Drum Brakes are Terrible. Terrible I Tell You.

A few days ago Scott decided that he wanted to get ready to bleed the breaks on the truck since we had already given our blood sweat and tears to replace the break lines. So he got ready to go out into winter while I made a few excuses to stay inside until the last possible second. Luckily for my staying inside as long as possible plan, Scott came back inside about twenty minutes later and announced that he had snapped off one of the bleeder valves and the rest of them were stuck.

Now for those of you who don't understand what all that gibberish underneath your car is, bleeder valves are these little thingamajigs that when unscrewed a little bit shoot break fluid out of them like a leaky sink. Which allows you to get the air out of the break system. Because if you don't get all the air out of the break lines you'll die.

So no pressure or anything.

So of course when you snap the fucking thing off two things happen. One break fluid oozes out and two, you get fucked. I mean like really fucked.

Not just regular fucked.

Because that thing that the bleeder valve connects too, now you have to replace that too. Because nothing is ever easy. Anyway, instead of bleeding the break, we now had to put the truck up on blocks like this is the country and pull the break assembly apart.

Oh joy of joys.

So we trooped outside and I gathered up cinder blocks and bits of boards and other shit that one needs to properly place a vehicle up on blocks in the lawn while Scott broke the tire loose and jacked the truck up. Mainly because I can't be trusted with Jacks. Things happened man. Things happened. Things.

Anyway we pull the tire off and find that the bleeder valves on an 85 Chevy are on the caliper. Which if you recall is the part I think I could replace in my sleep if I had too. Pleased we pulled the calipers off the two front tires like the caliper wizards we are. I decided not to compose a spur of the moment song about Caliper Wizards because Scott does not understand my innate musical talent* and we moved on to the back tires.

Which is when Scott told me that the rear tires have drum breaks and everything went to hell from there. This was my first time seeing drum breaks. They sucked. Like really. Like someone who loves Steampunk had decided to make some fucking breaks. So the break part, the break pad if you will sits inside this fucking circle and when you hit the breaks the pad shoves into the inside of the circle and stops the truck. Or something like that. I am not really sure. What I am sure about is that getting all those bits apart is super shitty.

Like really shitty.

So we pull the large circle thing off, and then we discover the pad bits are held on with springs. Springs that wanted to stay where they are thank you very much. So we fought the damn springs off and then tried to get the thing the bleeder valve was on removed and then we came to the conclusion that that thing was part of the axle somehow.

Which if you are following along at home, means we are like, what are we up to now? Double fucked? Triple fucked? I'm not really sure how fucks compile. I mean this was never really covered in math class. Although it damn well should have been.

Back to the point, it was getting kinda dark because winter plus mountains plus living under a ridge equals a four thirty sunset so we gave up, pushed the tires under the truck cleaned up our tools and went to go eat meat from the crazy meat van.

Hooker Meat. **

*This is a lie. I have no musical ability whatsoever. At all. None. Zippo. Nada. Nothing. Just to clear that up.

** Probably.

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.

The Water Heater, the Aftermath.

After I slept in to the sweet bliss of eight thirty I drug myself out of bed with one goal in mind. My aunt was having a family picnic at 4pm and come hell or high water I was going to take a shower and finish that floor and then go eat BBQ chicken until I couldn't breather and/or walk.

There are worse goals.

So the first order of business after the morning chores was to cut the plywood and paint it and to start treating the furniture for mold. So while Scott drug himself up into the driveway to cut and paint I started cleaning all the furniture. Which was like one of those find the hidden object games except that the hidden object was mold and it was sneaky and fucking everywhere.

Bitch ass mold.

So I got a bucket and some Pine-sol and tried to convince my knees to bend. Normally when I talk about knee pain I mean on the surface of the knee caps from kneeling on a hard or uncomfortable surface too long. This however was new in that there was shooting pains in the knee itself. Like my bodies own special way of telling me to go fuck myself.

Also special was that when I was done treating all the big stuff, was the super awesome not shitty at all discovery that I had to check every damn drawer from both chests of drawers because some of them had mold on them too. Which meant that I had to empty them out into the ever growing pile of laundry and then wash out the whole fucking drawer.

However that was the easy part. Or at least easier then going through all the clothes from our closet that had mold on them or had become filthy from contact with the floor, or had been stepped on. Then of course I had to add the rejects to Mt. Laundry and consign the others to the depths of the closet. Of course the only bright spot in all this was I knew that I had mold problems in the closet of the other mobile home I had lived in so most of the shit on floor level was in plastic bins.

Which as far as I am concerned are magic mold repelling devices from the future.

All I had to do was wipe down one or two of them and shove them back into the closet so I could return to trying to remember what drawers went in what order and I can't mix them up because they will stick shut and then I will have to fight them open because old furniture is picky.

Basically it was like playing the worst memory match game ever.

Then the plywood was done and I got to lay down the tiles and I felt really, really good about this floor because the cheap shitty tiles didn't look half bad and I really, really hate carpeting. Plus the carpet had been a deep blue and these were much lighter and made the room look, you know, bright for once. Then I finished the closet and we put everything back and then we took the hot water heater for a test drive and it fucking WORKED.

So then I took the greatest shower in the history of mankind ever.

Ever.

Astronauts showering in space for the first time? Not even close.

So them we got cleaned up and I gave the finger to Mt. Laundry and then we went and bought some pies from the fucking Walmart and then went and ate BQQ chicken and my relatives laughed at our story and I ate pie and potato chips until it hurt and then I shoved some brownies in my face because I was trying to pack in calories before I was back to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch every day. And then all too soon it was time to go home and I got to take home a pie because apparently nobody likes apple and then I was all like, score.

Then we got back and I put medication in the cats eyeballs and we decided to let the Jack the dog back into the bedroom because he had been super ridiculous unhappy that he couldn't hide under the bed anymore and then he was thrilled up until he saw that we had put down tile and he played like three rounds of the floor is lava and then he tried to get under the bed twice while his feet went in every direction and then I felt kinda bad for him and then he got the hang of it.

And then I made a mental note to buy him a rug and then I realized that was probably not going to happen because I had just spent like, all the money.

All of it.

And then I figured he would get used to it and then I went to take him outside and he couldn't get back out from under the bed and I had to pull him out because his legs no longer legged.

At least in his mind.

And then he said fuck it and came to bed with me and curled up right by my side and I put one arm around him and looked up the ceiling and thought about how the past three days had been so fucking insane and that when people told me that building a house was the hardest thing I would probably ever do I thought about how what they really meant was that it would take everything out of you that you had and more, and that it would run you down and down and down until you felt like you had nothing but that somehow you would keep getting back up and doing it again for the love of the dreams that you held deep in your heart.

And then I said “you know Jack, I think we are going to be okay.” And then he licked my hand and heaved a deep sigh that is his way of telling me he has settled and that it is time to go to sleep and I stopped petting him and closed my eyes and thought one last time I think it's gonna be okay.

Once I get over this sinus infection and knee pain, that is.

Oh and the back pain.

And my hands stop smelling like Pine-sol.

So maybe a few more days.

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 Backhoe Repair Guy Reappears. Fixes Backhoe. Nobody Dies.

So a few of you may remember the reason we were shoveling gravel around by hand like peasants was because a hydraulic line on King the backhoe was leaking and we realized we were going to have to fix it. Or more correctly call someone to fix it for us. So we (and by we I mean Scott) called Mr. I-don't-talk-much-and-have-all-the-right-knowledge-tools-and-equipment. Whom you might remember as the guy who put the inner tube in the tire for us after we failed like the goddamned kings of failure town.

So Mr. Quiet Bitter Backhoe Guy shows up this afternoon and he did his magic less talking more working trick and took the hose lines off. We had debated doing this ourselves, but we didn't really know how to depressurize the system and we were afraid of having hydraulic fluid spraying out of the machine and doing that double whammy where it cuts you open at the same time as forcing hydraulic fluid into your tissues like a poisoned dagger made of pressure and your own stupidity. So we paid him to do it.

Since he was least likely to die in the driveway from fucking this up.

Then he of course filled us in about a few other things that we may need to fix and then he told us how much it was going to cost to get more two foot long hydraulic hoses and then I blacked out into a world where everything was open and empty and clean and then I came to and Scott was all like, lets replace all four lines and I though “oh boy nothing like eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch everyday for forever. Awesome.”

Also I have to point out that a backhoe has like, a shitton way more hoses then four, these were just the worst four. Because ha ha we don't need money to live ha ha no. So then he caps off the lines with these nifty screw on caps but then he didn't have enough and he just plugged the lines with clean rags that looked like the clothes his kids had out grown cut into squares. Then he got back into his truck and told us he would be back to install the hoses later today when he got them made and left us standing in the driveway looking at King the backhoe with is new bright fabric plugs in every color that made him look like the most festive non-working backhoe ever.

I should also point out that we were both splattered with black paint because we had been painting the solar kiln black and I was dressed in pants two sizes too big for me and a neon green tank top I got at the good will. Since you know, dressing up to paint things with enamel paint is stupid and of course Mr. Backhoe was dressed in a reasonably tight fitting T-shirt and some nice jeans because of course when attractive men in my age group come to my house I always look like a colorblind hobo.

Every. Damn. Time.

Anywho. Moving on, Mr. Backhoe Guy showed back up after a while and put the hoses back on and tried to walk Scott how to fix the leak in the boom arm while Scott got more progressively alarmed as the instructions got more and more technical and then I watched his eyes glaze when Mr. Backhoe got to the part about pulling the chrome rod out of the arm and replacing the seals in the cylinder and then Scott was all like, I'll have you do that. In the future. Yes. Not me. You. And Mr. Backhoe didn't say anything because he doesn't really talk except to transmit important information. You know, like you do. Well he got the hoses back on and they did black magic things and tested the air and got the air out of the lines somehow. Possibly with voodoo.

Backhoe voodoo. 

So then it came time to pay him and then, in a fit of inspiration Scott asks if he wants my dad's old welder that we don't have the power to run. And then they go look at it and then he says he could use it and then they load it up into his truck and then he knocks 75$ off the bill and then Scott pays him with his credit card using that app for smart phones because WE ARE TRULY LIVING IN THE FUTURE. Which is not something I would ever expect to see from someone in Buttfucksnowheresville WV but whatever.

Shine on you crazy backhoe fixing diamond is what I am trying to say.

So then he drove away and then we walked back to the house and Scott's phone binged and it was his electronic receipt and then I called my robot butler to bring me some tea and then I realized that we weren't that far in the future. Really though, even if we were I would never be able to afford one because I am kinda poor. Although this is probably lucky because then the robot butler couldn't kill us in our sleep all Skynet style.

Which made me feel better about my life. You know, the lack of robot murder.

Although that robo-butler would have been pretty damn sweet.

Probably wouldn't be able to move gravel worth a shit though.

Eh, I'll stick with the backhoe.

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.

Fixing the Driveway, the Graveling.

Today, oh sweet Jesus, today we re-graveled the driveway. By hand. With a wheelbarrow. Ha ha yeah. Everything is pain now. Anyway after realizing that putting dirt back into the holes was useless, because like yeah, there is no way that filling the ruts with a bunch of dirt after the soil that was there ended up in the fucking creek was a bad idea, Scott went ahead and ordered a bunch of large gravel.

Since you know, all of the small gravel has probably been washed into the next county.

So this morning the truck full of gravel showed up, and of course it was the same driver who had gotten stuck in the driveway the last time he delivered here and seemed to be immensely relieved that he could really only dump at the top. Of course after seeing the fucking canyons the water had etched into the earth I really don't think he will be very keen on driving down the driveway in the future.

Unfortunately with the gravel at the very top and the road looking like a creek bed we had to move the gravel by hand because there was no way to get the backhoe to the pile. Also this was my first time working with large gravel and I learned several key things. One, it hated my fucking shovel. I mean like, really a whole lot hated it. Like all the demons of hate were hating it up in here. With the little gravel it just sort of slides onto your shovel. With the big gravel I would get my shovel a forth of the way into the pile before it would stop dead. Then I would have to do the thing where you shimmy the shovel up and down to get to fill. Of course that may sound okay for the first few times, but around lunch time my body was all like WTF are you doing to me?

The second thing being that you cannot rake large gravel. I mean like, at all. The rake would just, slide over the fucking surface while the gravel laughed at me. Like, 'oh you wanted to level me out!? Well no way motherfucker ha ha ha ha!' The third thing was that the ruts were deeper then they looked and for a while it seemed like I was dumping shit heavy wheelbarrow loads into some sort of interdementional vortex.

Also I had woken up with my back doing that thing where it doesn't hurt exactly, but it sends shooting pains down my right leg. Possibly in an attempt to punish me for my sins.

My back sins.

Anyway after spending all of the morning on this project, and watching the ruts eat gravel like candy, we realized the grim truth. We were going to need another dump truck full of gravel. You know another 200$ dump truck full of gravel. Nothing like eating spaghetti and sandwiches every meal, am I right?

I mean, it's not like we were trying to build a house or anything. You know, it's not like we were trying to get the guys in here to put in a septic system and totally getting and storing logs for the house. I mean it's not like this has all come to a screeching halt during the best weather ever for those projects. I mean it's not like we were planning on digging a foundation or clearing the house site and marking it anytime soon. I mean it's not like I can hear the ticking of that terrible clock counting down the minutes until the icy depths of winter. It's not like I still have to get firewood and go to work or do anything else during this time.

I mean, it's not like I have to spend another day moving gravel around with a motherfucking wheelbarrow and a shovel while watching my other projects sitting around mocking me with there presence.

Ha ha ha no.

It's not like I am bitter that this was as far as 200$ worth of gravel made it and it looks like the rest of the driveway was attacked by a very hungry rockbiter.

 200$ I really can't stress that enough.

So anyway I think I have to stop typing because my hands feel all weird and I think I drank too much caffeine in order to type this even though I still want to lay face down on my floor and close my eyes.

Which is not really how I pictured spending my evening. You know, face down on the carpet like a drunken hobo, but eh I got to roll with the punches.

The floor punches.

So if you need me, you know where to look.

I am the Champion of the Washing Machine.

We fixed the washer. As we all remember, I had order a direct drive coupler from the Lowe's sight unseen. Meaning that we had not actually looked at the machine to determine what was wrong. Like you do. I had just made a guess based on what the symptoms were. And then I prayed. Well, yesterday we came home to find that the coupler had arrived. Which meant that today we had to install it.

The easiest way to take the washer apart of course being the drag the entire thing out onto the deck.

Did I say easy? First off being in a tiny mobile home hallway means that we couldn't open the door because the washer was in the way. Even if we pushed it up against the wall. The only way we could make this work was to remove the shelf beside the washer and then slide it into the corner. Scott decided that we should also use the hand truck to move it so we wouldn't tear up the shitty vinyl flooring that I hate.*

Of course both the tires on the hand truck were flat because life. So while Scott went to reinflate the tires I cleared off and moved the shelf. I found things on that shelf. Things. I had thought the shelf was mostly cleaning supplies, but I also found two things of spray paint, about six tubes of caulk, lamp oil, paint stripper, a cardboard shoe box filled with tiny bottles of glue, and a mason jar filled with some unidentifiable liquid. Fun. Of course this being a mobile home, I just shoved all of this shit into the closest available room. Which was of course the bedroom. Because when I think sleeping, I think dangerous chemicals.

I didn't realize until I had cleaned off most of the shelf that maybe piling all this shit along both sides of the bed was a bad idea because guess who was sleeping under it.

Yup. The dog.

My solution was to tell him not to eat or lick any of it.

Which is why I can never have children.

Anyway, it was at this point that we realized that if we unhooked the water drain tube thing from the washer it was going to flood the room. Luckily Scott found out that you could remove the tube from the wall, and hook it over the top of the washer. Less lucky was the tube flying off the top of the washer at our first attempt to lift it with the hand truck. So of course we had to drag the washer out onto the deck in super fast motion. Once it was safely outside I ripped two towels out of the cabinet and threw them on the floor and smeared them around. Then I realized the towels were not really that wet. Then I noticed that there was a forth of an inch gap between the wall and floor. Which is where all the water had gone.

Motherfucking great. That won't come back to haunt me at all.

Then we watched the repair video I had found for direct drive washers, assembled the tools and began. It was pretty easy to do, although for me, the whole time I was concerned that the suspiciously together looking direct drive coupler was not in fact the problem. It wasn't until we took the pump off and the shattered plastic pieces that was once the coupling fell into Scott's hands that I realized that I had been right.

I am not sure, but angels may have appeared at that moment.

Putting the new one in and putting the washer back together was surprisingly easy. Most things were held on by clips, not bolts, and it acted like it was designed to be taken apart and put back together. So In no time we had it reassembled, cleaned and ready to go. There was a brief break in which I had to vacuum out the dryer vent since it was RIGHT THERE, and then we put the washer back into place and reconnected it.

It was the moment of truth.

We put the towels we had used to clean the floor in it set the settings and turned it on.

And it made another terrible noise.

You know that feeling where optimism and hope come crashing down around you like panes of glass and the metaphorical shards cut you up? I pretty much had that feeling. Then we had to lean it up to make sure that Scott had reconnected the wiring to the motor. Then we looked at it some more. Then Scott went “oh shit” reached over and turned the water valves back on.

Let's just leave it at I didn't murder him and bury his body in the woods.

Anyway it worked just fine after that.

For once.

*It's right up there with carpet, in flooring that Holly hates with an oddly large amount of passion.

Retaining Walls Are Evil

Have you ever had one of those moments in life where you were living with the horrible implications of a very simple statement? Like for instance, when you are out on a beach in the middle of summer with your friends and no one brought sunscreen and your skin was burny, hot and itchy all day. And then you tell some smart ass who says something like 'well, the sun is very hot.' I experienced the same thing for past the past three days. My simple statement?

Rocks are fucking heavy.

We are building a retaining wall. You know those things the keep steep embankments from just loosing there shit and falling the fuck down? And to make one that works, you have to use very big rocks. Huge rocks. Motherfucking as much as I can do to lift the damn thing rocks.

Only a shit ton more to go!

  

My back hates me and everything I stand for now.

The highlights of this motherfucking rock triathlon are as follows:

Climbing down a near vertical embankment because that's where all the good rocks were. I would grab onto a tree root and gently lower myself down until I could get my foot onto something. Have you ever done the thing where your footing goes and you just pedal madly as dirt runs under your feet like a fucking treadmill? 'Cause I damn well have. But I got that rock. It was a sweet rock you guys. If you had seen it you totally would have understood.*

Pulling so hard to get a rock loose that the pick slipped and I fell into a brier patch and cut up my right arm.

Getting stabbed in the thigh, arm and hand by a prickler tree. **

Almost getting my boot ripped off by the mud while getting backfill.

Getting my hair caught in a pine tree.

This is just the icing on the cake here people. It's been three days of shoving backfill and backhoeing a ditch and moving heavy rocks. Everything is pain, now.

Everything is pain.

* This might not be true. I might just be crazy.

** Okay, so I don't know what their called, but they have like two inch spikes. WTF kinda plant has two inch spikes outside of a goddamed desert?

Want more retaining wall adventure? Here's part two.