Monkey See, Monkey Don't

My grandmother always said that idle hands are the Devil's playground. Thanks to her, I have a Protestant work ethic built on a rock solid foundation of guilt. Since I'm currently unemployed, I've turned my attention to all the little (and large) projects I've spent so much time and effort ignoring. My reluctance is understandable when you consider my last DIY project: a bathroom remodel.

The room was bearable when I moved in over a decade ago--especially when you consider the fact that the average Floridian bathroom is required by state law to use at least three or more colors in which even Liberace wouldn't be caught dead. If it's not pink, turquoise, black and/or lavender with mismatched toilet, sink and tub then it's NOT a true Floridian bathroom. "Bearable" became impossible one morning, however, when the sagging vanity fell apart in mid shave and left me up to my ankles in porcelain, sawdust, wall plaster and an alarming number of fast-moving bugs. In one fell stroke, I had unbalanced my sideburns, breached the wall and uncovered the Palmetto (Bug) Expressway.

The term "Palmetto Bug" is an exercise in denial. Floridians say "Palmetto Bug" because we cannot come to grips with the fact that these critters--which easily dwarf today's pricey, Italian compact cars--are actually giant cockroaches. They're so big, in fact, that the state legislature is exploring how they might be pressed into service for public transit.

What bothers me most about Palmetto Bugs is their potential to establish a new world order. The only thing holding them back is the lack of opposable thumbs. With thumbs, they would be unstoppable. They could buy lotto tickets with their spare change, hitchhike with purposeful direction and shut the kitchen light switch off behind you. Like cats, they have an uncanny ability to land on their feet in addition to many lives. They have no fear of nuclear holocaust; they may be plotting to achieve dexterity. I freely admit that this is the kind of thing that keeps me up at night.

So, there I was, with a large hole in the wall and a gaggle of Palmetto Bugs giving me dirty looks. Now, I have never been one to let sleeping dogs (or bugs) lie. No, sir. The power of Christ (and OCD) compels me to pick at that hole and make it bigger and find out just what is inside the wall. It took a month or two, but I managed to demolish enough of the bathroom to make me self-righteous.

Who in the world, I asked myself, remodeled this bathroom last? Capuchin monkeys? Because the workmanship and construction methods pointed to someone who did not benefit from the aforementioned opposable thumbs. I took down an inch-thick layer of tile and plaster off this wall. Why they used so much is a mystery, but it's plain that patch jobs had a lot to do with it. "Pile it on!" seems to have been the mantra of the day. Can't find a matching tile? No problem! Just get something really cheap and ugly and then...paint it to match! Tub look less than bright white? Paint that, too!

Midway through this itinerant autopsy I found evidence that a pipe had sprung a leak at some point. Our enterprising monkey (not necessarily a Capuchin although they are quite handy; perhaps something as pedestrian as your average Howler Monkey--not from Goa, though possibly from Mahareshtra) decided that the way to fix the problem was to encase it in cement.

I surmised that this little monkey (let's call him George, shall we? because he certainly seems to have been curious)  may have regretted sealing this leak so completely because he clearly set the wall on fire while soldering later.

I'm not proud. I can take a hint with the best of them so, with a self-righteous heart, godly hands and grandma on my mind I picked up the phone and called a contractor. My next project? Finding the couch.

Tweeting into the Wind (and Snickering a Little, Too)

The rise of social media has me a little miffed. I'm chatting, blogging, tweeting and posting with abandon but I sometimes get the feeling that I've walked into a party in search of someone who's probably ditched me in advance of my arrival. Or I'm talking too loudly in a crowded room that's suddenly gone silent just in time for me to blurt, "Rectum? It nearly killed him!"

Then there's what I like to call social media's dirty little secret: it's a very public barometer of just how unsocial you actually are. And that messes with my self image. You see, sometimes, when I get mad at the world (about every Tuesday at 4), I shut my cell phone off and head for the nearest ivory tower, steadfastly refusing to answer the texts, tweets and chirps that connect us all to Kevin Bacon.

The truth is no one misses me. Online or off, the phone doesn’t stir, the computer doesn't beep--there's only silence. For the sake of my ego, I pretend that there are meaningful people looking for me who are saddened by their suspicion that I am deliberately concealing myself from their company. They're pinging me on Google, scouring Foursquare, poring over Facebook--aren't they? I wonder: if you hide and no one seeks, are you still hidden? Or are you merely overlooked or perhaps misplaced? It’s a pretty simple game but it does have rules you know. I embrace exile on principle. I’m Greta Garbo. “I vant to be left alone.”

And so I am.

People are funny that way. They can give you what you want in a smooth and effortless manner and, thanks to social media, they do. Honestly, I’m such a lucky man. This is my Walden Pond!