Warning: Right thinking people will find this offensive. I sure did.

At 4:45 this morning, on Saturday of the Labour Day long weekend, Jenn and I were awoken by the sound of a group of the towering intellectual giants of our day piling out on their front porch to smoke cigarettes and other things, smash beer bottles on the driveway, and debate an important topic.  While Jenn called in the noise complaint to the police, I followed their conversation with some interest.  It was the kind of conversation that one ought not to have at high volume in a street populated by many young children.

The children's questions to their parents this morning will no doubt go something like this: "How can a cat be tight, and why would it be good for a cat to be wet?  When we gave kitty a bath, he got real mad!"

Yes, these thoughtful individuals were debating, at length and in some specific detail, the proposition "What is the greatest quality of a .... cat ... to be tight, or to be wet?", in upraised voices in the driveway at 4:45 in the morning.  The true tragedy of their situation is that they omitted to observe another great quality of their topic of conversation: relative silence.

But, unfortunately for the West Spruce Grove Debating Society, the level of discourse took a less intellectual but possibly more artistic turn after a few minutes, descending into seventeen repetitions of the following brief dialogue:

"Brother" # 1:  "CJ ...... What the F***?  We're your brothers!  What the F***?"

CJ:  "Galmdfwffkfmg....  F*** ....  hawlmnananaagggggghhhhhh"

"Brother" # 1:  "CJ ... What the F***?"

Chorus of the "Brothers":  "F***in'.... What the F***?"

The steady repetition of this theme reminded me of a modern theatre piece I walked out of while I was in University, where nonsensical phrases were oft repeated and layered until forming some apparent underlying meaning, much as the layers of a minimalist art music composition might be added, removed, embellished and varied to result in a complex motif derived from simple phrases. 

The similarities in this case extended to the fact that both examples annoyed me a great deal, neither example worked as drama, and it was only in subsequent deconstruction that I could even enjoy them as comedy.

As a brief summary, I can describe the evening as sounding like the teaser trailer for FUBAR3 was being filmed in my street. 

Well, in about two hours I figure it will look like the opening scenes of "The Hangover 3" being filmed in that house.  That's too bad.... 'Cause starting at 8:01 AM, I gots me a lot of hammering to catch up on.

The moral of the story for those buying a home:  Buy in the best neighborhood you can afford.  It may not be perfect, but it will have to be pretty bad to be worse than this.

Letting go of things

As I sit and wait for the TSP solution and poly-fill to dry in the bathroom prior to painting, I consider some of the things I am letting go of lately.  Over the weekend, we packed up most of the rest of the house, leaving just what is necessary.  I am rather enjoying it, really.

Today I declared victory over my old charcoal suit.  Nine years of heavy service, forty pounds of weight loss and a handful of alterations left it shiny, ragged, out at the heels, missing belt loops and frayed at the seams, draping over me in a most unfashionable way.  I took a good look at myself in it, and realized that if I donated it to charity, charity would throw it away.  So I threw it away.

Holding up better is Kim the Hyundai.  Since I last wrote about her, the only problem she has given me was an accessory drive belt that failed spectacularly.  I heard a strange noise under the hood, so I got up and opened the hood, and as I did so, a piece of the belt flew past my ear.  No biggie.  Today, Kim rolled over to 225,000 km.  I think she has some road left to roll over.

So too are we trying ever so hard to let go of the spruce grove duplex so that we can take on a new hurdle in Edmonton.  Our hope is to be out before the snow flies.  Keep your fingers crossed for us.

Amazing what a little motivation will do.

I decided that noting motivates me like a pointless bet, and so in order to spur my ambition for my goal of hitting my wedding weight, I put down some money. It took betting with 4 different people, but today, I hopped on the scale and saw a "1" at the beginning of my weight instead of a "2" for the first time in well over a year.

And I have actually exercised for the first time in living memory. 'Bout time, eh?

Update

Well, since my last update in December, my race to F-31 is stalled at F-3. I still have hope, however, of being at my wedding weight on my 7th anniversary.