Tonight, the family and I took in a high school soccer game (they were having a special night for our youth club where all players in their jerseys got in free, and the kids from our club got to be ball runners on the touchlines.
During the game, my cell phone rang. It is a work-issued phone, and it was a local area code, so thinking it was a customer of mine I answered it.
Me: "Hello, this is Steve."
Woman: Whose phone is this?
Me: This is Steve.
Woman: Is this a business?
Me: Uhhh....yes (I the said my business name).
Woman: What business are you in?
Me: Widgets.
Woman: Is this a strip club?
Me: Uhh....no! (at that point, I assumed this was an April Fool's joke and I hung up the phone).
A few people around me, including the guy I coach with (who is a church pastor) started laughing, and joking about how I was getting pranked. Figuring they were right, I had a good laugh. And then the phone rang again.
Me: Manuel's Taqueria (in a slightly Spanish accent).
Woman: Who did I reach?
Me: Manuel's Taquerie.
Woman: Is this a restaurant?
Me: Si.
Woman: Where are you located?
Me: Acworth Georgia.
Woman: What is your address?
Me: 5 Main Street.
Woman: OK, thank you.
She hung up, and everyone around me was snickering at the idea that I obviously gave this woman a fake business and address. And then the phone rang again. Same woman. At this point, everyone around me was convinced I was being pranked. I again announced myself.
Woman: Did you call me? I had this phone number in my phone. (she then confirmed my phone#, which was accurate)
Me: No, I haven't. This is a business phone, I've had it on me all day, and I can assure you I did not call you.
Woman: This was a couple of weeks ago that you called. I just found my phone today, and the call was a couple of weeks ago.
Me: No, wasn't me, unless it was a wrong number. What's your name?.
Woman: Christine.
Me: Is this a business phone number?
Woman: I'm a dancer.
Me: Oh. OHHHH. Well....no, maybe I dialed a wrong number. I definitely wasn't trying to reach you.
Woman: Ok then, sorry.
So....apparently, a few weeks ago I accidentally called a stripper, who subsequently lost her phone, found it, and wanted to know why I called her, thinking (hoping?) that I would have a dancing job for her.
Showing posts with label Stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stuff. Show all posts
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Random Thoughts 9/9/2009
Fact: I love free breakroom donuts more than I fear catching H1N1 Swine Flu from germs left on those donuts by unwashed coworkers.
Fact: In the last 3 years, I have seen a doctor on 3 different occasions for soccer-related injuries (broken finger, bruised ribs, sprained ankle). Today, I had to tell a doctor I injured myself while painting lines on a soccer field.
Fact: I cut my thumbnail in half, right down the middle, on a sharp metal protrusion from the paint sprayer. That could be the worst soccer-related injury I've ever had.
Fact: The idea of losing my thumbnail (which is a when, not if, scenario) is probably going to keep me awake at night.
Fact: I'm coaching two soccer teams this year. One, a U12 girls' team with 10 and 11 year old pre-teens. The other, a U6 team filled with kids aged 4-1/2 to 5. This is the first week where both are practicing. I'm not too concerned about which one is worse. I'm more concerned with the over/under on how long my sanity holds out.
Fact: Soccer moms FTW.
Fact: "Leverage" could be one of my 3 favorite current TV shows (on TNT). This is not helping my unhealthy obsession with Gina Bellman, who could be one of the greatest things ever created in New Zealand.
Fact: In the last 3 years, I have seen a doctor on 3 different occasions for soccer-related injuries (broken finger, bruised ribs, sprained ankle). Today, I had to tell a doctor I injured myself while painting lines on a soccer field.
Fact: I cut my thumbnail in half, right down the middle, on a sharp metal protrusion from the paint sprayer. That could be the worst soccer-related injury I've ever had.
Fact: The idea of losing my thumbnail (which is a when, not if, scenario) is probably going to keep me awake at night.
Fact: I'm coaching two soccer teams this year. One, a U12 girls' team with 10 and 11 year old pre-teens. The other, a U6 team filled with kids aged 4-1/2 to 5. This is the first week where both are practicing. I'm not too concerned about which one is worse. I'm more concerned with the over/under on how long my sanity holds out.
Fact: Soccer moms FTW.
Fact: "Leverage" could be one of my 3 favorite current TV shows (on TNT). This is not helping my unhealthy obsession with Gina Bellman, who could be one of the greatest things ever created in New Zealand.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Awkward Theological Conversation
A: I'm doing some volunteer work at XYZ Baptist Church this weekend (that wasn't the actual church name, but there are so many Baptist churches here, I don't really keep track of who's who).
Me: You're Catholic, isn't it a mortal sin to associate with Baptists? (of course, I said this in front of a close friend of both of ours, who is Baptist).
A: Hell, I don't care, I'm probably going to be excommunicated anyway.
Me: What'd you do, bang your sister?
A: No, I'm getting a divorce.
(awkward silence)
Me: Oh.
(more awkward silence)
Me: Well, who HASN'T the Catholic church excommunicated? They did the same thing to my ancestors 500 years ago.
A: You have a point.
Me: You're Catholic, isn't it a mortal sin to associate with Baptists? (of course, I said this in front of a close friend of both of ours, who is Baptist).
A: Hell, I don't care, I'm probably going to be excommunicated anyway.
Me: What'd you do, bang your sister?
A: No, I'm getting a divorce.
(awkward silence)
Me: Oh.
(more awkward silence)
Me: Well, who HASN'T the Catholic church excommunicated? They did the same thing to my ancestors 500 years ago.
A: You have a point.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Rise and Fall of the MILF
I don't think I'll ever forget the first "MILF" that ever got my attention. This was way before the term MILF was ever used. This was way before "Hot Mom" was used. In fact, there was no word for it. I think the only way to describe such a woman was going to your friend and saying, "Dude, your mom's hot." Followed by the obligatory "Shut up Ted." (Before Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure came out, it was simply "Shut up Steve.") Or, we would say "So and So's mom is hot," followed by the dirty things we would do to So and So's mom, which of course would never, ever happen (until just a few years ago, when half the mom's in America apparently lost their mind and started sleeping with teenagers).
I will call this first MILF "Mrs. C." Mostly because I can't remember her first name, just her last name (no it wasn't Cunningham, it was a Spanish last name). Mrs. C was, in a nutshell, a hot, tanned woman, not very tall, round face, round cheeks, gorgeous smile, and long dark hair. She had definite Latin looks, but probably more Italian than Hispanic, unlike her husband. She was the first adult woman I remember paying attention to whenever she would bend over, hoping to get a look down her shirt (sure, this may be shocking to some, but guess what, teenage boys typically enjoy looking down the shirts of women).
She was the mom of one of my younger brother's friends, and in the mid 80's she was probably in her late 30's. I sometimes played soccer against her oldest son, so she would be there in a beach chair on the sidelines talking to other (less hot) moms and smiling beautifully. When watching my brother's baseball games, she was there on the bleachers, cheering on her younger son. When I was 13 and umpiring my brother's age level, I probably umpired every one of her son's games (and her husband was the coach), and I remember her sitting there on the bleachers. At times, I recall angling for a possible view up her skirt. Perverted, sure, but typical for the age.
By the time I was approaching high school graduation, she was divorced. Apparently, her husband, while married to an absolute goddess of a woman, had a hard time keeping his hands off of other women (plus, he was an incredible dick). Being a friend of the family, she would come over and visit occasionally, and we would get to hear (second hand from my parents) how worthless her husband was, and how wronged she was. I remember one such occasion when she was over talking about how she had a girl's night out, and was incredibly drunk. She was wearing short, loose-fitting nylon running shorts and a tank-top. She lay down on our sofa and described how she had to hold onto the floor to keep the room from spinning, and I remember seeing her white underwear with red hearts all over them, and being very excited at getting such a glance.
When I graduated high school in 1990, I moved southwest to Arkansas to attend university, and haven't seen her since. I have nothing but a flood of memories over this woman, about 20 years my senior, and how arousing she was. And I had no idea why, no clue that she contained a wealth of experience that I could only hope to enjoy.
Recently, I came across a woman who grew up not too far from Mrs. C, and played on a Select soccer team coached by Mr. C and on which their daughter played with this woman. We got to enjoy the "small world" moment, and afterward I emailed my brother with the story. I commented to my brother that Mrs. C was probably the first MILF that ever entered our lives. My brother emailed me back and said, "Yeah, Pete's mom was pretty hot. I saw her at Pete's wedding several years ago. She no longer has that MILF look to her. It's a shame."
And thus all of my childhood dreams and fantasies were destroyed with one email.
I will call this first MILF "Mrs. C." Mostly because I can't remember her first name, just her last name (no it wasn't Cunningham, it was a Spanish last name). Mrs. C was, in a nutshell, a hot, tanned woman, not very tall, round face, round cheeks, gorgeous smile, and long dark hair. She had definite Latin looks, but probably more Italian than Hispanic, unlike her husband. She was the first adult woman I remember paying attention to whenever she would bend over, hoping to get a look down her shirt (sure, this may be shocking to some, but guess what, teenage boys typically enjoy looking down the shirts of women).
She was the mom of one of my younger brother's friends, and in the mid 80's she was probably in her late 30's. I sometimes played soccer against her oldest son, so she would be there in a beach chair on the sidelines talking to other (less hot) moms and smiling beautifully. When watching my brother's baseball games, she was there on the bleachers, cheering on her younger son. When I was 13 and umpiring my brother's age level, I probably umpired every one of her son's games (and her husband was the coach), and I remember her sitting there on the bleachers. At times, I recall angling for a possible view up her skirt. Perverted, sure, but typical for the age.
By the time I was approaching high school graduation, she was divorced. Apparently, her husband, while married to an absolute goddess of a woman, had a hard time keeping his hands off of other women (plus, he was an incredible dick). Being a friend of the family, she would come over and visit occasionally, and we would get to hear (second hand from my parents) how worthless her husband was, and how wronged she was. I remember one such occasion when she was over talking about how she had a girl's night out, and was incredibly drunk. She was wearing short, loose-fitting nylon running shorts and a tank-top. She lay down on our sofa and described how she had to hold onto the floor to keep the room from spinning, and I remember seeing her white underwear with red hearts all over them, and being very excited at getting such a glance.
When I graduated high school in 1990, I moved southwest to Arkansas to attend university, and haven't seen her since. I have nothing but a flood of memories over this woman, about 20 years my senior, and how arousing she was. And I had no idea why, no clue that she contained a wealth of experience that I could only hope to enjoy.
Recently, I came across a woman who grew up not too far from Mrs. C, and played on a Select soccer team coached by Mr. C and on which their daughter played with this woman. We got to enjoy the "small world" moment, and afterward I emailed my brother with the story. I commented to my brother that Mrs. C was probably the first MILF that ever entered our lives. My brother emailed me back and said, "Yeah, Pete's mom was pretty hot. I saw her at Pete's wedding several years ago. She no longer has that MILF look to her. It's a shame."
And thus all of my childhood dreams and fantasies were destroyed with one email.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Glaucoma Discussion
I had my annual eye exam this week, to get a new prescription for contact lenses, and the glasses I wear as a backup (I take my lenses out each night, and wear my glasses until bedtime, and then wear the glasses first thing in the morning until after I shower, where I then put on my contact lenses).
Eye care technology has advanced enough, apparently, that eye doctors are able to tell in their exam if there is a risk factor for glaucoma, at which point they will then test for it by blowing that high pressure puff of air INTO MY FUCKING EYEBALL! Thankfully, the doctor saw none of the risk signs and decided there was no need for me to suffer through the aforementioned sadistic procedure.
While staring at the lights that he was waving around, my mind wandered, and I got to thinking how much fun it would be to have filthy, dirty sex in the eye doctor’s chair. And, since I have the attention span of a kitten, I got to thinking….if I had the choice between suffering through the glaucoma test where they shoot a blast of air into my eyeball, followed by the best sex imaginable, or not having the glaucoma test at all, getting my eyes examined, paying for the service and leaving, which one would I do?
It did not take long at all to decide that I would prefer not having a glaucoma test. If sex was involved, I would gladly give blood, see the dental hygienist, or sit in traffic for 2 hours listening to political talk radio (3 things I hate to do, but have done). But I would gladly pass on the sex if it meant not getting a glaucoma test.
Eye care technology has advanced enough, apparently, that eye doctors are able to tell in their exam if there is a risk factor for glaucoma, at which point they will then test for it by blowing that high pressure puff of air INTO MY FUCKING EYEBALL! Thankfully, the doctor saw none of the risk signs and decided there was no need for me to suffer through the aforementioned sadistic procedure.
While staring at the lights that he was waving around, my mind wandered, and I got to thinking how much fun it would be to have filthy, dirty sex in the eye doctor’s chair. And, since I have the attention span of a kitten, I got to thinking….if I had the choice between suffering through the glaucoma test where they shoot a blast of air into my eyeball, followed by the best sex imaginable, or not having the glaucoma test at all, getting my eyes examined, paying for the service and leaving, which one would I do?
It did not take long at all to decide that I would prefer not having a glaucoma test. If sex was involved, I would gladly give blood, see the dental hygienist, or sit in traffic for 2 hours listening to political talk radio (3 things I hate to do, but have done). But I would gladly pass on the sex if it meant not getting a glaucoma test.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Recipe for Disaster
This is my recipe for disaster:
1. Take 4 pounds of frozen shrimp (tails on), 2 pounds of andouille sausage, a bag of red potatoes, several white onions, and about 8 ears of corn, cut each one in half.
2. Put them into a turkey fryer, with about 3 gallons of water. Cook the potatoes and onions first, then the corn, then thrown in the sausage, and then throw in the shrimp for a couple of minutes.
3. Serve a delicious Low Country shrimp boil to a houseful of guests on a Memorial Day weekend (Sunday). Be sure to have lots of beer, rum, and vodka.
4. On Tuesday evening, remember that you forgot to clean out the turkey fryer. Go to the garage, remove the lid from the fryer, and choke back the vomit that fights its way to the surface as you stare into 3 gallons of murky water with a few onions, a chunk of red potato, and 3 small pieces of sausage.
5. (This is very important) Dump the fetid mess as far from your house as possible, and still be on your property. I suggest this, because you don't want it near your residence, and pouring it into someone's backyard is just wrong. However, if you're right on the property line, and most of it splashes into the next yard, well, accidents happen.
6. Rinse pot out with garden hose outside, before taking in and cleaning with hot water and soap, to avoid coming into contact with rotten sausage residue.
1. Take 4 pounds of frozen shrimp (tails on), 2 pounds of andouille sausage, a bag of red potatoes, several white onions, and about 8 ears of corn, cut each one in half.
2. Put them into a turkey fryer, with about 3 gallons of water. Cook the potatoes and onions first, then the corn, then thrown in the sausage, and then throw in the shrimp for a couple of minutes.
3. Serve a delicious Low Country shrimp boil to a houseful of guests on a Memorial Day weekend (Sunday). Be sure to have lots of beer, rum, and vodka.
4. On Tuesday evening, remember that you forgot to clean out the turkey fryer. Go to the garage, remove the lid from the fryer, and choke back the vomit that fights its way to the surface as you stare into 3 gallons of murky water with a few onions, a chunk of red potato, and 3 small pieces of sausage.
5. (This is very important) Dump the fetid mess as far from your house as possible, and still be on your property. I suggest this, because you don't want it near your residence, and pouring it into someone's backyard is just wrong. However, if you're right on the property line, and most of it splashes into the next yard, well, accidents happen.
6. Rinse pot out with garden hose outside, before taking in and cleaning with hot water and soap, to avoid coming into contact with rotten sausage residue.
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Pinnacle of Comedy.....
....is hearing a Mexican woman try to describe how a famous Latino pop singer was busted while masturbating in the first class section of a commercial flight to Miami, and is now in jail.
Especially when she doesn't know the word "masturbating," or the PC term "pleasuring himself."
Good friends of ours are from Mexico (he works in IT for a multinational corporation here in Atlanta, and a soccer teammate of mine, she teaches Spanish at the same preschool where my wife works). Their English is very good, but she somehow never learned the words "masturbating," "fapping," "jerking off," etc. So she had to describe it to her husband in Spanish, who then snickered, turned to me, and said, "Ahem.....pleasuring himself," while the wife nodded her head, smiling.
We were on the back deck of a Mexican restaurant late on Saturday, and the song being played was by this singer, and she said, "he's in jail now," and proceeded to struggle with describing WHY he was in jail (mostly because our kids were around, otherwise I'm pretty sure she would've just done the hand motion). Once I got all the details out, I said, "So, this Mexican singer was in first class, commercial flight, and masturbating, with a woman sitting right next to him?"
"Yes," the wife said. "Except he's Puerto Rican, not Mexican." "Ahh," I replied. "That explains it. A Mexican would never do that in first class (the wife shook her head no, agreeing with me). He would be in coach." (the husband nodded his head, agreeing with me).
Especially when she doesn't know the word "masturbating," or the PC term "pleasuring himself."
Good friends of ours are from Mexico (he works in IT for a multinational corporation here in Atlanta, and a soccer teammate of mine, she teaches Spanish at the same preschool where my wife works). Their English is very good, but she somehow never learned the words "masturbating," "fapping," "jerking off," etc. So she had to describe it to her husband in Spanish, who then snickered, turned to me, and said, "Ahem.....pleasuring himself," while the wife nodded her head, smiling.
We were on the back deck of a Mexican restaurant late on Saturday, and the song being played was by this singer, and she said, "he's in jail now," and proceeded to struggle with describing WHY he was in jail (mostly because our kids were around, otherwise I'm pretty sure she would've just done the hand motion). Once I got all the details out, I said, "So, this Mexican singer was in first class, commercial flight, and masturbating, with a woman sitting right next to him?"
"Yes," the wife said. "Except he's Puerto Rican, not Mexican." "Ahh," I replied. "That explains it. A Mexican would never do that in first class (the wife shook her head no, agreeing with me). He would be in coach." (the husband nodded his head, agreeing with me).
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A Conversation With the Dental Hygienist
Yesterday, I visited the dentist for a scheduled teeth cleaning. This was accomplished using what is basically a small pressure washer. And suction. Lots of suction.
The hygienist looked at me funny, and said, "You know who you look like upside down (she was sitting sort of behind me, so her view of me was upside down)? You look like the guy from Sixteen Candles, Jake."
I responded, "I don't remember him being upside down in that movie. Anthony Michael Hall, under the glass table, yes, but not Jake."
I am rarely told I look like any celebrities, but Jake Ryan is a first. Of course, according to IMDB he hasn't been in anything since 1991 (I was half expecting to see a list of soft-core porn films), so calling him a celebrity might be a stretch.
The hygienist looked at me funny, and said, "You know who you look like upside down (she was sitting sort of behind me, so her view of me was upside down)? You look like the guy from Sixteen Candles, Jake."
I responded, "I don't remember him being upside down in that movie. Anthony Michael Hall, under the glass table, yes, but not Jake."
I am rarely told I look like any celebrities, but Jake Ryan is a first. Of course, according to IMDB he hasn't been in anything since 1991 (I was half expecting to see a list of soft-core porn films), so calling him a celebrity might be a stretch.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Heroes
Heroes come in all shapes and sizes, and in all professions.
This week, heroes are a bunch of guys who get paid to use explosives for a living, being dropped to the Missouri River via helicopter, to blow up ice floes that are basically damming up the river and flooding large parts of North Dakota. Read about it here:
http://www.kxmb.com/getArticle.asp?ArticleId=349971
Right now, hundreds of thousands of rednecks throughout the Upper Midwest are saying, "Oh ja, how do I get dat dere job? You betcha I can too blow up dem dere ice floes. I'd be like dem Duke Boys, with my bow and arrow and dem high explosive tips and I'd shoot dem arrows into the ice and blow dem tings to Kingdom Come." (In other news, Kona is probably tying C4 explosives to his arrows as I write this).
And in related news, this is the news team from this TV station, KXMB in North Dakota.
They seem to cover all the demographics. You have the Cougar. The MILF (who looks a tad like Marge Helgenberger from CSI). Then there's Goofy Bastard Who Never Got The Memo That Nobody Wears The Caesar Haircut Anymore (news doesn't travel as fast to ND, as you can see from his haircut reminiscent of the heyday of N*Synch). And then there's the woman who could easily be a stripper. But not in North Dakota, judging by her full set of teeth. Definitely Minneapolis, probably even Dallas. And her name is Amber Schatz. For her sake, I hope she pronounces it "Shots" (which would be the correct German pronunciation). If it's "Shats," well...sorry, that's just too easy and I consider myself a pro. And finally, we have cute-as-a-button Sarah Gustin, who is probably asked out daily by GBWNGTMTNWTCHA (AKA Brad Feldman) and she politely declines, and then goes home, changes clothes and makeup, puts on a disguise, and becomes an internet porn star, probably named "Sierra Gusty".
The really cool thing about small-market TV news is that the anchors haven't lost their regional accents yet, so chances are these reporters all sound like extras in "Grumpy Old Men" or "Fargo."
In closing, I'd like to suggest that tonight we all go home and raise a glass to the guys who are being paid to blow ice floes up. God bless them, and if only that were us. Cause that would be awesome.
This week, heroes are a bunch of guys who get paid to use explosives for a living, being dropped to the Missouri River via helicopter, to blow up ice floes that are basically damming up the river and flooding large parts of North Dakota. Read about it here:
http://www.kxmb.com/getArticle.asp?ArticleId=349971
Right now, hundreds of thousands of rednecks throughout the Upper Midwest are saying, "Oh ja, how do I get dat dere job? You betcha I can too blow up dem dere ice floes. I'd be like dem Duke Boys, with my bow and arrow and dem high explosive tips and I'd shoot dem arrows into the ice and blow dem tings to Kingdom Come." (In other news, Kona is probably tying C4 explosives to his arrows as I write this).
And in related news, this is the news team from this TV station, KXMB in North Dakota.
They seem to cover all the demographics. You have the Cougar. The MILF (who looks a tad like Marge Helgenberger from CSI). Then there's Goofy Bastard Who Never Got The Memo That Nobody Wears The Caesar Haircut Anymore (news doesn't travel as fast to ND, as you can see from his haircut reminiscent of the heyday of N*Synch). And then there's the woman who could easily be a stripper. But not in North Dakota, judging by her full set of teeth. Definitely Minneapolis, probably even Dallas. And her name is Amber Schatz. For her sake, I hope she pronounces it "Shots" (which would be the correct German pronunciation). If it's "Shats," well...sorry, that's just too easy and I consider myself a pro. And finally, we have cute-as-a-button Sarah Gustin, who is probably asked out daily by GBWNGTMTNWTCHA (AKA Brad Feldman) and she politely declines, and then goes home, changes clothes and makeup, puts on a disguise, and becomes an internet porn star, probably named "Sierra Gusty".
The really cool thing about small-market TV news is that the anchors haven't lost their regional accents yet, so chances are these reporters all sound like extras in "Grumpy Old Men" or "Fargo."
In closing, I'd like to suggest that tonight we all go home and raise a glass to the guys who are being paid to blow ice floes up. God bless them, and if only that were us. Cause that would be awesome.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A Good Friend
A good friend will help you move.
A great friend will help you move a body.
Science nor the British have yet developed an adjective to describe a friend that will help you move a cast iron bathtub.
We were forced into some emergency bathroom renovations. I say forced, because if I didn't yank all the tiles off the wall surrounding the tub in the master bathroom with a crowbar, and subsequently ripped out the blackened sheetrock underneath (FYI, sheetrock is normally white, with brown or green paper on one side and white on the other....so black indicates a problem of almost haz mat proportions), they would've started falling off on their own accord.
Once the studs were exposed, the next step was to remove the frame that was around 2 sides of the tub...an 18" L-shaped bench, if you will, that was also tiled. The tiles were attached to a layer of cement in 3 sections (although once I got through with them, it was 5) that were also wet and moldy. Underneath that...wet/moldy plywood. And underneath that, a frame of 2x4's. Those were ripped up (nailed to the concrete foundation) with the help of a 5 pound mallet, a wedge used to split wood (yes, I split wood in my free time), and a lot of four-letter words.
Eventually, all that was left was the bathtub. Halfway through the process, we made the decision to remodel and just install a shower, so we called a friend who owns a container business, and he left a dumpster in our driveway into which we deposited the moldy sheetrock, tiles, some gutters that I removed (and replaced with new gutters), and eventually the bathtub. But first, I called a friend, "R", who is usually good for such projects.
My friend met me last week at our home, and led him to the bathroom. He looked at the tub. He kicked it. He then looked at me and said, "That's cast iron, isn't it?" "Yes," I replied. "Should I have mentioned that?" "No," R said. "Because I wouldn't have come."
Not knowing how much a CI tub weighs, I didn't realize I should've called a couple more friends. We got it disconnected from the drain, and managed to only lift it on its side. Realizing that lifting it up and out of the house was impossible without incurring medical expenses and possibly further renovation expenses, R remembered he has a 4-wheeled dolly that you can use to move stuff like that. Thing is, R lives about 20-25 minutes away. But home he went, to grab the dolly, and come back. We lifted one end, slid the dolly underneath, and rolled that heavy motherfucking tub right out of my house and into the driveway, taking care not to let go, or it would roll down into the road and take out the neighbor's mailbox. I briefly toyed with the idea of riding down in the bathtub, like the guy from "Dr. Strangelove," but that would've been silly and dangerous. In other words, I'm not 20 anymore.
Both R and I would've enjoyed a lot of satisfaction lifting it up and tossing it into the dumpster, and listening to the ear-splitting "KLANG" that would've resulted, but we would've required 2 more friends, so instead we opened the door on one end, slid it in, and slammed the door shut.
If you're lucky enough to have a friend who will help move a tub, and upon seeing it's a cast iron tub he'll leave and then COME BACK to help finish the job, then that's a damn good friend.
A great friend will help you move a body.
Science nor the British have yet developed an adjective to describe a friend that will help you move a cast iron bathtub.
We were forced into some emergency bathroom renovations. I say forced, because if I didn't yank all the tiles off the wall surrounding the tub in the master bathroom with a crowbar, and subsequently ripped out the blackened sheetrock underneath (FYI, sheetrock is normally white, with brown or green paper on one side and white on the other....so black indicates a problem of almost haz mat proportions), they would've started falling off on their own accord.
Once the studs were exposed, the next step was to remove the frame that was around 2 sides of the tub...an 18" L-shaped bench, if you will, that was also tiled. The tiles were attached to a layer of cement in 3 sections (although once I got through with them, it was 5) that were also wet and moldy. Underneath that...wet/moldy plywood. And underneath that, a frame of 2x4's. Those were ripped up (nailed to the concrete foundation) with the help of a 5 pound mallet, a wedge used to split wood (yes, I split wood in my free time), and a lot of four-letter words.
Eventually, all that was left was the bathtub. Halfway through the process, we made the decision to remodel and just install a shower, so we called a friend who owns a container business, and he left a dumpster in our driveway into which we deposited the moldy sheetrock, tiles, some gutters that I removed (and replaced with new gutters), and eventually the bathtub. But first, I called a friend, "R", who is usually good for such projects.
My friend met me last week at our home, and led him to the bathroom. He looked at the tub. He kicked it. He then looked at me and said, "That's cast iron, isn't it?" "Yes," I replied. "Should I have mentioned that?" "No," R said. "Because I wouldn't have come."
Not knowing how much a CI tub weighs, I didn't realize I should've called a couple more friends. We got it disconnected from the drain, and managed to only lift it on its side. Realizing that lifting it up and out of the house was impossible without incurring medical expenses and possibly further renovation expenses, R remembered he has a 4-wheeled dolly that you can use to move stuff like that. Thing is, R lives about 20-25 minutes away. But home he went, to grab the dolly, and come back. We lifted one end, slid the dolly underneath, and rolled that heavy motherfucking tub right out of my house and into the driveway, taking care not to let go, or it would roll down into the road and take out the neighbor's mailbox. I briefly toyed with the idea of riding down in the bathtub, like the guy from "Dr. Strangelove," but that would've been silly and dangerous. In other words, I'm not 20 anymore.
Both R and I would've enjoyed a lot of satisfaction lifting it up and tossing it into the dumpster, and listening to the ear-splitting "KLANG" that would've resulted, but we would've required 2 more friends, so instead we opened the door on one end, slid it in, and slammed the door shut.
If you're lucky enough to have a friend who will help move a tub, and upon seeing it's a cast iron tub he'll leave and then COME BACK to help finish the job, then that's a damn good friend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)