What is the matter with kids these days? Do they have any idea what it is to be a grandfather? I've just been informed that TJ and Rebekah are going to have another baby. They are now closing in on Tina and Chuck. Collectively, between TJ and Tina, I am now the grandfather of five children. If we add Mike and Ashley's foster kids to the mix, it would be eighty-seven grandkids, and this whole ordeal is beginning to wear on me.
Being a grandfather isn't easy, you know, and the older I get, the more difficult it is to carry out my grandfatherly responsibilities. As a grandfather, it is important, very important, that you are loved. As a “father” this was not a necessity. I didn't care if my kids loved me, or not, just take out the garbage. You don't love me? Fine, just go clean your room. As a father, you are the boss, and people, and kids too, don't have to love their boss. Ah, but a grandfather is different. As a grandfather you “want” to be loved, and this requires something from you.
It requires your money. Attached to every grandfather is a grandmother. I don't mind shopping with my wife, but I can tell you that when we go to Walmart, we are going to walk out with something for a grandchild.
GRANDMA (Mimi): Oh honey, isn't this adorable, Reese (9 months old) will look so cute in this.
GRANDPA (Papa): Ah, yes, it's very nice. But, won't that be a little big on her? I doubt that will fit her.
GRANDMA: But it's on sale, and it'll fit her in a few years.
GRANDPA (not verbally): Why don't we just buy her a car, too.
It's just a fact of life that grandchildren will suck a bank account dry in no time flat. I mean, why do toys for one year old kids have to cost $49.99? Why do eight year olds have to have the latest software? Grandkids can show you the poor house fast, and have the power of taking the “Merry” out of Christmas and the “Happy” out of birthday.
To be loved by the grandkiddies requires your physical energy. Grandkids have incredible imaginations. When I look in the mirror, I see an aging, out-of-shape male, desperately in need of an exercise program. But that's not what the grandchildren see. Nope, they see a HORSE, a mighty stallion, able to gallop through the wide open range. Yup, sometimes, in order to be loved, I need to get down on all fours and give “horsie-back” rides into every room of the house. This would not be so bad except that most of my house is filled with hardwood floors. Upon our return to the carpeted living room, and to add to the adventure of having my knee caps replace sometime in the near future, I have to try to knock the rider out of the saddle by acting like a wild bronco. I don't know how much more I can take. At this time, there are three that take advantage of Trigger, and by the time Trigger comes back with the third kiddie, the now lame horse just wants to be shot.
It's difficult enough to be a good horse, but in order to be loved you also have to be a very bad villain who can not withstand the powers of “Roccoman.” Yes, after almost collapsing from exhaustion and dying like an animal, it is necessary to be punched and kicked by the defender of the weak, the protector of the innocent, Roccoman.
ROCCO: URRrrrrrrr!!!!!!
ME: I give up.
ROCCO: I haven't killed you yet!!!
ME: I'm dead (I roll over on my back and act dead).
ROCCO: URRrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!
ME: Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!! (after feeling the weight of thirty five pounds hitting my stomach as he flew from the couch).
To be loved by the grandkiddies requires all your mental faculties, too. Did you ever argue with a two year old? Why?... Do you feel stupid? I do, every time I argue with one, but I still go back for more. Here's a typical conversation with Lydia.
ME: You need to go potty!
LYDIA: I don't want to.
ME: Well you're not getting up off the potty until you go.
LYDIA: OK
Two minutes pass.
ME: Are you going to go potty?
LYDIA: No, I don't want to. Papa, can you get me my Dora book?
Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!
Worse yet, have you ever tried to reason with a two year old? It can not be done. Two year olds do not live according to reason. They are simply unreasonable.
ME: Do you like poo poo's in your pants?
LYDIA: No.
ME: Well, don't you think you should go in the potty?
LYDIA: I don't want to.
Now I have to also contend mentally with a “know-it-all" seven year old. For instance, I write a note on a piece of paper. Reagan comes along and reads it, and tells me that I spelled certain words incorrectly. I ask her, why are you reading my notes? She looks at me and asks, why am I writing notes, are you to old to remember things? Than she walks away.
Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Irish from an Italian Perspective
Today is Saint Patrick's Day. The day the Irish celebrate their heritage by eating corn beef and cabbage, drinking green alcoholic beverages, dancing with their finger on their head, kissing blarney stones, and hanging with leprechauns. Once a year Irishmen, and those sympathetic to the Irish cause, dress in green, the official Irish color and say things like, "Mazel Tov“ to one another. It's a very festive occasion which begins with high stepping Gaelic music and ends in a good old fashioned Irish brawl, where people begin punching those they disagree with, then punching those they do agree with, and finally punching themselves. The culmination of this joyous holiday comes when the bouncer yells an ancient Irish saying dating back to 1417, “GET OUT, AND STAY OUT!”
As a true-blooded Italian, I get to observe the ways of the clan from a close distance. My wife is Irish. She loves her heritage, her family, and gold found at the end of an Irish rainbow. I frequently hear her sing songs like, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, and “Danny Boy”, and “Would You Please Get Out of My Face”. Deb is Irish through and through. She's feisty, fiery, and can punch better than I can, thanks to my oldest son, TJ, who taught her that the thumb goes on the “outside” of a fist, and you have to punch “straight through” and “past” the target. To think, that I thought I was in the clear by not marrying an Italian woman.
I must applaud the Irish, worldwide. They have managed to keep this sacred holiday alive since the fifth century. The beauty of their country is breathtaking. They have known famine, tremendous hardships, and weathered every affliction. Overall, they are a happy people where the eyes of the woman sparkle, the children are filled with laughter, and men are passed out.
Happy St. Paddy's Day
As a true-blooded Italian, I get to observe the ways of the clan from a close distance. My wife is Irish. She loves her heritage, her family, and gold found at the end of an Irish rainbow. I frequently hear her sing songs like, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, and “Danny Boy”, and “Would You Please Get Out of My Face”. Deb is Irish through and through. She's feisty, fiery, and can punch better than I can, thanks to my oldest son, TJ, who taught her that the thumb goes on the “outside” of a fist, and you have to punch “straight through” and “past” the target. To think, that I thought I was in the clear by not marrying an Italian woman.
I must applaud the Irish, worldwide. They have managed to keep this sacred holiday alive since the fifth century. The beauty of their country is breathtaking. They have known famine, tremendous hardships, and weathered every affliction. Overall, they are a happy people where the eyes of the woman sparkle, the children are filled with laughter, and men are passed out.
Happy St. Paddy's Day
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I Am Connected
Yes I am. I'm connected to God by the blood of Jesus Christ. I'm connected to my wife by the bond of marriage. I'm connected to my family by birth. I'm connected to my job by a contract. I'm connected to the world by a modem, and I'm connected to my phone by my Icom.
The Icom is the greatest invention in hearing aid technology that connects me to my phone. Most people just aren't connected to their phone, and if they are, the phone is connected by a curly cord. When the phone rings, most people have to pick it up off the hook, or if you have a cell phone, push the SEND button, but not me.
My cell phone stays in my pocket all day while I wear my Icom around my neck. When my phone rings, a signal is sent to my hearing aids, and all I do is push the only button on the front of the Icom, and talk. The callers voice automatically goes to both of my brand new, Bluetooth enabled, $5700 hearing aids. Is that cool or what? But, I confess, there are some drawbacks to the Icom.
One of the drawbacks to this Swedish made device is the wearing of the device itself. The little black and silver box hangs in front of me while the antenna wraps around my neck, sort of like a necklace. The almost 2 inch square box just sort of dangles there, and swings back and forth when you walk. To say the least, it is quite obvious and not very fashionable unless I'm wearing my purple suit with the eight button coat and mandarin collar. With those threads people don't even notice the green and blue flashing lights on the unit.
Yes, the Icom has flashing lights on it, and though I'm oblivious to the lights, others are not. When I talk to people I always try to look them square in the face, you know, make eye contact. However, I'm finding people, on the other side of the conversation, dazzled by the flashing lights. A typical conversation goes like this.
ME: How far along are you on the motor drive unit for the Romania machine?
OTHER PERSON: ah,.......... Is that a heart monitor?
I'm sure, that in time, people will ignore the flashing lights on the Icom, but I have to admit, the green and blue flashing lights on the unit are bright. Actually, they're so bright that, when I'm driving my wife's Crown Vic, people in front of me actually pull over to the side of the road.
Yet another drawback to the Icom are the stares of concern I get from people wherever I go. Have you ever been in a store and some guy walks by talking away, and as he walks by you see his blue flashing Bluetooth device hanging off his ear like a high tech Christmas ornament? Sure, we all have, and we simply write him off as some techno-geek. With the Icom, there is no Christmas ornament hanging from my ear. People just see this guy talking to himself. The other day my wife and I were in Home Depot, we went in different directions and I needed to find her so I speed dialed her number, and when she answered, I started talking. I found out what isle she was in, what she had considered buying, and where she was headed. As I was talking with her I saw people kind of jumping out of my path. One lady actually grabbed her little girl, and a guy, with an angry look on his face, got between me and his wife as I passed by.
This morning I called my wife before going into the building where I work. As I was speaking with her, two women where about to enter the building. Being the gentleman I am, I grabbed the door for them. One of the ladies turned and said said thank you, but than heard me say, "I love you, too." Talk about an embarrassing moment. That's life, however, when you're connected.
The Icom is the greatest invention in hearing aid technology that connects me to my phone. Most people just aren't connected to their phone, and if they are, the phone is connected by a curly cord. When the phone rings, most people have to pick it up off the hook, or if you have a cell phone, push the SEND button, but not me.
My cell phone stays in my pocket all day while I wear my Icom around my neck. When my phone rings, a signal is sent to my hearing aids, and all I do is push the only button on the front of the Icom, and talk. The callers voice automatically goes to both of my brand new, Bluetooth enabled, $5700 hearing aids. Is that cool or what? But, I confess, there are some drawbacks to the Icom.
One of the drawbacks to this Swedish made device is the wearing of the device itself. The little black and silver box hangs in front of me while the antenna wraps around my neck, sort of like a necklace. The almost 2 inch square box just sort of dangles there, and swings back and forth when you walk. To say the least, it is quite obvious and not very fashionable unless I'm wearing my purple suit with the eight button coat and mandarin collar. With those threads people don't even notice the green and blue flashing lights on the unit.
Yes, the Icom has flashing lights on it, and though I'm oblivious to the lights, others are not. When I talk to people I always try to look them square in the face, you know, make eye contact. However, I'm finding people, on the other side of the conversation, dazzled by the flashing lights. A typical conversation goes like this.
ME: How far along are you on the motor drive unit for the Romania machine?
OTHER PERSON: ah,.......... Is that a heart monitor?
I'm sure, that in time, people will ignore the flashing lights on the Icom, but I have to admit, the green and blue flashing lights on the unit are bright. Actually, they're so bright that, when I'm driving my wife's Crown Vic, people in front of me actually pull over to the side of the road.
Yet another drawback to the Icom are the stares of concern I get from people wherever I go. Have you ever been in a store and some guy walks by talking away, and as he walks by you see his blue flashing Bluetooth device hanging off his ear like a high tech Christmas ornament? Sure, we all have, and we simply write him off as some techno-geek. With the Icom, there is no Christmas ornament hanging from my ear. People just see this guy talking to himself. The other day my wife and I were in Home Depot, we went in different directions and I needed to find her so I speed dialed her number, and when she answered, I started talking. I found out what isle she was in, what she had considered buying, and where she was headed. As I was talking with her I saw people kind of jumping out of my path. One lady actually grabbed her little girl, and a guy, with an angry look on his face, got between me and his wife as I passed by.
This morning I called my wife before going into the building where I work. As I was speaking with her, two women where about to enter the building. Being the gentleman I am, I grabbed the door for them. One of the ladies turned and said said thank you, but than heard me say, "I love you, too." Talk about an embarrassing moment. That's life, however, when you're connected.
Monday, March 15, 2010
What Do You Do At 11:30 PM?
Do any of you get your ears cleaned at 11:30 PM? I do. I don't know why, but Deb loves cleaning ears. I mean, she loves cleaning ears just as much as I love playing softball. Never does her smile shine as brightly as when she cleans ears.
Here it is, Monday night. It's 11:30 and my head is resting on the kitchen island with my right ear facing north. Deb runs into the big bathroom and gets her tools of the trade, cotton balls, Q-tips, hydrogen peroxide, flashlight, and olive oil. Yes, I said olive oil. There is an old wives tale that hasn't been forgotten about ears and olive oil. Apparently, pouring olive oil in your ears keeps evil spirits away from you. I somewhat believe it's true because when I told some friends at work about it, they started to back off, excusing themselves, and going back to work.
Deb, approaches my ear with the look of a heart surgeon on her face. She places a cloth under my head than gently pours hydrogen peroxide into my exposed ear. She than gazes at the bubbling peroxide like a witch watching her hot caldron. After about five minutes, she takes the first of many cotton balls and begins to soak up what has bubbled up from the bottom. At this point, Deb begins to speak in a language only reserved for those of her craft. I hear ewwww, eeeeh, ahhhh, and disgusting.
I'm given permission to rise up from the island, but first I must submit my ear to approximately 10 to 15 Q-tips. Once again I listen to more of Deb's indiscernible language. When the chanting is finished, I place my head gently on the cloth, ear facing north, while Deb pours Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil into it. Why Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil? Because she had a coupon, that's why.
Now, here's the thing. I wear hearing aids (which I may elaborate on in my next post), and for hearing aids to work properly, the ear molds must seal the ear canal. Problems arise when moisture is trapped in the ear canal and unable to escape past the molds. As a result, I get occasional ear infections that come in real handy when you feel you need sympathy. I also get excessive build up of ear wax, otherwise known as, Ear Poop. Ear poop was accidentally discovered in 1826 when a Mildred Meyer turned over in bed in the wee hours of the morning and inadvertently got her nose to close to her husband's ear. She was instantly awakened by the raucous smell and declared her husband's ears, vulgar.
That won't happen to Deb. No way. She'll make sure of that.
Here it is, Monday night. It's 11:30 and my head is resting on the kitchen island with my right ear facing north. Deb runs into the big bathroom and gets her tools of the trade, cotton balls, Q-tips, hydrogen peroxide, flashlight, and olive oil. Yes, I said olive oil. There is an old wives tale that hasn't been forgotten about ears and olive oil. Apparently, pouring olive oil in your ears keeps evil spirits away from you. I somewhat believe it's true because when I told some friends at work about it, they started to back off, excusing themselves, and going back to work.
Deb, approaches my ear with the look of a heart surgeon on her face. She places a cloth under my head than gently pours hydrogen peroxide into my exposed ear. She than gazes at the bubbling peroxide like a witch watching her hot caldron. After about five minutes, she takes the first of many cotton balls and begins to soak up what has bubbled up from the bottom. At this point, Deb begins to speak in a language only reserved for those of her craft. I hear ewwww, eeeeh, ahhhh, and disgusting.
I'm given permission to rise up from the island, but first I must submit my ear to approximately 10 to 15 Q-tips. Once again I listen to more of Deb's indiscernible language. When the chanting is finished, I place my head gently on the cloth, ear facing north, while Deb pours Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil into it. Why Pompeian Extra Virgin Olive Oil? Because she had a coupon, that's why.
Now, here's the thing. I wear hearing aids (which I may elaborate on in my next post), and for hearing aids to work properly, the ear molds must seal the ear canal. Problems arise when moisture is trapped in the ear canal and unable to escape past the molds. As a result, I get occasional ear infections that come in real handy when you feel you need sympathy. I also get excessive build up of ear wax, otherwise known as, Ear Poop. Ear poop was accidentally discovered in 1826 when a Mildred Meyer turned over in bed in the wee hours of the morning and inadvertently got her nose to close to her husband's ear. She was instantly awakened by the raucous smell and declared her husband's ears, vulgar.
That won't happen to Deb. No way. She'll make sure of that.
Atom Bombs and Mondays Alway Get Me Down
It's Monday, the day most people believe is the first day of the week. But they're wrong; Sunday is the first day of the week. Don't believe it? Go check your calendar.
I personally don't like Mondays. Mondays are a drag to me. Even the word "Monday" bores me. Monday, MUNDANE, MONK, there is absolutely nothing exciting about it, except maybe, MONEY, and that is what Monday is all about. That's the day the work cycle begins so we can make money to pay for homes, food, and health care for those that don't want to work on Monday, or any other day, for that matter.
But, I am a responsible person. My dad was a good example. He taught me that if a man has to shovel chicken poop to support his family, then he does it. As a result of my dad's work ethic, I am a hard worker, too. My sons are hard workers, as well, and you know what? None of us shovel chicken poop.
So, today, Monday, March 15th., 2010, I woke up, showered, got dressed, got directions on how to get to my office (I have a way of putting work out of my mind on weekends), and drove the 2.6 miles to work. And would you believe it, I had a great Monday. It was very productive. I was able to give our office in Mumbai, India so much work that they wanted to make a shrine for me. I told Harij, maybe some other time. He then insisted I come to India, as his guest, for the Govardhana puja festival. That's where people wade in the polluted Ganges River and then cake themselves with cow dung. I declined the invitation telling Harij I work a part time job at a chicken farm.
I personally don't like Mondays. Mondays are a drag to me. Even the word "Monday" bores me. Monday, MUNDANE, MONK, there is absolutely nothing exciting about it, except maybe, MONEY, and that is what Monday is all about. That's the day the work cycle begins so we can make money to pay for homes, food, and health care for those that don't want to work on Monday, or any other day, for that matter.
But, I am a responsible person. My dad was a good example. He taught me that if a man has to shovel chicken poop to support his family, then he does it. As a result of my dad's work ethic, I am a hard worker, too. My sons are hard workers, as well, and you know what? None of us shovel chicken poop.
So, today, Monday, March 15th., 2010, I woke up, showered, got dressed, got directions on how to get to my office (I have a way of putting work out of my mind on weekends), and drove the 2.6 miles to work. And would you believe it, I had a great Monday. It was very productive. I was able to give our office in Mumbai, India so much work that they wanted to make a shrine for me. I told Harij, maybe some other time. He then insisted I come to India, as his guest, for the Govardhana puja festival. That's where people wade in the polluted Ganges River and then cake themselves with cow dung. I declined the invitation telling Harij I work a part time job at a chicken farm.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sprung Ahead
Today is the day that clocks all over the world are advanced 1 hour. It's springtime, so it's time to "spring ahead" all the clocks in the house. Twice a year we do this. In the spring we move the clocks forward, and in the fall we move them back to where they were before we moved them in the spring, and nobody knows "why" we do this. Here's my take.
This idea could have been invented by a practical joker. Think about it. How many clocks do you have in your house? Two wall clocks (I have three), the microwave clock, the oven clock, at least two wristwatches, and one alarm clock (2 if you and your wife sleep in separate bedrooms). Only a practical joker can envision a husband and wife yelling across the house, "DON'T FORGET THE ONE ON THE SHELF IN THE DEN!!!"
I know we all cheat at this, but do you know what time all the clocks and watches in the house need to be reset? Let me tell you. 2:00 AM!!!! Does anyone get up at 2:00 AM except to pee? If this isn't the work of a practical joker, than it has to be the work of Timex.
The Timex Corporation is evil. I was suspicious of Timex when they came out with the Indiglo watch. I'm sure many of you remember the mysterious alien-like blue glow that, most likely, emitted large doses of radiation causing people to buy Timex watches for birthday and Christmas gifts. Evil, pure evil.
Ah, but Timex was evil long before the Indiglo watch. I'm old enough to remember Timex watches that had to be wound every day. To do this, you would gently turn the winding stem a certain number of times and, voila, your good for another day. The trouble with this is, if the watch is under wound, you would get only about 12 hours of accurate time telling, if the watch is over wound, !!!BOING!!! they break. Now, with a little practice, even a 400 pound guy with two hands full of thumbs could wind a watch and keep it ticking all day.
So, the Timex executives called a company wide meeting urging their engineers to find a way to make Timex watches more vulnerable to breaking. After weeks and months of brainstorming, an engineering came forward with a solution. World wide time changes where, twice a year, people would spring ahead, and fall back. Each spring and fall, people would lazily shuffle all over the house at 2:00 AM resetting each wall clock, the microwave and oven clock, the alarm, and finally their watches. Yes, twice a year that itsy bitsy winding stem would have to be gently pulled outward in order to set the time. Pull it to far, !!!BOING!!!
This idea could have been invented by a practical joker. Think about it. How many clocks do you have in your house? Two wall clocks (I have three), the microwave clock, the oven clock, at least two wristwatches, and one alarm clock (2 if you and your wife sleep in separate bedrooms). Only a practical joker can envision a husband and wife yelling across the house, "DON'T FORGET THE ONE ON THE SHELF IN THE DEN!!!"
I know we all cheat at this, but do you know what time all the clocks and watches in the house need to be reset? Let me tell you. 2:00 AM!!!! Does anyone get up at 2:00 AM except to pee? If this isn't the work of a practical joker, than it has to be the work of Timex.
The Timex Corporation is evil. I was suspicious of Timex when they came out with the Indiglo watch. I'm sure many of you remember the mysterious alien-like blue glow that, most likely, emitted large doses of radiation causing people to buy Timex watches for birthday and Christmas gifts. Evil, pure evil.
Ah, but Timex was evil long before the Indiglo watch. I'm old enough to remember Timex watches that had to be wound every day. To do this, you would gently turn the winding stem a certain number of times and, voila, your good for another day. The trouble with this is, if the watch is under wound, you would get only about 12 hours of accurate time telling, if the watch is over wound, !!!BOING!!! they break. Now, with a little practice, even a 400 pound guy with two hands full of thumbs could wind a watch and keep it ticking all day.
So, the Timex executives called a company wide meeting urging their engineers to find a way to make Timex watches more vulnerable to breaking. After weeks and months of brainstorming, an engineering came forward with a solution. World wide time changes where, twice a year, people would spring ahead, and fall back. Each spring and fall, people would lazily shuffle all over the house at 2:00 AM resetting each wall clock, the microwave and oven clock, the alarm, and finally their watches. Yes, twice a year that itsy bitsy winding stem would have to be gently pulled outward in order to set the time. Pull it to far, !!!BOING!!!
Yesterday's Activities
It's Saturday, and the South Carolina sun is shining brilliantly. The temperature is around 70 and it feels sooooo good to be outdoors. BUT, my out-of-doors experience was limited. It consisted of occasional trips from the main living area of my 40 year old house to the dingy crawl space under the house.
Yesterday was "Rip-up-the-Floor-in-the-Small-Bathroom" day. It's my hope that it will never become a national holiday. But, this is America, you know; Land of the free, home of the brave, and riddled with political stupidity. Ripping up your bathroom floor is not something you want to do every year.
Here's the story. Our small bathroom had a very nice walk-in shower that, unfortunately, had problems draining water. At this time, however, it's draining my wallet quite nicely. As a result of water drainage problems, some wood rotted and, after stalling for two years, it was time to fix it. Fortunately, I had TJ to help me do it. We worked all day pulling up the old wood, leveling the floor, and laying down some new OSB in it's place.
You may be wondering why TJ and I had to level the bathroom floor. Well, maybe you're not wondering that at all, but I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Many years ago before backer-board, the thin lightweight cement sheets used for tiling, was invented, builders used real live ultra heavy cement to lay ceramic floor tile. Somehow, without the use of computers, these builders estimated that a floor would remain perfectly level with 27,000 lbs./sq.ft. of cement on it just long enough for me to buy the floor along with the surrounding house. OK, lesson learned - never buy an old house unless you're a millionaire or a politician, which is essentially the same thing. I'm not complaining, some good things came out of this ordeal. For one thing, Deb and I made so many trips to the dump that we got to know the dump attendant on a first name basis.
Yes, we first met Bubba (what I call him), as he approached my trailer asking if I was a contractor. Of course, I told him, no, and explained what I was doing at home. I'm not sure he believed me or not, but he did let us dump it all in the giant residential compactor, you know, the kind that the mafia uses after hours. Not only that, he let us use the dump shovel and broom. I think he figured that my tax dollars paid for those items, than why not let me use them. You've got to love the "politically right" southern states. And, to top it off, Bubba never complained about the amount of time we spend in the stall. Ah, the trailer/truck dump stall.
The job is done (for now). Next on the list is new sheetrock and flooring, and a new shower and vanity. When I'm done, this bathroom is going to look fabulous. However, there are only two reasons I would spend all day in a bathroom, (1) renovating/remodeling it, and (2) I'm sick as a dog. Neither reason for being in there excites me.
Yesterday was "Rip-up-the-Floor-in-the-Small-Bathroom" day. It's my hope that it will never become a national holiday. But, this is America, you know; Land of the free, home of the brave, and riddled with political stupidity. Ripping up your bathroom floor is not something you want to do every year.
Here's the story. Our small bathroom had a very nice walk-in shower that, unfortunately, had problems draining water. At this time, however, it's draining my wallet quite nicely. As a result of water drainage problems, some wood rotted and, after stalling for two years, it was time to fix it. Fortunately, I had TJ to help me do it. We worked all day pulling up the old wood, leveling the floor, and laying down some new OSB in it's place.
You may be wondering why TJ and I had to level the bathroom floor. Well, maybe you're not wondering that at all, but I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Many years ago before backer-board, the thin lightweight cement sheets used for tiling, was invented, builders used real live ultra heavy cement to lay ceramic floor tile. Somehow, without the use of computers, these builders estimated that a floor would remain perfectly level with 27,000 lbs./sq.ft. of cement on it just long enough for me to buy the floor along with the surrounding house. OK, lesson learned - never buy an old house unless you're a millionaire or a politician, which is essentially the same thing. I'm not complaining, some good things came out of this ordeal. For one thing, Deb and I made so many trips to the dump that we got to know the dump attendant on a first name basis.
Yes, we first met Bubba (what I call him), as he approached my trailer asking if I was a contractor. Of course, I told him, no, and explained what I was doing at home. I'm not sure he believed me or not, but he did let us dump it all in the giant residential compactor, you know, the kind that the mafia uses after hours. Not only that, he let us use the dump shovel and broom. I think he figured that my tax dollars paid for those items, than why not let me use them. You've got to love the "politically right" southern states. And, to top it off, Bubba never complained about the amount of time we spend in the stall. Ah, the trailer/truck dump stall.
The job is done (for now). Next on the list is new sheetrock and flooring, and a new shower and vanity. When I'm done, this bathroom is going to look fabulous. However, there are only two reasons I would spend all day in a bathroom, (1) renovating/remodeling it, and (2) I'm sick as a dog. Neither reason for being in there excites me.
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