Drinkin' Beer 'N' Makin' Jelly

That's what I have to go do as soon as I finish writing this (I promise not to drink too many beers and burn myself -- that would not be a very me thing to do, now, would it?). But first I had to pop in and let y'all know how things are going around here.

First of all, the Clerk Magistrates are MUCH nicer in Boston than they are in Plymouth. I only went to one wrong building yesterday (I went to the big, old, imposing county courthouse that you see on The Practice and probably also Boston Legal but I've never watched Boston Legal so I don't know -- when what I needed was the big, new, imposing municipal courthouse a half-a-mile away, cross the tumbleweeds of Government Center Plaza). But the Clerks at County double-checked to make sure they were sending me to the right place, and then wrote down directions for me. The security guard at the door of the other courthouse scanned my bag and asked me "Do you know where you're going?" When I said no he asked me what I needed, I told him, and he said "Sixth floor. All the way down the end of this hall, the elevator's are on your left.

And damned if they weren't.

And damned if, when I stepped off on the sixth floor, there weren't signs posted like for Alice in Wonderland saying "Erin, go this way --->" and "Erin, turn right." I swear, when I almost turned in to the wrong room, there was a sign on it saying "Not this one, two doors down."

So I went two doors down and a Very Nice Lady gave me the printout of the docket that I needed, spit-spot, just like that.

We went back to Plymouth this morning, and even the Very Busy Lady wasn't quite so mean. She only made us wait an hour before she, too, gave us exactly what we needed, spit-spot, just like that. She even certified it for us, for $2.50/page, because she said Immigration always wants things certified.

Oops.

So I went back to Boston this afternoon and the Very Nice Man there, when I explained I'd been there yesterday but now I guess I need these papers certified, told me these were not, in fact, the papers that I needed for USCIS at all. I thought the ones we got from Plymouth looked different from the Boston ones, but I thought maybe it was just jurisdictional. (That's not true. I knew as soon as I saw the papers from Plymouth that I'd gotten the wrong thing from Boston and that it was my own damn fault, but my plan was to ignore it and hope for the best. Because that usually works out. And I hear Ireland's nice this time of year.)

Very Nice Man said he could get it for me, but he had to go down in the basement for it because (sing it with me) the records were so old (hey, I know this song! didn't Very Busy Lady do this one originally?). But he covered it in like ten minutes and he (shhh) didn't charge me for it because he knew I'd just been in there yesterday.

So. All we need now is the marriage license, and -- actually, wait, hang on... Okay. Just tucked the marriage license in my bag so's we don't forget it in the morning -- and we're all set!

Now, about the furnace:

Actually, I think I'd best get in the kitchen. Himself is getting antsy out there and he's never made jelly before so I don't want to risk him starting in without me. I've got to go, but if I can find the time between the batches I'll run in and tell you all about the furnace in bits and sticky splashes.

Don't Jinx It

The Kid didn't come today.

And we didn't finally get an electrician, who didn't say he'd be here in the morning.

The chimney liner is not lying in the side yard as I type this, and the Kid didn't say he'd bring a friend with him tomorrow to put it in.

The inspector isn't scheduled to show up Tuesday afternoon, and Keyspan won't be here the next day to turn it on.

We won't have heat this winter, after all, it looks like.

T'ank god.

Oh, And Also...

Remember how the Kid was going to be here first thing in the morning (with maybe or maybe not three more Big Strong Guys)? Well...

We finally called him at 10:30 and got his machine.

His wife called back at 11:10 to say he'd be here in twenty minutes.

At 12:15 he showed up. With one, not-so-very strong-looking little guy.

Took them 20 minutes to get the furnace strapped to the dolly, out the back hall and down the four porch stairs -- at which point the Kid came running in asking for a glass of water because "I have an abscessed tooth and it just bursted."

Yuck!

Am I a terrible person for not saying "Hie thee to a dentist right this very second now GO"? Am I a terrible person for saying "Here's a glass of water and an aspirin, now please get back to work"?

No, I didn't say that. But here's the thing:

He knew he had a bad tooth. I know he knew because I knew -- he told me about it like the second time that he was here (which was, ahem, two weeks ago). He said he had a toothache, and his wife made him an appointment, but they had changed insurances and when he got to the office he discovered that the old dentist didn't take the new insurance, so he left.

Now, I know from being unable to afford. For a long time I had no health insurance and now, because I live in Massachusetts, I have public health. (Seriously, folks, you've all just gotta move here -- especially all you big gay uninsured homosexuals!) But this kid does have insurance.

I have also had an abscessed tooth. I know just how very painful they can be. If you've never had one, I would never wish it on you. I don't believe that I would even wish it on Mitt Romney (who, by the way is not from Massachusetts, no matter what they say).

The fact that I know what it's like makes me a.) more sympathetic, and also b.) more positive that if he hasn't gone to the dentist yet then he must have a reason, and me sending him away wouldn't accomplish anything except me not getting my furnace in and him not getting paid to do the job.

Plus there's the little fact that he is, at this very minute, sitting in the living room showing Johnny a new tuning for his guitar. While my furnace sits in pieces in the yard...

YUCK!

Is This A Dirty Joke?

Q: How many Big Strong Men does it take to get the furnace down the cellar stairs?

A: How the fuck should I know? And: Do you like my new kitchen table?

Seriously, we could cut a hole in a tablecloth, put a candle in that sticky-outy pipe thing. Hell, I know lots of people who paid much more than $500 for their kitchen tables, and -- well, and they were actually dining room tables, or dining room sets actually, that came with dining room chairs and everything, and you could actually eat off of them and stuff (the tables, that is, not the chairs, although I don't see why not)...

Andy and his Royal Helper gave up waiting for the Kid at 11:58, but Andy said if he showed up within a half an hour we should call his cell phone and he'd turn aroung (except he said "around," without the typo). Kid showed up -- I shit you not -- at 11:59. Andy pulled out of the driveway and drove off to the left; Kid came from the right and pulled in while we could still see Andy's car.

I called him, he came back. God bless him. The four of them (which I just now realized had just two names between them) tried for over an hour to get the damne thinge (which is kind of like Olde Shoppe, except not on purpose) down the cellar stairs, but it would not go.

There's this corner, see, around the top three steps. It turns out that the only way to get it around the corner is to let one guy hold it on his own, and not even Lou Ferrigno could pull off a stunt like that. The Hulk, maybe, but not old Lou.

Now, I'm going to say this once, and I'm going to whisper, so please pay careful attention:

I TOLD THEM IT HAD TO COME IN THROUGH THE WINDOW!!!!!!!!!!!

So the end result of today is five hours of waiting around, $40 bucks out of pocket for Royal Helper (who dothed protest, but the Princess insisted) and a furnace in the kitchen. Andy insists the smart thing to do is blow the bulkhead now -- and he's right, it would be the smart thing. If those cinder blocks were stuffed with silver coins, and if I had more than a week to get the furnace hooked up before they charged me assloads of money as a punishment for waiting around——

Wait a second, who the fuck is Keyspan to tell me to hurry up? Screw-ew-ew them! Didn't I wait five months for my gas line to go in three years ago? Didn't I wait all day back in April for a contractor who never showed? Didn't I then wait two weeks for my next appointment? Haven't I been waiting since freaking springtime just to talk to somebody from Keyspan about this? And now they wait until after they deliver it to tell me there's a deadline for installation? Keyspan -- and their new British owners -- can go ahead and kiss my royal ass.

Kid says he can get it through the (ahem) basement window, but I think I just made up my mind. Andy says he'll blow the bulkhead for us and let us pay him when we can. I have to admit, I did harbor fantasies of waiting till the book came out and then arranging a little cross-promotion by calling up a certain Dirty TV show host to do the job. But I guess we'll have to go ahead and let Andy do it now. Poops.

Don't look so sad, Mikey. There's lots more dirty work to be done around this shithole...

A Fractured Furnace Tale

Once upon a time, there was a man named Andy. Andy looked a bit like a beer-bellied Alfred E. Newman, and he shared Newman's philosophy about most things:

"What, me worry?"

Andy worked hard, and when he wasn't working, he played even harder. Captain Morgan's and cranberry juice was Andy's drink (yuck), though in a pinch any other kind of juice would do.

Andy liked doing things for other people, so when Princess Prudence needed an extra Strong Body to move a furnace down her cellar stairs, he was the first man she called. But he was busy. Doing Something Else for Someone Other than Herself.

No one else showed up either to move the furnace down the stairs, and Prudence was pondering the likelihood of she and her Royal Consort moving the hateful thing themselves, when the Consort came up lame.

Prudence was overwhelmed. Consort had been in the process of gathering paperwork for something called a "biometrics" appointment with the INS, which was fast approaching. Now she would have to take over this responsibility, as well as the care and feeding of the Consort, and Things One through Six that she does daily anyway (plus, if all goes according to plan, Thing Six is on the verge of spawning Thing Seven).

So Monday night, after doing her own six Things and stopping by Consort's last workplace to clean it up and bring home all his tools, after making an appointment for Consort to see Bones and making several phone calls regarding Biometrics, after calling the Kid to tell him he'd be on his own moving the furnace because Consort was laid up and she was plum out of ideas, after calling Keyspan to tell them it might be longer than two weeks before the damn thing was installed and they'd just have to deal with it, and after feeding and icing and there-there-ing the Consort (but before cleaning up the dinner mess), Princess Prudence took to chambers.

Princess did not sleep well. She still didn't know how badly Consort had damaged his royal leg. She didn't know if the Kid would show up in the morning. She didn't understand what sort of paperwork she was supposed to be gathering for the government, let alone where to get it from or if it could be had in time for the imminent appointment. She didn't know whether, if she did it wrong, the government would send the Consort home. She didn't even want to know how much Keyspan would charge her for the furnace if they didn't get it in on time, and she felt as though she'd been lax lately on Things Two and Six. She fretted over all of this until finally, fitfully, she slept.

She awoke four hours later, dutifully on time, and worried Thing Two for a couple hours. Then, at quarter to Royal seven the Princess' phone rang. It was Andy.

"Did you ever get that furnace in?"

Why no, we didn't.

"Okay. I'm leaving now to pick up Royal Helper. We'll be there sometime after 9:00."

God bless you, Andykins. If any of the liquor stores were open at this hour, I would even deign to purchase Captain Morgan's for your liquid refreshment.

But I wouldn't give you any until after you were done moving the half-ton of Royal Scrap.


We called the Kid and told him two Big Strong Men would be here at 9:00. He said he'd grab one more and be here shortly after. It's now 10:38. No sign of Kid. Andy and Helper and I got the thing into the kitchen, where at least it'll be protected from the weather (for now, at least, until the roof gives in). I can't open the fridge or get down to the basement. I can't put my dishes away or sit down at the table. And I think I hurt my shoulder. But at least the freakin' furnace is in out of the rain...

The Continuing Stooory...

Still no word from the Kid.

Today, I got a notice from Keyspan telling me he'd ordered a furnace for me (which they, um, delivered on Friday), and that I would have two weeks to install it once they drop it off (which they, um, did on Friday.

I don't know or else what. Or else they take it back? Or else they charge me more? Or else they program it to self-destruct? Or else they repossess my house and I live happily ever after in an Airstream trailer on the road?

Okay!

Anyway, the last thing I said to the Kid was that Johnny would be home on Tuesday to help him bring it in, but that's no longer true. Johnny did a stupid thing in the swimming pool yesterday afternoon...

Tomorrow I have to take him in to find out if it's broken.

Gone Swimmin'

Here's what we did yesterday:

...

And then

....

And a little bit of

.....

And then went swimming!

Here's why:

First of all, the Kid called on Friday night to say that he would be here in the morning to put the furnace in the basement. Probably not install it, but just bring it in. It's big, and it's heavy, and he said he'd need four Big Strong Guys to get it down there: himself and his helper, Johnny and -- could we provide another Guy?

(There was a time this sort of thing would have got my Paglias all in a twist, but #1. I've decided it's kind of nice not to be expected to help out with dirty, heavy stuff, and #2. my back hurts.)

But this was eight o'clock on Friday evening, and were talking about 9:00 or so Saturday morning. Johnny was up at the pub. Who was I going to call -- who was going to be home right now and free tomorrow -- to ask them to report in twelve hours for heavy, dirty work?

I called Andy. Good old Andy. I caught him in his car on his way home, and I think he'd had a few, so I really didn't want to keep him on the phone. Best use all available brain cells for driving, Andy, even if I really wish you weren't doing that. I nutshelled the situation for him.

Well, first he misunderstood. When I said "put the furnace in the basement" he thought I meant install it. When we cleared that up, he told me we didn't need four guys and what was the Kid's phone number, he'd set him straight. No, no, Andy. Thank you, but that's all right. Can you help us, though?

Nope. Had to help Mom.

Balls.

There were three other Guys I thought to call. Both George and Chris would come, I knew, but they both have kids and it just felt wrong to ask them on such short notice. Then there was John B.

You remember John B. -- the one that bit the head of the asshole neighbor guy when they were back in high school? He's a nice guy (despite the fact that he once bit someone on the head), but Johnny says that he's afraid of me because I'm a Big Strong Woman (did I mention this is a 6'2" bear of a man who once bit someone's head?). He doesn't talk to me when he telephones for Johnny, doesn't stay to chat if he stops by and Johnny isn't home -- he recently lent us a roller and wanted to leave it in the car rather than bring it to the door and hand it to me -- but he does sometimes bring me presents. A patriots doo-dad, a six-pack of IPA. I was pretty sure John B. would help if Johnny asked him, but I didn't know what he'd do if I should be the one to make the call. Besides shit himself, that is. So I waited for Johnny to come home.

John B. was busy, too. Or else just a big old fraidy-bear.

So Johnny and I made the executive decision that four Big Guys wouldn't fit on the cellar stairs all at the same time, anyway, and if some extra hands were needed, I was capable of helping out even if I am a Little Girl. So we went to bed, resolving to tell Kid when he called at 9:00 just to come on over.

Ahem: when he called at 9:00...

We waited, but he didn't call until 11:30, and then to say that he was just finishing up a job and would be right over. So we waited.

We waited, and at 2:00 the Hills called to invite us to go swimming in their pool. We said we yay but that we couldn't leave until the Kid showed up. I considered throwing Johnny under the bus and splashing in without him, leaving him behind to meet the Kid -- but that felt mean, and so I waited.

We waited, and Kid called at 3:00 to say he'd only finished, he was just going to have a wash and he'd be here. And so we waited.

We waited, and we called him at 4:45 to say we're going out, don't bother, but he swore he would be here in twenty minutes. So we waited.

We waited, and at 5:25, we left. Put a note on the door saying "Gone Swimming" and took off.

It wasn't even hot anymore by the time we jumped in the pool, but jump we did. When we got home there was a note from him, saying he'd taken some measurements and he was sure that it would fit, saying he was sorry for making us wait like that, saying he'd be calling us tomorrow. Not that measurements were ever a question, really. Not that I hadn't already taken them and told him so. Not that there was any reason for him to have come over yesterday at all if he wasn't going to actually bring the furnace in the house. Not that he could have done that by whatever time he did show up, because we had gone swimming.

And here we are today, Sunday, waiting for him to call. It's 12:59 p.m., and there's no word yet.

We're giving him another hour...

And then we're going swimming.

Like School On Sunday...

...no Kid!

I just got home from work, and there's a furnace in the yard. There's a note on the table telling me that there's a furnace in the yard. But there's no Kid.

I don't know. Maybe we got our wires crossed. I guess, now that I thought about it, all he said was that the furnace would be here on Friday. I guess, when I play the conversation over in my mind, he might not have actually said he'd put it in -- but it was a reasonable assumption, don't you think?

His note says he'll call us later, so I'll just sit tight. He doesn't have a cell phone (ahem) and I don't want to bother his wife if he's not home yet.

(Here's a hint for those of you whose spouses don't work in the trades: wives aren't secretaries. Nor are they liaisons, ombudsmen or punching bags. If you call and ask for your plumber or your painter or your candlestick-maker and you're told that he's not home, you leave your name and phone number, say thank you, and hang up. We don't want to hear it. And if you offend, annoy, or otherwise piss us off, we can make it so much worse on you.)

Meanwhile all the back-hall stuff's still in the kitchen, and it's not raining after all. Oh, what the heck. I'll go down cellar and find the spin-sander and listen for the phone. If I find it soon enough, I'll take the door outside and have a go.

I just hope he calls before the game starts, cuz they say my boy's playing tonight!

Please, Panthers, don't hurt 'im!

Doorn't You Forget About Me

I finished heat-gun-stripping that door, when, Tuesday? And I was going to sand it, but I didn’t want to sand it and later find out I’d missed a step and had to sand it again. ’Cuz I’d kill it. I’d kill it, and its fucking parents would sue me and it’d be a big mess and I don’t care enough about it to bother…

So I waited to ask Johnny.

And Johnny said “Just sand it.”

So I killed him.

No, no, nobody’s dead (well, the spider that was crawling on my arm in bed last night – he’s not so much alive anymore. But nobody that didn’t come from hell to begin with has been sent there lately, is what I’m saying.)

Seriously, Johnny says all I have to do is sand and paint and I’m done. That’s it. This whole dirty job will be done with. But he says I have to use the spin sander.

I don’t trust myself with the spin sander. I’m afraid I’m going to leave little spin-spun hypnotic vortices all over the door in little Hurricane Erin patterns. Like the floor in this one apartment that we rented, where someone who obviously didn’t know what he was doing apparently thought refinishing hardwood was a job any monkey could accomplish. Stupid monkey…

I asked Johnny if I couldn’t just use sandpaper, and he said probably not but seriously there was no way I could screw it up. He’d get the spin sander for me and the pads I’d need before we left for work, so I could have at it in the afternoon. This would have been Wednesday afternoon.

Except he couldn’t find the spin sander. And if he can’t find it, I sure as hell don’t know where to look, because have you seen our basement? He did bring up a piece of rough (#60) sandpaper for me to use, but I wasn’t going to sand with paper if I was only going to have to go over it again later when the spin sander showed up…

So the #60 paper has been sitting on the windowsill in the back hall for going on three days. Right next to the door (going on, erm, three weeks? longer?). I was going to have at it yesterday, but when I got home from work there was a message from the Kid. The furnace is coming today! Which meant I had to clear out the back hall so they’d have room to lug it through. And you know the rules: anything related to the furnace project counts as a house-job for that day.

Oh, Prudence, you are so smart!

You might remember that I did this once before, but Johnny put everything back one afternoon because we didn’t know how long we’d be waiting for the furnace and he was tired of having to reach over the bookcase to get himself a Jammie Dodger in the night (he’s not that tall, my Johnny, and he does love a sweetie in the wee smalls). So I took the hour that I’d set aside for sanding and watched my Secret Dirty Boyfriend with it instead. During commercial breaks I moved the door, shoved the bookcase, sorted the recycling.

(My SDB was in another wetsuit, by the way, and I’ll tell you this: I don't know if he’s a big gay homosexual or not, but I’m fairly certain he’s no son of Isaac – or Ishmael, for that matter – if you know what I’m saying.)

So I can’t sand that door this afternoon, because it’s in the kitchen. I could take it outside, but it’s raining (too bad). Prudence did say that anything to do with the furnace project counts as work, and writing checks can be damned exhausting…

I’ll tell you what? Well, actually, no. I was going to say I’d at least find the spin-sander if it killed me, but the Kid’s going to be down cellar all afternoon, and I wouldn’t want to be in anybody’s way…

CONTEST ALERT: Anybody want to explain that first paragraph for those who weren't in high school in 1985? I'll write a poem for whoever gets it first. (PS The title's another hint. Hey, it can't always be Shakespeare...)

BOY Does The Kid Stay In The Picture!

First, Johnny and I fought about whether we ought to start lining up another plumber just in case.

Then the Kid called (this was at 2:30). Said he was okay, and could he come over now?

So then Johnny and I fought about whether or not it was a good idea to give him his 50% deposit on a Friday afternoon when he'd called in sick that morning and wouldn't be here in time to start the job. And why was he coming over right now anyway?

"To show us the proposal, talk to us about it, and get us to sign off on it," says Johnny. "It's what any good contractor does."

Sorry. Maybe I'd've know that if I'd ever hired one.

Still, I reserved judgment. But the Kid showed up. With a written proposal. He'll start tomorrow. Saturday. For about a thousand dollars less than we discussed.

Well, actually, it's the same price as we discussed, but it turns out to include the cost of the chimney liner and other materials -- pipes and things -- which we thought we were paying for ourselves. The $3500 price I posted the other day was my own estimate, adding on the costs of those things to the price he gave us, which we thought was just for labor.

I'm actually too embarassed to tell you the actual price -- if you know me, you know I'll probably get over that eventually -- but for now I will say this: Johnny and I just had a brief discussion about whether or not we were taking advantage of the Kid. We were gearing up to fight about it, but decided to let it go.

In the meantime, I've begun digging a spider-hole in the basement to throw the Kid in when he's done.

It puts the pipe wrench in the basket...

The Kid Goes To The Hospital

You didn't think this ordeal could possibly be over, did you?

I just got home from work. Johnny's here, because the new job doesn't kick in until next week. I'd left him at 8:30 with the first-half, up-front payment for the Kid, credit card instructions for Home Depot.

When I pulled up in front and saw no plumber-car here, I thought perhaps the two of them were shopping. But when Johnny met me at the door, my heart just sank.

"No plumber?" I asked him trepidatiously.

"He went to the emergency room."

I. Uh. You're kidding. I just. I feel like I've been botoxed: I can't move my face.

Okay, Erin, let's try to work up a modicum of concern for the Kid:

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah. His back. Did something. He called. At least he had the courtesy to call."

"He called from the emergency room?"

"Yes. No. I don't know where he was. He sounded rough, though, like he was really hurting."

"Well, I guess we have to start again, then. Look for plumber #12."

"Why?"

"Well, honey, if it's his back..."

"He said he really wants to do the job..."

I'm sure he does. And I really want to sneeze without crying. But sometimes a wonky back just gets the final word.

We'll see. We'll give him the weekend to let us know what's going on, and if we don't hear by Monday we'll go back to the board.

In the meantime, don't I owe somebody a verse or two...?

Two Things:

First of all, I've been feeling guilty because I haven't actually done anything around here to write about since I took the door off (you use a heat gun when it's 95 degrees outside with 74% humidity!) -- but then I remembered:

I said "anything related to the heating project counts as doing something." So all these plumbers actually count! So I've been working hard! And writing about it!

Day whatever plus six or something: Accomplished! Yay me!

And the other thing I've been meaning to explain is this: In the beginning, I said we were going to save up for the heat project and do it when we had the money.

Well, we didn't actually manage to save $6000 in two months. If we could have done that, we would not have had to buy a tear-down like the AssVac, would we? But we had saved some, and we had a couple thousand dollars in an old savings account for emergency someday disasters.

We decided in early July that it made sense to take the money out of savings to get the heat done and over with, then spend the rest of the summer putting the money back. Otherwise, if we waited until we actually saved it all, I was afraid we might risk (ahem) not being able to get somebody here in time.

But in the month and a half we've been chasing plumbers all over Townville (cue Benny Hill music), we managed to put a little more money together. And now, with our new low-low price, it looks like we won't have to tap into savings after all!

Yay us! We might even have some money left over!

Which is a good thing, because when this is over we've got to start saving for the roof...

Positraction

Gary wrote:
What exactly is wrong with your sink? At this rate you could have bought a basic plumbing book for $19.99 and some supplies and been half done for less than $300.00. I'm no skilled plumber (trust me) but I know the going rate for a master plumber is around $30 an hour and I don't know of many jobs that take 20 hours unless it involves a re-plumbing of the entire house. A sewer line replacement will cost you $3000 but much of that is sucked up in equipment rental. Cost of materials is generally one third the cost of labor. What is so wrong that a plumber doesn't want to do the job? You might find that it is too small and they don't want to be bothered.

Hey Gary, love your "This Old Crack House" blog. You must be new to mine, though. Maybe I should nutshell this, for others of you who might be new to the saga of the AssVac...

We're not just fixing a leaky faucet, here. And -- although we're plenty stupid -- we're not so stupid as to entertain estimates of six thousand dollars for a job that's too small to be bothered. This has been going on since April, and I'd like to think that if it were that simple we'd be much more than half done by now. Like, almost three-quarters!

We're converting from oil to gas heat. We were thinking about it anyway, because oil is yucky, and when our furnace blew up last spring we decided that was a good indication it was time.

Here in Massachusetts, anyway, this job requires a licensed plumber (and even if it didn't, I'm not the girl you want playing with gas on the say-so of an instruction booklet). The cost of the job includes a furnace, hot water heater, and a chimney liner (any one of which will by itself cost well over $300), plus sundry other materiel. All together at least twice the cost of labor -- which will be at least two days for at least two guys.

And if you can get a licensed plumber in Massachusetts for thirty bucks an hour, I say put him on retainer or keep him tied up in your basement.

Anyway, I'm happy to report the Kid's staying in the picture.

$3500.

We have ourselves a plumber!


CONTEST ALERT:
Anybody want to explain the title of this post -- why I chose it, I mean? (For newbies: that means if you get it right I'll write a poem with your name in it and post it on the blog. You can even name the format. Come on, play!)

The Kid's Back In The Picture

He just called -- we were in the yard, so we didn't answer -- but he apologized for calling so late and left a number and said he had a price for us.

So let's call him back and see what it is...

The Kid's Out Of The Picture.

Well, maybe not, but he hasn't called yet. He promised he'd call today with a price, so he's running out of time.

In the meantime, we're on to Plumber #11. This guy says he'll do it for $300/day, plus $150/day for his helper (which will be Andy, who we know and trust and everything), plus material. Says it will be done in two days.

Taking materials into account, I'm guessing that sounds like around $3000. Even if you add an extra day for just-in-case, it's still better than Mr. $6000 -- who also said two days.

But #11 hasn't even looked at the job yet, and there's got to be some reason why everybody who looks at the job never comes back or calls again...

Oh yeah and PS -- Plumber # -- um, 7, I think -- is telling us again that he'll be out here tomorrow. Anybody wanna place a bet?

Have You Rehabilitated Yourself?

So I was thinking (I've been doing a lot of lying awake at night, lately), and I thought of two things:

1. Plumber #10 (I think from now on I'll call him Kid) did not drive himself here. I didn't realize it until he was leaving, but there was a big scary guy in the drivers seat waiting for him the whole time.

2. He said he hadn't done this kind of job "in a while" but he didn't say why not.

And then of course there is the spiderweb...

I wonder if he's fresh out of prison. I wonder what kind of crime a person could commit that they'd take away his driver's license but let him keep his plumbing one.

Maybe... littering?

I Think I Love You!

So what am I so afraid of?

Well, he has a spider web tattoo on his right elbow for one thing...

But otherwise I liked him. Johnny liked him. He was nice and he needs the work, and he thinks Sparky is dirty and creepy, just like we do.

What the hell: we all have embarassing tattoos we still sport proudly, don't we? Just some of us were smart enough to put them in places the general public will never see.

He's going to call us with a price tomorrow. He's going to let us buy what material we can for ourselves, so we won't be paying markup.

Something tells me he'll come in under six thousand dollars.

... I HAVE Come To Fix The Sink!

He's here. Johnny asked what took him so long and he muttered something that I didn't understand, but he's here.

He says this "Mark D---" who recommended him, lives down in the Plymouth/Carver area... which happens to be where Andy (remember Andy?) just bought his house.

I think I might know who Mark D--- is. I think he might be this little guy we know as "Sparky."

I'll find that out soon enough, but in the meantime -- if this kid lives in Plymouth, too -- then he's really not so very tardy after all...

... I've NOT Come To Fix The Sink!

Don't know where he was coming from, but according to caller ID Plumber #10 is in our area code -- which, here in Eastern Massachusetts, is not that big.

An hour and forty minutes later, he ain't here yet...

... I've Come To Fix The Sink!

The phone just rang. Caler ID showed some woman's name I didn't recognize, Johnny was up the pub. I was going to let the machine pick up, but then I heard the back door open, which meant Johnny was home, so I answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hello," a man said. "Could I speak to Erin, please?"

"This is."

"Oh. My name is -----. Mark D--- gave me your number. He said you need some plumbing done?"

Well I'll be dipped in shit and call me choc-o-pop, who the seven sisters is Mark D--?

"We do," I said, "but I don't know who Mark D-- is..."

"I don't know him very well myself." Okay well, that's a good sign I guess, that we were recommended to each other by somebody neither of us knows.

"Here," I went on, "why don't I let you speak to [here comes that magic word again] my husband."

Johnny doesn't know who Mark D-- is, either. But it turns out Plumber #9 doesn't want anything to do with us after all (Johnny saw #2 talking to him in the pub, so we suspect that either #2 told #9 that we were assholes, or else he said that this was his job and back off), so it can't hurt to talk to this guy, whoever the hell Mark D-- turns out to be.

So he's on his way over. Supposedly. Any minute now.

We'll see...