This house was built in 1949. During these renovations, I've often wondered about the lives lived under this roof. How many children learned to read here? How many pumpkin pies graced the table over the course of 59 Thanksgivings? What did these people do for a living? And who the fuck put that stupid linoleum in the kitchen? The idea intrigues me.

Last Wednesday was a strange day in that we had scheduled the contractor to come in and finish a few items in the afternoon, but otherwise, we had nothing scheduled save hangovers. I woke early and went to sit on the couch to await a very special package that required a signature. Before it arrived, however, a plumber showed up and informed me that the contractor had hired him to finish the plumbing. I showed him the work, and he began whatever he was doing. Soon, the package arrived. I put it in a safe place and resumed watching "Top Gear". Minutes later, the plumber told me he was leaving, and that another plumber was coming to finish. I was in no position to argue, since recently any talk of the house puts me into a drooling, catatonic state. No sooner had he left than I saw a Crown Vic creeping up the road, stopping in front of the house next door, but no one exiting the vehicle. I pushed thoughts of impending drive-by out of my mind as: a) This car was not actually driving by anything, and b) it appeared to be an old lady car. My theory was soon proved correct, as the car rolled slowly until it was directly in front of my house, and a bluehair got out and started walking up the steps. Melanie asked who it was, and assured her that I didn't know, but would be sure to thwart any attempts at home invasion on her part. Apparently, the woman (we'll call her "Miss Mary", because that is her name, owns the house two doors down, and was evicting the current tennant and apparently installing a new one, whose safety she was so concerned with as to drive menacingly up the street and inform possible rapists where said tennant worked, what she looked like, and when she was moving in. This woman was also racist in the blatant and matter-of-fact way that only old people seem to be able to get away with. I assured her we would be looking forward to seeing her in the future, and bade her goodbye. Not five minutes later, an even older gentleman climbed the steps and knocked on my door, also unexpectedly. He had very few teeth and had been drinking a bit (I'm not judging, I've been drunk at 10:30am as well). His name is Ernie, and he lives across the street a few houses over. He has lived here since 1955. His wife died four months ago, and he now just sits on his porch. His neighbors bring him food and take care of him. In more than 53 years here, he said, he had never had a key to his front door. I was delighted with this visit. He also said to pay Miss Mary no mind (I was way ahead of Ernie on this one.). Here was my chance to learn some of the boring suburban history behind my first house! Unfortunately, our visit was cut short when a duallie pulled a trailer up in front of the house and disgorged five dudes who decided to put a new roof on the carport.
The rest of the day was spent trying to ignore the hellacious noise and smells from the construction going on. In the back of my mind, though, I tempered my anger at having my day of rest disturbed with the thought of myself sitting on the porch in 2068 and telling the new neighbors a few things about the neighborhood.

I should post something heartfelt about David Foster Wallace's suicide.* So, here it is:
It makes me really, really sad. That's it. Not despair or anything, but definitely the saddest it has felt for any celebrity death. I'll never get to read any more new books by him. And I'll never get to read the old ones without thinking of them differently. Ultimately, as usual, self-pity is my real driving emotion here.






*Blogger wo't let me do footnones, so this is the little in joke for anyone who's read him.

You know who is a good grout layer? Not me! I am incapable of working with goo. Any kind of goo-like substance just mocks my otherwise sterling manual dexterity. Bondo. Sheetrock mud. Peanut butter. Spackle. And now gout. An ugly name for an ugly project.