I'm finally home from work, after putting in a gleeful 10.75 hours. I lock the building up (email me for the access codes), head to my car, become slightly unnerved by a new creaking noise coming from the front end, and head for home. Home for me is an apartment on 44th street with large and clumsy people living on the floor above.
I've never visited these people's apartment, but I imagine it to be filled with towering stacks of, say, bags of potatoes. Scattered around in strategic locations, generally over hard flooring, are big cast-iron pots and pans. There's also a fat little kid who enjoys barging around the place, seeing how many potato bags he can knock onto the pans before one of his parents stomps over to yell at him. This starts at about six in the morning or so. I sleep with earplugs.
I am also privy to the aural treat that is my two cats, Buckwheat and Sprocket (pictured) galloping up and down the hallway that separates my room from the living room and kitchen. They do this when I come home, in fits of manic joy, trying to bite eachother. Gallopgallopgallop---scrunch! This is them turning around, clawed feet digging into the carpet. Then it's gallopgallopgallop---BAM! Head-first into the bathroom door. Then one of them gives the little coil-spring-like doorstop a twang, and they chase eachother into my room where Sprocket jumps up onto my cluttered desk and knocks a bunch of stuff off onto the floor, where he and Buckwheat will chew on it and knock it under furniture.
Sprocket thinks this is hilarious, which is why he's laughing so hard in his picture.
"Hee hee haw haw! Did you see that? I, like, jumped up on your desk, right? And I landed on four different items, right? And--ha ha!--I stumbled around *snort* and they all flew out from under me, and crashed into your TV, and like, then it caught fire, and---ha ha ha! You shoulda been there!"
I hate him sometimes.
Buckwheat merely finds a random spot on the floor in the hallway and howls. He's demanding milk, to which he's become hopelessly addicted. He'll howl until I yell at him or throw a hat at him, then he'll stop for exactly 10 seconds before resuming.
I'd better get to bed. Gotta get some stuff done on the ol' Contour. That stupid Check Engine light is on again. It comes on seemingly at random, triggered by changes in barometric pressure, or the fluctuations in the value of the dollar. Or windy days. Or something. I think this time the fix involves telling the engine computer to not be so picky, and I also think that's lame.
I've never visited these people's apartment, but I imagine it to be filled with towering stacks of, say, bags of potatoes. Scattered around in strategic locations, generally over hard flooring, are big cast-iron pots and pans. There's also a fat little kid who enjoys barging around the place, seeing how many potato bags he can knock onto the pans before one of his parents stomps over to yell at him. This starts at about six in the morning or so. I sleep with earplugs.
I am also privy to the aural treat that is my two cats, Buckwheat and Sprocket (pictured) galloping up and down the hallway that separates my room from the living room and kitchen. They do this when I come home, in fits of manic joy, trying to bite eachother. Gallopgallopgallop---scrunch! This is them turning around, clawed feet digging into the carpet. Then it's gallopgallopgallop---BAM! Head-first into the bathroom door. Then one of them gives the little coil-spring-like doorstop a twang, and they chase eachother into my room where Sprocket jumps up onto my cluttered desk and knocks a bunch of stuff off onto the floor, where he and Buckwheat will chew on it and knock it under furniture.
Sprocket thinks this is hilarious, which is why he's laughing so hard in his picture.
"Hee hee haw haw! Did you see that? I, like, jumped up on your desk, right? And I landed on four different items, right? And--ha ha!--I stumbled around *snort* and they all flew out from under me, and crashed into your TV, and like, then it caught fire, and---ha ha ha! You shoulda been there!"
I hate him sometimes.
Buckwheat merely finds a random spot on the floor in the hallway and howls. He's demanding milk, to which he's become hopelessly addicted. He'll howl until I yell at him or throw a hat at him, then he'll stop for exactly 10 seconds before resuming.
I'd better get to bed. Gotta get some stuff done on the ol' Contour. That stupid Check Engine light is on again. It comes on seemingly at random, triggered by changes in barometric pressure, or the fluctuations in the value of the dollar. Or windy days. Or something. I think this time the fix involves telling the engine computer to not be so picky, and I also think that's lame.
3 comments:
"There's also a fat little kid who enjoys barging around the place, seeing how many potato bags he can knock onto the pans before one of his parents stomps over to yell at him." - FooDaddy
Folks, lines like this is why FooPappy will one day be insanely wealthy and why the words "Dave Barry" will become nothing more than an expression not to be used around children under the age of 30. Great stuff, you Foo!
Why, thank you! I've been busy, you see, and I haven't had time to sit down and post a reply to your comment here. Boy, is my face red!
The "Potato People" have become famous with a certain crowd (consisting of Kevin) and every now and then he mentions it. And, of course, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Potato people?"
"In your apartment."
"Sounds ominous. Should I alert the constabulary?"
"Potato people." Does that make the children potato chips? Get it? A chip off the old...potato? Oh, man...I just stabbed my soul. O Lord, I'm actually going to post this comment!
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