Dad's Plumber

Growing up in a house with four girls led to the occasional (all too frequent for Dad, I’m sure) clogged bathroom sink drain. More Saturday mornings than I care to remember were spent helping Dad unclog that bathroom drain. He usually required one of us girls be his “go-fer” for the occasion. During the process, we would inevitably hear the benefits that would surely be ours if only one of us would become a plumber. So many people cannot take care of their own plumbing problems and, if it was an occupation that one of us would take up, we could be compensated quite handsomely for our efforts. We never took the bait.

Fast forward to 7 AM this morning:

I was awakened from a very sound sleep by “Sharon, come look at this; there’s something wrong with the sump pump.” Given my history with the sump pumps, I was instantly awake and out of bed. It seems that Kris had awakened early to take her dog out for a bathroom break, heard the indoor pump kick on, and detected that something was not quite right. She looked back in the closet that houses the water heater, the sump pump, and sewage pump. It appeared that the floor was damp around it. She wasn’t sure if Dad was up yet (turns out he left for Tennessee at 4 AM-ish), so she went back to bed until about 7.

When she checked on things at 7, the problem had obviously gotten worse with water beginning to stand on the floor. She called to see if Dad was around to come see what the problem was but found out that he was in Tennessee and wouldn’t be back until late this evening. That was when she woke me up.

As I entered the closet to survey the problem, the pump kicked on, and water began to spray everywhere. It was quite disturbing. It seemed to me that the water was coming from a particular joint in the pipe that had a rubber fitting over it with a clamp on each end of it. Since I was on my knees in the back end of the closet by this time (a set of stairs comes down overhead making the space in the back end quite low), I asked Kris to get me a towel to kneel on and, after yanking the cord per Dad’s instructions (and not wanting an early shower), I crawled back in next to the pipe.

By this time Dad had called and was talking to Kris to find out what the exact problem was. He said that he would call a local repairman to come and see if he could fix it, since he wouldn’t be back until late. I decided to see if I could figure out more exactly what the problem was and fix it myself. After all, who wants to get dressed for a repairman early on a Saturday morning? Certainly not me!

After looking at the clamps to see what kind of tool I might need, I called (probably somewhat like Dad so many years ago) for my tool of choice—a screwdriver with a flat head. Kris brought it to me and I loosened the top clamp and—oh, joy!—the pipe came down a good inch and a half into the rubber fitting. I tightened the screw back up.

I asked for more towels to drape over the pipe with towels before plugging the pump back in, lest I receive that unwanted shower. As I waited, I shifted in place, and my head brushed the floor right above me. I glanced up to see a row of nails just waiting to impale my head. Someone completely missed the floor joist that time! I made a mental note to keep my head down. The note evidently got lost, because I managed to whack my head on a floor joist just a few minutes later.

After receiving the towels and draping them over the pipe, I sent a desperate plea heavenward and plugged the pump back in. It was beautiful. The pump kicked into action and did its job; the pipe did its job. And Harmony reigned once again.

Kris called Dad to tell him that we needed no extra help. He told me to get a socket to tighten the screw up because he didn’t think it would be tight enough when done by hand with a screwdriver. I searched for a socket amongst our conglomeration of tools and even tried a few things, but I guess that sockets will remain Dad’s department. I tightened it as much as I could by hand and deemed it tight enough for now. I used the towels to clean up the surrounding area and slowly extracted myself from the cubbyhole under the stairs.

Boy, was I ever glad that I made an attempt at fixing the problem. It would have been very embarrassing to drag a man all the way across town just to fix a loose screw. I would have been indignant if I’d had to pay the going rate for a simple little job like that. And I was quite pleased that all Dad had to invest in the matter was a couple of phone calls. Maybe all of those Saturdays of helping unclog the drain were not all for naught. Yeah, I know that loosening a screw and retightening it isn’t much, or all that hard, but at least plumbing wasn’t a 100% foreign concept to me.

I still don’t want to be a plumber.

Twisted Pudding

Today was my day to stay with Mom’s patient and cook Sunday lunch. I always feel like the family is taking a chance when they count on me for Sunday lunch.

Pork chops, mashed potatoes, and corn were on the menu. I’d heard about a recipe last week that I thought was interesting, so I found the recipe for Cappuccino Twist on the Internet. It was basically a chocolate pudding with instant coffee in it to give it the cappuccino twist. Pudding? No problem. I can do pudding.

I doubled the recipe because it was only supposed to be enough for four servings and there would be six of us for lunch. I mixed everything together and then tasted it to see if it would be worthy of consumption. Oh, yuck and yuck!! There was no cappuccino twist to it! This was nothing more than solidified coffee.

Now I could have served it to my unsuspecting family, not known for its coffee drinking, but I couldn’t even bring myself to be that cruel. It is not in my nature to take stuff and start pitching it together for eating. I like a recipe, and I like to follow it. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I started tossing possibilities around as to how I could possibly save the pudding. I decided that I would put more chocolate pudding in to help dilute the coffee.

Alas, there was no more chocolate pudding, so I just grabbed a box of vanilla and added it. It helped a tiny bit, but not near enough. I drove over to my house and grabbed some cream cheese and cool whip. I decided to get our hand mixer while I was there because the cream cheese would have to be beaten into submission.

As I was getting the mixer, I spotted the English Toffee Cappuccino in the cupboard and grabbed it too, hoping I could add some of that to cover the bitterness of the pudding. Back at Mom’s house, I added the cream cheese and the pudding and about four tablespoons of the English Toffee Cappuccino.

It was finally beginning to resemble something edible but was still just a tad bitter. I’d had to move the pudding to a larger bowl and was running out of room in the bowl and stuff to add to mask the taste. I already had about half a time as much pudding as I had started out to make. I decided to leave it be and if it was deemed unfit, well, then it would just have to be unfit.

We consumed some of the pudding but it could only be eaten in small quantities. I told Mom that if she wants to save the pudding, it will definitely need some doctoring. Only I could have huge conflicts with an innocent-looking pudding recipe.

Will I Ever Learn?

One of my greatest frustrations in life would have to be car problems. I don’t know anything about cars; I don’t know how fix them; I don’t know how to diagnose them; I don’t know when I’m being ripped off, etc., etc.

Last Wednesday, I was on my trek between school and work when I noticed my “Check Engine” light was gleaming brightly at me. I groaned as dollar signs began to scroll in front of my eyes, not unlike that of a gambling machine. The car wasn’t behaving any differently normal, and I needed to make it to a chiropractor appointment so I decided to keep going and deal with it after I was done at the chiropractor.

After leaving the chiropractor’s office, I dug my cell phone out of my backpack and put a call to Dad. His recommendation was simply to check all fluids and belts and see if there were any visible problems. Because I needed gas anyway, I drove up the road to the gas station and filled my car while I checked all fluids that I knew to check. Oil seemed to be okay; transmission fluid seemed to be okay; wiper fluid seemed to be okay (alright, I know it’s not paramount to car operation but it was okay anyway); the coolant reservoir seemed to be quite dry.

I walked next door to the auto parts store and bought a gallon of coolant. Of course, I didn’t think to get a funnel while there, which posed quite a problem. I took aim and started pouring. I would have been okay except that the wind was blowing and about the time that I’d hit the hole, a gust of wind would come along and move the stream of coolant over about two inches. (I’m sure all the men there filling their own vehicles were rolling their eyes at this ignorant female.)

Once I figured I had enough coolant in that I wouldn’t overheat on my way home (if that was the problem), I closed things up and headed for home. Once there, I pulled into the garage where I was free from wind, found a funnel, and filled the reservoir the rest of the way up. I got into the car and started it up. “Check Engine” was still gleaming brightly.

“I’ve checked the engine!” I said sarcastically to my lemon, “Now go off!!” It didn’t work. I called the repair shop to see if they could take a look at it, but they said they wouldn’t be able to get to it until Friday. The head mechanic told me that it was probably a pollution sensor and that it wouldn’t hurt to keep driving it. So I did.

I took the car to the shop on Friday after I got back from class and, once again, borrowed Mom’s van to go to work. They called me later that afternoon to tell me it was the ERG valve and that it would likely cost $240 to fix it. What do I know about ERG valves?? Absolutely nothing! Do I know if $240 is a rip-off for fixing it? Absolutely not! Did I have any other options? Other than running the car off a cliff, probably not many.

I, inwardly grouchy, told the mechanic to go ahead and fix it. He said they didn’t have the part in stock and it would be Monday or Tuesday until they could fix it. I expect that once he got off the phone, he and his mechanic cronies probably had a good howling laugh…a “she fell for it” kind of laugh, just like we laugh at those people that fall for the “they make them drink latex paint thinner” line.

Since the weekend was upon me, it wasn’t as big a deal to do without my car for several days. I knew that Martin wouldn’t be using his vehicle on Monday and would probably be able to beg it off of him for a day or two.

At 4:45, I suddenly remembered my parking permit. If they kept the car inside the repair shop or in a fenced in lot, I would have no access to the permit to put in Martin’s vehicle because I would leave for school before they open on Monday. I quickly called the repair shop, hoping they hadn’t left early because it was Friday. I was in luck and arranged for them to park my car out where I could get my parking permit and other miscellaneous items from the car.

I had Mom stop and get the permit on Saturday morning when she passed by the lot. I tucked it into my purse, mentally giving myself a short lecture that the permit WOULD go on Martin’s rearview mirror before I left it in the parking lot at school. And not only would it be in Martin’s vehicle, I WOULD then transfer it back to my car before leaving Martin’s vehicle when I got my car back. I was quite pleased with myself as I remembered to put the permit in Martin’s in Monday morning first thing.

I was able to pick my car up yesterday after getting out of class. I parked Martin’s vehicle at the repair shop and left it there to be picked up after I got off work. Dad took me to pick it up later that evening. I parked it at Martin’s place and carefully cleaned all of my stuff out of it, trying to make sure that I took all of my trash with me.

This morning as I was entering the Bowling Green city limits, I looked in my rearview mirror at the vehicle behind me. I saw that the truck had a parking permit just like mine…THAT WAS CURRENTLY HANGING ON MARTIN’S REARVIEW MIRROR BACK IN FRANKLIN. Oh misery!! Oh despair! Oh sheer wretchedness!!

Kris was right in front of me so I grabbed my phone to call her and tell her that she’d have to pick me up and transport me to campus if I could figure out where to park. Just as I picked up my phone, it started to ring. Kris was calling to tell me to take one route to campus while she took another route to see which way was fastest. I quickly nixed that idea with my tale of woe.

I did remember that there is some curb parking right near my usual Monday/Wednesday/Friday parking lot. I had noticed it just the other day. I decided that I’d try to park there as opposed to parking across 5 lanes of traffic from the commuter/shuttle lot that was my initial option.

I was in luck. I was able to pull right up to the curb with no parallel parking. (I really dislike parallel parking.) I normally park in the parking structure on the other end of campus on Tuesdays and Thursdays because it’s closer to my classes for those days. As I watched people pull into my parking lot, I gazed longingly at their lovely yellow parking permits, my ticket to campus parking. I woefully bundled up for the longer walk across campus.

I stopped by Martin’s house on my way to work, determined that I would not go another day without that permit. I’m just grateful that I noticed it before parking and leaving my car to the ticket vultures. In the letter that I received excusing me from my first offense, I was told that they would only excuse me once for that offense. And I’ve got at least three more years of parking there. Will I ever learn?