Handy with the string cheese.

Dear Adam Powers:

Here is a letter I wrote to you months ago. Remember when I did all that stuff to my drummer’s haus? I wrote a little story thing about it and I found it today:

10/07/2007: Wombatalie and I are very busy being handy today. Our task is to spray her whole 2000 sq. ft., two-story cedar cabin with mildew retardant and water. Then we are supposed to brush the house. I don’t know what this means. Then we are supposed to replace several boards on her house that are showing early symptoms of dry-rot. The house will be stained next week, so these are the steps we need to take to prepare the house for its new outfit.

We started our day at Fenario this morning in a heap on the couch after passing out after band practice. We were covered in blue marker and taco cheese. It took me a hot minute to remember we’d handled a fifth of Jack and ended up scarfing the tacos that had been sitting on the coffee table for nine hours and were most certainly in the Beef-Type Danger Zone.

Wombatalie and I had grand plans to handle her house, drunk or not drunk. We managed to make it to the hardware store to buy our cleaning things. I love Fitch Lumber. Love it. While Wombatalie was busy ordering cedar siding planks and picking out mildew sprays and choosing the correct types of nails and comparing pump sprayers, all professional-like, I was busy filling our cart with various objects: a plate-hanging set, a spool of garden twine, a caulking gun, a plastic sign that read “DANGER—PROPANE” in several languages, a Gatorade, tape, a tiny level. I had no project in mind.

We had every intention of pressure-washing the house, but when we got there and arranged all of our supplies, we realized that cedar siding is soft and so should not be pressure-washed. We were at a loss. It seemed so sad, that we had this pressure washer at our disposal and it was unsuitable for our project. So we abandoned the house-cleaning and decided to pressure wash the concrete patio instead. Did you know that, on its highest setting, the water stream will cut grooves into concrete? It will. Here is my failed attempt at making it look like Wombatalie is pissing at 2600 PSI:

We were very handy.

We shop-vacced (sp?) the cobwebs in the corners of the house, we sprayed the entire exterior with Special House Soap, we rinsed it, we took off all the window screens and cleaned them, and we found a dead bird on the ground. We also pressure-washed some live wasps. And then we went to Hell and pressure washed Hell.

Here is a picture of me pressure-washing with a mouth full of String Cheese:

The rest of the night was spent celebrating our victory over dirt. I drink a lot, I suppose, but I rarely get drunk. We deserved to drink after the smackdown we gave her poor little cabin.

It’s a great thing, when you first meet me and you can witness me after seven Jack on the Rocks and four High Lifes, and you can see what my life is truly like during times when I think no one’s watching.

I wouldn’t call myself trashy, but I would indeed say that I am lacking a certain degree of class. I like my shitty, broke, unorganized self. I like living in a tidy mess where only I know where I can find my keys, or my stash, or my shoes, or my dog. I like living out the ADD victim’s fantasy without ever claiming to have ADD. My life is a hodgepodge of crap, tiny part-time jobs and house parties and fleeting acquaintances and piles of dog shit that I gingerly avoid in the throes of every morning’s stumble out the door. But I know that I am most graceful when I trip in my HaHa high heels, I am most comfortable when I’m inciting a bar brawl over leering Mexicans who cheat at pool, I am most at home in my Baby Battered Honda with its dents and scratches and trash and cigarette butts and empty Open Eye cups.

And when snore myself awake at 7:48 a.m. with my head laying in a pile of drool twenty feet from the Fenario bog and my brain spinning and my ear bleeding and a freestyler grinning at me over a Pom glass of CranApple Grape juice and a groggy GQ passing the buck and hitting Play on a Talking Heads DVD and I’m sweaty and tired and my hair is a mess, I know in my heart that somebody’s going to someday take this mess for what it is and sort of adore it.

Plus, who doesn’t love a chick who’s willing to pressure-wash dangerous bugs? Now THAT’S handy.


Handey Mandey


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