One month into the new little home and there’s a major back up somewhere, toilet bubbling, shower gargling with extreme prejudice, and the washing machine backing up all over the laundry room.

After waiting all.damn.day for the plumber to arrive, he shows up at 4:45 and well, let’s just say that I knew within 20 seconds I wasn’t working with your everyday plumber. Nonstop patter, a bit pushy, okay–assholey– and a rapid succession of downright nosy questions from this delightful bit of a prick. After we traded initial insults I think we fell into an immediate sense of mutual, “you’re not from around here” curiosity.

He was bringing the questions, wanting to know where I was born and raised. He said he was from New York. Further comments made me call bullshit on his NY roots. “Tell the truth, you’re from New Jersey aren’t you?” Yeah, I had him dead to rights. “And plumbing’s not your original profession, is it?” Ha! Engineer. Dweeb. New Jersey Irish Geek. I knew it.

Under the house he is discovering the new shower has no p-trap, which can be kinda really serious, but all the while he is chattering away to himself in snappy phrases. I call to him, “Do you talk to yourself because it’s an argument you can win, or is it something else?”

He assured me it was simply psychosis.

“I talk to myself because I enjoy stimulating conversation,” I offered. “What should we do about the backup that no longer exists?”

“Use a community washcloth to keep it from happening again,” he shot back.

“No Luddites here! I worked too hard to evolve into a Charmin cult member.”

He crawls out and sits on the deck. Pepper immediately sits on his feet. We continue talking and he says he’d go back North if he got a job offer. I offered an open prayer of such a beautiful idea: one more New Jerseyite outta the South. We cast about the serious nature of p-trap situation when all of a sudden, Plumber cries, “Squirrel!!!” And indeed, Pepper was on Def-Com 3, watching squirrels cavort.

“That was such a great, great movie,” I said.

“I cried during the first 15 minutes,” he replied. (btw, Have you seen, “Up” yet?)

“Yep. It was completely awesome.”

“It should arrive tomorrow in the mail,” he continued.

“Already got it two days ago,” I countered.

“In Hi-Def Blu-Ray? Ha! Got you there.” And by now the vocal timbre, the inflections, the very mannerisms of the guy are reminding me of someone. . .

Back to his truck, I follow him only to see an outlandish contraption in the front passenger seat as he opens the door. “What the hell?” I exclaim.

“Oh, it’s a Bosch Box! I LOVE this thing!” And he proceeds to drag it out, turn it six ways and give a complete product demo.

“Dear gawd, but you’re a geek. Wait, where’s the plugin for the microphone for Karaoke?”

As he’s leaving, he recaps, “I’ll be sure to tell them about the shower situation.”

I replied, “And I’ll be sure to tell the Hub that Richard Dreyfus works for PlumbrRooter. “

“Oh! Ha! Wait! Hold, please! Ha! Funny you should say that! Just wait!” he shouts with boyish glee as he rummages in the truck for his iPhone and thumbs through to pics from last week in NJ. I guess what’s coming. “I’m p-sychic, ” I tell him.

“You certainly are! Hold please! Who is that?” he asks.

“Richard Dreyfus,” I reply.

“And who is that with him?”

“Looks like his younger brother”

“The first thing Dreyfus said to me when he saw me was, ‘Did my father know your mother?’”

So I said, “Damn, you’re his doppleganger!” He looked at me all shocked, “That’s exactly what Dreyfus said to me!”

I reminded him that I was psychic.

It really was an uncanny, surreal moment in the history and mystery of all things that go blurp, bloop, and foosh in a house, to have a plumber who, being the spit-and-image of Richard Dreyfus should come by and crawl under the house and wax poetic about a worksite radio and quote great movies and lie about being from NJ (don’t blame him), and just generally be Richard Dreyfus. . . but without all the warmth and charm.

How was your day?

What he said.

I haven’t watched even one video of the Olympic opening ceremony since the late 70′s and I keep getting it proved to my satisfaction that I haven’t missed anything but government propaganda. I’m really, really thankful that Obama lost the Olympics for us, lest we had been subjected to a synchronized gang-banger beat-down ballet led by Rahm Emanuel and a drone flyover deploying a flurry of food stamps printed in Spanish.

“Bubble wrap? What do I need that for? It’s just going to Topeka.”

Mouse-over for another theory.

.

Sunday night and the J.R. has a rotten cold and so to kill it has had a bit too much to drink– and is watching a Judy Garland special.

I pointed out to him that he always gets a bit light in the loafers when he drinks too much:

He’s denying it, and yet, Judy Garland’s voice continues to fill the house.

What say ye all? Should he be keel-hauled until he sobers up or should we, like good pirates, “put ‘im in a dress and call him Sally?”

Update: The J.R. protests: “But I don’t want to be Judy Garland!”

It’s been a long week.

It started with the sad news that my brother died last Friday in a tragic accident at his home.

I learned about it on Facebook on Saturday morning. In fairness, the family had tried to call me that night, but I never heard the phone, buried deep in my purse. And no one thought to call the J.R.’s phone, so they just left a message. But my phone was still buried in my purse and I knew nothing until I perused FB on Saturday morning. I hate FB.

I soldiered through Sunday, took the J.R. to the airport early Tuesday to see him off for a mission trip to Santo Domingo, and I made it through Wednesday work, got in the car with the Pepper Dog and headed for NE Florida, four hours away. On Thursday morning the J.R.’s brother drove me the next four hours to Tampa for the service and on the way back I spoke of my sadness for my family; that I didn’t even know where exactly my parents were buried, I just knew it was a National Cemetery somewhere nearby. He said, “It’s on our way back, let’s stop and I’ll help you find them.” And we did. It helped, somehow. He was solid company for me in the J.R.’s stead.

I made it back to Jacksonville, thinking to join other members of my family at the beach today. After sheer exhaustion Thursday night, I tumbled into a deep sleep and stayed in bed until the phone awoke me at 9:00am. It was the marina where my boat is docked, calling to say she was going under pretty fast.

Wide awake now, mind racing and any thought of rest, much less finances, was banished in the overwhelming flood of information and logistics. “I’m four hours away! What can I do?” They said they were pumping her out but she was halfway under.

All I could do was pack the car and drive back and wonder how much cash I would have to lay out, what, where, how? Do we have to haul her out? I got to the marina at 3:00 to find her bouncing atop the waves and mostly dried out. The valiant dock hands had saved her and fixed the faulty valve that cracked open! Yay! So, I got busy. I’ve been working on her for four hours today, hauling out cushions and washing her down. Fortunately, a good old Pearson from the 70′s, there’s not much to damage. They are kind of made to be sailed more than to be looked at. So, the water didn’t stand for long in the cabin, and no electrics were damaged, no fancy wood or cabin sole; and tomorrow I’ll go and finish the cleanup. Total cost so far: $0.00.

While working on the boat I weakly asked, “I wonder what will be number three,” when the phone rang again. It was my old sales job calling to tell me that the few policies I sold had canceled in under a year and I owe The Company You Keep $1700. Seriously. That was all the money I ever made with them for six months. And now they want it back. And will call me weekly until they get it. I told her my boat was sinking and could she call me back later?

The J.R. gets back late on Tuesday. My son is bringing me dinner tonight.

Blessed be the name of the Lord, who guards me and blesses me in the midst of every trial. Life is for the living. The struggle just tells me I’m still swimming up the current, still looking for Home.

Because when I asked the little engineering man (the hubby-He) where he would like for me to return the plumbing part he left on my desk, after he stepped into my bidness unbidden and began to teach me pricing crap that was out-of-date, after bringing the part to my desk as though I needed to see it because model and serial number weren’t glorious enough, he picked up the part and threw it across the room as he stormed out of my office.

It’s a long story from the other day, but He’s still pissed at me because I won’t be his new best friend. Because I push back against his controlling need to make a long and pointless story out of the simplest information: “call so-and-so back” becomes a trek across the vast expanse of his sad interpretation of his worth in bringing you such a message. Because I’ve told him flatly that I don’t appreciate everything being a lecture.

The other day I gave him a bit of the old psychology-speak he’s obviously used to. I had snapped at him earlier in the day and he was cut to the quick. So I decided to go in with a laconic and sincere apology and a psycho-babble straight-up admission of my faulty character. ZZZzzzzzziiinnnngg! Went the line and he was hooked. I got what I wanted by pressing all the psycho-babble buttons: he’s pretty much dismayed that I won’t let him into my life. At. all.  He whined that he hoped for a friendly work-place friendship and possibly even joining the J.R. and I on our boat some evening. To which I replied flatly, “I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen.” He whined that my cohort must have told me that he’s a monster. (Red flags, anyone?) He whined that he knew nothing of my resume or my family or my past. And if I have to hear one more time that he’s an only child. . . gah!

He’s a feckin’ boundary-crashing bully when the Sheriff isn’t around. Today I’ll get the sheriff to ask the little man how much money he made for the company by spending over an hour chasing down a $65 part, when I had already contacted the correct person and was merely waiting for a reply from same when little man decided to come and save me. Only needs to do that about 100,000 more times to make his base commission.

In better news, the HR chick was fired on Friday. Now they have no allies at corporate.

Bodies at rest tend to stay at rest.

I'm gonna be late for work.

Play nice, people. Drive safe, play your cards close to the vest, and always remember to wash your hands after greeting a politician.

Avast Improvement

Fashion Statement:

My new diet plan!

Pointless Display of Anger Fail:

Anger Mis-management

Nabbed ‘em all from Haha.nu

Oops:

Where was the good captain of the Matanuska Ferry? The vessel was nowhere near their docking area!

Yah, Oh my gosh! You can hear the kid say, “That was awesome!”

On the previous post about not being an Organ Donor:

Ah, the Brits. They’re laughing all the way to perdition!