So Many Jorges

Jorge the plumber was here last night.  And so was his son, Chihuahua's former karate champion and once second-best in all of Mexico, who is also named Jorge.  His grandfather, Jorge, couldn't make it.  But all three run a plumbing business.  I've never seen so many healthy generations alive at one time.  The youngest Jorge has four kids, the eldest a boy named Emmanual.  I'm not sure what happened there.

The dumb luck was that Sarah had just started making tacos when they showed up.  And you talk about pressure.  I've not sure if you've ever made Mexican food with two Jorges in your house, but it's stressful.  Sarah and I made a huddle around the range so they couldn't see what we were doing.

Bonding with Rick the TMI Guy

"Yahred," the voice said over the phone.

"What?" I asked.   

"This is Yahred?" asked the statement.

"Oh, yes, Jared!  That's me!"  Those little epiphanies are so exciting.  

On the other end of the line was Javier, the electrician who's been working on our house since BQ (Before Quin.)  He's about 6 feet, two inches, probably in the mid 200's and he's terrified of Paco.  Paco loves this.  He senses the fear and fires a flourish of barks and growls.  It must be like what I'd feel if I overheard an NFL linebacker telling his teammates, "Play mean...play hard...hell...play like Jared Ewy."  I'd get all bowed up and feel my oats...until someone turned on a vacuum and then I'd yelp and run out the door.   

Javier was calling because he'd heard we'd passed the electrical inspection and he wanted to say goodbye.  I found myself not wanting to let go.  I tried to think of some other projects.  But the span between our language difference was too great.  My shoddy mix of Spanish and English and maybe even some German was not enough to build a sound bridge.

He's gone.  One pillar of competence falling away.  I was left to hold the house up on my own, with Rick the TMI Guy coming to tickle me with unnecessary information. 

I have to say, though, that Rick and I have bonded.  My default listening mode is nodding and saying 'uh-uh' until the noise stops.  The thing with Rick is he doesn't mind if you're not really paying attention.  I've tested him before.  I walk from room to room turning on various accessories and when I come back he's deep within the next refrain of his legal issues.  He gets stuff off his chest and I get things done.  Much of which is calling the general contractor to complain about what Rick has screwed up.  For example, here's how not to pass an electrical inspection:

 

So Javier fixed the kitchen vent and that gave Rick time to endanger our health in other ways.  Like when Jorge, Chihuahua's former karate champ and once second-best in all of Mexico, had to make a special trip to stop the gas leak Rick had started.  You might wonder why in the Hell we don't dump Rick.  We probably would, but his bid is covered by our loan, and everything someone else has to fix comes out of his pocket.  He probably owes us money by now.  Although we might end up with a couple of kids and some scrap metal. 

(And let me just say that I'd take speech lessons from our president before I ever again took an endorsement from Troubleshooter Tom Martino.)

Rick did start the payback process when he loaned me his truck.  I couldn't find my keys so he set me up in what I'd call the "Smokers Luxury" package.   It's some kind of Ford SUV with ash trays hooked to both the passenger and driver's door, and one of those weighted sandbag trays straight from a 70s station wagon plopped in the middle.  The vehicle also has a factory installed ashtray, but it hit capacity years ago.  I made my trip with the seatbelt alarm beeping the entire way.  I just wasn't up for getting intimate with the shoulder harness.  It had one of those fuzzy Velcro wraps running the length of it, and I couldn't get out of my head the comparison to an outdated toilet seat cover.  Over the years it had a chance to gather some personal items.  You know, just hair and some stains, but that was enough.  I opted for head injuries instead. 

I got back to the house as Rick was finishing his redo on our bathroom tile.  It looked better, but that didn't take much.  I inspected it and then asked Rick why he fired Charlie and Dave.  They were good.  But he said they were slow.  But good, I repeated. 

Rick turned to get a solid eye-to-eye.  "I work fast," he said and then stepped away from the conversation.  He wanted the last word.  

"But you have to do it three times fast!" I lobbed my version of the final blow.

And then Rick threw up an impressive finale: "It's better than doing it three times slow!"   

Goll Dang he's right. 

Just like two good 'ol boys shooting the breeze. 

Now to find Charlie and Dave.

Semi Pro $$

I like Will Ferrell. He makes me laugh at things that I normally wouldn't. But I think even Will Ferrell is getting tired of his schtick. This really is his Anchorman character Ron Burgundy in too-tight b-ball shorts. I did laugh a little. The concept is great. Ferrell is a one-hit wonder disco singer running a team in the struggling American Basketball Association. The big 'fros, the music, the physical comedy of a lackluster athletes and the male camel toe pervasive in old school uniforms should have you rolling in the aisles. But it won't. It's only good for a smattering of giggles. The motto of this movie should be "could have been funnier." DVD awaits.

Beware: I just don't get the interest in Andy Richter. Maybe I'm expecting too much.

Who Will Like This: Hardcore Ferrell fans. If you're on the fence about Will, then maybe catch a Colin

Secret to Better Enjoyment: The soundtrack. Aside from all the usual disco suspects (Fifth of Beehtoven, Lady Marmalade) there's some good funk in there as well.

Q Tip O' The Day

It doesn't matter how much hair you have...

 

...it's what you do with it.

 

Guys Club Annual Photo

2008 Motto:  We don't need no stinkin' help!

 

Confident Sleeper

Now just add some SPF and you're set

Monday and Tuesday I really thought I was going crazy.  Quin, Paco and I lurked in the basement while Rick the TMI Guy and his crew banged away upstairs.  And if I'm alone with my thoughts for as long as five minutes I start to fall apart.  I'll think there's no future and that I've missed all the good opportunities.  And then someone will call and ask if I can do standup at their nephew's bris and I say "yes!" and feel good until I'm carpooling with the mohel and wondering what the hell happened to me.  It's a cycle.  I feel useless unless I get to not say no to something.  So all this was happening in my head, and Quin needed extra love because he was sick.  He's better now, but not before getting his first antibiotic prescription.  He celebrated the benchmark by vomiting on my head.  It was my fault, having the little guy on my shoulders while I humored myself with the "where's Quin?" game.  And then....ulglulkkl...and I my head was warm.  It was like I had hair again.  A day later I realize I still haven't showered.   One year ago if someone puked on me I'd leap into a vat of acid.  But the sick kid had me so busy I forgot about it.  Since he emptied himself on me I've been to Home Depot, Lowes, A & A Hardware and carried on several lengthy conversations at the dog park.  I've even enjoyed a nice Italian meal with my wife.  Maybe this layer of baby bile has given me the extra confidence I need to get out and enjoy life.

(side effects include a general fussiness, cooing, thumbsucking, rashy bum and crying at night)