I Need a Teleporter: Both Vehicles are Broken Now.

So we were driving to work the other day happily unaware that shit was sneaking up on us like a tiny assassin made out of bad luck and car repair. Unfortunately we became aware of it when the check engine light came on. So Scott got out of the car at a gas station and did things under the hood that I did not understand and then he checked the oil level and it was like super dry and then he was all like fuck we have an oil leak. And I was all like that would explain the burning ass smell when we start the car. Because who drives around with there car smelling like burning mechanical ass without doing anything about it?

We do.

So in addition to the truck being up on blocks we now have a problem with the car. Which if you are counting along at home means that the only thing we now have running is the backhoe. Which is not street legal and I'm pretty sure that we can't drive that to work. Fairly sure.

Of course this whole thing got more complicated because this is my life and nothing can ever be simple. Because of our work schedules we had three days off to fix the car. Sounds like plenty of time right?

Ha ha no.

Because Day One of crazy vehicle repair time we had just got home from an overnight job and it was like, 5am. So the only thing we managed to get done was driving our tired zombie asses to the auto parts store where of course they only had parts for the truck and had to order the parts for the car. Also we made the decision to get all of the parts at once for both vehicles because I have come to accept that money isn't a thing I get to have anymore.

Goodbye paycheck, may the wind be ever at your back.

Anyway we got the parts back home and then went and tried to stay awake until bedtime because that is something that adults do for some reason. At this point we decided to work on the truck breaks on Day Two because we had all those parts and it was already sitting there and then when we got the car parts we could work on it later on in the afternoon.

What this really translated to was that we spent most of the day fighting the truck breaks.

So first we got out the parts for the front breaks on the truck. Now these are disc breaks and we have done a bunch of disc break work before and were all like this should go pretty fast. Which if you are familiar with this blog means that everything went to hell in a poop basket.

To explain, the part that we had to replace is this metal shell called the break caliper that holds the break pads. So when you step on the break the caliper squeezes the pads into this round dish called the break rotor. Basically when you break the caliper gives the rotor the biggest hug ever. This also means that when you go to replace the caliper you have to shove the pads into it and then put it over the rotor like a taco. A metal filled taco.

Except one of the calipers didn't want to go on. At all. Ever. So we fought with it. We pried and swore and used the hammer. We took turns swearing at it while we beat on it with various things in the vicinity. About then Scott got fed up and we put the other side which went on perfectly just to make us think we were crazy.

It was about then that we discovered what the problem was. The thingajig the caliper bolts onto was bent. I don't just mean a little bent, like oh we could straighten this up with a hammer, no I mean like bent to shit to the point that when we gave up and went to get the car parts the guys at the AutoZone told us our best bet outside of going to a junk yard was to heat it up with a torch and bend it back. Of course this would mean that we would be weakening the metal so when the fucker breaks it is going to break right at that point and then I pointed out that I was a terribly unlucky person and the auto guys who had watched us buy parts for two cars at the same time kinda had to agree.

Of course it was like too damn late in the day when we went to the auto parts store because breaks are assholes like that. So then we got all the parts we needed for the car and drove home, and then we noticed it was getting dark. We also noticed that we had one day left to do this. So we strapped on headlamps, got out a work light and began to take the engine apart.

Did I mention we have to replace the gaskets in the engine? And that we have to take the engine apart to do it?

We had to take the engine apart.

So this involved us standing in the driveway with a work light and headlamps, labeling every wire, tube and hose on the damn thing in order to get it back together the next day. Of course it was windy as fuck too. So we get all our shit together and I ask what I can do to help and then Scott tells me to get a rag and to pull off some such hose and then I get some pliers and take the little metal thing that holds the tube on and pull it down the tube and then I grab the rubber firmly and pull and instantly a whole shit motherfucking ton of fluid comes out of there like a goddamned fire hose and I freak out and shove the whole thing back in and then I am like what do I do?

And then Scott is like, just take it off and then I pull it out again and this fucking liquid goes fucking EVERYWHERE and Scott is all like holy shit that was overfilled and then we freak out and stuff paper towels in the hole in a dim attempt to stop the deluge and then I look down into the car and everything is dripping and then Scott is all like, we'll have to clean that tomorrow and I'm like fuck this is gonna make the car smell great when we start it up again.

So then we go back to unhooking things and labeling them and I don't have any more hoses spew gunk all over me and then it gets windy as fuck because ha ha the weather hates my guts. Finally we are getting pretty tired and my knees are trying to murder me and I am limping around because leaning way over the front of the car is something they don't like to do, apparently and then finally, finally we can pull off one of things we need to replace and clean.

At this point we are joined by Tom Tom Tiger our kitty. He proceeded to demand attention. We try to explain that we are covered in black gunk from the motor we are scrubbing down and that he will have to wait. He stalks off.

So there I am busy scrubbing down the inside of this integral car thing, wondering if it is possible for my fingers to get any colder, when I hear a squeak. I look down, and in the weak beam of my shitty Wal-mart headlamp I see Tommy has caught a mouse. Which is alive. Which he lovingly gave to me.

By putting it on my foot.

We quit pretty much right after that.

So tomorrow we have to install the new gaskets and then put the freakin engine back together and then get ready for work the next day. Should be a piece of cake right?

Right?

Fuck.

I Fixed the Toilet. I am a Toilet Champion.

I was deep in the midst of cleaning the other day when I got a nasty surprise. I was doing my usual method of cleaning a shitty mobile home from the eighties which involves taking everything that had accumulated in the living room throwing away the trash and then putting whatever is left into the no mans land that is the tacked on toilet bathroom area in the bedroom that is missing the dividing wall because rednecks.

It's a system I have.

I didn't say it was a good system.

So I was back there doing shit when I happened to glance over at the toilet and realize that the entire area and plywood under it is soaking wet. Of course after just replacing the ENTIRE FUCKING FLOOR because of a leaky water heater I went into defcon panic mode three and proceeded to loose my shit all the way back into the kitchen where I grabbed Scott and made him look at it because that is just the cross husbands have to bear.

So he gets flashlights and pokes around and announces that the bolts that hold the tank onto the bowl part are leaking. So then he tells me he is going to go up to the shed and see if he has any rubber washers that would fit those and then he walks up to the black holes of insanity that our are poorly organized sheds. Then I get the bright idea that because of the older mobile home we abandoned to the wolves are using as storage we have a spare toilet.

A spare toilet with bolts on it that is.

So I tell Scott of my plan and he points out that toilet is even older then this toilet but I can take a wrench over there and see because it is not like he is making any progress here. So then I grab a head lamp and some tools and some cat eye medication because I have taken to dosing Emoticon's eyes whenever I see her and then I go over there.

Of course the cats are there and feed them and put drops in Emoticon's eyeball and then she tells me she hates me and then I go inside and see about getting that motherfucking toilet apart. I figured that this bit was going to be, like super shitty because the bolts were like 40% rust and were probably bent on becoming one with the porcelain like metallic budists. Luckily for my plan but not for my sanity the bolts weren't even motherfucking tight.

Ha ha lol. Whatever.

So I pull those fuckers off and see that the rubber seal on them is still intact and then I am all like, score. So I take them back up to the shed and clean them up and tell Scott I think this is going to work and then I pry him away from checking endless drawers and boxes and totes for rubber washers and we go back inside and try to get the old bolts off.

The operative word being “try.”

Because it turns out that the top of the bolts, the part that sits in the tank, was completely gone. Like the water had rusted it away to nothing. So then we had to pry the rubber washer bits off, or more like what was left of them. Of course it was rusted away just enough to stop me from being able to unscrew the nut but not enough to allow us to pull the washer up easily.

Which is how we ended up breaking another part of the toilet.

So in the end we managed to pull away the rubber washers and scrap the remainder of the tops off and shove the bolts down through the holes with a screw driver. So then I install the new pieces, muttering vague swear words and pleas to the god of toilets that this fucking works and then I tighten them down trying not to think about all the weird toilet tank poop water that's probably on my hands by now and then it fucking works.

Of course being paranoid I kept checking on it and wouldn't let Scott put any of the tools away till like twenty minutes later because I kept expecting to fail magnificently somehow but so far it appears to be good. Then I had to clean my hands like fifty million times while singing “I fixed the toilet” to the tune of “I shot the sheriff” while Scott offered me pie to stop me from singing.

Which was very effective, I might add.

So in conclusion, I am the Toilet Champion.

Champion of Toilets if you prefer.

I should put that on my business card.

Truck Break Lines Day Two, a More Sober Account.

Luckily on day two of trying to fix the damn break lines my body seemed to be adjusting to the medication a bit better and I know longer felt high as a goddamned kite. Which was almost disappointing because in the cold harsh light of almost sobriety rerunning break lines sucked all the ass.

So to recap my former really, really drugged up on prescription drugs I have to take because my stomach is an asshole account of the first day, we ran all the break lines leading to the front tires to this hub thing that sits bolted to the bottom of the frame of the truck and we ran the two main lines from the hub thing to the reservoir that holds the break fluid. So the break fluid gets to go on a super awesome fun water ride down to the hub where it get sent out to each tire on a slightly less magical adventure. You know, in case my loose rambling drugged up previous account didn't cover any of this.

It totally didn't cover any of this.

I could go back and edit it to make more sense, but that would ruin the memories. The drug memories that is.

Anyway today's super special mission was to run the lines to the back tires. So two lines needed to follow the frame of the truck from the front hub to the back hub, and then two more lines from the back hub to the tires. Don't worry if that doesn't make any sense, because after what I went through I think the best option is that if your break lines fail you should just buy another car.

So first off we get out the lines going to the back and then we get them all set to go and then I crawl under the truck to the back hub and Scott tries to feed the line in from the front. Except there's this bit where the lines have to go around the frame and some other bullshit I don't understand. And of course since we bought pre-bent lines they have all sorts of zig zags in them all ready.

So basically it was like trying to shove a coat hanger that has been through a grain thresher through a keyhole. Except the keyhole has a ninety degree turn in it.

It was awful is what I am trying to get at here.

Of course at one point we got the whole thing hopelessly stuck to a point where we couldn't go forward or back so we put a coupler there and Scott had to deal with all the excess on his end because we are not super mechanics here and hopefully everything will work and we won't go careening over a cliff because my state doesn't believe in guard rails.

So the next step was trying to get the rear lines on from the hub to the tire parts. The problem here was that the bolts were so rusted that I had to scrape rust off to get the wrench on and then when I did get the wrench on the damn thing it didn't move at all whatsoever. Of course Scott was still struggling to attach shit to the front hub so I was on my own.

What followed was a montage of both of us laying under the truck on plywood grunting and whimpering as we fought those motherfucking ass break lines into place with our blood sweat and tears.

In the end I still has to get Scott to undo the bolts for me. Which pretty much set a president for the rest of the day while Scott did all the hard shit and I handed him tools because for whatever reason I could NOT get any of the rustastic bolts off and I couldn't get any of the new ones in.

Which pretty much destroyed any lingering glory from that wheel strut job we did last winter. Not that I am bitter or anything. Although I suppose I could just blame this attempt on the drugs.

So about this point we work our way back up to the front hub. You know the one we sweated and bleed all over the first day to attach the front lines too? Well it turns out we can't get the last line off of it. We tried everything we could think of and even debated taking a torch to it but Scott vetoed that plan because it was right next to the fuel line and Scott hates being set on fire by a seemingly unending spray of gasoline.

So after some cursing and a cup of tea, we decided we are going to have to remove that hub piece I don't really know the name of and possibly replace it.

Which would totally negate all our efforts from yesterday.

So Scott pulls it off and then takes it up to the sheds and manages to remove the stuck line and then we wrestle the damn thing in place and reconnect the lines which sucked all the ass and took like an hour of our lives.

And by 'we' I mean 'Scott.'

I mostly got him tools and then crouched right in front of him to keep the sun out of his face because by this time it was trying to set on us and finally, finally the damn thing was all together and then we decided to bleed the breaks later.

So then we threw the tools in the truck cab and went back up to the house and had dinner which I can't taste at all because this is seriously the most fucked up stomach medication in the world and I had to keep asking Scott if dinner was good and he kept telling me it was and now I have to go take a shower and maybe eat some chocolate.

You know, to see if I can taste it.

Purely in the interest of science, you understand.

Purely.

The Breaks on the Truck Died a Sad and Terrible Death.

So awhile ago we were getting firewood and we had unloaded the last load and then I went into the house to take the dog out and then Scott got back into the truck to put it into the upper driveway and then the breaks died and then he had to use a fence post and the woodpile to keep the truck from rolling into the ditch and then he had to ease it onto the lower driveway without sending it over the bank and into the creek.

Which was fun.

And then we had to go to work and then there was more work and then Scott ordered more break lines on the internet and then we flash forward to today to where we happened to be home for like a whole 48 hours and it wasn't snowing outside.

So after doing my morning chores and taking all the pills I need to take now because my stomach is a dick we went out to install the new break lines. So we drug everything we needed all the way down from our sheds to the end of the other driveway and then we got ready and we took the break lines out of the box and then we slid plywood under the truck so we didn't have to lay on the freezing cold gravel and then we girded our respective loins and then I realized that I was starting to feel a little weird. Because new medication and all. “It's okay” I said to myself, “this is like the third day on these fuckers, I'll feel a little weird and then I'll be fine.”

In retrospect, that was the stupidest thing I have ever thought.

But I'm blaming it on the drugs.

So Scott took the old lines off and I handed him tools and listened to him invent new swear words because the bottom of a 85 Chevy from the mountains is like 80% rust and then he sent me up to the shed to get some wrenches. Which of course meant I had to cross one field and our yard and then walk all the way up to the shed. To counter the fuzzy feeling of the meds I just chanted what he wanted me to get so I would not forget and then I got to the shed and opened the drawer of box wrenches and then I just stared at it for awhile trying to figure out what the words I was saying meant and that's when I realized I was high as balls.

As balls here people.

Balls.

So then I get back with the tools and Scott is all like where is the 17mm wrench and I was all like, um, ah I couldn't find one. And then he was kinda irritated because he had to walk all the way back to the shed but I didn't care because I was chemically unable to give a fuck.

Anyway at this point I usually give a run down of what we are doing but this time I can't do that because I had no idea what was going on. My whole day was a series of disconnected things that happened. And all of them sucked ass.

First off we had brought the pre-bent break lines because we assumed it would be easier to install them. Unfortunately all that did was make it incredibly hard to get the fucking metal tubes through all the other shit in the truck. They kept catching on things like the frame and the whatsadoozit and then we couldn't get the threaded ends to line up with the hub thing that they went to and then they wouldn't thread on because nothing can ever be easy.

So we would take turns laying under the truck trying to get them to thread on and they were all like, ha ha ha no. And then we would switch places and try all sorts of arcane things to bend and shove the break lines into alighting with the break thingamajig until finally I gave up and got out from under the truck and Scott asked me to get something and then I found I could only walk to the left for about five steps and then I almost ended up in the garden.

Because muscle relaxers.

So then Scott pulled some magic trick and got the damn things to thread and then we gave up for the day and then I was thinking about spending my evening sitting in a prescription drug haze and then Scott reveals that all we got done were the front breaks and we hadn't even touched on the back breaks yet and then I thought about doing this all again tomorrow and then I supposed I should have felt depressed but then I didn't really feel anything other then the fact I was loopy as fuck.

And of course this would have been the night we were supposed to go to dinner at grandmas and then I had to pretend that I was totally super not stoned out of my fucking mind even though my pupils were the size of dinner plates.

Which was like, dinner challenge level 5000.

Luckily I think I pulled it off.

Maybe.

Mostly. Sortof. Pretty sure.

Oh god sweet Jesus take me now.

Ahem. I'm fine.

Or well I will be when I take the next dose, that's for damn sure.

We Fixed the Furnace. Again.

So the next day we got back up determined to get the correct part from the hardware store that is not conveniently located and try to fix the motherfucking fuel oil furnace before we froze to death or the cold demon got us or something. So after doing the morning chores and a good hunk of the afternoon chores we got in the car and sped off to the store where we found the correct CAD eye cell dealy bober and then we somehow ended up in a Walmart because they have mind control rays or something. Oh and I needed muffins. When I have stomach problems I eat muffins. That's just how I roll.

Anyway we got back to the house and then faced the super not fun at all task of installing the damn thing. The CAD Cell eye dohicky went in fairly well, because all we had to do was pull the old one out and snap the new one in.

And by “we” I meant “Scott.”

And then he also did a bunch of stuff with the wiring on it I did not understand and then he moved on to the damn door latch because this is replace all the parts day on this farm. So then he poked it and I asked if he needed a hand and then he said no and then he was all like wait can you get me my Leatherman so I did and then he does some other shit and then he says he doesn't need me. Then the next thing I hear is “I hope I don't get shocked.” Followed immediately by “OW FUCK!”

Which is really the last thing you want to hear at that point.

And then I reappeared at the end of the hallway and was all like “What the hell happened?”

And Scott was all waving his arm around like a Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Man and he was all like “I just got shocked what the hell do you think just happened?!”

And then I'm all “Why didn't you just turn the damn breaker off?”

And then he was all like “I didn't know which breaker it was.”

An then I was all “why don't we test the damn breakers because I am like standing right here?”

An he was like, “okay.”

So then we went and I turned the damn breaker off and he put in the switch without getting electrocuted and then I went to make a cup of tea and I came back to him sitting on the floor in front of the furnace staring into it's depths with his tools all around him and then he tells me it isn't working.

And then I am all like “why don't you shut the door?”

And then he is all like,” well that would make sense since I just replaced the damn door latch.”

And then he shut the door and the fucking furnace came on and now the house is approaching livable instead of witches titty. And nobody died. That's the most important part. The lack of death. By electrocution.

Of course now I have to go take off the super fleece thermals I put on because it being like 50 degrees inside all day while I was feeling like ass was super not making me happy at all ever so I put on all the layers ever until I felt like a fat starfish but now I am like way, way too hot.

Which is fantastic really.

So if you excuse me I am going to celebrate my new found heat by going down to one layer and eating some crackers.

You know, being my usual wild off the hook self.

It's gonna be a party.

A heat and cracker party.

So the Furnace Broke. Again.

So a few days ago I awoke to the special joy of it being the same temperature outside as it was inside. Which was cold. Because of course the fuel oil furnace had refused to turn on. Which was super great for my stress levels. I mean it's totally not like our 40 to 30 degree weather has me burning firewood that I had set aside for the dark cold depths of winter and also the wood stove cranks the inside temperature into the Sahara or anything.

I mean, it's not like we already paid someone to come out and fix it once.

Ha ha hah no. Fuck.

So I awoke to the super balls cold of 47 degrees and put on thermals and made a fire and then played an extra special round of what is wrong with the furnace this time. Of course when hitting the reset button failed to produce an furnace operating epiphany, we fell back on the old standby of poking it a few times and then went to find the list of things the old dude who had come to fix it said we might have to replace at some point.

Because we were now at “some point.”

Unfortunately because of our work schedules we could not make it to the store during the hours it was actually open because I only know of one store that even sells fuel oil furnace parts and it is a locally run store that isn't open on Sunday and past five. Which was also unfortunate because my body picked that night to become hellishly sick and I spent a good chunk of time huddled on the bathroom floor at 47 degrees.

Which was, if you are wondering, the exact opposite of fun.

It was also the exact opposite of fixing that furnace.

It also meant that I had to miss work. Which pissed me the shit off because unless I am actively dying to the point that Jesus is coming for me and I can see the light of heaven I usually go to work. Because money.

So after wandering around the ice cold motherfucking mobile home I decided to make a fire and crank the stove up to like eighty because my skin hurt too much for me to just put on a goddamn sweater and then I tried not to think about how cold it was going to get overnight because there was no way in hell I was going to get up at 2am and put more wood in the stove.

So I spent another freezing ass night where I realized that the dog is only capable of heating my torso even if I put him under the blankets with me and then my legs felt like stiff pieces of wire and like they were trying to get a divorce from my torso and then Scott came home and we went to buy more furnace parts.

Of course we were going to take pictures of the parts with our phones because planning and then we didn't because bad planning and in the end we just bought what the sales guy said would fit our stove based on our loose description of what we had.

It's how we roll.

Which was when we learned that a new CAD Cell Eye, you know the bit that regulates the fire and whatnot is like 8 bucks and a new door switch is like, 19 because the door switch is made out of unicorn horn or someshit. So we were just like whatever we need this to work and then we get home and of course it isn't the right CAD Cell thing because ha ha fuck you Holly and your shit dreams.

So now we are going out to buy the other CAD Cell Eye thingadoozer and then try to install it and then if that doesn't work I am building a blanket fort in my office and living in it with the dog until spring.

You know like a mature adult would do.

Okay.

I guess Scott can come too.

Septic Instillation and the Water Heater Aftermath.

Despite the day before being god awful and my sinus infection and the fact I was sleeping in a fucking tent I awoke the next morning at six forty five and crawled out of the tent flap like a zombie coming out of the grave so I could take care of all the pets before 8am when the septic guys were coming to install the septic system for the house that I haven't started building yet.

You know, that house.

And of course check on the sub floor in the bedroom and see if it is dry so I can lay vapor barrier down. So I get up and take care of the pets and try to reassure the dog that we are not trying to kill him with all these changes and then I fantasize about washing my face and then I throw caffeine in my mouth and eat food and then have more caffeine and then I find real clothes and start assembling the tools I am going to need. I also notice that the stress plus upcoming time of month plus not being to wash my face has left me with so much acne that my pimples have pimples. Fantastic.

So then I slap on my respirator and then I realize that that vapor barrier I want to lay down is in the pick up under all the plywood we just bought because of course it is. And also that I needed to take that other Benadryl from the Clinton administration because my bee stings were itching like crazy.

So I pop that in my face and switch into plywood unloading gloves and then the septic guy is here and we watch him unload the backhoe and I talk with his wife who was driving the utility pickup while I clutch yet another mug of tea and then we follow them over and then I want to get back to work but they keep asking us questions about this and that and the electrical box and the best way to get the backhoe in and then me and Scott tag team off and he goes to cut plywood and then the truck with the tanks shows up and stares at our mud pit of a field and then I catch the driver looking at me weird for a moment and then I remember that I am a big pimply mess with three deep grooves in my face from the respirator that all the people I am about to pay money to today have been ignoring except for the backhoe drivers wife who keeps shooting me looks that are half pitying and half scared like I am lying about the water heater and have actually been hacking up alien bodies in the bedroom. But she laughed at my jokes so I decided to forgive her. Mostly.

Giving up on dignity, I stayed to watch them lower in the tank which Scott showed back up for and took pictures of the damn thing with his phone for me because there was no way I was walking all the way back up to the mobile home to get the damn camera.

 Pictured, my hopes and dreams and a concrete poop tank.

The tank came in two sections and they sealed them together and then they had to work out how to get the giant ass truck out of my muddy ass field. Let me put it this way, the guy putting in the tanks first words when he saw the hole for it was “no wonder you needed this set up, your water line is like, eight inches below the top soil.”

Then he went on to say that he thought they should have bought in the dozer to pull the truck out and I saw the bill ratcheting up another thousand dollars and my blood pressure shot through the roof and then the backhoe operator said he could probably pull him out with the boom arm no problem and then I felt kinda bad about threatening them with the shot gun accidentally last night. And then the driver just nodded and said he would try to act like he knew what he was doing and then he hopped in the cab and then the backhoe and him danced the beautiful and ancient dance of their peoples and he slowly made his way to the road and then I felt myself take a breath.

That was until we had to find a way to turn him around. You guys remember that electrical line going to the mobile home? The one that was damaged during super storm Sandy? The one where the pole is leaning sadly uphill towards the main pole like it had too much to drink?

Well it hasn't improved very much since then.

So he kept having to make like, a thirty point turn and he kept hitting and hooking that damn line and we were all dispatched to find a board to hold it up with and then the backhoe guy got tired of waiting and used the boom arm to lift the line up in what I am sure was the safest move ever and then the truck got turned around and Scott went to make sure that he got out of our driveway okay and then my heart started again.

Then tank installer guy did some other stuff and then I decided that the part they needed me for was over and then Scott came back and I went up and unloaded the truck and had more caffeine to hide the fact that I was sick as shit and then I picked up the vapor barrier, got the tools I was going to need and got back into that bedroom to kick that floors ass.

The plan was to stick the plastic down with spray adhesive and then staple it to the floor and walls, because I'll be damned if I just sticking it to the floor after all this. So after fucking around with the first sheet trying to get a good system and not get my rubber kitchen gloves stuck to everything because spray adhesive is a motherfucker I got into a groove. Scott would periodically show up and take measurements and inform me of how the septic thing was going, but otherwise I was on my own.

We had also decided to paint the underside of all the plywood pieces with mold resistant pain because we are not playing this damn game again so Scott was frantically trying to get the pieces cut so that he could paint them and they would dry sometime this century.

Also at some point I staggered back outside to breathe some air and found that the county health inspector had arrived at some point and passed us and then I went back inside, got back down on my aching knees and began to glue some more vapor barrier to the floor and try to ignore the fact it was like 1pm and I was hungry. Then Scott came back in to tell me that they were done and tank guy had left a while ago and backhoe guy was starting to load and then I got unto a groove in the middle of the room where I didn't have to make any weird cuts along the walls and I was about to tell Scott he could start to bring in plywood now when he burst through the door and told me the firewood guy was here and that we had to get everything out of the driveway so he could pull in even though there was still a semi with a backhoe still out there.

So then we frantically brought in plywood and cleared the sawhorses while backhoe guy finished loading and then we moved the cars and then firewood guy backed in at the same time as I got the bill for the septic which was mercifully about what I thought it would be which was wonderful and good and fantastic and then I went and wrote that man a check right then and there which involved half leaping and climbing over all the bedroom shit that was shoved into my office and then I walked back up the drive and put it in his hand and he smiled like I had just given him exactly what he had always wanted for Christmas and then him and his wife gave me a look like they were seeing me clearly for the first time, pimples, respirator lines, floor clothes and all and then they walked back to their respective vehicles and I went and put my head on the firewood guys truck and told him I was sorry but my life had exploded.

And then he calmly told me he could see that and asked if I wanted another load and I said sure what the heck and he left and then I wrote out a check for him for his return because I firmly believe in paying people the instance the job is done because these people have worked damn hard for me and the best way to show them that is with money.

Sweet, sweet money.

Then I gave the check to Scott and went back into the room to discover that it didn't really smell like Pine-sol and death anymore and then I allowed myself to feel the tinyist glimmer of hope that maybe things would get better, traded in my respirator for a dust mask and then started putting in the rest of the vapor barrier while pretending my bee stings didn't itch like a motherfucker.

So then I finished stapling plastic to the walls and ate a peanut butter sandwich that somehow still tasted bland and awful even though I was hungry as fuck and then I started to screw plywood to the floor to make it look like a room again.

Of course some of the plywood couldn't be cut until the main sections were down to see how they fit so it seemed like we had hit a halt while paint was drying and then Scott was all like, we have most of one side of the room, why don't you start laying down tile. So then I started to lay down the peel and stick tiles, which was like the easiest thing in the world except they were sticky as fuck the the room wasn't straight. So then it became like a race with me trying to get tiles down as the plywood was coming in and then I looked out the window and saw the sun slip behind our ridge and looked at the spot the water heater was going to go and said let's do that next so we can have like, water again. And Scott was like okay.

But of course it wasn't that easy because we had also removed the toilet. Which we now had to put back on. Which meant fucking with the plumbing because with the plywood down we now had to raise up that little seal thing that the other sealing ring whatchamadozit hooks to. The things the toilet bolts to. That thing. It had to hook up with the floor thing, which was now half an inch too low because I bought the thick plywood.

Foresight I has it.

So then we tried several things that failed until we used two multitools to lever the thing up and then we tried to figure out how to keep it up there and then in the end Scott cut tiny chunks of plywood and we hammered them down under it and boom done.

Like the professionals do it. I'm sure. Pretty sure.

Then we put the ring on and argued about how it went and then we hit problem number two. Which was that we didn't have any of that grease that goes around that ring thing so then I girded my loins. Took off my gloves, because I had more faith in this stuff coming off my hands then the work gloves I paid money for and then I scooped that fucking stuff out from under the toilet and shoved it back onto the sealing ring and smoothed it into the correct shape and tried to pretend that it didn't look like there was bits of turd stuck in it while the tank dripped rust water on me.

I probably should have warned you before hand not to eat while reading this.

Oops.

So then I went and washed my hands outside at the spigot like fifty million times and then we were ready to bring the water heater in. Which of course was so huge compared to the last one that it barely fit and I got my hand squished in not one but two places until we at last got it into the room and Scott gave it a manly bear hug of solidity in order to pick it up and put it in place and he worked on the plumbing while I tiled most of the room like a motherfucker and my knees screamed obstinacies at me until Scott gave me his knee pads which almost kinda helped because at this point my joints were just kinda fucked anyway.

So then at last I finished the main part of the room then I had the joy of joys of cleaning the entire bed and bringing it back in piece by piece while my body was like WTF are you DOING to me? And I was all IF YOU WANT TO SLEEP IN A BED AND NOT ON SOME LUMPY ASS GROUND YOU WILL DO THIS.

Then I got the bed in and we made it and then Scott revealed that the epoxy on the water heater needed to set but he was going to turn the water back on and then the tank had to fill so we would probably have hot water in the morning. So then he turned the water back on and we ate food and I washed my hands while the sink spit and threw water out in chunks because there was air in the line and then the toilet started in too and it sounded like the bathroom was like, constantly farting.

Of course now it was like ten at night and I was trying to figure out how to bathe. Since it was too dark to go to the creek, I figured I could just wet a wash cloth and do what Scott calls a whores bath because he watched Unforgiven too many times. So then I got my shit and some reasonably clean clothes and went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water faucet in the bathrub and was all like, I might take a bath.

And the the tub was all like “WHAT!? DID YOU SAY LAY DOWN THE BEATS?”

And I was all like no. And then it was all like “RAP WITH ME BRO.”

And then I was all like, no.

And it was all like “PSST PSST PSST PEFFFFFTTT PST PST PST PST PFFFFFT PSST PFFFFFFT.”

And then it got water everywhere because there was still like a bitch ton of air in that line. In the end I sort of just ended up wiping myself down like the wash cloth was the worlds most ineffective moist towellet and then I looked at myself in the mirror for a minute which was a fucking mistake and I realized that I needed to go to bed because it was like ten thirty at night and I had had two of the worst days ever and I was convinced the tub wanted to have a rap battle with me.

Mostly that last one though.

I mean I don't even know how to rap.

That tub was trippin is what I am getting at.

Or maybe I should have worn that respirator for a little longer then I did.

Maybe.

The Water Heater was my Watery Judas.

I believe I may have mentioned that our water heater was on it's way out. This first started awhile ago when I noticed that the floor around the tank was a little damp. Unfortunately my plan of ignoring it until it went away was less then effective, so after paying for the guys to install the house electrical box on the pole and then paying for the inspection I then went to town to buy a hot water heater because it's not like I need money to live or anything.

Ha ha no.

So we get the water heater and take it home in the car like the efficient cheap bastards we are. Now the septic guys weren't due to show up for another day, so I figured that we could take a day and install the water heater before they showed up.

I have never been so wrong about anything ever at all in the history of ever.

So along with the heater I had also bought a box of those cheapo peel and stick tiles to put under the new water heater instead of the shittastic plywood and carpet that was under it. Oh and we also thought this would be a good time to tile around that toilet that is inexplicably in the bedroom for no reason at all ever. Mobile homes man, mobile fucking homes.

So we start by shutting the water off and shutting off power to the heater, which was a fucking adventure because nothing on the box was labeled right but hey no one got electrocuted. Our plan was to basically take everything out of the left hand side and the bathroom portion of the bedroom, cut up the carpet, put the tiles down, shove the new water heater in and be done in time to take a shower that evening so we can be clean and fresh for the septic install the next day.

And of course that plan went to hell in a poop basket.

So we cheerfully took the drawers out of the dresser and moved it and took the things off the bed and pulled all of the crap that had migrated in around the toilet back out and proceed to cut up some carpet.

Which is when we discovered the horror.

And by the horror I mean we discovered that the carpet looked moldy. Because the plywood under the carpet was wet. And also moldy. And smelled like all the demons of stink town. So then we were all like, Oh shit fuck. And then we exchanged a look like two people in a slasher flick who have just heard that noise outside and Scott went to find my ass a respirator. Did I mention I had woken up with a sinus infection that morning?

I had woken up with a sinus infection that morning. Ha ha of course.

What followed was us cutting out more and more carpet. And finding more water damage. And then following the water lines across the room like the worst adventure trail ever. This also meant that as we slowly and unwillingly became aware of the sheer scale of our previous laziness the problem we began to remove all our shit from the room. Our clothes. The nightstands. And for everything we took out we saw more mold. On our furniture. On the walls. On our clothes.

Which is when I lost my shit.

I felt hot and cold and nauseated and I couldn't stop pacing around like a caged animal even though I was sick and wanted nothing more then to curl up into a ball and rest. Of course that would have accomplished nothing and unfortunately when you are an adult there is no one to solve your problems but you. And possibly your spouse. I kept texting my Super Best Friend things like 'I am having a nervous break down right now.' And she was all like 'you just have to power through it' and then I was all like, 'we are going to die here' and then she was all like 'mold is something you can fix, just one step at a time' and then I was all like 'the bedroom is a motherfucking lie.'

They say you go through the seven stages of grief when something like this happens. And right then I was in shock. I was in even more shock when we realized that just taking up the carpet wasn't enough and that the plywood under it was shot too. Black mold, the worst kind for me, was growing all over that shit like a minuscule forest.

Right then I thought about every article I had ever read about fungal sinus infections and realized that I was in some deep fucking shit right here. There was nothing to do but rinse my respirator out with mouthwash so I couldn't smell the corpses floor and get back in there. So we began to take up the plywood. Which is when we discovered that the previous owners had left us a surprise. And by surprise I mean basketball sized holes in the floor in two corners of the room.

About that time I also realized that having a nervous breakdown meant feeling really disconnected from my body. Or maybe that was just because I was trying to suck in oxygen through inch think filters.

Whichever.

So I did the only thing I could do. The only thing I know how to do when asking more of my body then it should ever have to give. I got angry. I got plumb mad dog Clint Eastwood angry. I thought about everything that had ever pissed me off. I thought how fucking unfair life was and that the only way to fight it was to seize life by the fucking throat until that bitch cries uncle.

Which is what I had to do, because getting the plywood out the back door and onto the deck sucked balls. See the back door doesn't open fully because of the washing machine. So in order to get a full sheet of that stinking rotting moldy wet plywood out the door we had to bend it. Which involved me standing on the inside of the door and putting my entire body weight on the damn thing while lifting it up over the sill.

Which was fucking fun.

Also we had filled the deck with all of our shit and found myself kicking a path through trash bags and chairs and nightstands and tables until we could stand the plywood up against the stairs and I could try to take a deep breath through my respirator.

Which is when I got attacked by bees.

Apparently the nest of hornets living in our siding did not appreciate my Clint Eastwood anger and had taken to the air in protest. So after freaking out and slapping one angry motherfucker off my arm I looked up to see the air was full of angry black wasps doing some sort of wasp military maneuvers in front of me and I ran back in the door yelling that there were bees and Scott should get back in the motherfucking house. Then we shut the door and I ripped off my respirator so I could fucking breathe in some sweet, sweet mold laden air and then I saw that I was stung on the arm like four fucking times and they were swelling up like motherfuckers and Scott freaked out and tore the house even more apart trying to find Benadryl and then he finally found two pills in the bottom of the first aid kit that looked like they had been there since the Clinton administration and I took one of them and then I texted my friend and told her I was just attacked by bees and she was all like oh shit you really are having the worst day ever and then I told her to kill me.

Of course there was nothing to do but get back at it while I watched my whole forearm get red as shit and send pains into my wrist and elbow because my day wasn't fucked up enough already.

Which is when we discovered the insects. I don't know what they were, other then small black and eating our fucking floor. So Scott mixed Pine-sol and bleach and I rolled up my kitchen glove so it wouldn't even think about touching my arm and then we started to treat the exposed parts of the subfloor. Which is when I came to conclusion there was no way in the history of ever we were getting this in today. The sub floor had to dry and we had to get and cut more plywood. And if we wanted to fix this right we would also need to lay down vapor barrier.

Which is when I slid straight into denial and made Scott pull out some more ruined plywood through the kitchen and out the front door because the deck was dead to me and then we went to buy more plywood and floor tiles.

Of course we had taken everything out of the room at this point so finding some clothes to go to town in was a motherfucking adventure. Since our solution to finding a place for the hanging clothes was to dump them on the floor in the living room and my office it was probably a miracle I found any clothes that weren't moldy or stepped on at all.

Basically it was like the worst scavenger hunt ever.

So we drove out to the lumber store and I paid way too much for four sheets of plywood. It's like plywood is made from the golden tears of virginal unicorns or someshit. Then of course it kinda dawned on me that we had to get this shit home, rip out the rest of the plywood, treat the sub floor and then get it to dry before tomorrow so we could put the new plywood in. Also I came to the conclusion there was no where to sleep in the mobile home except for a four by four chunk of the floor in my office, the bathtub, or the dog crate with the dog.

So I said we are buying some hot dogs and we are going motherfucking camping.

In the backyard.

So when we got back I refreshed the mouthwash in my respirator and then Scott helped me to remove the last of the plywood and I washed down the room with the solution and then I aimed every fan we fucking owned at the worst part of the floor and we drug our water heatery Judas out and threw him face down on the lawn where he could think about what he did.

Then we were all like fuck. The other rooms look like the bedroom has exploded all over them and the house smelled like mold, Pine-sol and bleach and the kitchen was a mess and I was thirsty as fuck and would liked to have a drink other then the case of knock off brand Gatorade we bought and maybe have a shower but ha ha the water is off and our bedroom is a biohazard.

So Scott goes to set up the tent and I carefully creep back out unto the deck and carefully remove the furniture like I am stealing sacred tokens of wasp society like some interspecies Indiana Jones.

Then I stopped and just stared at nothing and tried to both acknowledge that I was tired and also not give into it because we still had to make camp and treat the cats eyeballs and maybe if we were lucky eat something. Before me lay the shattered remains of my day with the water heater on one side and a bunch of rotting plywood on the other with the metal frame to the bed laying half disassembled in the middle. It looked like the there had been an awful battle between the noble Plywoodians and the warlike Water Heater clan and these were the casualties. It was about them I considered throwing up on the lawn but decided I was too damn hungry. And filthy. Which is what led to my next decision.

Bathing in the creek.

I fished out my travel kit and put the soap in a Ziplock bag, got my travel shampoo, and some clean clothes and went out to get Scott and see if he wanted to go with me.

He also suggested we bring towels.

We also took our pistols and a shot gun because it was dusk and we have bears here. So we get down to the creek which is gorgeous as always and I, an old hand at bathing in the creek, found a good spot and set up our stuff and then we get in and it's like the coldest fucking thing ever. Like when you want to find a drink in a cooler at a party so you put your hand in and can't find what you want so you keep your hand in even though it's so cold it hurts because you really want a Mountain Dew. Like that.

And it felt AWESOME.

I was getting clean. The rushing stream slid past me and I watched as the water cascaded over the rocks and everything began to fade to blue and gray as the sun slid away from us and the creek became dark and I could hear the water in my ears and smell the sharp fresh smell of the water and the deep tickly smell of the forest floor and the good green smell of the forest and could feel the cold air moving up from the rushing stream past me into the meadows and I laughed for the sheer joy and impossibly of being chased out of my home and into someplace out of a fairy tale and then Scott laughed too even though he didn't know why I was so happy but we both felt lighter like this was the magic stream from the elvish country from Middle Earth and then I looked and saw the first lightning bugs in the meadow and felt glad that this whole big impossible mess was my life.

Which is when we heard the engine.

My first thought was that someone was stealing my fucking furniture. Scott's was that they were stealing our backhoe. So we toweled off at light speed and Scott shoved his legs in his pants and grabbed the shotgun and I crammed everything back into the bags and we ran. As we moved away from the noise of the water we could hear it clearly. Someone was in our driveway with a big ass truck.

Scott tore up through the field behind the mobile home, shot gun held up high like this was an old western, but I was in sandals so I just jogged up the lower road with my bags cutting a hole in my fucking hands. So then I came around the blackberry patch and got a jolt of adrenaline after a whole day of caffeine and adrenaline and starting running in earnest because there was a truck with a big ass Case Backhoe on the back of it.

And I OWN A CASE BACKHOE AND HOLY FUCKING SHIT MOTHERFUCKERS SOMEONE IS STEALING MY BACKHOE!

I threw my bags down by the tent and hauled ass up the last and steepest part of the hill just in time to see Scott accidentally scaring the ever loving shit our of the septic installing guy who was dropping of his Case Backhoe for tomorrows installation.

With his wife.

Whoops.

Luckily this is the country and he understood and then Scott helped him back in while I got blankets for the tent and my sinus cavities were all like 'you are kidding me with this right?” Then I put medication in the cats eyeballs and then the septic guy left and we made a campfire and ate crappy and possibly undercooked hot dogs and then I crawled into the tent and told myself that tomorrow would be better.

Which was probably a bad assumption.

So what was supposed to take about a day where we pulled the old water heater out, tiled and put in a new one, instead involved taking everything out of the room, ripping out the entire floor down to the bottom sub floor, treating the sub floor with chemicals, spending even more money on plywood and tile, getting stung by bees, bathing in the creek, scaring the shit out of septic guy and then sleeping in a tent that smelled like shower curtain.

So all in all not one of my better days.

Kill me. 

Getting Stuff Fixed by Other People For a Change.

So you know how I have been referring to this year as the Year Everything Broke? You know, because the washer died twice and the fuel oil furnace quit running, and then the car died, and now two hydraulic lines on the backhoe are leaking, the driveway got obliterated, the cats eyeballs went to shit, and the water heater has a slow leak that I have been ignoring except now it's starting to smell weird over there, and my keyboard stopped working and then that little scoller thing on my mouse died and now I have to scroll like a peasant?

So yeah.

Well, in an attempt to stop the flood of things dieing around me like I was in a True Crime Novel we had called a furnace repair guy. So he shows up in his truck about noon. I missed his grand entrance because the dog needed to be walked, but when I arrived back in the house and wrestled the dog into his crate and reassured him that the man in the hallway with all the tools was not about to come over and murder me in cold blood while also maybe turning into a vampire or a were-repair-guy or someshit, I got a good look at him.

I suppose I had expected your standard fixing-shit-guy. You know late 20s to early 40s, bitter about life, either quiet as shit or super talkative we may never get him out of the house but it would be cool to have a beer with this guy sometime and hear the end of the story about when his drunk cousin tried to water ski on the snow while being towed by a 4 ton pick up sort of person.

What I got was a calm older guy who looked like Colonel Sanders with a beard instead of a goatee. He had on a really nice dress shirt and was impeccably groomed. He did not look like the kind of person who drove around in a truck all day working on heaters. He looked like the kind of guy who might try to sell the extra maintenance plan on the car you were buying.

I mostly stayed out of his way, drinking tea and trying to avoid going out and shoveling a shit ton of gravel by hand. Occasionally he would call Scott over, and in his pleasant calm insurance man voice he would explain to Scott something about how the furnace worked. It wasn't until he had disassembled it, cleaned about oh 4 inches of rust and filth out of the exhaust that he walked into our kitchen and handed Scott a super broken super fucked up metal part and told us that was probably causing the problem. Then he put the thing back together with new filters and then he showed us where someone had adjusted the furnace to run with more fuel and less air to make a bigger flame, which he pointed out was useless and stupid.

And then Scott and me exchanged a look and Scott said something bland about it probably being the former owner, which was my dad, and then I had a vivid flashback to one of my dad's stories about moving into a mobile home during college/trade school and being too cold and taking the fuel oil furnace completely apart to “make it run better” and nearly burning the whole damn structure to the ground and having to flee the place with his roommate and standing out in the driveway with his landlord in the bitter winter night waiting to see if all there shit was about to be engulfed in flames.

So then I decided this guy was worth all the money we were paying him times a thousand.

So then he got it running and it was like a million times quieter and then he told us what part to buy if it was still shutting off prematurely and how to install it and then we paid him and he left and then I felt super good about not freezing to death this winter and everything.

You know, sometimes it really is the small things.

Like not freezing to death.

Or having your mobile home burn to the ground because your father thought that bigger flames meant more heat forever.

Like you do.

So Half my Driveway is Gone Now.

So today, or well yesterday by the time you read this, was the day that I discovered that most of the driveway was gone. Let me explain. No, no there is to much- let me sum up.

First off I had to get up at 2am in order to go to work. Which was too damn early really. It was when we were pulling out of our primary driveway that we noticed a sign near the secondary drive way (the driveway to the future house site) that said ominously “high water.” So then we went to work and did work things and we got home at about 3pm. Which is when we noticed the road crew out working in front of the second driveway.

Which is when Scott went over to see if our retaining wall had survived the waters. Which is when he discovered this.

 Ha ha ha FUCK.

Then of course he came back to tell me and of course I was busy doing farm things and had cat puke all down my front from Emoticon who is still in the house and very unhappy about that.

Vomitingly unhappy apparently.

So then I walked over chanting my war chant under my breath. Which at the time consisted of me going “it can't be that bad it can't be that bad” until I got there and it was that bad.

 Why god why!?

Then Scott was all like, it was their storm drain that backed up they should give us free gravel. And then I was all like, yeah that could work. Cause after buying fuel oil and paying my property taxes I was the most broke ass girl in Broke Town. So then Scott called up the county and they told him to talk to the foreman of the road crews and he might be able to fill it with some dirt. Except he was out somewhere fixing the roads. Because of course by the time we got back out there the road crew had gone. Timing- we has it.

So then the only thing we could do was hop in the car and start driving down back country lanes looking for those fuckers. Just picture a montage of decaying barns, mobile homes, ATVs and pretend bridges, beautiful mountain forests and rolling country meadows and you'll have it. Well, also there was a house with a full size dumpster outside that they were just filling with trash. So there was that too. Also it looked like the dumpster had been there since the Reagen administration. The trash too. You know, I mean, if you already have the dumpster...

I'm sure it just smelled lovely on hot days.

Combine that with the guy I saw walking alone the road at 3am holding a dead skunk and looking like the back half of the 70s had hit him and you have a pretty accurate picture of what happens when you start driving down back country roads all random like.

Unfortunately we never found the guys. We even drove down to the road service depot thing with the giant hill of gravel in the back and knocked but there was nobody there. My theory is that they were some sort of Kurt Vonnegut road crew and had temporarily slipped into another dimension while we were searching for them.

Because Killgore Trout is a dick like that.

Anyway then there was nothing left to do but return home and stare at our new miniature grand canyon. Of course we then realized that our plan to get more house trees, or hell do anything with the house had come to a screeching halt because the backhoe was down one driveway and the truck down the other.

Ha ha ha of fucking course.

So now we pretty much have a chasm with the backhoe on one side and the truck on the other. Totally like that one part in Land Before Time where the ground just heaved like a motherfucker and Little Foot lost his grandparents and I totally lost my shit and cried like a little girl. Except this time I am totally an adult and I didn't cry because I still might be able to get the county to fill that and my grandparents are not stuck across a chasm next to the promised land.

Despite it all though there was one shinning and glorious piece of good luck, and that was that the retaining wall survived. Despite the fact that a massive shit fuck ton of water was pouring over it.

Boo ya motherfuckers.

 So then we had dinner and I said that I bet that storm drain was all like, “oh you had wants and dreams Holly, well NOT ANY MORE HA HA HA! I had dreams too once and now look at me I am a fucking storm drain. This ain't what mama wanted fer me. Oh if only my mama could see me now it would break her pore ol' heart. That's what it would do.”

And then Scott told me that the stress was probably getting to me and suggested I watch a movie instead. And then I was all like, I should write a movie about a tormented storm drain that was haunted by it's own failure and took it out on everyone and everything around him.

Which probably means that I should go to bed soon.

I would totally name that movie something sweet though. Like, Under a Road Too Far or Tormented Underground or Turbulent Waters of A Damned and Corrugated Soul.

I mean like instant best sellers right? Right?

I mean like the stress totally isn't getting to me.

At all. Nope. Not me.

Oooooh oh! How about, Failure and Rust in the Eye of the Storm? Yeah!? YEAH!?

I'm telling you.

Oscar worthy.

We Fixed the Washer. Twice.

Twice. Okay. Here is how it went down. First off we didn't get the part, until oh about 5pm. So we had to do that thing where you panic and run around and gather tools because winter means the sun sets earlier then 9pm and it was going to snow overnight because of course it was. Because of course we have to pull the machine out onto the deck to drain it.

So we got the handcart and then we discovered that even with the clothes removed, the washer weighed a fuck ton because apparently water is heavy as shit. Anyway, we managed to wrestled the damn thing onto the deck and then let it's smelly ass water drain out under the deck like god intended.

Then we just had to fix it.

The first time we did this, there was a general air of can do spirit. We were pumped and ready for action. We were excited to see if we really could pull this off. Video's were watched, tools were assembled, high fives were given.

This attempt, none of those things happened.

We tore that washer apart and cursed and huffed and had to get flash lights and tools and then it started to rain freezing rain, and Scott's knee kept hurting him and we both fought about shit and how none of the sockets were the right socket until I fantasized about dragging the washer off into the woods and shooting it.

It might have been the merciful thing to do.

So anyway, we got the damn thing back together and fought it back inside the house, and turned it on. Just like the first time we replaced the direct drive coupler, everything went smoothly. Once again my house was filled with the smooth gentle chugging of a contented washing machine.

That is, until we got to spin cycle.

Spin cycle sounded like the washer was filled with all the demons from hell that ever were ever. You know, like they were all knocking to escape and squealing and grinding. Those demons. Grinding demons. At this point Scott decided to see if the washer was level. Which of course it wasn't because that would have made sense. It was, really, phenomenally not level. By like, a whole lot. So in our second washer based trust exercise, Scott lifted up the machine and I adjusted the front feet until they were level. I will mercifully leave out the part where we first attempted to shove card board under the feet like morons, until we realized the feet adjusted. Because clearly we know washers like, whoa.

Clearly.

Anywho, We turned it on again and of course that helped, but it did not completely remove the demons fix the problem. So I turned, yet again to the Internet. After spending what felt like the better part of the day asking inane questions like, 'does the drum stop when you open the lid in spin cycle?' I came up with an answer. The springs were bad. So in a fit of extravagance I ordered more springs and had them overnighted to my house. Which when you are poor, overnighting something is a big deal. Like a really big deal.

Really. Like I was chatting with my friend while doing this and had to keep asking her if overnight really meant overnight and she had to keep reassuring me that yes, yes it does, and I had to keep freaking out because what witchcraft is this? Parcels, that arrive the next day!? Truly THIS IS THE FUTURE.

And like the fucking rich people magic it was, when I got home from work the next day, lo there was the part in it's neat little bag. So the next morning we got our loins girded and took apart the washer in the heated hallway of not being outside and begun. And by begun I mean we took the washer front off and then couldn't find a spot for it and then we stuck it in the hallway and then I got stuck on the wrong side of it so I basically watched Scott take all the springs off while complaining that it was unpleasant. Then we discovered that part of the spinning noise was coming from the drum bumping a plastic piece on the inside and that it was in fact, not going to come flying apart during spin cycle. So there was that. So we shoved the damn thing back together and turned it on. It appeared to work. We put clothes in it. It appeared to work. We marveled at how quiet the spin cycle was now.

Until it got to high spin.

There is no good way to describe high spin. You know how the Large Hadron Collider was supposed to have destroyed the world? And then it didn't? Well this is what it would have sounded like if it did.* So I am still getting a lot of drum movement and shift, accompanied by the same squeaking sound that preluded it's death the last time. But only on high spin.

Sooooo I am just not using high spin.

You know, it might just be time to replace the washer. Or maybe the drum pads. Or maybe I don't give a fuck anymore because I am wearing clean pants.

Yeah, we'll go with that last one.

*This is a lie. A funny, funny lie.

Everything is Broken.

So last night, our shitty mobile home fuel oil furnace decided to die. It was having problems for weeks, it's just that we had bigger problems. Mainly it was refusing to come on unless we told it that it was the greatest furnace in the whole world, showered it with love and affection, bought it cookies and hit the reset button.

So today, we had the joy of figuring out what was wrong with it. Now, we had been trouble shooting it before this point. We had cleaned the inside, replaced the filters, and replaced the fuel nozzle thing that makes fire happen. And by we I mean Scott. So when we opened up the door and stared down at the dull gray exterior of the furnace, we were fresh out of ideas. That is, until Scott found out that there was no fuel oil reaching the pump. Which of course meant only one thing.

There was a clog in the line.

So I went off to the Internet and looked for a solution. The solution, after a few minutes of frantic Googleing and putting up with Yahoo Answers, was to blow air through the line to clear it. So I got up off my ass and walked back into the hallway, where Scott was sitting surrounded by tools and the smell of fuel oil. I explained the procedure. That you could blow back into the line with a can of compressed air, or a Co2 cartridge. He said okay, hopped up, and returned a few minutes later with an air compressor.

Well then.

So we blew out the line bled it a few times and then turned it on. It appeared to work. The house mobile home began to warm up. We relaxed. So now we wait for it to do it again because that is how life works.

It wouldn't be so bad, except that we were taking time away from working on the car, which needs new motor mounts and shocks, and the Blazer which still needs some work and never did get inspected, and also the toilet backed up last night just to make it extra special. Which is about the point that my Super Best Friend told me the toilet was probably just jealous of all the attention the furnace was getting and decided to act up. Which probably means that the furnace was jealous of the cars. Which probably means I am loosing my damn mind because that makes a terrible amount of sense.

Also, although it is supposed to be spring, or at least damn close to it, I woke up to it being 26 degrees and three inches of snow in the forecast.

Ha ha right.

Did I mention that this was the snowiest winter on record in the history of ever? Have you ever wondered what it is like to spend the snowiest winter on record ever living at the top of a mountain?

It's a lot like when the White Witch took over Narnia, and they had a hundred years of winter, and it was never Christmas, except we totally did have a Christmas but now I have the adult version where I have to buy gifts for other people and I can't even get away with the college version where you get everybody pottery from the Goodwill.

So pretty much just like that. Except I own a furnace and a toilet and vehicles instead of a dam. Otherwise, exactly the same.

Yup. Exactly the same.

Kill me.