Over the course of the semester, my friend Alex thought about starting a blog. I told him all about - probably in far more detail than he ever wanted to know - how much I loved blogging, and how I made all these awesome friends through blogging, and how it helped my writing, and blah blah blah. Somehow, my babbling did not discourage him, and he recently entered the esteemed world of blogging.
In my efforts to be a supportive member of the blogging community, I encourage folks to check out Chaos Collage, the fruits of Alex's blogging exploits. He writes a lot about music, particularly music that the youth enjoy these days, so I am pretty darn clueless in that area. Even when I was a youth, I was an extremely dorky one who either listened to pop shit on the radio (Vanilla Ice, anyone?) or played my mom's and aunt's 45s from the 1950s and '60s. Man, I love them oldies. OK, I liked Madonna a lot, too. Alex is a funny writer, so even if you are a cultural loser like me, there are some great bons mots to enjoy.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Special Anonymous Guest Post & Photo
We have been having a very bad, awful week at work. My co-worker and I were glumly walking out to lunch when we both saw this chair, which had been pushed under a counter, probably to hide what was on the seat.
We both looked down and saw the chair simultaneously, then looked up at each other and cracked up. It was that kind of junior high school laughing where you just can't stop. We ran down the stairs, howling.
"Oh, we thought we had it bad," I said.
"Yeah, but that is proof that it can always get worse," he said. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, now I can always say, "Well, at least I didn't shit myself at work today."
Thanks to my anonymous guest blogger and photographer for sharing!
We both looked down and saw the chair simultaneously, then looked up at each other and cracked up. It was that kind of junior high school laughing where you just can't stop. We ran down the stairs, howling.
"Oh, we thought we had it bad," I said.
"Yeah, but that is proof that it can always get worse," he said. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, now I can always say, "Well, at least I didn't shit myself at work today."
Thanks to my anonymous guest blogger and photographer for sharing!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Better than Horrific
So the super never showed up last night, nor did he call us to let us know that something else came up. This morning he told Husband he'd be by at 8:15. When I called him at 9:00 to see what was going on, he seemed irritated that I interrupted him. However, he did show up at my door within two minutes.
He is truly, honestly wounded that Husband and I don't find the repair job acceptable. He said he's just trying to save the building some money, and a professional tiler would not do a better job. Since I beg to differ, I'll provide some evidence.
This is the original "repair" job that the super was surprised that we found unacceptable:
My favorite part is the "new" tile with a big fucking crack in it. Granted, after we complained, he did fix it. That cracked tile is still there, albeit smeared over with grout:
Oh look! The big chip is still missing from the side. The crack is still ther, just hidden from our cheap camera under all the grout. Speaking of grout, many of the tiles are smeared up with the rough substance. Such pickiness!
He also argued with me about whether water went into the little hole in tile that I pointed out in yesterday's blog post. First, he said that water from the shower couldn't possibly reach that area, which is stupid. Then, when I pointed out the mildew stain from the leaky faucet directly above the hole, he denied there was a leak. We turned the shower on, and I watched a trickle of water flow down into the hole. "See?" my super said. "No leak." When I insisted that there was water seeping into the hole in front of my eyes, he touched the wall. "Oh yeah," he marveled. "It is leaking." I gnashed my teeth. He then put grout directly into the wet hole, sealing in the moisture behind the tiles.
If I paid someone who left me with my current tile situation, I would sue them. And that's the difference between the earnest effort my super made, and the result I expect. I'm sorry to hurt his feelings, and I do think he genuinely believes he is trying to help us, but this leaky faucet is getting plugged by someone else. Harumph.
He is truly, honestly wounded that Husband and I don't find the repair job acceptable. He said he's just trying to save the building some money, and a professional tiler would not do a better job. Since I beg to differ, I'll provide some evidence.
This is the original "repair" job that the super was surprised that we found unacceptable:
My favorite part is the "new" tile with a big fucking crack in it. Granted, after we complained, he did fix it. That cracked tile is still there, albeit smeared over with grout:
Oh look! The big chip is still missing from the side. The crack is still ther, just hidden from our cheap camera under all the grout. Speaking of grout, many of the tiles are smeared up with the rough substance. Such pickiness!
He also argued with me about whether water went into the little hole in tile that I pointed out in yesterday's blog post. First, he said that water from the shower couldn't possibly reach that area, which is stupid. Then, when I pointed out the mildew stain from the leaky faucet directly above the hole, he denied there was a leak. We turned the shower on, and I watched a trickle of water flow down into the hole. "See?" my super said. "No leak." When I insisted that there was water seeping into the hole in front of my eyes, he touched the wall. "Oh yeah," he marveled. "It is leaking." I gnashed my teeth. He then put grout directly into the wet hole, sealing in the moisture behind the tiles.
If I paid someone who left me with my current tile situation, I would sue them. And that's the difference between the earnest effort my super made, and the result I expect. I'm sorry to hurt his feelings, and I do think he genuinely believes he is trying to help us, but this leaky faucet is getting plugged by someone else. Harumph.
Sickness Leads to Accusations of Shoplifting
So, other than the facts that my cough is hurting my throat and my constant nose blowing has helped remove the skin around my schnozz and mouth, the worst thing about this little bout with a cold/the flu is that I can't go to the gym. While I was at Alex's house last weekend, her Wii Fit assured me that I was a normal weight (BMI = 24.1), but suggested that maybe I want to get it down to 22.
That sounds about right to me. I look fine in jeans (Lucky Brand jeans are amazingly flattering on me), but damn, when I get dressed for work in dress pants, I could be mistaken for a 6 month pregnant woman. It's to the point where I don't want to go to the grocery store while dressed for work lest I be accused of shoplifting, as I seriously appear to have stuffed a Butterball turkey down the front of my pants.
The ailment has only moderately curbed my appetite, although fortunately the explosive digestive experience I had on Wednesday has not recurred. (I really can't understand why anyone would risk that scary diet pill - Alli - that makes you shit yourself if you eat more than 15 grams of fat in one sitting.) Anyway, enough bellyaching. I need a nap. (And, seriously? Where did January go?!?!)
That sounds about right to me. I look fine in jeans (Lucky Brand jeans are amazingly flattering on me), but damn, when I get dressed for work in dress pants, I could be mistaken for a 6 month pregnant woman. It's to the point where I don't want to go to the grocery store while dressed for work lest I be accused of shoplifting, as I seriously appear to have stuffed a Butterball turkey down the front of my pants.
The ailment has only moderately curbed my appetite, although fortunately the explosive digestive experience I had on Wednesday has not recurred. (I really can't understand why anyone would risk that scary diet pill - Alli - that makes you shit yourself if you eat more than 15 grams of fat in one sitting.) Anyway, enough bellyaching. I need a nap. (And, seriously? Where did January go?!?!)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Great Bathroom Wall of Tile
The bathroom wall saga continues. Quick recap: while Husband and I were away at the end of the year, the super of our building asked permission to enter our apartment and tear up the bathroom wall to repair a pipe that was leaking. We were promised that the wall would be returned to the condition in which it was found. Uh huh...
For reasons I cannot possibly fathom, the super refused to allow the management company to hire a professional tiler to fix the enormous holes that were ripped in the wall. (The management company was perfectly willing to do this.) Instead, he had his handyman do it, but the tiles were cut to the wrong size, pasted in so that the insulation was still exposed, and fell out when I looked at it closely. The next day, Husband asked the super to stop the work until a professional could come in. When we arrived home that night, the outrageously crappy tiling job was ripped out, and a new job was done. It was not as horrifying as the first job, but did contain problems like this:
Yes, that is a small hole next to the faucet into which water drips, probably causing a mold problem to fester. This is in addition to all the old tiles that were cracked or chipped during the work and not replaced, but left there to look like shit. And the corner, which was originally a curved tile, that is now two glued together at a 90 degree angle with exposed ceramic. Not to mention that the new tiles are a different shade of white than the old ones. Furious, Husband called the management company, which agreed to order appropriate tiles and have them professionally installed.
Today the super told Husband that he refuses to accept that his work is not as good as a professional. When he arrives here at 7:00, I would like to ask him to return the $130 holiday gift we gave him in December, as he obviously enjoys shitting in my bathroom and telling me I should be grateful it isn't diarrhea and that he left me a mop. I would also like to break into his apartment and shatter all the tiles in his shower and tell him that it is perfectly fine. And really, why is he fighting this? The repairs are not fucking coming out of his personal pocket. I trusted him to come into my home when I wasn't there and do what needed to be done to save the building from extensive damage. His repayment is to take my old shower, which was rather ugly, and make it worse.
We all know where this leads: he better hope that he doesn't need access to make repairs ever again if no one is home, as I will now let the whole fucking building collapse before he ever touches a fucking thing in here. Hey, I have homeowner's insurance.
Update: The super did not show up or call us to cancel.
For reasons I cannot possibly fathom, the super refused to allow the management company to hire a professional tiler to fix the enormous holes that were ripped in the wall. (The management company was perfectly willing to do this.) Instead, he had his handyman do it, but the tiles were cut to the wrong size, pasted in so that the insulation was still exposed, and fell out when I looked at it closely. The next day, Husband asked the super to stop the work until a professional could come in. When we arrived home that night, the outrageously crappy tiling job was ripped out, and a new job was done. It was not as horrifying as the first job, but did contain problems like this:
Yes, that is a small hole next to the faucet into which water drips, probably causing a mold problem to fester. This is in addition to all the old tiles that were cracked or chipped during the work and not replaced, but left there to look like shit. And the corner, which was originally a curved tile, that is now two glued together at a 90 degree angle with exposed ceramic. Not to mention that the new tiles are a different shade of white than the old ones. Furious, Husband called the management company, which agreed to order appropriate tiles and have them professionally installed.
Today the super told Husband that he refuses to accept that his work is not as good as a professional. When he arrives here at 7:00, I would like to ask him to return the $130 holiday gift we gave him in December, as he obviously enjoys shitting in my bathroom and telling me I should be grateful it isn't diarrhea and that he left me a mop. I would also like to break into his apartment and shatter all the tiles in his shower and tell him that it is perfectly fine. And really, why is he fighting this? The repairs are not fucking coming out of his personal pocket. I trusted him to come into my home when I wasn't there and do what needed to be done to save the building from extensive damage. His repayment is to take my old shower, which was rather ugly, and make it worse.
We all know where this leads: he better hope that he doesn't need access to make repairs ever again if no one is home, as I will now let the whole fucking building collapse before he ever touches a fucking thing in here. Hey, I have homeowner's insurance.
Update: The super did not show up or call us to cancel.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Intestinal Pneumonia
I discovered that I really like the sound of the words pneumonia and spumoni. There's something pleasing about that "moni" aspect. I also like the Tommy & the Shondelles song "Mony, Mony." Interesting.
So I feel like the champagne bottle that is smashed against the prow of a new ship to christen it. There is possibly nothing worse than trudging to work through slush and snow while a freezing rain falls while congested, coughing, and trying to stop your nose from pouring its liquid contents onto your face. Then I sat through a (very interesting) training in which there was no water available. To keep my throat wet, I drank about a teaspoon of coffee with a cup of cream and two Equals.
However, unless pneumonia affects the intestinal tract, I am pretty sure that I have a stomach flu. Let's just say that as I was walking to the subway after class tonight, my stomach made this growling gurgling sound, and I thought I farted. Your imagination can fill in what happened next. (What scares me is that this is the second time this has happened to me in the last six months, so maybe it isn't the flu. Perhaps it was the cup of cream taking 11 hours to hit me?)
When I arrived home, I dominated the bathroom for a long time. I was afraid to walk away from my safe perch on my porcelain link to the sewer system. After I felt like there was nothing left, I suggested that Husband may not want to go in there for at least a week.
Hopefully, I'll get a little NyQuil-induced sleep on the couch tonight and feel better in the morning. And apologies for the TMI. You know how I love my doody stories...
So I feel like the champagne bottle that is smashed against the prow of a new ship to christen it. There is possibly nothing worse than trudging to work through slush and snow while a freezing rain falls while congested, coughing, and trying to stop your nose from pouring its liquid contents onto your face. Then I sat through a (very interesting) training in which there was no water available. To keep my throat wet, I drank about a teaspoon of coffee with a cup of cream and two Equals.
However, unless pneumonia affects the intestinal tract, I am pretty sure that I have a stomach flu. Let's just say that as I was walking to the subway after class tonight, my stomach made this growling gurgling sound, and I thought I farted. Your imagination can fill in what happened next. (What scares me is that this is the second time this has happened to me in the last six months, so maybe it isn't the flu. Perhaps it was the cup of cream taking 11 hours to hit me?)
When I arrived home, I dominated the bathroom for a long time. I was afraid to walk away from my safe perch on my porcelain link to the sewer system. After I felt like there was nothing left, I suggested that Husband may not want to go in there for at least a week.
Hopefully, I'll get a little NyQuil-induced sleep on the couch tonight and feel better in the morning. And apologies for the TMI. You know how I love my doody stories...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Pneumonia Ice Cream
"How are you?" my dad asked me when I spoke to him on the phone earlier.
"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh, do you have a cold?"
"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"
"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"
This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.
"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)
"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."
I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.
"Ugh, I'm sick again," I said, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh, do you have a cold?"
"Probably, but my lungs hurt when I cough, and my boss has bronchitis, so who knows?"
"What?" I pictured my dad anxiously running his hand through his thinning hair. "It hurts when you cough? You could have pneumonia! Go see a doctor right away for a chest x-ray!"
This is the type of response I'd expect from my mom (who, incidentally, also told me to see a doctor when I mentioned that I was sick and my boss had bronchitis), but not my dad. My mom is a hypochondriac. She worried that my sister was exposed to mercury a few months before she became pregnant (it's a boy, by the way!) when a long-lasting light bulb broke at my parents' house about a week before my not pregnant at the time sister came to visit them. Usually my dad is calmer about health issues.
"I don't have pneumonia," I told him. Although on Sunday night when I was freezing and wearing 8 layers of clothes and had two blankets and barely warmed up, I worried that I had pneumonia. (I'm a lot like my mom.)
"Remember when I had pneumonia?" I was maybe five or six at the time. "It hurt when I coughed, and I ignored it, and then I was on bed rest for a month. Go see a doctor."
I do remember when my dad had pneumonia. I remember him eating a bowl of ice cream while sitting in the living room, watching TV. I remember getting "pneumonia" and "spumoni" confused, although they don't really sound alike. Spumoni was my favorite ice cream when I was growing up (I still like it a lot), even though it was not often available at the grocery store. When I thought that my dad had spumoni, I was intrigued. How could I get me some of that? I wondered. However, it turns out that pneumonia is not nearly as good as spumoni.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)