Pass the Pain Killers. Stat.

Pain. Intense, excruciating pain. Arthritic fingers won't glide across keyboard. Hand curved in permanent G.I. Joe "kung fu" grip. Typing with right index finger. Occasional help from thumb.

Had "bright" idea yesterday. Deviate from original patio plan. Be creative! "Extend" one side of extended patio. More digging. More mixing. More hauling sand, dirt in wheel barrow. Will look "cool".

Today. May have overdone it. Digging. Lots of digging. Hauling lots of dirt. Big hole. Found irrigation lines. Again. Crap. More digging and rerouting lines. Dug some more.

Fill big hole with cement. Mixing. Lots of mixing. Sand, cement, water. Mix, pour, repeat. Stopped counting at 20. Can't feel arms. Lower back killing me. Legs? J-E-L-L-O.

Took ibuprofen. 6 or 7. Not working. Need more "kick". Percoset? Vicodin? OxyContin? Screw it. Going directly to morphine.

Patio? Looks frickin' cool.

Laying the Foundation

Phase 2 of the flagstone patio project has begun. We finished phase 1 in mid-August, and took a couple of months off to recover and allow the summer heat to come to an end. Phase 1 involved building a side patio that essentially covered up a weed pit next to our house. Phase two will extend the back patio into the grassy area of our back yard.



Phase 2 required quite a bit of prep work, first of which was to remove the 10 million tons of river rock filling the space between the patio and grass. The rock looked cool, but just wasn't functional as we grew tired of twisting our ankles practically every time we walked across it, which was often.



We made two large piles of rock on either side of the yard. One afternoon I looked out a back window and saw what I thought was litter that had blown into one of the piles. I walked out to pick it up and discovered it wasn't litter at all. It was a declaration:



I later asked Kailey whether those were her rocks or if she "rocked", to which she replied, "Yes." That's my girl!



Now the hard work has begun. For the past week, my father-in-law and I have been clearing dirt, staking things out, and mixing and pouring concrete. My father-in-law is the brains behind this operation, otherwise I would never undertake such an ambitious project. Of course no project could unfold without running into at least one problem. We discovered that an irrigation line cut through a portion of the new patio area. Most of my time on Tuesday was spent exhuming the lines, splicing them and running them through PVC piping and reburying them so that we could get at them if (when) they leak in the future.



Once we finish laying the cement foundation, we'll begin the long process of hauling the sheets of flagstone that you can see lined up against the wall and creatively placing them on the patio. I'm excited because I know it's going to look great. Hopefully we'll be done by Christmas.

I Need to Learn to Keep My Fat Mouth Shut

Well, my Cubbies are on the verge of getting swept by the Astros and are in the midst of a three-game losing streak. I think I jinxed them by praising them a little too early. Little did you know that the success or failure of the Cubs is directly related to the amount of praise I heap on them. I can HAVE hope that this will be their year, I just can't EXPRESS it. The mere expression of hope sends them into a free-fall. That being said, I am resolved that this will be my last entry on the Cubs this season. Unless, of course, they start kickin' butt and takin' names again. Then I'll be compelled to praise them. What can I say? I'm cursed!

OK, there's still a lot of season left, but I'd like to see them continue to win series and keep the pressure on Milwaukee. The only saving grace is that Milwaukee is in a slump as well, allowing the Cubs to stick around. There's still time. So until the playoffs arrive, here's me sticking a sock in it. Cubbies, that's your cue to go on another run.

Brush & Bulky Overload

When we moved into our house a little over three years ago, neither Diane nor I knew a thing about landscaping or lawn care. Sure, growing up in the Midwest, I spent a major portion of my summers mowing lawns, but I had no idea of how to keep them green and weed-free. So the past three years have been a hit and miss crash course in yard care, and my new philosophy has become "when in doubt, hack". By the looks of the foliage growing on our property, the previous owners of our home also engaged in this hit and miss course, and we are now suffering the consequences. Several of our trees and bushes were severely overgrown and no amount of hacking could scale them down to an acceptable size and still look good.

Most of our suspect foliage resides in the front yard. Two of our three "miniature" oleanders tower over me. They're huge. And our fruit tree is something of a hybrid gone very, very, wrong. It consists of two separate trees that share a base. One tree is an orange tree, the other, a gnarly mutant tree that produces what looks like tumor infested lemons. The tumor-lemon tree juts up through the middle of the orange tree and stretches up to the sky like an extended middle finger, mocking me. "Whatcha gonna do? Cut me down?" And I swear the fan palms inhabiting the northeast corner of the yard must have rabbit DNA running through their xylem and phloem because they produce fronds faster than I can cut 'em down. There is simply too much going on.

Suffice it to say that Diane and I pretty much hate the landscaping in our front yard and have been looking for an opportunity for change. Enter Brush & Bulky pickup. Twice a year, the city of Tucson arranges to pick up any brush or bulky items, up to ten cubic feet, that you set out on your curb. We're usually not ready for Brush & Bulky, but this year, fed up with our brush, we're MAKING the time to get rid our property of unwanted foliage. Only there was one problem. When we took inventory of everything we'd like to get rid of, it totaled probably closer to thirty cubic feet. We asked Diane's folks if we could use their ten cubic feet of Brush & Bulky pickup and they agreed. ROCK ON!

First, Diane's Dad and I cut down two dwarf fruit trees in the back yard, loaded them up and dropped 'em off on my in-laws curb. SEE YA! That was Sunday. On Monday, I decided I would turn my attention to that finger-flipping mutant fruit tree out front. I figured special occasions called for special tools, so I stopped by Home Depot and picked out a tree pruner. Best purchase I ever made. Monday night, I took my new tree pruner out for a test drive and was not disappointed. That thing cut through those mutant branches like a hot knife through butter. Oooaah, oooaah, ooaah! I was going to enjoy dismembering finger-flipping mutant fruit tree limb by limb.

Tuesday morning, after taking Kailey to school, I grabbed the tree pruner and a bow saw and took the mutant fruit tree down. It didn't go down without a fight, though. Each of its limbs were stocked with sharp, spiky thorns that tried to gouge out my eyes upon their descent to the ground. But I was too quick for them. Every once in a while, the ones on the ground swiped my legs as I moved in for a better kill position around the tree. Eventually the mutant fruit tree was reduced to a series of piles around the front yard, leaving only the healthy, odd-shaped orange tree behind. I loaded the remains of the finger-flipper into the back of the van and transported it to my in-laws curb. SIONARA SUCKER!

In the coming days, I will arm myself with my trusty tree pruner and turn my wrath upon the three pot-bellied "miniature" oleanders. They will join their finger-flipping mutant fruit tree brethren on the curb for the Brush & Bulky folk. Then we begin the daunting task of figuring out just what in the world we're going to plant in their place.

Cubs, Why Must You Torment Me?

I've been biting my tongue all season long, but I can't take it anymore. My Cubbies spent a butt-load of money in the off season and they still suck. Should I be surprised? Not really. Tonight, they blew a 4-0 lead against the Mets, eventually losing 5-4 by WALKING IN THE WINNING RUN! I've been an unwavering, die-hard Cub fan for nearly 35 years, and I'm tired of always waiting until next year. I know it's still early in the season to throw in the towel, and I hope to crap that I end up eating my words, but I'm tired of being cursed by loving a team that is itself cursed.

I blame my Dad. He made me a Cub fan through one small, simple gesture. And I vividly remember the exact moment in my young, impressionable life when I freely gave myself to the curse of being a Cub fan.

I was four years old and in the hospital for a series of skin graft surgeries to repair third degree burns on my left arm. Talk about a parent's nightmare. While at a babysitter's house, I thought it might be a good idea to stick that arm into her wringer washer machine, but soon learned otherwise. A wringer washer machine is an old-fashioned washer equipped with two rollers that "wring" the water out of clothes. It's the equivalent of the modern day spin cycle only nuclear turbofied. So while the machine was wringing the crap out of my arm, I stuck my right thumb in the gears trying to get some leverage to pull my arm out. Off came the tip of my thumb. Did I mention I was four? In runs my babysitter to find me stuck in and bleeding all over her washing machine. She popped the top off the rollers, freed me from her washing machine of death, and held me until my Mom arrived to take me to the emergency room.

They whisked me into one of the exam rooms and immediately began cutting off the long sleeve of my Garanimals shirt. I don't know if they still do this or not, but back in the early 70's, Garanimals were known for making long-sleeve shirts with non-elastic cuffs. That way boys couldn't pull their sleeves up to their armpits and stretch all the elastic out of the cuffs. Moms thought this was awesome. Boys frickin' hated it. Between my Garanimal shirts and Toughskin jeans, I was one miserable hombre. Anyway, because I couldn't roll up my sleeve, we had no idea of the extent of damage awaiting us under the shirt. Besides, everyone's attention was focused on my hemorrhaging thumb. How could anyone but a doctor have guessed there were third degree burns under my sleeve? They cut away my sleeve and the last thing I remember before passing out was, "Hey, why does my whole freakin' arm look like cheese pizza?"

I awoke the next day (or at least I assume it was the next day) to BOTH of my arms heavily bandaged and hanging in slings. I quickly became known around the children's ward as "Popeye" because of my bulging arms. Children can be so cruel. I had several skin graft surgeries over the next several months to repair the damage to my arm. Or maybe it was just weeks...I have yet to meet a four year-old with a good sense of time. Whatever the time frame, suffice it to say that I spent more time in a hospital than any four year-old should.

What does any of this have to do with the Cubs? During one of my stays in the hospital, my Dad, God bless him, brought me a gift, a talisman guaranteeing my lifelong devotion: it was a plastic Cubs batting helmet. It was my first piece of Cub memorabilia and I took it hook, line and sinker. From that moment on, the Cubs were MY team. All because of a stupid royal blue piece of plastic with a red "C" on the front.

He was a well-intentioned soul, my Dad. How on earth could he know he was passing down the curse? Somehow, now that I think about it, he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing. He himself had endured the torment throughout his lifetime, and now he wanted company in his misery. In time he recruited my brother as well, who is now paying the ultimate price. You see, my brother turned coat and became a bandwagon Cardinals fan after they won the Series in the early eighties. Now he's back and he's a Cub FANATIC, the worst kind of torture there is. His daily mood is determined solely by the Cubs final box score. Poor bastard. At least I see the final score, mutter "Stupid Cubs" and then carry on with my day. But it's getting old...really old. I don't want to wait until next year anymore.

Reconnecting

One of the many pitfalls of parenting is sacrificing quality time with your partner in order to deal with life's daily grind. Diane and I stagger our work schedules as well as utilize the services of my in-laws to avoid having to place the girls in daycare. And then we're constantly transporting the girls to softball games, softball practices, gymnastics, etc. Throw in miscellaneous activities like play dates and birthday parties, and, oh yeah, homework, and there's not much time left over for Diane and me. In the midst of all of this activity, communication gets easily lost in the shuffle, and is often reduced to grunts or smart-ass remarks (usually uttered by me) that bristles against the sensitivities of the other party (usually Diane). Sure, we have a couple of hours together to connect after we get the girls to bed, but by that time we are exhausted and usually collapse in front of the TV.

Last week was a tough one for Diane and me. I am a guy, and guys sometimes do or say stupid things that hurt our loved ones. Sometimes this is intentional, but most times, in my case anyway, it is not. We are just oblivious to what we've said or done, and in many cases the ones we've hurt just stuff their bruised emotions. Thank goodness Diane isn't like that, and last week she'd had enough. She confronted me on some of my attitudes, words and actions. Like I said before, I am a guy (notice I didn't say "man"?), and guys sometimes don't deal with confrontation very well. Guys are more interested in saving face than dealing with the consequences of their words or actions. So, like a guy, I addressed her issues at the surface level and then tried to sweep them under the carpet because I was pissed and didn't fully understand where she was coming from.

We continued to go through the motions for the next few days, mostly because we saw each other in passing on our way to work or to the girls' activities, but Diane, thank goodness, refused to let it go. One thing I really love about my wife is her strength. She is a beautiful woman, minus all of the emotional baggage that most beautiful women seem to carry with them. She pulled me aside one morning late last week and asked if we could spend some time talking through our issues on a day where we had time. I was tired of all the tension between us, so I agreed.

So last night, after we put the girls to bed, Diane threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and stirred up a batch of margaritas (what better than a buzz to loosen the tongue), and we settled into our positions on our comfy chair for a heart-to-heart chat. Diane shared first, and although I sat down ready for a fight, her words took all the fight out of me. Her feelings weren't insecure and irrational the way I thought they would be, and I quickly realized that I had a decision to make: I could argue for the sake of saving face and continue being an ass, or I could validate her and her feelings, own up to my actions and apologize for hurting her. Let me add here that approximately 99.9% of the apologizing in our relationship is done by me. It's not manipulated out of me, I'm just that stupid. I clicked the override button on my stupidity, took my medicine, and apologized for the zillionth time.

We were then able move into a productive discussion about our relationship where we came to the realization that we miss each other. We see each other every day, but we're always in motion, going somewhere or doing something. This is a necessary evil as parents, but we end up neglecting ourselves and our relationship in the process. One of the best things we as parents can display for our girls is our love for each other. Diane even commented last night that the girls actually get excited when we go out on a date. The last time we went out (before Valentine's Day...ughhh), the girls teased us, "MOMMY AND DADDY, GOIN' ON A DA-ATE!!" then running off and giggling, well, like school girls. So, we're going to make a concerted effort to date more, and I'm excited about it.

Our discussion wasn't fun, but it helped me to realize just how much I still love my wife...actually how much MORE I love my wife...because she doesn't let me get away with my childish B.S. She's a tough cookie who makes me want to become a better man. I love you, Hon. You're the best. Happy Early Mother's Day.

It's Not My Fault...I'm Global!

A few months ago while attending my Grandpa's visitation, I was talking to my Mom and some other family members in the foyer of the church. I was telling them about how crazy it was for me to get ready for the trip: I'd start one task, then remember something else I needed to do, so I'd drop the first task and move on to the second, and so on, and so on, and so on. I eventually completed everything, but was exhausted by all the extra running around.

"You're global," my Mom declared.

I paused and looked at her. "Excuse me?"

"You're global. You get it from me."

I still wasn't quite tracking. I mean, I try to keep up on world events as best as I can, but I had absolutely no idea of how this had anything to do with running around like a chump chasing a greased pig in order to get ready for a trip.

"It's your personality type," she explained after reading my confused expression. "I was at a workshop a while back where I learned about personality types. You're either global or sequential. Sequential people see a list of tasks and complete one at a time. Global people see a list of tasks and complete them all at the same time. I'm global. You get it from me."

"So it's your fault!!" I cried. All these years I thought something was wrong with me, and I was right...I'm global. Can't be helped. It's in my jeans, er, genes.

This morning was a good example of my globalositiness. My Mom, appropriately enough, is visiting this weekend to look at houses for a possible move to Tucson. I just returned from taking Kailey to school, and everyone was in the family room watching the Today Show. I asked if they were ready for coffee, and began getting it ready. As I washed the coffee pot I noticed a light out in the family room ceiling fan. My Mom was reviewing housing information that we picked up from our house hunting yesterday, and she was sitting in a dark spot. I need to change that light bulb!

I abandoned the washed coffee pot, put on my flip-flops, and headed into the garage to fetch the ladder. My brain immediately began screaming at me: What are you doing! Finish the task! Finish the task! I snapped out of my global induced trance and finished making the coffee. THEN I fetched the ladder. I set it up, climbed up and unscrewed the globe from the ceiling fan, and took down the whole assembly. Then I went to the laundry room to retrieve a light bulb.

The light bulbs are at the back of a shelf where we keep detergent and cleaning supplies. Only I couldn't get to them because there were 30 boxes of Swiffer dusters blocking them, several of which were open and half used. What the heck? So I took them all down and began consolidating the boxes of dusters. Why did I come in here again? Light bulbs...yeah, right! I filtered through the boxes of light bulbs and decided on a 75 watt bulb, then returned to the ladder.

I climbed back up the ladder with the 75 watt bulb and noticed the other bulb was 100 watts. Plus, man was it dusty up there! So I climbed down, went back to the laundry room, grabbed the Swiffer duster and another 75 watt bulb, ran back to the family room, and climbed the ladder where I proceded to dust off the blades. When I was satisfied with the results, I replaced both light bulbs along with the globe assembly. I put the ladder away, then returned yet again to the laundry room to clean up my mess.

All in all, a job well done if I must say so myself. I took a few tangents along the way, and it took me a half-hour to get a five-minute job done, but I did it. Actually, I did a three-in-one job. So don't hassel me...I'm global!

Is There Something Wrong Here?

Last night, after an afternoon of running errands followed by dinner out, we rushed home to see The Police open the 49th Grammy Awards. We made it by a minute, having enough time to get in the door, turn on the TV, and surf to the right channel before hearing Sting declare, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are the Police and we are back!" Insert chills here. They sounded amazing, but I was disappointed when they left the stage after performing Roxanne. I wanted more.

I settled in and Diane gave the girls their baths, graciously allowing me to absorb the show. Thanks, hon, you're the best! She took Kailey away first, leaving Kyra and I to watch The Dixie Chicks perform Not Ready to Make Nice. Joan Baez introduced them by saying something to the effect of "some people tell artists to shut up and sing". This struck a chord with Kyra. After the performance she asked me, "Why are people telling them to shut up and sing?" I offered what I thought to be a lame answer, but it seemed to make sense to her, so for the rest of the evening the Dixie Chicks became known as the "girls who were told to shut up and sing."

Kailey came in after her bath and Kyra took her turn in the tub as I gave Kailey her pajamas and dried her hair. Kyra returned a short while later because she wanted to see Shakira and Wyclef Jean perform Hips Don't Lie. SAY WHAT!?! Don't ask me where my six year-old learned this song...I barely even know it. But that's what she wanted to watch.

We were just about ready to send the girls to bed when Shakira came on. And I don't know what's worse: the fact that Kyra knows the song, or that we LET her watch the performance. Shakira comes on the stage in a long gold skirt and a matching, um, top, for lack of a better word, and her infamous midriff bared for all the world to see. The song begins and Shakira does her thing, shaking it all over the stage. Then the backup dancers show up and they're shaking it all over the stage too. There's a whole lotta shakin' goin' on. However, the backup dancers, I noticed, were not allowed to show their midriffs...only Shakira. I think that's #1 in Shakira's Ten Commandments: Thou shalt have no other midriffs before mine, sayeth Shakira.

It makes sense...thar's pow'r in them thar hips!! Hypnotic power mixed with a little morse code. It goes like this: shake, shake, shake...you are getting very sleepy...shake, shake, shake...you are now under my command...shake, shake, shake...you will buy all of my CD's, DVD's, concert tickets, t-shirts, posters, and bumper stickers...shake, shake, shake...now when I slap my butt...shake, shake, shake...you will wake up, go to your computer and empty your checking accounts, savings accounts, and load up all your credit cards at my website...

SLAP!! Thank goodness that slap was from my wife, up the side of my head. I guess I was drooling. She saved me from the hypnotic trance of Shakira's hips. Thanks, hon, you're the best! And to think that we subjected our precious little girls to this. Not to mention the fact that I taped it and allowed Kyra to watch it THREE MORE TIMES this morning. What is wrong with me? I blame it on the trance.

A Retraction

Decrees are stupid. I mean, seriously, who makes them anymore. And besides, if I have the power to issue a decree, certainly I retain the power to rescind it. I don't even think that a decree is binding if issued while under the influence...of body paint fumes. Not to mention the fact that the Bears didn't play well enough for me to actually carry it through. And this morning I noticed that the pesky eyebrow hair has returned. So decree over. Now hand me those tweezers and my razor...and the nose-hair trimmers.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL!

Kickoff for Super Bowl XLI is less that two hours away, and we're getting ready to head over to the in-laws for the big game. GO BEARS!!

Before we go, though, I feel compelled to issue a decree: that not a hair shall be shorn from my body until the Chicago Bears win a Super Bowl. That's right...no razor shall touch my face, back or ears (entering mid-life sucks); no shear shall cut my hair; not even shall that pesky left eyebrow hair that pops out of nowhere every couple of months shall be plucked until the Bears win a title. Plush forests of hair shall be allowed to grow freely across head, face, ears, back, chest, stomach, legs, buttocks, and...um...other places, until the Lombardi trophy finds its home in Chicago...

...or until the Cubs win the Series.

Why Can't Christmas Decorating Ever Be Easy?

I would enjoy the Christmas holiday so much more if someone ELSE did most of the decorating.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Christmas decorations. They make our home feel more cozy and comforting during the Holidays. And I'm OK once we get the Christmas tree up. But it's the process of getting the tree up that is so damn frustrating I could just scream! Add to that the frustration of hanging ANY type of Christmas light ANYWHERE, be it on the tree, on the house, around the house, on the lawn, on a tree outside, on a bush, on a shrub, on any frickin' type of plant life, or just randomly dangling inside the house...something will always go wrong. Just guess what my two main Christmas decorating jobs are. DING, DING, DING!!!

My first job was hanging Christmas lights on the eaves outside our house. I tackled that one last week, but it was a two-day job and it nearly cost me my life...again. There's very little traction on a ceramic mission tile roof, something I get reminded of on an annual basis. Add to that several awkward ladder positions, one of which has me dangling roughly twenty feet over our cement driveway, and Christmas-light-hanging becomes a death-defying experience. Anyway, the only reason it was a two-day job this year was because of the light bulbs. One fricking bulb on a 1,000 bulb strand of lights will cause 50 lights to go out, and it's my job to go through each bulb one-by-one to figure out which light it is. Well, this year I said SCREW IT. I am not playing Find-the-Naughty-Light-Bulb this year. This year, I am going to Target and buying NEW LIGHTS so SCREW YOU!! And that's what I did. I even bought an extra set so I don't have to play Find-the-Naughty-Light-Bulb next year either.

The lights had the last laugh, though. The other night as I drove into our driveway, I noticed a section of lights out on the side of the house. They weren't out when I put them up. Looks like I'll be playing Find-the-Naughty-Light-Bulb after all.

This morning began our annual Christmas tree fiasco. Today was the only day Diane and I could pick out the tree together, so we headed out first thing this morning. We got our tree at Home Depot. That's so depressing. When I was a kid, we used to go to Talbot's Tree Farm, grab a hacksaw and trek for hours looking for the perfect tree. There never was a perfect tree, so we'd settle for second-best while freezing our butts off. On second thought, Home Depot isn't so bad.

This morning was not a normal tree shopping day. We picked the first tree we saw: an eight foot noble. I've never picked the first tree. Today was going to be different. Today we were going to break the curse of the Christmas tree.

We took the tree home where I unloaded it from the top of our van and took it to the backyard. I had some other errands to run, so tree setup needed to wait. The plan for this afternoon was: 1.) prep the tree and get it in the stand; 2.) get lights on the tree while Diane takes the girls to gymnastics; 3.) eat dinner and then decorate the tree as a nice family evening. Why do we even bother making plans?

Everything was going smoothly. I returned after running my errands and immediately went to work on the tree. I trimmed off the lower branches. I cut off the recommended two inches of the trunk so the tree can take in water. I shook the crap out of the tree to get rid of loose needles. I had the tree stand cleaned and prepped and when Diane was ready to go, I carried the tree in and placed it in the stand. Diane held it in place and when I had determined that the tree was straight, I went to work on fastening the screws that would hold it in place. Wham! Bam! Bam! Done!

I grabbed a pitcher from the cabinet, filled it with water, mixed in the preservative that came with the tree, and returned to give it its first drink in its new home. I emptied the pitcher and refilled it to top off the stand. I can't believe this went so smoothly! No sooner had this thought gone through my head than I noticed a puddle of water growing on the tile next to the tree. Our stand had a leak. Diane was minutes away from taking the girls to gymnastics. Plan aborted.

We freed the tree from its stupid leaky stand, and I took it back outside where I placed the trunk in a bucket of water and leaned the tree up against the house. Diane and the girls left and I hauled my butt to the store to look for a new stand. Of course I couldn't find one right away, and it was only as I was leaving the store that I noticed the tree stands OUTSIDE. So I bought the stand, went back home, and waited for the girls to get back so we could put the tree in its new stand. I should have gotten to work on checking the lights, but I didn't. I started writing this blog instead. Yes, I am stupid.

We got the tree in the new stand without a hitch, ordered Thai food to go (Gaeng PaNang is a festive holiday dish), and then I went to work on the lights. Only one strand out of the six I had in storage worked. I already bought two new boxes of lights, but I was counting on at least two of my old strands to work. So guess what I did for the rest of the evening? That's right, I played our favorite Holiday festivity, Find-the-Naughty-Light-Bulb.

So now the tree sits in our family room, unlit and undecorated while I nurse a margarita and put the finishing touches on this blog. Family decorating night has been postponed until tomorrow.

Home Repair, Part 2

This entry should actually be titled "Home Destruction/Home Repair". My last home repair job was the result of an act of nature; this one, an act of me.

A few days after the roof tile incident, Kyra and I ventured into her room on a quest for toys. Each week part of Kyra's homework is to collect objects beginning with the letter of the week and place them in her "letter can". She then takes her letter can to school and presents her chosen objects to the class. Of course, we had waited until the last minute to put the letter can together, so we were rushing to get it done before she left for school.

This weeks' letter of the week was "A", and Kyra wanted an airplane for her can. One of her toy playsets had an airlpane in it and I made a beeline to her closet to get it. The sliding doors of her closet were both open and overlapped in the center of the track. I spotted the playset and tried to push the doors open to get to it, but they would not budge. Kyra, you see, has a knack for knocking her closet doors off their tracks. I have absolutely no idea how she does it. She's just a little thing, and it takes a fair amount of pressure to get them off track. Normally it's a relatively easy fix, just pop the rollers back on the track. But on this special occasion, both doors were off track and completely jammed together. I shot Kyra a look. I didn't have time for this.

"Sorry, Daddy." she whimpered.

At this point I should have grabbed the airplane and left the doors for later, but I didn't. After a fair amount of pushing, hitting, and cussing (under my breath, of course) I finally freed the doors from each other and was able to get the front door back on its track. The back door would have none of it. One set of rollers was off its track and it would not go back in no matter how much I fiddled with it. I was pissed at this point and decided to pop the other set of rollers out of the track and start from scratch. Only they didn't want to come off. "How did she do this?" I said to no one in particular. Sometime in the midst of all the pushing and pounding, Kyra silently dismissed herself from the room. "I'm three times her size, and I can't even get this thing off!!" The door wouldn't go on and it wouldn't come off. I finally gave it one last frustrated shove. CRACK!! That did the trick. The door broke free...literally. The rollers, still attached to a nice little chunk of door, fell at my feet, mocking me.

Expletive. This one was out loud because I noticed Kyra was no longer around. I really didn't want to buy a new door. I picked up the door chunk, inspected it and thought maybe I could reattach it using wood screws. Cool. I'd get to use my drill. Besides, I figured I'd try anything before buying a new door.

I angled the door to get it out of the closet, but before long, it was wedged in tight between the floor and the upper molding of the closet. Remember, the front door was where it was supposed to be and had easily snapped back into place. I didn't want to remove it to get the back door out. Expletive. I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!

I finally dislodged the back door...again...removed the front door, and freed the back door from my youngest daughter's demon closet. Now we're getting somewhere. I put the door down on the floor of the den and headed out to the garage to get my drill and some wood screws. After digging around the tool box for ten minutes (man, I gotta clean that thing out), I finally assembled a rag-tag team of wood screws. I grabbed the drill and returned to the door. All I needed to do now was reattach the wood chunk and we'd be back in business.

I set the first screw in place, applied pressure with the drill and pulled the trigger. RRR-RRR-RRR. The battery was dead. "I'm really not good at this," I laughed as I finally grasped the absurdity of the whole fiasco. I left the screw half-drilled into the door and put the drill battery in its charger. That was my final clue that maybe I should take a break. I guess I'm not that good at picking up on clues. I'm certainly not stubborn.

I have no idea of what Kyra was doing this whole time. She could have been juggling chainsaws for all I know. What I do know is that I cooled off and we finished her letter can...without the airplane. I couldn't find it. She had to settle for ants, Ariel, and aardvarks. She went to school with her letter can and I returned to the door after the battery recharged and finished the job...without a hitch. It's amazing what you can accomplish when you exercise a little patience. I may not be efficient, but I get the job done!

Home Repair, Part 1

Bob Vila, I'm not. Tim "The Toolman" Taylor...that's closer to the truth. My luck comes in one variety and that's "bad". This past month was filled with an unusual amount of freakish occurances around the house, putting my limited home repair skills to the test. This is part one.

I was at work on a Friday night about three weeks ago. The ten o'clock news had just finished when my cell phone rang. It was my wife. "We've got problems." She said. She had just gotten home from work and discovered various messages from our neighbors informing us that a pipe behind our garage had burst and flooded our side and back yard. They noticed the flooding around 5 pm that evening and turned our water off via the water meter on the street.

"How did it burst?" I asked. I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around the situation.

"It looks like one of the roof tiles fell and broke it." Diane replied.

"A roof tile fell and ruptured a pipe buried three feet underground??!!" Give me a break. I was tired.

"No, there's a pipe coming out of the back of the garage and there's a chunk missing from it."

Great. "Well, do you see a tile on the ground?" I asked as I helplessly tried to assess the situation.

"Ummm, oh yeah...there's a tile right over here!"

That's just great. That's just friggin' fantastic. Out of all the stinking tiles on my roof, what are the odds of one of them falling off and breaking a 3" piece of pipe? When my luck is involved in the equation, pretty high.

I was stuck at work, which made things worse because I was powerless to do anything about it at that moment. If we had to bring in a plumber on a Saturday it was going to be expensive. Hopefully it would be easy to fix. Finally, my bad luck ran out.

Here's what I found when I finally returned home to check things out:

A roof tile had indeed fallen off the roof and ruptured the pipe. The pipe was plastic pvc piping and took all of 30 minutes and less than $20 bucks to replace. Thank God.

Now I'm waiting for my water bill.