This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VIII

Episode VIII: Shiver Me Timbers

Thanks to those who thought to call the authorities. I am not rotting among the worms and beetles in the crawl space. It's been sunny here.

My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.

There's a planter box in my front yard, about 8'x8', framed by landscaping timbers. The timbers go on to form a retaining wall that runs the length of my driveway. The previous owner -- you all remember him -- the guy who made $100,000 profit from a scant two years of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, he let grass completely overtake the planter box. Since moving in, I've been showcasing an 8'x8' square of monster grass. Oh, and a Japanese Maple tree. It's in the box, too. I wonder if my neighbors were ever able to reconcile their envy?

Male Offspring, adjusting his iPod about halfway through the de-grassing.

Male Offspring dug out all the grass for me, on account of my lameass frozen shoulder that can't operate a simple manual shovel. Grass roots run deep, people. Deep. Good thing the boy's got first class tickets to the gun show. We found Hens & Chicks (the plants, not the animals) buried in the grass. I rescued them, and replanted them. Took forever. Anyway, my yard was finally going to look nice! I bought plants. Perennials. Forget that annual shit. Go with the ones that come back every year. I also got mulch and peat moss and gardening gloves. Cute ones. The plants are still babies, but by midsummer that box will be bursting with bloomage.

Yeah baby, time for a little respect from the neighbors. That's right.

Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.
Left: monster grass.

Anyway, everything was going fine, until I noticed the retaining wall was falling out toward the driveway at the point where it's supposed to connect to the planter box. Shit. Also the timbers at the front of the planter box were looking dicey. We took out a few pieces to assess the extent of damage, and found some serious rot going on.

Holy hell. I just wanted to plant some friggin' plants and lay some mulch. But that's not how This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

So I spent about $60 on galvanized steel brackets, a drill bit as long as my forearm, and some bigass galvanized screws. The plan was to remove enough dirt that we could pull the retaining wall back in place, reattach everything with the brackets, and call it a day.

Long story short, it didn't work. Apparently, a wood retaining wall is supposed to have vertical support posts sunk in concrete OR these things called "tie backs" -- pieces of wood attached to the wall's backside, buried in the ground, anchoring the wall in place. My retaining wall, of course, had neither.

Who chooses wood in this never-ending rainhole anyway? CheapAss former owners who make a quick profit and leave you with a fucked up house, that's who.

De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?

So we're going with the interlocking concrete block option. The DIY ones that don't need mortar. Yep. Time all is said and done, probably about another $500 dropped on This Old Motherfucking House. At least they won't rot before I sell this joint.

This shit was not even on my summer project list! Here's what was on my summer project list:

1. Re-tile moldyass shower tiles (this is going to be a bitch of a job).
2. Replace 80s wood vanity, fixtures, and cracked bathroom sink.
3. Replace linoleum floor with tile, and paint bathroom walls.
4. Install window blinds.
5. Replace rotting front deck.

Yes, CheapAss Former Owner used 1/2" thick untreated boards to build the front porch. In the Pacific Northwest. Bastard. New lumber and a nail gun or drill that can handle wood screws is going to be several hundred right there. I did not need another outdoor project, people!

Other possible items for the summer project list included:

6. Refinish wood floors formerly covered by urine-spotted burgundy carpet (another bitch of a job)
7. Replace fucked up, mismatched tiles of fireplace hearth.
8. Paint over uglyass dining room paneling
9. Paint TeenDemon's pink and orange walls. This requires some kind textured paint skills, since her walls were spackled by a blindfolded drunk at some point in TOMFH's history.
10. Install closet organization systems.
11. Replace 1980s ceiling fan in dining room.

None of this even touches my 1950s kitchen with its ancient wood cabinets shellacked in Paint Coats of Many Colors, and its olive green and brown laminate counter.

Seriously, I did not need this retaining wall bullshit. And it's got to be scheduled when Male Offspring is home, but he's working overtime on homework and finals so he can leave school early to go visit his dad in friggin' Oman until sometime in July.

Really, Son? You chose world travel, diving certification, and adventure over building a retaining wall?

For now, the front of my de-grassed, soon-to-be-beautiful planter box is not filled with gorgeous trailing plants. Rather, it is being shored up with big bags of mulch, so as to keep the remaining dirt and new baby plants from being washed into the street. Hello, Tackmeister? Nice yard.


I guess I'll have to wait a while for that respect from the neighbors. At least my new roof looks good.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VII

Episode VII: Where's the Heat

It's been a while between TOMFH posts, in part because I apparently skipped the mother of all disasters. I realized this today, upon trying to figure out what episode I was on. (Had I known this was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have paid more attention to the numbering from the beginning.) Click the home.improvement tag for the big picture of my lovely abode.

Anyway, while cleaning up the series numbering, I realized I'd never even mentioned replacing the gutter that fell down in front of my garage door, let alone replacing the roof.

Yes, the roof.

 Last October I actually had to replace the entire roof. I'm sure you all can imagine the cost. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to discovering the sound of steady dripping, one rainy night at 2am, as I crawled through the attic portal in my closet, juggling my flashlight, plastic buckets, and the wood planks that served as a makeshift crawlway to prevent me from falling between the rafters and crashing through my living room ceiling. Yes, it would've been one hell of a ranting, railing, TOMFH post, but apparently I was too traumatized to write about it.

So. Moving on.

Today's episode. The water heater stopped working.

Yesterday I was home sick. That's another thing -- looking back over my TOMFH series, I realized these things often happen while I am sick. Just one more way this house sticks it to me.

Anyway, a sick day seemed an opportune time to address my maddeningly slow internet, so I called the cable guy. Then I realized he'd have to get behind the TV cabinet. Seeing as there was enough dog hair back there to build another dog, I got out the vacuum. And promptly blew a fuse.

So when Male Offspring said the water wasn't very hot for his shower, I figured I'd blown the water heater fuse too. No biggie. We flipped the breaker switch, figured we'd be back in hot water by morning.

You know where this is going. It wasn't the fuse. Of course it wasn't.

It won't surprise you to know that my water heater, like my furnace, is located under the house. Of course it is. I crawled into the dark maw this morning, but couldn't actually get to the damn thing, due to to the expert job Teen Demon and I had done wrapping it in its own special "water heater blanket". So the damn brokeass thing is warm and cozy, while I am reduced to scrubbing my goosebumps in a cold shower.

No, I am not yet that desperate. I stink. You all know how I am about the cold.

So I am now "troubleshooting". The son remembered that the water had seemed unusually hot the last couple of days. Best case scenario, it overheated, tripping its auto shutoff dealy thing, and I just need to reset it. Those of you who are longtime TOMFH readers know that this most certainly will not be the case. Mid-level scenario, I will need to replace the thermostats, or possibly the elements. As with the oven, I think I can do this myself, although draining the thing will be a bitch, seeing as how it's in the crawl space, below ground level. Worst case scenario, I will waste my money on replacement elements, and after much aggravation, end up buying a whole new water heater, paying some guy with plumber's crack $5,000 an hour for installation, and crawling back under there to wrap the new heater in a new cozy insulation blanket. It's a given that no one will be available for install for at least three days, and I will freeze my ass off taking cold showers, because that's the way This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

If you don't hear from me, tell the authorities to look under the house.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VI

Episode VI: Tank Trouble

Illustrative purposes only.

At least I think it's Episode VI. I haven't named them all in sequence, so those of you thinking there have been at least six episodes of This Old Motherfucking House, you would be correct. Had I known it was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have started naming them in sequence from the get-go.

First off, I'm home sick today. Not at death's door, but feeling crappy just the same. So I drive Male Offspring to school in my pajamas with the full intention of returning to my nice warm bed. Upon my return, I hear water. NOT good. It's the toilet tank, overflowing. This is infinitely better than the lower portion of the toilet overflowing, trust me. At least it's clean water. But still, it's not doing my subfloor any favors. This happened a few weeks back, but I hadn't really had any problems since taking the tank lid off and yanking up part of the toilet's innards. Apparently my toilet was just biding its time. Waiting for a sick day. A rainy, cold, sick day.

Long time readers may remember the son and I installing this toilet not long after purchasing TOMFH. (You know, right before the housing market crashed. Yes, still bitter.) New toilets are not supposed to cause problems.

So who knows how much water flowed out of there before I got home. Also, the tub was partially full of water. Not sure how that relates to the toilet tank overflowing, since this shit never happens when I'm actually home, but there you go. So I take the plunger, go out to the back yard, where the grass is growing to jungle-like status due to the never-ending rain and my still-broken lawnmower (I was going to get it fixed until I had to pay for the new roof), open the overflow pipe and plunge the hell out of it until I hear the requisite loud sucking sound that is the water flowing freely.

Kind of reminded me of the sucking sound of consumer confidence draining out of our economy. Or the value being sucked out of our houses. Or the jobs draining out of the market. Or the Republicans draining out of the legislative and executive branches of our government. Yeah, let's stick with that one.

I think the pipe is starting to get those damn roots again. Fuck. Like I need a big ol' root growing into my pipes. Always leads to trouble.

AND, I still haven't changed the furnace filter for this winter. I've been putting that off as long as possible. No, I am not looking forward to skulking down to the dark maw of hell that is my crawl space, nor am I looking forward to skyrocketing electric bills. All hail the fireplace and my $50 Costco heater. Also, I've decided we're going back to our European habits - the dryer has been off limits except for extreme emergencies. No son, "But I like the black sweatshirt better than the brown one" does not qualify as an emergency - hang those clothes up to dry.

Hey, it adds up. Just like turning off lights and not running the water when you brush your teeth, right? I figure with all these little efforts, I can have the roof paid off before I have to buy my first walker or dentures.

Oh, and I think our rabbit is sick. When it rains it pours.

Beelzebub's Minions

There is a nest of bees under my back deck. I use the term deck loosely, as it brings to mind an elevated structure that one can actually get under. The only thing that fits under my deck are dog toys. I often find myself in the prone position, scraping out a rubber ball or bone from under the "deck" with a rake. You can imagine the difficulty this presents in addressing the bee problem.

A friend of mine has a deck. Her husband built it. By himself. It's huge, overlooks their yard, and could be featured in a magazine. You know those pictures with the flowers pouring out of the pots on the deck in a cascade of color? Like that. Also planted by said husband. He also trims the gorgeous tree with the dark purple leaves that create a canopy over a portion of the deck, and he handles the grill action, also located on the deck. Yeah. If you're going to have a husband, folks, find one of this guy's brothers. They're in California. I asked.

Could you imagine what a different experience life in This Old Motherfucking House would be with someone possessing those mad skillz in residence? Neither can I.

So anyway, bees under my deck. Porch. Whatever. These bees are vicious. I consulted The Internets to see if the feared Killer Bees had made it up to WA state. (They haven't.) No, we have a strain of regular old bumblebees, Bombus Vosnesenski, which, according to The Googles, spend their lives merrily droning from bloom to bloom like hairy, diminutive Goodyear blimps. Under normal circumstances, they're all about the pollination, and are not vicious.

Unless you are close to their nest. Seeing as how their nest is located right at my back door, they're getting a might testy.

The other day, several of them had targeted me for annihilation. After busting out a few ineffectual Bruce Lee moves I didn't know I had, I somehow made it back into the house. Damned if the little bastards weren't furiously flinging themselves up against the glass door, still trying to take their ounce of flesh from my hide. The next day, The Bohemian got stung on the cheek, and Mason got stung on the leg.

The Internets advised bee dust, applied with a bee duster at dusk. My hardware store didn't carry these items, so on the advice of some guy sporting a buzz cut and a red apron, I settled for wasp and hornet spray. I'd thought to go for this foam stuff instead, but Mr. Aprons insisted that wasp and hornet spray was the weapon of choice. The can claimed a 27-foot directed stream. This, as you may have guessed by the name, is intended for wasps and hornets, which tend to build their nests up high, like in the eaves of your house. One can stand well back, direct a stream of potent potion at the nest, and run like hell before they know what hit them. Bumble bees, however, tend to nest down low, like under a board or a cheap-ass, low-rider, wanna-be deck.

The only way to hit this devil's brood would be to settle into the prone position on the opposite side, shine a flashlight under there with one hand to mark my target, let loose with the 27-foot directed stream (which, given the size of the "deck", would be reduced to about six feet), deftly get to my feet and make like a gazelle back over the nesting site without falling on my ass before they swarm me.

I wasn't really feeling this plan, being nowhere as nimble or quick as I was before moving here and getting my fat on. Also, according to The Googles, these guys can lock on to the flashlight beam and use it to hone in on one's ass like a squadron of pixie-sized stealth fighters, so I'd need to have the presence of mind to turn off the flashlight during all this. Better yet, just drop it, like deploying chaff and flares to draw the little bastards to a false target.

Regardless, I needed some protection. Not owning a bee keeper's suit, I made do with what I had lying around the house.

I dug out the camping poncho I'd once bought during a miserable, rainy "summer" vacation on the lovely Washington coast. In lieu of an apiarist's veil, Male Offspring kindly provided the protective headgear seen to the left.

Grabbing my flashlight and Mr. Aprons' aerosol can of death, I went to do battle. I stretched out on the grass, clicked on my light, and -- surprise -- my "deck" was apparently built over what used to be a small concrete porch. My beam reflected back at me from a concrete barrier wrapping entirely around the area where Beelzebub's minions had made their land claim.

I'd underestimated the enemy.

They'd chosen a fortress from which to make their stand. This would be close-in, hand-to-wing combat, requiring me to stand over their entry point and aim the stream directly down between the narrow cracks of the deck. Miraculously, my aim was true and I made it back in with no stings, being closer to the door and having avoided the prone position.

This morning, I found my weaponry was deficient. Mr. Aprons clearly needs to refine his pest eradication skills. The bees are not resting in peace, but are plenty pissed off. Instead of waking to find a field of wee casualties, I found instead a whirling dervish of frenzied, collective rage. Berzerker Bees, if you will.

I'm going back this afternoon for the foam.

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.

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.

----------------------------
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.

Shock Value

So, as far as the burning outlet fiasco, the electricity is working fine. [hastily pounds wood]

Wait ... that didn't sound right, but I'm leaving it because y'all are a bunch of freaks.

I know this because in my last post, the thing that apparently resonated in your heads was my one flip comment about my ass. Bring up the subject of assage, and you all are on it.

And in response, yes, my ass has been known to cause many a man (and a few of the ladies) to swoon. Someone once called it Helen of Troy. Unfortunately, within the last couple of years, my ass has moved beyond healthy, corn-fed, thick, bodacious, and other euphamisms, right on out the other side. In fact, these days it's more like just Troy. It did have its glory days, though...

Anyway, the dryer outlet has been replaced, and is holding steady. It was just the outlet, not the wiring. Yesss. I had asked the head of maintenance at my workplace to recommend a cheap/honest electrician. He offered to come take a look himself, since I live right up the road from my place of employment. Or maybe because there are no cheap/honest electricians. So, no more laundromat, no more stringing clothes around the house, like before I moved back to the States. How quickly we get spoiled! We will no longer be drying clothes when no one is home, however, because I'm mean and paranoid like that. We narrowly averted a wall-fire, and we have dogs.

I'm considering building a shrine to the home improvement gods, and making periodic sacrifices. If knocking on wood doesn't work.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode III

Episode III: The Smoking Outlet

In Episode I, Colder Than A Witch's Tit, we watched Cowbell tackle home heating issues in the crawlspace.

Episode II, Snakes in a Drain, found the Cowbell family in a race against nature while battling blocked pipes.

Tonight, watch Cowbell scramble for the breaker box in today's shocking conclusion, The Smoking Outlet.


You know that old saying about bad things coming in threes? Yeah. But first, an update on that furnace bullshit from episode one.

So I spent an entire day on the furnace problem. The special order filters arrived. I measured, cut, wrapped, clamped, and dragged the whole maddening mess down to that coldass bitch called a furnace. The hammock didn't want to slide back in exactly right. Turns out I had the clamps on backward. The door didn't want to screw back on. I used a lot of duct tape on the door. There was cursing involved, and yes, some kicking. Not hard -- couldn't really draw back for a big wind up, given the limited space.

Also, I got that hole in the duct work repaired, which was a real bitch. It took hours and involved using a metal thing shaped like a Popsicle stick to reach the areas my fingers couldn't. You try getting duct tape into a space that small without it sticking in the wrong place, while achieving an airtight seal, and see how cheery your ass stays. I tried to pry off part of the wall to give me more room to work, only to find my insulation is not the modern-day, pink fiberglass style with a cartoon character on the back. My insulation is old school. As in sawdust. Prying off the wall would mean losing my insulation. Thus the Popsicle-stick method.

But it was done. I was sore, my hands were torn up, and I was pissy as hell, but it was done. And I didn't have to pay the furnace guy. Score! We were more than ready for some heat.

Ten minutes later, the power went out.

Seattle does not weather wind storms well. The power did not come back on until the next day. Our house, of course, had not even built up any residual heat to hold onto. All that work, for naught.

Remembering last year's big wind storm, I dragged Teen Demon back under the house with me to wrap the water heater in the special water-heater blanket, so we could at least hold onto the hot water for a while. That was another hour and a half, more cursing, more duct tape. No kicking. You try custom cutting fiberglass shit hunched over in a dark crawl space with a neurotic dog pacing and howling overhead, and see how foul-mouthed you get.



Anyway. That's how the heating thing went down. The drains are steady and holding.

Which brings us to Episode III in this little DIY saga. So last week, I smell this plasticky, icky smell in my room. It's 4am, Teen Demon is waking my disoriented ass up to take her to the airport for a college visit. (They flew her out, trying to recruit her ass. Score, Teen Demon.) I noticed the smell, but forgot about it. A couple of days after, I go up to bed, same smell, but stronger. Like burning plastic. I narrow it down to my electrical outlet. Being no fool, I immediately unplug the lamp and go for my flashlight. (After the furnace and water heater fun, I'm surprised it has any juice left, but it does.) In the narrow beam of the flashlight, I see smoke coming out of my outlet.

Great. Fucking great.

So all that money I saved not calling the plumber and the furnace guy will now be added to even more money to call an electrician, the most powerful of all the Home Improvement Cadre.

Using my powers of observation and deduction, I realize that both episodes happened when the dryer was running. The dryer is in the garage, directly below my outlet. It's supposed to be a dedicated 220v outlet. (pleaseplease tell me some past homeowner didn't try splice into that line to create the outlet in my room...) The burning smell and the smoke were rising up through the wall and coming through my outlet. Now, I can replace a regular outlet -- I put in a GFCI outlet in the kitchen last year -- but that's regular 110v. electricity. Ain't no way in hell I'm messing with the 220v. electricity on that dryer. I got shocked by 220 once in Germany. Don't want to relive that.

Fuck.

So we've been hanging out at the laundromat. In all our spare time. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of ... This Old Motherfucking House. Actually, don't even let me tell that lie. The conclusion won't be until I sell this bitch. So stay tuned for further updates and comic relief. Yeah. Fun times.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode II

Episode II: Snakes in a Drain

I was just saying the other day, in the midst of my furnace frenzy, that I'd make a great reality show: some chick living in a tiny, old house she can barely afford and doesn't know how to fix. I was thinking This Old Shithole of a House, but I actually like this better. It's snappy. If anyone can hook me up with a producer, let me know.

Screw that, if any of you can hook me up with a friggin' handyman, let me know. And I do mean hookup in every sense of the word. Including the biblical sense.  But that whole plumber's butt thing is a definite no-go, people. Just so you know.

Anyway, after I wrote about my furnace woes, my drains backed up. Not just the sink, no, we're talking toilet and shower here, baby. When my house gets rebellious, it doesn't screw around.

Did I mention I only have one bathroom?

While in the process of purchasing this "cozy" one bathroom house, I foolishly thought that the scheduling of the shower was the main thing to consider. Yeah. I know. I did, to my credit, also consider those occasions where the toilet might be in high demand. My family, however, is not prone to gastric distress -- go vegetarian, people -- so I dismissed that worry. I figured, work out the shower schedule, we're home free. While my house appreciated wildly, thanks to the booming housing market.

Yeah, I'm a regular friggin' Pollyanna.

For any of you who have not foolishly traipsed down this road before, let me save you the trouble: the main consideration when moving into a one-bathroom home, is not "how will we work out the shower schedule?" No. It's "what the hell will we do when there's a problem with the shower?"  Better yet, (you know where I'm going here) the toilet?

Yeah.

Here are some snippets of family talk at Cowbell's house over the weekend:

Teen Demon: So, is the toilet okay yet?

Me: Ummm...

Teen Demon: Did that clog remover stuff work?

Me: Can't you wait a while longer? It said to wait six hours.

Teen Demon: It said 30 minutes.

Me: That was for the super-max power clog-remover gel. This is some enzyme stuff to degrade all organic material.

Teen Demon: Eew. So, like ... when?

Me: Aren't you working today? What time do you go to work?

Teen Demon went to work in a bit of a rush. I went to Lowe's, again, for more supplies and a trip to their lovely restroom. Male Offspring doesn't have a job, and it wasn't a school day. I don't know why I didn't take him to Lowe's with me.

Male Offspring: So, can I use the bathroom?

Me: Ummm.... to do what?

Male Offspring: Are you kidding me right now?

Me: It's dark. Come on, you're a guy ... can't you just go outside?

Male Offspring: (gawking) Are you kidding me?!?

Then there was the shower. In the process of trying to clear the drains, we attacked both tub and toilet with the plunger. One of the offspring plunged the tub. You know who got stuck with the toilet. I came in later to find rust, black flakes, hair, and something that looked like The Blob in the bathtub.

Well, what were we supposed to do with it? It's not like we can rinse it down the drain!

Kids are always helpless when it comes to crap like that, but remarkably ingenious when coming up with logistical arrangements for going to the dance or to see Superbad for the fifth time.

It's been 96 hours since my last shower, folks. Good thing I'm single. Even after 96 hours, though, it was no relief. Turn the water on, get wet, turn it off. Shampoo with the water off. Rinse, fast. Shampoo again, because my hair was a friggin' oil slick by this time. Rinse, fast. Soap up, condition hair. Rinse, faster.

That would've been bad enough, but to add to the frivolity, it was a frigid 58* in my house this morning, because ... oh yeah, I can't turn my heat on yet. You've heard that saying, colder than a witch's tit? I'm pretty sure I know how cold that is.


Yeah, my shower did not resemble those steamy relaxing commercials where some smiling, skinny chick massages her sudsy tresses with her eyes closed, while virtual flowers float around her. Not even a little bit.

This Old MotherFucking House: Episode I

Episode I: Colder Than a Witch's Tit

Welcome to the TOMFH Series. Coming soon to the DIY channel.

It's cold. And I can't turn my heat on. Actually, I don't want to turn my heat on, because it is madcrazy expensive to heat my house, despite these facts:
1) my house is tiny
2) my house has newer, double-pane, vinyl windows
3) my house has a programmable thermostat, which goes down to 57* at night and while we're at work/school
4) this is Seattle, not Minnesota or Siberia. It only gets so cold, people.

Regardless, I can't turn my heat on yet, even if I wanted to start pulling gold doubloons out of my ass to hand over to the the local Public Utility District. Yes, its acronym is PUD. Those of you from my generation and/or with Midwestern roots, go ahead and have yourself a good snicker at that.


My house was built in '55. It was owned by a little old lady with an incontinent little dog for ages. Before I moved in, it was owned by a single dad who put everything he had down and bought the house as an investment. He had it two years and made $100K. Thus was the housing market in Seattle. I borrowed money from my dad, thinking to get in on this lucrative deal, live tight for a few years, and possibly retire before I am 93.

The first weekend in the house, the newspaper headline screamed HOUSING CRASH! Fuck. See, this stuff never works for me. Houses in my neighborhood now sit on the market for months with "Price Reduced!" signs on the lawn. Retirement is still on schedule for sometime mid twenty-first century. But I digress.

We did rip up the carpets, by the way. That was one nastyass little dog. At some point, I need to learn how to refinish wood floors, and replace the trim. I also have to redo the the single "cozy" bathroom if I ever hope to sell. I've already replaced the toilet (don't ask), but the 80s cheap wood fixtures remain, along with the linoleum, cracked sink bowl, and peach paint. The brown & olive laminate kitchen countertops will have to go too, along with the oft-painted kitchen cabinets and their coats of many colors.

Again, I digress. This house is just one bigass digression.



In order to change the furnace filter, one must first descend through the Portal to the Unknown at the back of the garage:

Once through the Portal, look left to see the water heater, also conveniently located sub-daylight. The passageway to the furnace is just beyond the water heater, another left:
The photo, cheerily illuminated by camera flash, is misleading. In reality, the crawlspace has more of a horror movie ambiance. You know, where the ditzy blond cheerleader goes down into the creepy cellar alone? Like that.



So, head on down past the water heater, and hang a left into this creepy passageway:
At this point, I am in full-on crawl mode. No crouching in the furnace passageway, no chance of a fast get-away. Luckily, I have yet to see any rats, possums, or the Undead. It's dark as fuck back in the furnace passageway. A flashlight is not a luxury in the bowels of my house's underworld, folks.

Finally I reach my objective. The furnace. Seen here in all its glory, innards exposed:

That cage, wrapped in blue, surrounding the motor is the "hammock". The blue is the actual filter. Right. Those framed rectangular filters that slide into a slot on the side of your furnace? The one conveniently located in your utility closet? Yeah, I can't use those. My furnace requires a specialty filter, called a "hammock filter". Of course it does. These usually come in rolls and, I learned, must be special ordered.

This most definitely is your father's furnace filter.

Here's how it works: cut a length from the filter roll, wrap it around the hammock, attach both ends to said hammock by screwing on the special "hammock clamps", and slide the whole shebang back around the motor.



Here is a photo from last fall, when I first discovered all of this. Behold, the previous owner's disgusting hammock filter:

The filter is actually a green-blue shade. That grey fluff? Dust. Filth. All manner of allergens, carcinogens, and all around funk. Nasty! How many decades was dude working that filter?! Actually, the previous owner rarely used the heat, so I suspect Nastyass Little Dog's owner wasn't one for crawling through the Portal of the Unknown. She probably died of Lung Funk. Which could, actually, explain the state of the carpets; who knows how long Fifi had to wait to be rescued.

Here is a picture of the hammock with the filter I had rigged up last year. This was taken yesterday. After a year of use:
Yeah, big difference. "But Cowbell," you may ask, "Why is one of the hammock clamps right smack in the center of the hammock? Aren't they supposed to be on the ends?" Why yes, and they would be, if this were an actual "hammock filter". Which it isn't.

See, last year, I didn't know shit about hammock filters. I didn't even know they were called hammock filters, let alone that they came on rolls, so when I went to Home Depot and Lowe's, no one knew what the hell I was talking about. They looked at me like I was crazy. Or stupid. One asshat even suggested I "have my husband take a look at it." Bastard. Fuck you, Mr. Macho, Middle-Aged, Home Depot guy. You probably still live at home with your mom. Why don't you have her take a look at it? Orange-apron-wearing assclown.

I tried the Internet, but, didn't turn up anything with search terms like furnace cage, wrap-around filter, extra large furnace filter, metal filter holder, filter cage, stupid motherfucking non-existent Methuselah-assed furnace filter ...

I came up blank.

Anyway, we had to have heat, so I bought the two biggest filters I could find (not from Apron Guy), used one of the hammock clamps to connect them in the middle, cleverly fastened the end corners with two of Teen Demon's hair clips, and called it a day, as shown in the photo above.



This year, I have hammock filters on order. I should've ordered them sooner. It doesn't matter though, because I couldn't turn on my heat even if I had them in hand. That's because I discovered this: It's a hole. In one of the heating air ducts. It seems someone in my house's past decided heat was needed in the garage. They cut through the wall of the garage, directly into the furnace ductwork, and put that vent in. When dude sold the house to me, however, he didn't repair it. He just closed the vent, covered that shit right up with some wood, foil, and duct tape, and called it a day.

Now I know why my heating bills were so high.

I can't get to the hole from under the house, so I'll have to tear off the wall panel (which may involve moving the workbench, which I believe is bolted to the wall), attach a piece of sheet metal with a specific type of screw (being careful not to collapse the duct), seal it with some heat-safe crap, insulate it, and replace the wall panel. I just love doing that stuff when it's grey and cold.

Also, my rain gutter is hanging off of the house at one corner. The one corner of the house that is about 18 feet up. Of course.

This Old Motherfucking House: the Prequel

The Prequel: Kenmore Blues

I wrote this prior to the realization that problems with This Old Motherfucking House would be frequent enough to warrant a series. Consider this the prequel. 

My washer broke. Times like these are when I could use a sweet hookup with a Maytag repairman.

Well, I may not have an in with a hot repairman (my Maytag repairman would not be that guy from the commercial), but I do have a strapping young son who likes taking stuff apart. Plus, it was his crazy unbalanced load of sheets and smelly football jerseys which broke the washer.

Digression: Speaking of smelly football gear, here's a little aside from Friday:

Son, getting ready for football practice: Hey Anyu, have you seen my cup?

Me: No.

Son: Are you sure? You didn't see it out here?

Me: Yes, I'm sure. It better not be out here -- and you probably need to wash that thing.

Son: Not really...

Me: Oh, I'm quite sure you do.

Son: Huh?

Me: After all those football practices? Please.

Son, holding up handful of ibuprofen: ... um, my glass? My cup of water?

Hey, the boy was readying himself for football practice, getting his gear together, what do you want? Like you wouldn't have thought the same thing. An honest mistake.


Anyway. Back to the washer.

I figured if we installed a new toilet together, using only directions from The Internets, we could fix a washer. The old toilet, by the way, was from 1964. Older than I am. The new one is a veritable throne. Anyway, I formed a hypothesis about which part we needed for the washer and ordered it through a local shop.

That evening, the son and I faced our adversary, armed with screwdrivers and a flashlight.

The part in question involved wiring and connectors. Great. The son gets the new part put in. I clean the nasty gunk built up in various and sundry places around the washer's innards. This stuff is a sticky mess borne of fabric softener, soap scum, sweater lint, and dog hair.

Seriously people, everyone should dismantle their washer and get that crap out of there. It's nasty.

The first time we reassembled the washer, I forgot to reconnect the bleach dispenser hose. Crap. I poured water in the bleach receptacle, hoping I was wrong. Water ran straight out the base of the washer. Crap. The son went on for a while about how could I have forgotten to reconnect the bleach dispenser, yada-yada.

The second time we reassembled the washer, it still wouldn't spin. By this time, tempers were a bit short, because we could smell the burritos that Teen Demon was preparing, and the son wanted to watch the movie we'd rented: Blades of Glory.

Oh, please. Get off your high horse. You try living with teenagers, and tell me you don't watch stupid movies.

Anyway, a semi-heated discussion followed, as the son was convinced that there was, in fact, something ELSE wrong with the washer after all. I had checked the rest of the washer while it was flayed open, and was of the opinion that Boy Wonder had neglected to connect something, or something was hooked up backward, upside-down, or otherwise not fitting with Kenmore's finicky standards. This meant I may be able to live down the bleach-dispenser oversight. Silver linings, people.

We took it apart again. We knocked a small part down into the guts of the thing. Crap! Oh, and a long plastic piece, known to us as "The White Thing" had been falling off and getting jammed between the cabinet and the back since we started. Every damn time we touched any part of the washer, The White Thing would slip off.

I figured if we could get The White Thing to stay, that would free up my hand, enabling me to help with the cabinet, and protecting my foot from getting crushed by the cabinet, since I had to stand so close to the damn thing in order to hold The White Thing in place. So I'm yelling for Teen Demon to bring some Scotch tape to hold The White Thing in place while we're farting around with the cabinet.

Teen Demon informs me that there is no Scotch tape.

I know there is Scotch tape, because I personally commandeered a fresh roll out of the gift-wrapping basket (which sounds very organized but is pretty much a joke) and installed it in the tape dispenser which I commandeered from the surplus pile at work, and which currently resides in the "school supply" section of our desk.  Also pretty much a joke.  I know there is Scotch tape as surely as I know there are ballpoint pens: not only did I raid the gift wrapping basket for tape, I had also wisely purchased three dozen cheap ballpoint pens at Office Hell one day, while in a rage over how there are never any pens or sharpened pencils in my house when I need one. Cheap pens because good pens don't last but overnight. Good pens disappear into backpacks and into oblivion in the blink of an eye.

Then I realize that I had just been in another pen rage not two days ago, as the run-of-the-mill Bics I had so thoughtfully purchased were now gone. If the pens are gone, chances are the tape is gone as well. There is, however, a dried up glue stick available, with approximately 1/2 millimeter of old glue that I could possibly dig out with a fingernail.

Crap. I continue to keep The White Thing in place with one hand, while adroitly holding the flashlight in the other so the son can fish out the tiny part from the innards of the washer. There is the requisite discussion about how to prevent the tiny part from falling out again, ending with the son's exasperated, "I got this!"

We finally decide to leave the washer until after burritos and the movie. Thank goodness for Teen Demon's burritos that night. I call them Détente Burritos. Burritos, however, need lettuce, and there was only a sad tiny pile of limp lettuce available for burritos. Lettuce is not high on Teen Demon's list of burrito ingredients. It is pretty much a necessity for my burritos. I take off for the store with much squealing of tires to procure some lettuce. I don't know why I didn't get pens and Scotch tape while I was at it, but I didn't, so we're still out.

After a rousing round of burritos and Men on Ice, the son ventures back out to the garage.

Um ... the washer's fixed. I kind of forgot to connect the ends of the wires.

Vindicated. Also, that kid rocks.

If I ever win the lottery, I'm going to break my new bigass washer on purpose, just so I can enjoy calling a friggin' repairman, and let somebody else fix that shit for us.

Just Mail the Damn Card.

By now, hordes of my readers have probably been wondering, "What the fuck is up with Cowbell? Hasn't she worked out that clone business yet, so she'll have time to entertain me with her witty and interesting blog entries?"  Hey, my blog, my fantasy. In reality, probably neither of my readers has noticed, having lives and all.

The eldest of the offspring came home from college last night. Mothers' Day. Perfect timing. Nobody ever said the girl can't suck up with the best of them. High School Daughter made me pancakes and strawberries before she had to go sling fish at her place of employment. Male Offspring cleaned up for me.

The dogs didn't do anything of note.

I spent some time on Amazon.com, buying a gift certificate for my mom, because I can never, ever, get the card out on time. I love and appreciate the hell out of my mom, but I just can never get that goddamn card in the mail. Shit. Maybe not a big deal for some of you, but my mom is the queen of cards, all kinds of cards. My mom sends cards for Easter and Thanksgiving. Valentine's Day, too. I have even received a St. Patrick's Day card from my mom. We are not Irish. I'm surprised I haven't received a card for Hanukkah. Or Boxing Day.

My mom sees The Card as a way to express your innermost appreciative and loving thoughts. She does not "understand" when the card doesn't arrive on time. Of course, she does not actually show her disappointment, as she is highly skilled in Playing the Martyr. Actually, in her defense, I think she tries not to care about The Card; she knows how busy things get for us, and tries to tell herself it's just a piece of paper with a stamp and a sappy saying. But, she does care, and why the hell can't I just get the goddamn thing into the mailbox on time? It's such a little thing. Such a big deal.

Mom sent me a beautiful card. She made it with this fancy software program she has. Card software. Yeah. I'm pretty sure she thought of the words herself, or at least put some thought into editing a sappy thought into a really nice personal thought. She used nice paper and these cool scissors that crafters use. She even used a purple ribbon to connect the different papers. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It also made me feel guilty as hell. She's good.

Well played, Mom.

Probably I'll never get a card from my kids once they leave home. Probably they'll live in other states or countries too, and I'll never see them or any progeny that may issue from their loins. Karma will probably take a royal chunk out of my ass on this one.

Last night I hit the airport and then IKEA. We picked up a snazzy chair/bed deal for the eldest daughter. This thing rocks -- has a decent mattress, European-style bed slats for good support, and folds in and out with one hand. We do not have room for an actual sleeper sofa in our house. The girl doesn't even have a bedroom in this house. We moved about the time she left for college. (Yes, we did give her the new address.)

My old landlord had wanted to bend me over like a porn star with a hefty rent increase. I plunged into the world of home ownership. The Seattle market was booming, y'all, I'm talking double-digit appreciation. Every damn year. Everyone told me I was a fool for renting in this market. This was our ticket to Profit Town. Buy it, stretch to make those payments until Male Offspring graduates, pocket a shitload of cash. Move to Arizona. Breathe easier about college costs. The seller didn't even own the house two full years, and he made over $100K. Hell, yeah! So I signed my life away. Borrowed from the folks for a down payment. (Those who know me know that was a very, very big deal. I do not ask the folks for money. Ever.)

Market crashed the very next month. Well, okay, Seattle didn't exactly crash. More like went stagnant. I should've let the landlord have her way with me.

So, here we are in our oh-so-tiny house. Eldest Daughter's new chair/bed thingy will go in the corner of the dining area, which is open to the kitchen. All the better to reach the fridge faster, my dear. During her other breaks this year, she slept with me. Nothing like sleeping with Mom to keep a college gal happy. She never complained, but still.

Anyway, happy Mothers' Day to all you moms out there. And that includes dog and cat moms. Lizard moms, parrot moms, whatever. If you've ever cleaned up shit behind someone smaller than yourself, you're probably a mom. Happy Mother's Day.