A Really Expensive Peep Show

The good brother that I am, for the past forever, I have been helping my sister rehabilitate a money-pit investment property that she bought during a momentary lapse with the crack-pipe.

She immediately dubbed it, “The Farm,” a term I think helped convince her of what she believed to be the property’s potential.  Something called “The Farm’” after all, can’t help but evoke images of cute grazing goats and magnificent galloping stallions, bountiful gardens, fresh air, and John Deere.

I, on the other hand, quickly embraced a much more realistic if not more snarky nickname for the property.  Something that highlighted a bit of its, shall we say, opportunities rather than solely its potential.  “A-Rusty-and-Cursed-Tin-Can-of-a-Singlewide-in-the-Middle-of-a-Useless-Five-Acre-Lot-with-Bad-Juju-and-Stray-Cats-in-the-Crawl-Space-who-would-Tear-into-your-Arm-for-Dinner-and-Claw-at-your-Eyes-for-Dessert” seemed to roll of the tongue after a few weeks of hard labor.  Eventually I would have to shorten it to “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED” for the sake of conversation, but you get the point.

"The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED"- A deal at any price!

Let’s fast-forward a couple of years to this summer.  Long story short, but rather than return “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED” back to its former glory and cash in on the bustling real estate market, my sister has decided to actually reside in it for a while after her pending exodus from New Mexico.

But there was still an issue of a leaky roof that needed to be addressed as well as some other (obvious) details, and with her still living in another state and me having about eighteen jobs in addition to my role as a loving husband ans doting father, we agreed on the need to find some help to get it done. I began to ask around, when one of my friends mentioned his handyman uncle was unemployed and just needed something to keep him busy and pick up some extra cash in the process.

I bit, and Billy, err, Steve came out to work with me a few time so I could get a feel for where he was at.  Though by no means a rocket scientist, I got a good vibe that at least he kind of knew what he was doing so I set him free.  Armed with a detailed list of things that needed to get done, a few days later Billy err, Steve gave me a call letting me know that he “had just a small section of the roof to go” and was wondering if I could float him some of the cash I owed him when he was done.

Now, in my defense, he was related to one of my best friends, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt.  But sure enough, the next time I made the trek out to “The RCTCSMUFALBJSCCSTADCED,” expecting to find a finished product, the roof wasn’t even half done, the part that was looked like a blind monkey did it, and inside I found this-

Funny, there didn't used to be a HOLE IN THE CEILING!!!

and this-

No, I don't think that was meant to be an outdoor shower, either.

And to top it off, Billy err, Steve seems to be halfway to Mexico to boot.

***sigh***

So there I was a few days later, festering about being nearly a thousand dollars of my own personal savings deep into my sister’s investment, filling up a dumpster full of a porous roof, a collapsed ceiling, and tiny little bits of my shattered spirit.  That was until I stumbled across this gold mine:

Sorry about the resolution, but then again, how graphic do you need it to be? Pervert...

And now I sit eagerly awaiting a phone call from National Geographic, confident that I will get a handsome return on my own investment, and then some!


Published in: on August 10, 2010 at 11:49 am  Comments (2)  
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A Threatening Realization

Restaurant manager training can run havoc on a girl’s figure, even if that girl happens to be a dude built like a retired linebacker.  I knew going in that six weeks of systematically tasting every little bit of deep-fried and butter-bathed goodness on the menu was not going to do much for my waistline, but not until feeling my belt pinch while watching television on a day off halfway through did I realize how bad things might get.

In the spirit of being a good trooper I refused to weigh myself until my training was through; until tonight when I made my triumphant return to the gym to confront the carnage of having had to go UP a belt notch for the sake of my professional development.

+11lbs–SH!!!!!!!!!!!!T

So why am I so sensitive?

The first weekend after moving to Colorado Springs after my promotion to General Manager of the local Hooters (allow me to allow you a few moments to snicker…That never really gets old, does it?   Let us continue), two gentlemen were trashed at my bar in the middle of the afternoon.  As his companion basically sat comatose with his face nestled comfortably into my bartop, his buddy tried to order another round of shots from my bartender.  I stepped in and politely informed the personal hygienically-challenged patron that we would be unable to serve him another drink but would be happy to serve him a 20 piece with hopes that he choke on a chicken wing while the hot sauce melted a hole in his throat- I worded it a bit different, but you get the point.

It may have started innocently enough, but dude turned angry QUICK!

Anyways, needless to say said patron go a bit upset, shot off his stool sending it bouncing backwards off the floor, and started some kind of long tequila-induced spanish-voodoo curse that ended with the only words that I understood:

“I WILL DRAG YOU OUT INTO THAT PARKING LOT AND KICK YOUR FAT FUCKING ASS!!!”

Dude continued to loose his mind, and eventually with the aid of mall security my cooks, I was able to get him out the door with no harm done.  Except to my psyche, of course…all I could think about, all I kept hearing in my head, was not the threats of this guy even as he was escorted out in an arm-bar, but the fact he called me F-A-T!

Well, that was the motivation that I needed, and a few months and 50lbs later I was finally back to repectibility (and could run a mile without needing to stop and vomit  after 2 minutes).  And I suppose I have the tequila-sweating, spanish-voodoo drunk guy to thank for helping me get there.  In fact, if anyone knows where I might find him, let him know i still got a 20 piece with his name on them.

Oh, I still got his chicken, alright

Now if you will excuse me, I have to get to bed.  I have an early-morning spin class to get to.

Published in: on August 3, 2010 at 10:43 pm  Comments (1)  
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Wordless Wednesday

Congrats to my sister who is out with the old...

...and in with the new. ***Disclaimer***- Nobody was hurt in this post. Well, kinda. But all is better now so we can look back at it and laugh a bit. The new one's a nice shade of pink, huh?

Published in: on January 27, 2010 at 1:37 am  Comments (3)  
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Introducing My Quote of the Week!

For a few reasons, really, I have decided I need a gimmick.  I want to give my readers something to look forward to, while at the same time giving my blog an interactive touch.  And, truth be told, I can get lazy at times and feel I need a cop-out-type post I can rely on to get up relatively easily once a week.

Enter my fancy and well-intentioned Quote of the Week!

I yearn for the day where I don’t have to head off to a restaurant to earn a substantial part of my income.  But since that day still has yet to even approach my radar screen, I have elected to put a silver lining on my food service misery and create something all can enjoy.

We hear it all, people. Don't forget that...

Every Friday(-ish) from here on out, I will nominate the top five things I have heard while patrolling the aisle’s of my place of employment.  From disgruntled guests to perverted coworkers to, dare I predict the occasional submission from myself, help me to decide which one shall be named the Trimming Nosehairs’ Quote of the Week!

Here are this weeks top 5:

1. “Dude, I’m not kidding you…Jesus basically stole my girlfriend!”

2. “If you killed a female roommate, how would you dispose of the body?”

3. “Italy doesn’t have a red light district, but occasionally you see a house with a red light on it.”

4. “I don’t care what you say- I’m not touching your naked body!”

5. “I’m sorry, but it either tastes like sweat or soap.  There is nothing delicious about it!”

Published in: on January 22, 2010 at 12:01 am  Comments (1)  
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The More You Slap…

Going on seventeen glorious uninterrupted years in the food service industry, I have picked up a thing or two that I can apply when I am messing around in my kitchen at home.  One of those is a solid set of knife skills.  I don’t claim to be a prodigy, but I can tell the difference between a full-tang and a partial tang, as well as a dice, julienne, chifanade, and brunoise (well, at lease the first three.  Truthfully, I didn’t know what the hell a brunoise was until I Googled “knife skills” because I wanted to list one more term to hammer home that last sentence).

My wife, on the other hand, failed miserably in the restaurant biz after just a few short months (though she landed a strapping husband three years her junior there, so I guess it shouldn’t be considered a total failure.  I think…), and though she cooks most of the family meals and does so quite well, I am amazed that she has never accidentally Van Gogh-ed herself prepping some veggies for the stock pot.

I’ve tried, mind you, but whenever I offered a pointer or suggestion, I have found that the knife starts to move away from the cutting board and toward my general direction.  So I stopped that practice a long time ago, opting instead for kiss on the cheek accompanied with an encouraging “Look’s delicious, I can’t wait!” before exiting the kitchen- quick!

Then this appeared on my counter-top late last week.

I think she threw away the reciept on purpose so I couldn't take it back

I am not gonna lie.  My first inclination when I saw this in my home was to sit down and write a grandiose satirical piece paralleling the entry of this tacky gadget into my home and spokesman Vince Shlomi’s great adventure last March.  You remember Vince, a poor man’s Billy Mays who first entered the infomercial scene sporting a Madonna-style headset pimping the ShamWow before introducing us to the glories of the SlapChop.

Humble Beginnings

It seems not even the overnight successes of peddling gimmicky crap on late night TV could even get Vince laid, so on a trip to Miami our boy dabbled in the worlds oldest profession, using his new-found fortune to pick him up a hooker.  It also seems that Vinnie forgot the #1 rule in prostitution and began to kiss his new employee (did he never watch Pretty Woman?  There is no kissing!) and as soon as he stuck his tongue down her throat she chomped down on that bad boy and wouldn’t let go until he beat the crap out of her.  It’s true, with the mugshots to prove it.

Anyways, that is where I was gonna go with this piece.  That is until my wife came up to me with a dish of chopped almonds and a ridiculous grin as if she had proved a point.  I love you to death, dear, but I will stick with my knife.  I will admit one thing, however–

You were right, Vince.  My wife does love your nuts.

Published in: on January 19, 2010 at 6:00 am  Comments (2)  
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An Early 2010 Victory

So my wife is on an dirty hippie organic-super-all-natural health kick, yet I try to remain steadfast to the frugal values that reside deep within my core.

How do you think this usually turns out?

Gone forever are the 10 for $10 packs of mystery hot dogs and bleached white synthetic buns.  Gone are the BOGO’s of Hungry Man’s, $.99 2-liters, and half-price pints of Ben & Jerry’s.  Instead my body is being pumped full of whole grains, organic, fiber-induced goodness that I admit has kept me delightfully regular but has also left my wallet noticeably thinner.  All those additives actually make things cheaper! Who woulda’ thunk it?  But alas…

With all that said I am sure you can understand my apprehension while shopping over the weekend when I heard the wheels of my wife’s cart squeal over to the frozen food aisle where I was gazing longingly at my old friend, the Eskimo Pie.

I miss you, old friend...

“Umm,” she starts.  “can you come and look at something and make sure you’re seeing the same thing I am?”

Sweet, perhaps a blue light special on all hemp personal grooming products or patchouli scented eau du toiltte! I snickered to myself as I was led away by my invisible leash toward the meat department.

“It says this ground bison is only $1.50 a pound instead of $5.99 but I don’t get why.”

Always the skeptic I examined those packages from every angle, checking dates, color, label…and it all looked fine.  I even took a few over to the courtesy price scanner at the end of the toy isle, and every time got the same response:

***BEEP! $1.50 you cheap fuck! BEEP!***

I was convinced, and turned to my beautiful bride and gave her a toothy smile and a subtle nod conveying my eternal love.

“Cool, lets get a couple then.” she replied.

“THE HELL WE WILL!” I shot back.  We were getting them all…21 of ‘em!

Anyone have any good bison recipes?

Hoarding bona fide hormone-free, no anitbiotics, leaner-than-chicken, moo-free red meat is the exact reason why basement freezers were invented, after all.  Is it not?

And on the front of that freezer?  Like on overly-proud parent displaying their child’s first perfect spelling test on the refrigerator door with an over-sized magnet, the was but one last detail left:

A happy reminder everytime I go to prepare a healthy meal

Published in: on January 14, 2010 at 6:00 am  Comments (1)  
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Wordless Wednesday

'Twas the night before the tree came down

Published in: on January 13, 2010 at 6:20 am  Leave a Comment  
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Images of Royalty

Meet Ernie.

Hi everyone! I am Ernie....

Ernie is a pug, which means by default he is not my dog, but my wife’s dog and hers alone.  His claim to fame is once having his eyeball pop of out his socket when he got a little too excited.  Don’t worry, though.  The vet gave him some medication the sucked the eyeball back into its socket and he’s good.  He naturally smells funny and is blind as a bat, mind you- but good nonetheless.

Ernie has a habit of being a bit of a prima donna, which allows us to fast-forward to a morning late last week that found me motionless at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the ceiling.  You see, it was cold outside, and a bit too early for Ernie to rise and shine.  However, I needed to get in the shower and go to work to be able to afford to buy Ernie his kibble, so for expediency’s sake, I agreed to be his personal escort downstairs to the back door.

Kinda sorta- except I was still in my underwear & hadn't had coffee yet

“I fell down the stairs carrying your dog outside,” I told my wife on the phone later that morning.

“Oh My God!  Is he OK!?!?” she exclaimed with great concern.

“He’s good,” I replied with a serene tone of calm.  “My back hurts, I have a cherry-red, skid-burn-thing on my butt, and my elbow doesn’t work.  But Ernie?  He naturally smells funny and is blind as a bat, mind you- but good nonetheless.”

Imagine Ernie. It's not in my budget to stage photos, just steal them online (where it is legal to do so, of course)

Published in: on January 8, 2010 at 12:24 pm  Comments (2)  
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Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, Seriously?!?!

Let’s begin anew…

So I am a jeep guy.  I refuse to shave on consecutive days, dress in layers, and have yet to pay for a haircut this century (though that is also a part of me being cheap, but I digress).

Yes, it is the exact same rhetoric as last week.  Let’s speed up a bit.

Long story short we decided to take up the dealer’s offer on the red wrangler and enjoy it for the weekend with no strings attached just to prove that the blocked fuel pump had been fixed at the thing was once again running like a champ.  We picked it up late afternoon on Friday, and were excited to give it a thorough inspection until Monday morning.

Top down and ready to ride, CO style

Top down and ready to ride, CO style

After just a quick shot just to and from work Friday night, I got up early Saturday morning to surprise the wife and child by taking the top of the jeep en route to go get some breakfast before hitting a dirt road and seeing what that bitch was made of to ensure the 4WD was in proper working condition.  A couple of donuts and a cup of coffee later we were on the interstate with the wind blowing through our hair on our way to Garden of the Gods to hop on to Rampart Range Road.

***Pa thud, thud.  Again.  On I-25***

Now, I am a pretty understandable fellow, and do try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.  But as I sat motionless on the shoulder of one of the main arteries of the Dwight D. Eisenhower System of Interstate and Defense Highways (Google it), I couldn’t help but be a tad bit suspicious of to what the dealership actually meant by claiming to have “fixed” this so-called clogged fuel pump.

And so here…

Going...

Going...

…we go…

...Going...

...Going...

…AGAIN!

...Gone

...Gone

After a bit of revision, I decided to reexamine a couple of aspects of my life to ensure that I come out of this whole car buying experience as a better man.  For example-

So I am a Chevy Blazer guy…

Disclaimer to Jeep people I offended...I still own a Cherokee, so leave me alone.

Disclaimer to Jeep people I offended...I still own a Cherokee, so leave me alone.

Published in: on September 24, 2009 at 5:30 am  Comments (1)  
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Wordless Wednesday

Gotcha

Gotcha

Published in: on September 23, 2009 at 4:00 am  Leave a Comment  
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