Who me? Defensive?

Dooce posted today about feeling like she constantly had to convince herself that the parenthood thing was going OK. I feel like that about my job. All signs point to my doing a spectacular job, everybody loves me, I’m sure to go far. But as I sit here and… aw jeez, now we’re getting into that territory that seems so dangerous to blog about.

It’s like this. I do the work that’s expected of me, and frequently go above and beyond. However, I’m on the computer for 8-9 a day, and spend much of the time reading blogs and news stories, which one could argue is part of my job description. But then, it would be really hard to explain why I just googled “J*nnifer An*ston t*pless” from work… just curious about the disposition of a lawsuit. Wasn’t looking for pictures or anything.

On the one hand, I feel like I should be working harder. But I’m so easily distracted these days. And when you’re doing a wonderful job, how is it possible to do better? (Or have I just got them all fooled?) Besides, it’s summertime. That’s my defense. I’ll stop compulsively internet surfing after school starts.

Speaking of Dooce, I think I may have an answer to the beach towel mystery of the Armstrong Family Plumbing Disaster. Although the hole leading from my guest toilet to raw sewage had no offensive odors to speak of, I read that one should put a rag down over the hole while installing a new toilet. Mayhaps the toilet installers used a beach towel and never removed it?

The Tool Time Girl

Did you know walnuts stain? Four doors in my house, so far. I think I’ve substantially raised the property value already. I still have half a can of walnut-colored stain left. I love it. No wood surface is safe…I even like the smell.

Saturday, on my second of five trips this weekend through the check-out lane at Lowe’s (plus three to the return counter), I bought new toilet innards. Rob’s dad was at the house, waiting for the cable guy. Rob was working, in case anyone wonders why he never seems to be around during my home improvement binges. When I got home, Rob’s dad said, “Where’s the plumbing stuff?”

“In my car.”
“How am I supposed to install it if it’s in your car?”
“I’m going to do it,” I said. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“You’re going to do it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how?”
“I think so.”
“Do you have the right tools?”
“I think so.”

So he left and I got down to it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the old parts out of the tank. I remembered that Lowe’s sold tanks with the parts already inside, but I felt like it might be cheating to buy one of those. After a few more tries, I gave up, went back to Lowe’s, returned the toilet innards and went to the toilet aisle, where I was persuaded to buy a whole new toilet, because really, it is not advisable to mix and match these things.

It was much easier to remove the whole toilet from the floor that it was to take apart the tank innards. I set the wax seal and the bolts, blah dee bladda. I kept getting obsessive-compulsive about whether the seal and the bolts were in properly, so all together, I probably installed and uninstalled the bowl and tank about six times.

Unnnnnfortunately, there is a little drip from the lefthand tank-to-bowl bolt. Rob’s dad worked on it a bit the next day, but it persists.

The good news is I found out that we don’t pay for water by a meter. So who cares how much we waste? Except for, like, the Earth.

Dammit

I am a strong woman. I shouldn’t feel like crying when getting off the phone with a plumber, whom I will not be inviting back to my house. Problem’s the cheap toilet, he says. “You get what you pay for.” Like I picked it out.

We’ll fix it our damn selves, rude guy.

Um, this is hard

Back when I was a renter, I had a maintenance dude come out about a dozen times to repair my dishwasher. Said dishwasher flooded my kitchen a number of times, destroying my Buffy the Vampire Slayer board game and the inside of some cabinets. Over my birthday weekend, the maintenance dude started the dishwasher, saw that it didn’t leak and left my apartment. The dishwasher continued running until I returned days later to a flooded kitchen and a message on the machine from the manager saying that the downstairs neighbor reported some leaking, was anything wrong? Uh, why don’t you come check?

Eventually, at my suggestion, they replaced the dishwasher.

So I’m not saying that life was grand and easy before I became a homeowner. But here’s what’s bugging me today. And because I feel powerless at this point, I’m naming names: Bode’s Plumbing. I found them in the phonebook. Fancy website, right?

My inspector found several fixable things wrong with the plumbing in our house. I had a plumber come out the first week to go under the house, fix a few leaks, repair a runny toilet, a dripping shower and install a new kitchen faucet. The kitchen faucet works great.

The toilet was made worse, the shower drip continued. Under the house? How the hell should I know? I’m not going into that crawlspace!

The dude came back and made an adjustment on the toilet and may or may not have done something to the shower drip.

The drip continued, but I thought maybe we just needed to really crank the knobs when turning off the water. (Incidentally, both knobs say C for cold. The previous owners didn’t speak English so well. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

Two weeks later, Rob, with one flush, made the toilet run forever. See, the flapper is so big it gets lodged under the float bulb and doesn’t go back down into its little home. At first I thought we’d just buy some new parts and then I was like, Uh, shouldn’t the plumber who installed it fix it? So we called him back.

On the day he was supposed to come, he called Rob and said, “I’ve already been out there a second time and not charged for the trip, and I was originally called out for a leak in the crawlspace. I told you it wasn’t a very good toilet. It’ll cost $100 for me to come back out.”

Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize when I paid you $300 to do some work that you weren’t obligated to do the job correctly.

I want to bitch to his boss, but the lady who answers the phone just said she’d have the plumber call me. So I’m waiting for that call, powerless.

But it’s Best Buy that wins today’s shitty customer service award. I paid $40 to have a subcontractor pre-measure for a dishwasher. Rob’s dad keeps telling me it can’t be done with our existing cabinet structure, but I disagree. On the day the pre-measurer was supposed to arrive, Rob called and the Geek Squad (their real name) told him they had no idea what a pre-measure was and they didn’t do that. Hey, genius, I paid for it. Got the receipt right here. Once we got that sorted out, it was determined that Best Buy failed to fax the paperwork to the subcontractor, so they never got it. They could come out the following week. They did, and said they’d call with an estimate. They didn’t.

I called the number I had for the subcontractor and got a weird voicemail. I called the store, and was told they’d “call their guys.” 48 hours later (today) I called the 1-888 number and again was told to wait for the call.

Why is that worse customer service than Bode’s? I don’t know, at least the plumber gets back to me. This sort of thing is subjective. Like Rock Star Supernova.

Blobs

Among the personal blogs I’ve been trolling lately are three that I particularly enjoy. I’ve never met these women, but I feel like I know them. Lots of bloggers self-consciously try to be witty and hope or assume that the entire Internet is interested in reading about their boring lives (like, for example, the details of a recent ebay transaction over an electronic toothbrush charger).

These three regularly make me laugh out loud (LOL) and I delight in their takes on their daily lives. Granted one of them lives on a ranch and another is traveling in Southeast Asia, but still.

Dooce (of course)
Nothing But Bonfires (Esp. recommended to HerHighnessness. A recent post celebrates the discovery of a Sephora in Shanghai)
Confessions of a Pioneer Woman (Fellow USC grad now living in Oklahoma)

SOAP

In between naps, Rob and I saw Snakes on a Plane.

A bunch of the silly blogs I read say it’s such a fun movie, and while it’s not bad, per se, I think the funness depends on having a really enthusiastic crowd hissing and hollering and waving sock puppets. Our matinee crowd was somewhat subdued, and maybe that’s my fault for actually shooshing some talkers during the first 10 minutes.

I guess this isn’t news to the world, but that “catchphrase” scene, the one where Samuel L. says the bit about the muthaf-ing snakes on the muthaf-ing plane, was so obviously done in a reshoot. It’s incongruous and he’s the only one in the frame.

**This confirmed by imdb: In March 2006 New Line Cinema, due to massive fan interest on the Internet, allowed for a 5 day reshoot to film new scenes to take the movie from PG-13 to a R-rated film (originally the film wrapped principal photography in September 2005). Among these additions is the Jackson character’s line, “I’ve had it with these muthaf-ing snakes on this muthaf-ing plane!” a line that originated in an anticipatory internet parody of the movie.

Well rested

We still have a long list of things that need doing at the house, but I accomplished a very important one this weekend.

I tested all the new pieces of furniture for nappability. They all work. Dozed off on the love seat watching TV Friday night, on the chair while reading Saturday afternoon and on the big couch Sunday afternoon, while doing nothing in particular. The big couch is the most comfortable, of course, but I can’t complain about a chair I can sleep on.

Definitely not an appropriate use of company time or the company-issued camera phone

But see how cute my hair is? Don’t I look just exactly like my avatar?

It’s about the same hairstyle I wore when I was 9. Maybe now I’ll stop being mistaken for the mother of a college student.

Oh Happy Day

It’s Friday, the sun is shining and in three hours, I get to go home and spend the whole weekend with my house. (Rob and Stew will be there too.)

While Rob was away for the second of two 5-day stints, I taught his kickboxing classes. (The boxing gloves on the avatar to the right are a tribute to this. The skulls represent many of his artifacts which may or may not be prominently displayed in our new home. The bangs represent my rocking new haircut.)

Wednesday, as I was alone in front of a mirrored wall in the studio, listening to Christina Aguilera Stripped, I felt compelled to do some squats and lunges. The lactic acid in my quads thanks me. I’m having trouble maneuvering stairs. In the downward direction.