Rotorooter for humans?

If I put patio furniture on the patio will we want to use it? I doubt. Not just because of mosquitoes though, or the lack of a focus such as a pool (I don’t want one) or a pleasant vista. If I could somehow get my heart into wanting to serve as an anchor home in the family circle, I could probably summon the momentum and imagination required to pep up the backyard atmosphere with plants (we’d still kill them,) and maybe an attractive if slightly tacky garden ornament or several. Then, instead of thinking: I’d sure like patio furniture. Too bad all “discretionary” funds have been used for car repair, educational consultants and tuition, I’d instead think: [the same thing], but hey, it’s worth it, right? But I could put a little fire chimney thingy out there for Fall. But I could put a little fence around the muddy spot by the tree where the sump pump outlets with a sign that says: Warning--Hog Waller. But nope. My gumption, apparently, is wallering with the hogs.

On the brighter side, I have evidently successfully patched two copper hot water pipe leaks with rubber and hose clamps. And I will call the junkmen. Soon. Jeff’ll just have to watch. No way around it. It is possible that in a world where my basement no longer feels in need of a high colonic, I will feel a lifted spirit about the yard. I have ideas. Mosquito-repelling scary torch-like apparatuses jabbed about in the ground, the aforementioned freestanding chimney deal, a grill for the first time in roughly 20 years, and places to sit. I can dig it. I just can’t do it yet.

Speaking of “can’t do it,” and (I hope) “yet,” I was going to apply the word “lumpen” to Gabe. As in What do we do with a lumpen Gabester? But it turned out that the actual definition of “lumpen” does not support that usage at all. Here it is:

Lumpen: of or pertaining to disfranchised and uprooted individuals or groups, esp. those who have lost status: the lumpen bourgeoisie.

He is not disfranchised (I so want to put an “en” in there though,) and he is most definitely not uprooted, except with extreme effort. Then he reroots quite easily. Usually to the chair in the computer room. If he lacks the status normally appertaining to a youth of 17, it is no fault of mine, except perhaps in terms of genetics. I’m probably feeling especially disappointed today because I spotted, in the Fourth of July parade this morning, a couple of former preschool/kindergarten classmates of Gabe’s, both showing signs of being living human boys. One was fancy-footing a soccer ball in a cluster of his school team-mates, and the other (cooler) was playing bass guitar on a float. I had also spotted the latter in front of Safeway, grilling and selling hotdogs as part of some promotion or other. A chappie who participates in life, I thought, as I recognized him. I asked Rachel if she thought Gabe is even smart enough to become a functioning human, and she shrugged. Because you can’t tell. Because until a person actually does actions that indicate a spark of thought, or a whiff of initiative, you simply cannot tell. Hence, I am still open to back-up plans for boys who need to somehow be airdropped into life.