Concrete Evidence

I have decided that there is nothing easy about concrete. I come by this knowledge honestly - through good, hard experience. I meant to say that.

Some years ago I replaced the gates in my driveway with wider ones. Not that I needed them, I could have parked my stuff behind narrow ones with a bunch more practice and some pretty nasty scratches on said trailers. But, in the immortal words of Joe M., I would rather widen the opening than...oh, never mind. So, I had a guy replace my gates and remove a couple of columns of block to accommodate the new gates. The result was a strip of concrete under the gate that consisted of broke-out block. It looked like Tom's teeth every time Jerry hit him in the face with a giant frying pan. Most impressive was the way Jerry could levitate high in the air and still have the leverage to swing that massive cast-iron skillet in order to reshape Tom's face -- and his teeth, by the way. (didn't think it would come back, did you...)

Anyway, I went to Home Depot, which I now own as a result of the remodel, to get some concrete patch material. I got a large bucket and followed the directions. I even got a trowel. Is that how you spell it? So, I mixed the concrete and applied it all along the broken-teeth jaggy-ness. Then, I went back to smash it into the cracks of the broke blocks to smooth out the driveway.

When I went to hit the first, um, I'll call it a clod of concrete, I expected to be able to manipulate it like drizzling chocolate in the voids of the three-scoop mountain Debi loves so much. Not to be confused with the two mountains Jeff loves so much. Instead of the soft, smooth, creamy substance I expected, I hit solid rock. I think it hit me back. The bag said it would dry hard and fast but this was ridiculous. I threw the clods away. I threw the bucket away. I even threw the trowel away. I have such animosity that I didn't even look up how to spell it. I ended up having the slab company patch this gap and it looks great.

I may have mentioned that during the remodel (mind you I didn’t say ‘…before the remodel began when it could have been properly planned’) we decided to add a veggie sink in the kitchen. To do this, we had to saw-cut the newly poured slab to accommodate the wires and pipes necessary to tie the plumbing to the island. The saw-cutter came out and cut the concrete. I busted it out. There is strangely nothing straight-forward about this. It looks cracked, it can move, but I cannot remove the piece I am working on.

I found it gratifying to use the sledge hammer on the concrete right up until I got to the deeper foundation concrete. My sledge hammer literally bounced off this stuff. So, I found it hard to work with. Next, I went to Home Depot, which I own, and rented a jack hammer. This 30-lb light-duty device helped me chip out some of the more delicate areas around existing pipes and corners. It, however, failed to penetrate the foundation sufficiently. So, I went to Home Depot, which I own, and rented The Whacker. This device actually comes with its own moving dolly. I was able to jackhammer my way to success using The Whacker. I’m sure the digital nerve damage and hearing loss were worth it.

Now I'm scared of concrete.

Merry Christmas 2006

Much like Saddahama Huseinne, we have been living our last several months of freedom in a cave or basement. I don't know if we will be found and removed from this hole, but it seems unlikely. The contractors will grind the floor tomorrow morning at 7. Joy to the World.

So, Merry Christmas to everyone. We, the Crandalls, have many things to be thankful for or complain about depending who you are. The drywallers were in today to do some touch-up sanding of some rough spots and Debi was following them around making sure all was OK. I should preface this by saying that I am the inept contractor of our remodel. I try to run a safe jobsite and periodically I am caught off-guard because I could not forsee problems that could easily been avoided by someone who does this more or less professionally. I, on the otherhand, regularly endanger others who view our progress. One of the issues I might have under-addressed in the safety void that is our house is the 3" pipe that used to be the down-draft in our old island. This pipe will end up being under the new island and has not been filled in. Nor has it been marked or ground down or temporarily bridged or secured in the least. Until now, everyone has successfully navigated the kitchen without incident. Until now.

So, Debi is wandering around with the English-is-my-second-language-and-I-should-get-around-to-studying-it-someday drywaller chick and she is examining the computer desk area in the kitchen. She then spun around as la chick wanted to show her something across the room. She mistakenly looked at the thing, not down at her feet and her left foot went into the pipe. Not the picture of agility, Debi bent forward and back like one of those crappy toy figures they give out at Sonic with the suction cup on the bottom. She sprang back upright but not until she had sufficiently injured her shin bone and twisted her ankle.

She is resting comfortably now in our bed with soreness in her shin, ankle, and surprisingly, her left hip doesn't work anymore.

Eyes like Marty Feldman

My eyes are beginning to struggle. I have always had great eyesight. According to my kid's ophthalmologist, I am one of the few lucky ones. My dad, oh, I have to write about him someday, always had bad eyesight and glasses. My mom had good eyes and has concealed the fact that here eyes are bad now. Her mother was nearly blind. Throughout her life, my maternal grandmother had varying degrees of eye trouble, cornea transplants, collapsed pupils, and generally poor eye health. I think this is where my mother got her intensity about eyesight. I remember driving down the road one day when I was young and commenting that I thought I looked good in glasses. I may have mentioned that I wanted to damage my eyesight in order to deem it necessary to have these glasses to make me look good.

My comments must have been credible enough because my mom reacted in a violent way. Her tirade contained many reasons why I would not want to do such a thing. She was spitting fire and hollering as she demanded that I swear on a stack of shoes that I would never do anything so stupid. Of course I wouldn't. Although it was a known fact even then that people with glasses were smarter than people who were unbespecticled. There I was -- Mr. Dunderboy Nakedface.

I remember how much my friends were jealous of my eyesight. When we would drive somewhere (especially to the South Twin where it was dark) I could see the street signs far sooner than my friends. They thought I was blessed with a super power to be able to see like I could. I would deem that superpower-lite as my vision at the time was 20/15.

I was told that my eyesight would vanish when I turned 40. I remember reading a book aloud that night and when the clock struck 12 I still had the ability to read and see. I beat the odds, donchaknow. Now, at 45, I recognize the symptoms of gradual blindness. I didn't know doing that would cause such a belated effect. Checking my palms now. I now read everything just fine except when I get tired. I find that focusing when I am really tired has become interesting. I have tested this to see if there are times when I have more or less difficulty and the only thing I can tell is that when American Idol comes on I am instantly blinded. It must be Realitvigmatism.

Here's the weird part: I got some +1.25's for the tired reading times. If I get tired, I bust them out like a proud grandpappy dragging a fart through a crowded mall. I use them for a second and then I realize that I don't like them so I take them off and I can see better with them off. I can't explain that. I didn't think corrective lenses actually corrected anything. But they seem to correct my ability to see as Mr. Nakedface. So much for me donning glasses to look smarter. I can't wait for the day when I get to wear a neck-strapped pair of +2.00's around my neck everywhere I go. That will look cool. Sorry mom.

Vomitorium

I haven't posted for two weeks - since the ugly bug got the house. I guess I should record our experience so if we ever look back on this we will remember the days following Thanksgiving 2006. It was Thursday, and by Friday midnight 5 out of 6 of us were blowing. It hit each of us at about the same time. There was literaly one moment when Max was driving the porcelain bus, Caitie was hanging over the sink, Olivia had a bowl in the bathtub, and I came around the corner headed to the bathroom. Debi, the only survivor of this ordeal, began to laugh and directed me up stairs to find a functional toilet because there was absolutely nowhere else to puke. It would have been funny if it weren't so gross.