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.

I Just Killed A Possum With a Pitchfork

Ha ha ha. I'm not kidding. This actually happened. So you know how you go and see family when they are in the area and it's the holidays and all and then you have a better time then you thought and then end up staying later then you planned and then your all like crap it's late I'd better go? An you don't for like another hour because there was pie?

Yeah that's pretty much what happened to me.

So I get home and take the dog out with me to lock up the chickens. Except there is a chicken in the yard. Just sitting there. So I put the dog back in the house and go pick up the chicken. Besides giving me a token sqauk of protest she doesn't struggle, so I shove her under my arm like a football and bring her back down to the coup. Where I see my rooster Rusty is hiding in the ditch under the bridge.

Huh.

So I take miss chicken in and set her down on top the food barrels. I sweep the flashlight around. Most of the chickens are on their perches, and appear to be asleep. Then I catch a flash of white. There in the far most corner, is a possum.

Well fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

Of course I didn't have the gun, because I am a motherfucking idiot. So I do the only thing I can think of to do. I grab the pitch fork off the wall and stab that fucker in the face. He hissed. I stabbed him again in the torso. He freaked out and tried to make a run for it. I retaliated by stabbing him in the gut.

You might think that at this point that I would be cursing at him, but I made a surprising discovery. Apparently, I can curse in possum. Which sounds a whole lot like hissing and snarling.

Which is what I was doing.

Okay. You know how in Harry Potter he can speak to snakes but isn't aware that he is doing it so he is surprised as anyone else to hear that weird hissing coming out of his mouth when he talks to a snake? Yeah it was like that. Only with possums. Who knew?

So he makes a run, and by that I mean the slow waddle of a possum, to the other corner where I stab him three more times. He refuses to die. He is however in pain and highly confused. Here he had been shopping for a nice chicken dinner at the chicken store (which was finally open) and now he was being impaled by a pitch fork while being cursed at.

So then he got really freaked but can't run by me to get out the open door so he panics and runs right into the cage where I was keeping the younger peeps and had not bothered to remove because I am lazy. So I just kicked the door shut and locked it behind him. Then I went back to get the damn gun like I should have done in the first goddamn place.

Then I meet Scott who has come looking for me and he shoots the possum in head with snake shot because solid bullets might ricochet and I don't want to end up in the ER with a possum blood covered bullet lodged in my thigh. We decide the best thing to do is leave the possum in the cage to make sure it's dead using the let's-not-find-out-the-hard-way plan.

Also at this juncture you might think that the chickens would be raising holy hell and that we would be standing in a snow globe made out of chicken feathers and avian screams, but they were fine. As far as I can tell they just slept right through it. Self preservation is not there strong point apparently.

Of course then I had to get the other chickens back. Unfortunately I did not have my head lamp which meant that once I located a chicken I had to switch my flashlight off and make a grab in the dark. I knew I needed both hands and that if I put the flashlight in my teeth they would get a wing loose and start flapping which would send the flashlight spinning off into the darkness where no one could have it.

You know, I think that's what I love about the country, really. You learn so many things. Things like, don't pick up a frighted chicken with a flashlight in your teeth. Which is probably why West Virginians don't have that many teeth.

Anywho I was lucky in that the chickens were either so petrified with either cold or terror that they just laid there while a grabbed them. Although finding chickens in the dead of a winters night with a flashlight was not the best most fun activity ever. I was also doing this in my going out to see other people clothes.

Which is probably why I don't have any nice clothes.

Then me and Scott gave up and went back inside even though we were still down two chickens and I was all like, yuppers I just killed a possum with a pitchfork.

An Scott was all like, yes, yes you did.

And then I was all like I really need to sharpen that pitch fork.

And then Scott told me I would never survive the peasant revolts without a sharp pitchfork.

I also noticed that I keep using words like 'yuppers' and 'honken' and I think it has something to do with moving to WV and OH GOD WHAT AM I BECOMING? THIS IS JUST LIKE FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON!

Ahem. Now I need to eat pie. To mitigate the horror.

Yep, to mitigate that horror.

The Saga of Stupidface.

After establishing that Stupidface is indeed a Walker Coon Hound. I began on a Internet based journey of discovery. Mainly I discovered that that Walkers can travel up to 50 miles in one night. Stupidface could be from anywhere. Although why the owners would not have been calling all the vets offices in that radius and leaving a note, I have to wonder.

They probably dislike Stupidface as much as I do.

On some level I feel bad for her. She got lost, whether this was a deliberate thing on the part of the owners or not, she found somewhere that she wanted to stay, only to find that the new people have to keep her crated on the porch all the time or else she will go after their animals.

On the other hand she was so hyper it hurt to watch her.

Scott's overtures to keep her died when we realized that she is impossible to walk. She wants to be on that scent and nothing NOTHING will stop her. Not you, not the leash, not yelling or pleading, nothing. Scott had to carry her out the woods the last time he took her in and since then we only walked her in the fields.

I also learned that you need a six to eight foot tall fence in order to keep one in your yard. So ha ha that will never happen in a million years.

Luckily, we managed to get through to the local animal shelter who said they would take her. Unfortunately this is after she chewed through one of my leashes. As soon as they said they would take her Scott threw the phone down and ran out to the truck while I grabbed the one remaining leash and got Stupidface. We didn't even wait for her to get in the truck, instead Scott picked her up and tossed her into the cab.

We wanted to get her down there before they changed their minds.

While Scott was gone I began on the days tasks, cleaning the chicken coup and washing out the dog crate where we had Stupidface until I heard the sound of the truck pulling back into the drive. I peered around the corner of the shed, fearing that I was about to see her white and tan head poking up above the seat.

But she was gone.

Gone. Gone I tell you. After a week of barking and baying and yelling and chewing and peeing on things Miss I-have-never-been-trained was gone forever.

So once again silence reins on my little farm, except for the crowing of the roosters and the wind in the grasses.

So peaceful.

So dogless.

Time Trial Canning Corn

This year we have actually been able to grow corn. Which came as something of a surprise for us because normally the closest we can get is having weak looking knee high plants that are clearly praying for the sweet release of death in the form of an early fall.

But not this year. This year the plants exploded out of the gate and grew. They grew like they have never grown before and are now taller then I am. It was like some sort of cornspolision.

So yesterday, Scott went out picked corn. We ended up with two and a half bushels of corn. We rejoiced. Or at least he rejoiced as I was grooming the dog in preparation to give him a bath. After wrestling a wet dog around the tub- I only got shampoo in my eyes twice- I returned to the kitchen to hear Scott give a sort of strangled scream.

“Three hours!” He said.

“Three hours what?” I asked.

“It says we have to process all this in three hours or we will lose flavor.” There was a sound, like all of my plans had just derailed. It sounded a bit like thwunk.

Well, fuck.

Immediately we threw ourselves out onto the porch and started shucking corn. It became apparent that two bushels and some change was a lot of motherfucking corn.

A lot of motherfucking corn.

At some point I also became aware that the kitchen was too filthy for canning and there was a load of dishes in the sink. What followed was a bunch of cutting the kernels off into bowls and shoving them into pots. I think we used every pot that we owned. The entire stove top was covered in bubbling burabaling pots of corn. Also the floor, the table, me, Scott and the chairs.

We also then hit another, we-didn't-plan-this-out-now-did-we moment when we had to pull out every last single small canning jar we had and prayed we had enough. We should probably stop looking at the canning recipe about an hour before we can, and you know, actually plan for these sorts of things.

Ha ha. What am I saying? That's crazy talk.

So in short we used every small canning jar we had and also one of the big ones and ended up covering every surface in the kitchen in corn. But we got it done goddammit. Of course it was like a million fucking degrees inside all day because apparently running the all the burners on the stove makes it hot inside. Who knew?

I would have gotten more in process pics but three hours. It was like those times levels in video games that you didn't know were coming up but then you were in one and you had to do your best because you were down to your last life. Yeah. Like that.

Nothing quite like this laid back, relaxing country life.

Yuppers.

The Heat the Terrible Heat!

So the past couple days have been my battle against the heat. It is fuckall uncharacteristically hot here. I moved to the top of this mountain because it was cool and nice up here in the summer and then I find out that was a lie. A terrible, terrible lie.

At least this mobile home has ceiling fans. Although the window screens are a goddamn joke. Some of the windows have no screens at all. They look like they have never had screens, they have no grooves for the screens to slide into. They are the unscreened, a race of terrible half windows doomed to roam the earth letting bugs into peoples houses until the earth finally reclaims there shattered remains.

Luckily, I was at the feed store the other day and saw they had a bunch of those separate window screens that slid out to accommodate any window size. So we bought a bunch and shoved them into the windows.

At last a glorious breeze! Air flow motherfuckers.

Then the sun went down.

Since I do not live like the Amish and go to bed with the sun, I realized that these screens, while effective during the daytime, are not so effective at night. Let me put it this way. Have you ever walked into your own kitchen only to have the Ride of the Valkyries start up somewhere in the back of your head as you gaze at the many insects swooping and diving and skittering around your kitchen?

No?

Just me?

Okay. So there were, conservative estimate here, about a million moths. What was even worse, though in my mind, was the even bigger moths pressed against my now very flimsy looking held-in-with-only-the-pressure-of-the-widow screen. They were flapping there huge wings against the screens and clawing at it with there tiny forelegs. Now, I like moths, they are the butterflies of the night. I will catch them and put them back outside if I find one because I think they are beautiful. But I learned something.

Their eyes glow red at night.

This is one of those things that you don't come to fully appreciate until you are one flimsy window screen away from having one of them in your house. I learned this by having a Luna moth land on the window and gaze at me with it's blood red glowy eyes. If you don't know how big a Luna moth is just look at your hand. Yeah, about that big. I have always loved luna moths, until this moment. I took this disturbing bit of news like that sane rational adult I am.

And by that I screamed “oh my fucking god it's Mothman!”

But even worse then Mothman was the discovery of the devil bug. I have no words for how badly this bug terrifies me. Even worse then the giant green chipping grasshopper things, even worse then the vampire mosquitoes.

It's this long thin bug with big wings, and giant set of double pincers. I cannot convey to you the horror of this thing. It's shiny where it should not be shiny and it's wings are greasy and unwholesome looking. It also has a way of twisting it's head around defensively if you get too close. This bug looks like something Satan would send out in the middle of the night to murder innocent children. If Harry Potter had to fight one a giant one of these things he would have terror peed himself.

And they assault my house every night. You know, the only part of the day where it's not a bazillion degrees outside and I can't justify running the AC. Yeah, that part.

So if you need me I am going to be sitting in the corner with a fly swatter and some raid, awaiting my nightly assault by the Evil Insect Forces of the night.

Oh they're out there people.

They're out there.

My Dog Just Died.

My dog died last night. It was traumatic. That is all.

The Great Retaining Wall Tragedy of O'12

Do you know the feeling where you spend a month and a half on one project and you give it everything you have and then some just so you can finally step back and say with satisfaction that it is done and you made it?

And then do you know the feeling where life shows up and destroys that project?

Yeah.

So it rained like a bitch shit ton, and guess what happens when you take really, really dry ground and then wet really quickly. You get this.

I was walking the dog, trying not to get wet by skirting the mud puddles. It of course had been raining like a crazy demon the past two days and the dog was happy to be outside sniffing things. Well we walked up the driveway and turned off into the wood, and that's when I saw it.

There was the initial flood of despair, followed by a rather rational discussion in the back of my mind if I could just deny this had happened for a while.

It decided no.

So I walked, blank and zombie like, back up to the house. Scott was working by the sheds, trying to fix the weed eater. His back was to me, and I had to cross the lawn to reach him. I had this sense that I was about to ruin his day. Ruin it hard core. That with every heavy step I was taking across the waterlogged grass I was one step closer to taking his happiness and smashing it on the ground.

I reached him and took a deep breath.

Then I smashed his happiness all over the ground. After that brief moment where his brain decided if it could deny this problem, we walked back down the drive and looked at it.

Scott was more optimistic then me. Pointing out that wall had stayed together all the way down and that we should be able to just add more rocks on top of it.

Oh fucking boy.

Well at this point, drinking was right out, because I had to work the next day. I went inside and did the only thing I could do. I took a motherfucking nap and prayed to god that things would be better when I woke up.

It wasn't.

So now I need more rocks.

You know, maybe it's not too late to deny it after all.

What were we talking about?

You Have Won this Round Google.

So a few of may have noticed that my blog was down a little while ago. Why? Because Google is a dick.

First off, when I first started fiddling around with Blogger, everything was going fine. It was a beautiful honeymoon. That is until Google showed up to the party. Google was constantly barging in on our beautiful relationship demanding that I integrate every account ever with them like a drunk alcoholic roommate. Presumably so they could own my entire Internet experience.

I had already completely given up my Youtube account because of this shit.

Why?

Because I don't need the rest of my Internet experience to know that I like to watch fat people falling off Segways. I want the internet to remain anonymous. All that terrible, terrible horror that comes with it. And Google is not letting me.

So you can imagine my surprise when my blog disappeared.

After the initial WTFsweetjesusholymotherofhellmotherfuckers. I went to Bloggers help page. Which was not very helpful. It told me to log into my account and make sure I didn't accidentally delete my own blog. I think that it something I would remember doing, but, okay. Also, if the blog is gone, how can I log into it? Okay.

So I go to pull up my blog account when I am treated to a message saying that suspicious things have been happening to my account.

Right.

Look, unless the dog had learned to type, the only suspicious things to have happened to my account is that I have been logging in at like 4am. Oh wait, what's this? The only way to fix it, the only was to unsuspicious my account is to give them my phone number.

Except they don't know my phone number, so if I was trying to break into this account, I could use any phone number, anywhere and Google would never know the difference.

Security my ass.

It wasn't like they wanted to send my an email, LIKE EVERY OTHER MOTHERFUCKING SECURITY PAGE IN THE WORLD. Oh no. Challenge questions? Nope. Facebook has better security then this. Facebook.

And there was no way around it. There was no other option. I had to give Google my phone number if I ever wanted to see my blog again.

So I did it.

And now I am getting texts about winning a free ipod.

I swear to god Google, I am going to punch you in your stupid fucking face.

You asshole motherfucker.