Bathroom Report, Day 4

I was certain I'd published day two, but I guess I hadn't.

Tuesday night Slim Jim caught some plaster to the ear and I encouraged him to go to the hospital after I saw some ear meat. Nothing serious, just cosmetic. If he hadn't gone to get stiches he would have had some crazy cool ear scar. He was upset about all this though because of lost time.

Apparently a group of our old friends were at the hospital due to someone else's finger injury and they all met up and hung out. Wednesday I got in early after having taken a half day to get my windshield fixed, and all those folks showed up at around five or six. It was nice to see them all, but I felt a little stressed making everyone dinner in addition to the fact that work stopped when they arrived.

Thursday the crew (Slim had recruited) tore out quite a bit. Demolition's pretty much done, so I'm pissing in jars for the time being. Check it out:






I'm off to the Mistresses' home town for the weekend, so we'll see what's next. Slim's going home tonight or tomorrow I think, so I'm guessing I'll be staying at the Mistresses' for a while.

Bathroom Report, Day 1

Slim Jim's been planning on remodeling the bathroom for some time now. He took the week off to work on the house, arriving late Sunday. He gave me the following options on the bathroom: do a little bit at a time to keep it functional/livable, or do it all at once to try to have as much done by the end of the week. Those weren't his words exactly. He thinks he can get it done in a week. Actually, I think he has to think that, or he will get discouraged. The week deadline gives him a finish line to run for. I, on the other hand, need to believe that he can't do it in the week. That way I'm mentally prepared when (if, but really when) it doesn't happen.

Yesterday marked the first day of work, and I came home to see the shower I bathed in just the previous night cut into pieces and stacked on my porch. By the end of the evening, the only thing left in the bathroom was a (thankfully) working toilet.

Starbuck was very good through all this. That is, until I came home. Me being in the room gave her permission under the cat code of conduct to explore, and she was very interested in the holes leading to the drop ceiling below. It had always been my plan to take her somewhere when Slim did heavy construction, so last night I packed her up and took her to my parent's house.

She doesn't like their cat. Big Orange, on the other hand, couldn't care less. He's just eating and napping as usual. Meanwhile Starbuck feels the need to hiss at his very presence. I feel bad for him, but so long as he keeps his whatever attitude, I think he'll be fine. She'll be fine, too. She strode out of her carrier like she owned the place.

I felt guilty leaving her, but dad said "you think that's bad? You just wait until you're dropping you kid off at daycare, or at the babysitter so you can go party."



Note the metal box on the right hand wall. That's Fussnpuss' medicine cabinet. I know it wouldn't happen, but every time I see it I imagine pushing on it and seeing it pop out on her side. I can't believe that's all that seperates our bathrooms though. No more maligning my neigbhor over the phone on the john.

Ain't it a Mother

I figured that, for Mother's day, I'd invite my folks over and cook dinner for them. You know, kind of a good faith role reversing thank you: a meal for all the years of meals and laundry and money and time and who knows what other parental sacrifices else. Hungover and running late, by the time I ran out of the house to buy groceries, my folks had already started their drive. Unfortunately, when I ran out, I was missing a crucial component to my plans: keys. I'm usually very good about this, and being of the paranoid sort, I had never considered leaving a spare set outside. Dark Mistress Hawthorne has keys to my house, but she was halfway across the state, driving out to visit her injured father. Slim Jim, my friend/landlord has keys, but he lives hours away. I gave my parents a set as well, but by the time I called them about it, they were practically around the corner. And besides that, they don't remember me giving them a set anyway.

The most obvious way into the house would have been through the bathroom window, which I'd left open. Because I like my stuff, I keep all the ground floor windows locked. The bathroom window sits right above the porch roof, which wasn't too far off the ground, but far enough to make me nervous. I considered how I could climb up there: the stack of miscellaneous lawn chairs, the plastic bins 'o' plenty, perhaps the carpet roll in conjunction with the unassembled bed loft kit. Have I mentioned that though I live in an urban area, I have a back porch fitting of any cunnerman shack? Oh, I could go on: Two old grills: gas and charcoal. Two antique sleds. Two old air conditioners. Two electric weed trimmers. It's like my porch is an a Noah's Arc for garage sale items.

I did not suffer for lack of stackable items. It was just that the thought of hoisting my frame up on that pitched roof was too much for my dizzy hangover addled constitution, so I set about a safer method of entry.

Now, the principle behind picking locks is simple, and the practice of doing so is less difficult than it is time consuming and kind of boring. I suppose with proper tools and a bit more experience it would become a more efficient ordeal, but lock picking is definitely more about the ends than the means. Now, if you were to ask me about lock picking, or if we happened to be hanging out and the topic came up, I would probably come across sounding like a bit of an expert. This is because I know vaguely how locks work, and I'm a bit of an ass who likes to sound smarter than he is. In reality, I've successfully picked locks two and a half times. Two counts come from the old metal office desk I have in the home whose drawers were stuck shut after I moved. I figured the locks had somehow engaged themselves with all the bumping and tipping and what not. Using a thumbtack and a bent paper clip I successfully got both locks to spin. I then realized that the drawers weren't locked, they just got jammed somehow, and I had just picked my locks closed.

The half count comes from college, when my friend, Slim Jim actually, had explained to me how locks work and, in turn, how they could be picked. I was studying at the Humanities Center where they have old, nice, wooden desks. I got bored and saw there was a lock for the desk drawer right in front of me. Using, again, a thumb tack and a paper clip, I fidgeted with the thing until I got the lock to close. Luckily I had sense enough to have the drawer open at the time, because I was never able to pick the lock back open. To this day, if you try to close the drawer flush, it stops against that stuck lock tab.

But that was then, and I felt pretty confident in my ability to tackle this lock. All I needed was the proper tools. Unfortunately, I was far away from my office supplies, so I had to settle for whatever I could find in the junkyard of my porch. My first try involved an antique pair of scissors, some copper wire, and a metal tooth broken from a rake. Even though I was excited at how easy it was to use these black weathered scissors to cut and strip the copper wire, that method was fruitless. The wire proved to soft, no matter how I bent and twisted. My next try involved cutting a square of aluminum from a soda can, which I folded and pressed into a bar. This might have worked, but when I made them small enough to fit the lock, they were too weak and bent.

Finally my parents arrived. I had hoped to have dinner going by the time they got there and here I was, filthy, trying to break into my own house. We decided the bathroom window really was the way to go, but I could only get as far as standing on the trash can before I lost my nerve. Dad jumped up there easy, crawled inside, and unlocked the door.

Mom stayed behind as we went grocery shopping. He helped me pick out the ground beef, he picked out the cole slaw. He picked out the onion rolls that mom likes. By the time we got back, mom was there washing the last of my large pile plastic containers. I hate washing those, and I had a few month collection stacked in one half of the sink. I yelled at her for it, but she said she just couldn't stand it.

Dad made cocktails, showed me his hamburger making technique while mom made the instant pasta salad. It all turned out delicious, even if it wasn't really the reversal I'd planned. It wasn't the fancy dinner I had in mind from the start, it wasn't ready by the time they got there, they ended up doing most of the work, and that was after they came to the rescue and got me into my own damn house. We all had a good time though, and at least I got this dumb blog post out of it.

Physical Demands

I was reviewing my position description at work, and at the end of the description was the following list.

Physical Demands/Work Environment Frequency of Activity

Stand: Often
Walk: Often
Sit: Often
Use hands to finger, handle, or feel: Often
Reach with hands and arms: Often
Climb or balance: Seldom
Stoop, kneel, crouch, or crawl: Seldom
Talk or hear: Nearly Continuously
Taste or smell: Often
Lifting – up to 10 pounds: Often
Lifting – up to 25 pounds: Often
Lifting – up to 50 pounds: Seldom
Lifting – up to 100 pounds: Seldom
Lifting – over 100 pounds: Not Required
Vibration: Often


Vibration? Really? I've never once experienced on the job vibration. What did they have in mind, exactly? I feel gipped.

Tidbits

When I was a young'n, I loved, this snack called Do-Dads! That's not excitement, I think there was an exclamation point in the title. It was like Chex Mix, only better. Much, much better. This is coming from someone who will eat Chex Mix until he bleeds from is salt numbed mouth.

On the back of the box there was a list of the individual snacks included in the mix, such as pretzel rods or peanuts, each with a picture and a description of the item. Being the type of child who would go on to organize his Legos by into bins by size, shape, and color, this itemized snacking list was right up my alley. With the visuals and descriptions I was able to get a better understanding of the snack's constituent parts, which allowed me to better understand my unique bond with each of them. Most, like the peanuts and pretzel rods already mentioned, could be snacks on their own, easily had elsewhere. The one snack I've never seen outside a box of Do-Dads! was Tidbits, which were cylindrical cheese crackers about the shape and size of capsule pills. Do-Dads, sadly, disappeared right around the time I was old enough to go to the store and buy them for myself. The point of this story?

Two years ago today I bought my first car with the help of a co-signing father (who also put some money down - thanks dad!). I had an incredible sense of pride knowing that this was my car, in my name, on my dime. It's been mostly good since then. I've only had one major issue since I bought it: a $20 part in the transmission that limited me to first and second gear. That's another story though.

Car's up for inspection at the end of the month, and as it is, I knew it won't pass. For one, the windshield has cracks running nearly its entire length. It happened from the inside, is my fault, and again, is another story. The brakes were also bad. They felt off the day I test drove it, pulsating when applied at any speed, but I didn't know enough then and figured that it was an irregularity that would work itself out. Two years later and believe it or not, the pulsating only got worse. New brakes, new winshield, lots of money. Thank goodness the economy tanked and we all got $600 sent to us in hopes we'd put a down on new plasma TV's or some such nonsense. For me: easy come, easy go. Thank you, sub-prime lending crisis. Without you, I'd never be able to afford to fix my car.

I started with the brakes, figuring I could do them myself. I'd changed front brake rotors and pads once before, and it's not too complicated. Sunday the Mistress and I drove around, picking up the parts and tools I'd need. Brake pads and rotors came out to about 100, maybe 120 total. I forget off the top of my head. The original plan was, if I had time, to do it Sunday. Time ran out, so I decided to change D.M.H.'s tail light, marker light, and headlight assembly, which took all of 20 minutes, and to check and properly inflate our tires.

Monday after work I got started a bit late because I realized I never lifted the car onto jack stands before, so I needed to search for safe jacking points. I got the car up on stands easily enough, though when you haven't done it in a while, it's downright scary. I pulled the front wheels and just about got into pulling the right brake caliper when I hit a snag.

When I was buying parts, I almost bought a set of allen wrenches, which would be needed to loosen and remove the caliper guide bolts. I knew Slim Jim had some in the basement, and figured "don't go overboard, just get what you need." Well there I am, car on jacks, needing a 7mm allen wrech, holding in my hand a set that goes 10-8-6...

Knowing I didn't have the time or heart to put everything back together so I could run to the hardware store so I could try again, I figured that since I had her all apart, I'd rotate the tires. Now, I know it's important to rotate your tires every... so often. But I also grew up in a house where I don't remember anyone rotating the tires on our cars in any sort of a hurry, and we all turned out fine. The tires on my car are a year and a half old. I should have rotated them a couple times, but I never got around to it, being cheap/poor and busy/distracted. Hey, better late then never, right?

I pulled the rear drivers side tire and saw something I hadn't previously known was possible. The tread on the rear tires was pretty damn good, or so I thought until I saw the diagonal grooves that ran across the face on half the tire, down to the low tread indicators.

Held at the right angle, they made the tire look like a polygon instead of a circle.

Stumped, and not sure I should even bother rotating the tires, I called my old man, who was also pretty stumped. I put her all back together, just the way she was when I started two hours prior, and started researching what in blazes could cause diagonal wear patterns on a rear wheel.

Turns out that incorrect toe can. What is toe? Flatten your hands and put them side by side on the table in front of you, as if you were making an imaginary hallway and your hands were the walls running parallel. Got it? Now cock your wrist a bit so your left hand points diagonally inward, as if the hallway were narrowing. If your hands were tires, their toe would be incorrectly adjusted.

Tuesday I tried again, packing a new set of wrenches. Though there were a few snags, I eventually got the brakes switched out and the car back on the ground in about an hour forty five. I test drove it and didn't drive into any walls, so I'd call the whole operation a success.

Oddly enough, while the old brake rotors were scored to hell, with groves up to a quarter inch wide and clearly visible from a distance, the pads weren't in too bad of a shape. It's eerie to drive on these new brakes, as I've never driven this car without it vibrating when I'm stopping. It was a mental cue, so I constantly feel like I'm not actually braking when I try to stop.

I guess the next steps are to have the windshield replaced (I'm not tackling that one without experience), to buy four new tires, to have the alignment fixed all around, and then to cross my fingers and hope that my struts aren't bad because that could also be a factor in accelerated tire wear.

This entry was titled Tidbits because I was going to write about a whole bunch of stuff in one big post, but you know what?

Me either.