Eighteen Large

So, I'm in the market for a minivan. 'bout time, E's stuck at home and frankly - we need a vehicle that can haul cargo. I noncommittally browse the local web listings, and start organizing the funds.

Thinking myself clever, I'd shoveled the family cash into an ING direct account. Better interest, I figure - and I'd thought it would be awhile before I actually found a car. ING orange accounts are basically money market funds linked to your bank accounts. Any time you want to move money to and fro your linked accounts, you log onto their website and, presto! Handy. And they have good UI.

A week after I do this, I find the perfect van. Miracles of miracles - it's in good shape, has low miles and the price is right.

Since all my cash is being authenticated in cyber land right now, my ING transfer is looking like a bit of a bummer. ING requires that funds in a new account sit for ten business days before they become available. Since I'd started the account on a Friday - this meant that I'd have three weekends (plus a holiday) before I'd be able to pull the cash out.

The net delay to my car transaction will be at least one week. I tell the seller this, and he's okay with it. I needed to get his car inspected anyway, so that ate up a day and there was Christmas right smack in the middle - so no biggie.

Dec 26 should be the first day I can pull the money. ING says it should post in two days, they assure me that I will be able to withdraw the money on the day it posts. "It's like a cash deposit, or a cashier's check."

'kay. So, 12:01am on Dec 26 - I log on and (whaddaya know?) I can move my money.

The next day, I see the funds disappear out of ING. The day after that, they show up in my checking account.

'kay. The buy is on. I talk to the seller. He wants to have all the money available to him on the day of the purchase. He wants a wire transfer.

Now, wire transfers are well and good, but they typically cost more money and they are not (in my experience) instant. I tell him this, but he's pretty convinced. I offer to talk to my bank and see what's up.

My bank tells me that wire transfers will cost us about $40, and that a cashier's check is free. Further, the bank guy says "Heck, if your seller's bank is local, you can run the cashier's check over to his bank and he'll be able to draw on that deposit the same day. A wire transfer just doesn't make sense if the receiving bank is local."

'kay. I tell the seller this, and he's happy to avoid fees. We agree to meet at his bank, I'll have the cashier's check, he'll have the title, and all will be well. Time permitting - I might even be able to squeeze in time to hit the DMV to get my tags so we can road trip this weekend.

---

Game time. I roll into the bank, hand him the check and he goes up to the teller. I sit down to kill time on some magazines - and it becomes clear that things are not well.

Seller motions me over. "They won't allow me access to the funds for several days."

I look at the teller. "It's a cashier's check. These are guaranteed funds."

She's unimpressed "You could have stopped payment on this check; we need time to make sure it's still a valid check."

Okay, I'm ticked. I tell her what my bank guy said, she just rolls her eyes. Seller's getting nervous, he either REALLY needs the dough today, or he's thinking this is all part of some master plan to rip him off.

I do the back and forth for awhile, but it's pretty clear I'm going to lose this one. We ask if there is a way I can pay the Seller so he can draw the money today.

Teller thinks a moment. "Cash?"

Screw that, I'm not driving across town will all my money in a sack. Somehow, my expression conveys this to her.

"A wire transfer would be same day."

"There's no delay to authenticate? He'll be able to get access to the money today?"

"Yep."

'kay. Seller and I pile into my car, I apologize for the mix up - and we tool into my bank fifteen minutes later.

I'm up to here with this, trying not to look like a dork in front of the Seller.

Hi. Void my cashier's check. Wire some money to this man.

My bank is nicer. My teller explains that most banks will take a cashier's check and allow withdrawals on it the same day, but the Seller's bank is an exception. She used to work there. So, each bank has its own rules. Nice to know. Now.

We're in the middle of doing the transfer when my teller thinks to verify that these funds will hit today and be available today. Three phone calls and much bank-speak later, it's clear that the wire transfer isn't a sure thing either.

"It could post today, it could post tomorrow - it depends on the bank."

Seller's really agitated now. I'm not willing to trust Seller's bank to take the funds same day. One option left.

"Give us cash."

The bank manager says it's going to take some time, they need to open the vault - we need to fill out some forms. My bank being nice, they give us coffee. An Account Rep tells us to meet us in her office, where she has eighteen stacks of Benjamins.

I'm looking at my watch. I'd planned on hitting the DMV or at least going back to work. How long is this going to take?

She counts out all the bills. Twice.

Then there's the "The Feds have to be told that you took more than ten grand out in cash" form - that seems to take an interminable amount of time.

Finally, it's done. The Account Rep leaves and I'm sitting there with the Seller. And this is the scenario I was trying to avoid.

Mind you, not because I truly believe that brigands roam the roads looking for people with large amounts of cash on them - but in exchanges of this type - people are typically agitated. The imagination is looking out for things that could cost you your money, or your property. You start looking for ways to stay out of trouble.

When you have a fat wad of bills in your lap, right after the teller has announced how much money you wanted and that you need it in CASH, you start to see trouble everywhere.

We go straight to the car. I'm picturing the Seller as some master scammer, who's going to use a stun gun on me and hop into a waiting van. He's checking behind us for masked gunmen.

Predictably, we get to his bank with no harm done. His teller seems exasperated that she has to count the bills, and I'm like- "Don't. Even."

Money in, Seller asks me to sign a receipt for him (which makes no sense) and wants a photocopy of the title (for whatever reason). He's nervous, and probably would ask the tellers for affidavits, if he thought they'd comply.

I check the title and I have what I need. He gives me the keys and I agree to drop him off at the rental car place. On the way he's decompressing. Chatting me up about this and that. He's a nice guy. Just having that much moolah up in the air got us both in a twist.

The fact that it took two banks over an hour to decide the fastest way to get my money across town was in a paper bag starts to bother me less and less.

I got to see bank people get nervous. I got to be irrationally nervous myself, and I got to fan a huge wad of Benjamins in my hands.

Plus, I got a minivan. I guess that's not too bad of a day.

What the hell are 'Deathly Hallows?'

Beats me, but J.K. Rowling is apparently going to tell us.

Spoiler alert: the article discusses a big aspect of box 6. A retroactive sorry.

Embarrassment of riches

Been awhile since I've come up for air – between trying to stay above water at work, doing the same at home, and just being unconscious - there hasn't been a lot of time for much else.

Putting together a decent meal is a time crunch most days – I doubt we’ve managed it on our own since baby E showed up. First, my mom was in town and she helped us out. Then we were on leftovers.

Then we were out of leftovers, and we’re dreading what we have in the cupboard – and trips to the grocery store have turned into quite the logistical feat.

So, I’m coming out of the garage, and who is coming up my driveway buy Ms. No-H, and she’s carrying pizza. Lots of pizza.

And not your schlock pizza, either – but the yummy kind. I’m way sick, so I munch and flop down somewhere outta the way, while E socializes.

It’s a great night. Some days, crossing off a seemingly simple thing like dinner is just the best thing in the world. So, thanks, Ms. No-H. Perfect timing. What a marvelous thing to do.

---

Rewind to the day after baby E is born.

A friend of ours, KB, asks if we like lasagna. “I’d make you some if you do.”

In my head, this triggers a brief, internal Q & A session:

Do I like lasagna?

I think so.

You think?

Okay, I’ll check its ranking…Got it! It was in the “Love more than life itself” folder, right next to sauerkraut pizza.

Y'know, I should eat more lasagna...

Damn right.

So, I say, “Um, yes.” and forget all about the discussion.

A few days later, I’m getting lunch at an Italian deli when-

Hey! I should eat more lasagna.

So, I go to the freezer and buy a massive pan of ready-to-bake lasagna. A pan I need to set down because my arm starts hurting while I’m getting out my cash at the register.

Fast forward to that night. Zagne’s in the fridge, cued up for tomorrow and then KB calls to tell us she’s coming over with lasagna tomorrow.

Hey! I should eat more lasagna.

Sure, we’re game – the deli 'zagne goes in the freezer, and we get ready for homemade Italian goodness.

Poof. It’s tomorrow night, and KB and family drop off the yummy. We bake, we scarf, we scarf some more.

That part of my brain that had been nagging me is now gloating:

Ya see, I told you…

Despite our best efforts, there’s half a pan left – which we’ll kill off tomorrow.

Next day, our neighbor, MG comes over with bread, salad and – lasagna!

Hey! I should eat more lasagna.

So, we’ve got two in the fridge, one in the freezer – that part of me that has been craving zagne will finally be sated.

---

And then, next day-

Mr. and Ms. U send us a box of cookies – and not your ho-hum sugar cookies with sprinkles, but exotic cookies you see on the food channel. The kind where every ingredient doesn’t have a brand name in front of it.

Bags and bags of them – and they are yummy. And I vacillate between hiding the box for myself, and setting them out for the family. As a compromise measure – I eat all the chocolate chip cookies.

Yum

---

Which brings us to yesterday.

I walk in and there in the middle of the floor is a large box with Styrofoam lining and plastic pouring out of it.

E’s sitting on the couch, big smile on her face. “G and T sent us some sausage.”

I look at the box. It dwarfs her statement. “Some…?”

“That’s just the box I left out so you could see it. The other one was just as big.”

My mind performs some rapid calculations. “Is there room in the fridge?”

“Not really, but we’ve got plenty to eat!”

---

So, thanks to everyone for everything – our cholesterol count is sure to spike this month – but it’s the holidays and it was headed that way anyway. The stuff we’ve munched already was way yummy – and the stuff we’ve got in the queue looks at least as good.

You people are great.

That's my girl...

 

Angel mine

Just in case the grapevine hasn't gotten to you yet:

Baby E was born, happy and healthy via c-section. Eight pounds, five ounces and twenty and a half inches long.

Mom and baby are doing well.

Circling the wagons

No baby yet (as of 8:30AM on 11/20/2006, that is), but we're likely to be doing more runs to the hospitals. E's miserable - but according to the docs, not quite miserable enough.

And now we wait.

The law of unintended consequences, as applied to ambulance chasing...

TO:
Atty. Brian Peter Mularski
Atty. Emmanuel L. Muwonge
Atty. John Kenyatta Riley
Atty. Christopher L. Zimmerman

OF:
Eisenberg, Riley & Muwonge SC
2228 W Wells St
Milwaukee, WI 53233-1919

Gentlemen,

I wanted to let you know that while we have received the materials you sent my son regarding his recent traffic accident – my son will not be retaining your services as his legal counsel in the foreseeable future.

I want to stress that this should in no way imply that my son has a negative assessment of your firm. Indeed, my son is usually happy to receive mail of any sort – however his being two years old poses a substantial barrier to his making an informed judgment in this matter.

I was a driver in the accident you referenced in your letter, and I feel uncomfortable making the decision for my son. So, I have read your letter to him repeatedly, each time stressing the importance of its contents.

Thus far, his responses to your offer of legal representation can only be described as ambiguous. My son is a bright boy, and I have every confidence that he will one day comprehend your offer enough to respond definitively.

I am unclear as to whether or not his response must be in written form. If this is in fact the case, I must tell you he will not be able to write on his own for a few years. When I know his feelings on this matter, perhaps I will have him call you.

Yours, etc.

/name & address withheld/

P.S. Please take my address off your mailing lists.

...and with charity toward none?

"We will mete out to [them] the measure, and more than the measure, they have meted out to us!"
-Winston Churchill, July 14, 1941

Imagine you are the incoming Speaker of the House this coming January.

A majority of voters across the country has voiced their opinion that the previous Congress has done its job poorly, when it has bothered to do it at all.

As the new speaker, you will be assuming a position whose power has, for the past six years, been used to crap all over you and your followers.

Some items of note:

• Being muzzled by the "super-majority rule." The former speaker ruled that he would not allow legislation to the floor unless a majority of the republicans favored it. This meant your legislation (even if you have a majority of House members in favor of it) did not make it to the floor unless your majority included most of the GOP.
• Being excluded from hearings, with your fellow Dems being told to their face "Why are you [even discussing this bill]? You won't be in the room when the decisions are made."
• Being given copies of legislation at midnight and being told you will be voting on it the following morning. When you attempt to delay the vote so you can get time to read the bill, the Capitol Police are called to evict you from the premises.
• Bi-partisan "Hearings" that last only long enough for the photos to be taken, before being swiftly gaveled so the real hearing can be held off-camera and without the presence of the minority party.
• Being asked to participate in the drafting of the Patriot Act - getting headlines as you vote your bi-partisan work product out of committee, only to learn it was discarded in favor of one written in secret by the majority party alone.
• Blatant re-writing, side-stepping or ignoring Judiciary Committee rules on nominations to maximize the power of the majority party.

And on, and on, and on...

So now, here you are. Holding the gavel of your former oppressors.

You have been charged with: drafting tougher ethical standards and enforcement protocols; investigating government activity on pre-war intelligence, Katrina, Iraq contracts, wiretapping and a host of other issues.

The question is: do you use the tactics of your predecessors to get this done?

Before you reflexively say "No, I'll be big about this," think about these items carefully:

1. The members of the GOP who you invite into your oversight hearings may very well try to sabotage your actions in the hope of protecting their own misdeeds or those of their party or financial backers.
2. Minority party members given free reign to amend bills can poison-pill needed legislation, denying you the ability to draft the bills you were sent to Congress to write.
3. Embracing the GOP in the spirit of bi-partisanship will essentially compound the advantage their strong arm tactics gave them. For six years, they have brushed you aside and took what they wanted. Now, as your party begins to try and undo some of the harm, you're going to set them up with the access and power they denied you for six years and hope they act responsibly?

Then again, if you adapt the tactics of your opponents - do you run the risk of becoming just like them?

What do you do?

The sound of the other shoe dropping...

And there it is... AP and NBC call Virginia for Jim Webb.

The Dems own the Senate folks. All over but the concession speech.

Waterworld

Of the three items that were waiting in the wings to go wrong - the water heater stepped up to the plate a few days ago.

Last year, one of the valves started dripping - then stopped.

The day after I got the sewer straightened out, E noticed a puddle of water near the water heater. I'm thinking it is just water from where I mopped up - but it's still there a day later.

Plus, it's bigger.

So we call the plumber. In my decidedly-out-of-synch-with-recent-events mind, I'm thinking we're replacing the bad valve. I dry up the water and put a bucket under the spigot to see how fast the water is coming out.

Next day, the water is on the floor, not in the bucket. It's obvious that the water isn't coming out of the spigot, it's flowing out of the bottom of the water heater itself.

This is a bad sign. A sign that reads: "Hello, I am your hot water heater - and I am now dead."

So, here we go. E waits for the plumber who charges us eight bills to get the old one out, the new one in, and a few fees just because he's got us over the barrel.

I know. You're saying, "You got rolled."

Yeah, but we're not in a position to shop around. Time is short and this needs to get done. Like, now. We still have to get the furnace looked at, and buy meteor insurance.

I'm over it. I'm already bracing for the next thing.

A margarita and a police state…

"You may be looking at four or five public polls a week that talk about attitudes nationally, but that do not impact the outcome... [the polls] add up to a Republican Senate and a Republican House.

You may end up with a different math, but you're entitled to your math, I'm entitled to the math."
--Karl Rove, October 24, 2006

A former co-worker of mine had bet a margarita that there wouldn't be elections this fall.

She'd said, "if I win, I get a margarita and a police state!"

(It's just one of those lines that is destined for greatness.)

Well, the results are flowing in and she'll owe somebody a margarita, but all things considered - I think she'll gladly pay up. Hell, I'd reimburse her.

MSNBC is predicting the dems get the house 233-202, and even factoring in their margin of error, it means that the White House can start practicing saying, "Speaker Pelosi," right about now.

VA, MO, TN, and MT senate races are still up in the air. The odds don't favor the dems, and there's still the possibility that DINO Lieberman will jump ship if the senate splits down the middle.

Even so, a worthy result from a country that seems seriously pissed off.

I don't expect the Dems to be brilliant, virtuous, and pure - but I do expect them to be adversarial and conduct oversight - something the current rubber stamp majorities seem to have forgotten how to do.

Rock on.

R.I.P. Max

It's official: The Maxima is totaled.

We'll be looking for vehicle number two as soon as we figure out:

1) How much we're getting for dead Max.
2) What the heck we want to replace it with.

Slippery slope

If you think that the GOP-controlled congress didn't invent partisan railroading of legislation, you're right. They've just perfected it. So says Rolling Stone's Matt Taibbi:

In 1977, when Democrats held a majority in the House, eighty-five percent of all bills were open to amendment. But by 1994, the last year Democrats ran the House, that number had dropped to thirty percent -- and Republicans were seriously pissed. "You know what the closed rule means," Rep. Lincoln Diaz-Balart of Florida thundered on the House floor. "It means no discussion, no amendments. That is profoundly undemocratic." When Republicans took control of the House, they vowed to throw off the gag rules imposed by Democrats. On opening day of the 104th Congress, then-Rules Committee chairman Gerald Solomon announced his intention to institute free debate on the floor. "Instead of having seventy percent closed rules," he declared, "we are going to have seventy percent open and unrestricted rules."

How has Solomon fared? Of the 111 rules introduced in the first session of this Congress, only twelve were open. Of those, eleven were appropriations bills, which are traditionally open. That left just one open vote -- H. Res. 255, the Federal Deposit Insurance Reform Act of 2005.

In the second session of this Congress? Not a single open rule, outside of appropriation votes. Under the Republicans, amendable bills have been a genuine Washington rarity, the upside-down eight-leafed clover of legislative politics.

Irrespective of who runs Congress, we can't let this trend continue.

Flat tire karma

On at least three occasions, I've been driving along - lost in my own head when I see some other driver, honking and waving.

What's your problem, buddy?

Then I'll see them pointing downward and mouthing a word. They'll start rolling down the window - and it's evident that this isn't road rage - they're genuinely trying to get something across to me.

So, I roll down the window.

"Hey, your tire's low!"

Snapped out of driving coma, I'd thumbs up and pull over and stare at the latest manifestation of neglecting my car.

The simple act of flagging me down saved me some dollars and possibly worse.
These people were nice.

I'd like to thank them - but, of course, they're just gone.

---

It was this spirit of indebtedness that got me typing today - at home on Friday afternoon.

Rewind. 7:48 am. Taking the boy to day care.

I swing onto Hwy 51, southbound and I'm behind some guy in a sedan. His car is throwing a lot of white smoke, but this is a cold day and that's what cars do when they've just started up in cold weather.

Then I notice that sedan guy's car is smoking on the left, away from his tailpipe. I'm right behind him so I just keep watching his car. It looks like the smoke is coming from his wheel.

I look closer. It is. His car is leaning heavily towards his left rear tire. I see a chunk of rubber come off and roll onto the shoulder.

Sedan guy is blissfully unaware.

I'm coming up on my turn, so I pull into the left turn lane. Sedan guy is slowing up, still smoking - still clueless.

I'm just about pulling even with him, trying to think of what's the fastest way to tell him about his tire. I reach for the horn and-

-and I plow right into a Ford Focus in my left turn lane.

Ford goes forward to smack into a pickup. I turn to see the boy's okay. "What was that?!" he asks.

No airbags popped, so I can see our hood is pushed up like a bubble. The guy in the Ford gets out. I try to do the same and the damn door is jammed. I kick it open and ask if he's okay. He is. So's the driver of the truck.

Ford says "Wow, that was fast."

I start to ask what was fast when I see the cop. It's been less than thirty seconds since impact. Yeah, that was fast.

I fork over my drivers license, and get back in the car with the boy. He's good, just wondering what happened. "I want this car to move," he says. I explain as best I can.

He asks to hear Tchaikovsky, so I fire up the iPod. So long as he has music, he's good.

I stay in the car. No point talking with the other drivers. What would you say, anyway? The cop writes me a citation, and is generally a nice guy.

My front end is ruined - but the car will move. Never fails, does it - just yesterday Jen was telling me how nice this car rode. Kiss of death.

I call into work and tell them I won't be in. The car limps to day care, and I go home to deal with the insurance types.

---

So here we are, at home. The car's off to the garage - no word on if it's totaled or not.

We're a one car family again.

Dammit.

Electric Eel

It sounds stupid, but one of my favorite memories involves snaking a sewer pipe.

No, you read that right.

Two years ago, my dad had come up from Mississippi to help me finish my basement before my son was born.

*****

There – you see what I just did? I described what happened the way dad would have. “I helped my son finish his basement.” Yeah, anyone who knows me knows that’s a load. Fact is, I’m pretty much useless when it comes to tools. Dad didn’t help me. I tried to help him.

The basement project pretty much followed a lifelong pattern of home and auto repair with my dad. He’d invite me to help him work on something, and I’d spend the next few hours holding the light while dad did everything. I know my dad was trying to instill in me the same fascination he had with fixing things – but the fact is, he’d never let you do the work.

You’d start turning a bolt, and he’d finish it. Before you pounded a nail, he’d “get you started.” He didn’t mean anything by it, but dad couldn’t bear to see things done badly, so letting me learn by screwing things up wasn’t much of an option. No second chances, just the certain knowledge that as soon as things started getting close to difficult – dad would take over.

Most of my life, I really hated going into the garage.

*****

Anyway, back to two years ago. Dad’s decided that we need more room in our house before the baby is born, so he takes it on himself to load up his truck with hardware and drives across the country to spend two weeks in my basement putting in a guest bedroom, a second bathroom, and the office I’m sitting in now.

Me being me, I didn’t manage to get time off from work, so dad’s working alone in the day while I’m at work.

*****

There, did it again – didn’t I? My last job, I had boatloads of time off. I could get out of work practically whenever I wanted. Fact is, given the choice of being a hero at work, or holding the light for dad at home, I chose work.

*****

Back in the basement, two years ago. I’m at work and dad calls me.

“Son?”

“Yeah?”

“I hate to bother you, but I did something… I can hardly believe I did something so stupid. Can you give me directions to the hospital?”

I’m like – well, what do you think I’m like? “You want me to call an ambulance?”

“No. No. I shot myself in the hand with the nailgun.”

At that moment, I have a vision of my dad, hand nailed to the wall, straining to reach the phone. It turns out dad, being my dad, has managed to fire a nail through the center of his left hand and miss every bone. He’s back to work in less than three hours. And if it hadn’t been for the VA hospital being such a collection point for useless people, he’d have been back in less than two.

Dad didn’t quit. Ever.

Where was I? So, I get a Friday off so dad and I can work on the big project – the plumbing for the second bathroom. E’s sister and brother in law are stopping by, so it’s going to be a busy few days.

The original plan was to find the main sewer pipe, then expose it by cutting out sections of the concrete floor with a special saw. We’d break up the cut sections and then make trenches to lay the new pipes for the toilet, sink, and shower drains.

At first, things went well.

The concrete saw was a Sears POS electric saw with a special blade to cut ‘crete. Dad figured you could wet a sponge and hold it against the side of the blade while it turned to keep it from overheating and (better still) keep the concrete dust from filling the entire basement.

Works like a charm. Loud as hell, but zero dust. Dad’s cutting a section out over where we’re going to tie into the main drain pipe, I’m keeping the sponge on the blade.

Four cuts later, we heave a square section of floor up and start looking for the drain pipe. I scoop out a few buckets of fill gravel and we get our first disappointment:

A second concrete floor six inches below the floor we just cut through.

So, we widen the hole we just cut, to make room for using the saw on the floor we just found. Enter disappointment number two.

The saw dies. Sparks. Smoke. Fire.

Great.

Dad only brought the damn thing as an experiment, he’d left his good saws at home. So, we’re back to the jackhammer and the sledge. This is a helluva lot more work. Dad pounds through the second floor, and we start digging for the drain pipe again.

Disappointment number three arrives: No drain pipe.

We’d drawn a straight line between the stack and the cleanout valve and assumed the pipe would continue on that straight line. Wrong.

Now we’ve cut through two floors and have nothing to show for it. Dad goes route one and begins to cut two holes right next to the cleanout valve to find the angle that the drain pipe takes from there.

Two jackhammer sessions later – we find the pipe. Instead of the straight line we’d originally assumed, the drain takes a thirty degree bend towards our neighbor’s house. Our first hole was off by about four feet.

To tie in, we need to buy more pipe, pound two more holes through the floors, and dig through about two feet of clay.

Dad’s unfazed and gets started. Jackhammers being imprecise tools we soon have cut a huge pit in our basement floor – that leads to a smaller pit in the second floor.

Assloads of work later, we tie into the drain pipe using a single y-connector. We’re bushed, but happy. It is now time for the fifth disappointment.

*****

They say you usually have problems with plumbing when you have company over. This isn’t mere irony at work – a slow drain might be able to cope with the water output of your family, but have a few people over and suddenly your water output spikes and your slow drain suddenly can’t cope with the volume. Things back up – just when you’re entertaining your guests.

Now, I told you that E’s sister and brother in law were visiting, right?

I’m helping dad in some menial way when we notice that there is water in the lower pit. At first, we assume that this is just seeping out of the ground. Then we realize that the water is rising, and the surrounding ground is clay.

Cue disappointment number five, and it’s a doozy. The y-connector that we’ll be tying into the new basement has a temporary cap on it, so we can still run water in the rest of the house.

To see if the water is coming out of the ground, or out of the pipe, we take off the cap. Out pours gallons of water. Gallons of the previously mentioned “after” water. Any hope that this might have been a fluke vanishes when, upstairs, I can hear E flushing the toilet, and we get to see that water make its way into the pit.

The main drain we just tied into is plugged, and we are seriously screwed.

*****

Wait a minute? This is a good memory? Yeah, it is. Not because my dad and I are standing in a pit of sewerage, but because of what came next.

At this moment – the whole project is up against it. If something we did collapsed the main drain pipe – we’re done, and the professionals can start charging by the hour.

We do a few tests to get a feel of what we’re dealing with.

At this point, I do in fact mean “we.” Dad’s in scramble mode, and isn’t worried about running the show. He needs this to work and so do I. We’re bouncing ideas off each other, testing this, testing that. From here on out, we’re a team.

Overnight, the water level goes down. We rent a 50’ plumbing snake from Home Depot and go to town. As the only male in my family to actually read directions, I discover a number of gotchas in using this particular device. Dad grunts his approval and we get started. We tag team on the snake and run it out. Twenty feet. Thirty feet. Forty feet. Fifty.

No breakthrough. Disappointment number six, right on time. Whatever is stopping the water, it’s more than fifty feet from the cleanout valve.

We take back the 50’ plumbing snake and get a 100’ snake made by Electric Eel. It’s a beast, and we dent the wall getting it downstairs. I get the bit on and we go to town again. We trade off leading the snake and running the motor but we’re both swapping glances between the water in the pit and the amount of snake we have left on the coil.
Fifty feet left, forty, thirty…

..with just over twenty feet left, we see the water in the pit move, then drain out. Dad and I just look at each other and cheer. And there it is: that moment of being on a winning team with my dad. Having actually contributed to a winning effort – with my dad. He’s high-fiving me and we’re yukking it up. For once, dad’s saying ‘thanks for the help’ and meaning it. For once, I got to be useful and not just hold the damn light.

Unprecedented. Just thinking of it makes me smile. We won.

*****

That was two years ago. The current drain debacle is, I am fervently praying, more of the same. Roots in the pipe snarling things up. Seen it before. This, I can handle.

The complications start when I realize that I don’t have dad or dad’s truck. M volunteers his SUV, Ms. No-H hers, and Jen offers the minivan.

Problem solved, I hit the depot. I go right to the beast I remember and check out.
The guy’s like “need some help loading that?” I say no, I’ve done it before.

Wheeling the snake out to the van I realize this was a mistake. Picture an object that, because of its mass, you are physically unable to budge.

Reduce the weight of that object by one pound, and you’re right where I was that evening. It weighs a fricking ton. I blow out some vertebrae and get it into the van, and bounce it down the stairs to start all over again.

I get out the operating instructions the rental guy gave me. Might as well be sure. They turn out to be instructions for using a buff sander. Thanks for nothing, Home Depot.

I get the uber-mag light from upstairs so I can check the water level in the cleanout. First thing you do with a flashlight is flip it on when you pick it up, right? It’s working. I snap it off and go downstairs.

I point the flashlight into the cleanout and flip it on. It goes on, then dies almost instantly. I go to the bucket of batteries I keep for such emergencies and (wonder of wonders!) I have enough D cells to fill up an uber-mag.

Small problem. Unscrewing the battery cap, I find that the old and dead batteries have leaked and aren’t coming out of the flashlight without a fight. Two screwdrivers and a dangerous amount of pounding later, I give up and throw the hunk of junk onto the downstairs guest bed.

I fit the bit on the snake and get started. The snake with one person is more of a hassle. Think of a motorized garden hose reel in reverse. You feed out the snake using a foot pedal, but if you get too much slack out you can have it whip around like a dropped fire hose. It’s tearing into my office hands, so I look for work gloves and strike out. E loans me some latex gloves – which at first seem like a good idea.

Then the latex catches in the spinning snake. It peels off my hand and loops around to cinch down on my fingers like a slipknot. This happens to both my hands in about as much time as it takes to say it. I tear the gloves to shreds and let their scraps go down into the cleanout – still snagged on the snake.

I run out about fifty feet of the snake and wonder if I’ve made any headway. The water in the cleanout valve seems lower (thanks to a working micro-mag) and I decide to try flushing the downstairs toilet to see if the water level rises to the same level as yesterday.

Soon as I flush, I know I’ve made a bad mistake – the downstairs toilet is backing up and is just about to overflow. I whip off the tank cover and reach for the float to stop the water flow-

-and accidentally grab the flush chain instead. The toilet now has flushed a second time, and two bowls of filthy water still have nowhere to go but over the sides and onto the floor.

I get the wet vac (another Sears POS) and try to salvage things, but it gets the rugs, the baseboards it’s a disaster.

I check the cleanout, no change in the water level. This wasn’t from a backup in the main line – this was just a clogged toilet. Nice.

Without a working main drain – I’ve got a wet vac full of disgusting water in the basement. No way I’m taking this up a flight of stairs, so it has to sit here until I break through.

If I break through.

Back to the snake.
It’s around 9pm, and I’m beat. I’ve run out fifty feet of snake and have nothing to show for it but a foul mess in the bathroom.

I start the snake up.
Sixty feet out.

There’s still standing water in the cleanout.

Seventy feet.

Here I’m hopeful, since this is where we broke through last time. No change in the water line.

Eighty feet. No change.

Ninety.

I’m looking at the few remaining coils of the snake, thinking this is it. The water level’s maddeningly unchanged, and there’s nothing left to do but press on.

Bam!
The snake hits its end. One hundred feet played out, and still no change in the water level.

That’s it. I’m screwed. I’m out the rental, I’m beat, my hands are worn raw, I’m covered with filth, and I still have to call a plumber. Plus, no shower, no bathroom until this gets done.

Son of a bitch.

Now, I don’t want to get too maudlin about this, but right about then, I was comparing the previous experience with the snake with this one. After everything going wrong, dad and I were able to beat this damn thing.
– Yet here I am, two years later, alone – having succeeded only in making things worse.

I sat down on the stairs, and just stared at the snake.

I thought about all sorts of things. Like what dad would do. What he would think of his son just sitting on the damn stairs. What he’d think about him going into his own head instead of getting busy doing something useful.

Screw it. I thought. What else is there to do? There’s no more goddamned cable.

True, but - when you operate the snake, you typically stand between the drain and the coil of snake cable. I’m not a big guy, but I do have a pretty big wingspan.

Like a sleepwalker, I got up and pushed the snake cart until it was right next to the cleanout. That gave me about five more feet to run down the drain.

I ran it out. What the hell?

And, swear to God – the water level dropped.

I just sat down again and smiled. Then I reeled it in and did it two more times with larger bits – just to make sure.

I’m not my dad, and I will never be my dad – but every once in awhile I can be a glimpse of the man. And I can be proud of that moment.

Baby wipes and hand sanitizer

So.

Main sewer pipe is backed up. This I can cope with. Most times the drain isn't totally plugged, and so long as you send no more water down the pipe - you can maintain the situation until you have time to snake out the pipe and really solve things.

My completely unscientific measurements make it seem like we've got just about enough room for a single toilet flush. So, no showers in the am - but, at least we've got enough breathing room to go to bed.

We do.

---

A lot of people don't think about their water softeners much. Give them salt once in awhile, but other than that - they're pretty much just another tube shaped object in the basement gathering dust.

We don't pay them much attention, because they usually don't demand any. Most are on timers to run at 3am, so most folks aren't even awake to hear them when they do their only job.

A propo of nothing, it's 3:43 am as I write this. 'kay?

For the uninitiated, water softeners pass your hard water over these nifty little things called zeolite pellets to remove dissolved minerals by reverse osmosis. I know this only because I just looked it up.

Why did I look this up at 3 in the Goddamned morning?

Because of this little item at the end of end of the howstuffworks.com entry:

"The remaining brine plus all of the calcium and magnesium is flushed out through a drain pipe. Regeneration can create a lot of salty water, by the way -- something like 25 gallons (95 liters)."

Yeah. 25 gallons, and my drain has enough room for one toilet flush.

Softener runs, brine flows, basement cleanout valve barfs out gallons of what I'd charitably call "after" water.

Luckily, E got up in the night and noticed this whole debacle, or we'd have woken up to an even bigger mess.

Which brings us to now.

The water main is shut off to stop the water softener from dutifully sending the rest of its 25 gallons of brine down the drain. There is no water, and I'm typing this only because I've been using the Baby wipes and hand sanitizer that E gave me.

Frick, Frick, Frack.

Fright night

So it's time for the Boy's first Halloween - and I'm thinking: This will not be fun. After a howler of a ride home from work, I'm expecting his mood to spiral down. He doesn't want dinner, he just wants the candy from day care. He doesn't want to go home, he wants to go the the restaurant. He doesn't really know what the night is about, so I'm expecting him to get all nervous and cold as soon as we go out the door.

In my head, this will be dragging a cranky two-year old from door to door.

Wrong.
The Boy's into it. Big time.

"Trick or Treat!" he's yelling before we get to the first house. "Thank you, very much!" he says after getting the goods.

"I want 'nother HOUSE!" he declares after each stop. He's asking questions, meeting the neighbors - just generally being the charming ball of fun he usually is.

What was (I thought) going to be a hasty lap around the nearest few houses, turns into our block, the next block and the next block. The boy's hooked.

"Does this house have candy?" he asks.

"I think so, they have pumpkins out front-" I start.

"I see more pumpkins!" and he's pulling me forward, swinging his candy basket like a speed walker.

We start home and I'm asking him if he's cold. "I'm okay! More pumpkins! I see Jack-O-lanterns!" and soon we're passing our house and off down the street again.

It's only when the pumpkins run out that we start heading back.

Home. The the boy's tearing into his candy like an addict. What was I thinking? This was a great night out - the boy's still wearing his costume and smiling ear to ear. If more people weren't such fuddy-duddies - we'd probably still be out there.

---

The windout was less cool. I'm headed downstairs for a quick internet fix and I can see the area rugs are soaking wet.

What the?

I can hear *glub* *glub* from the downstairs bathroom, and then I see water all the way down the middle of the hall. Not deep, just enough to cover the floor - but it reeks.

Bathroom. Floor dry. WTH? I'm looking for the edges of the water. No way this came in from outside.

Baseboard are dry, room carpets dry. So where...?

I see the water trailing over by the water heater. No. Nonono...

I move the basement junk out of the way. Good. Not the heater. The big area rug has a dark spot in the middle of it - soaked. Right over the -

Cleanout valve.

I pick up the rug, and bingo. The small pit with the cleanout valve is overflowing with water. I get the wet/dry vac (a great invention - although the model I have from Sears would have to go down as one of the worst designed POS's in recorded history) and I'm clearing out the water.

Water gone, I crack the cleanout valve open and sure enough - Houston, this is the problem.

Two summers ago - Dad and I snaked this very cleanout valve because roots had grown into the main pipe out.

It's baaaaaaaaaAAAAAACK!

So, eight o' clock on a worknight - I gotta figure what the next steps are.

Last time, this clog took a 100' snake to clear. Last time, I had Dad's truck.

Mental list:
1) Rent 100' snake from the extortionists at Home Depot. Easy.
2) Find some way to transport said snake to my house. In the Honda? HA! Or on the Nissan's leather seats? Double HA!

Add to this I'm in the middle of user testing at work, so I have to be there if I'm walking in on bloody stumps.

Pretty sneaky there, Halloween... had me all mellowed out before you went in for the kill.

Plan B is to hit up Jen for the minivan and find some way to swap vehicles.

As if in mocking answer, I can hear the downstairs toilet bubbling up.

*glub* *glub*

Ah, Hell.

It's about freakin' time

...Finally, public debate about Iraq policy on a major network:

Gotta hand it to Letterman.

Election watching for fun and profit

The Washington Post is running a game where you pick the winners and losers of the midterm election.

It's called Midterm Madness, and the best guesser stands to win... well, a measly $100 bucks (Jeez guys, you'd think you could spring for something a little jazzier. Hell, even shoe stores give away iPod Nanos these days... )

Anyway, make yer picks, take yer chances. It may be the only fun you get out of the midterms.

Recharge

Okay, it's been awhile since I've just put something up for fun.

So here goes:

Scoreline - October 22, 2006
Reading: 0
Arsenal: 4
Henry 1, 70 (pen), Hleb 39, Van Persie 49

Oh, this was a beautiful thing.

1) My TiVo picked this game up when there's virtually no chance I'd have spotted it myself. Christmas in October!
2) Arsenal were in fine form and beat the stuffing out of Reading without really trying that hard.

Henry and the Spanish boy-wonder Fabregas teamed up for an early back-breaker. Reading staggered around punch-drunk before deciding to fight on.
Sadly for them, at that moment the Spaniard teamed up with Hleb and Rosicky to pull off a clinical give and go: two nothing - Gunners.

Halftime.

At this point, Arsenal's crusing - the announcer is singing their praises - talking about how young this team is, how fluid their passing was, how Man U. had better be looking behind them -

-and then Henry, Hleb and Van Persie just score on an outrageous series of through passing and teamwork. Perfection - flat out. Reading's keeper is just standing there telling God that, if he had to end the world, now would be a good time.

-But it doesn't end. Fabregas is a holy terror, and charges into the box ony to be cut down by the now hoplessly demoralized keeper.

Penalty. Henry. Goal.

Four nothing and I swear Arsenal just spent the last ten minutes playing keep away. Reading had a few swipes at net - but it was written: Today Reading shall sucketh.

I know - the world says, who cares. A top of the table team buries a first time visitor to the Premiership - but hey - they did it with style. And they enjoyed themselves doing it.

Great to see.