. Get ready for the thunder Little Miss Princess!!!

She beat me too.

Mia is the reigning boxing champion of the family. She has never gone down for the count. She even destroyed her dad in less than five minutes for a 4-0 record.


A couple days later, when the house was all quiet and Mia was long gone, I coaxed my mom downstairs and convinced her to box me. It took three rounds of us looking ridiculous, waiving our hands at a TV screen, but I finally destroyed her. I left her bleeding on the mat.

TAKE THAT MOM! IN YOUR FACE MOM! I DON’T CARE THAT IT’S MOTHER’S DAY MOM! HA HA HA!

Why such hostility? Well, the whole thing started innocently. I liked the idea of playing a game with her. And when can you ever say, I punched my mom in the face on Mother’s Day and she thought it was kinda funny. But once we started playing, I really wanted to beat her up. I guess I’m still a little sore about what happened when we went bowling on my last visit to Utah.

What a Treat

On Friday, my dad gave me an early birthday present that allowed me to …

Eat a lousy overpriced hot dog …
Wear a sticker…
High five a kid…
Scream until I lost my voice…
Then scream again…
Dive into statistics…
Put my head in my hands…
Sigh loudly…
Yell “You suck ref!”…
Jump up and down…
Pump my fist…
Throw my hands up in victory…
Exhale…

Going to Utah Jazz games are a lot of fun. Sharing the experience with my dad and grandpa makes it even better.

Human Tetherball

Upturned dirt surrounded by some fresh laid sod is all that remains where the Mormon ward house once stood in my old neighborhood. The building was torn down a few months ago, rendered obsolete because a new bigger better church was erected a few blocks over, my dad says.

Seeing the empty lot startled me and then kind of made me sad. I don’t miss the building, but I do miss the flag pole. The church was a mini U shape, with the pole sitting in the center on a slight sloping yard.

The pole became the great meeting place for the neighborhood, where kids from all over got a taste of what it would be like to fly. Or maybe more apt, what it would be like to be Spider-man, swinging on a web.

The flag pole rarely displayed a flag and the rope was not secured. We would unwind it, take a few running steps and leap. If you got enough speed, you could make two or three big loops before your feet would ever touch the ground again. It must have looked like some game of human tetherball. We would go one way and then the next, handing the rope to kids who would line up for the chance to swing around the pole.

As the years went by, our tiny bodies grew, as did the disapproval of the more pious neighbors. It all came to a head when our constant swinging caused the pole to tilt a bit off-center. Soon the rope was locked in place. Our favorite after-school pastime retired.

But for years afterward I could drive by the old church, gaze at the pole and remember what it was like to have the breeze in my face and the rope between my hands, singing “Do the Bartman” from that tired old Simpsons cassette I had in 1990.

Now it’s just a field. My dad and I hope the LDS Church turns the land into a community park, a place where neighborhood kids can play, just like we did so many years ago.

Maybe they can include a tetherball court in our honor.

Ribbit, Ribbit

It has been four months since I've seen my six-year-old niece, so I wasn't too surprised when she did her shy routine. She folds her arms into knots and half stares at me from three feet away.

Then she slowly comes over. A minute later, she jumps on my lap. And a minute after that, she is ready to play.

Mia escorted me out to my parents' backyard and said:

"Do you know the game where I'm a purple frog with gold diamonds and I'm poisonous and you want me to be your pet but you have to catch me first?"

I said: "Nope, I haven't heard of that one."

"Well, you have to catch me and then take me to the doctor."

She crouches down on her haunches, turns her head all funny.

"Ribbit, Ribbit"

Low Five

My team went on a nice run and pulled ahead. One big shot followed the next. I couldn’t sit down anymore, neither could my dad.

The excitement continued to rise until it reached a crescendo marked by a big manly high five.

Except we missed.

And then I tried to high five my grandpa. And we missed too.

I’m not sure how they took that, but to be honest, whiffing on two high fives is kind of a buzz kill. My enthusiasm for the game was dampened. I was kind of ashamed of myself.

What is more simple than smacking hands together? It really doesn’t take that much coordination and we have successfully completed this maneuver hundreds of times. Missing one is like running your pasta-loaded fork right into your chin. What the hell was that?

Two guys missing a high five is a classic scene repeated in many movies. And at least one character always has a pocket protector and tape on his glasses. Remind me to get my dad a pocket protector. What? You don’t think I’m going to take the blame on this one?

I instantly tried to come up with some rational explaining our masculinity depleting display of uncoordination. Maybe when testosterone is mixed with victory and soda pop, it turns normally unathletic guys into comically unathletic guys.

Luckily our awkward celebration wasn’t seen by, oh, I don’t know, millions of people like this one was . . .



If the world’s greatest golfer can’t land a high five, I guess I shouldn’t worry too much about it either.

Spring Showers

I keep hearing from people back in Utah that it is snowing. Snowing in March. Snowing in April. And now snowing in May.

DC and Philly have been hit by a few rain storms, but I have little complaints about the recent weather.

This is as close as we have come to snow here.

Shoe Wimp

I traversed DC yesterday as if I had some degenerative bone disorder. I would throw one leg thrown out too far and then make an awkward half step. Realizing how I looked, I tried to just suck it up and walk naturally again. But that lasted all of three steps, then it was back to the uncomfortable heel-but-no-toe action.

Why the theatrics?

My new shoes hurt my little feet. To put it more bluntly, I’m a total shoe wimp. And I always have been.

I got myself a shine pair of leather loafers for the White House Correspondents Dinner, with the intent on inserting them into the daily rotation in place of my old beat up pair.

The shoes would have been fine if I was never required to move. But with each step, the leather backing brushed against my heel. The nagging pain increasing block by block until I almost blubbered and limped my way home.

In most circumstances, such a traumatic event would have doomed the shoes to either the nearest garbage can or the shoe morgue in the back of my closet. One time I left the golf course with a single drop of blood on my sock. The offending shoes didn’t even survive the ride home. I pulled over, bought a new pair and had them laced up before I got back behind the wheel. But I just bought these leather loafers and they ain’t cheap.

I survived the day with some carefully placed Band-Aids. But what about tomorrow’s mile long walk to the Metro and the day after that? I’m doomed. NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

I know what you ladies are saying. “He doesn’t know what real pain is.” “He should try wearing high heels for an evening.” “We have to suffer for our fashion.”

My response: Keep it to yourself, Leah! So what if your toes swelled up after being jammed into those cute brown heels all evening. I didn’t force you to wear those torture devices.

No seriously, the difference is that few guys are as shoe conscious as the ladies. I like to look good, but I won’t handle any pain to look good. When I hit the store my priorities are comfort, comfort, smell, look and comfort.

But now I’m stuck with a pair of painful, yet very stylish shoes and two raw feet.