Pipe Dreams

Just an update, in the spirit of full disclosure.

We had the plumber out to take a look at the leak behind the refrigerator. We have a home warranty contract, so all we had to pay the plumber was $55, and the home warranty folks kick in the rest.

Nice. Right?

Well, the problem, although a plumbing one--as AssCrackCarlos called it--was also a refrigeration problem--as NotAssCrackBob called it. It seems that when the refrigerator was installed they didn't put the connection from the water supply onto the refrigerator correctly. they was something involving clamping, pressing, crimping, a build-up of pressure.....it all sounded too sexual to me so I got lost in a day dream.

I'm back.

Now, because it was an installation issue that caused the leak, the home warranty people do not cover that. I paid $55 to be told that the $55 won't cover it. Carlos, being the one of the two of us who likes to barter finagle and swindle, called the people who delivered the fridge to get them to cough up the repair costs. They, in turn, said they had installed the fridge nearly two years ago so they are not responsible--this, again in the spirit of full disclose was exactly what I said they'd say.

So, the plumber came out and did the repairs. New tubing; new clamping. One-hundred-twenty-five-dollars-for-ten-minutes-work-so-how-can-the-economy-be-bad?

We're all caught up now, m'kay?

Carlos Story

This morning we are having breakfast at the kitchen table, and I see one of the cats, Tallulah, coming into the kitchen from the dining room. She stops and begins to lick something from the floor. And keeps licking and licking and...you get the idea.
I go to see what it is on the floor and it's a puddle of water coming from behind the refrigerator.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
I say to Carlos, We have a leak.
Where?
Behind the fridge.
He comes over, we pull the fridge away from the wall, and see a smallish puddle. We think the water is coming from the small plastic tube that brings the water to the ice-maker. We think because we don't know.
Carlos says he'll call the home warranty people--it's a good thing to have for those of us who aren't the handiest people. Yes, he says, I'll call the home warranty people.
That said, he walks back to the table and sits down to finish his breakfast, while I sop up water from the floor. He eats a piece of bread, sips the last of his coffee, and clears the table, and puts the dishes in the dishwasher.
Only then does he go back to call those home warranty people.
But now I'm annoyed. And my annoyance shows itself in humor, as he returns to the kitchen and I do an impression of him aboard the Titanic, seeing the iceberg pierce the ship, Carlos would go back to his bagel.
He didn't laugh. It wasn't one of my best.
But later in the morning he calls and asks if the refrigeration people who were referred by the home warranty people who were referred by our Smallville realtor who was referred by our Miami realtor who was referred by our friend _____ called.
I say No.
Maybe it's the plumbing, he says.
No, the water is coming form the refrigerator. Either from the tube, or from somewhere else, but it's a very slow drip.
I think it may be the plumbing.
Carlos, I sigh, I've seen your ass crack. You're no plumber.

Thank you and good night!

Steaming, er, Cat.....I Could Have Used The P-word To Shock You All!

We have a sicky cat in the house today.
Our little girl Tallulah Belle has herpes. Not that kind people! She's not that kind'a cat! She's a bitch, not a whore! She has the cold sore herpes, only this affects her sinuses and gets her all clogged up and phlegmy.
So she has some medication she takes, and she needs to be vaporized, not in the Star Trek kind of vaporized where she turns orange and vanishes, gut the humidifier kind of vaporized.
And the weird thing is, she likes it. She gets into a carrier and sits right by the door and inhales all the steam; she gets about twenty minutes a pop, three or four times a day, and she's good to go. For all her bitchiness, she's a good patient.

As for that cat down there; he's Tuxedo, and I'm posting his picture to annoy Carlos. See, Tuxedo is the most beautiful cat ever; the smartest cat ever; the greatest cat ever. Oh yeah, he's kind'a my cat. I picked him out, and I helped him adapt to our house and our pets, and he is a lovely boy.
The fun thing about Tuxedo is that I'll be watching TV or reading and it'll get to be time for bed. I'll stand up and call him, Tucky, bed time! and he tears down the hallway and jumps on the bed.
He's delicious.

Wassail

After what will forever be called The Leaf Incident, Carlos returned from the recycling center. I asked why he didn't wait for me and he says, 'I thought you were mad when you went back in the house.'
'I wasn't mad,' I said, 'I was wearing flannel pants and slippers. I went in to change!'
'Oh.'
Oh my.
Case closed. Move on. Build a bridge and get over it.
We decided to make our weekly trek to Kroger's for some groceries. It's about a fifty-mile round-trip, but all we have here in Smallville is a PigglyWiggly--and it has a funny smell--a Food Lion--looks like they display the food in a lion cage--and a Bi-Lo--which I think is only for Bisexuals on the DownLow, but I could be wrong. So, with no other option we drive to Kroger's.
It wasn't going to be a big basket of food this week. For some reason or other we didn't need a lot of things. I'm in charge of making the list, checking it twice blah blah blah and it didn't seem like a lot.
Carlos stands in a corner and says anything to annoy me, like, 'Don't forget milk.'
I could really use that woodchipper I talked about earlier.
We bundle up because it's about 25-degrees when we head out, and drive to Kroger's, after stopping at the veterinarian to get HeartGard for Ozzo. The receptionist knows me from around town and says, 'Hi Bob.' And I feel Carlos looking at me.
Back in the car, 'Who's that?'
'I forget her name.'
'Uh huh.'
'What uh huh?'
'Never mind.'
Woodchipper. Woodchipper, where are you?
We hit Kroger's, finally, and Carlos says he wants to make Wassail. We had bought a package of a dried Wassail mix from the Biltmore Estate last year and loved it in winter; it's like a warm citrus punch. Carlos searched the web and found a Wassail recipe, and brought it with him to get the ingredients.
Our usual Kroger's routine is he goes to the deli to get some sliced cheese and turkey, and I get everything else. Carlos, for some unknown reason, has a special affinity for the Deli Women--I don't know if it's the hairnets or the big shoes. And yet he gives me grief about a receptionist at an animal hospital, when he's having some kind of deli catered affair with BigShoes?
Anyway. I'm finishing up as he comes back with his deli supplies and his Wassail fixin's--I'm becoming more Southern with each passing day--and we proceed to the checkout. The cashier is ringing us up and I'm watching the screen as the prices go up up up like it's a stock ticker in a bull market, or a bear market, whichever one is the good one. And suddenly I see "Garlic................$43.75"
Now, I loves me some garlic, but I have never spent almost fifty bucks on the stuff. It's not like I'm an addict, hanging around the farmer's markets or loitering in the produce aisle, looking for a fix. So, he sees me looking at the screen, and he says, 'That's not right.'
Ya think?
He changes it and keeps ringing. And the prices still go up up up. To $182.23! W.T.F?
When Carlos sees the total he shrieks like a schoolgirl who just got a text from a cute boy. 'What did you buy?'
What did I buy? 'Um, groceries.'
'Why so much.'
I mutter something about laundry soap, dried cranberries, paper towels. But on the way to the car, I think to myself that we didn't need that much. Why was it so high? What was unusual about this trip. Then it hits me! At home I sit down with the receipt. The Wassail recipe at hand.
Oranges, lemons, cheesecloth. Check. Apple juice, apple cider. Uh huh. Mace, which is apparently a spice as well as a medieval weapon, who knew? All-Spice berries. Cinnamon sticks. Add it up...carry the one, and.....What?
Thirty dollars for Wassail.
For wassail?
Better be damned good Wassail is all I'm sayin'.

Leaves

So, we made it through the coldest night of the year, the coldest night, apparently, in twenty-three years! It dipped down to seven degrees.

Don't go pfffft at me, you Northeast bloggers, you Chicago bloggers, you, up there in Maine, Charlie. Seven-degrees is c-c-c-c-cold for us; just least week it was seventy-degrees, and now this. I know it isn't 11-below, or 15-below, but it was cold, for us, here, in Smallville.

This morning, after breakfast, Carlos decides to do the recycling, so he loads up the car with cans and bottles and plastic and cardboard etc. And off he goes. When he returns, he tells me he wants to take the bags of leaves that he filled a week or so ago.

Now, I must say that the people who owned this house before us were apparently allergic to yardwork or raking leaves because we've hauled hundreds of bags of leaves, and that is not an exaggeration, from the yard in the year-and-a-half we've lived here and still aren't finished. There were so many dead, decaying leaves in the backyard after we moved in that, once we cleared them away, a whole meadow of wildflowers sprung up and all the neighbors complimented us on our beautiful garden.

The former owners also never met a horrid color they didn't want to slather on the walls. The dining room was flesh colored, so I felt like Hannibal Lechter sitting down to some Fava beans and a nice Chianti eating in there. The kitchen was navy blue sponge paint. Yes. Sponge. Paint. There were other colors, like dandruff, and spoiled milk, urine yellow, and in the master bedroom, a lovely wallpaper border of pineapples and fruit baskets--I know!--that I decided to take down the day we moved it.

It was stapled to the wall. I literally stood in one corner, grabbed one end and pulled it down....rip...rip..rip....from each and every staple

Anyway, back to the leaves.

I remember telling Carlos, the day he was to bag the leaves, not to do it. It had rained for a couple of days and the leaves were wet, so the bags would get very heavy when it came time to shove them in the back of the Saturn and take them away. But did he listen.

Uh, no.

He filled several fifty-gallon bags with leaves, and this morning, he decides to take those away. Only he can't lift them because he filled them to the brim with wet leaves, and now they weigh a ton. So I go out to help him hoist bag after bag into the car, and I say, 'How are you going to get these outta the car and into the dumpster?'

'You're coming with me.'

Uh-huh. Okay.

I head into the house to get my jeans on, a ball cap, and my shoes.I come back down the hall and look through the living room window and he's driving up the driveway and away from the house. I wondered if 'You're coming with me' was Spanish for 'I can do it myself.'

I'll have to get out my Spanish-to-English dictionary.

I'll also have to look for a woodchipper, so the next time Carlos does this I can 'Fargo' him.