Dance of the Sugar Plum Lesbians

If you haven't already discovered it, you simply must click on over to Joe.My.God's site, and read Dance of the Sugar Plum Lesbians. It's wonderful and sweet and a better holiday story than most of the fluffy new Christmas specials flooding the TV these days.

(Sharpie drawing by the Radical Bohemian, aka the eldest daughter)

I read Dance of the Sugar Plum Lesbians last year, not long after I started blogging. It made me smile, it made me teary -eyed. It has a magical feeling, and Joe's writing, the pulse and life of the station, draws the reader in, like a little kid hearing the story of Santa.

Willym mentioned it on his site recently, and I remembered it immediately from last year. This is the first "annual tradition" that I personally have experienced in the blogosphere, and is absolutely the perfect story to mark that time in my mind.

I love this story.

Operation Cowbell

I know many of you have been looking for updates on my friend Betty, who was deployed to Iraq this fall. So many of you sent boxes and good wishes to Betty and her soldiers, through Operation Home-In-a-Box. I hadn't yet posted an update, because I didn't hear anything for a while, and, to tell you the truth, I didn't want to think about why I hadn't heard anything. Most of me knew that Betty is incredibly busy under even normal circumstances, and that right now she probably barely has time to spit, let alone write chatty emails on the latest goings-on in Iraq. (She is still taking classes and dealing with homework in the midst of all this!) But of course there was a tiny part of my brain, the "what if" part, that worried.

Anyway, I got an update just before Christmas, and wanted to let you all know how much your boxes and kind thoughts were appreciated by Betty's section over there. She asked me to relay their gratitude, and what a difference it has made to the guys and gals over there. She has - as I expected - made their space into a nice Christmasey spot in the midst of everything. Unfortunately, the news is not all good. They have lost a soldier already and have some wounded as well.

Some of it I'm directly cut and pasting from the email, other parts I'll just relay, as I'm not sure about pasting some of the info - better safe than sorry. I guess I'm still paranoid about security from my clearance days, ha.

I hope your holidays are as happy as mine, I have prepared a nice Christmas day for my section, the office is clean and decorated with such nice festive decorations and warm feelings of blessings. Thanks to you, and our new Cowbell family. God has been so good to the soldiers here at FOB Kalsu.

... we've lost a soldier in the last week, a number of wounded soldiers. But the soldiers keep performing to such high standards and staying motivated, they're definitely going the distance here in Iraq. Can you please post this for me. Must close, need to do homework, midterm...still in the University.

I can't even imagine how that has affected everyone there. Of course, there are morale issues, which is to be expected, but Betty is on top of that, as she always is with her soldiers. Also, an Iraqi General, whom Betty really respected, was killed, which had a big effect on folks from both sides.

... I don’t want to start this message out on a gloomy note, but I have to let you know the truth. Last Sunday, we had a meeting with one of the Iraqi Generals and as he departed FOB Kalsu, within the hour he was killed, this week was a bit of a disappointment for both sides, because he was the actual glue that held each side together, which allowed both sides to continue to merge into one.

One of Betty's very close friends there is an Iraqi translator - "one with such a great heart and love for both countries". She had legally immigrated to the US, her husband passed away a few years ago, which is when she made the decision to become a translator with our forces. She apparently translated for several of the Generals, including the General who was recently killed. I'm sure that was very difficult for everyone.

The packages you all sent were so appreciated. Apparently they can feel isolated there, in their section's particular situation, so things from home make a big difference.

We have had quite a few black outs of [location code] for either deaths or wounded soldiers (KIAs os WIAs). When this operation runs throughout the FOB, Forward Operating Base; this means that we have no connection outside of this Base, beyond the T-Walls that encloses the Base itself.

... I have received quite a few care packages from quite a few generous people, and to let you know, I let one of the soldiers within the section open a care package when it came their turn…they were allowed to pick from the package first and then we shared the rest with the other soldiers in the section.

I’ve had one soldier (male….approximately 35 yrs old) who has received only one letter and it was from his mother. This individual is having a difficult time concentrating on mission, because he had to leave prior to the completion of a divorce, or reconciling with his spouse/family. If you would like to send a kind word to this person, he and I would definitely appreciate it. You can address this letter/package to Mr. Vil in C/O MSG Betty PerryBoehm; same address, I would see to it getting to him.

To my old friends and newly acquired friends via Operation Cowbell, I want to thank all of you for being so generous and kind hearted in a time such as this military operation. I know most of you are the general population of the American society, the part of society who has an opinion, but or fed information through the media channels…..listen to all and decipher what sounds right to you; I will tell you, a lot of good things or happening here to keep the Terrorists at bay and allow the continued freedom to the American people.

I will write to all of the participants in a separate letter, if it’s OK! I want to let the people of the Cowbell Operation know that it’s not necessary to send a package; you can just keep the letters coming, mainly with words of encouragements. If you continue to feel generous to my group of soldiers, please send warm socks (male and females) towels, washcloths, shower gels, lotions and Noxzema pads to keep the facial pores clean and free of the dirt and sand storms we endure here in the desert. These items will sure to be used and appreciated.

(Also, Betty wanted to let you know that the soldier she mentioned, Mr. Vil, is a warrant officer, so it's customary to address them as Mr./Ms. which is why it's written that way rather than with rank. Just address it in care of Betty, it will be sure to get to him.)

Again, I can't begin to imagine what they are experiencing over there, and I can't begin to imagine how important it is to feel support from home when a person is in that situation. I know people have a lot of opinions on the war, and in particular the way our current administration (G-Dubya and minions) is handling things, but the one thing easy to agree on is supporting and respecting the individual soldiers who are over there, far from home, doing their best in the face of everything. I, for one, am proud of them, and have the highest respect for them. I wish for them all to come home soon, and safely.

I can tell in Betty's letter, and in other soldiers' writings I've seen out on the net, that it is a concern, what the folks back home are hearing, believing, and thinking about what's going on there. What's happening on the ground is a whole different thing than what's happening in the hallowed halls of the Big House White House, and from what I see, most if not all of the folks who stop in regularly to my site are fully aware of that. From what I see, most folks wish that those walking the hallowed halls would give more thought to the soldiers than to what's on their own agendas.

So Betty, dear friend, the folks back home are rooting hard for you all, and care more than you can know. You all just keep on keeping on, take care of each other, watch your buddies' backs, and please come home safe.

I love you, friend. Stay strong, stay safe.

Take 23 and Call Me in the Morning

(Note: This post has been sitting in the draft folder for days. He's fine now.)
Batman has been having issues lately. I blame the weather. Now before you all start with the eye rolling and the "Oh for Pete's sake, she'd blame the Bush presidency on Seattle's weather," hear me out.

Mason is the one with issues. For those of you who don't know his story, he was abused before we adopted him from a rescue at the approximate age of nine. He was a Velcro dog for a while; I could not go to the bathroom without him anxiously tailing me. Over a year later, I can now visit the commode alone, and he no longer flinches if we get out the broom or move suddenly, but he still has separation anxiety issues and can be a bit needy.

Batman, on the other hand, has always been happy-go-lucky with no behavioral issues, smart as a whip -- a veritable Lassie. Lately though, he's gone on a paper-shredding tear. At first I suspected Mason. Yeah, I know, blame the dog with the issues. Batman's only had two incidents in the time we've had him: The Great Tampon Escapade of 2005, which resulted in $1700 of emergency surgery right before Christmas, and Batman's Jellybean Adventure of 2006 wherein our hero ate a two-pound bag of of Jelly Bellies that Teen Demon had received for Christmas, along with some toothpicks. In hindsight, it looks like there's some sort of link with Christmas going on here, but since Batman's pretty much been trouble free other than those two things, yes, I suspected Mason.

It was kind of funny when I first found some shredded junk mail, but it got worse, progressing from shredded paper towels or the occasional piece of paper, to actually eating books. He ate several books Teen Demon was reading for school, also The Bluest Eye, and The Dog Encyclopedia. He actually started pulling them off the shelves. He even attempted to eat a photo album.


This is him, avoiding eye contact after we came home to find this book about horses. Like if he doesn't look at me, I won't figure out it was him. Sorry, Batman, but when your poop comes out basically as a fibrous white pulp, either your ass is doing double duty as a paper mill, or you're the culprit.

I couldn't figure out why this great dog was suddenly acting as one possessed by the Spirit of Cujo.  This is where Seattle's weather comes in: by the time I get home, it's dark as Satan's asshole. It is also almost always raining. Like Satan's having a piss fest on my life. I have not been walking the boys or taking them to chase tennis balls nearly as often as I should. Even so, nothing seemed amiss, because they're always very calm when we're home. Then Batman started this paper-eating deal.

Oh, I should also explain that Batman long ago figured out that bringing papers to us resulted in him getting attention. He'd come prancing in, holding someone's homework, a napkin, or the school newsletter. He didn't chew it, just brought it to us. Of course we'd ask him to "give it", and praise his retrieving skills when he proudly did. Now, however, "give it" has somehow morphed into "eat it" in his mind, and the offspring have actually had to use that tired, old excuse, "The dog ate my homework," except that it's really true.

Anyway, I think that he's bored and frustrated from lack of exercise, and maybe he also equates the whole paper thing with attention because of his paper trick, who knows. I had decided to bite the bullet and purchase some of that reflective walking rain gear that all Seattleites and their dogs seem to own, so that I can venture out in the cold, dark, wet, nastyass evenings after work, and walk my dogs without being hit by a car or soaked to the bone.

But then the plumber happened, my car is overdue to have an oil change, Christmas is a-coming, and I kept putting off buying the reflective rain gear crap.

So yesterday, Male Offspring and I come home to find the contents of the kitchen trashcan all over the floor. This would be the tall, metal, covered kitchen trashcan that you have to step on a pedal to open. The dogs have not once shown the slightest bit of interest in it. We were shocked. It looked like Oscar the Grouch had gone all Exorcist in our kitchen.

Worse, I discovered that Teen Demon's sports duffel had also been emptied, due to the booty of protein bars and Cheez-Its found within. Neither dog had ever shown interest in her bag prior to this, either. Teen Demon had had a small zip-lock bag of ibuprofen in her duffel. There were 19 ibuprofen 200mg tablets laying next to the duffel. The zip-lock itself was gone.

Shit shit shit. Ibuprofen can be lethal to dogs. I estimated there were between 0 and 20 pills missing.

I spent the next hour outside in the cold rain with a flashlight, force-feeding my dogs hydrogen peroxide to make them puke. Nothing like going through dog puke with a stick in the freezing rain, until your fingers are numb and barely functional. Batman puked up some nasty trash, which I will not even go into, but which would've likely caused the second emergency surgery of his life, had he not puked it up.

I didn't see any telltale orange, at that time, but later that night, he started puking up blood. Fuck. Welcome to level two of ibuprofen poisoning, in which the medicine causes ulceration. Great. I calculated the milligrams of meds per kilogram of dog weight, knowing that if I saw even one more symptom, it was off to the emergency vet. Because my dogs never have medical problems on a weekday during business hours. Oh, no. My dogs are strictly evening and weekend guys when it comes to medical problems. Cha-ching.

So basically I spent the night watching him for things like refusal to eat, lethargy, excessive thirst combined with decreased urination, staggering, seizures, and the like. Beyond that comes coma and death.

Already longass story short, he didn't have any other symptoms. He's fine now.


We were very very lucky. Had he been smaller, had he eaten even some of the 19 pills left lying on the floor, had the H2O2 not made him puke up the trash objects, we could've been looking at a very different kind of Christmas, and some huge vet bills to boot. I'm so glad he's ok.

I don't know what it is with Batman and Christmas, and I don't know what it is with me having house problems right before Christmas, but it's becoming an annoying pattern on both counts that I definitely do not need. I am either on Santa's naughty list, or I have royally pissed off the Baby Jesus. Somehow or other, I seem to be on the Yuletide Shit List. Next year I'm just heading to the tropics come December 1st.

----------------------

Public Service Announcement: please take extraordinary measures to make sure your pets have no chance of being exposed to ibuprofen. Animals' bodies do not process it the same way our bodies do, so even small amounts can be very harmful. Cats are actually twice as sensitive to it than dogs, and can easily die from ibuprofen poisoning after ingesting small amounts. Ibuprofen can severely damage an animal's kidneys and cause ulcerations in the stomach/intestine which can actually eat completely through the tissues. It can cause neurological problems, leading to staggering, seizures, or coma. (Acetomenophine is also dangerous to pets.)
We consciously keep all our meds out of reach, but all it takes is once. None of us thought about that small bag of Ibuprofen buried in the bottom of a sports bag, and our dogs are not usually the type to get into things, but they did this time. I can't imagine how we'd have felt if Batman had been seriously injured, or worse. We got lucky.

The Children Are Nestled All Snug in Their Beds

I hope those visions of sugarplums are still dancing in their heads.

The house is quiet, only the Christmas lights and candles glowing, pine and cinnamon wafting through the air -- yeah, it's Yankee Candle, so what? I'm trying to trick my brain into falling asleep with some herbal tea. I think I overdid the cookies or something, as I seem to be on some sort of jittery sugar high.

This year I finished my wrapping early: 3:00am. The Christmas Eve wrapfest is the one thing I still miss, as far as the ex. Every year, after the kids went to bed, we'd stay up late wrapping presents and talking, Christmas tunes playing, eggnog heavy on the rum. Even after we split, once I moved back overseas, he still came over every Christmas Eve and we kept the tradition up, which was nice. We'd reminisce about Christmases past and get our eggnog on as we fought with wrapping paper and curling ribbons.

Wrapping by one's self is a real pain, because by the time it's finished, the kids are at the door, executing a flanking movement to invade my bed. They send in the dogs as reinforcements to wake me up at some ungodly hour, oblivious to the fact that my eyes are slits and I've clearly lost a battle with scotch tape and the blasted curling ribbons. Dogs and kids are always perky at an ungodly hour on Christmas morning. Dogs are pretty much perky at any given ungodly hour, as they can go from snoring to leaping and bouncing in about .05 seconds, Christmas or not. And kids, you'd think that by the time they're all between the ages of 15 and almost-20, the early morning wake up call would be a thing of the past. Um, no. Which, truth be told, is a good thing.

Well, speaking of ungodly hours, my tea has had the desired effect, and it's time for Santa's helper to hit the sheets for my allotted slumber.

Wishing you all very happy merriment and happy warm connections with your loved ones today and this season.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode V

Episode V: Half Baked

My oven is broken. We nearly had an oven fire. There were no cinnamon rolls this morning, which was a damn shame, as we came in soaking wet from the park, and really could've used those cinnamon rolls with some hot coffee. My house still smells like wet dog.

The element broke. Completely. It's in two pieces, thanks to the white hot phosphorous explosion before I hit the circuit breaker. What the hell is it with me and Christmas? That sewer explosion in '05 should've covered me for life. And you all haven't even read the draft I started, which very nearly resulted in ginormous vet bills and/or a dead dog right before Christmas. Again. And I haven't even told you about the discrepancy with the plumbers bill. Oh, yes, their actual bill was quite a bit higher than Chuck's written "estimate". Fuck you, Chuck.

I'm on my way out to get the part. Not exactly the Christmas gift I would've bought myself, but whatever. Our oven is older than Methuselah's ass, so it will require much unscrewing and fastening of wires. No Plug-n-Play element here, not in the house of Cowbell.

GE does not post online repair manuals; they prefer that you order their manuals online for $17.95. I'm sorry, General Effing-Electric, but tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I don't have time to wait for your goddamn manual to arrive. We need macaroni and cheese tomorrow. Fuckers. Just tell me how to fix your oldass, brokeass oven.

I hope I can fix this POS. If not, I am going to be highly irate at ordering Pizza Hut for Christmas dinner. They'll probably be closed too. Bastards.

In other news:

Batman learned a new trick today, which I guess makes up for him almost dying with his foolish Ibuprofen-eating ass. Yeah. More on that later, but he can now sail over the net at the tennis court to retrieve his ball.

The Male Offspring learned how to ride the ripstick he got for his birthday. We'd been waiting since the end of November for a day without rain, so he could try it. This morning we just said screw it and went to the park. Welcome to winter in the PNW, people.

Oh, wait --------- BREAKING NEWS --------- Teen Demon just told me that the tub isn't draining.

Pay No Mind to That Earlier Unpleasantness.

Why hello, darlings. Feeling much better now, thank you. It's a wonder what that extra three hours of sleep can do for a body! Of course, three hours of exercise and housecleaning would've done it more good, but then I'd still be bitchy. It's a trade off.

I wrote about wrestling here last season, the son's first season ever, how brave these kids are to grapple around in shiny, spandex suits in public while in the throes of puberty, the intricacies of wrestling a female opponent, and how much I respect these young people. It ain't for sissies, and I don't mean just physically either. There's something about the way team connects and looks out for each other, too.

Looking for the link, I realized I missed my first blogiversary, or whatever you call it, which was this insightful, erudite post:

So, this is my fancy blog. Testing, 1 2 3...

Not even kidding. Lame.

Anyway, this is the son's first year of high school wrestling. There are two other guys in his weight class. They challenge each other for the right to wrestle in the one varsity slot for each weight class. There's an older guy who's pretty good, and if the son does manage to get past him, guess who he ultimately has to challenge for that varsity slot?

That would be the team captain. He's a senior.

The son, no fool, said, "Well, I'll just challenge for the experience then," Smart kid. I would not want to be a freshman on varsity anyway. You'd get your ass kicked all the damn time.

Last week, Mr. Team Captain couldn't wrestle for some reason. I get this phone call:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Male Offspring: Um, Anyu? I have some news that's going to sound good, but ... it's really not.

Me: [bracing myself] Okay, buddy, what's up?

MO: So, apparently, I'm wrestling varsity tonight. Michael can't wrestle.

Me: That's great! Good for you, buddy!

MO: Um, not really. All the older guys know my opponent. He's like, a beast or something!

Me: Well, okay, this is high school, you expect that, right? Besides, wasn't your nickname The Beast last year?

MO: That was middle school. This guy is seriously a beast. I think he has a beard. All the guys look sorry for me. They told me my goal is just to try not to get pinned. What the heck does that mean?

Me: Oh.

MO: This guy went to State last year! He's like a senior.

Me: Oh!

MO: .........

Me: Well ... okay then, honey! Try not to get pinned, then! See you tonight! Good luck!

Poor kid. Okay, in wrestling, your team scores higher if you win by pinning your opponent instead of just getting more points than your opponent. That's why the son's teammates were asking him not to get pinned -- they're basically telling him, he's going to beat you, but don't give up that pin. Even though you're wrestling a beast in spandex. With a beard.

The son was right. This guy WAS a beast. I mean, like a 152-pound Tasmanian devil. But the son held on for his six minutes. He was tired as hell by the end, staggering a bit, but the guy could not pin him. I told the son that he may have just experienced his most respectable loss ever. His team mates cheered pretty loud for him. Hell, yeah.

The son, getting ready to throw Beast Boy
(That's Teen Demon cheering on the left, the one w/ the hair ribbon)

And he throws him!
(This pretty much set Beast Boy off. He went into Tasmanian Devil mode after that.)

But today is a new day. The son sent me a text message that he won his first match of the day -- got a pin in 47 seconds! Hell. yeah. I'm sure he's feeling pretty beastly about that.

Morning Bells Are Clanging

Have I mentioned how I hate mornings? Did I make clear how weekends are prized above all else for the luxury of sleeping in?

Again with the world being run by Morning Morons. This is the second weekend in a row that Male Offspring has had to be at the school at an ungodly hour, complete with (huge) nutritious lunch and showering accoutrements. Last weekend, 05:45. Yes, that's in the morning. I'm surprised I didn't hear the cheery notes of Reveille as we headed out the door. Today, was a "late bus" -- 06:45.

On Saturday.


Teen Demon cheers at the Varsity tournament,and drives her own self to school, but the bus for that leaves at a different time than the JV bus. Of course it does. What the hell kind of scheduling is that? Who runs these things? Oh, right, that would be the morning people. Those bright-eyed bushy-tailed evil minions of Satan's asshole.

I could just make Male Offspring get up 45 minutes earlier to go in with his sister and wait in the dark at the school for his team, but come on people, I'm not that sorry. The boy was up 'til 11 last night doing his homework, and will be busting his ass all day on the mats, and doing homework for a good part of tomorrow. This is what I signed up for. Except that when I signed up for it, I was -- hello -- married to morning person, who would've been up anyway.


Last weekend I dropped the son off according to Satan's timetable, drove back home, glared at the dogs, who thought it was time to go for a walk (ain't happening, boys, do I look like Mary friggin' Sunshine to you?), got back in bed and slept for 3 more hours. Then I drove out to BFE where the tourney was.

I don't know where the hell I'm going today, so I thought I'd just print out driving directions real quick before crawling back up to my lair. Thing is, my body, traitor that it is, now feels it could actually just stay up. Yeah well, the brain's in control here, Body. You haven't exactly been looking out for me the last couple of years anydamnway. My ass and the rest of me is burrowing right back under those comforters. They're probably still warm.

See you all at a decent hour.

Circadian Ripoffs

Why can't I just go to bed early like a normal person? Why can't I be a morning person?

I am the only person in my family of origin who is a night person. How many years of a body getting up at o'dark-fucking-thirty in the morning does it take for said body to just get used to it? You'd think the military would've yanked my inner clock into a rhythm more in line with the planet's operating hours, but no.

And really, what the fuck is up with those people who are actually in bed by 10? They get up at 6am on weekends like it's nothing. I hate them.

Why can't the world operate according to night owl schedules? I mean, who decided those perkyass smirking morning people get to run things?

Bastards.


Fuck. I really need to drag my ass to bed.

This Old Motherfucking House: STILL Episode IV

STILL Episode IV: Pipe Dreams

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Mason, checking out my plumbing tools,
including $40 worth of new ones.
Which didn't work.

My version of those modern bowl-shaped sinks. Stainless steel, too!
Only the latest plumbing fashions in the house of Cowbell.

The bathroom's version. Yes, that paper to the left is the note I left to the offspring, instructing them to hold in any "number two" jobs until they get to school.

The new toilet.
And that's all I've got to say about that.
I've got your thousand words right here.

So I folded. I've called in the professionals. Shit. (Yeah, pun intended, wiseasses. Har-fucking-har.) I did not call Roto-Rooter. I called around and was getting nothing but bullshit from "telephone service representatives" who couldn't give me any real any information, not being "service technicians" themselves. They were, however, happy to send out a service technician who would, in turn, be happy to charge me a "service call" ranging from $71 to $99, which I'd have to pay whether I went with that company or not. Of course, the service call is rolled into your price if you go with them. But the telephone service representatives can't give you a ballpark price for what it will cost to actually get the work done -- for that, you pay the service charge, cross your fingers, and hope the estimate isn't too bad, and that you don't have to start over with someone else.

In other words, once they're standing in your yard, service charge in hand, they've pretty much got you bent over like a porn star. You can either pay whatever they ask, most likely getting a slow, uncomfortable screw, or you can pay up and then pay someone else, too, thus negating any savings you may have found with someone else.

They were all also happy to inform me that it was "very unusual" for Roto-Rooter to give free estimates! They gravely warned me that with Roto-Rooter's system, why, I could easily end up paying $800 or $1000! Better to go with their company instead. In other words, "Just pay our service charge, bitch. Bend over and say my name."  None of them gave a flying fuck about the whole single mom with Christmas looming thing. Fuck you very much, Ebenezer. Why are there never any plumbing Christmas sales?

I know these guys work with shit, and they should get paid good money for doing what no one else wants to do. I get that. Would it be so much to ask though, to maybe have sliding scales for necessary services, like heat, plumbing, electricity? I mean, it's not like I'm asking for a complete kitchen remodel or a face lift or a pool, for crying out loud. I just want to use my own damn toilet and wash my pits.

I called Zan, the Rad Dyke Plumber. I knew she was farther south than where I live, but what the hell, I've heard she's a straight shooter. Well, so to speak. My very cynical dear friend, who is, no doubt, lurking at this very moment, apparently used to know her, along with all kinds of other handy types. Anyway, I've heard good things about her, I love her web site, and figured I'd rather give my money to her than these asshats, so I called. She sounded just like I imagined she would, which was refreshingly like a real person, not some jerk preying on my wallet.

My joy, however, was short lived. Zan doesn't do snakes. Big surprise there, right? Damn. What about my needs, Zan? But she was very nice, and pointed me in the direction of Jerry's Sewer & Drain service. "But if you ever have any other type of plumbing problems, you just give me call now, OK?"

Okay, Zan. Fine. [sniff]

Jerry's pricing was better than the other places, and they specialize in sewer pipes, but unfortunately, I have to pay $70-$90 travel fee for them, as my city is out of their area. They get you coming or going. It pretty much evens out though, and since they were recommended, I guess I'm going with Jerry.

Until today, I was unaware that plumbers have different specialties. Like doctors. And they make about as much, without all that school debt.

Anyway, I begged the telephone service representative, who was very nice, to please send someone today. I haven't had a shower in three days, I need clean clothes, and I'm tired of peeing in a bucket. Don't judge. They were starting to look at me weird in the coffee shop.


------------------------------------

UPDATE:

Chuck just left, with his big cable and tools. Get your minds out of the sewer, people, I haven't showered in three days - not happening. Everything is once again flowing freely. Apparently, they charged me just half the travel fee. Jerry himself will follow up in a couple of days, and Chuck assures me that if "that baby clogs up within the next thirty days, I'll come out here and blast it myself, you won't pay a thing." Because that's how Jerry's place rolls when they're "trying to build a little history with you, here".

• Total Bill, Having My Pipe Snaked: $195.93
• No Longer Pissing in a Bucket: Priceless.

Oh, and Roto-Rooter? As Zan would say, "Get Wrenched!"

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode IV

Episode IV: Roto-Rooted

I am not at work this morning. Oh, I'm still connected to my work files and email, via the wonders of modern technology, lest you think I'm here with my stockinged feet up, quaffing caffeine and stalking you.

I'm home because I'm expecting a visit from the Roto-Rooter man. No, you freaks, the plumbing and sewage company. If it were any other type of Roto-Rooting, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting at my keyboard.

The drains are backing up again. Since this just happened in October, and seeing as we have since installed a high tech "hair catcher" that sits atop the bathtub drain, I'm thinking my problem may be worse than Teen Demon's prodigious hair donations. I suspect every homeowner's nightmare: tree roots.

My last house, a rental, came complete with a cheap and petulant property manager: a small, elderly, British dame named Doreen. Doreen was, to borrow a phrase from my father, "Tighter than a crab's ass ... and that's waterproof."
The homeowners had moved to Georgia, on a mission to translate the Bible into Georgian or something. Yes, I mean the U.S. Georgia. My rent covered the owners' mortgage in Georgia, the monthly payment to Doreen's property management company, and left them some profit to play with. Bitterness over that arrangement is what got me into my current situation, having thought that I, too, could finally catch a break by getting in on the formerly-profitable Seattle housing market.

We all know how that turned out.

Anyway, one time our drains clogged up. Doreen came by, all a-flutter, and said, with a pinched face, "Well, you have two teenage girls in the house; they can't be flushing those feminine products down the drains! Children use too much toilet paper! Now they don't know any better, but as the tenant, you are responsible for the cost of clearing drains due to negligence!"

First of all, unless you've drilled peep-holes into the walls, Doreen, you have no idea what we're flushing down the drain. We lived in a country where you could barely flush toilet paper down the drains before moving here; we're not stupid enough to flush tampons.

Second of all, you're a bitch.

Anyway, this being beyond Jay's abilities, she called out the plumbing crew. She imperiously informed me that they would run a camera down the drain - at extra expense - because "the owner" wanted to know the cause of the blockage. She had apparently briefed the plumber on our irresponsible flushing habits, because he told her, "Well, your problem is bigger than a clog, ma'am. It's not bathroom products after all," [Ha!] "You've got tree roots! Got nothing to do with the tenants -- you need to start regular root maintenance. I can schedule you out for every 6 months." He then pronounced, "Good thing you had us run that camera down there, ma'am!", with a sidelong wink to me.

By the look on Doreen's face, you'd have thought the plumber gave that stick up her ass an extra good twist.

Anyway, Doreen grudgingly paid the bill, the guys cut out the roots, and we were flushing freely once more. She informed me that the plumbers would be coming by annually to clear the roots. "Didn't he say every six months?" I asked. "This visit cost enough," she replied. "I've spoken with the owner, and annual service will be fine. Those plumbers always try to sell you more than you need. The owner isn't made of money, you know!"

Fast Forward: Christmas Eve, 2004: Cowbell is draining boiling water off the potatoes in preparation to mash them up into yummy deliciousness. The water doesn't go anywhere. I foolishly flip the disposal switch. Boiling potato-water erupts. Somehow I don't get burned.

I won't detail the rest of the story, mainly because I enjoy low blood pressure. It was a sad and sordid tale, starting with me borrowing a plumbing snake from my boss on Christmas Eve, and ending with a porta-potty in the front yard for two weeks during 20-degree weather, bulldozers in the back, a large scale pipe replacement and intensive sewage cleanup. Guess what, it wasn't the potatoes, too much food in the drain, or wayward feminine products, much too Doreen's surprise. It was the tree roots. Seems the annual maintenance schedule wasn't quite enough to keep those pesky tubers out, and the entire pipe collapsed.

The owner ended up with a bill for about $10,000. This included a new sewer pipe, the porta-potty rental, replacing carpet and walls on our lower level, and paying for COIT to clean up, sanitize, and dry the place. Yes, the sewage pipe backed up into our ground floor. Nasty doesn't even begin to cover it. At one point during this whole Charlie-Fox, Doreen came by to check the progress. She handed me a Glade plug-in air freshener. "I thought this might help," she announced. I stood there staring at the thing, wondering how that was possibly going to make a dent in the situation.

I bet she billed the owners for it.

The bill did not cover our ruined Christmas dinner, or the fact that a dear friend visiting from the East Coast could not bring herself to stay in our house, so I didn't see as much of her as I'd have liked. It didn't cover my frostbitten ass, or the humiliation of using a porta-potty in my FRONT YARD. One of the neighbors actually waved to me as I was heading in there one time. I only paid 1/3 of my rent that month, which twisted the stick up Doreen's ass even harder, but after reading my all legal-like letter, she sucked it up. "Well," she huffed, "I certainly don't know how the owner will take this ... the bill was so expensive, he's really going to need that rent money,"

Not my problem. Hope he has enough left over to pay your fee.

Anyway, that experience was pretty much imprinted on my brain, so tree roots were the first thing that entered my mind this morning. Oh what I wouldn't give for a simple grease clog, or a load of flushed tampons.

The Roto-Rooter people refused to give me a ballpark estimate over the phone, but they cheerily informed me that their Free Estimate was absolutely free of charge! (Yeah, I know what "free" means, lady)

This guy better get here soon. I've got to pay a visit to my friend John, and it's not going to be a quickie.

----------------------------

UPDATE:

So I pretty much hate Roto-Rooter. First off, the lady on the phone this morning told me twice, very specifically, that they charge by the job, not by the hour. Okay, fine. Second, I'm in the wrong business, folks. Should've been a plumber. The guy, once he gets here, tells me his rates are $170 for the first half hour. They charge in 15-minute increments after that. When I relayed Phone Lady's info, he looked puzzled and said maybe she was new. Right. Whatever, asshat, you think I don't recognize your company's sneaky sales tactics? Please.

He estimated it would be between "$211 at the low end, to about $350 on the high end. Before tax," That's assuming it's not a bigger problem than he can ascertain before getting in there with his snake. He was nice enough to go get his bigass wrench and take the cap off of the clean-out access in the yard for me, once I told him that his price is not an option for a single mom before Christmas. He also gave me some DIY tips. Y'all know how I love DIY projects! Why let him have all the fun? So anyway, I'm getting ready to play with my snake now. I've only got a 25-footer, with no cutting blades on the end, but who knows, maybe it will be a giant hairball after all. Or maybe someone's been secretly flushing tampons. If only.

Oh, by the way, I went to coffee shop and bought a chai latte. The real reason for the latte was so I could surreptitiously utilize the latrine.

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UPDATE II:

The bad news: it looks like roots are involved. I pulled up a small but very nasty mass of TP and what I thought might be a tangle of hair. Whoo, was I happy to see that disgusting mess. Upon closer inspection, however, it was actually a tangle of very fine, dark, baby roots. Crap. The good news: it looks like they're only about five or six feet into the pipe. Worse news: my snake is too puny to handle it. It bent in several places.

I'm headed to Lowe's now, to get a more substantial snake, one that can actually handle my needs.

Also, if you ever go to a coffee shop, specifically to use the restroom, but you buy something to make it look like you're not just there to use the restroom, don't buy something with caffeine. I have to pee already.