33 Days (Continued).

Sittin' on my Arse

2007-07-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

So, I spent eight days playing with the kids.

A better use of time, methinks.

At any rate, I tied for second place in a poll. This was a poll where you would submit your pornname based on the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on.

My entry? Pokey Canyon. Obviously, I missed my calling.

Next up, the Nokia N800:

Yep. It's lust. Pure unadulterated geek lust. I've got to start saving pennies. Screw the iPhone, I have got to get me one of these.

I could totally neglect my blog from anywhere with this thing.

Eight days and nights

2007-07-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm off work for the next eight straight days and nights. I’m going to work on the house.

That's right- eight days o' bloodshed, aggravation, and stupidity.

Oh yeah, and eight updates, all in a row.

Attic Archeology

2007-07-07T21:14:00.000-07:00

Got to work on the attic today- mostly demolition work.

I tore the boards off the walls to reveal:

Me booty!

No, the stuff in front of her. We found:

An Oregonian from November 20, 1942 with news of the Second Naval Battle of Guadalcanal- carefully censored by the War Department, details on the mass poisoning at the state hospital in Salem, as well as a several old advertisements- everything from Fred Meyer and Meier and Frank to War Bonds, rationing news, and Recruitment.
The “Golden West Coffee” cans
A Union Club whiskey bottle.
A can for Snowflake shortening.
A can of “Fire Weed” honey produced by C. W. Pilkenton of Jewell, Oregon
A porcelain over tin wash basin
A Portland Telegram from June 14, 1919 featuring news of Capt. Alcock and Lieutenant Brown’s attempt to cross the Atlantic, a notice that “War Will Be Resumed Next Week if Huns Balk,” and a full-page Mutt and Jeff comic (“Jeff’s Theory Was All Right”
A June, 1919 copy of the Astoria Catholic Monthly.

Time to fire up the ol' eBay account.

Such a nice man…..

2007-05-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

Held what turned out to be the first day of two in our Yard Sale today.

We hardly had any visitors. Of course, there was exactly a lot of advertising, either.

So, we’ll continue tomorrow, because my motto is “if it goes poorly, keep banging your stupid head into the wall.”

How slow was it? Slow enough that I mowed the yard, then poor, wounded ankle-having neighbor Meg’s yard. That went fairly well, as the grass was only knee-high.

Then, I decided to mow Donna’s yard for her.

Waist high grass is a whole different animal. I didn’t need a mower, I needed Agent Orange.

So, I busted out the weed-eater of ridiculous power- the one that I purchased when I owned five acres of buck-brush, Scott’s broom, and pine trees.

I was going to sell in the yard sale of perpetual slowness. It was then that I realized - sometimes you just need a 4-stroke 1.5 HP brush-cutting, string trimmer strapped to your back. Even on a 50’ x 100’ city lot. So, it stays.

I weed-whacked, brush-cut, mowed, raked (lightly), then used the blower.

I told them both- I'll mow for free, but they have to rake.

As a bonus, my activities today have cemented what my neighbors would say about me if, say, I snap and start shooting people from the top of the John Jacob Astor Building.

“He was such a nice young man, we never saw it coming.”

Except Meg, who would say “Did he hit any former theater board members?”

Purge

2007-05-26T21:57:00.001-07:00

We’ve having a yard sale tomorrow, May 27.

Love getting rid of stuff, hate setting it up. Lots of good stuff this time around.

Come on by- starts at 9:00am

1353 Kensington Ave.
(Between 12^th and 14^th Street)

Not quite a year.

2007-05-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

The basement is empty.

The previous owner came by and took the last of his stuff.

He brought two guys and between the four of us, we got everything out.

Award Ceremony

2007-05-24T22:29:00.000-07:00

I’d like to offer my congratulations to my first “Absolutely Worthless Profiteering Dirt Bag” award winner: Mr. Dean Hancock of Tupelo, Mississippi.

Mr. Hancock’s son, a St. Louis Cardinals relief pitcher by the name of Josh Hancock, was killed when he crashed into the back of the tow truck. Of course, Josh had a BAC that was nearly twice the legal limit.

So, how did the elder Mr. Hancock decide to honor his son’s memory? With a donation to MADD perhaps? Speaking at a high school about the dangers of drinking an driving?

Yeah, right.

This oxygen-thieving waste of carbon decided to sue.

Who? Everyone.

No, really, everyone.

He’s suing the restaurant, where his kid got drunk.

He’s suing the tow-truck he slammed into.

He’s suing the poor bastard that broke down that the tow-truck stopped to help.

There is something seriously wrong with society, and this guy is just one example.

So, congrats Mr. Hancock. You suck.

Mischief

2007-05-23T21:15:00.000-07:00

People point out that I don’t update near as often as I used to.

No shit.

Before, I posted notes on the remodel before we moved in. Now, I post when people nag me into it.

Guess what? I have been sufficiently nagged.

What have I been up to?

Mischief. Serious mischief.

In no particular order (and this is by no means a complete list), I have:

Spiked a Deputy Sheriff’s coffee with about 20 packages of Sweet “n” Low, resulting in a classic “spit-take”
Painted the County Road Master’s office bright pink (it is getting repainted anyway).
I redirected the Oregon Lottery web site to a page of my own creation. Of course, my version shows a ticket purchased by a office's pool winning 11.8 million.
Let fly (my grip slipped) with some foul gas in Auntie’s office.
Taken a picture of a well known little tan(ner) dog in a well-known old (muffler-free) mustang. Keep an eye out for “don’t lock me in the hot car to die” posters. They’re limited edition and extremely rare.
Added copious amounts of salt to someone’s PowerAde.
Mixed tuna juice into the liquid soap in a local restroom.

I have no idea what the hell has got into me.

Now, let me take the opportunity to remind you all of something very important:

The internet is nothing more than a group of randomly connected circle-jerks. “Blogs” and message boards even more so. If this is truly the epoch of communications, then we probably should have kept our collective mouths shut, as people seem to be taking this far more seriously than they should.

Thank you and good night.

Yes, I remember my stupid password.

2007-05-08T21:20:00.000-07:00

Before.and After:
More importantly, however, is that this will serve as proof to certain smart-asses that I do, in fact, remember my password.

One week in Corvallis…

2007-03-15T23:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent the last several days here in Corvallis attending a SANs class on “Securing Windows.”

That’s right; I’ve been spending the week with a group of 150 computer geeks at the site of one of the largest open source labs around for a class on Microsoft products.

Yep, Star Trek jokes, snort laughs, Bill Gates bashing, mouth breathing, open zippers and huge bellies. It’s like a giant basement erupted, spewing permanent adolescents everywhere. There are like ten people that look like the comic book guy from the Simpsons.

I’ve heard more conversations about World of Warcraft in the last week than you can imagine. I also got snide, snarky looks for having never played the game. I don’t want to talk about what happened when I didn’t get the Star Trek jokes (I don’t watch much TV, and when I do, I don’t watch Star Trek. Now Firefly, on the other hand….)

The worst part? The bathroom. Let’s just say that geeks aren’t known for their aim. In addition, carrying half a dozen electronic gadgets on your belt apparently causes your pubic hair to fall out in freaking clumps.

You could easily make your own computer guy from the hair, urine, and other trace genetic material that is easily salvaged from the restroom.

I’m not even going to talk about the wonderful experience that is the “three o’clock group geek dump.” Four to five stalls, really bad noises, and a smell that will literally burn your soul. The sad thing? One of them will be on a cell phone.

The instructor looks like Bruce McCulloch from Kids in the Hall. I keep expecting him to scream “My Pen!” and run from the room.

The good stuff? There is free coffee all day long, as well as snacks. The snacks are usually pastries, cookies, and fruit.

The funny thing? There is never fruit left over. You wouldn't know it from looking at this crowd.

OK, I’m exaggerating. The serious, “take his lunch money” geek count stands at about sixty-five percent. However, this is still a pretty dork-heavy crowd. The bathroom, however, really is disgusting.

These things are always kind of odd. There is the realization that these are, to some degree, “my people.” My wife maintains that I belong to the “not so dorkish, scary-smart, explosion-and-boobies-loving Mythbusters group,” (Her term, not mine.)

The classes have been good, if not long. The most interesting aspect has been my own overview.
Microsoft has some very big, deeply-rooted problems. The idea that it takes a six day course to learn how to secure an operating system is a little disturbing. The fact that some guy named Bubba can buy a computer at Wal-Mart and by default has the ability to quickly and unknowingly turn it into a member of some massive bot-net spam factory is, frankly, irresponsible.

Giving Bubba complete administrative control (by default) of his first computer is simply bad form. He just wants to read dirty jokes in the email from his buddies and look at freaky German porn. If something pops up telling him to “install this plug-in” so he can see Bea Arthur nekkid, he’s going to be on that like stink on Warrenton.

He doesn’t know any better. To him, the computer is just a television with a keyboard. It should just work for him.

Microsoft has exploited this. In a effort to get an “easy-to-use” and infinitely backwards compatible OS, they sacrificed security. This isn’t 1980. We don’t connect to CompuServe with 2400 baud modems anymore.

The average home has an under $50 broadband connection that provides more raw throughput than the old “high capacity” leased-lines that we used to pay thousands of dollars for. Add in a powerful computer running an inherently insecure operating system (either due to programming or user error) and the Internet as we know it is actually in danger of being rendered useless.

As an example, look at electronic mail. What was once an effective communication tool has become a trap for crap. Right now, 75-80% of all mail traffic is spam. The majority of that spam originates from these bot-nets running compromised Windows XP.

Who is ultimately responsible?

Microsoft argues that it simply provides the tools, and people misuse them. They argue that things like kernel level access are there in case an advanced user needs them.

That’s like mounting a 4 foot wide spinning lawn mower blade on the front of Grandma’s car in case she ends up in a real life version of “Death Race 2000,” then letting Grandpa take it to the Sunday Market.

Now, they’re releasing Vista- the most secure Windows yet! That’s like calling it the most reliable Dodge Dart- ever! It is still a Dodge Dart. Just because they “started with security” doesn’t mean they didn’t finish with more of the same insecure easily bypassed (by unknowing users) shit.

Time will ultimately tell, however.

In the meantime, my opinion has changed a bit. As a consultant, I loved Microsoft. Their products guaranteed a constant stream of revenue. I made a fortune just from Exchange.
As an admin, they scare the crap out of me. I’m lucky in that none of our mission-critical applications rely on their products. As time goes on, more of our systems will probably move away (OpenOffice anyone?)

I see shops that are completely, end-to-end Microsoft in what amounts to an abusive relationship. Microsoft keeps smacking them around, then they apologize and try to make up. It is the digital version of domestic violence.

“Yeah baby, I’m sorry about that first version of WindowsXP. Here’s a service pack- it won’t happen again, ‘cause I love you.”

More time, more patches, another service pack. More malware, viruses, and problems. It is a cycle.

People, there are alternatives. Check them out. Break the cycle of abuse.

Shit. I hope I'm not turning into one of those *nix geeks.

Underground

2007-03-11T00:52:00.000-08:00

Remember the basement?

There was lots of trash and tools.

Now, after six months, the previous owner's stuff is gone.

The long bench is now a saw table.

I built this work table out of scraps and extra lumber (who doesn't have 4x4 presure treated posts around?)

Cleaned up the other table, as well.

So, my tools are all put away, and I can find them.

Floor is still wet, however.

A little angry

2007-03-06T23:40:00.000-08:00

Now, normally, I’d just quietly sit here and write about how I ran my water filter for six months, then realized I hadn’t put in the cartridge. You know, the part that actually filters the water. Works a whole lot better now.

Anyway, I’m pretty much fed up with humanity. I’m actually thinking of cheering for the Bird flu. Or maybe I’ll start a smallpox booster club. Whatever, we need to thin this herd.

A lot.

So, in no particular order:

I am in awe at level of disconnected constant communication that people feel they need. By wandering around with a cell phone on your head you miss more than you will ever know.

Remember those tiny people in the back seat watching a DVD while you chat about what you are fucking planning to watch on TV that night to the person behind you? Yeah- they’ll be gone soon and you are going to wonder where in the hell the time went.

Guess what? It went to AT&T. Hang up and talk to the little ones.

I’m supposed to respond to telephones, text messages, and emails now. Simply not going to happen. I have no need to be in constant communication with people. The people who I like talk to know how I work, and if they need me, they can find me.

Want to know a secret? You will get more from twenty minutes of quiet time with a friend or your family than from all the cell minutes your plan offers.

By the way, I go to the Cup every Saturday morning around 9 am. I’m the big redhead with the long green coat.
If you have a problem with someone and can’t say it to their face, then I don’t give a shit. Never had, never will. Shove your whispered comments and snarky attitude directly up your ass. Preferably written on gas-soaked rags and lit on fire.
Television is not an experience! It does not happen to you! You do not “share” an experience- you passively sit there- often slack jawed- and simply stare. My life is not unusual, it is simply enjoyed. I notice and experience a thousand wonderful, nuanced things because I’m not expecting a dramatic overture or a fucking laugh track.

Moreover, I don’t want to hear about “your shows.” To me, such conversation is worse than second-hand smoke. It pollutes the air and I feel as if I must protect those I love from the foul stench.
Face up, folks. Most of your problems are your own damn fault. Think about it. Stop blaming other people for your decisions and/or shitty luck.
Start getting “need” right. You need only air, shelter, water, food, and clothing. Everything else is a want and should be treated as such.
You probably have too many wants. Try and thin that down.
I’m glad you like your perfume. I’d probably like it as well, if it didn’t envelope me in a stinking cloud that would mask the smell of Warrenton when you walked by.
Have people over- or visit them- more often. It’s good for you.
There are very few emergencies in life. A real emergency ends up with the loss of a need (see number 8). Stop overreacting.
The vast majority of what you do is insignificant. Five years after you die, very little of what you did will be remembered. Ten years, even less. It is, however, very important to do all things well, as you will never be sure what exactly people will remember.

Busy Day(s)

2007-02-19T17:40:00.000-08:00

So, I took five days in a row off work, and decided to get a couple of things do around the house. I chilled out on Thursday, spread a little mud on Friday, goofed off all day Saturday (then textured).

Neat trick for those of you who do remodel stuff- put your trim up and caulk it BEFORE you paint the walls. This will help the new construction blend in with the old a little easier.

Sunday morning, however, I got off my slacking butt and got to work. I went to town and got some coffee and baseboard, then I started up.

First, I fixed the doors in the entryway, as well as repainted the wall (above the picture rail) and ceiling.

Then, I put a door and trim over the ugly hole leading to the "Harry Potter" room. A trip to City Lumber and even the doorknob matched. I also installed the new baseboard and other trim. I painted the rest of the new hallway and got started painting all the trim. By now, it was almost noon so my bride emerged from the bedroom with the tiny teething insominac in tow. She was greeted by a new, freshly painted hallway (I even covered the crayon marks.)
I moved on to the dining room. Much caulking, painting and masking tape ensued. After sixteen hours and five different colors of paint (and only two paint trays- lots of washing), I called it a day.
Monday I had a house full of children, so I wasn't quite as productive. I hung the pocket door (it is temporary.) I then cut a steel rod to use as a curtain rod, and hung a curtain to block the view to the attic.Finally, I finished laying the flooring while keeping an eye on seven little kids and keeping the wine glasses full for two rather tired Moms.

As they say- "Ta-Dah!"

Oh yes, I nearly forgot. I finally went through the receipt box.

Total costs: $4,967

Imaginary Holidays

2007-02-14T22:29:00.000-08:00

I’ll admit it- I am one of those people who are horrible at “Manufactured Greeting Card Holidays.” I always forget about them until either:

Someone at work gets flowers
My wife gives me a gift (or starts sulking.)

I actually forgot Mother’s Day one year. You would have thought I had shot a dozen puppies with bullets made from live kittens.

I mean, damn.

The best part? I had like no idea why the hell she was pissed. So, I did the man-pig thing and went looking for a calendar that showed the phase of the moon (Mongo say full-moon bad).

I found a calendar and found the worst possible bit of information- I had forgotten the “I had babies and it hurt a lot so buy me flowers and cards and candy and make me dinner you bastard” holiday on A FULL MOON. Not only was my wife upset, but her Aunt Flo was looking for a pound of flesh and a cup of

You know what? I’m going to stop right there. Grammar check be damned. I’m just not going to do it.

Anyway, I survived, made amends, and vowed to never forget another holiday such as that.

Which brings me to Valentines Day. I won’t go into detail into what men think about this day (dread and hope all wrapped up with flowers). Hell, there is even a movement for the “man” version of the day (WARNING: LINK IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK, OR THE EASILY OFFENDED!)

What I can say is this:

Read the damn card guys. Really. Not just the price part, either ($7 for a card? Shit!), but the whole thing. Inside and out.

See, cards have gotten kind of specialized. They have Valentine’s cards for EVERYONE now. Hell, you can get one for a cat.

This year, I nearly purchased cards targeted to:

A gay male couple (tastefully decorated and remarkably subtle- I almost missed it)
A gay female couple (hot girls kissing are cool- OK, I wasn’t going to buy it for her)
A pet (who buys a card for their cat?)
Someone that beats or abuses their significant other (This was kind of sad- it literally said “I’m sorry I sometimes lose my temper, but I never mean to hurt you”)

All I wanted was a card that said “Yeah Boobies! Can we have sex now? Oh yeah, I love you! “ Is that so much to ask?

Apparently, yes. Yes it is.

I can see where that is a little coarse, so I’ll help greeting card companies out a little. Make a card that says:

“I love you!” On the front, with like hearts and puppies and other frilly stuff. Get the guy that did the gay couple card to design it- that will keep it looking nice.

Then, on the inside, under a place to hold some jewelry (you know, a ring, or something), put: ”Hey, nice rack! Please get naked! Oh yeah, I love you, like, lots! Here’s something that sparkles! Did you loose weight? You look great! Let’s make hot monkey love!”

See, that’s love right there. Or at least the basic man-pig expression of it.

But I digress. (Or distress, depends on who’s reading this.)

I bring this up because, after knowing what I know, I still got my lovely bride a card that was for a young boy.

Damn. There was something kind of creepy about that. I need to read the damn cards a little closer.

Anyways-

Dear Wife,

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you! Please get naked!

- Me!

Arp! Rarp! Arp!

2007-02-01T22:53:00.000-08:00

Do you know what ARP is? It, or rather a firewall and associated router's improper handling of the protocol, is what kept me from working on my happy little wall.

The upshot? I got to spend an extra four hours at work! Yeah! Exciting! Whoo! I love building address tables by hand! Really! I (don't) mean it!

Want to know what makes it better? The fact that I can summarize a large portion of my day with the following:

Manually configured static ARP entries are only needed when you are trying to NAT to an external IP address in the same network block as a secondary IP (non-primary) address on the firewall’s (or other security appliance’s) public interface. If the IP addresses needed for static NAT are in the same network block as the primary address on the public interface, then you will probably not need to add these manual entries.

See? It looks just like English! Hell, it even passes the spell check! That is actually from my “just in case I get squished by a bus” notes for the day.

Sad.

Anyway, I also got to field strip (complete disassembly!) my beloved little Dell laptop (Yeah SUSE!) and replace a bad motherboard. That was about as much fun as taking the still-full food dish away from a starving wolverine with distemper.

Stupid firewall. Silly Router. Odd choice in careers.

So yeah, I’m fried. Cooked. Toast, even.

I promised to update people on what I’ve been doing lately. The short answer is that I’ve been building stuff.

Like walls. (Walls are stuff.)

And, like wall units. (Assembly is building.)

So, this weekend, I get to finish the walls, then do plumbing.

But now, I’m going to bed. It has been a very long day.

Absent

2007-01-31T21:32:00.000-08:00

“Hey, where have you been?” The question was shouted at me from across the coffee house, and resounded about the place like a sledgehammer striking steel.

I looked around, slightly stunned. “Um, adding cream?” I looked around, trying to figure out who in the hell was yelling at me.

“No, I mean lately….” The voice was closer now, causing my eyes to vibrate in their sockets.

“Oh, I’m heading back to work after lunch….”

The sun disappeared as a planet of a man appeared in front of me. I realize that some people qualify as scary big. This guy was like two spots past that. “No,” he said, sounding as if he was speaking to someone fresh off the short bus, “I mean your blog. You have that house fixin’ blog, right? Damn, you need to write on that some more. That was some funny shit.”

“Yeah, thanks, I’ll do that I guess.” Time to run for the door.

“Great! Nice to see you again Tom!”

“Nice to see you as well, man!” Just like that, I was free. I was back on the sidewalks of Astoria, returning to anonymity.

Now, no offense to the linebacker in question, but I still have no idea who in the hell that guy was. I was a bit freaked out, but I quickly got over it, and following an afternoon of furious bit-twiddling promptly forgot about it.

A couple of days later, I was walking about with arms full of various network components when I came across Wend-E. Amongst other things, she pointed out that I have not updated in a while.

I started to detect a pattern.

I came home and my lovely bride tells me that Auntie L and Guy are both kvetching (my words) about my lack of posts.

Well, crap.

I’ve been, you know, busy, in a “kind of” sort of way. Sequestered may be an even better term. I’ve been taking entirely too long to finish things around the house. I’ve been busy being Dad and Hubby. I've been decompressing. I've been uncoiling.

So, I’m flattered, and I’ll be better. I’ll get back to this. Really.

Stairs!

2006-12-25T23:12:00.000-08:00

OK, one side done. More later.

Surprised!

2006-12-18T23:26:00.000-08:00

So, for the past two months I have been secretly planning, plotting, and preparing for my wife’s 29 + 11 year birthday. This could not be a simple party, this had to be big.

After all, we are dealing with a large, round number.

So, I snuck onto her computer, downloaded all of her contacts, and sent out the following message to them all:

(The Lovely and Talented) Carrie E. turns 40 this December 24. Forty. Four decades. Two score. Twenty, twice. December 24 is a good day for eggnog, but a lousy day for a birthday, unless your name is Jesus. So, whereas the aforementioned Carrie:

has only had 2 real birthday parties
turns 40 way before her husband
deserves a party full o' friends

You are hereby invited to a surprise birthday party on December 16, 2006 at here in lovely Astoria, Oregon. Festivities start at 6:30 pm. Children are welcome, but gifts are not. We ask only that you bring you, yours, and your appetite.

For the out-of-towners, we have space for people here- bring your own pillow (no offense, but the whole shared pillow thing is my weird little phobia.)

Please RSVP to this email address- no calls, please- she's a clever one, that Carrie.

Then, I sat back and waited. I quickly realized that this was going to be quite the event. Her parents were coming from Northern California, her sister and family for Orange County, and friends from all over.

Time wore on, and many more details were set up. About a month into the planning, she started getting suspicious.

“You’re going to throw me a surprise party, aren’t you?” She asked. “Please don’t. I don’t want a party.”

I thought fast. I was about to get busted, and a lot of planning had taken place.

I figured the most unbelievable thing was the truth. “Yep, you’re right. I’m going throw you a huge party. People will be traveling in from all over. Your sister and parents are flying in, as are a bunch of Forest Ranchers. Now that you’ve figured it out, you’d better act surprised.”

She stared at me for a few seconds. Then she started laughing. Right in my face. “You can’t even close the cereal box. There is no way in hell you could set up something like that.” She sat back and giggled.

I played hurt. “Now I feel bad. Do you want a party? I bet we could get some people together for dinner or something…..”

“No, that’s OK.” She kept giggling.

“What?” I asked, feigning injury and emotional duress.

“I just realized how much credit I gave you. You can build a server out of an old typewriter and some bailing wire, but you’ll let the kids eat cake for breakfast and lunch!” She laughed out loud again.

“No, seriously, I can throw you a little party- you can make sauce and I’ll….”

“Oh I can cook? No, no, no.” She went back to giggling. "That's OK." She started laughing hard again.

I sat back and hoped it worked. I decided to throw her further off the trail. I went upstairs and bought her a small gift, to help throw her off the trail. Then, I played it up the next night.

“I felt bad I wasn’t doing anything big for your birthday, so I kind of got you something….” I said.

“You are so bad at secrets.”

“Yeah, well I got you an iPod Nano, and it is engraved. Will that be OK?”

Yes let me know that it was OK without saying a word.

A little more time passed, and more people confirmed. I did some head counts and realized that the house was going to be filled with people, and the house wasn’t quite up to the task.

Well, shit.

I needed to get back to work. I ordered and installed the flooring,

Then, her friends in town stared avoiding her, afraid of spilling the beans on the whole party thing. Hell, at this point, I was afraid of slipping.

“Buddy, do I smell bad or something?” She asked.

“No worse than normal.”

“I’m serious. I think people are avoiding me. You’d tell me if I smelt bad, wouldn’t you?

“Yes, dear. I’m sure you’re just imagining things.” I had my best poker face on.

“No, people are avoiding me. They don’t call, and if I call, I can tell they are rushing to get off the phone.” She sat back and pouted.

“It’s all in your head, sweetie. Don’t sweat it. Maybe folks are just busy. It is the holidays.”

“Whatever.” She went off and sulked.

Then with two weeks to go, I decided to start working on the stairs and hallway. I purchase materials from the discount shop in Longview, and came home and started to tear apart the old stair rail. I was working like a man possessed- less than two weeks, but I could get it done!

I even worked out an excuse- our friends Vance and Marci were going to come to dinner, so I needed to get the work done before they came. I ripped and tore and pulled and pried. I was standing in a pile of debris, wondering just how in the hell I was going to get this done when she called from upstairs.

“I need your help! I’m trying to take the kid’s Christmas pictures up here!” She called from the attic studio.

“I’m working on the stairs!” I yelled back.

“That can wait, get the baby dressed!”

“But Vance and Marci are coming!”

“They’ll understand. They’ve seen the house before. Now hurry up and dress the baby!”

It was at this point I realized that I actually had to stop working and dress the baby. I had broken 2x4’s on the floor, sheetrock chunks littering the room, nails everywhere, and a houseful of guests expected in six days, but I had to stop working and help with picture taking.

This had gone on for every part of this construction, from the floor, to repainting the dining room. I tried to work fast, and she (unknowingly) threw up roadblocks. If I tried to paint trim, she left the baby with me. Got my tools out? She put them away.

It was all terribly annoying, but I still had hope. When faced with stopping work for the evening to dress a child, I realized at that point that I had probably lost the war.

The house was going to be what it was, and I would either be killed or not.

I did as I was told, and worked on the stairs for the rest of the weekend and into the week. As I was about to assemble the railings (involving a lot of careful miter saw work), the big storm hit and took out the power for the last two working days.

So, I gave up.

The first out-of-town guests arrived the day before the party, so I took off work and hung out with them. I told my wife I was at the office, and was careful say goodnight to my friends and be home by 5:00 pm.

We went to a dance recital, and then decided (as we were without power at the house, to get dinner. We pulled into the parking lot for the Cannery Café where I immediately spotted my friend’s car and their personalized license plates. As this couple was supposed to be some 600 miles away, we instead went to Stephanie’s cabin.

The day of the party, I spent the morning moving construction materials and nailing trim.

I had told my bride that I needed to work on Saturday, as the storm had messed some things up. I said I had to drive to Knappa. I said I had to drive to Jewell and Seaside as well.

She gave me a stern look. “Don’t forget, we are going out to diner with the ‘Bachs. It is at 6:30, you better not be late.”

“I won’t. I’ll keep an eye on the clock.”

“You better. You’re always late for these things.”

I dropped her off for her Brownie meeting at 1pm. Then I drove to the Portland Airport to pick up guests. They landed at 4:00, and we left Portland at 4:45pm.

We hit a construction crew (clearing fallen trees) on the way back, but I managed to drop off two carloads of people at the restaurant at 6:25 and bolt home. I called from a block away, and told her to meet me out front.

She climbed in, looking a bit peeved that I had cut it so close. We parked around the corner and went inside.

She walked into a diner filled with fifty people ages 1 to 78, who cared enough to brave storms, wash in cold water, and travel distances ranging from a few blocks to 1,200 miles for a girl in a small Oregon town that we all feel is pretty wonderful.

You know what?

They guy who can’t close the cereal box honestly surprised her.

Nobel Prize

2006-12-07T00:12:00.000-08:00

I have survived the dreaded sinus infection, and went through the day with little more than a mild headache.

That allowed me to concentrate on my other goal in life- promoting world peace. Yep, under this rough exterior beats the heart of a true humanitarian. I care about a good 25% (give or take 24%) of mankind. I’m like that. I’m compassion, acceptance, and understanding personified.

Here, on this tiny little blog, I am about to reveal my gift to humanity, further the cause of world peace, and bring harmony to the people of Earth.

No, seriously.

I have invented, because I'm an idea kind of guy- THE ULTIMATE BURGER.

Yes, I know, that is quite the claim, but I assure you, this is no joke. Enemies will soon join hands around the barbeque and sing songs of peace and love whilst these burgers cook. Unless their not into pork, in which case they will swear off religions preventing pork consumption and other such nonsense and have themselves a beer and a burger.

First, I must provide a little back story, so you can all truly appreciate the significance of this achievement. (I hear this helps with the folks at the Nobel Foundation)

My wife is a vegetarian. Sad, isn’t it? I’ve tried explaining that cows and plants have roughly the same cognitive skills as plants, but no….. My silly little Earth muffin thinks that cows are kind, gentle, and noble creatures. She is unaware that their tastiness is surpassed only by their greenhouse gassiness.

Yes, cows damage the ozone by way of excess methane production. So, eat a burger, save the planet.

Anyway, back to it. She does, however, purchase the groceries, and she does buy packaged animal carcasses (meat) for me. She usually reminds me that my steak, sausage, and chops are dead- as if that will affect my appetite. Look. I’m pretty sure it would be awful damn hard to deep-fry a live chicken.

So, on the last outing, she buys flank steak. As I lack the patience to marinade, tenderize or otherwise prepare this cut of beef, it typically has the consistency of old boots after I cook it. This is obviously her fault.

At any rate, I had a big chunk of flank steak in the fridge, but I wanted a burger. Flank steak is lean, and hamburger needs fat.

That is when everything came together.
I realized that I had a meat grinder. I realized that I had bacon.

I realized that I could make a bacon cheeseburger where the bacon was part of the burger. Where bacony goodness wasn’t limited to three meager strips on top, but a true part of the burger. A bacon, cheese, and beef ménage-a-trios of culinary ecstasy.

I gathered my ingredients:

1 pound of nasty, lean flank steak
1/4 pound of bacon
Salt, Pepper, Garlic (to taste- just toss it in there, you’ll be fine)
A small can of diced jalapeños peppers (you can use Ortega chilies if you are a pasty, pansy-assed gringo)
Some fresh onion (as you like it)

I fed the ingredients into the grinder (chuck of bacon, chuck of beef, peppers, beef, bacon, onion, etc) added the spices, and mixed the concoction thoroughly while singing “Hallelujah, Hallelujah” with my eldest. A single sun beam shined down upon us.

I formed the meat into patties and cooked them up. Thus, burger nirvana was reached.

“You know, those are bad for your heart with all that fat and cholesterol.” Said my wife.

“Something that makes your heart sing can not be bad for it.” I answered.

Try it, you’ll see. I’ll be waiting for my Nobel prize.

Imminent Cranial Explosion

2006-11-29T20:05:00.000-08:00

Stupid sinus infection is kicking my arse. I’ve got the headache, the congestion, and the wonderful feeling of an imminent cranial explosion.

I’ve had a few of these infections in my day. Growing up in farm lands (almonds!) taught me to recognize this fairly easily.

I felt pretty crappy today, so I hung out at home and slept (yeah NyQuil!)

My wife, obviously trying to kill me, came home from running errands and suggested- get this- shoving a Q-Tip with rubbing alcohol up my nose until it hits the sinus.

She got this suggestion from someone who is obviously either sadistic or mentally ill. Probably both.

Rather than impale my face on cottony softness, I drug my sorry butt off the couch and did what any miserable, pathetic, wretch with an abnormal and irrational fear of doctors (keep that finger to yourself!) would do. I looked up “sinus infection” on the internet.

Holy–Capital-Letter-Shit.

A sinus infection can eat your damn brain. Really.

…it is possible for sinus infection to cause a direct extension of infection into the brain, creating a life threatening emergency.
Arrrrgh! Quick, check another site! Like one from the National Institutes of Health! They’re the Government! They won’t be into fear-mongering!

Let see what they say:

Although very rare, complications that may arise include:

Osteomyelitis -- infection that spreads to the bones in the face
Meningitis -- infection that spreads to the brain
Orbital cellulitis -- infection that spreads to the area surrounding the eye
Abscess
Blood clot

Son. Of. A. Bitch. I’m going to die.

This thing can eat my face! Or my eyes! Abscesses! Shit! I’ll be a blind, faceless, snot-laden wreck with a brain infection! That is so not going to look good in the coffin.

My Mom was right! Boogers can kill your dumb ass. I should have blown my nose!!!!

I’m doomed!

Seriously, the worst part? It typically lasts 10-14 days, although 28 days is not uncommon. Damn. Better get some meds.

Sick again

2006-11-27T21:07:00.000-08:00

Ill again. Stupid sinuses.

Dining room is almost done, however. Just need to put down the flooring.

Progress

2006-11-25T21:33:00.000-08:00

I woke up Saturday determined to get some projects finished.

First up was the new programmable digital thermostat. I tore into the packaging, ripped the old unit off the wall and was finished in half an hour- and this was including the time required to make a pot of coffee.

Funny thing, but this new unit seems to work a whole lot better than the old mercury thermostat we had up before. The furnace doesn’t turn off and on so much, and the house seems warmer.

Emboldened by my success, I moved on to the dining room, where I hung up the new light fixture and installed a nifty dimmer switch. While I was there, I put a new three-way switch in for the upstairs light.

At this point, I took a break for lunch and took a quick nap. I woke up, then went outside and cleaned and repaired the gutters.

Then I went about installing the new fence diving the yard into child and dog zones. I purchase a couple of the ready-built 6 foot long sections of fence and a few posts.

I set the first post, then carefully measured 62 inches and set the second.

Yeah, six foot fence sections. There are 72 inches in six feet, not 60. So I’m a dumb shit.

Pulled the post, dug a new hole, and set the post at 72 inches. Except I needed to set it at 74 because the post is a 4 x 4 and I’m a dumb shit.

Pulled the post, dug a new hole, and set the post at 74 inches.

So much for things going easy...

Geek Zen

2006-11-22T19:00:00.000-08:00

Follow along:

So, there are two identical, very powerful physical computers.

These machines have been electronically divided into two virtual systems each, for a total of four systems.

These four systems are divided into pairs (for redundancy) then these pairs are joined into something called a cluster. This lets either of the computers fail without a loss of functionality. It also makes the four virtual systems appear as two (entirely new) servers.

This is what we show the users- two servers.

So, we started with two computers, turned them into four, and then turned them back into two computers. These two virtual servers now exist simultaneously on both physical computers. One of the two physical systems could literally burst into flames and it would not affect what the users are able to do.

These two physical computers are replacing twelve physical computers. The energy savings alone are impressive. In addition, the new system is easier to use, has a higher capicity, is more robust, and is completely redundant.

This is all pretty impressive, if you can get your head around it.

The bottom line is that this system doesn’t truly exist as it presents itself. What you see is very far from what it is.

That, folks, is how computers are becoming more like people. There you go, a moment of zen.

You also have a bit of insight as to why I have headaches after working on this stuff.

Holidays!

2006-11-21T21:30:00.000-08:00

The holidays are here. It seems quite fashionable to bash, berate, and belittle each event as it rushes towards us in a non-stop frenzy culminating with the passing of another year.

Guess what? Not going to do it. Sorry.

I look forward to Thanksgiving, but I do not have any misgivings or romanticized notions about the day. I know this nation was built on the backs of others. I call it “Smallpox Blanket Day” in honor of my old next-door neighbor (who happens to be a Lakota medicine man / tribal elder.)

I come from Irish stock. The folks on my mother’s side were imported to work the Comstock. Slavery had come to an end, so the next cheapest form of labor was the Irish. It was slavery without the title.

I have come far past that. I will not forget where I came from, or what happened to my ancestors, but I will not allow it to consume or define me. Nor will I allow the actions of the long dead to determine my fate.

I like Thanksgiving. I like the big meal, the kids running around, and the lazy afternoon that follows the feast. During the entire event I am thankful, to nothing in particular, that I can have a day like that. That I can listen to the kids play. That I am.

This brings me to the big holiday. I like Christmas. I like watching the kids get excited. I like reminding my wife to (however begrudgingly) remember her birthday (December 24) in the middle of it.

I don’t get upset about the perceived commercialization of the holidays. I don’t watch much television, so I don’t see many ads. I have always ignored displays in stores. I enjoy watching the kids get excited, so the things that should aggravate me simply don’t.

See, I’m a grown up. I’ve learned when bitching will do something. I understand that this is a capitalist society and that my level of participation has a great deal of influence over my perception.

If I’m not concerned about buying a bunch of gifts, the displays won’t affect me.
If I am secure in my beliefs, other people’s will not offend me.
If I have my own reason for a holiday, nobody can market it to me.

Thus, with my blinders on and my mind wide open, I enjoy the holidays.

Déjà vu

2006-11-21T12:45:00.000-08:00

Things had been going so well on this latest remodeling spree. The flooring was moving right along, Toddling Ben was helping Daddy hit stuff, and the girls were behaving wonderfully.

Then came last night.

It was like a bizarre flashback.

First, I had to move the Albatross (300 pound TV) and the stand upon which it is perched. It wasn’t a bad stand, but my wife has always had a special place in her heart for it.

“I’m going to move the TV stand, can you keep an eye on the boy?” I asked.

“I hate that stupid, ugly, cheap piece of crap stand,” she replied, then went back to talking to an ex-boyfriend on the phone.

“Yes, but you love the TV more than life itself.”

“Whatever.”

So I slid the stand across the floor. I lifted it to place it on the new laminate when….

Snap. Crackle. Pop. Crunch. “Uh oh,” I said.

“Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Don’t let the TV fall!” She screamed from the other room.

I looked down. One of the corners of the stand had broken off. The TV wobbled slightly, but seemed to be OK. “See, you do love the TV more than life….”

Snap. Crackle. Pop. Crunch. Rice Crispies from hell.

I caught the TV, and looked for my bride. She was still on the phone with her ex-boyfriend, probably talking about how she had made a bad choice some 15+ years ago. She hung up quickly and came to help rescue her beloved Albatross.

We swung the table my Dad made under it, and paused. “Do you think it will hold it?”

“I don’t know, I’ll call the builder,” I answered.

By this time the hysterical girls where milling about, fretting about the fate of their beloved 36” Toshiba. It was very loud. I took the phone outside and talked to my Dad.

He wasn’t sure, but if I was going to try it, I had better brace it.
I hung up and sighed. I leaned back against the house. My shoulder pressed against a large window.

That’s when the window shattered. I invented a few new compound expletives.

I was not hurt, and my shirt was not even ripped. I left my wife to block off the window with plastic while I Carrie-Rigged (it was her idea) the TV stand with a spare wall stud.

We moved the stand into position, reconnected the TV, and let out a huge sigh of relief.

Then she called her ex-boyfriend back.

Answers

2006-11-19T21:59:00.000-08:00

In response to the puzzle below:

(Click for a bigger version)

Now, can we please carry on?

Good Shepherd

2006-11-19T18:45:00.000-08:00

So, having drawn the short straw, and being prone to awaking early, I was elected to take our eldest to her Religious (Indoctrination) Education classes. First up, Reconciliation.

Not confession, but Reconciliation. See, now the emphasis is on the pardon. I think this was done for the priests. Now you can do what you want, just confess, do your (significantly lighter) penance, and leave a twenty in the collection basket (we’ve got legal bills, please help!). The whole church has definitely softened up in recent years.

This has been loads of fun for me, as I am predisposed to wearing Hawaiian shirts to mass and cracking wise with my pewmates (new word!). I get odd / dirty looks from the faithful on a fairly regular basis.

My daughter, however, is fascinated by the entire practice. She loves the rituals, adores the decorations, and is giddy with anticipation for her next class.

There have been some interesting exchanges as a result of this new practice, which I will now share with you all.

During Mass:
Maddie: Why don’t you get a Jesus biscuit?
Me: What?
Maddie (Pointing to the people lining up): You know, like them.
Me: That’s called communion.
Maddie: OK, why don’t you go?
Me: I’ll tell you when you’re older.
Maddie: Is it because you’re a Godless heathen? That’s what mom calls you.
Me: No. Wait. What? Hold on. I’m here, and your Mom isn’t. Who do you think the heathen is now?
Maddie: You, because you don’t get communion.
Me: Hush.

In class:
Teacher: Who can tell me who the “Good Shepherd” is?
Maddie (waving hand): Moses!
Teacher: Yes, but...
Maddie (interrupting and nearly leaping to her feet): The burning bush, who was God, called him that.
Teacher: OK, how about in the New Testament
Maddie (with a huge grin): Ohhhhh, that would be Jesus.
Teacher: That’s right…
Maddie (interrupting): But Moses was too. You should probably make the question better.
Teacher: Yes, but we’re Catholic so we try to focus on the New….
Maddie: My children’s Bible has an Old Testament.
Teacher (visibly exasperated): Moving on…

During another Mass:
Me: Go get your blessing.
Maddie: I’ve been blessed enough for one Sunday.

She is SO my kid.

Tagged.

2006-11-18T22:07:00.000-08:00

Five things most people don't know about me. Because the wife said to.

My favorite food in the entire world is goulash. My grandma made it best.
Once, when I was short on cash, I let a company make a mold of one of my body parts. I got $500, which myself and a couple of buddies promptly blew in Vegas. My wife has seen the result. That was an awkward moment.
I am very good at cheating at cards. I can seriously clean up at Blackjack, but I always feel guilty afterwards.
Karma realignment plays a big part in how I spend my spare time. You know the Ten Commandments? I collected ‘em like baseball cards.
According to orthopedist, I have really, really dense bones. As a result, I have only ever broken one bone. My grandpa Charlie was a milk man- I grew up on a diet heavy on dairy products.
I have saved eight lives, including two of my three children. Ten if you count duplicates.

Yeah, so that is six. Toss out the one you don’t like.

Taa-Daa!

2006-11-18T08:41:00.000-08:00

Yea! Floor!

As a bonus, see if you can find:

Green ball burping dinosaur toy
The old red watering can
The lego left out by the kids
The table my dad built
A DSL telephone line filter
Hanging tea candles
Waldo

Hey Everyone- Help the world.

2006-11-18T01:16:00.000-08:00

Just when you thought the world couldn’t get any more bizare, I go and find this:

If you've got a few minutes to spare on 22 December, and fancy a quick shag for the advancement of World peace and harmony, then get yourself down to Global Orgasm - a mass coming-together of.. well, no, a mass coming together sums it up quite nicely.

Offical site here (complete with crap-tastic background music).

So you all, go and help the energy field of the Earth. Beats spending a couple of hours chanting, meditating, and hugging trees.

Of course, chanting, meditating, and hugging trees pretty much sums up my…. Oh, never mind.

Still Irritable

2006-11-18T01:03:00.000-08:00

Three days with a damn headache. At least it moves around. Today, it was the sides of my head, yesterday the front of my head that wanted to pop off, before that… well who cares. My ears are ringing and it is hard to concentrate for long.

It is sinus related, so I know there isn’t a lot to do other than drug up OTC style. Unfortunately, the stuff that works for me requires a prescription here in Oregon.

In case you haven’t heard, we have a plethora of methamphetamine-addled pricks running amok across the state. Our fearless, ignorant legislators- in an effort to look like they’re doing something to fight the problem- made certain over-the-counter medications illegal without a prescription.

This will work because, as you know, meth addicts won’t drive to Longview. Thus, without a major ingredient, all the dope cooks will stop making drugs and magically become law-abiding citizens who will happily work for minimum wage at some shit-hole diner.

So, to get the drugs that work, I have to go to the doctor. The insurance where I work is expensive, limited, and generally sucks, so to go I have to spend around $100. For a sinus headache. I just can not justify it.

Which brings me to this:

I typically go to the doctor twice a year- once for a checkup / physical, and once for a cold or the flu. I am considered by my doctor to be in good health.

So why do I pay the same premium as the stoke victim who still eats at McDonald’s four times a week? Or the obese person with diabetes?

My car insurance rate is based on my history and habits- why not my health insurance? I get a discount for taking defensive driving classes- why not a discount for going to the gym?

The standard argument against this idea is the whole “well I’d die if I don’t get this care / medicine / procedure” argument. I’m sorry if you need expensive medicine to live. That is not, however, my problem.

If you live in the forest, your homeowner's insurance costs more. If you have lots of tickets, your automobile insurance rates are high. If you don't take care of yourself, your health insurance should cost more.

If we made everyone pay car insurance based on the same rules as health insurance, there would be riots.

Yeah, but my head hurts and I’m grumpy.

Flotsam

2006-11-16T23:20:00.000-08:00

I put new floor down on about 25% of the front room. That’s one-fourth for those people that like fractions, and “about so big” for people from Tillamook.

Side note: I’m tired of picking on Knappa. So, if you live in the “The Land of Cheese, Trees and Tremendous Mounds of Moldy Cow Shit” you’re in for it today.

Well, maybe not so much- seems I like Tillamook.

Unlike so many other places on the coast, Tillamook County has an industry other than inbreeding or tourism. I guess I’ll pick on Warrenton.

Ah, lovely Warrenton. Proof that some people just don’t give a shit where they live. A town featuring zoning that makes Longview look downright “planned.”

Yeah. Whatever. Guess I’m a bit angry tonight. Two days with a headache was bound to have some ill effects.

So anyways, I’ve been putting down new flooring. The boy loves the new floor, keeps running back and forth on it, scooting, and so on. I asked my wife about this.

“Oh, he’s just happy to be able to move around without tearing his taint.”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, the floor was rough and had the staple things, so we had to worry about him, you know, hurting his business.” (She pronounced it “Bid-Ness” which sounds odd coming from a skinny blonde girl.)

“No, I don’t know.”

“Well, he could’ve torn his taint, or maybe punctured his scrotum. Whoo boy, bet that would’ve hurt!” She looked at me, smiled, and then went back to half-way baking flat oatmeal cookies (Yum, doughballs!)

I just walked away at that point.

My Grain

2006-11-15T00:47:00.000-08:00

Worked way late yesterday, then took the day off.

I had planned on working around the house. I was just going to do little chores, here and there.

Instead, my head is trying to kill me.

Damn.

What I did on Sunday.

2006-11-12T17:26:00.000-08:00

How many firemen does it take to change a lightbulb?

Four.

Three to hold the ladder and one that is stupid enough to climb in the rain up 25 feet on the side of the Aquatic Center.

Guess who went up?

Getting Started (Again)

2006-11-12T17:20:00.000-08:00

Time to get to work. I’ve pretty much just sat around letting the dust settle since we moved in.

Now, I’ve hung curtains, and I’ve spread a little paint. I haven’t, as the kids say, gotten busy. Or is it biz-ey? Yeah, whatever.

I finally realized that it was time to get started again. It wasn't the wife or kids that spurred me back into action, it was an email. See, a job opportunity came up.

Yes, I have a job, and yes I am good there. The money, however, was rather nice. It was a big fat carrot with really good benefits that was suddenly dangled out before me.

I wasn’t serious about taking the job, but more importantly, I really couldn’t take it.

That was my problem. If I sold the house now, it would be rather stupid. A couple of dollars more and a bit more work and this place would be worth much more.

I do not like being tethered by things. That is what has happened. I have been tethered here by this house.

So, I ordered flooring.

Yep, it is the cheap stuff. Will it look good? Yes. Will it add to the value of the house? Definitely. Will it break that tether?

Absolutely.

That is the goal. I may very well live here for thirty years. Or not. It will, however, be my decision and not the result of an object’s condition.

So, it is time to get started. Again.

Inventory

2006-11-12T12:14:00.000-08:00

We’ve been in the house for nearly two months now, I guess it is time to take stock and see how things are doing.

It seems the mighty, water-proof bathroom had an Achilles heal. When you build a room out of concrete, water-resistant lumber, latex, and ceramic you don’t expect water damage. Of course, I didn’t plan on a pair of hyper-active girls splashing an inch-and-a-half of water on the floor, either.

So, I’ve got water damage to one piece of trim, which happens to be to tile and grout. This will no doubt prove to be a tedious, messy, aggravating, pain-in-the-ass to fix. I should make the offending kids bath with a hose in the back yard until I fix it.

I can’t do that, however. That would be wrong. Stupid societal expectations of conduct.

Moving along, I find in the kitchen that the bride, in what can only be described as an impressive display of strength and clumsiness, has torn the front off of a cabinet door.

I hate the cabinets, so I’m over it. No worries. I am impressed, however.

The deep sink on the back porch was “Jerry-rigged” (see, we bought the house from a guy named Jerry….) and the drain got detached.

My wife came to the rescue by wrapping the offending pipe with a bread wrapper (yes, a bread wrapper) and flooding the mud porch. Thus it became “Carrie-rigged.”

See, her name is Carrie, and that rhymes with “Jerry”, which we use instead of “Jury” and ….. oh, never mind. At least I crack myself up.

I fixed the drain. In the process, I pulled out a pound of old Macaroni and Cheese.

I guess I’d better get a garbage disposal installed soon, as my bride apparently thinks there is one installed already. Easier for me to work than for her to adjust.

Finally, we have the hair dryer. The cursed, hated hair dryer.

My head is shaved, so drying my hair is accomplished with a hand-towel. My wife, with her long, flowing locks, needs to run a hair dryer for like 90 minutes. During this time, a breaker will invariably trip.

So, rather than replace the dryer, or even dry here hair in two runs (first with a towel), my Mensa-member wife goes into the basement and stands in an inch of water to dry her hair next to the breaker box.

Yup, she’s a smart one.

The positive? At least my next projects are all picked out.

Ahem...

2006-11-09T23:29:00.000-08:00

Have you ever been to Astoria, Oregon?

If you approach from the west, via Highway 26/101, you will see:

Great Chief CondomHead.

All hail Great Chief CondomHead, for he has the mighty reservoir tip and is ribbed for our pleasure!

So yeah-- I’m back.

I was wrong, I'm not even close to finished.

There is just so much more to be told.

The End, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday

2006-09-19T21:26:00.000-07:00

She did it. She put her foot down and said it was time to move. She said I was done enough.

She said it was time.

So, we rented a van and started to move.

Dave and Michelle and Vance and Jack and George and Wend-E came to help, and she went bowling with the brownies (a prior engagement from weeks past).

We moved all the stuff. Even the albatross (the huge television that my wife loves more than most people) was moved.

We picked up all the debris (at the end raking the ground with our fingers) and played a freakish Frisbee-like game with an old toilet ring. Vance wanted to make candles from the wax on the ring and sell it to the tourists at the Sunday market (smells like yesterday's dinner!)

Dave soiled his truck and trailer with disgusting dump mud that you can still smell.

We moved two refrigerators, one which tried to make a run to the river down 16th street.

Thus, with the help of people who were far too good to us, we moved into the house, but we aren’t exactly moved in.

We are in our home, but we aren’t quite at home. That will come later, when the boxes are gone and the aches have faded.

That, as they say, is that. Or maybe not.

Total costs: $2,500

Past Due, Day 15, Thursday- Last Minute Preparations

2006-09-15T00:40:00.000-07:00

We pulled up old carpet, worked on old stove pipes, and did all those little things that you put off until the last minute. I'm tired, the kids are covered in paint, and the wife is passed out.

We are still moving on Saturday, if you are bored, please feel free to come by and help. We would totally appreciate it.

The blog will also come to (mostly) an end tomorrow. I did this for the wife so she could get an idea of what I do over at these houses when she isn't around. She doesn't care about nuts and bolts, she just needs a laugh or two after dealing with the kids all day. She'll be there now, so there isn't really a point in doing this anymore. I'll find some other way to annoy her.

Go read her blog, she has things to say that don't involve exploding cans, displaced indians, or pooping.

Total costs: $2,500

Past Due, Day 14, Wednesday- Some things will have to wait.

2006-09-15T00:30:00.000-07:00

Things that will not be dealt with until after the move.

This is upstairs "bedroom." I convinced the wife to let us move into the boy's room until I can fix it up a bit.

The second floor, after it has been cleaned up a bit.

More of the second floor.

The basement / indoor winter swimming pool. It has been a lot better since I rewired the sump. I'm crossing my fingers that it stays somewhat drier now.

More of the basement. This is all the former owner's stuff. He'll be coming after it next week.

Total costs: $2,500

Past Due, Day 13, Tuesday- Fire Meeting

2006-09-15T00:12:00.000-07:00

I went to fire training tonight. We all sat in a classroom and watched a video tape on taking care of sick people. It was a class on how to diagnose stupid assholes that either don’t want to wait in the emergency room, or were too busy watching television to be bothered with dragging their lazy ass to the doctor.

I do not do well with people who can not be bothered to take care of themselves, or who expect the world to respond to their every problem. Want to be 500 pounds? Fine, just expect to have health problems. Upset at mommy and daddy? Find another way to express it.

I have no problem helping those that need it. I do have a problem in other areas- I tend to say exactly what I think without filtering it. Case in point:

At my old department we had a bariatric ambulance available. It was equipped with a special gurney and a modified load system. (In English, it was an ambulance just for fat bastards. It had a queen-sized gurney and a ramp system and a wench to pull the morbidly obese into this truck.)

I got in trouble for referring to it over the radio as the “fatty caddy.” As in, “we have a big one here, cancel the ambulance and send the fatty caddy.” The 450-pound guy we were working on (who was recovering from choking on food) did not like that at all. Neither did my battalion chief

A month later, I got in trouble again for giving a person with frequent (two in one month) half-assed suicide attempts advice on how to do it properly. In my defense, it was 2 in the morning, snowing, and she was mad at daddy for not getting her a car.

So yeah, I need to work on my verbal filter. A number of people, however, need to learn rule number two.

Total costs: $2,500

Past Due, Day 12, Monday- Just Paint

2006-09-14T23:44:00.000-07:00

I am officially winding down. The first part of the remodel is about finished, and we will move on Saturday- (Please feel free to come by and help). Spent a lot of time painting trim in the boy’s room.

I finally replaced the broken window as well- there was no sense in replacing it earlier, I’d just get paint all over it. No more broken glass (until the next storm.) Tape will come off tomorrow.

I had a nice dinner of cottage cheese with fresh blackberries. Yep, cottage cheese. Some say that isn’t a manly meal. I argue that it is in fact, one of the manliest things you can eat; if by manly, you mean nasty and slightly dangerous (like old pizza.)

Basically, it is really rotten old milk. Really. Heat milk to 86 degrees, add buttermilk and keep it warm for twelve hours. Cut up the chucks that form, then heat it up to 102 degrees for about an hour and a half. You know, to make it nastier. Bacteria loves temperatures below 120.

Woman food indeed. If women knew how it was made, most of them wouldn’t touch it.

Total costs: $2,500

Past Due, Day 11, Sunday- An Odd Vibe

2006-09-11T00:45:00.000-07:00

I went out this morning before the Sunday Market got started to get a cup of good coffee at the Rusty Cup.

I thought tourist season was just about over. I was wrong, as they were everywhere. So, while you are all welcome here (please bring cash and come visit), I have a couple of suggestions to you nice people that bring us money that will make us not hate you.

If someone is in the crosswalk, keep your car out of it.
If there is a stop sign, stop. If not, go. It is really pretty simple, and only requires that you pay attention.
There is nowhere in Clatsop County that is so cool that you need to drive like such a dick.
Hang up the stupid cell phone and control your brats.
Hang up the stupid cell phone and drive.
Hang up the stupid cell phone and try not to take up the entire sidewalk, you oblivious, self-absorbed boob.
You know what? Turn the damn cell phone off and lock it in your glove box. You can have it back when you get home, or if there is an emergency.
I really do not like your little rat dog. I really do not like your little rat dog barking at me from your car, startling me when I am just trying to get some coffee.
I will stand next to your car and watch the inbred little rat dog beats itself nearly unconscious on the window in an effort to get to me. I will then laugh in an evil manner.
Going the wrong way down a one-way street just makes me think you are an idiot. If you wave and smile, I will revise that to asshole idiot. You screwed up. Stop your car, get out, and let someone that can read drive.
The yellow line tells us where the lanes are. We each get one- so stay in yours. If you think the houses are pretty, great. Get you fat ass out of the SUV and walk around. You'll get exercise, you’ll see more, and I get to go to the store without risk of a head-on collision.
If you weight 300+ pounds, the Custard King is probably not your best bet. If your bathroom scale is to small to register your weight, use the chair for a guide. If you need to smear butter on your fat ass to wedge that mountain of flesh into the poor seat, go somewhere else. There was a family of fat bastards out front, posing like Tony Soprano’s crew in front of the meat market. Except that it looked more like “before” picture for Jenny Craig than a bunch of made guys.
Going to the Bowpicker? Great. It is either a half order or a whole order. Don’t ask for a burger, the damn place is in a converted boat. That is kind of a clue- they sell fish and chips. I am sick of having my taste of heaven delayed because I have to stand behind some illiterate ass while he sounds out the menu.
Never ask for ranch dressing with your fish. You want to eat garbage? Go to McDonalds.
I have no problem giving you directions. However, if you call me “Buddy,” “Pal,” or are rude, I’m going to send you on a little trip that will get you to your destination by way of both the new and old Young’s Bay Bridges and possibly Jewel.
There are a ton of restaurants here in Astoria. Guess what? They pretty much all serve fish, and they’re all pretty good. Just pick one, chances are you’ll do fine. This is a small town, if the food sucks, they usually don’t make it through the winter.

Usually the people don’t bother me, but today they obviously did. I was a little out of sorts. The universe seemed off-kilter.

I dodged the tourists, got my coffee, and went home to watch football. The Rams beat Denver because of, instead of in spite of, their defense. No touchdowns for the Rams. Not only that, but some guy in a Rams uniform was actually running the ball. A lot.

It was really weird not seeing Tory Holt dancing around the end zone. It was also sad to not see number 28.

Then the day got really strange- the kids let me watch the game in relative peace and quiet.

We all went to the house and worked. The kids behaved. The wife painted what she was asked to paint. She didn’t even make any paint goobers. Awesome, but shocking.

I painted two rooms in one afternoon. No emergencies, no trips to the hardware store. The boy’s room and the dining room are both new colors. Cool, but what the hell?

There was no blood spilled while working today. Not even a scratch. Even the wife avoided causing me bodily harm.

I used the bathroom in the house. It did not rock or leak. It sounds minor, but this is huge.

I hung a door, and the hinges lined up.

All told, I could get used to this.

Total costs: $2,500

Past Due, Day 10, Saturday- Bathroom, Check.

2006-09-10T00:14:00.000-07:00

I started my day by being molested in my sleep by my wife. Women need to learn that if people are asleep, they simply can not give consent. As a result of her actions, her punishment is that she has to do that again everyday for (at least) the next two weeks. I'll set her alarm clock.

I finished my day by finishing the damn bathroom. I went through plumbing hell (Christ was a carpenter, Satan was a plumber.) I visited City Lumber four times. You know what?

The bathroom is done. Finished. This is what it looks like.

From the doorway. The sink was a nightmare to install.

View from the tub. Towel rods are a tremendous pain in the ass to put up.

The bathtub area- note the shelves and soap dish

The non-urinal with a pretty handle.

That would be, as they say, that. So, what did my wife say when she saw this room?

"Wow. This is the best bathroom I've ever had." Then she paused. She looked a bit more. Then, she smiled and said, "do you know how I know you're gay? This room. Straight people can't do stuff like this. You're so gay you should have a show on HGTV."

That's fine. She still needs to complete her sentence, the alarm clock is still set.

Total costs: $2,480

Past Due, Day 9, Friday- Managing Frustration

2006-09-09T23:48:00.000-07:00

I finally figured out how to deal with being married and working on the house. I proudly present The Married Person’s Home Improvement Drinking Game:

Take a sip when:

She / He says “It looks crooked”
She / He says “are you sure?”
She / He leaves another paint goober on the wall / door
She / He hangs a picture up
She / He asks “plus or minus?” after you ask for the Phillips screwdriver
She / He hands you the wrong tool, and your eight year-old corrects him/her

Take a shot every time:

She / He moves your tools
She / He measures anything and says “around,” “about,” or “kinda”
She / He puts all the nuts, bolts and screws in one can / jar / cup
She / He gets upset when you ask for the dikes
She / He flips the switch when you are working on the lights
She / He says “No big deal”
She / He drops her end
She / He asks how to use the carpenter’s level (again)
She / He dumps all the nails in one bag (“they’re just nails”)
You get a dirty look

Drink directly from the bottle when:

She / He has to use the toilet immediately after you disconnect it
She / He says “That should be easy”
She / He looks up how to do something on the internet, then tells you (but doesn't share the print out)
She / He vacuums the worksite, while you are working
She / He unplugs the chop saw for her radio
She / He tells you to watch the baby while you’re running a circular saw

I’m going to need to go to meetings after this house. Oh well, at least I can be mayor.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 8, Thursday- The grump

2006-09-09T22:01:00.000-07:00

The wife and kids picked me up after work- my work clothes were in the car and I needed to get to work at the house.

“We need to stop off at City Lumber, I need a couple things,” I said.

“We’re late for tap class,” was her reply, “we have to go now!”

So we went. The class was supposed to be from 5:00 to 5:30. “No problem, the hardware store is open until 6:00,” I said, “I’ll wait in the car with the sleeping boy.”

Now, I thought that we were going to drop off the child and I would be whisked away to get to work, then get dinner brought to me after the class. Never works out that way.

The class started late, and finished up at 6:00. The hardware store was closed. The kids were fighting over a feather boa. I still wasn’t working on the house.

“Just take me to the house,” I said, “I need to get to work.”

She dropped me off and sped away.

I had a dinner of cold hot dogs, peanut butter, and Gatorade, then went to work, cutting tiny little slivers of tile that no one will ever notice, but would if they were missing. I finished the bathroom floor, after digging through the trash pile, with exactly three blue diamonds to spare.
I was cleaning up, when at 11:30, she came to the door in her pajamas. “Steelers won! Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, hey, I finished the tile work.”

“Looks good. The kids are in the car. Let’s go.”

I sensed that she was a bit miffed. “Something wrong?”

“You were a jerk earlier,” was her reply.

“Oh, so you watched the Steeler's game?”

“Yes. We also had dinner. kids are in the car. Let’s go.”

At this point, I did what anyone with an ounce of self preservation would do. I apologized.

So, yes. I admit it. I’m tired, behind schedule, and have been living off of condiments for the better part of five weeks. I might be a little testy. I may even be grumpy.

Just please cut me some slack.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 7, Wednesday- Simple Electrical Work

2006-09-06T21:41:00.000-07:00

Today I needed to replace a bathroom fan, so I shut off the power by sticking a screwdriver in the junction box, moving it rapidly back and forth, and letting the breaker take over.

Ahhh... ozone.

Smells like electrical work. Now, if I say so myself, my electrical skills are better than, say, a baboon with serious head trauma. As such, I figured this would be no problem at all. I went upstairs and disconnected all of the wiring from the old fan, carefully labeling where each wire was before.

Just kidding.

I tore through the old stuff like a hyperactive kid tears through presents on Christmas. Not only was everything dismantled, but I had no clue what came from Uncle Marty and what was from Santa.

That is to say, I was screwed.

The old wiring was, to say the least, cryptic. Standard (black and white) color codes? Not present. I had three sets of wires, two lights and three switches.

I made a WAG (wild-assed-guess), put everything together, ran down to the basement and flipped the breaker back on. That lasted about half a second. Went back upstairs, tried again, ran down, and flipped the breaker- pop. On and on, upstairs and downstairs. This went for the better part of an hour.

Finally, by way of increasingly desperate WAGs, I made one light work on one switch. Half way to my new desired result of two lights, two switches. (Helpful tip: if something is hard to accomplish, change the goal.) With this knowledge, I was able to complete the wiring after only an additional hour.

I went downstairs and flipped the breaker. It held. I went to the bathroom and flipped the switch. The radio went off. Breaker tripped again. I left the switch on, went upstairs and unwrapped the wire splices to make it easier to move things around.

I was pretty sure I just had something crossed. So, I flipped the two wires I was positive were wrong and went back to the basement. I flipped the breaker.

Pop. Bastard.

I flipped it again. Pop. And again. Pop. One more time. Pop.

Damn. Back upstairs. More wire moving. Got shocked. Cursed.

Wouldn’t you know it? Tenth time was the charm. Everything was working as I (newly) intended. Yes, the switches were in a different order now, but we only need two, and that is more energy efficient.

I went downstairs, mounted everything, and then went back upstairs to connect the old duct work into the new fan. That’s when I discovered that the exhaust didn’t go OUTSIDE. No, no- that would have made sense. No, this duct ended in the bedroom. Left as it was, I could imagine how this would play out.

Me: Hey Wife, the kids are asleep.
Her: OK, how about hot monkey love?
Me: Yea! (Clapping)
Her: (Sniffs) Um, wait, no. Get away.
Me: What did I do now?
Her: It smells like poop in here.
Me: It’s the bathroom fan! One of the kids….
Her: Yeah, sure. Go to sleep, you stinky bastard.
Me: But, (sniffle) hot monkey love……
Her: Goodnight.

That will not do. I shall not have stinky bathroom fumes for which I am not directly responsible prevent the hot monkey love.

So, I did what any caring husband would do. I disconnected the electrical for the fan.

Duh.

Fixing it right would require the cutting of holes in the roof. Rain comes in holes in the roof. I fall off the roof. I fear the roof. The roof sucks.

Besides, it will take her years to figure out that the fan doesn’t work. She thinks her fecal matter doesn’t cause olfactory distress (I love thesauruses) and that everyone else’s is too much for ANY fan, so I’ll tell her it is a super-quiet model and everything will be just fine.

She’ll never know.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 6, Tuesday- Disgusting

2006-09-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

From the Daily Astorian:

Astoria mayor arrested for DUII after accident
This is the third time Van Dusen has been charged with drunken driving
Astoria Mayor Willis Van Dusen was arrested Monday night and charged with driving under the influence of intoxicants.
...
This is the third time Van Dusen, 53, has been charged with drunken driving. The first time was in Umatilla County Nov. 13, 1989, after his car was observed swerving on its way into Pendleton on Interstate 84. The case was dismissed and he was sent to diversion May 23, 1990. He completed diversion from that arrest in 1991.

I think you know how I feel about drunk drivers. What in the hell is wrong with people?

I mean, come on, he is the freakin' mayor. Yes, this is a tiny town on the coast, but how about some personal responsibility? Or accountability?

He’s up for re-election. Sadly, I doubt this will hurt his campaign at all.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 5, Monday- Almost...

2006-09-04T22:24:00.000-07:00

Very tired. Also, a bit whacked on fumes from:

Spray paint / texture
Sewer gas from hole where missing toilet is

Bathroom is almost finished, just a few more tiles, some grout, and reinstalling the fixtures. Rather than blather on, I've posted pictures.

Before- from the hall.

Now- View from the hall.

Where the urinal isn't. I can't believe I've missed that spot on the wall at least five times.

Oh yes, there are no squirrels here. There is one here, however. I have no idea why I think that particular post is so freaking funny.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 4, Sunday- Whatever...

2006-09-04T10:01:00.000-07:00

Bummer about the Crocodile Hunter. That guy made me feel sane. I (knowingly) do some stupid stuff, but I leave venomous creatures alone. I enjoyed learning about animals by watching Steve Irwin piss them off. The guy was a hoot, and I really enjoyed watching his stuff. Holding a baby whilst feeding a croc? Yeah, I'd do that kind of stupid shit.

On the topic of mortality, I’m currently taking bids from cardiologists for my upcoming quadruple bypass. While I have lost about ten pounds while working on this house, it hasn’t been due to my diet.

I’ve been living off of plain peanut butter sandwiches, apples, cottage cheese, and bacon. Lots of bacon. Literally pounds of the stuff.

I love bacon. My wife knows this, and as I have been a good boy and working on her house, she has purchased lots of it for me.

For breakfast yesterday, I had hash browns, fried eggs, and half a damn pound of bacon. The day before? Bacon sandwich. Breakfast today? An omelet with cheddar, feta, and jack cheese, peppers, onions, and half a pound of bacon.

I don’t need a cholesterol test, I need an oil change.

Back to it. I get emails about this thing. Not just the “Get any love pi11 you need!” type. For whatever reason, some people do not like to use the comments.

Now, as I’m a bit busy with this whole restoration thing, I don’t leave comments like I should. I visit other people’s blogs, and sites that refer folks here, I just don’t comment. My email is no better, but I do eventually get to it.

So now- Reader Email! These are actual items that pretty much went straight into my junk mail folder. I've saved some and I’m answering them today to make up for a light post.

UR GOIN TO HELL 4 BLASPHEMY. U NEED TO REPENT AND FIND JESUS B4 IT IS TOO LATE. PRETENDING 2 B GAY IS NOT FUNNY AND GOD WILL GET YOU.

Yeah, I take salvation advice from some asshole with an AOL address. How’s live in the trailer park Marylou? I’m Catholic, you dipshit, I know where Jesus is- he’s hanging on the wall behind the priest on the big cross. Besides, I’ll get purgatory- I need to screw up way worse than “pretending to be gay” to get hell. Purgatory- it’s like a chat room on AOL for your soul, but with way nicer people. Why do southerners think God is the boogeyman?

Oh yeah, I’m sorry your Daddy beat you with a bible. Next message!

RU 4 REAL?

No, I’m imaginary. Yes, I’m real. My wife is real, my kids are real, the house is real, even Chemo Clem is real. Next message!

You mentioned dry rot in a post- how did you fix it? I’ve got rot in my laundry room I need to fix.

Wow. The drug problem is truly out of control. Asking me for advice? Get help, buddy.

I'll help nonetheless. The first thing to do is to determine how much rot there is, what caused it, and where it goes. The short answer is to fix the leak, kill the rot, and replace the damaged area.

First, (I’ll assume you fixed the leak) kill the mold. Yes, there will be mold. Take a sprayer filled with 50% bleach and 50% water. Spray it over the entire affected area. Wait for it to completely dry.

Next, get some anti-freeze. You want the dollar-store cheap-o highly-toxic-to-pets glycol antifreeze. Spread it all over the area that is rotten (use a brush, not a sprayer,) and about 5” (or as much as possible) on all sides. Do not forget the bottom. The antifreeze should soak in really fast. Wait until it has, and wipe away any excess.

Remove ALL of the rotted material. Add more antifreeze to the cut/chiseled areas. Then replace the missing materials. Sometimes, you have to dig out a little spot (fill with BONDO), sometimes take out a board, and sometimes you have to reframe a wall. Cut / chisel / tear the wet and rot away. Replace with like materials per local building codes.

Guess what- this works. I learned it from a fisherman down at the hardware store. They use this to fix dry rot on their boats. Next message!

IS THE STUFF U POST 4 REAL? Y DO U POST STUFF THAT MAKES YOU LOOK DUM?

Is your Cap-Lock button broken? Why do you abbreviate “you”? I look dumb? At least I can spell “dumb.” Dipshit.

Anyway, yeah, it is (sadly) real. The space-time continuum takes a few hits (days are shifted, or multiple days get compressed) primarily for entertainment value. For example, the whole urinal thing took place over two days (and is still going on.) The basic facts are indeed true, and the conversations are pretty much verbatim. I’m just leaving out the dead time between major events.

I do this blog because my wife told me to. As far as the looking dumb, oh well. I’ve never been concerned with the opinions of others. I’ve been doing this type of work for a long time and this kind of stuff happens (well, not everything) to just about everyone. My thought is that if I write about falling off the stupid roof twice in one day, some newbie won’t feel back about slipping themselves.

So, here is the deal, people. Use the comments and I promise to try and answer everything. I'm not going back into the Junk Mail folder anymore.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 3, Saturday- Just Another Day

2006-09-03T09:19:00.000-07:00

I spent the day cutting, painting, and installing trim. Lots of trim. Mind-numbing, soul-shattering amounts of trim. I had looked online and in books to see how houses like mine would have been trimmed and went from there.

The stuff is not fancy, but there typically is a tremendous amount of it. Measure, cut, paint, nail, caulk, paint, repeat.

But, the trim is done.

I also scrapped that nasty sticky diamond crap off the bathroom window. I had no idea at all why it was there. I peeled it away, applied liberal quantities of Goo-Gone and was left with a nice, clean window.

A short time later, I decided to use the facilities. I looked out my nice clean window at the street outside. One of the nice neighbor ladies waved to me.

She waved. While I was on the toilet.

I was a bit flustered. This was seriously embarrassing. Dear God, my pants are down and women are WAVING.

Better than laughing and pointing, I guess.

Anyway, I did the only thing I could think to do. I waved back. Then I stuck a half-sheet of half-inch thick HardiBacker in the window. It sat for a moment, then fell and hit me on the head.

Dazed and slightly hurt, I pushed the panel back up.

It fell and smacked me again. Back up it went, and this time I held it. “I do not want to die like Elvis.” I thought.

The panel continued to beat me about the head and shoulders while I buttoned up my jeans and concluded my business. Image how this looked yourself. The reality was probably worse.

So, now, after flashing the neighborhood, I know why the stuff was there. I bought a can of window frosting stuff. That should not happen again.

I am thankful for one thing- at least it wasn’t my wife that found out about it first.

About that time, the family returned from their fun-filled trip to somewhere exciting and new. They had eaten exotic foods and seen interesting new things, while I sat in the time sink and ate a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and some cottage cheese.

OK, they went to Longview / Kelso and ate at Taco Bell because it has a really good playground.

Yeah, I made out better on that deal.

We all went home for dinner, and my wife made fresh fajitas. Why she made Mexican food after eating at a Taco Bell is beyond me. After dinner, it was time to head back.

“I want to go help,” she announced.

“Cool. OK. Great. Let’s load up.”

“I need you to get the Yaffa blocks.”

“The Kafka blocks?” I asked.

“Yaffa. Y-A-F-F-A blocks. You know, the things the kids toys go in.”

“Why?” I was a bit confused.

“So I can put them together,” she answered. “Then I can start bringing toys over.”

“I thought you were going to help me.”

“Yeah, that will keep the kids quiet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I had visions of you painting the dining room, or touching up doors, or any other number of, well, ‘working on the house’ type things.”

“Fine. We’ll stay home.” She shot back.

"You know, this is going on the blog, right?"

"Whatever."

So that was that. Back to the house with only a big white dog for company. When I got home, she was on the couch.

“What were you working on tonight?” She asked, smiling.

“Your stupid cabinet. You know, the one were the urinal stall should be.”

“If you really want a urinal, you can have one.”

I dropped everything in my hand and grabbed paper and a pen. I got this note. It reads:

I, slave Hubby’s overseer, hereby swear that he may put his little shrine to his penis (urinal) in the Master bath, after he builds it. –Wife.

Whoo! I get to put in a urinal! Right after I….. spend like $7,500 installing a dormer…. another $2,000 on a plumber…. probably another $4,500 on fixtures and materials….

HEY! She was using my man-toilet as bait. Comparatively cheap bait for a very expensive and time consuming project. I’ll show her. I’m keeping the note, and when I do build the upstairs bathroom I’m PUTTING IN THE URINAL!

If she lets me.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 2, Friday- Father of the Year

2006-09-02T09:56:00.000-07:00

My wife is hard on appliances. It started when we first became an item, and it hasn’t gotten any better since.

When we were the young, childless, dual-income family, we decided to build the ultimate hamster house. So my new bride went to second hand stores and purchased every piece of hamster habitat she could find. I assembled these pieces into a truly ridiculous, completely impractical, and rather massive structure that spanned half of a room.

Seriously, there were tubes and wheels everywhere. We drank a lot in those days.

At any rate, we bought a couple of hamsters and set them loose in this new Malibu dream hamster house. It literally took a week for the hamsters to find each other.

Now, if you know anything about hamsters, you know what happened next. If not, let me summarize: Hamster Thunderdome. Three went in, one came out.

Hamsters, much like IT professionals, are not social creatures.

After a series of hamster burials, we decided to dismantle the hamster structure of doom and have a single cage for the winner (I wanted to name it Mad Max, but noooooo).

Shortly thereafter, the dishwasher broke. Odd. This was the machine that could eat a cake on the commercials. I saw it myself, and that’s why I bought it.

So, with the help of an appliance repairman friend, we tore into the guts of the dishwasher to find:

Sawdust.

Ew. Gross. I turned to my wife.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She turned on the cute looks.

“Why is there sawdust in the dishwasher?”

“I don’t know, you’re the wood guy. What did you put in there?”

“Dishes. This sawdust is green.”

“Maybe it is old.” She was smiling and flipping her hair.

“This looks like hamster house shavings.”

“Am I cute?” She asked.

My friend piped up “Yeah, that what this is. Did you wash some kind of animal cage in here?” We both stared at her, slightly in shock.

“Yes, fine, I’m sorry.” She answered. She did the cute stomp and turn thing and marched away in a cloud of long blonde hair.

“Dude, gross. You’ve been eating hamster poop on your dishes.” My friends are so helpful.

“Shut up,” was all I could manage. I was feeling slightly ill.

There it was. My lovely new bride had washed the extra hamster house pieces in the DISHWASHER, clogging and destroying the pump.

It was three months before we got a new dishwasher (I was pissed), and even then, we had “what to and what not to put inside” classes.

She has not killed another dishwasher in almost fifteen years.

Washing machines, however, she goes through like Paris Hilton goes through men. A washer lasts, on average, two years. I don’t even bother to buy them new anymore.

Our last washer had it transmission shredded by a load a queen size comforter, two pairs of jeans, and about half a pound of split-shot fishing washers.

She should have checked my pants pockets.

We were in the process of purchasing the house, so I figured I buy another $150 sacrifice to gods of laundry after we moved in. Used washers do not like to be moved.

That’s when she saw it on the side of the road. A washing machine with a “Free, I work” sign on it. We loaded up the van and headed over.

Sure enough. A free washer. On the side of the road. What the hell, if it doesn’t work, I’ll bring it back under cover of darkness.

So I lug this monster to the side of the van. It wont fit through the side door.

At this point, I did what any father of the year candidate would do. I tossed the kids out on the side of the road.

“Everybody out.” I said.

“But dad, it’s hot out there, and we’re tired. We’ve been at the park all day and it is a long way to…” whined my oldest.

“Rule number two.” I answered. See, we have three rules for life in our family:

Life is not fair.
It is not all about you.
Do the right thing.

Everything can be filed under one of those three rules.

“Fine. Not fair.” She paused, then quietly, “Rule one.”

I folded down the seats and loaded the washing machine in the back of the van and gleefully left my wife and two daughters on the side of the road. Free washer! This thing must be worth like $50!

I drove the quarter mile straight uphill in the 80+ degree heat (in Astoria, that’s sweltering) to the time sink, and had some ice cream while I waited for my wife to arrive.

Just kidding. I drug the machine up into the laundry room, hooked it up, and….

It works. Really well. Ran a hot water / bleach cycle on it and everything is good.

Too bad the poor thing only has a year to live.

Total costs: $2,465

Past Due, Day 1, Thursday- The Dynamic Duo

2006-08-31T23:46:00.000-07:00

After a long day of smashing my fingers with hammers, dragging bathtubs, and futile attempts at ridding myself of the “Hated Safe of Eternal Heft,” I ran out of coffee. The “Thermos of Continued Consciousness” was empty.

This would not do. I’m running on minimal sleep (I fell asleep last night, unable to cash in on my cabinet-building prowess) and am sore from head to toe. The coffee doesn’t really make me feel any more awake, but it does wash down the aspirin.

I did what anyone would do. I went home to make MORE coffee. I walked in, started the coffee pot and said hello to my dear wife. She was busy entertaining the baby by lying on the bed reading a book while a fan blew nice cool air on her.

Before I could commit verbal suicide, however, the door bell went off. Actually, the doorbell is our “Bassett Hound of Perpetual Dim-Wittedness with a Long Pretentious Purebred Name.” We call her Rosebud...

I answered the door, pushing back the fearsome pile of canine cowardice that is Chemo Clem and Rosebud. I found myself face-to-face with Wendy with an “E” (that’s WendE, because a “Y” isn’t “E-ish” enough) through the screen door.

“We’re going to go over and paint! So, we’re going to break into your house! Is that OK?!” Most of her sentences really do end in exclamation marks! Wende is funny that way! She’s actually a clergy type (in the President’s church!) but- and this is a very good thing- doesn’t have that funeral director “so sorry for your loss” slash preacher “listen to me or go to hell” kind of vibe.

Anyway, I was shocked. Not at the whole breaking into the house thing- hell, burn it if you want- but rather that she and her husband were willing- no, on their very way- to help me paint. Wow. Cool. Now I actually feel bad for the whole “shocker” thing, making fun of the way her name is spelled, and poking fun of her general zest for life as I did above.

“I’m making coffee- just give me a minute….” I stammered.

“No, if this is stressing you out, we’ll go…”

“No, no, no, I’m just, er, well, coffee…”

“Don’t worry! We’ll climb in the window!” Off she went!

My coffee finished very shortly thereafter, so I went back to the time sink. She and her husband Jack had, true to her word, climbed in the window. I showed them around. We all went to work, and I was extremely entertained by their banter as they made all of the green paint disappear in the dining room.

Wow.

Thus, I hereby dub them the Dynamic Duo, for the following reasons:

They can break into houses without alerting the neighbors.
They can turn green paint into white primer in just two hours.
They call their son “Boy Wonder” so I might as well keep the whole “Batman” thing going.

Yeah, all-in-all, that was a pretty cool surprise. I'm pretty lousy at that whole expressing apprecition thing, so I'll just stick to what I know:

Thank you both, a lot.

Total costs: $2,368

Day 33, Wednesday- Religious Studies

2006-08-31T00:57:00.000-07:00

This was supposed to be my last day of work. I was supposed to move in to the house tomorrow and get on with my life.

Yeah, that really didn’t really work out.

Rather than dwell on missed deadlines, kvetch about dry rot, and whine about how deteriorating plaster all conspired to keep me from moving in on time, I’m just going to suck it up and keep going. It isn’t like I have a choice.

So, at any rate, today was the day I had to move the bathtub back into place. After all of the work I had to do on the floor, I was a bit nervous about moving this large piece of cast iron onto the delicate porcelain floor my dear wife had selected.

Alright, it isn’t porcelain, it is ceramic. It isn’t really all that delicate either, considering it is floor-grade.

At any rate, I was a bit nervous. I was going to have to shove, lift, tilt, and drag the tub into place. This was to be a trial by fire for my floor. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and I did what came natural.

I stalled.

I scraped paint off of windows. I installed window sash locks. I did a hundred little necessary, but unrelated, things to delay my pending task.

If you’ve never installed floor tile before, you probably don’t understand this. You can make mistakes when you install tile. You can have a thin spot in the thinset; a slight unevenness in the floor, or even a hairline crack in a tile and it will normally be just fine. Fifty years could pass without a problem, until that moment you put a lot of concentrated weight on just the wrong spot. Having a tile crack, or even shatter in the floor, or having a grout line pop is just a horrible feeling.

So, I was nervous. I needed to move the tub, however, and I was burning daylight. I crossed myself, said a scrambled “Hail Mary” and two completely muffed “Our Fathers” (when I finally get the three days required to go to confession, I’ll either get plenty of practice on the rosary, or the event will end up with a bell, book and candle) and grabbed the tub. While I get religion at odd moments, it typically fades quickly.

I got into position. I heaved, and I pulled, and I lifted, and I pushed.

No broken tiles, no popped grout.

I cautiously checked the path the tub had taken across the floor, rubbing each tile gently to feel for fractures. It was all good, so I decided to climb into the tub.

I sat down and laid back- this is a great bathtub- and waited. Nothing. I sighed a big sigh and slid down to get a little more comfortable.

POP! PING!

I sat up quickly, and in a panic I scrambled out of the tub and started looking at the floor under the tub. I pulled the tub out and checked the back tiles.

Nothing.

Then I saw it- a stupid tile spacer was in the middle of the floor. It must have been wedged under the tub’s foot. I moved the tub back, and cleaned up the mess made by the metal feet on the white tile.

Stupid spacers.

I checked it again, and everything was fine. I decided to move on to the plumbing. I spent the better part of thirty minutes looking for the Teflon tape that costs $2.00 at the store located five minutes away. I wrapped all of the pipe threads and went to hook everything back up. I connected the drain pipes to the tub and noticed something.

To protect the wall, the tub was now two inches farther away from the wall that it had been originally.

The drain, however, was not moved. I had no way to connect it.

I found new and exciting ways to combine blasphemy and simple swearing. I felt cheated! I had made a slightly better than half-assed attempt at spirituality and look what it got me!

Yeah, ring the bell. Close the book. Quench the candle.

I decided to call a plumber. Let some different guy with an exposed hairy ass crack deal with this mess.

I then turned my attention to the area behind the stub wall. It is two feet across and empty. I sat panting (the tub is heavy) and stared at the space, trying to decide what to put there.

Suddenly, an epiphany!

A urinal! I could totally put a urinal there! A nice manly touch to a bathroom that will otherwise be monopolized by women forever! I searched the Internet at lunch and found a wonderful selection of man-toilets for my choosing. It will be like getting an extra half-bath without having to build anything new!

All of the reasonably priced urinals were of the “bidet on the wall” variety, and that would not do. Real men do not use bidets. Real men get confused and mistake bidets for drinking fountains. Real men are mostly idiots that way.

What I want is a chest-to-floor monument to my penis and my God-given-ability-to pee-standing-up. I want an old-school, hard-core, you-don’t-have-to-aim because everything’s a target style urinal. It will also need one of those big mints at the bottom.

After much searching, I found the urinal that I want. It is over three feet tall, more than a foot-and-a-half-wide, and has that cool automatic flush thing. This is a manly man-toilet. I realized that there would still be room above it to mount a lovely velvet painting.

I was thinking of something tasteful like dogs playing cards, an Elvis portrait (the young sexy Elvis, not fat and bloated Vegas Elvis) or even, dare I dream, this masterpiece.

Or, I could just go with the whole “penis altar” motif. You know, shelves of candles with melted wax like they have at church. They even have candles that smell like Jesus. A nice picture of Saint Dymphna hanging above. That could be cool, too.

Time to get ordering! I checked the price and (holy shit!) found out it was $600 before shipping. That is a little more than our “we didn’t talk about this” price limit, so I went downstairs and described my design ideas to my lovely bride.

“Oh, hell no,” she said, giving me the “have you recently suffered head trauma?” look.

“Yeah, but, it would be cool, and it would save water.”

“You want a urinal? Put it in the basement. Build your freaky little wee-wee shrine down there.”

“I have a urinal in the basement- the sump. Oh, and never put the words ‘little,’ ‘your,’ and ‘wee-wee’ in the same sentence.”

“Whatever. Go remodel.” As she went back to her work, I heard her mutter “freak.”

I sensed the conversation was over.

I went back to the time sink and built a cabinet in my urinal stall. It has three shelves, a tile top, and a door with a little pink flower pull. It is very nice and provides over sixteen cubic feet of storage.

How did I decide to build a cabinet? Simple. When my wife and I first got married, she informed me that “foreplay starts at breakfast.” That is a lot of work, and I usually have to remain scarce to avoid “screwing up.”

I have since learned that if you give a woman either jewelry or storage you can skip that whole “be a good boy all day crap.” I’m spending every dime on the house- but I’ve got materials.

Sixteen cubic feet of storage? In a bathroom previously devoid of storage? Yeah, her skivvies will hit the wall so hard the neighbors will hear it.

Unless I fall asleep first.

Total costs: $2,368

Day 32, Tuesday- Family Interaction

2006-08-30T14:43:00.000-07:00

I simply adore my wife.

Anyone that knows me, or has seen us together realizes how completely inadequate the word “true” is to describe the above sentence. That does not, however, mean that she does not drive me completely insane at times.

You see, my lovely bride is afflicted with a bad case of AADD (Adult Attention Deficit Disorder). With three kids, I can see how it happened to her. Hell, being married to me would cause it.

Case in point- we all went to the house this evening. She is the grout sponge queen, and frankly, I hate that particular job. We put the kids in the back bedroom with some toys and a DVD player, and I started to mix grout.

I came out of the kitchen and found her moving my tools around. “What are you doing?” I asked, trying to be chipper.

“You didn’t tell me what you wanted me to do while I waited for you,” she answered.

“Why don’t you paint the doors, or the trim, or put some primer on the windows like last night?”

“Oh, OK.”

That was when I lost the grout float. So, I guess this is all my fault. Everyone (including the kids) took up the search. After some time, it was found- in the kitchen- on the counter- right were I put it twenty minutes ago- mocking my lack of short term memory.

“Hey, there’s the primer and the sponge brushes,” I offered.

“Yes, I see them.” She started towards them. I put my headphones on and started to grout.

I heard muffled instructions. Yet I continued to grout.

Then I heard broken screaming. Yet I continued to grout.

Then I heard stifled arguing . Yet I continued to grout.

Then I saw my 1 year old son chewing on a screwdriver. Yet I continued to grout.

Then a breaker tripped. Yet I continued to grout.

The lights came back on. Yet I continued to grout.

Then I heard the vacuum. I stopped grouting.

“Uh, yeah, what are you doing?” I tried to sound like I was actually curious. I glanced over her shoulder at the still not being-being-painted-French-doors.

My bride gave me the “don’t be an idiot and you better shut the hell up right now” look of doom number 37. Yeah, she has a lot of those looks. The higher the number, the more my life is in jeopardy. The scale, until today, went as high as 25. (That was the day she forgot to set the parking brake on her car and it rolled down the hill and into a tree. I got the look at the moment she realized that she had been driving, and not me.)

I went back to the grout. Then I saw my oldest moving stuff into the boy’s room. I came out again.

She saw me. “I’m trying to make it safe for your son out here. Also, we’re putting everything in the other room so you can pull the old carpet.”

“You know I’m going to curse you tomorrow, right?”

“Yes. You remember this was your idea, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I was just hoping to get the doors....”

“YOUR SON IS TRYING TO EAT LEAD PAINT!”

“OK, well then, good job.” I paused, then decided to try another approach. “Why don't you go ahead and get your pail and sponge- I’m ready for you.”

We finished grouting. We worked in shifts, one of us watching the baby while the other worked away.

Total costs: $2,368

Day 31, Monday- Caucasian Refuse

2006-08-29T00:27:00.000-07:00

With just two days left, I only have 30 feet of floor tile to set and one little boy’s room to paint. I might just make it. After days like this, however, I'm not so sure.

After a half-day at the office, I resumed work on the "Bathroom of Perpetual Disrepair". I finished the tile for the bathtub surround, washed my hands and had a late lunch consisting of a delicious piece of leftover pizza from the night before. It tasted a bit off, but I assumed that was just “fridge taste.”

I went back to work and pulled the tile spacers from the wall. I decided to get started on the floor, so I removed the (only) toilet out to give me more workspace as well as let me take care of some additional rot. I was about to get to work on the subfloor, cutting out the rotten boards when there was a rumbling in my stomach.

A bad rumble. A “get to the toilet now” rumble.

In a panic, I dashed for the toilet and slammed it back in place. Sweating, I “assumed the position” and… passed gas.

I was a bit sheepish, sitting there, reflecting on the panic that had struck only a few minutes before. My eyes were watering a bit, so I left the room (with the window open) and allowed the atmosphere to cycle in the room. For the record, had this happened in New York, CNN would still be reporting on it with special team coverage on the “chemical attack.”

I figured it was a good time to let the old stomach settle, so I decided to start spreading paint in the boy’s room. I was running low on the ceiling paint from the Evil Empire (fortified with Unicorn horn!) The fact that the lid wasn’t put on tight last night did not help. So, I mixed it with the $2 can of paint I got at the “Big box store that is not City Lumber and yes I feel dirty for having gone there” and came up with a new shade that I will call….

“What have I done to my son’s room purple?”

This is My Little Pony purple. I tried to lie to myself and pretend that it is something manly like “Battleship Gray” or perhaps “Gunmetal.” No matter how macho the name, the paint stayed purple. It clashed with the sky blue walls in a way that no other shade could.

There is a bright side. I ran out of this monstrosity. Now I can go buy real paint and try again. At least it covered the ceiling of perpetual doom.

I returned to the bathroom and pulled the toilet again. I started laying floor tile when the bad rumble returned.

Oh, shit. Literally.

Figuring it was just gas, I decided to carefully let fly. Bad move. Using my cat-like reflexes, I stopped the explosion with my “butt checks o’ steel.”

I was suddenly faced with a rather uncomfortable situation. I really could not go to the neighbor’s house- I’ve only just met them and explosive, foul-smelling, bad-pizza diarrhea is not a good way to make friends.

I considered other options- the bushes out back (too many blackberries), driving home (not gonna make it), and even the kitchen sink (EWWWWWW!)

As such, I chose the only practical option. I reinstalled the toilet, whilst tightly clenched. For the record, walking like a penguin is not conducive to working on plumbing. With the bowl back in place, I finally found relief.

Too bad I forgot to hook the water back up first. I realized this “just a little too late.” There was no way I was messing around under the toilet now- I needed to get water in this thing now.

I found my salvation in a garden hose. I was happily standing in the bathroom holding a garden hose in the toilet tank thinking about how clever I was.

Then it hit me- I am such a freak. Normal people don't have this kind of stuff happen to them, and if they do, they sure as hell don't post it on the Internet.

Yeah. Well, I've never been considered normal, and I am rather pround of that. I think normal people watch too much TV and try too hard to be "safe." I think normal people should try new things, even if some of those things don't work out.

I think normal people should all work together to make normal a little more exciting. Then I'll try and be normal.

Oops, sorry about that. Back to the post.....

So, in closing, if you’ve ever facilitated the flushing of a toilet with a garden hose, you might just be white trash. I, however, prefer to be called Caucasian Refuse.

Total costs: $2,368

Day 30, Sunday- Everyday Surprises

2006-08-27T22:55:00.000-07:00

So, the finger has new colors today, is numb, and has swollen so much that my skin is actually taunt. The whole numb thing, whilst convenient, is a bit alarming. I’m thinking I might need to visit the doctor about this. Maybe in a few days.

I went to work tiling and painting the bathroom, and got about half-way finished. Even getting that much done was tough.

The wife came over to help out. I asked her to paint the ceiling in the boy’s room. She started rolling, then stopped and demanded safety glasses. She is such a sissy.

I stopped tiling and searched for the glasses. I found them hidden in a closet. She went back to work rolling the ceiling. She called again. The roof was peeling off under the roller.

Shit.

I stopped tiling and started scraping the ceiling. Near as I can tell, dog urine soaked through the ceiling from the floor upstairs. That was a grand job. I scraped a 150 square foot ceiling with a 1 inch spatula (nothing else worked.) While I did this, the wife puttered around, doing miscellaneous chores.

Including vacuuming the carpet. Yeah, the stuff that is getting torn up and thrown away,

Sigh. Beats watching cartoons, and at least there were no surprises.

At that time the girls announced that they were hungry. The wife went and got a ‘take and bake” pizza which we ate on the front porch (I almost had to cut it up with a box opener, but found a real knife at the last minute.)

We spent another couple of hours listening to the baby scream while she spread paint and I laid tile.

Three more days until we move.

Uh oh.

Total costs: $2,368

Day 29, Saturday- Ouch

2006-08-27T22:20:00.000-07:00

Got started early with the circular saw and chisels. I cut out the rot and repaired the floor beneath. It was nasty, slow, work.

It was then time to start building. The original plan was to build an approximately 2 foot by 2 foot closet at the foot of the tub- the idea was to put a third tile wall behind the tub and provide a little extra storage.

I picked up a small door in Portland a few weeks ago, and cut down a spare door jam I found upstairs. In about an hour I had a nice re-hung door ready to go into the new closet. It was time for lunch, so I headed home for a bite to eat.

I came back and started framing the walls for the storage closet. I built the first wall and hauled it into the bathroom.

Eight foot studs.

Nine foot ceiling.

Great.

I took care of that with some creative framing. A half-hour later, it was time to put the newly hung door in place.

Now, who do you suppose had the smart end of the tape? Why, the guy who should’ve been on the dumb end. The closet did not fit. The door wouldn't close- it was too close to the wall and trim. Making it fit left a tiny, useless space that accomplished nothing, not even the protection of the far wall.

Fantastic. Tore it all apart, patched the holes in the walls, and built a nice 4 foot tall stub wall.

Now, it is important to note that I was using a 32 ounce framing hammer to knock 16-penny nails into the studs. See, I was using that hammer to drive finish nails while reinstalling the medicine cabinet. I missed one nail, but hit another.

A fingernail. The one on my middle finger. The same one I smashed pulling the cabinet out.

It is currently black, blue, red, and purple.

At least I got the prep finished.
Primed, taped, and water resistant. Whoo!

Total costs: $2,368

Day 28, Friday- Worth doing…..

2006-08-26T11:17:00.000-07:00

There is nothing simple about fixing a bathroom. There will always be problems, things to deal with, and the unexpected. I know this. I did, however, think the problems were just about over.

I was wrong. So tell me, does the fun ever start?

I heaved the claw-foot tub away from the wall, blocking the toilet and exposing the floor underneath to daylight. That’s when I noticed the slight curling on the linoleum. I pulled it back revealing this mess.
I was sitting there, using new and exciting compound vulgarities, looking at the delaminated particle board and mold.

I picked at the edges with a screwdriver, trying to figure out the easy way to fix this mess when I remembered the things my Dad always and constantly told me:

If it is worth doing, then do it right. There is no excuse for doing it wrong if you know how to do it right.
Fix it now, or fix it later. But remember, later will be worse.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

So, time to bleach, chisel, cut, install new plywood, and screw down half-inch HardiBacker for the floor.

Otherwise, the next guy is going to be using new and exciting compound curse words about me.

Total costs: $2,368

Day 27, Thursday- A very bad, no good, rotten day

2006-08-24T21:56:00.000-07:00

I rolled out of bed this morning, bright and early, and ready to kick some serious home-improvement butt. I got dressed and padded down the stairs in my socks. I hit the bottom step and placed my foot solidly in dog puke.

Dog puke. With crayon bits.

Cleaned up the dog vomit, changed my socks, and went to make some coffee. There was no coffee. None. Zilch. This is bad for most people, but after 26 days of hell, this was a personal catastrophe.

Fine.

I decided to get some coffee down at the Rusty Cup and move on with life. Chemo Clem and I headed out, detouring through downtown for the required coffee. Hey- guess which dog ate crayons and had got sick the night before? The same one that barfed in the car this morning- luckily she was nice enough to barf on the garbage bags I was taking to the house- so the mess wasn’t bad at all.

The stink was terrible, however.

Feel bad for the poor city worker that has to change that can liner. OK, maybe not.

So, the dog and I went to the house. Left the windows down in the van and went inside. I grabbed the can of Killz and a cheap-o sponge paint-smearing device and went to work priming some doors. I managed to put a second coat on three doors.

That’s when the sponge disintegrated all over the door.

I spent about thirty minutes picking sponge bits off the door, and then decided to move on. That’s a benefit of having a house like this; you can always move on.

Abby had been playing “push on the crack in the broken window and see if we can open a vein” the night before, so I decided to change out that pane of glass. I carefully scraped away the old glazing, taking care not to damage the glass any further.

At that moment, the glass imploded.

I finished removing the glazing, and then swept up the microscopic bits of glass from the four corners of the girls’ bedroom. I picked up the new pane of glass and went to install it.

It was two inches too big. Never had that problem before.

I set the glass down and walked to the front of the house. That’s when my boss showed up. She didn’t have Bowpicker, and looked as if she was also having a rough time at it. Turns out that one of the remote sites was down and I needed to come down to the office.

I was getting ready to cut some other glass, so I said I would be down in a few minutes. I made my first cut and the glass snapped cleanly at the mark. Feeling brave, I made the second cut.

The glass shattered.

I cleaned things up a bit, locked the house, and then headed down the hill. I took the rest of the glass to a shop to be cut, and went to the office. I grabbed some files on a thumb drive and headed to the remote site.

It was "drive like a complete and total idiot" day in Astoria, so I carefully made my way through the cars with out-of-state plates and went to the remote site.

The DSL connection was bad. Stupid Qwest.

I checked the VPN box, and called back to the office. I was going to check the modem, but I did not have a spare to test with. I called the office and the boss agreed to call Qwest for me.

I went home for lunch, stopping by the time-sink to pick up Clem. I let her go into the back yard and tossed a Hot Pocket in the microwave.

It exploded. My stupid lunch blew up.

I cleaned the microwave, taking care to scrape the processed cheese food off the door. I ate the remains of my lunch and chased it with a flat cherry seltzer. That’s when I remembered the DSL modem sitting idle on the backup Internet connection in the server room at the office.

I headed back to the office, went into the server room and grabbed the modem. I went upstairs to let the boss know I was heading out.

That’s when Andrea slammed the door in my face. Thanks Dora!

It was at this point that I learned that Qwest thought the problem was with the line, so I did not need to worry about heading over. I also found out that the blog didn’t update last night. I put the modem back on my desk and went back home.

The wife- needing to run errands- dropped me off at the house. I went back to work, hanging sheetrock in the bathroom. I wasn’t there very long when there was a knock at the door.

It was the boss’ husband.

The problem with the DSL line had been corrected (it was the modem) and the site was still unable to connect. The boss' spousal unit came in and looked around, then said:

“Wow- you’ve got your work cut out, don’t you?”

That’s what everyone says as soon as they clear the living room. Never “what’s done looks good” or “I can see some progress.” Oh well.

I needed to finish up a couple of things; in particular I wanted to finish removing the medicine cabinet in the bathroom- it was about halfway out. I grabbed it and pulled hard.

That’s when my finger got wedged between the wall and the cabinet.

Not a little, either. Thing was wedged in there. Couldn’t push the cabinet back, hurt to move it forward. So I did what any idiot with high pain tolerance would do- I pulled the cabinet out over my finger.

I just got feeling back in that digit- it was better numb.

Now I figure I’ve got a 50/50 chance of keeping my fingernail. I locked up and I walked down to the office. Not having the car, I lucked out and got the nastiest car in the fleet. I returned to the remote site, fixed the problem, restored connectivity and started to head back.

The van would not go into reverse.

A couple of the guys helped me push the car back out of the parking space and I was off. I dropped off keys and walked home.

I cut another piece of sheetrock and started to hang it up. That’s when the wife showed up. One piece of sheetrock up. We went home for dinner.

I made myself a bacon cheeseburger (heavy on the bacon, with cream cheese on the bottom bun instead of mayonnaise- don't knock it until you try it) and sat down to eat. That’s when the phone rang.

It was the office. The stupid internet was down.

I finished my now-cold burger, then went back to the office. I replaced the backup modem and called Charter Business. Turns out it was a widespread outage, and that connectivity would be restored before morning.

Shocker. Truly a worthless ISP.

Returned to the house. My lovely bride have purchased coffee for me. I looked and found a can (yes CAN) of Kirkland coffee. I decided to give it a test.

Wow. It tastes almost, but not quite, completely unlike coffee.

Now I’m faced with the knowledge that there is “always tomorrow.” I’m not sure if I should hope for the best or just hang myself.

Total costs: $1,891 ($1 for coffee)

Day 26, Wednesday- Demolition Man

2006-08-24T20:08:00.000-07:00

I tore up the bathroom today. Found the expected rot, mold, and other nastiness, as well a tube of toothpaste and some shampoo.

I finally pulled the bathtub away from the wall, and look at what I found:

Yeah, I don’t know either. Not going to guess, speculate, or even dwell on it. I’m just going to toss Hardibacker on the walls and tile away.

OK, maybe I’ll bleach the living shit out of this creeping unknown first. No telling what planet it is from.

Also chipped, scrapped, and chiseled the damaged plaster off the walls. Joy.

I finished off the day making a 7” x 15” hole a 7” x 7” hole whilst young Madeline tidied up the tools. I came out discovered that the tools were not only arraigned, but they were grouped with the supplies and type of work (paint, flooring, framing, hardware) they are used for.

This poor kid has spent way too much time in construction zones and hardware stores.

“This is great!” I told her, meaning every syllable.

“Yeah, this is better than when Mom did it, because this makes sense. I didn’t want to just toss the stuff in piles and call it cleaned up. You know, like Mom does.”

“Yep, this is a great job.”

“Is it better than when Mom does it?”

Crap. A trap. Oh well. “Yes dear. Yes it is.”

The wife showed up a little later to help with grouting chores. Of course Maddie immediately ratted me out.

“Look at this, and Dad says it is way better than when you do it because when I do it, it makes sense!”

“Really? Guess you’ll have to do it from now on.” Came the reply. No blood, no death stares at her husband, just the passing of a chore to a child.

I wish I was that smooth.

Total costs: $1,890

Day 25, Tuesday- Fair Warning

2006-08-23T08:59:00.000-07:00

I spent the evening driving around town in a fire truck checking out various buildings. Yeah- I know how to drive fire trucks. Even scarier, they let me.

So, if:

You are a man wearing a beret
You have ever lived in a tree to keep the big bad loggers away
You look aggravated when I sound the air horn to get your stupid cell-phone using butt out of my way
You think that showers are optional
You honestly believe that you deserve something just for breathing
You think that you have every right to continue breeding, regardless of the past results

This is your fair warning:

I have an obligation to the gene pool to run your dumb ass over

Anyway, we went inside of the lobby of the John Jacob Astor building and checked it out by flashlight. Pretty cool. Makes me feel better about my current workload.

So, in short, I did nothing other than wander around. I'm pretty happy about that.

So there.

Total costs: $1,890

Day 24, Monday- Midnight Run

2006-08-22T17:43:00.000-07:00

Off to Longview, yet again, for supplies. I needed bathroom floor tile, Hardibacker, and a list of other such items. So the wife picked me up at work and away we went. How often do I trek down there? Well, the paint girl knows my name.

For the most part, the evening was uneventful; Carrie even got the floor tile she wanted. It took some time between dinner, Lowes and Home Depot, but we were able to head home at a reasonable hour.

On the way home, with the van loaded like a return trip to the fat farm from Home Town Buffet (that would be riding loooooowwwww), I heard a familiar voice chirp up from the back seat.

“I wanna play ‘What am I?’ Ask a question,” Abby demanded.

“Oh, you’re awful at this game,” said Madeline.

“Am not. Ask a question.” I could almost hear her little fists balling up.

Maddie sighed deeply then asked, “OK, what are you?”

“I’m a pony!” She answered.

Maddie groaned loudly. “See? That’s not how you play; I’m supposed to ask more questions….”

“You’re just really good at this game. Try again.” Abby interrupted.

“I’m not gonna play,” Maddie replied, "you're awful at this game." She turned and looked out the window.

This was about to go badly. Abby is not big on being blown off. "Why don’t you kids play hide-and-seek?” I offered from the driver’s seat.

Maddie groaned. “Dad, we’re in the car.”

Abby piped up, very excited. “I’ll play.”

“OK- I’m hiding! Where am I?” I asked.

“In the driver’s seat!” Squealed Abby.

“That’s right! OK, I’m hiding again- in my imagination…”

“Are you in the driver’s seat?” asked Maddie.

“No, he said in his imag-i-na-tion. Duh.” Abby then faced forward and called out, “Are you outside the car?”

“Yes, yes I am.” I answered. "You got me again. You're very good at this game."

Abby looked at her sister and said, “See, you’re awful at this game.”

Total costs: $1,890

Day 23, Sunday- The “smart” end of the tape

2006-08-20T22:51:00.000-07:00

Some people send smart-assed statues mocking my efforts, but you know what? I can lay tile- well. So slap another layer of linoleum down, Pop, because I’ve now got a tile entryway.

After a rousing breakfast of bad coffee and cold hotdogs, I spent the better part of a day carefully leveling the floor, mixing thinset by hand, elevating the mosaic, then cutting each tile by hand. So, after many hours of work, and after letting the tile set overnight, I gathered up the debris and went to open the front door.

It stuck. I tried again. It still stuck.

Shit.

It took a little bit of work to get the door out. Actually, it took ripping out part of the door jams, chiseling out the threshold, cutting out and repairing the dry rot I found under the threshold, beating the hinge pins out of position with a hammer and screwdriver, and the removing four floor tiles with the aid of a sledgehammer.

No big deal. I got the door down and moved it outside. Do know how much a 100 year old solid fir door weighs? A lot. The damn thing is hernia heavy.

I carefully measured the height of the new threshold and calculated the difference from the old threshold (5/8”). I measured the thickness of the new tile and thinset (3/8”). Then I looked at the figures on the paper and decided to cut the door off by 3/4”.

Do you know what the difference between 3/4” and 7/8” is? It is three things:

1/8”
The difference between good measuring and bad
A whole bunch on an exterior door

At any rate, after only four short hours, I put everything back together. It turned out fine in the end.
I went home for a dinner of crunchy roast and green beans (I was late). It was a lovely meal were Abby’s brain fell out of her head. She took a bite of the crunchy roast and spit it out back onto the platter. She spent the rest of the meal on top of the fridge- or as we call it “Abby’s chair.”

Went back to the house and spent some quiet time doing one of my favorite chores in household remodeling- scraping popcorn crap of the ceiling. To say this sucks does not begin to describe how bad this job is. It did, however, beat the hell out of dealing with Abby on low-blood-sugar night.

Total costs: $1,500

Day 22, Saturday- Overheard...

2006-08-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

Things at the time sink keep progressing, and with so much prep work finished, results are coming a little faster now.

The wife painted the boy’s room (blue) and her legs, and I worked on tile. While working on the small tiles near the threshold, I mentioned that it was good that I knew how to “back-butter.”

“What’s ‘back-buttering?’” She asked.

“Oh- it’s a form of foreplay in Tillamook County” was my quick reply.

“Ew- really?”

"Kind of sounds like it might be, doesn't it?"

"Uh, sadly, yes," she answered.

I smiled. “No, foreplay in Tillamook County is limited to ‘yer a purdy cow...’” I looked at her, and encouraged by her wide grin, I continued. “Now, in Clatskanie, foreplay is the old, yet reliable, ‘git in the truck, woman.’”

We also had more visitors, but they didn’t bring Bowpicker, so, while we really enjoyed their visit, they shall remain unnamed. I sure hope they wiped their feet before they went back into their own home.

Total costs: $1,500

Day 21, Friday- "Know when to not do-it-yourself."

2006-08-19T11:54:00.000-07:00

After visiting the nice insurance lady at the office (free bad strawberries!), I got to work at the house on some electrical work. Changing out plugs and replacing cloth-wrapped wire were the orders of the day. This is an old house, but so far I’ve only found a couple of old wire runs- and all have been easily replaced.

I also tested the circuit breakers. You can too- just try to strip wire without cutting the power. It is like a little tiny-bit of personal lightning. You even get a little thunder. Need a little workout? Just wash your hands- leave them damp- and strip the wire. A half of a second of 120v is like 50 pushups.

So anyway- visitors came! They brought Bowpicker! They brought Diet Pepsi! They brought Bowpicker! We ate perched on a lovely dinette set made of upside-down Tillamook Ice Cream buckets while they carefully observed the “do not put anything on the floor that might come within 2 feet of your mouth” rule.

I would like to point out that these visitors got the deluxe tour. One person will even receive a lovely parting gift (a big cabinet that is going away). Everyone who comes by gets a tour- but the best tours are reserved for people who bring Bowpicker. No Bowpicker, no deluxe. It is truly that simple.

Unless you are the acting HR director and other upper-echelon types- you get the deluxe tour too. Really, I mean it.

What is the difference between the standard and the deluxe tours? Two things:

1. I tell you where NOT to step
2. I point out the places that I hurt myself and/or did something especially dumb
3. You get mentioned in the blog

Isn’t that worth the price of a half-order of fish and chips?

Thus, Leslie, Deb, Mike, Lorrie, and Andrea- so ends your deluxe tour. Thank you for keeping your hands and arms inside the ride at all times.

After everyone left, I finished up the electrical chores and moved on to the most hated of all jobs- linoleum removal. No easy way to do it- but you can make it fun by making it dangerous. I got a floor scraper with a four-inch razor blade. Yeah, baby- I’m using tools that you can’t even bring into the Courthouse.

I went home for dinner and found a package from dear-old-dad on the front steps. A plastic TLC Life Lessons figurine entitled "Know when to not do-it-yourself." He features two missing hands and a saw on the ground beside him. Gee, thanks, pop. The wife laughed for a good twenty minutes and put it on the mantle.

We then made our last supply run. We were talking about how I was going to put a door on the Harry Potter room (a small room under the stairs) for the girls, when my bride remarked on how she might like to use it for storage. This upset my eldest (who had been planning to use this space as an Abby-free reading zone) a great deal. I tried to comfort her.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, the door is kind of small. If mommy tries to use it she’ll get stuck like Pooh-bear in the rabbit hole.” My little girl started beaming. I glanced back at my wife.

Oh. Dear. God. That did not go over well. It was explained to me later.

“So, you sell me out to the kids, and you talk about how my big fat ass will get stuck in the doorway,” she whispered through gritted teeth.

“No, I said you’d get stuck like Pooh-bear.”

“Pooh-bear got his big fat ass stuck after eating too much honey. They had to starve him to get him out. So, how big do you think my ass is? Huh?”

This was it. I was going to die. Better try something, or it’s a closed-casket for me. “Oh. Um. Well. Errrr. Well, Pooh got stuck because he was a bear going into a rabbit hole. If he went into a bear hole, he would have been fine. See, the space under the stairs is kid-sized, but you are adult-sized, so you’ll get stuck!” I scooted as far away as I could.

“Pooh got stuck because he had a big ass! Never tease a woman about her age, or her weight. Not. Funny.”

I may be celibate, but at least I’m alive.

Total costs: $1,500

Day 20, Thursday- Where the cell minutes go.

2006-08-17T23:22:00.000-07:00

After letting the paint in the room dry, I carefully taped the walls in the Princesses’ Palace of Pink and painted the trim with three coats of a nice bright semi-gloss white paint. I ate dinner and returned to the time sink to remove the tape and touch up and scuffs or blemishes.

I pulled the tape and watched in horror as large (3 inches!) chucks of paint came off with the walls. I did what any rational, calm, terminally exhausted, stressed out person would do. I swore. Loudly.

I actually made up new and exciting compound expletives.

At this point, I found myself angry, frustrated, and looking to complain. So, I called the paint company helpdesk. Again. Hey, what the hell, it is an 800 number and it is printed on the can.

My call was answered in the order it was received by a nice man who said his name was Bobert and wanted to know who I was.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I fought the urge to hang up. I was going to complain! I had a legitimate concern!

I managed to stammer out “um, I think I’ve talked to you before.” Questions swirled through my mind- like "aren’t these call centers supposed to be huge operations?" and "what the hell are you doing?" and "you can't win five bucks in the lottery, but you get the same guy at the call center on different nights?" I swallowed hard.

“I’m glad to be of assistance, sir, can I get your first name and where you are calling from?” Bobert was chipper. He obviously just started his shift.

“Yeah- Tom, I’m calling from Astoria, Oregon.”

There was a long pause, followed by a sigh. “You are the monkey man, yes?”

“Um, yeah. Look, I wasn’t expecting to get you again…” I felt my face turn bright red.

“Yes, what is your problem this evening?”

“Err, you know, um, hey, can I talk to someone else?”

“Sir, I assure you, I will assist you in whatever manner I can. Now, what is your problem this evening?”

“Yeah, but that whole monkey thing…..”

“Yes, well it is after hours, and there are only a couple of other people here now. You can hold, but I assure you that I will handle your call in a professional manner.”

Damn, I was already burning time on the wife’s cell phone. Holding would probably not be good. I decided to go for it. I cleared my throat. “You actually work for the paint company?”

“Yes.”

“The actual paint company.”

“Yes, in an office in Florida.”

What? “In Florida.”

“Yes.”

“What, Florida, India?”

“No sir, Florida, United States. I came here from India.” Bobert was getting a little annoyed.

“You moved from India to Florida to work in a call center?”

“In India, working in a call center is a very good job.” He sounded a bit defensive.

“Yeah, not so much here.” I replied.

“That was a lesson I learned very soon after coming here. Now, what is your problem this evening sir?” Bobert was done with small talk.

I described the paint coming off the walls in big chucks to the nice person on the other end of the line. I explained my frustration and my reservations about using their products in other rooms.

There was a pause, then Bobert shared his idea on what may have caused my problem. “Maybe your monkeys pushed too hard when they put the tape up,” was the reply.

The bastard.

“Monkeys using painter’s tape isn’t funny, Bobert.”

Bobert apologized. He asked a few more questions- were the walls clean, was the paint dry, the normal routine. I let slip how I cut it with Evil Empire paint.

“You mixed our paint with another brand?” He sounded incredulous.

“Yeah- it was like super, monster pink. I needed to tone it back.”

Bobert sighed. “That is probably your problem sir. I suggest you refrain from doing such things in the future. Our guarantee does not apply in such circumstances.”

“I really don’t see how…” I stammered, “I mean, isn’t paint just…”

“Goodnight, sir, and thank you for calling.” The line went dead, and Bobert was gone.

Total costs: $1,368

Day 19, Wednesday- Posted with reservations.

2006-08-17T13:39:00.000-07:00

So, the post is a bit late. I was going to just post a quick update on co-worker's visits, working with tile, and the effects of paint fumes. But then I read an old news article.

I sat on it, stewed over it, and finally decided that, if you can laugh at my exploits and injuries, you can sit through what I’m about to say. To really understand everything, first, you need to see this:

Reduction in charge leads to plea in manslaughter case
By E-R Staff

OROVILLE -- A reduction in the charge from a felony to a misdemeanor induced a plea Wednesday in connection with a 2004 traffic fatality near Forest Ranch.

Edward Bosqui Brown, then 57, of Merced, was arrested for suspicion of driving under the influence and vehicular manslaughter, after his pickup collided on Highway 32 with another vehicle.

Daniel Roger Box, 45, of Chico, was killed and his 6-month-old grandson was slightly injured in the crash.

Investigators said Brown was driving east on Highway 32 above Forest Ranch on Aug. 1, 2004, when his 2001 Toyota Tundra pickup, which was towing a camping trailer, crossed over the center line, colliding head-on with Box's passenger car, a 2002 Toyota compact, which was returning to Chico from the Lake Almanor area.

Witnesses told CHP Brown's trailer had started to swerve and may have contributed to the collision.

Brown pleaded no contest Wednesday in Butte County Superior Court to a reduced charge of misdemeanor vehicular manslaughter, which could carry up to one year in jail.

A second charge of DUI causing injury was dismissed in the plea bargain.

Brown's attorney, Dennis Hoptowit, said he did not believe alcohol was a major contributing factor in the crash.

Now you need to understand why I care.

I went to that crash as a fireman. The accident left a debris field that stretched for a few hundred yards. It was the debris that we saw when we pulled up in the Engine. My first thought was that someone had hit a tree and left a large chuck of twisted metal in the bushes on the side of the road. A second look showed that the unrecognizable metal hulk was actually a “Toyota compact.”

Another engine had arrived first, so two firefighters were busy tearing off the roof in hopes of reaching the occupant before he died. A third firefighter was lying on his stomach through a hole that may have been a window, trying, in vain, to secure an airway for the man inside.

The fourth firefighter was kneeling next to a bloody pile of plastic.

I grabbed the trauma bag and came up next to the solo firefighter. He was pale, and looked as if he had been kicked in the head. I looked down and realized we were looking at an infant in a car seat. Outside of the car. The bottom third of the carrier was filled with congealing blood and a small child sat half-crying, half-whimpering and in obvious distress.

A tiny corner of light-blue fabric peeked above the gore.

“Oxygen,” I said- mostly to myself, “get O2 on him now- flood him.” I pulled the heavy green cylinder out of the bag and attached the smallest mask we had. I opened the valve all the way when I heard a loud bang followed by a shout.

“Tom! Get your jaws and get over here! Have Mike take that over.” We learned later that the baby had a few lacerations, some mild abrasions, and a fractured skull. Yeah, minor injuries.

I sprinted back to the rig, shouting at Mike as I went back. I doubt he heard me. I opened the rear compartment and pulled the Jaws, the hydraulic lines, and the pump out. I carried the gear back to the main wreck. I approached the two firefighters pulling the roof. One was covered in hydraulic fluid and trying desperately to cut the last post. The other, a Captain, directed me to the driver’s side of the wreck.

I set up the jaws and climbed into the dense brush. Instantly, I was enveloped in the smells- antifreeze, gasoline, acid, diesel fumes, oil, and blood- the smell of a crash.

With a loud "pop" the roof came up and we flipped it to the rear of the car. I got started on the driver's side wreckage. Out of the corner of my eye I saw three people working desperately on the driver.

I started tearing apart the car, and listened to the rhythmic cadence of someone counting out chest compressions over the roar of the hydraulic pump and the scream of bending metal.

My Chief was beside me, holding back brush and offering advice. The remains of the front fender had to be pulled away, and then what was left of the door could be worked on. The driver’s leg was pinned by this twisted metal, preventing his removal from the vehicle.

The paramedics arrived. We stopped tearing on the car, and held our breath while one of them tried to intubate the victim. The paramedic looked at his partner. “The trachea’s gone- I can’t get the tube in, and he hasn’t been breathing for at least fifteen minutes.”

My Chief tapped me on the shoulder, and I started tearing again, being mindful of the leg. The door was almost free and I was shoving the tool farther into the hinge points when someone yelled “Stop!”

The paramedic checked the victim one last time. “I’m calling it- he’s gone.” The firefighters backed up a little. I gave on last twist on the controls for the jaws and door popped loose, freeing the man trapped inside.

We pulled him out of the car, and set him on the side of the road under a sheet, where he would wait for his last ride. We picked up our gear and started to pack up. The arms of my turnouts and my gloves were covered in blood. There was still dried blood on the reflective strips when I turned them in six months later.

Where I was, we saw a lot of accidents. Many were worse than this, but this one stuck, and does to this day. Maybe it was the fact that the baby wasn't much younger than one of my own. Perhaps it was the idea of a family getaway coming to such an end.

The point is this: most people read articles like the one above and think that the driver died instantly and without pain. They believe that the little kid in the back had a scratch and was fine. We never realize how bad these things are.

The truth is, Dan Box died horribly.

He survived the crash, and struggled to live for some time afterwards. The force of the impact destroyed his face and neck. His teeth were all gone. He suffocated in the wreckage of his own body on the side of the road while men struggled, bathed in blood and sweat, to save him.

We know now that our best efforts could not have saved him. We did not know then. That's what bothered some of us. Did we work hard enough? Did we move fast enough? Did we? What IF....

But now we know. Dan died because someone, who decided to drink, decided to tow a trailer that he decided to overload, and then decided to drive too fast. Ed Brown's truck crossed the center line and the DA called it an accident. The decisions leading up to the final event have been disregarded. The aftermath of those choices has been sterilized, wrapped up, and given to the masses as a seemingly just end to a short, tragic story.

Dan Box's family owned a nursery where my Grandfather bought roses and I purchased azaleas. Dan Box was coming home from a weekend with his family, his new grandson in the back seat. He was a husband, a father, and a grandfather. Now, he is only a memory.

The man who did this- who killed an innocent man, and walked away uninjured- is going home with what amounts to a traffic ticket.

Yeah, well, Daniel Roger Box wanted to go home too. I think people tend to forget that.

Day 18, Tuesday- Pretty in Pink

2006-08-16T00:57:00.000-07:00

It was time to paint the Princesses’ Palace of Pink. I checked the color of the dried pink paint on the wall. Oddly enough, my little test patch had grown and multiplied around the room into many almost artistic little patches. Stranger still, it seemed to be at Abby level, and the paint looked as though it had been opened and closed by tiny little hands.

Must have been my imagination.

At any rate, the color was just too, well, much. A lot too much. So I cut it with Evil Empire White in a Tillamook ice cream bucket I just happened to have handy. I called the new, lighter, and easier on the ol’ retinas color “Pralines and Cream.” Hey, it was on the bucket. (The old color was called “girl talk”.)

I finished the first wall and stood back. What had gone on the wall in a light bubblegum color was drying as something else. It is a very feminine color. Guys get uncomfortable girly. I needed to come up with a new name for the color.

About that time I noticed that by check felt a little cold and damp. I looked down and saw a rather large glop of paint on my shirt. I lifted up my shirt and suddenly realized what color the paint was. I rechristened the paint as “Irish Guy Nipple.”

I was pulling my shirt down when I looked up and saw my next-door neighbor. She looked straight ahead and walked into the house. I’m pretty sure it looked like Chris Farley doing a bad Prince imitation from over there, but I just have to let it go.

I finished another wall and noticed that once the paint dried, it looked different once again. The new name would no longer do.

It was still very feminine. Then it dawned on me.

My little girl had put on her favorite pretty dress to go play at a friend’s house. She had truly dressed up, right down to earrings and good shoes. All to see a friend.

A friend who is a boy. It was a big deal, because she said it wasn’t.

After all of the primping, her friend did not notice her dress at all. It bothered her, but only a little bit.

I realized that someday soon, boys would notice when the pretty little redhead takes the time to dress up before visiting.

Thank God for “make boys uncomfortable” pink paint. No straight guy could ever get past this color, he just would never be able to be comfortable, or confident, in a place that, well, pastel. I renamed the paint color to “Emasculation.”

Sadly, that name is already taken by a men’s cologne sold in Orange County, California- it is marketed to the $200 haircut, get a pedicure, pee-sitting-down metro-sexual crowd. (Do you drink wine with pizza? Do you offer to hold your wife’s purse? Then Emasculation by Calvin Klein is for you….)

I continued painting, and tried to figure out how I could make the room terrifying to males, but have no effect on the young ladies living there. Obviously a large poster featuring a bloody axe and the words “I’ll cut off whatever he touches you with, up to and including his torso” would be a bit much, and a pre-dug gravesite in the backyard is just dangerous and impractical. I needed to think harder.

It dawned on me as I finished up. I’ll add maxi-pad perfume to the trim paint. See, men can detect that family of scents at quantities as low as one part per bazillion. And we all fear it. Ladies, if your man tells you he can’t smell it, or he doesn't get that "run away" feeling when he does- he’s lying.

It is a smell of danger, of embarrassing errands, of death itself. Our fear is so ingrained that when in stores, most men avoid the feminine hygiene isle (and those on either side) all together.

Want to end beer sales? Put maxi pads next to the Budweiser. The men won’t know why, but they will be unable to buy a cold one. They’ll walk up, catch the smell, and go to another store.

I will call my new color (with perfume) “keep your filthy paws off my daughter you freak or I will give you a new definition of hurt.” I think it will sell well.

Then again, I think I'll stick with “Pralines and Cream.” I wonder what color a praline is.

Total costs: $1,368

Day 17, Monday- Covers in just seven coats!

2006-08-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

For reasons which I am still not entirely clear on, dark colors require more coats of paint than light ones.

No, really.

To paint over the “God-Awful-Green” with white paint requires one coat of primer, one coat of white, and a little touch up.

To paint over the same “God-Awful-Green” with red paint requires one coat of primer, four coats of red, three touch-ups, and finally two more coats.

When the time comes to paint over the red, however, a sandblaster will be required.

The reason I mention this is simple- I had to wait for everything to dry.

Plaster, paint, the works.

So I slacked off. Did nothin’. So there.

Total costs: $1,368

Day 16, Sunday- A “Safety-First” kind of day

2006-08-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

Got a late start (8:00am) as I slept in a little. Thought about going to Mass, but quickly came back to my senses. It was cloudy- and clouds help bring lightening. I know a sign when I see one.

My first project of the day was to tear off the stovepipe that remained from the pellet stove David relieved me of. Brought out the trusty ladder, set it in position, gathered my tools, a can of roof patch, and a new vent. I arranged my supplies and proceeded to scurry up the ladder.

I learned something today. This roof is steep. Dangerous steep. Stupid Steep. It is, however, just fine at the beginning. The roof begins as gentle slope near the dreaded edge, then suddenly juts skyward like some gothic cathedral.

I learned how steep it was on my first aborted assertion. Five steps and I was sliding down, feet first and on my belly- tools careening into open space, thinking (in order):

Oh shit!
Wow- this is a strong gutter, I wonder if…..
Ouch. Stupid roof.

So, as I sat on the ground at looked up, I remembered that great advice given to all boys when they are growing up. “Get back on that horse!”

So I did. I'm a fireman! I'm not afraid of any stupid roof! I will teach that horse a lesson! I started off again.

I made it to the stovepipe and, bracing myself, got to work. That is when I promptly slipped again. I was able to control my descent better this time, thinking (in order):

OK, stop before the edge.
Shit! Stick the landing- feet first, bend the knees.
Ouch. Stupid blackberries.

Yep. I may have “stuck” the landing, but I pitched forward and landed in blackberries.

Joy. I gave up on the roof and went inside. Time to polish brass!

I hooked the wire brush wheel to the power drill and went to work removing years of wall-candy from the old hardware. About ten minutes into it, the drill slipped and went running (at 1500 RPM) across my knuckles. Hey ladies, dermal abrasion really works.

When I finished swearing, I went over and put my gloves on (yeah, I know) and went back at it. After another fifteen minutes, the wheel skipped again and ran across my wrist, just below the glove. That kind of stung.

I spent some time with my friend Medical Tape and stemmed the bleeding. I then went back to work, holding the piece of brass between my feet in a sort of yoga/lotus position. That worked really well, for about thirty minutes. Then the drill, obviously possessed by demons, jumped up and slammed into my crotch. That’s right; I got 1500 RPM of spinning copper wire love right in the beanbag. Thank God for Levi’s.

For the record, no I do not have a vice at the new house. It is at the old house, over four blocks away.

When I finished hyperventilating, I pulled myself up on all fours and crawled to the bathroom. After making sure the boys were OK, I decided to move on to demolition. I started pulling off the old wainscot.

Of course, the plaster came with it. Well, capital-letter-crap-on-a-stick. That’s going to be a ton of fun to fix.

That’s when I went home. My lovely wife looked fried. “I can’t do anything. The baby is all over me and the internet is down. It just hasn’t been a very good day.” She looked exasperated, exhausted, and frustrated. She was not, however, bruised or bleeding.

“Go run you errands, I’ll watch the kids.”

"Good day at the house?" she asked, heading for the door.

"Just about average." Sadly, that was the truth.

I went to work when back once she got home and just painted trim. Nobody got hurt, no surprises. Just music and paint.

Total costs: $1,368

Day 15, Saturday- A bit behind schedule

2006-08-12T22:35:00.000-07:00

I had just another busy day of taking care of the little things. Down in the basement, I fixed the sump pump, lighting, and doorbell. One the main floor, I repaired a ton of plaster, and patched tons of holes, both large and small.

I even swung a sledgehammer. In the house. Beats the hell out of running with scissors. So, while relieving a lot of pent-up aggression, I also demolished the old woodstove’s hearth.

As a side note, I’ve noticed that I spend more time looking for tools than using them. Sad, but true.

I've also started bring Chemo-Clementine with me, and while she has figured out the house's layout, she is still a bit skittish here.

So I worked throughout the day, trying to get back on my own self-imposed schedule. I stayed at home (skipping the Astoria Regatta) and worked away. As I sat there caulking baseboards, I realized something.

I really miss my dad. This is the first house I’ve done where he hasn’t been there. I’d like to think that I’d be farther along on this whole project, but realistically, I’d be in the same spot no matter what. You can’t control the weather, you can’t force plaster to dry faster, and you can’t see through walls without very expensive equipment.

When dad and I work together, however, the work goes a bit faster, the quality is a little better, and you don’t seem to loose as many tools. Oh well, 600 miles is a long way to come for a weekend of work, and I’m doing well enough on my own.

Of course, I had a really good teacher.

Total costs: $1,363

Day 14, Friday- Before and After

2006-08-11T22:55:00.000-07:00

Entry (Before)

Entry (After)Living (Before)

Living (After)

Total costs: $1,353

Day 13, Thursday- Lucky 13.

2006-08-10T22:39:00.000-07:00

Being lucky day 13, I was able to get quite a lot accomplished. I finished painting most of the living room, and began prepping the Princesses’ Palace of Pink.

I managed to fix the broken trim in their room, get the built-in desk out, and start patching. Then I went to hang the new closet door. It is only 4 inches too short.

Only four inches. If I had a nickel for every time that was my problem I’d live on my own private island were I could sob myself to sleep in peace.

Anyways. Four inches. Well, damn. Can’t fake that with trim. I’ll think about it for a bit, then see what happens next.

My beautiful bride came by after an exciting afternoon of sitting around the Children’s Museum being nice to the very people that jacked the housing prices up so they could have a place to stay for three months a year, and smiling at the folks that let their kids dump toys and craft supplies on the floor so my wife would have something to do later.

Anyways, we went out for more supplies, visited City Lumber to pick up hardware and a couple of tools. Then we went over the bridge to Costco and bought lights and fans.

That is when the conversation took place.

“Why are you so tense when I drive?” She asked. I looked over. She was staring at me while maneuvering around logging trucks on Marine Drive at 45 mph.

I was about to die in a horrible car crash, and I knew it, so I decided that I might as answer her. “I haven’t learned to be comfortable with shedding my mortal coil, but I’m working on it.”

“I am a better driver than you! It is so not my fault that nobody else realizes that,” came her retort, in a slightly elevated voice.

I glanced over and saw that she was driving with her knees while digging through the driver side door pocket looking for something. One hand clutched a group of pens. We approached a red light at full speed, and mere seconds before impact, she applied the brakes (thank God for ABS) and came to a stop 4 inches behind the tour bus in front of us. I tried to relax my legs and calmly replied, “perhaps it is your breaking technique. You tend to brake late. I think you got that from learning to drive in Orange County.”

She went off for a bit after that, but my doctor’s note says I have trouble hearing when girls talk. I’m going to get that note laminated and keep it in my pocket at all times.

I started listening again and heard her say, “I drive defensively. I’m always avoiding accidents!”

“True, but I’ve looked up and seen the multi-car pileups you caused in the rearview mirror.”

“I’ve never been in an accident!”

“You have also never been trapped in a car for two hours because of someone else’s driving. I hope you never do get in a crash, but odds are, someday you will.”

“You know, it will probably be a tourist; or maybe an old person. No, wait; it will be an old tourist in a Buick. Just you watch.” She seems pacified.

I won’t be watching. I’ve decided to simply keep my eyes closed when she drives. I’ll pretend I’m tired and taking a little “cat nap”.

Total costs: $1,348

Day 12, Wednesday- Aerosol Texture and Hindsight

2006-08-09T23:30:00.000-07:00

After a good, solid evening of work, I was sitting in the big chair, with my feet up, with the laptop in, well, my lap. I had a bit of a problem, as I agreed to update this blog thing everyday. I just wasn’t prepared for days like this one, so I turned to my wife for help.

“I’m not sure what to put on the blog tonight.”

“You post the truth,” came the smirking, snide reply.

“Yeah, I’ll write about figuring out how to fix the wall in the dining room.”

“No.” She turned and stared me in the eye, “you put the other thing up.” The tone of her voice left two options- do as she says, or live celibate.

So, let me tell you a story, ripe with hindsight, about how a really stupid thing can really mess up your evening. Ready? Great, here goes:

I started the evening sanding down some rough spots in the living room. The smaller areas were ready for paint, so I decided to grab the can of spray texture and tried to touch up the repaired areas.

However, the can didn’t work. Just a little drizzle came out. So I shook the can. Nothing seemed to help. This was a new can of texture, so I figured that it was just too cold allow for adequate expansion of the propellant. I filled the sink with warm water and dropped the can in for a nice soak.

I went back and started working on the damaged walls in the dining room. Naturally, I forgot about the texture. When I finally remembered, the water was less than tepid and the can was colder than when I started. This was no good.

The funny thing, using the gift of hindsight, is that I can string together phrases like “too cold allow for adequate expansion of the propellant” but I seem to lack something called common sense.

I realized that I was probably going to flake out again, so I needed a different method to warm up the texture. I looked around and saw my answer- the oven.

Yes, the oven. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking it too. Let’s skip over the whole “that was a bad idea” thing. I know it was a bad idea. That’s what hindsight is.

So I set the oven to the lowest temperature (150) and placed the can (not to be stored at temperatures over 120) inside, being careful to leave the door half-open and the can towards the front. I really should have read the warning label before the events that transpired, rather than after. Again, I understand as I am blessed with incredible hindsight.

So I went back to work in the dining room and after a few minutes, I went back to the kitchen and opened the oven door all the way…

No, the can did not explode. Nothing quite so dramatic. However, the principals behind a BLEVE (boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion) do apply. It turns out that the now warm propellant was under tremendous pressure. Good thing the can was made well.

I wrapped a towel around the can (it wasn’t super hot, but it was a bit warmer that I really wanted to hold on to) and headed to the living room. I picked the yellow straw and inserted it into the nozzle.

Thus, with that small action, all hell broke loose.

I must have pushed down on the nozzle, because it shot off and texture spewed forth in a fountain of spackle and fumes, much like a bug bomb. I took a full shot in the face, and proceeded to completely freak out.

I flipped the towel over the top of the texture geyser and ran for cool water. Thinking quickly, I headed for the toilet, tripping over my aging radio on the way (should have put it away).

One of my wife’s pet peeves is my “liberal flushing policies.” Before today, I thought she was just busting my chops. Today, I found out how completely foul two-day-old urine is. Do you want to know what is worse than two-day-old urine?

Warm two-day-old urine. That’s what I got when I dropped the can in the toilet. As I was retching, I reached over and flushed the toilet. Of course, the can pretty much blocked the toilet. The water was racing towards the brim and eventual overflow. Do you want to know what is worse than warm two-day-old urine?

Reaching into it. Like, up to your elbow. I grabbed the can, pulled it out, and spilled warm two-day-old urine all over the floor. Good to see that reaching into the primordial ooze was such an outstanding preventative measure.

I cleaned everything up, and looked at the can. The can seemed fine, so I decided to try it again. I found the nozzle (in the entry) and checked it for damage. That’s when I noticed something.

The nozzle was plugged.

Yes, plugged. A few minutes with a pushpin, and the obstruction was cleared. The (mostly empty) texture now worked fine. I textured the spots on the wall and met my bride on the front porch, ready to leave.

Well, there’s always tomorrow.

Total costs: $1,028

Day 11, Tuesday- A day of rest.

2006-08-08T23:37:00.000-07:00

The other responsibilities in my life did not just go away when I bought the house. Besides, I need at least one day a week away from everything. A little rest will be good. It will give me some time for paint to dry, plaster to cure- a little time to rest the body and relax a little.

So I went to fire training tonight. Dragged large diameter hose, drove an engine, ran a pump- you know, I relaxed. Only, I did it in turnouts.

There is something really wrong with me. Relaxing for most people does not include sweating though their clothes and working until their shoulders hurt. I, however, feel great.

I can not completely say I stayed away. I did go to the house and fix the plaster problems. Took about an hour and I kept my work clothes on.

Total costs: $1,028

Day 10, Monday- Paint Problems

2006-08-07T23:29:00.000-07:00

I did it. I broke down and called a helpdesk for paint.

Yes, paint.

I was a bit perturbed, as this is supposed to be the “good stuff.” Paint like this is supposed to just jump out of the can and on to the wall. I’ve seen the commercials.

The problem was simple enough- the paint wasn’t drying. That’s a big part of what paint does, drying and all. If it didn’t dry, it would be a slimy substance somewhere between liquid and solid. There would be no form, no purpose, and no function. It would be a politician.

So I called for help. My call was answered by a nice man who said his name was Bobert (yes Bobert). He went through the initial script and politely asked what my problem was.

“The paint will not dry on the door. It has been there for almost 30 hours, but it is still tacky.” I said.

We went through a few minutes of discussion on surface preparation and application. Bobert was very polite, but I was getting a little tired of talking about brushes. I must now note that at this time, I was rather tired, and when tired, I get snarky.

“Are you sure you were using the correct type of brush, sir?” he asked.

“Alright, you got me. Actually, I grabbed two monkeys, dipped them in the paint and let them engage in hot monkey love on the door.”

Silence. Then, “how did the monkeys stay on the door, sir?”

“When covered in paint, monkeys are quite sticky.”

More silence. Then, with a heavy sign that let me know exactly how stupid and/or insane Bobert thought I was, he continued. “I believe that I found our problem sir, the monkeys probably did not apply the paint evenly. Now, if there is anything else.”

Crap! He was going to hang up! Like so many other times in my life, I went just that centimeter too far.

“Um, Bobert, there were no monkeys.” I'm sure I sounded rather sheepish. “I was just trying to be funny.”

“Monkeys in paint are not funny, sir.”

“Well, to idiots such as myself, they’re freakin’ hilarious. I apologize. Now, back to the questions.”

We finished the call rather calmly, but Bobert was obviously a bit miffed over the whole monkey episode. Turns out the problem is probably due to high humidity.

Imagine that. A humidity problem in Astoria. I drop a space heater in the room for a night or two and all should be good.

I put paint on the walls in the living room. A nice dark brown. Looks really good, mostly.

You will note that I said mostly.

Remember the whole “feathering” thing? Yeah- turns out that was crap. Now I need to do even more prep in the living room. That’s the last time I take advice from “Rudy’s Plaster Masters.” Stupid internet.

Oh well. Tried doing a whole “two-tone” paint job in the living room. On the bottom is “desired brown with a designer name” above the picture rail is “lazy bastard didn’t want to go get more paint so he slapped stuff left over from the entry up there.”

I like it. It adds character, contrast, and depth to the room. Plus, I did not have to drive to Longview and visit the hated evil empire.

My wife, however, does not. She prefers bland, uniform walls and the death of every living creature on the planet due to global warming.

I learnt how to be fair and balanced on the teevee from the Fox folks.

I’ll let it sit for a day or so, and she what she says after that. I'm sure she’ll see my point of view what with me being lord and master of the house and OW! OW! OW! OW!

Yeah, I’ll paint over that tomorrow.

Total costs: $1,028

Day 9, Sunday- Preparations and Progress

2006-08-06T21:55:00.000-07:00

Any hour before noon is early when the previous evening’s events prevents sleeping until 2am. Being on the job by 8:00am is just piling on the stupid.

Oh well.

Put the first coat of paint on the entry door (after three coats of primer). The color- Red Rocket, and if you watch South Park you just fell over laughing, or maybe just said eww.

I finally finished the priming of the “God-Awful-Green” trim in the living room, including those huge pocket doors.

After dinner and a quick nap, I went back to the house and painted ceilings.

Now, I am not a fan of Wal-Mart, but ceiling paint they sell is the best stuff on the planet. It hides cracks, blemishes, and anything else you can think of in just one coat. I think they use ground unicorn bones to make it (see, I still think the company is evil).

I finished the evening playing with my caulk. Tomorrow, I will be able to paint.

Total costs: $1,028

Day 8, Saturday- Religious Tolerance

2006-08-05T21:58:00.000-07:00

Woke up bight and early, then spent nearly two solid hours unloading the van from the previous day’s festivities. I was installing a new porch light (shocker- the old one was broken) when a very nicely dressed lady walked up the steps.

“Are you a worker, or do you live here?” she asked.

“I live here, why?”

“I wanted to invite you to a conference and concert.”

“Thanks, but I’m Catholic.”

“That doesn’t matter” she answered, grinning a creepy, almost pedi-smile. (A pedi-smile is that strange grin that most pedophiles share. Watch for it on your local Megan’s law flyers.)

“But it mattered if I lived here, right?”

“Well….” She sensed this was not going well.

“Thanks, but my faith matters to me, and frankly, you are trespassing.” I turned my back and didn’t even watch her leave.

I took the car back to the family and was dropped off to continue my labors while the little ones enjoyed a day at the fair and playing with friends.

I worked at painting and priming, and got rid of the pellet stove when Dave came by. All in all, it was a rather quiet, productive, afternoon.

Then they came back.

This time, I was dumping trash on the porch when another well-dressed lady appeared up the street. I was tired, hungry, and looking for some amusement. I decided to play with the poor, unwitting Jehovah’s Witness rapidly approaching me.

“Good afternoon sir, I was wondering if I could invite you to a conference and concert”

“Really, can anyone come?” I asked.

“Oh yes, we’ll be celebrating the good word of our Lord.” She replied, with glee in her eyes.

“Can I bring my partner Stevie?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

I turned and yelled into the house. “Hey, Stevie, do you want to go to a concert in…. where is your event again ma’am?”

“Um, I really don’t think you boys would be comfortable attending.” She took her flyer and promptly stomped off.

“That’s very New Testament of you!” I called after her. Then I went back to work.

Total costs: $1,028

Day 7, Friday- “Replete with Deferred Maintenance”

2006-08-05T21:52:00.000-07:00

The family and I decided to make the big trip down to Portland to visit the Habitat for Humanity ReStore.

We wanted to get started early, but, because of the ongoing drama with the mortgage firm, I had to call the mortgage broker and wait for her to return my call. All this to let them all know that the windows (on the MUD PORCH) had been replaced.

The broker called and said everything was just great, but please hold on for a bit before leaving town. Shortly thereafter, the appraiser called to set up the appointment to see the windows. I asked if he really needed me to be there to see the windows. The lady had to call back. I’m always happy to be left at the mercy of the incredibly decisive.

We got started at noon.

We ran through the church’s janitor’s rummage sale. (Say that twice fast.) Nice enough guy, but this guy is a pack rat. Grabbed some stuff (cheap!) and headed down the road.

Got a few doors, and quite a lot of tile, for a very good price at the ReStore, and headed north on the I-5 parking lot.

That’s when the mortgage broker called back.

“Everything is taken care of, no need to worry about the windows anymore.”

“Great, do I need to do anything else?” I asked.

“You have quite enough to do,” she answered with a hint of a grin in her voice. “But that’s what happens when you buy a house that has some deferred maintenance.”

We picked up additional supplies from Home Depot and the Evil Empire (Wal-Mart). By the time we were headed back it was 11:00 pm and the budget was used up. With 400+ Square feet of tile, plus a couple hundred pounds of paint, thin set, morter, a couple of solid wood doors strapped to the roof, and three little kids, the van was sitting like a low-rider.

Some deferred maintenance. Yeah, tell that to my wallet. Or my back.

Total costs: $1,017

Day 6, Thursday- Yea! Paint!

2006-08-03T23:04:00.000-07:00

I spent my day preparing the walls for fresh new paint. Went out and purchased a couple of tubes of caulk, a new ladder, and other such niceties.

So I spent the morning prepping walls. I filled cracks with caulk (that sounds so dirty), plugged holes (also kinda kinky sounding), and sanded walls. I also took care of Asia and other damaged walls using the magic of "feathering."

Now, if you’re like me, you should probably be committed. At the same time, however, when you hear “feathering” you think of 80’s hair bands and mullet’s o’ plenty. I actually listened to Eddie Money and Poison while “feathering” (I really like that word) the walls, thus forever cementing the association.

I really need pharmaceutical help.

Anyhow, in my travels and purchases I made the big score of the day. Two gallons (each a different color) of Dutch Boy dirt fighter on clearance at Fred Meyer’s for $5 each. For folks who are bad at math, that is a really good deal.

One of the colors is a rather nice, rich brown with very warm tones. This is being used in the entry.

The other color is a ghastly, retina-searing, brain damaging, Pepto-Bismol pink. I mean damn, I don’t think the kids will be able to sleep in there, as this shit is practically audible.

Of course, the little girls love it. Oh well. At least it was cheap.

After working at the house until 8:00 pm or so, I return home to a panicked message from the Mortgage broker. Seems I replaced the wrong window.

Let me clarify- I fixed the window that led into the HOUSE. They wanted the windows on the PORCH fixed. Whatever. I guess I misinterpreted “securing” the house. So, by 10, I was home again. I wasn’t even bleeding. My neighbors may think I’m a meth freak, but at least my dryer sheets will be safe.

I love strange crap like that.

Total costs: $467

Day 5, Wednesday- Eye protection is for sissies.

2006-08-02T22:08:00.000-07:00

They always tell you to wear eye protection.

You know who they are. Assholes in well-lit studios rubbing sandpaper on a piece of wood like over-caffeinated Parkinson’s sufferers.

Well, here in the real world, we paint ceilings in dark little rooms with only the rhythmic thumping of an unevenly loaded paint roller to break the silence. In such confines, with the fumes building, the light fading, and the temperature rising you tend to just say “screw these stupid, fogged up, heavily scratched, uncomfortable, plastic pieces of shit.”

So you take them off and carefully toss them into the next room with enough force to leave a dent in the far wall. (The glasses, however, survived intact.)

Shortly thereafter, the ceiling- with amazing pigeon like accuracy- proceeded to release a single precious drop of paint.

Right. Into. My. Eye. Damn. Damn. Damn. Ow.

Little tip for people who might be dumb enough to read this for home repair advice- DO NOT RUB YOUR EYE!

Let me say that again: DO NOT RUB YOUR EYE!

After several obscenity laced minutes at the kitchen sink, I was able to see well enough to navigate through the house and go sit down for a moment or two. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the front porch.

Guess what wanders around in Astoria on lovely summer nights?

Tourists. Damn again.

As I sat quietly drinking my water an overly-khakied (Yay! New word!) individual stopped to make conversation. He seemed pleasant enough, but his timing was just flat awful.

He started with the obvious. “So, are you remodeling?” My guess is the paint, plaster, and pile of debris clued him in.

“Oh no, I’m restoring.”

“Ah- what is the difference?”

“Calling it restoring keeps the Historical Society off your ass.”

“What is the Historical Society?”

I grinned. “A local property-owner’s rights advocacy group.” With that, I waved good night, tossed the bottle into the junk pile and went back to painting.

With my safety glasses on.

Total costs: $335

Day 4, Tuesday- Baby, shake that brass.

2006-08-02T00:30:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I made the rather innocent mistake of sitting down before heading over to the freestanding time sink.

Four hours later, I woke up to screaming, heartache, and discontent- something about children beating each other or stealing toys or some other such thing. When bleary-eyed and still wearing your work clothes, the last thing you want is excuses, you just want quiet.

So, I sat down at the table to a bunch of wall-candy (lead-based paint) covered brass with an assortment of tools and just got busy. The kids simply can not scream louder than my trusty Dremel tool. (My wife can, but I have a note from my doctor that says I can’t hear it when girls talk. I think she finds it easier to just go along.)

It took two hours, I actually managed to accomplish something, well, shiny.

Tomorrow, I will return to my own little time sink. Perhaps it is back-breaking mind-numbing labor, but at least it is nice and quiet.

Total costs: $335

Day 3, Monday- Painting with an iPod.

2006-08-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

I realized tonight that my neighbors are much closer at this house than at the last one. I am also forced to deal with another terrible truth.

I am a horrifically bad dancer. I move like a epileptic chicken on a hotplate in a centrifuge. I have the rhythm of a tree sloth after a major head injury.

Of course, I’m just trying to be nice. In reality, my dancing is much worse. I was not being fair to either the chicken or the tree sloth.

The point is this: when shaking your groove thang, folks such as myself would do the world a favor to close the damn door. I need to remember that just because I have an iPod with (as the kids who are now drawing pensions say) groovy tunes, I am still a big bald man better suited to being a middle linebacker than a Rockette.

Those neighbor kids may need therapy, the lady across the street may have stifled vomit, but at least the entry is primed.

Total costs: $335

Day 2, Sunday- Demolition, and bad ideas.

2006-08-01T00:49:00.000-07:00

Getting started early is always nice, but the fresh air and the new day tend to screw with your head. Things you never take on due to things like “common sense” are suddenly really good ideas.

Six in the morning is an awful lot like a six pack of beer.

First thing in the morning, I spotted a little bit of paint peeling in the living room. So, instead of doing the rational, reasonable, I’ve only got 31 days to go thing- I went after it with a putty knife.

Guess what? Once you start- the paint just keeps right on flaking off. Scraping paint is fun and easy! Ok, not really. The living room now looks like a scene from a movie shot in Bosnia.

So I have several randomly shaped stripped walls. Big bare patches in fields of old paint. I’ve got a great spot that looks like Asia. Yet I kept scraping. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I was hoping to find a Virgin Mary.

Want to know what is worse than six in the morning? Nine at night. Nine is like a case of beer.

Saw some old trim boards on the wall in the dining room that needed a lot of work. I thought I was taking the easy way out. I thought that popping a couple of boards off of the walls would save hours of labor in the future.

I was wrong.

Total costs: $310

Day 1, Saturday- Blood and glazing

2006-08-01T00:15:00.000-07:00

After a calm afternoon of child-rearing involving:

Numerous fights over god-knows what
Three complete meltdowns
Two meals consisting of nothing but hot dogs
And a PowerPuff Girls DVD

I was ready to start. Hell, I was ready to eat my own liver. No idea how the wife does it day after day. I can tell you- I kinda identify with Andrea Yates. I don’t condone killing your kids, think it is wrong, yadda yadda, but I understand were it comes from...

Anyway, after getting started very late, and lacking electricity, I took pictures and replaced broken window panes.

Want to know what is worse than plumbing? Fixing windows. Broken glass, rock hard clay ("glazing" I love them technical words) and old wood all wrapped in a pretty ER visit package.

Imagine a project where you get to bleed. Not a little, but lots. Like “holy shit, I think that was an artery” kind of bleeding. Just for being dumb enough to not hire someone else to do it.

With plumbing, if things go bad, the worst you have is a flood. When fixing windows, things can go bad enough that you get a closed-casket funeral.

Then, when you are all done, you get to wash a window. Whee. Nobody notices fixed windows, so you don't even get a "atta boy" from the wife. The problem is that people expect windows. They expect clean, clear windows without broken glass or bloodstains.

People are spoiled.

For the record- things go slower when you have to maintain direct pressure on a serious laceration. You can still work, but it takes some doing.

Total costs: $147

Day 0, Friday- Five Gallons and some plaster.

2006-07-31T23:53:00.000-07:00

She was beaming, flitting happily about the rooms. She was peeking into corners, exploring the possibilities. I simply followed, observed, and took mental notes.

"You have to understand- this house has history. Women who wore corsets lived here. War ration coupons once sat on the counter. Babies were born here and have since died after long lives." She spun about on her heal to face me, hair flipping around behind her, “and that is why I wanted a Craftsman. Anybody can have a new house- but this is like continuing history.”

I smiled, just a little. “You have your Craftsman. Let’s go buy some paint.”

That is how it always starts, with five gallons of paint and some plaster.