Thought for the Day with GK Chesterton

It's been a crazy week in real life and I haven't been able to write. At all. Even a simple article due on Thursday to my boss didn't get turned in to her until this afternoon and in my opinion, it was dismal at best. Then last night I DID manage to write something up, an answer to a reader's question and you know what happened? Blogger was down for maintenance, and was STILL down this morning so I couldn't even post what I put in a Word document last night!

That was just as well as it does need some editing - whenever I actually manage to get to it. So, my apologies to Jose, I will get the answer to your question posted as soon as time and blogger maintenance issues allow.

In the meantime, here's a thought for you to ponder:

On the subject of Princess Beatrice's wedding hat:

I was wondering what G.K. Chesterton would say about it, and I think the words that would be emitted from his pen would be these:

"It's one thing to create a piece of dubious abstract "art" and display it in a museum where paying customers can come to observe it. It is another thing entirely to inflict it upon the world by bearing it upon one's or another's  head."

Catholicism and the Art of Home Maintenance - The Sequel

I've said it before and I'll say it again; the worst decision I've ever made was the decision to purchase a house. In my case, specifically, a town-home.

Case in point:   Some of you will recall my comic escapades a few years ago when I attempted to replace a simple toilet-seat. 

I thank God for the good sense not to have purchased a single-family home. Although I looked at a few, those in my range (back in 2002) were true crack houses needing to be flipped.  Not my market in any way, shape or form. But...that meant the best townhome I could get was among those built shortly after the Dharma Initiative was invaded and destroyed by the Hostiles.

The problem with home maintenance is that it doesn't end. 

In the time since I've purchased my home, I've had to replace the furnace and water heater, both of which were done, providentially, the winter after my grandmother died and left me a small inheritance. (Thanks Grandma! Please say a prayer for her, y'all!)

Other things aren't so expensive, but they add up over time, stuff breaks down, and people like me...well....I'm helpless. I can start a circular saw and I can start a chain saw and operate a Hurst tool, and give me a sledge hammer and your old garage will collapse in 5 minutes as we flee the catastrophe, but gosh darn it, when my toilet breaks someone better call an expert for me right quick!

A few months ago I got a letter from the City stating they detected a small leak in my house and gave instructions as to how to identify the source of the leak.

Obviously I knew by mere observation that no water was leaking out of any of my appliances or accoutrements, therefore I set about trying to follow the very simple instructions.

In fact, I recalled that my garage spigot seemed to have a small leak (or was that from the hose that is still attached, rusted to the spigot itself?).  So I tried that...after I couldn't twist it any more and didn't want to actually turn it ON as it was -20 outside, I wrapped the hose around an old recumbant exercise bike tipped up against the wall and...VOILA'! No more leaking!

I went inside to my furnace-water-heater chamber and tried to reach the internal shut-off for my garage spigot.

Uh-oh.

Can't reach it.

At all.

When my water heater was replaced, it was replaced with one that was taller and wider (yet somehow more "efficient"?) and as I am  a minimalized-statured individual, it seems that my water heater is not politically-correct enough for me to actually reach the piping and twisty-thingies behind it that are supposed to turn things off.

I have a backup plan in case a pipe breaks somewhere:  Flee the house, knock on every door in the vicinity until someone either tall enough or tiny enough responds to save the day. 

In the meantime, I'll have lots of towels on hand and maybe some teflon tape and...well, duct tape and WD-40.

WD-40 and duct tape fixes everything, you know.

Adventures in Home Repairs

A week ago I realized I was in real trouble and I had a choice: build an ark or call for help.

The unknown small leak has been weighing on me with great anchors for months now, and added to that was a leak that sprung beneath my kitchen sink. That one seemed to be contained after I discovered it one morning on the way to work. (Why are these things always discovered when one has to be somewhere else and has no time to deal with it on the spot?).

So I put an old dog dish under the leak, pulled out plastic bags intended for dog refuse and tried to dry them off - any that weren't already petri dishes for penicillin - and headed off into the big frozen white yonder.

And then...last weekend, as I headed to work, I got ready to go as usual. While drying my hair I noticed that the bath mat where it butted up against the tub was SOAKED.

WHAT?!

Quickly I soaked up the water with an old towel and ran downstairs. Sure enough, the water had leaked through the ceiling into my downstairs half-bath! Dirty, nasty water that had been un-filtered through the infrastructure and fan fixture.

Great.

So I cleaned THAT up and headed for work after ensuring the leak was not happening so long as I wasn't taking a shower.

I was certain I would come home to an aquarium and a very wet, cold, and pouty German Shepherd.

Time to call for help...

This weekend, my brother, in response to my desperate calls and emails, heroically strapped on his carpenter's belt and quested to save me in my ivory tower.

(Well...actually...after I sent him an email complaining about water dripping through the ceiling, he offered to get into his car and help me with my minor elementary-level  home repairs in the hovel within which I reside as long as the bank allows me to do so. )  

My brother arrived with a box of chemicals and tools, a shopping list and ideas while we inspected the biggest problem areas needing immediate repair.

As it turned out, the toilet leak was a flapper dancing improperly in my toilet. She was removed and re-employed by the department of sanitation and replaced with a more flexible model.

The rubber ball was rubbing against the wall (get your mind out of the gutter - we haven't gotten there yet!), so the arm had to be bent back to center and the screw  had to be adjusted a little for a more proper flow.

Once we fixed THAT problem (or so we thought), my brother tried to show me how to scrape off the old cauk and clean the grout in the shower. It was petrified and the tool...useless.  The best we (meaning me, actually) could do was clean it up along the base, and within the tub, spray mildew/mold killer, which, much to my surprise, did a lot to whiten up the grout! There are still problem areas, though, so we determined that all we could do was caulk the base for now - which is the area that was leaking.

So...I have a new skill! I can caulk the base of a bathtub like nobody's business, and then clean up the mess! Yay!

Of course, in this process I learned that no matter what guys do, they leave a mess behind. Ladies, all the stereotypes about men and women are true.

Case in point: Brother stood on toilet seat to reach the malfunctioning fan overhead. Dust and dirt and foulness came down - right into the basket where I kept my brushes and lotions, etc.! Could he maybe have either moved it or asked me to put it elsewhere before he "cleaned" above?

No, apparently not.

He'd already observed that my upstairs sink was draining slowly and in need of a snaking or drano. So what did he do? He rinsed the nasty grate in the sink, which will be GUARANTEED to completely stop it up! Oh, and when the water drained, there was all that nasty stuff in the sink that naturally, he didn't wipe up himself.

I stood, stretching out my aching back, demanding to know what he was doing by dumping that crap in my otherwise clean sink.

"I'm a guy", sez he.

Yeah. "Idiot" sez I. Glaring, I wiped it up.

As I went about my house, I realized that everywhere my brother went, he left a trail of dirt from weird sources and I was constantly cleaning it up after him.

Even when we re-arranged my livingroom, dusting and vacuuming electronics as we went, when he was finished, there was STILL stuff on the floor where he had been kneeling, making electronic connections. Where did THAT even come from?????

It didn't help that the living room was in utter chaos as we rearranged it, moving things temporarily to this and that spot, moving sacred images and statues, sacramentals and books, research materials and old paperwork that needs to shredded.

Indeed, the dog had to quite literally get into the mix so she could see what was going on. Unfortunately, because of the constant state of flux, she didn't have any place to BE! As it turned out, this was not a good thing for her...or us.

As I vacuumed up old dog hair and dust from behind the areas previously covered by furniture, a terrible smell arose. My  brother, seated on the floor, commented upon the stench of the dog who seemed to have burped nastily in his face.

This being unusual for my dog, I stopped to inspect her and indeed, she smelled...pukey. As did the air in the  livingroom. Very pukey.

I took her outside, then once we were back in, the wave of stench nearly knocked me backwards.

I peered around the apocalyptic "living area" in confusion,  finally spied the source of the stench: indeed the dog, anxiety-ridden by the sudden upheaval of the main room, added her own upheaval in the form of what was left of the dinner she'd eaten 5 hours earlier.

UGH!

Already, we had the windows open upstairs and fans blowing to clear the area of the fumes from the mold/mildew cleaner.

Already, we had the door and windows open downstairs because that same chemical smell and those fumes from the WD-40 for other projects was permeating our senses.

And now...the smell of sickness. The terrible, terrible smell of sickness, and the realization it was sickness that was destructive to some historical documents which then had to be thrown out, for they could not be preserved.

UGH!

By 3:00 am or so, the order and normal scent of the house was more or less restored, the dog's anxiety calmed by the stability of at least some of the objects with which she was familiar, and it was time to retire to our rooms and finish up as much as possible the next day.

Final Status:

I'm happy to report that the toilet seems to no longer to leaking, the doors  no longer squeak, there is not a flood to be found in my house, and the caulk is curing as we speak.

The dog kept her breakfast and dinner down just fine, and in the production of the event and subsequent blog post, no bad words were used by either my brother or myself. ;-)

Now, there's only one thing I didn't do this time, so I guess I completely contradicted the advice given in my post from a few years ago:  I didn't call a priest. Maybe next time.

Troll Roast

I just received this comment on this old post from 2005:

Dirk has left a new comment on your post "Those who fight monsters":

Die in a car fire!!! I love it!

This so retarded! Christians are so retarded! Religion is "ubber" retarded!


Trolls, please take note:

If you have any shred of dignity left in you whatsoever and choose to flame me, please make sure that you don't step in burning turds as you flee in cowardice.

The individal above who apparently mistook my comment field for a litterbox and dropped the above specimen may still be at large and in need of a burn unit as I doubt he lacked the intellectual and probably, spinal, ability to avoid going up in his own flames.

Further, if you ARE going to drop a flaming specimen of your own refuse, I would also recommend having a vocabulary consisting of at least a few more words than the number of fingers on both hands.

Please, Troll, for the love of God, if you're going to insult my intelligence and that of all Christians, make certain you have first removed your cranium from your anal orifice so that you do not end up even more greatly insulting yourself.

P.S. Dirk, you should be advised that the word "Uber" has only 1 "b" in it. I don't expect you get get the umlaut, but four letter words are generally fairly easy to spell, and the improper and unnecessary use of "scare quotes" in your specimen indicate you need to return to grammar school in order to learn the proper use of punctuation and spelling. 


Ah, I love the smell of roasting Trolls on a Wednesday afternoon!

You Can't Just Make This Stuff Up!

A friend of mine, Lillian-Marie, sent me this story via email and gave me permission to post it.  No names will be used!   And, this carries the standard disclaimer:   PUT DOWN YOUR COFFEE OR WHAT-HAVE-YOU BEFORE YOU CHOKE! 

OK, here goes:    

My parents knew this couple who went on a long weekend skiing trip - the first snow of the season. They planned their trip down to the minute because they wanted to spend as much time on the snow as possible; they were very experienced skiiers. So much so, that they even reserved a room in the lodge rather than a hotel nearby.

The arrived, stowed their belongings in their room, gathered their gear, and went up the ski lift for the first run of the day. They got to the top of the highest hill, and she realized she had to go to the bathroom. With all of the excitement, she forgot to go before they left for the hills. Her husband asked if she can wait because it wouldn't take long to get to the bottom.  

No, she couldn't - she had to go right now.

He told her to go ahead and go there at the top of the mountain.  No one else was on the hill and he would watch to see if anyone would be coming up the lift. She told him to turn around because, with women, it's not a very dignified position to be in. He did so.

A little moment later he asked if she's okay. No word. Thinking that maybe she didn't hear, he asked again, then heard a scream.  He turned around - she's not there! 

He looked around - nowhere to be found. He glanced around trying to figure out where she could possibly have gone,  and to his shock, saw her skiing down the hill, backwards, in the crouched position, pants down to her ankles.

He took off after her, flying down the hill trying to catch her.

Finally, toward the bottom, she fell and in the process of this indignity, broke her leg. He caught up to her a moment later, trying not to laugh, and told her that he'd go call the ski-patrol. 

In a very stern voice, she demanded that he pull up her pants before he goes. (keep in mind her leg is broken).  After much pain & struggle, the pants come up, everything organized, and he takes off.

They get to the hospital, confirm the leg is broken and put it in a cast. They finally get back to the lodge late that evening.

The next morning, while eating breakfast, she demanded that he go out and ski. She wanted at least one of them to get as much time on the snow as possible...and she sealed the deal with the fact that she did bring a few books - she could read in the lodge main area by the fire. After much deliberation back & forth, he conceeded and continued to ski.

That afternoon, she was sitting by the fire with her book, and her leg propped on a sit-a-pon. A gentleman came and sat in the chair next to hers. She noticed that he had a cast on his arm. She asks what happened. 

the man replied, "Lady, you'll never believe it if I told you.'" 

She responded wryly, "Try me." 

He was on the ski lift when he noticed someone skiing down the hill backwards, mooning everyone. He laughed so hard he fell out of the ski lift.

She spent the rest of the time in her room.

*
THANKS for the permission to post this!   

And as the question came up in the combox...LM assures us this is NOT an urban legend, but actually happened.  

Catholicism and the Art of Home Maintenance

So this afternoon, my dear friend Cathy and I went out for lunch and then she accompanied me to Home Depot so that I could buy a new toilet seat. Because it’s such a seemingly-odd item, I had to explain that she’ll be happier dog-sitting next week if the thing she has to sit on (when she does her own business) won’t mortally wound her. I would never forgive myself if my upstairs toilet killed my friend. The dog is fine...the toilet seat is dangerous!

For you see, the seat cover on the commode in my upstairs bathroom, which is a full bath, has one of those old wooden seats and it happens to be cracked. And the crack has gotten suddenly worse…using that particular toilet could be an experience no one would want to discuss especially upon a trip to the ER to repair the damage. Thus, the seat must be replaced.

Of course, we could not avoid the hilarity as we wandered the aisles at Home Depot, looking for toilet seats. At first, as we were unable to find them, but DID find a sign for “Restrooms” we discussed going THERE to get one. And then we, being Catholic, discussed the ensuing sacramental Confession we would have to make, having committed theft…of a toilet seat….

“Father forgive me for I have stolen a…a....toilet seat…..”

Neither of us could walk upright for awhile as we considered the implications of theft of public restroom facilities. And having to confess this sin. (Ironically, I REALLY had to GO at the time…)

So you see, one cannot be Catholic without our faith entering even into the most mundane of tasks...which, as I said, today involved purchasing a toilet seat.

We were not reduced to theft, however, for we found the aisle with the seats and so I was able to purchase one from my hard-earned funds.

Now, you would THINK that replacing a toilet seat is easy….RIGHT?!

But NO! You’d be WRONG!

It LOOKS easy…first you get a screwdriver and twist the bolts in the existing seat and lid, then once they are removed, you take the new seat and replace the new screws and anchors. NO PROBLEM!

Right?

No.

The screws in the old seat are rusted. Which from the exterior seems fine, for they twisted with no problem. And therein lies the problem; the screws turn but won’t come out. I tried prying the anchor with the head of one screwdriver while twisting the screws with the Phillip’s head screwdriver…still nuthin’.

I REFUSE to call a professional to replace a toilet seat! I am one of those people who SHOULD NOT own a home, because I’m completely helpless when it comes to tools and maintenance and the like. But come ON! A toilet seat? A three-year-old could do this!

I did give up for now, because I feared saying some words that would drive me back to Confession, which was so thinly avoided this afternoon when faced with the temptation of public-restroom toilet-seat theft. In fact, I may call a friend whose fiancé does home remodeling; he may have some suggestions as to how to deal with this problem.

I tried WD-40 already…it helped clear away some of the rust. My next attempt will involve getting out the duct tape. Because, as I’ve always heard, WD-40 and Duct Tape can fix ANYTHING…..can it fix this?


UPDATE!

My other dear friend, Fr. Schnippel, apparently is an expert both in Catholicism and the Art of Home Maintenance. So, although he was laughing hysterically at me, he provided some useful advice and, although I was terrified of spiders, I reached underneath the toilet and found the nut that was just letting the bolt spin. Ironically, the bolt that looked the worst was the easiest - the other bolt needed a blind dose of WD-40.

And I'm thrilled to report that I did not find any spiders...they apparently find the underside of toilets to be nasty and useless locations, too.

There's no word on whether Fr. Schnippel will hear my confession and provide absolution for the earlier temptation and the words I almost said earlier this evening.... I thought them even though they did not emerge from my mouth. (Although I hold that I would have been justified....)

For now, though, my upstairs toilet looks like one in Mexico; seatless. I took the opportunity to clean the area really really well and let any moisture dry before I install the new seat.

Yes, gentlemen...now you know why women REALLY want the seat down! Because, guaranteed, we're the ones to do all the hard labor to replace it, and thus, if YOU don't move it up and down as intended, then our labours (note European and Canadian spelling) go unnoticed.

So...the moral to the story is this: You CAN be a good Catholic and replace a toilet seat without theft and using bad language, and if you are struggling (with home maintenance) call or email a priest and he will explain how to fix the problem.