Vacation R Me
Yippee, skippee, it's Vacation Time, that wonderful time of the year when I pack my sunscreen, 3 twelve packs of Heineken (yes, I'm a beer snob, get over it) 1 swimsuit and an entire suitcase of magazines, books and newspapers, and head off in search of sand.
Oh, wait...that's what I used to do, B.C. Before Children. Now it takes me 3 days to pack, make a grocery list, put new batteries in everyone's respective electronic music and game devices, and then I get to drive 9 hours listening to "when will we get there, Mom?". Yeah, that's more like it.
This used to be my B.C. vacation routine: Get up at noon. Drink a beer, Breakfast of Champions. Dump baby oil on my body. Head to the beach. Come in when a) I'm out of beer or b) when it's dark. Shower, stumble to a seafood restaurant, make a pig out of myself eating shrimp and Key Lime Pie, then drink margaritas until I passed out.
Oh, for those glorious days of yore. Now it's Wake-Up Call at 6am (If I'm lucky). Then a combination variety show of cereal eating and sunscreen application to wriggly children and marital units. Packing the Stuff to Take to The Beach requires at least 2 hours, and by the time I'm ready to head out, the kids and marital unit are asleep in front of the TV.
We finally make it to the beach, and everyone whines that they'd rather be in the pool. So we go the pool for exactly 45 minutes, then somebody's hungry, and it's time to go back and repeat the paragraph above, except there's baloney involved instead of cereal.
Don't get me wrong, I love my family. But vacations as a Mom are really only a Change of Scenery, aren't they? There's little relaxation. There's not a lot of reading going on. There might be a beer or two in there if you can work it out in advance and ask your child to swim, say, 500 laps in the pool right before dinner.
So...here I go, off to the beach. A week of...being a Mom, at the beach. Would I trade it for a week by myself at a 4-star resort? I can lie, and say yes, but no, no way. Besides, what would I have to complain about then?
See ya in ten days!
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Flea Markets: Not for the Faint of Heart
It's Tuesday, and I'm still recovering from my weekend Flea Market Experience. I'm not really sure why my friend and I decided we could become overnight entrepreneurs at the Flea Market, but I know that I lost 5 years of my life this weekend, just by being there.
Picture this: acres and acres of dirt-floored stalls that in August are used as livestock pens at the State Fair. Red dust so thick that when you sneeze it blows out your eyeballs. It is abnormally HOT, around 90 degrees, and there is virtually no breeze blowing where our little booth is. The only saving grace is that we have one of those "Personal Fans" that you fill with ice water and spritz on yourself with said ice water and air from the fan. It helps for ten seconds, then the Personal Fan Red Dust Residue dries on your face. It is so hot we can't have chocolate in our booth, because it would melt. The absence of chocolate is a big sticking point for my friend and me.
The absence of customers is also a problem. There are no customers at our little booth, and a vendor who has made "between 2 and 6 thousand dollars" at every Flea Market for the last 10 years swore it was the worst one he'd ever seen. Of course it was, because we were there! If we'd been selling those Personal Fans, we could have made a fortune.
And what a tragedy, because our booth is so nice...a beautiful sign adorns the chain-link fence at the back of our dirt-floored space. No rickety fairgrounds tables for us...we have a new table, with a cover, and all our assorted merchandise is tastefully displayed on that table, in an eye-pleasing manner sure to separate discriminating fools from their hard-earned cash. The fact that by the end of the run, all our merchandise was covered in red dust made the whole experience that much more special.
There's an entire Flea Market sub culture, and I am now certain I don't belong to it. For starters, I have way too many teeth. My clothing doesn't reveal enough of my body parts. I don't sport any tatoos or body piercings, and I don't chew gum, tobacco or have a cigarette hanging out of one corner of my mouth. I'm not saying that every vendor at the Flea Market has these characteristics, but the ones who don't are definitely in the minority.
The Flea Market used to be a place where you could find antiques, collectibles, really neat unusual trinkets. Thanks to eBay, the Flea Market is now Liquidator Heaven. You need socks? There are no less than 50 sock vendors. Need sunglasses, or cell phone accessories, or "spa-quality" suntan oil? You'll find rows and rows of vendors selling those very items by the truckload.
There was a nice but overly agressive couple selling Pain Relief Lotion. Without warning, the woman would approach you and rub Pain Relief Lotion on parts of your person that had absolutely no history of pain. It was already 8,000 degrees, and the "massaging warmth" of the Pain Relief Lotion pumped up my personal temperature to nearly boiling. I had to get ugly with the Pain Relief Lotion lady. And I breathed so many Pain Relief Lotion vapors, I'm still smelling and tasting camphor.
My friend and I sold enough merchandise to pay for our Karmel Korn, our lunch on both days, and the hideously large Coke we purchased at DQ on the way home, in an effort to rehydrate our bodies and snap back to our senses. To say we lost money on our Flea Market venture is to say that Elvis' pelvis moved on occasion.
By Saturday afternoon, the conversation quickly turned from "I'm sure more people will be here tomorrow" to "How fast can we load the car and how many trips will it take?"
The answer is 4. In 4 trips and less than 30 minutes, our beautiful, unappreciated booth was history. Our neighbor vendors looked at us with longing...the woman with the sunglasses and suntan oil said it would take her 4 hours to break down. The Pain Relief Lotion couple said, "You'll be sorry for leaving early, tomorrow will be busy!"
We smiled, waved, and gave them our best down-trodden look, yet inside we were ecstatic about leaving Flea Market Hell. We endured one momentary scare when the gate guard refused to let us drive out of the Dealer Parking Lot. Not sure if it was the heat, or the lack of chocolate, or the Pain Relief Lotion, but I just lied. I said sweetly, "Well, sir, we've sold all our stuff!"
I don't think he believed me, but he opened that gate, and we drove out of there in a hurry. I wonder what it takes to open an eBay account?
It's Tuesday, and I'm still recovering from my weekend Flea Market Experience. I'm not really sure why my friend and I decided we could become overnight entrepreneurs at the Flea Market, but I know that I lost 5 years of my life this weekend, just by being there.
Picture this: acres and acres of dirt-floored stalls that in August are used as livestock pens at the State Fair. Red dust so thick that when you sneeze it blows out your eyeballs. It is abnormally HOT, around 90 degrees, and there is virtually no breeze blowing where our little booth is. The only saving grace is that we have one of those "Personal Fans" that you fill with ice water and spritz on yourself with said ice water and air from the fan. It helps for ten seconds, then the Personal Fan Red Dust Residue dries on your face. It is so hot we can't have chocolate in our booth, because it would melt. The absence of chocolate is a big sticking point for my friend and me.
The absence of customers is also a problem. There are no customers at our little booth, and a vendor who has made "between 2 and 6 thousand dollars" at every Flea Market for the last 10 years swore it was the worst one he'd ever seen. Of course it was, because we were there! If we'd been selling those Personal Fans, we could have made a fortune.
And what a tragedy, because our booth is so nice...a beautiful sign adorns the chain-link fence at the back of our dirt-floored space. No rickety fairgrounds tables for us...we have a new table, with a cover, and all our assorted merchandise is tastefully displayed on that table, in an eye-pleasing manner sure to separate discriminating fools from their hard-earned cash. The fact that by the end of the run, all our merchandise was covered in red dust made the whole experience that much more special.
There's an entire Flea Market sub culture, and I am now certain I don't belong to it. For starters, I have way too many teeth. My clothing doesn't reveal enough of my body parts. I don't sport any tatoos or body piercings, and I don't chew gum, tobacco or have a cigarette hanging out of one corner of my mouth. I'm not saying that every vendor at the Flea Market has these characteristics, but the ones who don't are definitely in the minority.
The Flea Market used to be a place where you could find antiques, collectibles, really neat unusual trinkets. Thanks to eBay, the Flea Market is now Liquidator Heaven. You need socks? There are no less than 50 sock vendors. Need sunglasses, or cell phone accessories, or "spa-quality" suntan oil? You'll find rows and rows of vendors selling those very items by the truckload.
There was a nice but overly agressive couple selling Pain Relief Lotion. Without warning, the woman would approach you and rub Pain Relief Lotion on parts of your person that had absolutely no history of pain. It was already 8,000 degrees, and the "massaging warmth" of the Pain Relief Lotion pumped up my personal temperature to nearly boiling. I had to get ugly with the Pain Relief Lotion lady. And I breathed so many Pain Relief Lotion vapors, I'm still smelling and tasting camphor.
My friend and I sold enough merchandise to pay for our Karmel Korn, our lunch on both days, and the hideously large Coke we purchased at DQ on the way home, in an effort to rehydrate our bodies and snap back to our senses. To say we lost money on our Flea Market venture is to say that Elvis' pelvis moved on occasion.
By Saturday afternoon, the conversation quickly turned from "I'm sure more people will be here tomorrow" to "How fast can we load the car and how many trips will it take?"
The answer is 4. In 4 trips and less than 30 minutes, our beautiful, unappreciated booth was history. Our neighbor vendors looked at us with longing...the woman with the sunglasses and suntan oil said it would take her 4 hours to break down. The Pain Relief Lotion couple said, "You'll be sorry for leaving early, tomorrow will be busy!"
We smiled, waved, and gave them our best down-trodden look, yet inside we were ecstatic about leaving Flea Market Hell. We endured one momentary scare when the gate guard refused to let us drive out of the Dealer Parking Lot. Not sure if it was the heat, or the lack of chocolate, or the Pain Relief Lotion, but I just lied. I said sweetly, "Well, sir, we've sold all our stuff!"
I don't think he believed me, but he opened that gate, and we drove out of there in a hurry. I wonder what it takes to open an eBay account?
Thursday, May 20, 2004
An Ode to Strep Throat
Blogfans, I must apologize for my absence of late. But I swear, I have a good excuse. Anybody out there in blogland ever have strep throat? As a child, it's no picnic, but lemme tell ya, as an adult, it's DEATH ON A BISCUIT, except you can't possibly swallow the biscuit, because you know you will die.
After a very enjoyable evening on Friday where I received an award for one of my Blogs (thankyouverymuch), I noticed on the drive home that my throat was a little sore and I didn't feel so good, but hey, when you're over 40, you never feel good. By Saturday afternoon, I was a walking fire bomb...fever of 104 that didn't break until Tuesday; aches, chills, and a lump on my neck I swear the size of a baseball (I measured, convinced I was unique to the world of medicine). It was unthinkable to swallow. Have you ever tried not to swallow for 48 hours? You will know the hell in which I lived. I resorted to periodically going into the bathroom and spitting into the sink, thankyouforsharing, in lieu of enduring Pure Swallowing Agony. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat...what else is there in life?
Every 6 hours, it was time for more Advil...to keep the fever down. I guess it works, because my fever didn't exactly go down, but it didn't exactly shoot up to 108 either. Sucking down Advil with strep throat is one of the most painful experiences you can have, next to childbirth (done that) and kidney stones (haven't done that, but it sounds good and it's the usual comparison).
On Monday morning, I couldn't talk (my husband rejoiced, I saw him on his knees) and so I showed up unannounced at my doctor's office...I'm sure they were thrilled. An unkempt, unbathed woman with stick-up hair arrives in their reception area, moaning and handing out little post-it notes indicating she has a 104 fever, strep throat, and can't talk. You've never seen folks move so fast. And my doctor has never stood so far away from me while looking inside my throat, either.
But I love my doctor. He felt my pain. He prescribed for that pain, too. One antibiotic and one great painkiller later, I was happily in my bed, sweating out that fever, still unable to swallow, but so knocked out from the Lortab I didn't care. Sleep was mine.
Tuesday and Wednesday I made slow but steady improvements; worked up to eating chicken noodle soup with 100 saltines mashed in the liquid, my personal favorite Thing to Eat When You're Sick. Milkshakes were pretty good too, but they made me cough, not a good thing. And those Lortabs. I managed to get them down. Thank you, God, for Coca Cola.
So here I sit today, nearly cured of all this 104 fever and goiter-sized infection and soup eating. And what, you ask, are the highs and lows? The low is definitely the fact that there was no chocolate to be had for 5 days, with the exception of ice cream. That's probably a Bunkie Lynn unfortunate record. But the high?
Clearly the 5 pound weight loss I sustained. AW RIGHT!
Blogfans, I must apologize for my absence of late. But I swear, I have a good excuse. Anybody out there in blogland ever have strep throat? As a child, it's no picnic, but lemme tell ya, as an adult, it's DEATH ON A BISCUIT, except you can't possibly swallow the biscuit, because you know you will die.
After a very enjoyable evening on Friday where I received an award for one of my Blogs (thankyouverymuch), I noticed on the drive home that my throat was a little sore and I didn't feel so good, but hey, when you're over 40, you never feel good. By Saturday afternoon, I was a walking fire bomb...fever of 104 that didn't break until Tuesday; aches, chills, and a lump on my neck I swear the size of a baseball (I measured, convinced I was unique to the world of medicine). It was unthinkable to swallow. Have you ever tried not to swallow for 48 hours? You will know the hell in which I lived. I resorted to periodically going into the bathroom and spitting into the sink, thankyouforsharing, in lieu of enduring Pure Swallowing Agony. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat...what else is there in life?
Every 6 hours, it was time for more Advil...to keep the fever down. I guess it works, because my fever didn't exactly go down, but it didn't exactly shoot up to 108 either. Sucking down Advil with strep throat is one of the most painful experiences you can have, next to childbirth (done that) and kidney stones (haven't done that, but it sounds good and it's the usual comparison).
On Monday morning, I couldn't talk (my husband rejoiced, I saw him on his knees) and so I showed up unannounced at my doctor's office...I'm sure they were thrilled. An unkempt, unbathed woman with stick-up hair arrives in their reception area, moaning and handing out little post-it notes indicating she has a 104 fever, strep throat, and can't talk. You've never seen folks move so fast. And my doctor has never stood so far away from me while looking inside my throat, either.
But I love my doctor. He felt my pain. He prescribed for that pain, too. One antibiotic and one great painkiller later, I was happily in my bed, sweating out that fever, still unable to swallow, but so knocked out from the Lortab I didn't care. Sleep was mine.
Tuesday and Wednesday I made slow but steady improvements; worked up to eating chicken noodle soup with 100 saltines mashed in the liquid, my personal favorite Thing to Eat When You're Sick. Milkshakes were pretty good too, but they made me cough, not a good thing. And those Lortabs. I managed to get them down. Thank you, God, for Coca Cola.
So here I sit today, nearly cured of all this 104 fever and goiter-sized infection and soup eating. And what, you ask, are the highs and lows? The low is definitely the fact that there was no chocolate to be had for 5 days, with the exception of ice cream. That's probably a Bunkie Lynn unfortunate record. But the high?
Clearly the 5 pound weight loss I sustained. AW RIGHT!
Monday, May 10, 2004
Mother's Day Guilt and Shameful Behavior Syndrome: A disease of epidemic proportion
I'm here today to discuss the Mother's Day Guilt & Shameful Behavior Syndrome, which is a serious illness that strikes virtually every woman with children at some point in her life. Is this a serious condition? The answer, most definitely in my case, is yes. Let's just review:
Friday Night: My hubby and son leave the house for six hours under the ruse of "running errands." Now I know for a fact that there are no errands to run, because I've personally finished them all. This is merely Encrypted Male Code Talk for "we've got to run out and do your Mother's Day/birthday/Christmas shopping, fast." On any given day, give me six unencumbered hours of free time, and I can pack fun in there tighter than the jeans on Britney Spears booty; but not today.
At the exact moment that my boys left the driveway, the Mother's Day Guilt symptoms began. You know the feeling...all week, as you iron and watch your soap opera and/or Oprah, you've seen those sappy Mother's Day commercials, where the picture-perfect moms in TV wasteland break into huge smiles as they receive little diamond necklaces shaped like hearts, handmade cards, little diamond earrings shaped like hearts, chocolates(duh), little diamond tennis bracelets with a heart attached, Hallmark greetings, and more diamonds in the shape of hearts.
On Monday before Mother's Day, you watch these commercials, and comment to no one but the dog, "HA! Give me a break! There's not a diamond heart out there BIG ENOUGH for what I do! The Hope Diamond isn't even CLOSE. I wash their clothes and I cook their meals and I make SACRIFICES! And you bring me a cheesy little diamond heart? Besides, I'm not your mother! I don't need a present from you!"
On Wednesday, you notice the actual prices of the various and sundry diamond pieces displayed by the Happy TV Moms, and you think, "Oh, please. That is highway robbery! Who are they kidding, at that price, the diamonds are so tiny, I'd need microscope lens implants in my eyeballs! Wait...now that's a cute little heart bracelet...and it's only $99. That's a pretty good deal..."
By Friday, you are camped in front of the television with a box of Kleenex, weeping at the virtual non-stop parade of Mother's Day ads. You reminisce about that AT&T commercial a few years back, where the son finally calls his mother to say he loves her, and you shed big alligator tears, because you know someday soon you will desperately wish your son would call you from college. And this makes you think about the absolute perfection of your own mom, and what a terrible example of motherhood you really are, and you weep uncontrollably. How could you ever think you deserved diamonds? What if your son never calls you from college?
You phone your husband, who immediately panics at the sound of your tear-stained voice, and you blubber, "Oh, I'm so hateful! All I want for Mother's Day, I'm serious here, are you paying attention? Listen to me, all I want is a nice plant for the front porch and maybe to eat at Wendy's or something, ok? I mean it! Please don't spend much money on me, I don't deserve it."
So it's Friday night now, and as your Men Who Shop depart, your stomach is in knots, and you pace the floor for the next six hours. What if they get me a huge diamond? I can't bear to think of having to return such an expensive gift, how embarrassing. I am a terrible person. Oh, dear, I only hope they'll just get me a nice fern for the front porch like I asked. Maybe a movie pass or two. Or a Starbuck's card. That would be nice. But please, no diamonds!
Sunday arrives. It's Mother's Day. You are calm. Have no expectations and you will never be disappointed is your mantra. It is time to open your gifts. Your son hands you a beautiful blue handprint he has made at school with an incredibly sappy poem. Your eyes tear, but you are strong and you hug that child so tight he can't breathe. Your husband hands you a stack of cards. They are funny, they are sappy, they are wonderful. Then you are given another small envelope.
You smile graciously. Hmmm...it's not a jewelry box. You open the envelope and find 3 movie passes, and a certificate for a fern from the local nursery. WOW! Just what I wanted! Hugs all around. Your husband kisses you and says, "Well, let's go! Wendy's is waiting!"
It is at this precise moment your guilt pangs disappear and The Mommy Sacrifice Chip erupts from your right shoulder. You are now fully ensconced in the Shameful Behavior part of the Syndrome. Wendy's? Are they kidding me? After everything I've done, they are taking me to Wendy's?
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip grows larger as you hear from your girlfriends the next day. "Bob gave me the most beautiful diamond necklace shaped like a little heart!" Or "My sons gave me a day at the spa, isn't that great?"
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip continues to grow, despite the inner shame I feel as I silently acknowledge my selfish behavior. I make a Mother's Day Resolution. Next year, I decide, I will have a plan. Jewelry ads will be taped to my husband's bathroom mirror if necessary. There will be a meal eaten in a moderate-to-expensive restaurant, if I have to drive myself. There will be GRATITUDE because I have SACRIFICED.
Then I glimpse my son's handprint poem, and I weep uncontrollably. I already have the most perfect gift in the world. I make a mental note to buy him prepaid phone cards when he leaves for college.
I'm here today to discuss the Mother's Day Guilt & Shameful Behavior Syndrome, which is a serious illness that strikes virtually every woman with children at some point in her life. Is this a serious condition? The answer, most definitely in my case, is yes. Let's just review:
Friday Night: My hubby and son leave the house for six hours under the ruse of "running errands." Now I know for a fact that there are no errands to run, because I've personally finished them all. This is merely Encrypted Male Code Talk for "we've got to run out and do your Mother's Day/birthday/Christmas shopping, fast." On any given day, give me six unencumbered hours of free time, and I can pack fun in there tighter than the jeans on Britney Spears booty; but not today.
At the exact moment that my boys left the driveway, the Mother's Day Guilt symptoms began. You know the feeling...all week, as you iron and watch your soap opera and/or Oprah, you've seen those sappy Mother's Day commercials, where the picture-perfect moms in TV wasteland break into huge smiles as they receive little diamond necklaces shaped like hearts, handmade cards, little diamond earrings shaped like hearts, chocolates(duh), little diamond tennis bracelets with a heart attached, Hallmark greetings, and more diamonds in the shape of hearts.
On Monday before Mother's Day, you watch these commercials, and comment to no one but the dog, "HA! Give me a break! There's not a diamond heart out there BIG ENOUGH for what I do! The Hope Diamond isn't even CLOSE. I wash their clothes and I cook their meals and I make SACRIFICES! And you bring me a cheesy little diamond heart? Besides, I'm not your mother! I don't need a present from you!"
On Wednesday, you notice the actual prices of the various and sundry diamond pieces displayed by the Happy TV Moms, and you think, "Oh, please. That is highway robbery! Who are they kidding, at that price, the diamonds are so tiny, I'd need microscope lens implants in my eyeballs! Wait...now that's a cute little heart bracelet...and it's only $99. That's a pretty good deal..."
By Friday, you are camped in front of the television with a box of Kleenex, weeping at the virtual non-stop parade of Mother's Day ads. You reminisce about that AT&T commercial a few years back, where the son finally calls his mother to say he loves her, and you shed big alligator tears, because you know someday soon you will desperately wish your son would call you from college. And this makes you think about the absolute perfection of your own mom, and what a terrible example of motherhood you really are, and you weep uncontrollably. How could you ever think you deserved diamonds? What if your son never calls you from college?
You phone your husband, who immediately panics at the sound of your tear-stained voice, and you blubber, "Oh, I'm so hateful! All I want for Mother's Day, I'm serious here, are you paying attention? Listen to me, all I want is a nice plant for the front porch and maybe to eat at Wendy's or something, ok? I mean it! Please don't spend much money on me, I don't deserve it."
So it's Friday night now, and as your Men Who Shop depart, your stomach is in knots, and you pace the floor for the next six hours. What if they get me a huge diamond? I can't bear to think of having to return such an expensive gift, how embarrassing. I am a terrible person. Oh, dear, I only hope they'll just get me a nice fern for the front porch like I asked. Maybe a movie pass or two. Or a Starbuck's card. That would be nice. But please, no diamonds!
Sunday arrives. It's Mother's Day. You are calm. Have no expectations and you will never be disappointed is your mantra. It is time to open your gifts. Your son hands you a beautiful blue handprint he has made at school with an incredibly sappy poem. Your eyes tear, but you are strong and you hug that child so tight he can't breathe. Your husband hands you a stack of cards. They are funny, they are sappy, they are wonderful. Then you are given another small envelope.
You smile graciously. Hmmm...it's not a jewelry box. You open the envelope and find 3 movie passes, and a certificate for a fern from the local nursery. WOW! Just what I wanted! Hugs all around. Your husband kisses you and says, "Well, let's go! Wendy's is waiting!"
It is at this precise moment your guilt pangs disappear and The Mommy Sacrifice Chip erupts from your right shoulder. You are now fully ensconced in the Shameful Behavior part of the Syndrome. Wendy's? Are they kidding me? After everything I've done, they are taking me to Wendy's?
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip grows larger as you hear from your girlfriends the next day. "Bob gave me the most beautiful diamond necklace shaped like a little heart!" Or "My sons gave me a day at the spa, isn't that great?"
The Mommy Sacrifice Chip continues to grow, despite the inner shame I feel as I silently acknowledge my selfish behavior. I make a Mother's Day Resolution. Next year, I decide, I will have a plan. Jewelry ads will be taped to my husband's bathroom mirror if necessary. There will be a meal eaten in a moderate-to-expensive restaurant, if I have to drive myself. There will be GRATITUDE because I have SACRIFICED.
Then I glimpse my son's handprint poem, and I weep uncontrollably. I already have the most perfect gift in the world. I make a mental note to buy him prepaid phone cards when he leaves for college.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
My Handyman, Toilet Ghost Exorcist
There are 2 adults in my household, and 1 small child. Both adults are college educated; the child, a kindergartener, asks questions most college freshman couldn't comprehend, so it's a matter of time before we will be forced to hire the great physicist Stephen Hawking to help with homework.
Despite our advanced degrees, my husband and I are physically unable to perform basic home repairs. We own, among other interesting items, one of those cool red, rolling tool chests. There are even a few tools inside, but mostly it's full of old newspapers, dog brushes, and bungee cords. We have lots of bungee cords, don't ask me why.
My husband's favorite tool is in that red tool chest...a large rubber mallet. His idea of home repair is to whack the broken item repeatedly with the rubber mallet until it a) begins to work again, afraid of the Awesome Power of the Rubber Mallet, or b) cracks into a bazillion pieces. Consequently, I don't ask my husband to do many household fix-it jobs.
We also own an air compressor that, with the right attachment (see previous mention of red rolling tool chest), could blow our house completely off its foundation. We once used said air compressor to inflate our child's bike tires...trust me on this, rubber will not come off the ceiling, once it's impregnated at 3000psi.
Despite our prowess with rubber mallets and the air compressor, for the past 6 months, there has only been 1 functional toilet out of the 4 found in our home. As the holidays stretched into winter, as winter warmed into spring, our toilets began to flush by themselves for no apparent reason, or refuse to flush unless you physically applied the equivalent of 600 pounds of pressure to the little silver handle (the flusher?). One by one, they were down for the count, and we simply turned off the water valve at the base, and added the victim to The Handy Man List.
The Handy Man List is attached to one of our kitchen cabinet doors. Every time something breaks around the house, we list the broken item on The Handy Man List. There's really no rhyme or reason to our methodology, particularly as to when we actually schedule the Handy Man. Sometimes it's a function of the number of items on the list. Sometimes it's based on how expensive we perceive the repair to be. Mostly it's a function of "Mom's getting really pissed off about this broken _____" and so the Handy Man is summoned, quickly.
I cannot begin to describe to you the sheer joy I feel today as I may take my pick from 4, count 'em 4, working toilets in our home. No lines, no waiting, it is total toilet bliss. Four replacement Flush Master kits later, there's no more endless running of water into the tank, no more handle jiggling, and the Toilet Ghosts are trapped back in their ethereal Toilet Hell, where they belong.
While he was here, our Handy Man also re-bolted a couple of dangling towel rods, repaired three drawers that had been broken for well over a year, and removed the equivalent of a 20lb bag of mulch from one of our gutters. We love our Handy Man. He makes all the broken stuff go away, our house is again all nice and new and operational. But we have noticed that everything our Handy Man does costs $400. Ok, maybe there have been a couple of things that were $389. But $400 seems to be the average round number for services rendered.
Personally I'm not complaining. $400 to exorcise 4 Toilet Ghosts is a deal. And on that note, it's well past time for some chocolate. Think I'll go eat a Hershey bar in the bathroom, just because I can!
There are 2 adults in my household, and 1 small child. Both adults are college educated; the child, a kindergartener, asks questions most college freshman couldn't comprehend, so it's a matter of time before we will be forced to hire the great physicist Stephen Hawking to help with homework.
Despite our advanced degrees, my husband and I are physically unable to perform basic home repairs. We own, among other interesting items, one of those cool red, rolling tool chests. There are even a few tools inside, but mostly it's full of old newspapers, dog brushes, and bungee cords. We have lots of bungee cords, don't ask me why.
My husband's favorite tool is in that red tool chest...a large rubber mallet. His idea of home repair is to whack the broken item repeatedly with the rubber mallet until it a) begins to work again, afraid of the Awesome Power of the Rubber Mallet, or b) cracks into a bazillion pieces. Consequently, I don't ask my husband to do many household fix-it jobs.
We also own an air compressor that, with the right attachment (see previous mention of red rolling tool chest), could blow our house completely off its foundation. We once used said air compressor to inflate our child's bike tires...trust me on this, rubber will not come off the ceiling, once it's impregnated at 3000psi.
Despite our prowess with rubber mallets and the air compressor, for the past 6 months, there has only been 1 functional toilet out of the 4 found in our home. As the holidays stretched into winter, as winter warmed into spring, our toilets began to flush by themselves for no apparent reason, or refuse to flush unless you physically applied the equivalent of 600 pounds of pressure to the little silver handle (the flusher?). One by one, they were down for the count, and we simply turned off the water valve at the base, and added the victim to The Handy Man List.
The Handy Man List is attached to one of our kitchen cabinet doors. Every time something breaks around the house, we list the broken item on The Handy Man List. There's really no rhyme or reason to our methodology, particularly as to when we actually schedule the Handy Man. Sometimes it's a function of the number of items on the list. Sometimes it's based on how expensive we perceive the repair to be. Mostly it's a function of "Mom's getting really pissed off about this broken _____" and so the Handy Man is summoned, quickly.
I cannot begin to describe to you the sheer joy I feel today as I may take my pick from 4, count 'em 4, working toilets in our home. No lines, no waiting, it is total toilet bliss. Four replacement Flush Master kits later, there's no more endless running of water into the tank, no more handle jiggling, and the Toilet Ghosts are trapped back in their ethereal Toilet Hell, where they belong.
While he was here, our Handy Man also re-bolted a couple of dangling towel rods, repaired three drawers that had been broken for well over a year, and removed the equivalent of a 20lb bag of mulch from one of our gutters. We love our Handy Man. He makes all the broken stuff go away, our house is again all nice and new and operational. But we have noticed that everything our Handy Man does costs $400. Ok, maybe there have been a couple of things that were $389. But $400 seems to be the average round number for services rendered.
Personally I'm not complaining. $400 to exorcise 4 Toilet Ghosts is a deal. And on that note, it's well past time for some chocolate. Think I'll go eat a Hershey bar in the bathroom, just because I can!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
