(picture from www.aboutflippinghouses.com) 

We bought a house to fix and rent out and things have been, shall we say…mmm…OW?  That conveys all you need to know in one word.  Ow.  We’ve been busy and I only have time for some notes, so…

Rehabbing a house is a great, great, marriage enrichment exercise. If I may be so blunt...if we'd done this after only a few years of marriage, the police would be talking about murder suicide, let me tell you. Now, on a key night, one of us finally said to the other, "I'm only being a pain in the patootie so you will suspend me without pay for four days."  The other one of us said nothing in reply. 

Know that saying, “…from head to toe?”  Well, sir/ma’am, I’ve discovered new horizons, claimed new land.  How about I am sore from the end of my longest hair to the tip of my big toenail?  When I cramp up, it’s not from working outside or ripping out baseboards; it’s not even from lifting boxes of tile, sheets of cement board, or from holding a circular saw for an hour.  No, my body cramps up from laughter when it sees what I plan on doing each day – continually pushing it where this man has not gone in a long, long time.  Did I tell you I am sore?

If your extremely talented and handy (mechanical, electrical, plumbing, drywall, nuclear physics, et al) neighbor fries himself installing an electrical outlet, reckon that’s covered on homeowner’s insurance?  Speaking hypothetically, of course.  If he does it in front of the kids looking to rent the place, just as we’re telling them how great the neighbor’s been in ALL the stuff he’s done, does that raise the deductable or anything?  Just…curious.

If God had wanted us all to be plumbers, he’d have given us the ability to – with a straight face - charge someone $118 for nine seconds of work.  I swear, plumber guy is going to be standing by the new commode one day and say, “So, I’m gonna check out the flotilla conjunction junction now.”  We’ll blink and he’ll say, “Want me to do it again?  It’ll be another $59.”

You should see how awesome the sod in the backyard is going to turn out.  Me and my son laid sod in August in 106 degree heat and it’s going to look like…well, I only have three words, as David Alan Grier used to say; fab-u-lous.  The Old Man and the Seed; the grizzled old-timer, baking in the warmth, passing on great knowledge to his only son.  And down at the Lewisville water department, they are stone drunk and celebrating because some Phillips guy just spent 1.7 million dollars on his water bill.  Last week.

Have I mentioned how sore….yeah, I think I did.

How come directions for anything are five sentences in Finnish, Flemish and Frankish but in English it says: “Tighten screw with square side up.”  And both sides are square.  Why?  Why?  Oh, why?

Figure this entry is PG-13, okay? 

We bought a little house to fix up and rent out and that’s where I’ve been the last month. You learn much doing the work yourself; mostly you learn your threshold for pain and soreness. The other night I turned this way and the missus turned that way carrying a 2 x4 and “it” happened.

In sports, it’s called a cup check.  Additionally it’s known as getting your bell rung, hitting below the belt, and fenced (tell you about that in a moment); see your favorite Austin Power’s movie for a list of others. No guy can relate all the details of the last time he was bent over from the Force, but he can sho’ nuff tell you about seeing it happen to someone else.  In great detail.

When I was ten, I chased Jerry into his backyard.  Jerry was a chubby kid; great guy, played sports with us, he was just chunky.  As we closed in on the cyclone fence, he made a movie-style leap.  It really was impressive and one could almost hear the 60’s action-flick music playing in the background.  At least half way up it was impressive; then the tune changed.

As he reached the apex of his jump, his right foot (clad in a too-old and slick tennis shoe) slipped on the top bar and so began the commodities meeting.  Aluminum…say hello to the family jewels.  Jerry got fenced.  Hit the bar, hit the ground and didn’t move.

Did I go see if he was okay?  I was ten - means I was rolling on the ground laughing like a hyena. He suffered no ill will that we could see, but then again, what ill will can a ten-year-old suffer?  It’s only a couple years later when the possibility of permanent damage comes into play that you get some smarts.

First time I played dodge ball in high school I had enough sense to run in front of the littlest guy on the other team and get knocked out. Quickly.  When the other team includes a fifteen year old who is seven feet tall, it’s best to be on the sidelines, far, far away from the action.  They say a combat soldier hears the bullet meant for his helmet long before he sees it.  Same application here, only ninth graders don’t aim for your noggin.  They aim further south.

If your memory thankfully fails you in regard to this horrible deed, you can credit television for reminders.  TV now gives us a regular diet of video bloopers and funnies featuring this nasty, nausea-inducing ouch complete with that lovely “boink” sound. And I heard it loud and clear on the abovementioned night.

When my lovely bride wheeled around with the board and I spun around without looking, it was another 60’s style reunion - the weight of the earth, absolutely all the wind gone from my lungs, and the pain of fire. 

And in the spirit of the deed, she laughed like a ten-year-old.