Monday, June 02, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Pet Peeve No. 16 & Cosmic Consciousness No. 19 (The Double Whammy) - Plumbing Debacle
Friday evening around 9:30, I heard a hissss emanating from the playpen-sized room where my water heater is stored. I looked in to find water leaking (not gas, praise Mighty Isis). I called a 24-hour plumber for assistance, and was told to turn off the water and the gas, and he would call back Saturday morning with a price for a weekend visit and another price for Monday if I wanted to wait. Of course, there was no return call.
All Easter weekend, no hot water. Only cold water. Not room temperature, but COLD, not unlike the shoulders of some women I have known.
Monday morning, I called another plumber who, true to his word, arrived on time and finished the job in two hours. I wish the story of my plumbing woes ended there.
I was awakened just after 4 am this morning by the sound of water gushing and spilling on the loo floor. The float inside the toilet tank had snapped off the plastic rod (years of stress, I imagine, so I'm next), and the water began to rise and overflow. I tried to turn off the water, but of course the knob wouldn't budge.
I could hear gallons of water laughing at me. Do you know the sound? The gurgling and the giggling? Probably not. Unless you're a drowning victim.
The water started to creep steadily into the bedroom and, unknown to me at the time, over the edges of the linoleum (where normally one would find 1/4 round or tile, but years ago the 'shroom-enhanced carpenters apparently got a call from "the man with the plan" and had to leave early; last seen flying over Iceland). Wrapping a towel around the shutoff valve and employing a bit of the old heave-ho, I successfully got the water stopped and threw every available towel onto the floor. When the water was mopped up I carried the nasty towels downstairs to the laundry room... and yes, that's when I heard the staccato sound of water dripping in the library.
I pushed a bookcase aside and put a dry towel and the laundry basket on the floor to catch any falling detritus. The ceiling may be on the floor by the time I get home today.
Can you imagine the damage if I had been at the office when this happened? Hours and hours of gallons and gallons, surging down the walls...
Why do the gods hate me so?
The Rat be damned. 2008 is surely the Year of the Hoodoo.
Tune in tomorrow for A Tree Falls on the House.
UPDATE: The ceiling did not fall in, and the dripping seems to have subsided. However, part of the ceiling will need to be replaced, and henceforth this toilet will only be used as a prop, a place to read or play draughts.
All Easter weekend, no hot water. Only cold water. Not room temperature, but COLD, not unlike the shoulders of some women I have known.
Monday morning, I called another plumber who, true to his word, arrived on time and finished the job in two hours. I wish the story of my plumbing woes ended there.
I was awakened just after 4 am this morning by the sound of water gushing and spilling on the loo floor. The float inside the toilet tank had snapped off the plastic rod (years of stress, I imagine, so I'm next), and the water began to rise and overflow. I tried to turn off the water, but of course the knob wouldn't budge.
I could hear gallons of water laughing at me. Do you know the sound? The gurgling and the giggling? Probably not. Unless you're a drowning victim.
The water started to creep steadily into the bedroom and, unknown to me at the time, over the edges of the linoleum (where normally one would find 1/4 round or tile, but years ago the 'shroom-enhanced carpenters apparently got a call from "the man with the plan" and had to leave early; last seen flying over Iceland). Wrapping a towel around the shutoff valve and employing a bit of the old heave-ho, I successfully got the water stopped and threw every available towel onto the floor. When the water was mopped up I carried the nasty towels downstairs to the laundry room... and yes, that's when I heard the staccato sound of water dripping in the library.
I pushed a bookcase aside and put a dry towel and the laundry basket on the floor to catch any falling detritus. The ceiling may be on the floor by the time I get home today.
Can you imagine the damage if I had been at the office when this happened? Hours and hours of gallons and gallons, surging down the walls...
Why do the gods hate me so?
The Rat be damned. 2008 is surely the Year of the Hoodoo.
Tune in tomorrow for A Tree Falls on the House.
UPDATE: The ceiling did not fall in, and the dripping seems to have subsided. However, part of the ceiling will need to be replaced, and henceforth this toilet will only be used as a prop, a place to read or play draughts.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Pet Peeve No. 15 - Human Food
What don't I eat? Hmmm...
Hold onto your seat. Food trauma to follow:
I don't know if you've heard the rumours about my eating habits, but when I was a kid, my parents would often send me to bed without supper because I wouldn't (or couldn't) eat what my dad worked hard to provide and my mum worked hard to prepare. I guess that was meant to teach me a lesson. It didn't.
Some things just don't taste good to me, but more often than not I think it's a TEXTURE problem that makes me gag on things like lima beans or tomatoes, or an ODOR problem with foods like collard greens or spinach or devilled eggs.
My parents had little pet names for me like Picky Pete, Finicky Frank, or Ollie Oddball (okay, I made those up). But this is TRUE: my mum once showed me a picture of a starving Third World stick-baby and told me "This is what you will look like...".
Strangely enough, as a kid I ate some things that I won't touch today: sweet potatoes, macaroni & cheese, tips of matches, salmon croquettes... Isn't that weird?
As a teenager, I would go to restaurants with my parents & their friends and tell the waitress "No salad." And I'd get stares and hear remarks like:
"No salad?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Are you a picky eater?"
"Weirdo."
"Can I have his?"
Jeepers, what's my problem?
No, I take that back... What's your problem?
Eventually I taught myself to eat salads just to avoid embarrassment in social settings, providing I could discreetly pick out tomatoes & onions & cucumbers & garlic croutons, and honey mustard dressing was available.
"Look, that bloke is picking out his cucumbers. What a twit!"
"Are you gonna eat those?"
As far as seafood is concerned, I have no problem with fish or shrimp (preferably fried, though I will eat broiled flounder or broiled/boiled/grilled shrimp). I have never eaten oysters or scallops. I did once chew on a dried piece of octopus that an old Korean gentleman pulled out of his coat pocket. And I was stung by a jellyfish during the Pat Benatar era.
Quick story: when I was in the lunchroom in seminary school, there was something on my plate which was probably stewed tomatoes. I said "this looks like vomit" to a classmate, who in turn told my weaving coach, who in turn dragged me to the kitchen to tell the Lunchroom Lady. Now, was that very nice? What a wanker!
So anyway, crikey, there are gajillions of things I don't eat... mayonnaise, anything made with mayonnaise, pears, cottage cheese, chicken salad, tuna salad, anything with eyes that isn't a potato, anything with skin that isn't a potato, raw tomatoes (though tomato sauce is a staple), eel pie. I could go on and on, but I'll spare myself (and you, dear reader) further embarrassment. Because you probably rub your hands together with glee and eat this crap, don't you? Well, don't you?!?
So how did a chap who won't eat anything get so freakin' BIG? Why am I even still alive?
I'm just glad I didn't grow up to be that stick-baby. But thanks for the nightmares, mum.
I smell meat!
Hold onto your seat. Food trauma to follow:
I don't know if you've heard the rumours about my eating habits, but when I was a kid, my parents would often send me to bed without supper because I wouldn't (or couldn't) eat what my dad worked hard to provide and my mum worked hard to prepare. I guess that was meant to teach me a lesson. It didn't.
Some things just don't taste good to me, but more often than not I think it's a TEXTURE problem that makes me gag on things like lima beans or tomatoes, or an ODOR problem with foods like collard greens or spinach or devilled eggs.
My parents had little pet names for me like Picky Pete, Finicky Frank, or Ollie Oddball (okay, I made those up). But this is TRUE: my mum once showed me a picture of a starving Third World stick-baby and told me "This is what you will look like...".
Strangely enough, as a kid I ate some things that I won't touch today: sweet potatoes, macaroni & cheese, tips of matches, salmon croquettes... Isn't that weird?
As a teenager, I would go to restaurants with my parents & their friends and tell the waitress "No salad." And I'd get stares and hear remarks like:
"No salad?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Are you a picky eater?"
"Weirdo."
"Can I have his?"
Jeepers, what's my problem?
No, I take that back... What's your problem?
Eventually I taught myself to eat salads just to avoid embarrassment in social settings, providing I could discreetly pick out tomatoes & onions & cucumbers & garlic croutons, and honey mustard dressing was available.
"Look, that bloke is picking out his cucumbers. What a twit!"
"Are you gonna eat those?"
As far as seafood is concerned, I have no problem with fish or shrimp (preferably fried, though I will eat broiled flounder or broiled/boiled/grilled shrimp). I have never eaten oysters or scallops. I did once chew on a dried piece of octopus that an old Korean gentleman pulled out of his coat pocket. And I was stung by a jellyfish during the Pat Benatar era.
Quick story: when I was in the lunchroom in seminary school, there was something on my plate which was probably stewed tomatoes. I said "this looks like vomit" to a classmate, who in turn told my weaving coach, who in turn dragged me to the kitchen to tell the Lunchroom Lady. Now, was that very nice? What a wanker!
So anyway, crikey, there are gajillions of things I don't eat... mayonnaise, anything made with mayonnaise, pears, cottage cheese, chicken salad, tuna salad, anything with eyes that isn't a potato, anything with skin that isn't a potato, raw tomatoes (though tomato sauce is a staple), eel pie. I could go on and on, but I'll spare myself (and you, dear reader) further embarrassment. Because you probably rub your hands together with glee and eat this crap, don't you? Well, don't you?!?
So how did a chap who won't eat anything get so freakin' BIG? Why am I even still alive?
I'm just glad I didn't grow up to be that stick-baby. But thanks for the nightmares, mum.
I smell meat!
Friday, February 08, 2008
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