Fear the Crab

A dumpster arrived for all the stuff we’re removing.

Dumpster

It’s more than big enough for the bathroom, which hopefully does NOT translate into “throw anything else we don’t want in there,” since I’m paying by weight.  Someone was doing this the last time we had a dumpster, and while the difference was negligible, it still came out of my pocket.  I’m looking at YOU, neighbor!

As the rotten wood was cut away, more and more of the water damage became apparent.  Particularly disturbing is this area, where a post would be to shore up the ceiling in this area.  This, too, will have to be replaced, and it definitely calls for more work.

Missing: Wall

The “plate” under the vinyl floor, which separates the house from the concrete foundation, is also damaged.  The wood has become so rotten that nails cannot stick to it, and for who-knows-how-long, the exterior wall has not been attached to the floor!

Bath and closet floor

We are starting to suspect that the water damage originated from the outside.  Years and years of rain pooling outside, instead of draining away from the house, was instead soaked upwards from the planks there.  Maybe such a thing doesn’t happen often, but I think over the course of four decades, even a millimeter of rain seeping into the house would eventually deteriorate everything to the extent we see here.

In fact, the concrete outside has a slight, almost imperceptible slope down towards the house.  It’s something that I never noticed before, but I’m certain that water would pool near the base given enough water, and we’ve had enough heavy rains to make a fair guess as to this being the root cause of all our problems.

I was also wrong about the house all this time; it is not double-wall, it is single-wall construction.  I no longer remember who or what it was that gave me the wrong impression, but it could be that I heard it a long long time ago and never questioned it, because it didn’t seem like an important detail.

Work has begun on the shower.  They’ve ripped out the tile and got to the damaged section of the wall, and now they have a fairly good idea of how much repairs are needed to make things right.

Gutted shower

The workers should be able to keep everything the same on the left, with the exception of new copper pipes for the plumbing.  The tub will be replaced, too.

This part, however, makes me go eek:

Water damage

This is the damaged wall.  The water has affected the wood up to about the four foot mark, which is a lot more extensive than I imagined it to be.  Actually, I should honestly say that I did imagine it this way; I just hoped that it wouldn’t be true.

The contractor tells me the water has gone through to the other side of the double-wall, particularly the corner section.  We took a peek at the bedroom-side and sure enough, we found cracks in the paint around the same level as revealed on the bathroom-side.  I never noticed this before, but when I push on the bedroom-side wall, there is a noticeable “give” that makes my wallet scream.

Tomorrow they plan to remove the tub and start repairs on the wall.  It will be a noisy, dirty, dusty, and expensive affair.

As referenced in this post, our bathroom will be overhauled extensively, much to the disruption of our daily routine.  I think this is the perfect time to document the evolution of this sanitation sanctuary.

Here is the bathroom pre-renovation:

Before!

Yes, we have a phone in there.  It’s rather convenient for us, perhaps not so much for the caller.

This is the reason for the renovation:

Damage, Bath

Damage, Closet

Now how is that conducive to basic health and hygiene?  The second picture is from the bedroom next door, in the closet.  As you can see, the damage is much more extensive, and perhaps representative of what’s going on inside the double-wall construction.  If the wood has rotted away this much, it’s a sure bet that some nastiness is brewing within the bowels of the bathroom.

Hopefully the work will not reveal other problems hidden beneath.  This is already costing me.

Here is a preview of things to come:

New bath fixtures

Discuss amongst yourselves whether or not I’ll add the computer or upright fan.  Who knows?  Perhaps browsing the dregs of the internet requires some adequate ventilation.

The second bathroom in the house needs to be repaired, specifically the wall the separates the bathroom from the adjoining bedroom.  Said wall has suffered some water damage, rotting the base away and it is probably much much worse inside.  In order to get to the damaged wall, we have to go through the shower tile, so we all figured that it’s best the bathroom get a makeover.

It’s about time, I suppose.  The bathroom is over 40 years old, and everyone seems to agree that a remodel is in order.  Everyone also agrees that it’s going to cost me two arms and one leg and probably three fingers.

Maile and I purchased a near-complete set of bathroom fixtures and trim for the upcoming remodel, which totaled over two grand.  I say near-complete because I’m not sure if I’m forgetting something.  We have the faucets, shower valves and trim, toilet, tub, and accessories like towel rods.

We’re looking at Corian for our countertop and shower walls, and that process is still in estimation, but I’m pretty certain it will be more, if not much more, than the same price for the fixtures.  Could be double.

Then Maile and I will need new cabinets, some bypass shower doors, and new flooring.  Add in the catch-all of labor and I think I can expect to pay over 10k.

I have enough to pay for the whole thing.  I’ll just have to eat ketchup packets for sustenance for the next 33 years.

* * *

I listen to this at work.  On repeat.  For eight hours!

Alternate Link

People from The Office were preparing to leave for a farewell lunch, to send off a co-worker leaving for another job. We had planned out who will be driving, and who will be riding in whose cars; I was assigned to one vehicle with 4 other people, plus the driver.

The parking lot was a 5 minute walk from the building, cutting across a large grass lawn.  A recent heat wave turned the grass dry and brittle, and each step kicked up enough dust to stick to the skin.  I dreaded what the interior of the car would feel like.

We reached the car, and it was a small jeep or SUV of sorts.  Suddenly I realized that the entire group would not be able to fit inside the car, since at most three could sit in the back whilst one occupied the passenger side.  We stood around in the parking lot searching for a possible solution that still would allow for some level of comfort during the ride, but came up with nothing.

I gallantly offered to stay behind.  It would be all right, since I could just get some lunch elsewhere.  My co-workers would just have to explain the situation to everybody else, and I was sure we would all agree that it was an unfortunate situation that could not be helped.  I left the parking lot and headed back to The Office.

The building I returned to was a restaurant, some place that I apparently have always worked at and could always get a bite to eat.  This wasn’t a bad thing, since I expected I could still get some lunch.  However, before entering I encountered Maile’s dental hygiene classmates, who informed me that the entire restaurant was closed for a convention/party being held for DH credits.

I did not begin to question how I would get back to work if the building was closed off, since I was more concerned with getting some food in my belly.  I was becoming increasingly perturbed by this series of bad luck.  Unfortunately, the situation would never be resolved, nor would my now-irritated state of mind be calmed, thanks to the untimely interruption of alarm clocks.

* * *

From the MetaFilter: Cake Wrecks.  Visit and laugh. And for the love of all things fun and gooey, do not attempt to make/buy these at home.  Certainly do not try these with me; I will not be as amused as I am with that blog.

* * *

EDIT:  This same day, we went to an Italian restaurant for a good-bye dinner for one of my co-workers, precisely for the reasons outlined in the dream.  The car I rode in was, oddly enough, the last to leave The Office and arrive at the restaurant.  What’s more, we forgot one person who was supposed to ride with us; the poor guy had to drive himself over.

He wasn’t that mad, though, since we all laughed at the driver, who through some Wonderland math skills thought that he only had to transport 3 people instead of the 4 that were on his list.  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of the riders called in sick and didn’t attend, and somehow that knowledge caused the driver to perform a mental miscalculation and ignore the rest of the names.

Similar things have happened to me.

I think it’s high time I got a Nintendo DS of my very own.  I’ve been borrowing Maile’s for the past month or two.  At first it was to share the same game, but eventually I began to branch out and acquire media on my own.  Now we end up fighting for stylus-time during our respective down-times.

Not to mention, there’s always the old “porno in the VCR” risk whenever there are disparate interests in game genres.  What possible excuse can I have when she discovers the sordid tales of my amusements, all because I forgot to return the game to my secret stash?

I suppose the use of VCR dates me to a bygone era.  Obviously I am not all up-ons with the times.

* * *

Watched a spot of videos about a guy who dances all over the world, in particular the most recent of his accomplishments prominently aired in high-def (as high-def as a web video can get, anyway).

I don’t know why, but when I first saw the video for 2008, it made me tear up.  Like, literally, enough salty droppings to blur the lines between “Aw, that’s sweet” and uncontrollable “Blooob blooob blooob.”  I do know why and how this guy did it, but what I took from these videos was something different.

Perhaps it was my perception that despite the global conflicts, despite the wars and poverty and famine and fundamentalist propaganda that is prevalent in the news today, despite all the negativity and distrust and cynicism and ignorance and corruption and despair, despite all of that…

…there are regular schmoes around the world, the everyday people that walk the land and toil hard to eke out their small portion of existence, that can gather together as strangers and dance like complete morons.  They can dance a goofiness that is without language, without contempt, without judgment, without any of the psychological barriers that can make a person mean and nasty, and they can do it collectively and have actual fun.

Perhaps it is a reflection of what humanity could be, if we didn’t let all this stuff about status and power and fear get in the way.  Perhaps it is a hopeful dream.

That’s what I got out of the videos.  Your mileage may vary.

Fuck off, you’re making me tear up again.

* * *

ADDENDUM:  I miss Mr. Rogers.

I attended my high school’s alumni dinner.  It’s not quite a class reunion per se, but rather an aggregation of former students from the school’s storied past.  It is, from what I understand, an annual affair, drawing people from outside the state and from generations far removed from my realm of understanding.  I think this type of gathering is one of the few where a 1953 graduate can chat with a 2005 over drinks and food.

This was my first time attending such a function.  I had known of its existence from years past, but it was always the excuse of a prior commitment, or a lack of time, that publicly shielded my serious lack of desire in attending.  I don’t know why I felt that way, and I doubt I could put it properly into words.

Perhaps it was just a hesitation of “reliving” the moments of long ago.  I was not the most social of butterflies, nor was I the most gifted.  And high school generally was an awkward time of discovery, trying to learn what it took to be a person in this world, whilst living in relative shelter away from the stark realities of truth.  I think there isn’t a month or a year during my tenure at the high school where I was not a grade-A jerk, and those days still overwhelm me in a wash of embarrassment.

One of my coworkers at The Office convinced me to go.  He is also an alum from the same high school, though a bit older than me.  He made it sound fun, and perhaps this time I was more inclined to give it serious consideration. Perhaps, too, I was more mature in having accepted the actions of my past.  Plus I doubted that anyone in attendance would remember if I did anything bad to them.

The day came and Maile and I attended the alumni dinner.  It was terrific fun, and I met some former classmates who gave me the up-to-dates on other people.  I met some older and younger alumni, met some of the former teachers, and walked away with a bonus CD of music (coincidentally, my classmate’s).  There was a lot of food and drink, and despite the lack of air-conditioning or anything resembling a stiff breeze, the atmosphere was very comfortable.

What I found intriguing was that I could not remember anybody, except for a select few.  My classmates, I could definitely remember, and the former professors, but some of the other people were not anywhere near my radar.  Yet the intrigue was that they all remembered me.  Whether it was because of a past misdeed, they would not say.

Perhaps, it was because of a good deed.  Maybe my actions during the Time of Troubles weren’t so dishonorable.  Maybe I wasn’t that much of a jerk, maybe a grace-C jerk who had enough redemption that people could see the good inherent within.

Or maybe it was my name and year on that darn Hello sticker on my chest.

I’ll have to attend next year.  Maybe this time I’ll bring something.

Could barely get up this morning. Managed to eke out some semblance of appearance so as not to scare little children with my visage, and clambered about the kitchen.

Had to put the shoyu chicken in the refrigerator. Maile was cooking it last night and it had to simmer down, so it was my task to finish the process. After I popped the pot into the box, I grabbed my lunch.

I also grabbed a new Klean Kanteen water bottle I got as a gift. I filled it with regular tap water, because here it’s reasonably safe to drink straight from the pipes. Capped the bottle, grabbed my backpack and iPod, and headed out the door.

I got halfway to my truck when I realized I didn’t bring my lunch with me. Unlock the door, grabbed the lunch box, re-lock the door, and gas-guzzle on down the road.

At some point in my commute, I suddenly suspected that I didn’t turn off my alarm clock. Oh, Maile will be pissed to hear the oldies blaring throughout the morning. Pray that it is not true. Pray for me.

I got to the university parking garage, slipped on my backpack, and my new stainless steel water bottle slipped out of said backpack. I guess the mesh pockets on the sides of my bag are only meant to hold tiny water bottles. Now my Klean Kanteen has a “klean” dent along the bottom edge, but thankfully the damage is not enough to severely impair its stand-up-bility.

Recently arrived at my office, I came to the conclusion that the proper way to complete this mockery of a morning was to experience the dawning realization that I had forgotten my breakfast of toaster pastries. And today I have no money with which to purchase foodstuffs from the cafeteria.

Bitchin’.

EDIT:

Scrounged up some loose change behind the cubicle walls, and bought a $2.00 orange from the cafeteria.  I cut open the peel as I am wont to do, but instead of a nice peeled globe of succulent pulp, the insides decided to stick to the peel instead of each other.  When I tried to cut the pulp from the inside of the peel, I’d get orange juice squirted in my eyes.  Thus, I had to resort to the orange peel smile as I used my teeth to scrape away anything resembling my breakfast from the tangy textured rind.

I woke up at 0230 with a very disturbing sensation. I thought I had heard my mother’s voice calling my name. My mom, however, is living in another house over two miles away, and there wasn’t that much volume to the call. I would have had to really fuck up big time in order for my mom to tap into those motherly reserves of righteous fury.

So if it wasn’t my mom, what could it have been? I did not hear it again, rather just the typical night-time sounds of splintering wood and rushing mists normally associated with old houses. The dog decided at that point to investigate the rest of the house, and when THAT happens it’s usually one of two things: she was hungry, or there was SOMETHING that attracted her attention.

I pushed that latter thought out, but my mind instead began to ponder if there was some psychic connection at work. Perhaps something happened, and I heard her calling me for help. I began to imagine my father, collapsed on the floor, whilst my mother was in bed helpless. I imagined the frustration and rising panic, my mom unable to call for help.

Oh hell, I hadn’t seen them in a week! What if something happened to them on the day after I was last there? My mom would be trapped for so long without anyone checking in! The worry set solidly within me, weighing my stomach down to the bed, freezing my head to the pillow.

I should call them, I thought. If they were okay, my parents would answer the phone. But if they were okay, they would not appreciate being called so early in the morning. I would have to wait until a more reasonable time, but how early is acceptable? Perhaps I could drive by the house and check at a glance, before I go to work. But, short of opening the door, it would be difficult to determine if things were okay from the street, and entering the house would ring the electronic doorbell, bringing me right back to the first problem.

No, I would have to wait until breakfast, and give my dad a call under the pretense of scheduling a birthday dinner. The earliest that could be was not for another five hours!

If there was nothing I could do then, I would have to try and go back to sleep. I sat up and read a book for another hour, before becoming tired enough that rest was possible again.

* * *

Maile called me at work, before I had a chance to check on my folks, and asked what happened to me that morning. After I explained the events that preceded my worries, Maile said she had also woken up at that hour, having suffered very unsettling dreams and brewing a rather creeped-out feeling.

Great. Now in addition to my fears of parents in trouble, I have fears of paranormal night-time visitations!

* * *

A phone call to my parents left me in relief, as they sounded quite well and busy with their daily lives. Tentatively scheduled a dinner for a July Saturday, and I left them to their thing.  I suppose, in hindsight, I could have driven up to the house and checked if there was a big pile of uncollected newspapers.  That bit of oddity would be grounds for house investigations.

Regardless. That bit of wonderful news scratches Theory One off, leaving me with the disturbing possibility of Theory Two – Ghost All Up In My Business.

Maile told me later that I had probably heard the siren song of soul-sucking freakishness outside our window, in its attempt to lure me into its gaping maw of hideous doom.

Great. Thanks.

Maybe it was good that I didn’t think to go out for that drive.

I called home this morning at approximately 0700, hoping to catch Maile before she left for work. I punched in the number on the keypad and listened to the rhythmic drone of notification. I started to think about my question to her, that I wanted to ask if she felt like attending the annual high school alumni dinner (here, we take our high schools more seriously than we do universities). As the rings continued to be rung, I began to wonder if Maile was indisposed, perhaps in the process of disposing… things.

Suddenly the phone picked up, and this man answered! Who the fuck is this guy, in my house?! It almost sounded like my brother-in-law, and if he was there, why was he there so early, when Maile had to go to work? As these questions raced through my head, I endeavored to keep the conversation going, so I asked if Maile was there.

“You called the wrong house,” the man answered.

Holy fuck, it was my DAD! I keyed in his number instead of mine. I stumbled an apology amidst the bumblings of “oh crap, I forgot” and “damn it, that’s right.” He just said, “Bye.”

See, when my dad moved out, he took the old house number with him. This house number was the one I had been using all my life, and since I’m still living there, it stands to reason that the association would continue to exist just out of rote habit. In a moment of distraction I had forgotten the change and did not key in my new house number.

I told Maile this, afterward, and she couldn’t stop laughing.

At me.

So sad.

* * *

I think I will start using the term “keyed” when it comes to phones. It is so rare to find any phone that still retains the dial, so “dialing a number” should be changed to “keypadding,” I think. Or “keying” for short. Make a movie remake called “Keypad ‘M’ for Murder,” or something.

You watch, I’m going to own that term.